But his father was no longer listening to him. “Oh-oh, I have to go. Your mother is eyeing a statue the size of the Sears Tower. I already told her we’ve bought too many souvenirs. I’ll call again in a few days.”
Frustrated, Michael hung up the phone, muttering a few choice Rom curses of his own under his breath. His eyes were drawn to the mysterious box, which was still perched on top of his rack stereo system just as Brett had left it when she’d reached out to help him. While Michael might have closer ties to his Rom background than his younger sister or brother, he still wasn’t one to give in to superstitions.
It was just a box. Nothing more than that. Retrieving it, Michael studied the intricate engraving on the lid. There were four crescent moons in the left corner, hovering over a scene that included palm trees and a sailing ship. On the right side, a streaking sun was setting over a line of mountains. In the center of the sun was some kind of red stone.
Holding the box up and aiming a nearby high-intensity light at it in order to see better, he saw that the sides were also engraved, with what looked for all the world like. a wizard? Intrigued, he slowly reopened the lid. The strange feeling he’d experienced earlier, upon first opening it when Brett had been there, was now gone—confirming his notion that his reaction was due to lack of food and sleep rather than an old family curse.
The box was not empty as he’d supposed. Inside was the most striking engraved silver key he’d ever seen. It was a skeleton-type key, which looked and felt very old. Turning it over in his fingers, Michael felt a strange affinity with the mysterious key.
He’d always loved a good mystery. That’s why he made such a good corporate investigator. Because he liked solving mysterious situations with logical explanations. His fascination with the box was easy to explain. His sudden fascination with Brett Munro was not.
The next time Michael saw Brett was late that afternoon and she was wrestling with what looked like a street gang of young punks for possession of a twin mattress.
“I said to give it to me,” she was demanding in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
Michael instantly came to her side. “Beat it,” he growled menacingly at the kids hanging onto the mattress, their grunge pants hanging loosely on their frames beneath their winter jackets.
“It’s okay, Michael,” Brett said soothingly.
“No, it’s not. Did you hear what I said?” he demanded of the kid closest to him.
“These are my friends,” Brett inserted. “They’re helping me move. I just wanted them to give me the mattress because it’s too heavy for them to carry alone.”
“Who’s the dude?” the kid with the backward White Sox baseball cap demanded belligerently.
“He’s my new boss,” Brett replied.
“Hey, man, you better treat her right.” The kid had the menacing steely-eyed look of a pro.
“Now, Juan, you know I can take care of myself. Two of you carry that mattress, I don’t want anyone getting hurt. You go on ahead.”
“Where did you find these juvenile delinquents?” Michael demanded of Brett as the kids obeyed her request.
“Have trouble getting along well with children, do you?”
Brett’s observation had him bristling defensively. “I have a younger sister and brother. I got along fine with them.”
“I meant now that you’re an adult.”
Okay, so he was legendary within his family for his lack of “kid skills.” The truth was that he was wary of children. They made him feel incompetent and awkward. However, Michael didn’t appreciate Brett reminding him of that fact. So much for him coming to her rescue.
“Make sure you close the front door when you’re done,” he growled.
“Actually we’ve been using the back door because I didn’t want to bother the rest of the tenants,” Brett told him. “It takes us in the building just a few steps from the studio apartment downstairs.”
“I know that. But how did you know? I didn’t show you the door because it’s been jammed shut.”
“The hinges just needed oiling. Works like a charm now.”
“Great.”
She wondered why Michael didn’t look very pleased with her news. Did he expect her to have asked for permission first? As building supervisor, she couldn’t be asking permission before fixing the hundred-and-one things that needed repairing in this lovely old building. Since there hadn’t been any expense involved, she didn’t think his approval beforehand was required. “Surely you don’t expect me to check with you before I do any work on the building?”
He shook his head, realizing she’d be checking with him every five minutes in that case. “But I do want to be kept apprised of what you’re doing. I need to authorize any repairs that will cost over thirty dollars. I don’t have an unlimited budget here. My plan is to fix up the building and then sell it.”
“Sell it? Whatever for?”
“The money,” he replied dryly.
“How could you!”
“What are you so upset about? If it’s your job, you don’t have to worry. It’ll probably take almost a year to get the place fixed up enough to sell it.”
“Do your tenants know about your plans?” Brett demanded.
“Why should they care?”
“Because some of them have lived here for a very long time.”
“Look, I’ve only owned the building for a short while. My first priority has to be a financial one. I can’t afford to pour limitless amounts of money into this white elephant. Besides, I don’t talk much to the tenants. It’s not like they’ve exactly formed an attachment to me. In fact, sometimes they give me the impression they’d like to hang me by my toes.”
“If I had the money, I’d buy this place from you in a second,” she declared.
“You just saw it for the first time today.”
“I know what I like,” she said quietly.
He noticed that her cheeks were flushed, from excitement as much as from the cold air. Although the late afternoon sun had come out, it was a weak shadow of itself. Winter was definitely here to stay. So was Brett. Moving in and apparently here to stay.
She hadn’t brought much furniture with her. The battered pickup truck he assumed to be hers held a rocking chair that had seen better days, a table, some lawn furniture and a few boxes.
“How is it that you were able to move in so quickly?” Michael asked. “Didn’t you have to give notice at your old place?”
She shook her head. “I was staying with friends and had my things in storage.”
Her reply made him realize that, although he had gotten her Social Security number, he never had checked her references, or even asked her for any. That wasn’t like him. She could have a criminal record for all he knew. Granted, he was usually a good judge of character, but she’d knocked his instincts off kilter. As soon as he got back inside, he planned on turning on his laptop computer and accessing his office computer to do a simple background check on her—not that he anticipated anything about this woman to be simple.
Following them around the back of the building, he watched her clucking over her gaggle of stringy adolescent boys. They clearly adored her. She’d brought pop and junk food for them to munch on as they emptied the back of the pickup.
Mrs. Martinez’s industrial-strength salsa was a big hit. He noticed she didn’t even attempt to introduce the kids to Mrs.