Chapter Eleven Tula
Chapter Eleven
Tula
The traffic was still light as we drove down the beach road, but that would change in the next hour as vacationers headed to the breakfast dives, beach, the shopping centers, or trinket stores.
Today, like yesterday, was supposed to be clear, so the chances were good the crowds wouldn’t be terrible.
Tomorrow’s weather predicted overcast skies and a little rain.
Then the ripe-red bodies would flock from the sand and surf toward the attractions.
But before this place could be rentable again, we’d have to clear out the explosion of trash scattered over every square inch.
“Did a bomb go off?” I asked.
Kaitlin shook her head. “Looks like it.”
“I thought these were easy cleans?”
“They usually are.” Kaitlin looked annoyed but not surprised.
The trash cans were overflowing, the refrigerator was full of half-eaten takeout, pizza boxes littered the place, and sand had been tracked over every square inch of floor.
“On a scale of one to ten . . .” I asked.
She regarded the first bathroom. “Eight. Maybe a nine. But no serious damage beyond the trash. Grab a garbage bag, start cleaning out the kitchen, and pick up anything that looks like it doesn’t belong.”
“What’s the deal with people?”
“They’re on vacation. Some just think that cleaning isn’t part of the package.”
I pulled on plastic gloves, half wishing I had a hazmat suit. “I can’t imagine a ten.”
“Because you’re a neatnik and control freak when it comes to organization.” When I looked up, she smiled. “And I love, love when people like you check out of one of my properties.”
“Cleaner than when they moved in, right?”
“Exactly. Amazing.”
“I left my dirty dishes in Dave’s sink before I left.”
She laughed. “Aren’t you the little rule breaker.”
“It kind of bothers me.”
“Let the land shark wash his own dishes.”
I dumped several pizza boxes into the bag. “Pizza is the cuisine of choice.”
“The seafood leftovers are generally in the refrigerator. At least I hope they are.”
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever found?”
“A handgun on the kitchen counter. Vibrators in a nightstand. Fish in the bathtub.”
“Were the fish alive?”
“At one time, but not by the time I found them.”
I refused to remind myself that I’d taken top honors in the paralegal program. Several instructors had suggested I consider law school.
Tierney, Brooks, and Bainbridge had been my first job offer.
They liked that I worked hard in the mail room, and when they discovered I could write, the powers that be decided to train me in paralegal work.
I’d been so grateful for the work that I didn’t realize that writing summaries and legal briefs didn’t energize me.
I filled three large green bags and hauled them outside to the dumpster. My next mountain to climb was the refrigerator. The renters had been here two weeks, and I bet they’d saved every bit of takeout since their arrival. Several of the meals and the milk had developed a real odor.
Doing my best not to gag, I dumped it all into the bag. Several whole fish lay in the icy freezer. Wide glossy eyes stared at me as if asking why anyone had bothered to catch them.
I used a blunt kitchen knife to pry the fish off the freezer bottom. “I hope they lose their security deposit.”
“They will.” Kaitlin appeared with three bags stuffed with clean linens.
After all the clutter had been collected, I wiped all the surfaces while Kaitlin tackled the sheets and bathroom. Within the hour, two vacuum cleaners were sucking up sand and debris.
The condo was still old and worn, but it was now immaculate and smelled of pine. Oddly, I felt a real sense of satisfaction. This was only two weeks’ worth of trash. Who knew what waited at the Southern Shores house, filled with a lifetime of stuff.
After we’d cleaned the next five condos, which thankfully were in good shape, we headed south. I asked, “Do we still have time to stop at the Brooks house?”
Kaitlin loaded her mops and the vacuum cleaners into the back of her van. “Sure. It’s on the way.”
When we pulled up in front of the old cottage, it was nearly three.
The “flattop house” was one level and made of cinder blocks covered with sun-washed stucco.
White hurricane shutters covered the windows facing Route 12.
Cinder block homes like these had earned the “flattop house” name because the roofs were, well, flat.
The horizontal roofs and large overhangs protected the originally un-air-conditioned interiors from sun and wind while blending with the landscape.
Many houses around this cottage had added a second floor or painted the exterior a bright color, but not this one.
It looked as if it hadn’t changed since it was built in the 1940s.
These homes had a mid-century modern vibe, and most had been renovated.
Few remained in their original form, like this one.
Out of the car, I tipped my face toward the sun. “I have no idea why I accepted this job. It makes no sense.”
