Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

“I got a call from the city clerk’s office asking if I could handle an... execution sale? Is that the right word? Anyway, I said I’d do it, the shop needs the money, but they want to hold it tomorrow afternoon—”

“Tomorrow? They usually advertise them for a couple of weeks. What’s the rush?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never done one of these before. That’s why I’m here. I could really use your help.”

“No offense, Miss Frantzis, but I’d rather not—”

“Please, it won’t take much time. You’ve already seen the merchandise.”

“What do you mean, I’ve seen it?”

“The execution sale is at the old house on Centralia, where we met.”

“The Potter house?” Phil asked, frowning.

“You know it?” I asked.

“Everybody knows that old eyesore,” Phil shrugged. “The Potters were big rich once, lumber money. Gone now. The Downtown Development Authority bought the house a few months ago. It’s slated for demolition. Anybody living there must be squatting.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Karla said. “The clerk just asked me to catalog anything of value on the premises and sell it off tomorrow. If you’re willing to help with the pricing, we can tag everything tonight. I’ll handle the sale tomorrow and split the take fifty-fifty. Does that sound fair?”

“It’s more than fair, it’s just that—”

“I know, Clara already warned me these sales are awful and I shouldn’t have taken the commission. If you’d rather not help, I understand.”

“But you’re going ahead whether I help or not?”

“I said I’d do it so I will,” she said simply. “Sorry, didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Maybe another time. Nice meeting you, Mr. Barrett.” She was already halfway to the door.

“Hey, wait up, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.”

“You mean you will? Great! Does seven thirty work for you?”

“Tonight? Um, sure, that’s fine.”

“Good, I’ll meet you there. I’d better get back to the shop. And thanks.” She waved a cheery goodbye to Phil and bustled out. The energy level in the room dropped by eighty percent.

“Nice-looking woman,” Phil observed.

“I guess.”

“I thought you hated execution sales.”

“I do, but the guy squatting at the Potter house is a goon. I couldn’t very well let her go there alone.”

“What were you doing at the Potter house?” Phil was eyeing me oddly.

“Lurch held a private sale last night. Probably trying to beat the execution sale.”

“That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

“Not if he hasn’t been officially notified of the sale. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. People say the place is haunted.”

“It looks like it should be. Somebody said a photographer committed suicide there.”

“Jerome Potter. The last of his sorry-ass line.”

“You knew him?”

“Met him.” There was an “end of story” chill in his tone so I changed the subject. Phil and I don’t need to share any ghost stories. We’re living in one.

Karla Frantzis climbed out of a hot pink VW as I pulled up in front of the Potter house that night. The car suited her. Perky and bright. Phil was right. She was a good-looking woman. Funny I hadn’t noticed before.

“Hi, I was about to give up on you.”

“Am I late?”

“Nope,” she grinned, “I’m always early. Shall we?”

I followed her up the steps and she rang the bell. A woman/girl answered, dishwater blonde, unkempt hair, soiled T-shirt and shorts, dark circles under her eyes. She was only twenty or so. A hard twenty.

“Trane ain’t here.”

“Actually, we’re not here to see him,” Karla said, giving the girl a hundred-watt smile and a business card. “We’re the appraisers. For the execution sale tomorrow?”

The girl frowned at the card, her lips moving as she read it. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

“We need to price things for the sale. The city clerk said you’d been notified.”

“Trane said somethin’ about it. Never tells me squat anyway. What do you want to see?”

“Pretty much everything, I’m afraid,” Karla said, trailing the girl into the living room. “Your name is...?”

“Chastity. That’s a hoot, huh? There ain’t much left; Trane already ditched most of it. Help yourself. I never go upstairs anyway. Place creeps me out. Frickin’ wind howls around this house like a coyote. You want me, I’ll be in my bedroom watchin’ TV. The stuff in there is mine, personal, I mean. Stay the hell away from it.”

She shuffled off to her bedroom, closing the door. And locking it with an audible click.

“Can she do that?” Karla asked. “I thought the execution lien covered everything in the house.”

“You’re right, it does. Stand back, I’ll kick down her door.”

“Wait a minute!” She grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the door. “Are you nuts! You can’t—” I tried to keep a straight face, couldn’t quite manage.

“You jerk!” she said, punching my shoulder.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist. But you’re right. Technically, everything in the house is supposed to be sold, but nobody expects us to unplug that kid’s TV. The city doesn’t really care about the money from the sale anyway. They want Lurch to move on and an execution sale is one more way to turn the screw.”

“Lurch?”

“The butler from the Addams Family? This place reminds me of their haunted house. What’s his real name again?”

“Trane. John Thomas Trane.”