Mystery at Magnolia Mansion

By Don McNair

Brenda Maxwell’s new interior design client tells her to “paint, wallpaper, whatever” his hundred-year-old landmark mansion, “but for God’s sake, don’t go overboard.” When she figures her grandiose plans will fit handily into his edict’s whatever” section, they’re launched into a constant head-bumping mode.

Brenda’s poor money management skills (that’s his view, but what does he know?) and lawyer David Hasbrough’s ridiculous need to control her life (that’s her well-reasoned evaluation of the situation) combine to keep the battle going. Is this couple’s romantic goose cooked? Well, she can’t be near him without sparks flying and goose bumps popping out everywhere. But that mansion has to be done right!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don McNair
• Release date: Jan 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465802446

Don McNair

Don McNair, now a prolific author, spent his working life editing magazines (11 years), producing public relations materials for the Burson-Marsteller international PR firm (6 years), and heading his own marketing communications firm, McNair Marketing Communications (21 years). His creativity has won him three Golden Trumpets for best industrial relations programs from the Publicity Club of Chicago, a certificate of merit award for a quarterly magazine he wrote and produced, and the Public Relations Society of America’s Silver Anvil. The latter is comparable to the Emmy and Oscar in other industries. McNair has written and placed hundreds of trade magazine articles and three published non-fiction “how-to” books (Tab Books). He’s written six novels; two young-adult novels (Attack of the Killer Prom Dresses and The Long Hunter), three romantic suspense novels Mystery on Firefly Knob, Mystery at Mangolia Mansion, and Wait for Backup!), and a romantic comedy (BJ, Milo, and the Hairdo from Heck). McNair now concentrates on editing novels for others and teaching two online editing classes (see McNairEdits.com).

Book preview

Mystery at

Magnolia Mansion

By

Don McNair

Smashwords Edition

Copyright© 2012 Don McNair

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

Dedication

I dedicate this book of love to my father, Melvin McNair, who truly knew what love was. He had a gentle heart and a forgiving soul, and brought light and warmth to all he knew.

Chapter 1

Brenda Maxwell stepped through overgrown crabgrass and gazed up at the rear of the old two-story house, which stretched high into the cloudless, dark-blue spring sky. It needed scraping and painting, that was for sure, but that was the least of it. The blackened asphalt shingles were curled up and some were missing. Three windowpanes were broken out and the back porch was a mess.

She shifted onto one leg, scratched her head with her pencil, and turned to Carole Spritzer, her friend and employee. We could just go to the beach or something, she said. I’ve never seen a house this bad.

Carole nodded. You got that right.

She, too, gazed at the building. She stood a head shorter than Brenda, and probably was twenty pounds heavier, a fact she kept well concealed in her baggy coveralls. While some women wore them as a fashion statement, Brenda knew she wore them the old-fashioned way. Ragged from serious work.

Brenda jotted notes into her black leatherette notebook and frowned. Worse than the Wallace place, she said. Worse than that house in Fairhope and it was terrible. Worse than—

Like you said, let’s go to that beach. Carol rubbed her hands together. We could be squishing our toes in that white sand in less than an hour.

Brenda tapped Carole’s skull with her notebook and returned her attention to the list. Repair back porch floor, she said, again scribbling. She looked up. That rotten floor is a threat to the whole human race. I almost fell through it yesterday.

Carole peeled her third Weight Watcher’s snack bar of the day, bit off a piece, and turned in a slow circle, eyeing the yard. Brenda followed her gaze. Those azaleas had to be ten feet high, probably were trimmed last when Coolidge was president. Two partially dismantled cars sat by an old carriage house on the back property line, itself swaybacked and crying for paint and attention. The blooming purple morning glories hanging from the shed produced a cloyingly sweet aroma that attacked her nostrils when the breeze blew just right, as it did now. Carole gobbled the last of the bar and thrust the wrapper into her side pocket.

