A Secret to Die For

Chapter 1-3

“It’s not as big as I expected,” Brian said as he got out of the car. “I mean it’s not small, but…”

“You thought it would take up a whole city block?”

“I guess, in my imagination, yeah. After all, you did say it was almost a mansion.”

The property went from the alley to the side street and was deep enough it could have accommodated a second house, as Brian found out when Mr. Johnson took his around to the side. A high wall surrounded the back yard, with a gated opening for the driveway.

Returning to the front, Mr. Johnson led the way up the flagstone path to the porch. Taking a ring of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the door and ushered Brian into the entryway, momentarily going into the coat closet—“To disarm the security system,” he explained to Brian. Directly ahead of them was a stairway to the second floor and to their left, the living room, which had hardwood flooring that extended into the dining room, and a large fireplace with floor-to-ceiling, mahogany bookshelves on either side. The kitchen, with its modern appliances and mahogany cabinetry, and the small breakfast nook off it, had granite-tiled floors. A door off the kitchen led to a three-car garage. Upstairs, the bedrooms were carpeted, with granite-tiled en suite bathrooms.

“Where’s the bird?” Brian asked when they exited the last bedroom.

“In here.” Mr. Johnson opened a door at the far end of the hallway.

Sunlight poured into the room through the three glassed-in walls and the ceiling. Trees in huge pots filled the room, with vines climbing up them and the arched beams that soared up to until they met in the center of the ceiling. In the middle of the solarium was a small flower garden with several chairs and an ornate table in the center.

“I don’t see Sir Kenith,” Brian said. He did seconds later when a blur of red, green, and blue flew down from the top of one of the trees, screeching loudly as it, or ‘he’ since it was the macaw, landed on a branch inches away from Brian. “Holy s**t, he’s big, and damned noisy.”

“Damned noisy,” Sir Kenith said, mimicking him.

“He learned that fast?” Brian asked in surprise, his gaze locked on the beautiful bird.

Mr. Johnson laughed. “Not quite. Alistair used to say that to him when he got too loud.”

“Whew.” Brian tentatively held out his arm, wondering if the bird would sit on it. For a long moment, Sir Kenith stared at it, and at him. Then with amazing grace, he stepped from the branch onto Brian’s arm, his claws curling around Brian’s forearm tightly enough to keep his balance, but not painfully so. “You are quite something,” he told the macaw.

The bird dipped its head at the compliment—or at least that’s what Brian hoped, knowing nothing about birds. It could be something he does as a part of what he is, I suppose. Still, it would be fun if he really understood me. His arm was beginning to tire, as the macaw wasn’t exactly light, so he put his hand on a tree branch. The bird immediately walked onto it. “Thank you,” Brian said.

“Welcome,” Sir Kenith replied in a harsh voice before letting out a series of ear-shattering calls as he hopped from branch to branch then soared to the top of the tallest tree.

“If he shits on me,” Brian said under his breath, getting a laugh from Mr. Johnson before the man suggested they leave the bird to his own devices. “What do I feed him, and what about cleaning up after him and…what have you?”

“His food is in a refrigerator in the cabinet on the wall by the door, next to the sink. Alistair had a man who came in to clean the room. I’ll let him know to keep coming, if you want. Believe it or not, Sir Kenith is well trained to do his duty only in certain spots. Otherwise the garden furniture would be useless.”

Brian imagined that and laughed. “Yes, I think I’d like the guy to do the clean-up, at least for now. Did my grandfather ever take Sir Kenith out of the room?”

“Oh, yes. They would spend the evenings together. Apparently he likes music and will sing along with variety shows on TV, or music Alistair would have on while he painted.”

“He was an artist?” Brian asked in surprise.

“Indeed. Some of the pictures hanging in the various rooms are his.”

“Damn.”

“Come. I’ll show you his studio.” Mr. Johnson took him down to a room off what had been Alistair’s study. It was a fully equipped with everything an artist would need, including two vacant easels.

“Maybe…” Brian said under his breath.

“Yes?”

“Nothing. I used to paint a little. Nothing a good as my grandfather’s work. Still, I enjoyed playing around with it—and drawing, which I’m better at.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you got back into it again, using the studio,” Mr. Johnson said. “For the moment, however, I need to return to my office, and you should do what’s necessary to move in here. That is presuming you intend to.”

