Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) by Gemma Halliday (books for students to read TXT) 📕

little extra." He held it out to me. "Thought I'd do the neighborly thing and share."

I took it before he dropped it all over my carpet and it ate through to the floorboards. I didn't stand a chance of seeing my security deposit returned as it was. Not that it was my fault the paint was peeling off the walls on its own accord.

"You didn't have to do that," I said. He could have done the neighborly thing and dumped it down the disposal. The smells leaking out from beneath that lid would straighten my hair faster than a flatiron.

"I need an objective opinion," he said. "You can be my tester."

I sure hoped he was talking about aftershave, because I had no intention of tasting whatever was swimming inside that Tupperware.

"Besides," he added, "an old man doesn't like to eat alone."

It occurred to me that that was what old women were for, but I didn't have the heart to say so. The truth was, I liked Mr. Bitterman, and I really didn't mind having dinner with him.

As long as it wasn't his dinner.

"I understand," I said. "I've got some sweet and sour pork in the fridge. Come on in."

I'd given it my best and gentlest shot, but Mr. Bitterman and his mystery dish would not be separated. He followed me into the kitchen and settled in at my table with a grunt of exertion. "You might want to give that a turn in the microwave," he said. "It tends to congeal as it cools."

Nothing unappetizing about that. I held my breath, spooned the contents of the Tupperware container into a bowl, and shoved it into the microwave. It didn't look like it was congealing. It looked like it was breathing.

I slammed the door shut and turned the microwave to Incinerate.

"You know," I told him, "I appreciate the gesture, but you could have had dinner with Mrs. Frist in 2E. I think she's got her eye on you."

"She's got her eye on everyone," he said. "She sits and stares out the peephole all day long. Her only exercise is when she changes eyes." He grimaced. "And Mrs. Frist doesn't know good food when she tastes it. You might want to give that a stir."

I was afraid to give it a stir. If I opened the microwave, it might jump out and attack me.

"I know the signs," he said. "They're looking for new husbands, all of them. They bring me enough casseroles and Bundt cakes to open a restaurant."

Casserole and Bundt cake didn't sound so bad to me. I cast a baleful glance at the microwave. He was sitting on real food, and I got stuck with that.

He shook his head. "None of them will let me cook dinner. Won't let me near the stove. They insist on feeding me."

Guess he couldn't take a hint.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "And you're right. I'm candy for the ladies."

Yeah. That was what I'd been thinking.

"But I got plans," he added. "I'm writing a cookbook. It's going to be huge. I'm calling it the Bitterman Diet Plan. What do you think?"

Something popped inside the microwave, and he made a better-check-that gesture that I deliberately ignored. I wasn't opening that door. The smell would get out.

"If you want to help people lose weight," I said, "I think you've got a winner."

He seemed pleased. He moved his dentures around until they got out of the way and smiled at me. It was a lovely Hallmark moment.

Until our dinner whistled, sizzled, and exploded in the microwave.

Mr. Bitterman shrieked like a little girl and ducked his head.

I rushed to open the door, but I was too late. For the dinner and the microwave. It looked like a scene from Ghostbusters in there. There was no saving it. Even if I managed to scrape the remnants of Cabbage Surprise off the walls, I doubted I could purge that smell.

But I'd rather smell it than taste it.

CHAPTER TWO

"Maybe he got the address wrong," Irene said.

We were standing on the sidewalk outside 221 Baker Street, staring up at a crumbling Victorian. There were empty gaps where gingerbread trim had once hung. Gutters were missing. The paint was a washed-out blue that might have been pretty forty years ago, when it had been applied, but now resembled acid-washed jeans.

I bit my lip. "I'm positive he said 221." I checked the paperwork that Andrew Bonamassa had handed over along with the key. He'd said 221. I sighed and shoved the papers into my bag. So much for my chic new home. My inheritance was going to need a complete overhaul just to make it habitable. And that was just on the outside. I couldn't imagine what it looked like on the inside. Did it even have walls? This wasn't exactly the hoped-for step up from my apartment. More like a head-long plunge down a set of stairs.

And it probably didn't even have a microwave.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to see the house without the neglect and decay. It must have been something years ago. I could almost imagine colorful shutters, cheerful flowers springing from a well-tended garden, a plump calico cat curled up in the front window, basking in the sun.

Irene brushed at the grime coating the mailbox. The box teetered over and crashed to the ground.

She looked at me. "Maybe your great-aunt Kate didn't like you."

"It's not that bad," I said, squinting up at the roofline. Who was I kidding? It was worse. My imagination wasn't that good; there were no shutters or flowers or fat, contented cats. And I was no roofing expert, but I was pretty sure that it shouldn't look like a mildewed newspaper up there.

Irene cupped her ear. "Do you hear that?"

I blinked. "What?"

"That white elephant." Irene