paint box colors. Making its ghostly way up the wall was a sun-starved vine that had invaded between window and sill. A green gecko poked its head out of the cooker burner and puffed its golden throat; when Els stamped her foot, it retreated beneath the ring, reappeared on the stone floor, and sprinted under the fridge.
Tony pointed his torch toward some stone steps. “Be my guest.”
With each step the temperature rose, the light dwindled, and a putrid odor became more pronounced. The next level was a single room. Light pricking through cracks in the shutters barely illuminated stout beams supporting the floor above.
Tony ran his torch over the ceiling like a lecturer’s laser. “There’s a quirky bathroom at that end, a bedroom in the middle, and a sort of study above here, if I remember correctly. Trust me, it’s odd but totally unremarkable.”
“Are you sure you’re an estate agent?” Els said. She took the torch and examined the room: a big leather chair and ottoman, threadbare sofas, a refectory table, elegant proportions, crowded bookshelves, and something else. “Mother of God.”
Tony hurried up behind her. “The crazy bugger must have been on one of his legendary tears.”
The sisal carpet had been rolled back, and on the stone floor were the remains of a fire made from a smashed wooden chair. Mixed with the ashes and charred spindles were partially burned black-and-white photographs, all of young women, many of them nude.
“His profession, or just destroying the evidence before their husbands caught him?” she asked.
Tony picked up a photo. The flames had spared the head and torso of a bare-breasted teenager looking seductively into the lens, her lips in a pout. “He was a teacher, story spinner, tinkerer, ladies’ man, brawler, intermittent drunk,” Tony said. “But photographer? Not to my knowledge.” He dropped the photo onto the pile.
“How do we get upstairs?” she said.
“I remember a stair starting somewhere over here,” Tony said.
The paneled wall looked solid.
“A secret stairway,” she said. “We have one of those at home. My favorite place as a wee lassie.”
Tony pounded his fist against the paneling. Els snapped a photo of the room, and he jumped at the flash before pounding again. One of the panels gave back a hollow sound. They examined the seams.
“Door must be swollen tight,” he said. “Surely you don’t want me prying away at it. You’ll just have to use your imagination.”
“So did Jack, it seems,” she said. “When I walked around the house, I saw a platform thing off the bathroom end that looks like a shower, but you’d have to climb out a window to reach it.”
“I’ve always heard the place is one big Rube Goldberg,” Tony said. Perspiration beaded his bald spot and mooned his underarms. “Let’s get out of here.”
Tony tapped the screws into place and hurried down the drive. Els lingered in the court to take a long look at the house; a lick of breeze carrying the scent of gardenia played at her shoulders.
Tony drove toward the Resort in such a hurry that Els braced her feet under the dash.
“How is it for you, living here?” she asked.
“Christ, Lauretta and I could go to a party every night during the season,” he said. “The same little knot of expats, same old pigs-ina-blanket hors d’oeuvres. Only thing that changes is who’s sleeping with whom. No wonder we all drink.” He turned in at the Resort gate.
“Is there any restriction on foreigners owning real estate?”
“It’s encouraged,” he said. He described the licenses, background checks, taxes, and fees associated with each.
“You call levies of sixteen percent encouragement?”
“The government sometimes throws in economic citizenship for buyers spending at least three hundred fifty thousand U.S. dollars.” He slowed to let a golf cart pass. “Jack’s wouldn’t qualify. Economic citizenship in the Federation goes only with new developments, most of them on St. Kitts. You’d have to petition.”
“And the chances?”
“Any dealing with the government’s a minefield.” He stopped in front of the Great House and turned off the engine. The heat closed in immediately.
She opened her door. The air smelled of cut grass. “Remind me of the asking price.”
“Seven hundred ninety-five thousand US dollars, all-inclusive.”
“Offer them three fifty.”
“They’ll never take less than seven hundred.”
“You forgot the ghost, not to mention the porn.” Els flashed her deal smile. “The place doesn’t have one intact roof. Lord knows what I’d find on proper inspection.”
Tony started the engine. The vents spewed hot air that gradually cooled.
“Three fifty,” she said. “Cash. No contingencies, except the license.