Killing the Blues - Michael Brandman [14]
“Hello,” she said.
“Is this Mrs. Miller?”
“This is Miss Miller.”
“Miss Miller,” Rollo said. “My name is Donald Johnson. I saw your ad in the paper. Is the room still for rent?”
“It is still for rent. Yes.”
“How much?”
“A hundred and twenty-five dollars per week. It also comes with a refrigerator.”
“Can I see it?”
“What?”
“Can I see the room?”
“You may.”
“Can I see it this afternoon? I could move in right away.”
“You say you want to move in today?”
“Yeah.”
“I see. What time were you thinking?”
“Around three o’clock.”
“Very well, Mr. . . .”
“Johnson,” Rollo said.
“Johnson. Yes. I forgot,” Miss Miller said. “The address is Twenty-four Compton Street. I’ll be awaiting your visit. Three o’clock.”
“Yeah,” Rollo said. He hung up.
The bus pulled into its slot in front of the Paradise Harbor Ferry Terminal. Rollo was the first to get off. He picked up his bag and went inside.
He bought a Paradise street map at the newsstand. He paid for it, got himself a coffee, and sat down to study the map.
He located Compton Street and traced the walking route from the terminal. He estimated he could make it in less than an hour. Although he would arrive earlier than expected, he set out immediately.
Compton turned out to be more of a lane than an actual street, barely wide enough to accommodate two cars. There were a total of six homes on Compton Street.
Two were grand-style New England Colonials, each set on acre-plus lots, each in pristine condition. There was a slightly run-down Cape Cod, a colorful split-level, and a pair of two-story Craftsman houses. The mature plantings and lush foliage lent the neighborhood a quaint, woodsy flavor.
The Miller house was one of the Craftsmans. It was carefully tended but weathered, sitting in the middle of a small lot. Rollo knocked on the door.
He heard the sound of footsteps, and then an elderly woman peered through the curtains.
“Yes,” the woman said.
“Donald Johnson,” Rollo said.
“Oh. Mr. Johnson. You’re early.” She opened the door.
“Yeah,” he said.
The woman, who wore spectacles with thick lenses, gave Rollo the once-over. Despite some misgivings regarding his unsightly appearance, she stood back and allowed him to enter.
“It’s nice here,” Rollo said.
“Thank you,” she said. “I grew up in this house. My father built it himself.”
“You live here alone?”
“Ever since my sister passed.”
She showed Rollo to a small first-floor bedroom, situated at the rear of the house, at one time a maid’s quarters. As advertised, it was clean, had a half-sized refrigerator and a small private bath.
She showed him the rest of the ground floor, explaining that the upstairs would be off-limits to him. He was, however, welcome to use the kitchen. He would also have use of the sitting room and TV. The backyard would be his to enjoy as well.
She asked if he might like to join her in a cup of tea.
As she stood filling the kettle, Rollo sat gazing at the kitchen with its paintings of dogs, decorative ceramic tiles, and colorful floral arrangements.
“You garden,” he said.
“Why, yes. Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”
“I like flowers. These ones are very nice. Maybe you could put some in my room.”
“That’s certainly possible,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”
She served the tea. She placed a jar of honey on the table. She brought out a box of Social Tea biscuits. She put some on a dish, which she set down in front of him.
“Help yourself,” she said.
Rollo sipped his tea and ate several of the biscuits.
“This is nice,” he said. “Thanks.”
“What brings you to Paradise, Mr. Johnson?”
“Summer,” he said.
“A vacation?”
“A vacation from Kansas.”
“You’re from Kansas?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ll be doing . . .”
“Mostly, I’ll be reading,” he said. “Studying the Bible.”
“I envy you your reading,” Miss Miller said. “Ever since this macular thing got me, my reading has been severely curtailed.”
“That’s too bad,” Rollo said.
Agatha Miller looked closely at him. She found his off-putting