One Hundred Humbugs (Aspen Cove #25)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Ruby awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Sunlight streamed through dusty windows, illuminating the cluttered living room of Uncle Peter’s house. She’d fallen asleep on the couch, surrounded by teetering piles of ... well, everything. A spring dug into her back, and her neck ached from the awkward angle she’d been lying in.

“Right,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes. “Inherited hoarder’s paradise. Not a dream.”

As she sat up, a cascade of papers slid off her lap onto the floor. Ruby sighed, reaching down to gather them. Her hand paused as she caught sight of a faded photograph peeking out from the pile.

It was Uncle Peter, much younger than she’d ever known him, standing proudly in front of a vintage car. His arm was around a woman Ruby didn’t recognize, both of them looking happily at the camera. The woman’s blonde hair caught the sunlight, and Uncle Peter was looking at her with unmistakable adoration .

“What other secrets are you hiding in here, Uncle Peter?” Ruby mused, setting the photo aside.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since ... when? Yesterday’s drive? With a groan, Ruby hauled herself off the couch and picked her way through the clutter towards what she hoped was the kitchen.

The scene that greeted her was somehow both what she expected and utterly surprising. Every surface was covered in mismatched kitchenware and what looked like souvenirs from every state fair in Colorado. It was as if a flea market had exploded and then been left to gather dust for a decade.

“Okay,” Ruby said to the empty room, “let’s see if there’s anything edible in this ... museum of randomness.”

She opened a cabinet, to be met with an avalanche of mismatched Tupperware. Dodging the falling plastic, Ruby laughed. “You never threw anything away, did you?”

After some rummaging, she managed to unearth a box of crackers that was slightly past its expiration date and a jar of peanut butter that looked safe enough. It wasn’t a gourmet breakfast, but it would do.

As she picked at the stale crackers and peanut butter, Ruby’s eyes drifted to the window. What she saw didn’t quite line up with her expectations—or reality, for that matter. Beyond the property, the land looked thirsty, like the drought had sucked every last drop of life from the earth. But Uncle Peter’s house? It was the complete opposite. The lawn was a riot of green, overgrown with wild vegetation and weeds that stood out like an oasis in the middle of a desert. It was as if this house had missed the memo about the drought entirely.

“Huh,” she muttered, frowning. “I guess the mountains are different than I thought.”

She had imagined getting here and seeing lush green pines and underbrush that was just as vibrant. But when they call the Rockies the high desert, they weren’t kidding. She made a mental note to brush up on the local geography. If she was going to sell this place, she’d need to know how to pitch it.

Ruby finished her crackers and peanut butter, washing them down with tap water from a glass she’d rinsed about five times, just to be safe. As she set the glass down, her eyes caught on a small leather-bound book wedged between a tacky ceramic rooster and what looked like a vintage cigarette dispenser.

Curiosity piqued, Ruby extracted the book. Its cover was worn soft with age and use. Opening it, she found pages filled with Uncle Peter’s messy scrawl. It seemed to be some sort of journal.

“Well, Uncle Peter,” Ruby said with a smirk, “what have you been hiding in here?”

She flipped it open to a random page and began to read:

June 15, 1985 - Note to self: Never try to charm two sisters at the same town picnic. Especially if one of them is married to the sheriff. On an unrelated note, the jailhouse sandwiches in Gold Gulch aren’t half bad.

Ruby’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh my,” she laughed, flipping to another entry.

August 3, 1990 - Acquired a delightful antique barometer today. The seller seemed quite eager to part with it. Unrelated: Discovered I’m allergic to mercury. Currently writing this with my toes as my fingers are temporarily the size of sausages.

September 12, 1995 - Note to self: When a lady asks if her dress makes her look fat, ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ is not an acceptable response. Even if you’re in the middle of organizing your Vatican commemorative plate collection .

Ruby laughed out loud. Each page revealed a new facet of her uncle’s colorful life—his flirtations, his misadventures, and his seemingly endless capacity for collecting the weird and wonderful.

“Oh,” Ruby sighed, her voice caught between fondness and exasperation. “What am I supposed to do with all of this?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Ruby set the journal aside and stood up, stretching. She needed a shower and a change of clothes if she was going to face the day—and the daunting task of dealing with Uncle Peter’s estate.

Navigating to the bathroom was an adventure in itself. Ruby had to squeeze past a tower of old National Geographic magazines, dodge a precariously balanced collection of what looked like vintage fishing lures, and almost tripped over a box labeled “Misc. Knick-Knacks Possibly Cursed???”

