"I have some mail that needs to go out," she said.
He nodded as she stepped aside to let him enter. "This way." she said, preceding him into the hallway and up the stairs.
Even with the light on, the hallway was dim, because there were no windows at either end. The open bedroom doors let some daylight in, enough to see unless you had some specific task, such as manipulating a cantankerous old lock or retrieving a broken key from it. Mr. Harris opened his toolbox, took out a black flashlight, and handed it to her. "Shine the light on the lock," he muttered as he moved the suitcase out of the way and went down on one knee in front of the lock.
C.ate turned on the flashlight, amazed at the powerful beam that shot out. The flashlight was surprisingly lightweight, with a rubberized coating. She turned it in her hand, looking for a brand name, but she didn't see one. She turned the beam on the door, directing it just below the knob.
Using needle-nose pliers, he retrieved the broken key, then took some kind of pick from the toolbox and inserted it into the lock.
"I didn't know you knew how to pick locks," she said with amusement.
His hand froze for a moment, and she could almost hear him wondering if he needed to actually reply to her comment; then he made a "hmm" noise in his throat and resumed manipulating the pick.
Cate moved so she was directly behind him and leaned closer, trying to see what he was doing. The bright light illuminated his hands, etching every raised vein, every powerful sinew. He had good hands, she noticed. They were callused, stained with grease, and his left thumbnail sported a black mark that looked as if he'd banged it with a hammer, but his nails were short and clean and his hands were lean and strong and well-shaped. She had a soft spot for strong hands; Derek's hands had been very strong, because of the rock climbing.
He grunted, withdrew the pick, and turned the doorknob, pulling the door open a few inches.
"Thank you so much," she said with heartfelt gratitude. She indicated the suitcase he'd pushed to the side. "That guy who left without taking his things still hasn't come back, so I have to store his suitcase for a while, in case he decides to come back for it."
Mr. Harris glanced at the suitcase as he took the flashlight from her, turning it off and placing both it and the pick back in his toolbox. "That's weird. What was he running from?"
"I think he wanted to avoid someone in the dining room." Odd that the handyman had so swiftly picked tip on something that hadn't immediately occurred to her. Initially, she'd just thought Layton was nuts. Maybe men were more naturally suspicious than women.
He grunted again, an acknowledgment of her comment. He dipped his head at the suitcase. "Anything unusual in there?"
"No. He left it sitting open. I packed his clothes and shoes, and put his toiletries in the kit."
He stood and nudged the toolbox to the side, opening the door wide, then bent and picked up the suitcase. "Show me where you want to put it."
"I can do that," she protested.
"I know, but I'm already here."
As she led the way up the steep staircase, Cate reflected that she'd probably heard him say more in the past ten minutes than she had in months, and it was certainly one of the few times she'd heard him titter an unsolicited comment. Usually he'd give a brief answer to a direct question, and that was it. Maybe he'd joined Toastmasters, or taken a loquacious pill.
The attic was hot and dusty, with that moldy smell abandoned possessions all seemed to have even when there wasn't any mold present. Light from three dormer windows made it a surprisingly sunny place, but the walls were unfinished and the floor was made of bare planks that creaked with every step.
"Over here," she said, indicating a bare spot against the outer wall.
He put the suitcase and Dopp Kit down, then glanced around. He saw the climbing gear and paused. "'Whose is that?" he asked, pointing.
"Mine and my husband's."
"You both climbed?"
"That's how we met, at a climbing club. I stopped climbing when I got pregnant." But she hadn't gotten rid of their gear. It was all still there, neatly arranged and stowed: the climbing shoes, the harnesses and chalk bags, the belaying and rappelling devices, the helmets, the coils of rope. She'd made certain direct sunlight never reached the ropes, even though she knew she'd never go climbing again. It just wasn't in her to mistreat the equipment.
He hesitated, and she could see his face turning red again. Then he said, "I've done a little climbing. More mountaineering type stuff, though."
He'd actually volunteered information about himself! Maybe he had decided she was as nonthreatening as the boys, so she was safe to talk to. She should note this day on her calendar and circle it in red, because any day that shy Mr. Harris began talking about himself had to be special.
"I just did rocks," she said, trying to keep the conversation going. How long would he keep talking? "No mountaineering at all. Have you climbed any of the big ones?'"
"It wasn't that type of mountaineering," he mumbled, edging toward the top of the stairs, and she knew his unusual talkativeness was over. Just then, two stories below, she heard the sound of childish voices raised in an argument, and she knew her mother and the boys were home.
"Uh-oh. Sounds like trouble," she said, bolting for the stairs.
She knew something was wrong just from the looks on their faces when she reached the bottom floor. All three looked angry. Her mother was holding the picnic basket, her mouth compressed, and she had the boys separated, with one on each side of her. The twins were red-faced with anger, and their clothes were dirty, as if they'd been rolling in the dirt.