Brenda put pencil to paper. Romp in waves. She scribbled some more. Be ogled by seriously handsome men. She added large curlicues and stabbed the paper with a final, important period.

Carole eyed her. Yeah, right. You’re in pig heaven right here, and you know it. If that house didn’t have a ton of things wrong with it you’d go batty.

Brenda knew her friend was right. She’d proven it several times since escaping from her mom’s dreadful tract house and equally dreadful second husband ten years ago. Actually, the very day after her high school graduation. Between night classes and day condo-cleaning jobs, then later as an apprentice with a licensed interior designer in Mobile, she sure didn’t have much romping time. She had even less after starting Maxwell’s Mansions a year ago. No, romping was not her thing. Old houses were.

She considered the forlorn structure before her. Particularly this house, tucked away in Magnolia Springs, Alabama. It was a basket case, that was for sure. It must have been cool when built a century before to house northern timberland buyers, ferried across Mobile Bay with money in hand. Some brought suitcases of booze and decks of playing cards, the stories went, and a good time was had by all.

She’d discovered it while driving to visit a friend on the Magnolia River, immediately dubbed it Magnolia Mansion because of the huge magnolia tree in its front yard, and had since made special trips just to view it. Unfortunately, to also watch it deteriorate as uncaring tenants trashed it and unknowing out-of-state owners cashed their rent checks. Once she’d almost marched right up to the front door to ask whoever answered, "Who gave you permission to wreck this treasure?" At least she’d told herself several times that she should have done that. When she got that call from the new out-of-town owner’s secretary three weeks ago, asking if she’d like to help fix it up, there was only one possible answer. Yes, yes, yes!

It must have been something, Brenda said softly.

What? Carole crossed her arms and peered at her friend. A morning-glory breeze brought long strands of hair across her face and she idly pushed them back.

Oh, nothing. This house sure has a history.

A thump sounded off to the right of the old building, then a string of curses. Brenda’s eyes rolled skyward. What was his name? She glanced at the old van parked in the gravel driveway. Jacobs Foundation Services, the sign on its side said. Jacobs himself was explaining to his workers, in no uncertain terms, the finer points of jacking up a house to replace its sill.

As she eyed the van a long Lincoln Town Car turned off Oak Street onto Jessamine and paused at the driveway. The driver, a man perhaps thirty years old, rolled down his window and stared at the work van, Brenda’s beat-up Ford Taurus, and finally Carole’s equally dented Chevy pickup. He backed up, shifted into drive, and aimed for the small space between the van and Brenda’s car.

Hey, watch it! Brenda said. The Lincoln skidded to a stop an inch from scraping her car’s rear bumper. The driver shifted gears and the car spun backwards.

I said watch it! Brenda tossed her notebook down and stomped over to the driveway. That’s my car you’re trying to demolish!

Brenda and the driver exchanged wide-eyed looks. He peeled out toward the roadside beyond the drive, locked his brakes, and stepped out into the dust storm he’d created. And that, he said, as if announcing it to all of Magnolia Springs, is my driveway.

The man strode along the row of overgrown azaleas and stopped at the drive. His dark pin-striped suit coat puckered around a lone button as he clamped his hands on his sides and reared back, like he was a Greek statue or something. Well, maybe the suit and the rearing back didn’t make him look like that. It could have been the slightly bent nose or the broad shoulders. Brenda slumped as she stared at his imposing figure.

"Your driveway?"

He relaxed and grinned, showing dimples that wouldn’t quit. "My driveway. I happen to own this dump."

Oh, you’re David Hasbrough! She extended her hand and he grasped it in both of his.

Sorry about that close call, he said. I really thought that space was big enough.

That house is not a dump, she said. The animal warmth from his hands seemed to consume her. It’s a great house. At least, it used to be.

And who might you be? He released her, but her senses remembered his firm grip.

I’m Brenda Maxwell.

