Chapter Nine
Camilla and I finished the kitchen and dining room before she left for yoga.
Raisin stayed with me. If there was an upside to the out-of-control clutter at Mom’s place, it was that she owned at least two of everything under the sun, including a carpet shampooer I used to steam and scrub the carpets and throw rugs.
I found enough bottles of cleaning solution to do the same for every home below the Mason–Dixon line.
I accepted Ilona’s offer to help with a yard sale via text message after dinner, and she said she’d let me know when the notice appeared in the paper.
I stopped working for the night when I found an unopened bottle of sauvignon blanc in a large vase with seven umbrellas. I carried the bottle with me to the trailer and finished half while searching online for Bastien Allard.
I came up empty yet again.
Raisin forced me awake in the morning, aggressively head bumping me until I thought we’d both suffer a concussion.
“Okay,” I said. “Stop. I’m up.”
He meowed and bit my toes where they hung outside the covers.
“Ow! Hey!” I burrowed beneath the blanket, wishing I’d switched to water after my first glass of wine.
Raisin bit my leg through the thin duvet.
“I’m up!”
I pushed onto my feet, wincing at the stiffness in my neck and back from the long day of scrubbing and moving things at the house. I reached for my toes, feeling every year of my age for the first time in a long while.
Raisin chewed my hair when gravity pulled it in his direction.
“No!” I swung upright and lost my balance momentarily, knocking my hip against the pop-up kitchen table. “Damn it!” A pathetic whimper crossed my lips as I straightened. “I can’t live in this trailer.”
I moved to the kitchenette’s countertop and removed the pot from the ancient coffee maker, then stuck the vessel beneath the faucet. The cold-water knob turned easily, and water dripped slowly for several seconds before coming to a complete stop.
I tried the hot-water knob. Nothing. “This cannot be my life,” I complained.
Raisin bit my calf.
“Stop.” I pointed at the cat.
He sat and stared up at me.
I gathered my things and pushed open the trailer door. “Come on,” I said. “I need coffee and a hot shower.” After that I had to find a way to save this house. Time was running out, and I still hadn’t made enough money to make a dent in the amount Mom owed.
Raisin trotted into the day, glancing over his shoulder every few feet to be sure I followed.
The morning air was dense and humid. A thick layer of fog clung to the grass like an apparition.
I picked up my pace, in no need of additional ghosts.
Inside, I fired up the single-cup coffee maker and set a mug beneath the drip. Then I went to the pantry in search of kibble.
“All right,” I said. “Your turn.”
Pellets fell to the floor as I carried the bag of cat food toward the bowls I’d chosen for Raisin.
“What on earth?” I turned the bag in my grip and found a hole near the bottom. “Shoot.”
I groaned at the new mess on my clean floors, then set the bag beside the bowls. The cat food would go stale without a way to keep it fresh.
I rooted through the cabinets in search of freezer bags to protect the kibble.
Raisin scratched at the bag behind me, casting food onto the floor with every pass, by the sounds of it.
“I’m hurrying,” I promised.
He appeared beside me, and my muscles stiffened at the sight of him, because the scratching didn’t stop.
A slow turn in the direction of the bag revealed the reason.
A short scream wrenched through me at the sight of a small gray mouse. “Ah!”
I clambered onto the countertop and Raisin joined me. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Get him!” I pointed to the rodent eating his food, in case he hadn’t noticed. “Attack! Or chase him away or something.”
I’d never had a cat—neither Dad nor Robert tolerated pets—but I knew what cats did. Cats ate mice!
Raisin looked at the mouse, then back to me. And he nipped my arm.
“Hey!” I slapped a hand over the red spot near my elbow, then stretched to reach the broom propped against the wall.
“Go away!” I called, waving the broom at our unwanted guest. When the critter didn’t budge, I climbed down and whacked the floor a few times, hoping to scare the rodent away.
I didn’t have it in me to hurt him, but he couldn’t stay.
The thumping worked, and the mouse ran off with a cheek full of kibble.
“Jeez!” I said, sweeping the loose kibble into a pile. “Why didn’t you do anything?”
Raisin jumped onto the floor, walked to his still-empty bowl, and waited.
“Too good to eat food straight from the floor?” I guessed. “Won’t chase mice. Only dines from a bowl. Maybe Mom should’ve named you Mr. Fancy Pants.”
I lifted the food bag and gave it a closer look, unsure it was safe for Raisin’s consumption after a mouse had been inside. “Hold on.” I chucked the bag into the trash, along with the contents of my dustpan, then selected another bag from the pantry.
When I finished feeding Raisin, I put all the cat food into a big plastic bin and hoped mice wouldn’t eat through my boxes of pasta and mac and cheese.
I added get rid of mice to my mental list of objectives. I couldn’t bake here until the house was free of rodents, which meant no extra cash. A double whammy.
I missed baking, and I needed the money. I had only a few days left to get Mom’s delinquent property taxes paid before the house was auctioned off. I hadn’t found her bankbooks or any indication she had anything other than debt, so I had to make saving the house the day’s priority.
I worked in the living room until dehydration set in and my vision blurred.
Definitely time for lunch.
I carried a plated BLT and handful of strawberries onto the patio, deeply grateful for the groceries Camilla delivered the day before. My backside had barely hit the seat before I caught sight of the open trailer door.
Had I not closed it securely behind me this morning?
I carried my sandwich to the potential crime scene, snacking as I walked, too exhausted to protest if I found someone mid-burgle. Take it, I thought. Take it all so I don’t have to figure out what to do with it.
In fact, take me.
No one was inside, so I closed the door, checked it twice, then returned to my chair, plate, and strawberries.
I opened an internet browser on my phone as I ate and searched for ways to make fast money. My toenails needed fresh paint, which eliminated the possibility of selling feet pics, and without baking, I didn’t have any salable skills.
A wave of grief and defeat hit hard enough to knock a weaker woman off her chair, but I didn’t have time for a breakdown.
I lived in a compact warehouse of sorts. Surely there was a big-ticket item or two that I could sell for quick cash.
If not, I could always get a pedicure.