“The firm must trust you. Cleaning out the home of a founding partner’s great-uncle is important to them.”
A ripped, faded awning dangled over a window. “This place is going to need more than a broom.”
“Have you been inside yet?” Kaitlin asked.
“No. This is my maiden voyage.”
I pulled the old key from my purse and shoved it into the lock. This close to the ocean, anything metal rusted, and the lock resisted as I twisted the key. I wiggled it until it finally gave way, and the dead bolt opened. Turning the knob, I pushed open the front door.
Warm, musty air rushed out, and the interior was shrouded in shadows.
I flipped on a switch that looked original to the house.
A small bulb dangling from a ceiling fan spit out enough light for me to cross the room and push back dusty curtains covering a salt-streaked window.
Beyond was a small patio abutting a retaining wall that held back the sand.
Stairs led to a platform on top of the dunes.
I coaxed the second door open and stepped outside into sunshine.
Beyond the sandbank, waves tumbled onto the beach.
“Houses today can’t be built this close to the dunes,” Kaitlin said. “This is a true throwback to the 1940s. The Wright Memorial Bridge was only two lanes and kind of rickety. It was a bit like the Wild West here then.”
“I wonder why Dr. Brooks picked this spot?”
“If he wanted to cut off the world and commune with the ocean, this was the place to do it. What do you know about the senior Dr. Brooks?”
“Nothing. I only met his great-nephew once, two days ago.”
“You know your Oceanus wreck is almost three miles due east of here.”
“I know.” I’d always approached the dive spot via boat, and I’d never paid attention to the distant beach.
“Someone wants you to face the Oceanus.”
“My therapist.” Who had still not acknowledged my text.
“Would he orchestrate all this?”
“No. He’s a fan of nonintervention.” There’d been times when I’d wished he’d just tell me how to feel. Now I was glad he’d left me to figure me out. “Let’s have a look inside.”
The walls were covered in wood paneling and images of ships and the North Carolina coastline before many homes had been built.
The rattan furniture with fabric cushions sporting wide palm leaves had a nautical vibe.
There was a soot-stained fireplace with black andirons, a raw-edge wood mantel displaying two vintage brass lanterns, and a large basket filled with yellowed newspapers.
In the galley kitchen, brown paneling, a double oven, white metal cabinets, and a white speckled Formica countertop were reminiscent of a 1950s sitcom. The Frigidaire freezer/refrigerator was also vintage, as were the stove and the farmhouse sink.
I opened the fridge. It was small but clean and cold. The freezer needed defrosting, but otherwise, it was spotless. This old place was dusty but basically tidy.
“The house has a good vibe,” Kaitlin said.
This house wasn’t designed for lounging. It had been built with the beach in mind. No lingering on the couch watching TV or scrolling. It wanted its occupants outside by the ocean.
One of the three bedrooms was furnished with a white four-poster bed, and one of the others had twins.
The art had a nautical theme, and the windows were small.
The third room was the largest and served as an office, dominated by a desk that had a ship’s captain vibe, much like the one Mr. Brooks had in Norfolk.
The room had ten filing cabinets, all covered with stacked files on top.
Shelves, crammed with books, lined all the walls.
“Where do you start?” Kaitlin asked.
“A basic cleaning of the kitchen, a bedroom, and bathroom. I’ll tackle the rest bit by bit. Mr. Brooks said I could stay here while I worked.”
“You’re welcome to bunk with me.”
“Thank you. But this place has real beds, and your twin bed . . .”
“Lumpy, hard, short?”
“Yeah. But I’ll still cover the two weeks of work I promised you. I’ll just get up a little earlier and meet you at the surf shop.”
Kaitlin dragged a finger over the dusty counter, leaving a trail. “It’s got quite the history.”
I walked into the office, flipped on the light, and walked toward boxes stacked in the corner.
I lifted the lid and found manila folders stuffed with yellowing papers and a few photographs.
“The man never met a piece of paper he didn’t love.
” That was one of the odd things I’d appreciated about my job at first. Printed pages felt solid, and after a lifetime of traveling, they signaled a safe harbor.
“From what I’ve heard, Dr. Brooks became a super-volunteer when he retired. Everyone at the rec center, library, and animal shelter knew of him.”
“Really?”
“He never was out front at an event, but he was the organizational brains behind some big fundraisers. He passed seven years ago, shortly after your mom vanished. He was well over one hundred years old.”