Maxwell, Maxwell. Oh, you’re the decorator. He glanced again at the vehicles blocking his driveway, and his gaze locked on the magnetic sign on her car’s door. His arms relaxed to his sides, and his wrinkled jacket smoothed to form a perfect replica of a Brookes Brothers ad. His shape resembled a V, with a handsome face on top and highly-polished black wingtip shoes at the bottom. She’d pictured the new owner to be a pot-bellied old man with chins that had chins, not this gorgeous hunk.

Maxwell’s Mansions… he read aloud.

That’s me.

But ‘mansions?’ What’s with the ‘mansions?’ He turned from her clunky car to her.

Well, I had to call my business something, she said. Are you making fun?

No, please don’t think that. I’m sure it’s a perfectly good name. I’m just curious, that’s all. Why ‘mansions?’

This was getting ridiculous. She stretched just a bit taller. Well, if you have to know, I thought of calling it ‘Maxwell’s Castles.’ But that didn’t sound right, so I decided on ‘Mansions.’

But… He frowned, as if divining her business name selection secrets was somehow of the utmost importance.

"Well, if you really have to know, just can’t live without that vital information, it tells how I view my clients’ homes. I’m sure, even in New York, you’ve heard the saying, ‘a man’s home is his castle.’"

He turned back toward her. Oh, I’ve upset you. I’m sorry, Miss—Miss— He glanced again at the car sign. Miss Maxwell. I was just surprised to see so many cars in my driveway.

Carole had apparently been trying to blend in with the bushes. Now she lunged forward and thrust Brenda’s notebook into her hands. There’ll be one less in half a minute, she said. Brenda, I’ll be late tomorrow. Got to see Gloria Reynolds.

Oh, right. Smooth her feathers, will you? That was another problem with this business. Bossy clients who change their minds ten times a day.

Sure, I’ll hit her with the old Spritzer sparkle. Catch you later.

Carole got into her pickup, backed onto Jessamine, and took off. For a few moments, her motor’s acceleration was the only sound. Brenda stared after her as if that car were the most interesting thing in the whole world. She felt David Hasbrough’s presence, and knew she had to face him. She looked directly into his face. There it was again. That cuddly-bear smile.

I didn’t mean to snap at you, she said. Forgive me?

No problem. I’m sure I deserved it.

Banging hammers sounded from around the house, then a thump, and another tirade only that Jacobs person could produce. David Hasbrough’s eyebrows shot up.

What’s that? He studied the van’s Foundation Services sign a moment and strode off toward the sound’s source. The tirade died down and the hammering started again.

Brenda hurried after him. They say he’s the best.

Foundation services? he said over his shoulder. Who wants ‘foundation services?’

Why, you do. She caught up with him. That whole sill’s rotted out. The old sink leaked on it for years and years.

They turned the corner. David’s long steps became short ones, his determined look shifted to puzzlement. There, in front of them, were three men in coveralls. On the ground were four haphazardly-stacked new timbers and one mound of paint-peeled weatherboards that had earlier that day been on the house. The house’s guts were exposed through a ragged-edged hole perhaps eight feet wide and almost as tall as the wall, exposing thick studs. A sheet of four-inch wide vertical boards appeared beyond that.

What’s going on? David said.

Jacobs, thin but with the muscle-bound arms of a bricklayer, eyed him as if he were a laboratory specimen. He spat a stream of juice dangerously close to David’s feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his dark-tanned hand. Why, we’re jacking that there wall up, he said.

The other workers glanced at David and at each other, shrugged, and went back to work. They’d already placed two square timbers between studs, bottom ends resting on huge foundation jacks, their top ends disappearing upwards behind still-in-place weatherboards. Now they turned the jackscrews with metal bars. The protesting house squealed like fingers scraping on a chalkboard.

David turned to Brenda. He had already yanked his tie loose, and now he stripped off his suit jacket. Sweat plastered his white shirt to his body.