The bathroom, when she reached it, was thankfully less cluttered than the rest of the house. Still, it had its quirks. The shower curtain was adorned with a map of the world, with little red stickers stuck in various locations. Ruby wondered if these were places Uncle Peter had visited or places he’d planned to go.

As hot water sputtered from the showerhead, Ruby let out a sigh of relief. She stepped under the spray, letting it wash away the travel grime and the lingering disorientation of waking up in a strange place.

Under the steam and solitude of the shower, Ruby’s mind wandered. What would her life in Chicago look like right now if she hadn’t received that letter? Another day of juggling freelance gigs, dodging her landlord, and trying to ignore the gnawing feeling that she was just treading water?

Here, at least, she had ... what? A house full of junk and a to-do list a mile long? But also, maybe, a chance at something different. Something she couldn’t quite name yet.

Ruby shook her head, sending water droplets flying. “Get it together, Rubes,” she said. “You’re here to sell, not soul-search.”

Feeling somewhat refreshed, Ruby stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel that had seen better days but smelled clean enough. She wiped the foggy mirror with her hand, studying her reflection.

The face that looked back at her seemed different somehow. Maybe it was the mountain air, or the strange sense of possibility that hung around this place like a mist. Or maybe she was just overtired and under-caffeinated.

Back in the bedroom, Ruby rummaged through her hastily packed suitcase for something to wear. She settled on jeans and a soft sweater—it looked cooler outside than she’d expected.

Dressed and marginally more put together, Ruby made her way back to the living room. It was time to face reality and call that real estate agent. She picked up her phone and the crumpled paper where she’d scribbled Marge Gunderson’s number last night.

Ruby took a deep breath and dialed. After a few rings, a crisp, no-nonsense voice answered.

“Silver Springs Realty, Marge Gunderson speaking.”

“Hi, Ms. Gunderson. This is Ruby Whitaker. I inherited a property in Aspen Cove from my uncle, Peter Larkin, and I was hoping you could help me sell it.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Peter Larkin’s place? Well, honey, that’s quite a ... unique property. Why don’t I come take a look? I can be there in about an hour.”

Ruby agreed, feeling a sense of anxiety. An hour. She glanced around the cluttered living room. There was no way she could make this place presentable in an hour. Or a week, for that matter.

True to her word, Marge arrived precisely an hour later. Ruby watched from the porch as a meticulously maintained vintage Cadillac pulled up in front of the house. Marge Gunderson stepped out, every inch the professional in a smart blazer and practical shoes.

“Well,” Marge said, surveying the overgrown yard with a raised eyebrow, “I can see we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Ruby led Marge through the house, wincing at every ‘hmm’ and ‘I see’ that escaped the realtor’s lips. By the time they’d made it through all the rooms—or at least, all the rooms they could access without the aid of a search and rescue team—Ruby was thoroughly demoralized.

Marge turned to her, her expression showing both sympathy and determination. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Before we can even think about listing this place, we’ve got some work to do. A lot of work.”

Ruby’s heart sank. “How much work are we talking about?”

“Well, for starters, we need to declutter. Significantly.” Marge’s gaze swept over the crowded room. “You might think about getting a dumpster.”

Ruby groaned. Her mother had suggested the same thing. “Great. Anything else?”

“The yard needs taming. It’s a jungle out there.” Marge rummaged in her purse and pulled out a business card. She scribbled a number on the back. “This guy, Becket Shepherd, he can take care of the yard. Might even do it for free.”

Ruby took the card, frowning. “For free? Why would anyone do that? ”

Marge shrugged. “He’s got an ... unconventional approach. Give him a call. Trust me, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

As Marge headed back to her car, she turned to Ruby with a sympathetic smile. “Don’t look so overwhelmed. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Peter Larkin’s house won’t be sold in one either. We’ll get there.”

Ruby watched Marge drive away, the business card feeling heavy in her hand. She looked at the number scrawled on the back. Becket Shepherd. She wondered what someone with a name like that might look like. Was he old and grizzled, or young and ruggedly handsome? And what kind of person did yard work for free?

As she headed back into the house, Ruby couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in way over her head. But what choice did she have? If she wanted to sell this place—and she did, she reminded herself—she had a lot of work ahead of her.

“Well, Uncle Peter,” she muttered, eyeing a precariously balanced stack of old magazines, “I hope you’re enjoying the show. Because this is going to be one hell of a cleanup job.”

With a sigh, Ruby picked up her phone again. Time to call about that dumpster. And maybe give this Becket Shepherd a try. After all, if he was willing to work for free, who was she to argue?

As she dialed, Ruby wondered what other surprises Aspen Cove had in store for her. Something told her that taming Uncle Peter’s jungle of a yard was just the beginning.