Social Graces. Dixie Browning

stood, crossed the small room and kicked at the baseboard. “All right, Mickey, your time is up. Sorry, but I’m not in a sharing mood, so pack up your acorns or whatever and move out.”

      By no standards was the house she’d inherited from Achsah Dozier comparable to the one she’d left behind. The original structure might have been modernized at some point since she’d last seen it, but the white paint was peeling rather badly and a few of the faded green shutters dangled from single hinges.

      At least the gingerbread trim on the front eaves was intact. She remembered thinking in terms of a fairy tale when she’d been told as a child that the fancy trim was called gingerbread. The fact that her great-grandmother had actually baked gingerbread that day, the spicy scent greeting them at the front door, had only enhanced the illusion.

      Marian Kuvarky had mentioned that a few years before she’d died, Achsah Dozier had had part of the old back porch turned into another bedroom and bare-bones bath with its own separate entrance, in case she needed live-in help. Since her death, it had occasionally been rented separately. Val briefly considered the possibility and decided that she wasn’t cut out to play landlady.

      On the other hand, unearned income was not to be sneezed at.

      Dropping the shoes and dress she’d been clutching, she headed downstairs in search of cleaning materials. Before she could even consider sleeping in the room, she had to do something about the mice-and-mildew smell, either air it out or scrub it out. It was too cold to air it out.

      It occurred to her that if Ms. Kuvarky had any idea of just how little she knew about the domestic arts, she would never have offered her a job cleaning houses, even as a joke.

      Later that evening Val stepped out of the rust-stained, claw-footed upstairs bathtub onto a monogrammed hand towel. She hadn’t bothered to pack such things as tablecloths, dresser scarves or bath mats, knowing that short of renting a trailer, she had to draw the line somewhere.

      She had augmented the lukewarm water with a kettle of boiling water brought up from the kitchen. One kettle wasn’t enough, but by the time she’d heated another one, the first would be cold, so she’d settled for lukewarm and quick.

      Now, covered in goose bumps, she swaddled her damp body in a huge bath towel. Aside from being grimy and smelly, the house was also drafty. There was a space heater between the tub and the lavatory that helped as long as she didn’t move more than a foot away from the glowing element. At least with all the drafts, carbon monoxide wouldn’t be a problem. As for the danger of an electrical fire, that was another matter.

      Note: have the water heater repaired.

      Note: have the wiring checked.

      Which reminded her—what about insurance?

      “Welcome to the real world, Ms. Bonnard,” she whispered a few minutes later, flipping an 800-count Egyptian-cotton king-sized bottom sheet over the sagging double-bed mattress.

      She’d pulled on a pair of navy satin pajamas, a Peruvian hand-knit sweater jacket and a pair of slipper socks. January or not, wasn’t this supposed to be the sunny south?

      Fortunately, she’d crammed two down-filled duvets in around her suitcases, one of which she’d immediately tossed over the ugly brown plaid sofa downstairs. The other one was miles too large for the double bed, but its familiar paisley cover was comforting. That done, she collected a pen and notepad and settled down for some serious list making, ignoring the reminder from her stomach that except for pretzels, popcorn and two candy bars, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Starting early tomorrow she had a million things to do to make this place even marginally livable before she could concentrate on searching her father’s files for evidence of his innocence.

      Nibbling the white-tipped cap of her Mont Blanc, she reread the shopping list. Table cloth—one had standards, after all. Mattress cover—she definitely didn’t like the looks of that mattress, even after she’d flipped it. Oh, and a bath mat. She’d have to ask where to buy linens here on the island.

      On to the next list. Tea, bagels, other foods, preferably already prepared. Wrinkling her nose, she added mousetraps to the list. And cleaning supplies.

      A clean house was something she’d always taken for granted. After graduating from college she’d lived in small apartments, first in Chicago, then in Manhattan—always in upscale neighborhoods. She had moved back to her father’s house after he’d suffered his first small stroke, and soon after that she’d gotten involved with a few of the local charities. It was what she did best, after all—manage fund-raisers for worthy causes. She had frequently acted as her father’s hostess, although most of his business entertaining had been done at the club.

      Looking back, it had been a comfortable way to coast through life. Not particularly exciting—no major achievements—but certainly comfortable.

      “Definitely room for improvement,” she murmured, her voice echoing hollowly in the old house.

      Tired, hungry, but oddly energized, she surveyed her surroundings. Gone were the familiar French wallpaper in her old bedroom, the mismatched but well-cared-for semi-antique furniture, the faded oriental rug and her eclectic art collection. Here she was confronted by gritty bare floors, dark with layers of varnish—naked, white-painted walls, dusty windows, and the lingering aroma of mouse spoor.

      Okay. She could handle that. The sand, she’d quickly discovered, hid in the cracks between the floorboards so that each time she went over it with a broom, more appeared. She could live with a little sand. This was the beach, after all. Even if she couldn’t see the ocean from here, she could hear it.

      She added window spray and bathroom cleaner to the list, hoping there would be directions on the bottles in case she got into trouble. More paper towels. Sponges. Rubber gloves, although she probably wouldn’t be able to wear them without her hands breaking out. Her skin was inclined to be sensitive.

      Note: take down the for rent sign on the front lawn.

      The lawn itself was a mess, but once she was through scrubbing the entire house, maybe she could paint the front door a bright color to deflect attention from that and the rest of the peeling paint until she could afford to landscape and repaint the entire house. There was nothing wrong with old, but she preferred old and charming to old and neglected.

      One more note: find position that pays in advance.

      Leaning back on the two down-filled pillows, she closed her eyes. “Dad, what am I going to do?” she whispered. “Charlie, Belinda—Miss Mitty, where are you when I need you?”

      The only sound was the plaintive honking of a flock of wild geese flying overhead. It was barely nine o’clock. She never went to bed before eleven, often not until the small hours of the morning.

      Her last memory before sleep claimed her was of her father being led outside to an unmarked car while she stood in the doorway, too stunned even to protest. One of the officers pressed her father’s head down and urged him into the back seat.

      It had been Sunday, the morning of her birthday. Belinda had made blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Frank Bonnard, an early riser, had evidently been in his study. He’d been dressed in flannels, an open-necked white shirt and a navy Shetland sweater when Charlie had answered the door. Val remembered thinking much later that if the ghouls could have stuffed him into a pair of orange coveralls before marching him out in front of the single reporter who had probably tuned in on the police radio and followed them to the Belle Haven address, they’d have done it.

      That had been only the beginning. Within hours, the press had swarmed like locusts. Shortly after that the phone calls had started. Despite all the blocking devices, a few people managed to get through with variations ranging from “Where’s my money?” to “Frank Bonnard owes me my pension, dammit. Where is it? What am I supposed to do now?”

      The calls had ended when the police had put taps on all three phone lines. Not until recently had she wondered why they’d ceased. How could the callers have known their calls could be traced?

      The