What’s going on, Miss Maxwell? Is all this necessary?

Now, Mr. Hasbrough…

A cracking noise sounded like a gunshot from the opened wall.

Good Lord! David stumbled back and tripped on the stacked weatherboards. As he flung his arms out to catch himself, his jacket flew from his hand. The boards clattered under him like a car rumbling across an old wooden bridge.

Mister Hasbrough! Are you all right? Brenda grabbed for his hand. She barely heard the snickers behind her.

David waved her aside and struggled to get up. He brushed himself off and saw again the gaping hole and the three workmen. He groaned and stomped off toward the backyard. She followed him. He stopped suddenly, snapped his fingers, went back around the corner, and returned with his jacket. For several moments they stood silently, bodies facing each other but faces looking away, listening to those squeaky jacks. He brushed dirt off his jacket and put it on.

Brenda looked him over for broken bones. His sweat-soaked shirt hung half-way out of his trousers, and his knees were dirty from his trying to get up. She fought an urge to brush him off like a little boy who’d fallen, and send him away again to play.

He watched her as he stuffed his shirt back into his trousers and a slow smile appeared. Sorry for the slap-stick comedy, he said. I don’t usually play the fool for pretty women.

Brenda’s guard dropped a tad and she smiled back. She got into step with him as he walked slowly toward the street side of the house.

He glanced at her, smile still intact. I must admit I’m a bit surprised. I was told you were an interior decorator. But this isn’t decorating—it’s construction.

Actually, I’m an interior designer, she said. An interior decorator on steroids, licensed to work with the structure itself. I guess you could call me a house doctor. I bring old houses with character back to life.

She mentally kicked herself. Boy, did that sound stuffy! Here she comes, ole Doc Maxwell in her horseless carriage, arriving just in time to save the poor patient. Why didn’t she also say she made house calls and make a complete fool of herself? She tried to think of something—anything—to change the subject.

"And what is it you do? she asked. I understand you’re here from New York on business."

I’m a lawyer, he said. And please don’t tell me any lawyer jokes. I’ve heard them all.

I wasn’t going to.

I’m here to handle a condo purchase in Gulf Shores. Not just one unit, a whole building.

She pictured the Gulf Shores skyline in her mind’s eye, with its millions of huge condo buildings closing off the Gulf of Mexico view. Which building?

The ‘Sea Wynd.’

Oh, I know that one! I cleaned condos in the building next to it. Back then, the Sea Wynd was just bare sand.

He stared at his dirty hands. Well, I’ve got to clean up. I sure didn’t expect to—

The old house cracked again. David swung toward the sound so fast that he bumped into Brenda. He grabbed her to keep her from falling and held her a moment longer than he actually needed to, she thought. But she didn’t protest.

Sorry again, he said. He released her and glanced back toward the workmen. I’m staying in the house this trip. Do you think we can convince that demolition team to leave now?

She looked at her watch. Almost six o’clock, time for them to quit anyhow. I’ll tell them, she said. You’re really staying here? With the mess inside, it’ll be like camping out.

He grinned. Used to love camping. I bought some garage-sale bedroom furniture two weeks ago when I flew down to take the condo job.

He walked to his car, opened its trunk, and retrieved a large suitcase, a suit bag, and his briefcase. He struggled with them toward the house, paused, and turned. Brenda, I realize you have to do certain things to this house to make it livable, but don’t go overboard, okay? Will you be here tomorrow?

Make it livable? Make it livable? Yes, I plan to.

Fine. Well, perhaps I’ll see you.

****

As David stepped up the porch stairs he glanced back at his new interior designer, now opening her car door. What on earth had he walked into? She was pretty, that was for sure. But she had an edge to her that he wasn’t sure how to take. Bitchy? No, that wasn’t it. Aggressive? Well, yes, but—

Memories rushed in and he paused at the kitchen door. Renee. Yes, that was it. She was the reincarnation of Renee.

He