“I do. Hell, this place is a lot better than my furnished apartment. At least I won’t have to move any furniture. I’ll have to pack up my clothes, and books, and what have you, but it shouldn’t take too long. I can call for one of those large cabs to move it all over here. Not until tomorrow, though. I have to work today.”

“Here are the keys.” Mr. Johnson handed him the key ring as they walked to the entryway. “Front door, back and side doors, the driveway gate.” He pointed them out as he enumerated them. “Oh, one thing more—well, that I can think of at the moment.” He chuckled. “Alistair had a young man working for him, cataloguing his extensive library, checking on Kenith when Alistair wasn’t around, and taking care of the grounds.”

“That’s definitely multi-tasking,” Brian commented.

“Indeed. I have no idea where Alistair found him, but he lucked out when he did. Conley is a marvel, according to what your grandfather told me. He has the keys to the house, but I’ve informed him he’s to talk with you before he continues working on the library. If you don’t want him here, let him know.”

“Okay. I suppose, since he’s probably in the middle of doing that, he might as well finish up.”

“I agree. Your grandfather used a housekeeping service as well. They came once a week. If you’d like, I can have them continue.”

“No thanks. It may be a large house, but I think I can take care of dusting and whatever on my own.”

“Excellent. Oh, I knew there was something else.” Mr. Johnson opened a closet door in the entryway and pointed to the alarm box, telling Brian the code. “Obviously, always keep it armed when you’re not here.”

“And when I’m here, too,” Brian said. “I don’t want any unexpected visitors.”

“Very wise of you.”

Mr. Johnson dropped Brian off at his apartment, telling him to call if he had any questions.

“I’m sure I’ll have a million of them,” Brian replied wryly. “I’ll try to make a list, instead of bothering you every ten minutes. Oh, umm, is it okay to tell my friends at work about the house and all?”

“Of course. To all intents and purposes it’s yours for at least the next year. After that, well it will be up to you if you want to keep it or sell it. Ah, I knew there was something more.” Mr. Johnson took out his checkbook, writing a check which he handed to Brian. “You’ll be getting this much every month, for incidental expenses.”

Brian’s eyes widened when he saw it was for five hundred dollars. “Hell, I could quit my job. Not that I’m going to. I like it there and I’d probably go crazy with nothing to do all day.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Mr. Johnson replied. “I’m certain Alistair would be, too. All right, as I said, call me whenever you have a question. And enjoy the house.”

“I know I will once I get used to being there.” Brian thanked him for all his help, got out of the car, and a few moments later was in his apartment.

As he fixed a sandwich for lunch before going to work, he thought about the morning and all that had happened.

It’s unbelievable. I must be dreaming. Me in that house, which could be mine in a year? Why a year? Why that proviso? He laughed, imagining a scenario where he’d have to deal with ghosts or goblins that haunted it. If they scare me away, then I’m not the man Grandpa Alistair hoped I was and I lose my inheritance. Uh-huh. That only happens in movies. Still, there has to be some reason he set it up that way. Maybe he wants me to prove I’m not going to blow the money?

He thought about the check from Mr. Johnson burning a hole in his pocket. “It goes into the bank and I don’t touch the money unless it’s an emergency. I’m fine with what I make from the coffee shop. I have been, so far, and now I won’t even have to pay rent. I can save and who knows, maybe I can go to college. Like that would be a problem if I make it through the next year.”

Despite what he’d told Mr. Johnson, and his parents, there was something he’d always wanted to do. With the sandwich in one hand, a glass of milk in the other, he went to the desk tucked away in one corner of his tiny living room. Putting them down after taking a bite of the sandwich, he opened the sketchpad sitting on top of the desk, thumbing through it. Do I have talent, or is this just a way to kill time when I’m not working? A question he’d asked himself more often than he liked. He’d taken some art classes in high school, oh so many years ago. I did pretty well in them, according to my teachers, and even won a first prize in the school art show. But making a career of it? I could be in for a big letdown if I turned some of these into finished products and tried to sell them and no one wanted to buy them. “I’m an amateur with big dreams,” he grumbled. “But…”

He glanced at the time and put his dreams on hold as he finished eating and got ready for work. He smiled as he left the apartment. Tomorrow I’ll be living in a much nicer place and for damned sure I’m going to make it through the year, no matter what.