A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [2]
Now they were moving on.
Just as, upon close examination, a few of Cici’s freckles might have been revealed to be age spots, the ladies could not help noticing that the painted porch, which had looked so stately and inviting from a distance, was actually cracked and peeling. Bare wood was showing through in places on the steps. Cici scuffed up a square of paint with the toe of her sneaker and murmured, “I can fix that.”
The woman in the blue pantsuit came forward with a big smile and her hand extended. “Hi, I’m Maggie Woodall with Woodall Realty?” She said it with an uplift in her voice, like a question.
“Cecile Burke,” replied Cici, returning a firm handshake. “People call me Cici. I’m the one who called. These are my friends Lindsay Wright and Bridget Tyndale.”
They exchanged greetings all around and Bridget said, “It was good of you to come out on a Sunday.”
“Not at all, not at all! That’s what I do!” She beamed at them as she handed out business cards, a heavyset woman with a short red haircut and eyeshadow the color of her pantsuit. “I’m so glad you called. This is such a unique property, I just love showing it. Cici, didn’t you say you were a real estate agent back in Baltimore?”
“Just outside,” agreed Cici, and dug out one of her own business cards.
This seemed to make Maggie very happy. “I offer three percent on referrals,” she said. Her smile traveled from one woman to the other. “So. Which one of you ladies is looking to relocate?”
“She is,” Lindsay said
“She is,” Cici said.
Bridget apologized, “We’re really just looking.”
Maggie’s professional smile barely wavered. “Well then. Shall we go inside?”
Lindsay was already snapping the shutter of her digital camera. “Is it okay to take pictures?”
“Of course. You won’t see anything like this anytime soon. Sixteen acres, fenced and cross fenced, plus outbuildings, livestock, and attachments, as we say in the business.” She turned what looked like an old-fashioned skeleton key in the brass-faced lock of a tall set of carved mahogany doors and stepped aside to usher them in, her arm flung wide like a game show host. “Here we are!”
“We’re really just looking,” Bridget began as she stepped inside, and then didn’t say anything else. Neither did Cici, as she followed her over the threshold, and even Lindsay lowered the camera and just stood there, looking around.
The central feature was a curved staircase, easily wide enough for four people to pass at once, that swept into the room from a landing twenty feet high. On the landing was a round window of blue stained glass. A matching window was on the ground floor, at the opposite end of the room. There were tall clerestory windows and a walk-in fireplace surrounded by antique brick in a fan arch. The ceiling, Cici noted, looked like pressed tin, and the floor was wide heart pine. The view through the windows was of rolling green and blue purple mountains, and the smell was of aged wood and sunshine . . . and dust, of course. Lots and lots of dust.
“I’m afraid you won’t find the place exactly spic-and-span,” apologized Maggie. “It’s been closed up for over a year while the lawyers tried to decide what to do with it after the death of the owner, Mr. Blackwell. He was ninety-two, bless his heart, and lived here all his life. They did an initial cleanup when they cleared out the house, but I don’t think anyone has been back in here since then. No living relatives, you know, and the will stated the proceeds of the property sale will go to various charities and local churches.”
Something crunched underfoot as they moved forward, and Bridget looked down. “What’s that?”
The floor was littered with hundreds, if not thousands, of tiny shelled corpses. “Ladybugs,” explained Maggie matter-of-factly. “They’ve