Page 3 of Signed, Sealed, and Smitten
I relax slightly, realizing I’m not in trouble. “Thank you for that tip, uh …” I trail off because he hasn’t given me his name.
“Jay Martin,” he says. “Favorite grandchild of Foster Martin.”
“How do your cousins feel about that?”
He grins. “I’m the only grandchild.”
That makes me laugh. “You remind me of him. Of Foster.”
His smile turns wistful. “I hear that a lot.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m appalled it’s not the first thing I said when he told me who he is. “I got to know him well when he visited the Sutton, and I enjoyed his company. I’m sorry I couldn’t attend his service. I heard it was beautiful.” I’d gone home to Florida after my dad suffered a heart attack, but I couldn’t go back to Boston until I was sure for myself he was fine, and that meant missing Foster Martin’s funeral.
“Thank you,” he says. “My parents tried hard to make it worthy of him.”
There’s an awkward pause, and I decide that while I’m notsure what kind of access Jay Martin is supposed to have to the house, he has more of a right to be here than I do at the moment. “I should go,” I say, breaking the silence. Poor guy was probably here saying his last goodbye to this property, which has been in his family for generations. “I need to go get moved into my new place. I’m sorry I interrupted your day.”
He moves out of the doorway to let me pass. “Don’t worry about it. See you Monday.”
“Right, see you Monday.” I try not to show my confusion. Why will I see him Monday? I haven’t made my first official hire yet, and the only person I’m scheduled to meet with is the estate attorney. “I’ll see myself out.”
I trace my steps back to the kitchen, leaving the way I came, calling Daniel as I go. “Hey, I’m ready to go find my apartment. I need a whole new building to make a fool of myself in.”
Chapter Three
Phoebe
About fifteen minutes later,after Daniel has laughed way longer than he needed to at my library misadventure, we stop in front of a four-story building with the words “The Serendipity” spelled out on a sign near its entrance.
“Just keep the engine running while I make sure I can get my keys.” I hop out and check the building manager’s email with the procedure for picking up my apartment key. He’d mailed me the building key and told me to get my unit key from my mailbox, giving me the code to open it with the ominous caveatThey’re older and sometimes the combination locks require patience.
My job offer came with a year’s paid lease on an apartment here, and it’s hard to say no to free housing, even if I didn’t pick it for myself. But I like the sturdy lines of the brick building, and despite its obvious age, it’s clearly well-kept, with tidy landscaping and fresh paint on the cornice scrollwork near the roof.
I checked it out online, of course. Former tenants gave it high marks, and even though the words “quirky” and “unusual” came up several times, the only outright negative review was from someone who said the building hated them. Okay, lol.
I climb the concrete stairs, loving the sense of well-kept age about everything from the mellow brick to the tended vines that grow across them. I can’t wait to study the architecture and layout later. I’m reaching for the building key in my pocket when I hear a click like a lock disengaging. When I try the handle, it opens. Hmm. Convenient, but I hope it’s not open all the time.
I hook a right at the front desk—empty, as the email stated it would be—and head to the bank of mailboxes. I’m surprised to see they share a wall with a kitchen. I file away a question for later about why there’s a communal kitchen. Maybe this place was converted to apartments from a hotel? That would explain the check-in desk.
The mailboxes must be original, their brass faces showing the patina of age. I love it. Everything from the crown molding to the vintage mailboxes relaxes me. I fell in love with the character of so many historic Boston buildings that it’s a bonus to live in one with the same character while I’m here.
I spot the cubby with my last name and check the combo in the email one more time. I haven’t seen this kind of lock before. It has three pairs of letters with a dial. I follow the directions exactly, but it doesn’t work. I check the code and try again. Still nothing. Hmm. I can’t say I wasn’t warned.
Even though I go slowly on my third attempt, stopping after each letter pair in the combo to check the code again, it still doesn’t open. But curators have exceptional patience with finicky antiques and even a few special strategies for getting old objects to cooperate. I’ve overheard more than one curator sweet-talking an artifact to get it to work.
I step back to study the bank of mailboxes. The building isn’t Art Deco, but the door to each cubby has a raised border in an Egyptian square motif etched around its edges, a popular pattern from the Art Deco era. I don’t see anyone near me, so I lean forward, my mouth close to the dial as if it’s a listening ear. “Hey, friend. Art Deco was the best deco.”
I am one of the curators I’ve overheard sweet-talking artifacts. We do it because it works.
Sometimes.
This time when I work the lock exactly like I did the other three times, it opens easily. “Thank you,” I tell it and peer inside to see my keys sitting on top of an envelope.
I pull them both out, thinking it’s a welcome note with further info from the manager, but it’s not. It’s a letter addressed to Smitten Kitten in 3E with the correct street address, city, state, and zip code. Must be for the former occupant in my apartment. I slip it through the slot for outgoing mail and head back outside to meet Daniel, making a note of the elevator on the other side of the building entrance. I may only own enough to fill the smallest rental truck, but that doesn’t mean I want to carry it all up three flights of stairs.
Daniel is climbing out of the moving truck when I reach the sidewalk.
“Looks quiet and not murdery,” he says, studying the building.
