Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise Read Online Free PDF Page A

placed it there with intention. "I wonder, Lucky. You suppose our key could be hiding under that funny rock?" I kicked it over with my toe and uncovered a brass key.
    A path made from splintered wood planks led to a small, square porch that looked more like an afterthought than a planned part of the trailer. It was really little more than a low deck with a slanted roof tacked onto the metal siding.
    "Come on, Lucky," I called. "We might as well take a look inside." Walking down the wooden path was both odd and charming as we made clip-clop sounds reminiscent of a Western movie. The sounds echoed in the stillness of the park.
    I took a breath and turned the key. I let my breath out when I heard the lock click. I turned the knob and nothing. The door stuck. I gave it a push with my hip and shoulder and when it swung open the smell that blew out nearly knocked me to the ground.
    "Something must have died in there!" The smell, a mixture of rot, mildew, and ages-old cigarette smoke, gagged me. Lucky scrabbled past me into the trailer to check it out first. He barked and I nearly tumbled feet-over-teacups off the deck when two large, mangy beasts scampered between my legs."Oh, my goodness gracious. Were those raccoons?" Lucky barked and raced off to see what else he could find.
    I stepped further inside, not far, maybe twelve or thirteen inches, alert to the possibility of more stampeding wildlife. I felt chilled and thought this must be what it feels like to be a sockeye salmon in a can, cold and totally out of my element. Linoleum the color of the inside of an eggplant partially covered the floor. A thick, bilious shag rug spewed over the rest of it. Someone had paneled the walls with dark, thin paneling and covered the ceiling with white tiles, the kind with a million tiny holes. Some of the tiles had yellow stains and their bulging fat bellies hung over the living room.
    I walked into the small kitchen area and noticed one of the cabinet doors had fallen off its hinges. A tear rolled down my cheek and into my mouth.
    "Oh, Lucky. What have I done?"

4
     
     
     
    A rickety card table stood under the kitchen bay window. An ash tray filled with old cigarette butts sat in the middle of the table. I set my purse down, pulled out the chair, brushed off the seat with my hand, and sat. The chair wobbled as though one of the legs was shorter than the others.
    Lucky rested his head on my knee and looked at me from underneath his wiry eyebrows.
    "It's not right, Lucky. I . . . we can't live here." And for the first time since he died, I wished Herman was there to tell me what to do. I'm not sure how long I sat there until a knock at the door startled me out of my reverie. Lucky barked and went to investigate.
    "Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo. Excuse me, yoo-hoo, excuse me. Charlotte? Charlotte Figg?"
    "Hello," I called. "I'm in the kitchen." If you could call it that.
    A woman wearing a heavy brown sweater with a wide collar over a long linen skirt and black boots walked toward me. She had a nice smile, twinkly eyes, and gobs of bright red, curly hair partially controlled by a long Peter Max scarf. I thought I saw an artist's paintbrush sticking out of the nest that was her head. Lucky stayed right with her, ready to defend me if necessary.
    "I'm your neighbor, Rose Tattoo. Welcome to Paradise."
    "Thank you," I said without really meaning it.
    She looked around the trailer. "So what do you think?" She patted Lucky's head, and I thought I saw green vines tattooed on her hand. I thought to mention it but didn't in case she had some sort of weird, embarrassing physical affliction.
    I averted my eyes. "It's . . . not what I expected."
    Rose leaned against the small turquoise stove. "Asa—you haven't met him yet, but he takes care of things around here— thought you might be some kind of international spy looking for a place to hide out incognito. I told him he was nuts. But he insisted. Who else would buy this place except a spy needing a place to hide?