Free Home For the Homicide (A Do-It-Yourself Mystery) by Jennie Bentley

small jacket, and little cap suitable for a baby doll like the one that had scared three years off my life yesterday. The doll Mamie had been clutching last night. This was the room we had found her in, so logic dictated that this must have been her room growing up, and these were her doll’s clothes. Not her own clothes, I thought; back when Mamie was a girl, they probably didn’t dress little girls in blue.
    If this was Mamie’s room, Ruth’s room must be the one across the hall.
    Wonder if Ruth had tucked away small treasures behind her knee wall, too?
    I wandered out onto the landing and peered into the bathroom. Derek was on his knees wrestling with the plumbing. I stood there for a moment admiring the fit of his jeans and the movement of his arms in the short-sleeved T-shirt . . . and then I tore myself away and headed into the room on the other side of the landing.
    It was a mirror image of Mamie’s room, only painted a different color. Mamie’s room was a pale, fleshy peach; Ruth’s was dull green. They were both boring as dirt. When it was my turn to paint, I might go with some nice warm goldenrod or something, to bring out the beauty of the dark wood.
    There was an access door in the wall here, too, leading into the same sort of narrow little space as on Mamie’s side of the staircase. I stuck my head in and peered around.
    Pine floors, old insulation in the gaps, and another cardboard box, this one flat and long. I dragged it into the room and dusted it off, sneezing. A fancy chocolates box. Hopefully there’d be something other than chocolates inside.
    There was, but it wasn’t all that exciting. Newspaper clippings about Elvis Presley. At the beginning of his career, from what I could make out from the dates and the way The King looked in the pictures.
    Elvis was much before my time, of course, but I’ve heard the stories. Here they were in black-and-white: swooning crowds, cops in riot gear, mayhem never seen before or since. Or maybe since, over the Beatles. That was also before my time, so I’m not sure.
    At any rate, Ruth Green must have been a fan. She might have been . . . I calculated. If she was in her midseventies now, maybe she’d been fifteen or sixteen when the King began his career in what I thought was the midfifties?
    Whatever. The stuff was interesting but probably not worth anything to anyone. If the newspapers or magazines had been intact, maybe they’d be worth a few dollars—but they weren’t. They were just clippings. Interesting as a cultural artifact of the time, I guess, but nothing more.
    I put the lid back on the box and stuck my head back into the storage space, turning it back and forth. Best as I could tell, the space was empty.
    “I found a few things,” I told Derek from the doorway of the bathroom.
    “What kinds of things?”
    I told him. “I guess Ruth and Mamie must have put their special stuff there when they were girls.”
    “Guess so.” He grunted as he wrestled with the plumbing.
    “Do you need help?”
    “No,” Derek said. After a moment he added, “Is it lunchtime yet?”
    “Are you hungry?”
    “Always.” He yanked on the wrench and swore when it slipped. And shot me a glance over his shoulder, a quick flicker of blue eyes. “I just thought I’d give you something to do.”
    “Are you trying to get rid of me?” That wasn’t very nice.
    He sat back on his heels. “No, Tink. But it must be boring for you, standing around watching me work.”
    I grinned. “I wouldn’t say that.”
    He grinned back. “You can appreciate properly later. Don’t you have something to do?”
    “I’m doing something. I’m looking at stuff and coming up with a plan for how to make it look pretty once you’re done doing the boring grunt work.”
    “Oh,” Derek said. “Don’t let me stop you, then.”
    “You’re not. I’m thinking white subway tile for the tub and shower surround. Nice and clean and classic, with some brown glass tiles for