Page 7 of Dead to Rites

“Because you look like a kid waiting to open their presents on Christmas morning,” I replied with an answering smile.

So I started with the parlor, which was immediately to our right and was filled with antiques and Hazel’s prized ferns and a big grand piano, and then on to the dining room, which was directly across the hall and had mural-style hand-painted wallpaper that made you feel as if you were eating in the middle of a misty forest, not to mention a huge walnut table that could seat twenty people, maybe more if they were willing to be friendly.

“Holy crap,” Celeste said, staring around with wide brown eyes. “What’s it like to eat in here?”

I had to reach back into the archives to answer that question, because my family hadn’t been to Hazel’s for any kind of formal event since I was around twelve. “Well, let’s just say that I always remembered to keep my napkin in my lap and move in from the outside when I was picking up my forks.”

That response made Celeste grin again, and we headed into the kitchen, which was the only room in the house that had been updated rather than lovingly maintained. A huge stainless steel six-burner stove sat under a custom wooden hood, the counters were dolomite imported from Italy, and a big copper farmhouse sink was set beneath a window that overlooked the backyard.

“Damn,” Celeste said. “This kitchen is bigger than my apartment.”

Maybe a slight exaggeration, but not by much. “Well, the house is around four thousand square feet,” I pointed out. “That’s a lot of space.”

“No kidding.” Her gaze lingered on the stove for a moment. “I’m definitely making you my famous pasta carbonara for dinner tonight.”

Her take on the dish was famous for a reason, but —

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “We can just order takeout and relax.”

“I want to do it,” she replied at once, which was pretty much what I’d thought she would say. “I’m supposed to be nursing you back to health, right?”

Since I knew arguing the point would only make her dig in her heels, I just nodded. “Okay.”

After that, we finished going through the rooms on the ground floor — the library, the powder room with its own hand-painted wallpaper, chinoiserie this time, and what used to be the back parlor and was now a kind of family room, the only space in the house with a TV.

Then we headed upstairs. The house had four bedrooms, one of which I was currently occupying. Celeste brought her suitcase up with her and took the room next door, presumably so she could come administer CPR if I went into cardiac arrest overnight or something.

After she had settled the suitcase at the foot of the queen-size bed, she sent me a questioning look.

“Why aren’t you in the master bedroom?”

“Because it felt weird to sleep in my aunt’s room,” I said simply.

She crossed her arms. “You’re going to have to get over that if you really plan to live here.”

Probably. And yet….

“Let me show it to you,” I said. “Then you can see why I’m feeling a little hinky.”

At once, she perked up. “Can’t wait.”

The master bedroom was located on the other side of the upstairs hall, behind a set of double doors. I opened one of them, and we went inside.

“Holy crap,” Celeste said again. She’d murmured that same phrase so many times during her tour of the house that it was starting to sound like a kind of prayer, her version of “Hail Mary.”

The room was even bigger than the parlor downstairs, easily six or seven hundred square feet all on its own. Dominating the center of the space was an enormous four-poster bed that managed to be both angular and ornate at the same time. On either side were matching side tables, and a wardrobe in the same general design was set up against the wall opposite the bay window with its built-in window seat. A fireplace on the interior wall finished off the suite.

“Eastlake,” Celeste said in reverent tones, going over to the bed so she could place one hand on the footboard. “Do you have any idea how much something like this costs?”

Since I wasn’t an antique maven like she was, I didn’t. “No.”

“Easily ten, maybe fifteen thousand,” she replied. “Damn.”

“We haven’t even gotten to the good part,” I told her with a smile.

Her brows lifted. “It gets better than this?”

“Oh, yeah.”