Page 4

That's when the face appears. Squashed against the glass, its nose flattened comically, wide eyes blinking straight at me.

I gasp, stumbling backward with a strangled yelp.

"Hello!" the woman calls out, her voice muffled but sharp enough to make me flinch. She jabs a finger toward the back door before disappearing from view.

A knock rattles the doorframe a heartbeat later.

"What the-" I breathe, my pulse still racing as I hesitate, then yank open the door.

There she stands—an explosion of bright purple and chaos. She has to be pushing seventy, her stiff bob dyed a harsh red, lips smeared in a shade of violet that bled onto her teeth. A cigarette dangles from her fingers, a thin ribbon of smoke curling up into the humid air.

"Well! Aren't you a sight?" she practically shouts before brushing past me like she owns the place. Her heels click across the old tiles.

"I—wait, who?—"

"Phyllis Brendamore. You must be Margot. Heard you bought this old place." She waves her hand dismissively, her sharp eyes scanning the dusty corners of the house with something close to disgust. "Oh, it's worse than I thought."

"Nice to meet you, Phyllis," I said dryly, still reeling. "Can I help you with something?"

"Oh, I just had to see the new owner," she chirps, pausing to finger a dusty drape. "George and Cecilia Hawthorn were practically family. I was in and out of this house constantly. Well, not literally, but close enough."

Something about her feels off—too bold, too intrusive—but there appears to be some history in her words, and I'm looking for information.

"You knew them well?"

"Oh, darling, of course. The Hawthorns practically ran Mount Dora. They were the biggest donors for the Mount Dora Winter Gala—thirty grand every year." She pauses, eyeing me with a grin that was all teeth. "And now that you're here, maybe you'd like to keep that tradition alive?"

I blink. "Thirty thousand dollars? Yeah, that's not exactly in the budget."

Her smile falters for a second before snapping back into place. "Oh, I get it, I do. Times are tough. But maybe we could host the gala here? Since Georgie left, we've had to use the community building off Baker St. Can you imagine anything more depressing? I'm sure we could spruce the ol' girl up a bit. It'd be perfect!"

Before I can respond, she's already gesturing wildly. "We'll need new drapes, of course. And the floor, what happened to the beautiful oak? Hate this new color, much too dark. And a deep clean. God, the dust in here could kill someone."

"Seriously, Phyllis, that's not—" I cut in, but her voice bulldozes over mine.

"Phyllis, please!" I snap louder this time, but it's like yelling into the wind.

Finally, my patience wholly unravels, and I step directly in front of the woman, unloading a barrel of a yell. "Phyllis!"

She freezes mid-gesture, turning back to me with wide eyes.

"I'm not hosting a gala. I'm not making a donation. And I need you to leave. Please."

The words hang in the air, heavier than I intended, but happy to have paused the rude onslaught nonethesame.

Phyllis's expression doesn't crack. Instead, she chuckles, patting my arm, and mutters, "No harm done, dear."

She makes her way toward the door, and my pulse begins to return to its normal rate. But I can't stop myself.

"Wait– since you knew the Hawthorns… would you mind sharing some insight? I'm trying to learn more about them myself. Feels a bit odd to own a house with so much history without knowing much about the people who built and lived in it."

Phyllis brightens immediately. "Oh, darling, I could tell you stories all day, but for the real dirt? Talk to Paula Hastings. She knows this place inside and out—unappointed town historian; probably has files on files."

"Paula Hastings?"

"Mount Dora Historical Museum. Can't miss her."

With a dramatic wave, she disappears through the doorway, leaving nothing but smoke and the faint scent of menthol in her wake.