Selling Murder House

Chapter 6 (Continued)

It was only when I saw the shelf above the fireplace that I understood the inspiration for the décor. Along the shelf, sat a series of glassy-eyed, rosy-cheeked porcelain dolls.

"It's like a dollhouse," I breathed, still overwhelmed by every little detail.

"Yeah, that's my grandmother for you," Paul confirmed. "I guess, being in the family, I'm kind of desensitized to how . . . absolutely bizarre this place is."

"Your grandmother, when she passed," I struggled to form the question appropriately. "She left it to Henry Madsen, and his family?"

Paul nodded, "Yeah, my cousin Henry inherited the place about two, maybe three years ago?"

"And they never redecorated? Or renovated?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound too judgmental.

"Never touched a thing from what I can tell," Paul said, brow furrowing. "I was surprised, too. When I came back here after... after what happened. I was surprised to see the place still done up this way. I think Eva must've liked it this way."

"It certainly appeals to a certain demographic," I offered, but it was a lie. The house would appeal to one woman and one woman only.

My mind churned with impertinent curiosity. I wanted to know more about the old woman who had styled this strange house, and Henry and Eva, who had lived here for years after the old woman died... had they really not thought about modernizing the space? Or at least painting the walls? And Paul. Paul was a mystery as well, I realized, this scruffy young man who had inherited a giant dollhouse from a cousin he hadn't even visited in all the years he's lived here? However desperately I wanted to understand, I knew these were questions I couldn't ask.

My mind shifted from the mystery of this family to the mystery of how in the hell I was going to pull off a sale. Paul looked sheepish, perhaps taking my silence for speechlessness, as if he were at fault for the house's eccentricities. I still didn't doubt this house would sell, given time and effort, but there was no way the house would go on the market looking like this. I braced myself for perhaps the most challenging interior design project I'd ever encounter. This was yet another obstacle I'd have to get past Leo.

The dolls watched us from their perch, looking down on us with scrutiny. Neither of us looked like we belonged there, in that room, with our modern clothes and our paper coffee cups and our cellphones in our laps.

"Do you mind showing me the rest of the house?" I said. All of a sudden, I desperately wanted to get out of that room.

Paul gave me the grand tour, and it was obvious that he was totally unused to showing off old mansions. He was the polar opposite of Sofia, he walked me through the house in near-silence, breaking it only to say, "the kitchen," or "the bathroom," etc. I couldn't complain, really, I appreciated the time to think, to take mental pictures, and actual pictures, of each room. I was acting like a designer, I realized, scheming up color schemes and texture combos that might bring the most life and luster to each space, when really I should've been taking notes on features and selling points.

Unfortunately, the majority of the house had the same dollhouse look and feel, with pink walls and overstuffed furniture and ornate décor. The kitchen, however, was a breath of fresh air, with linen-colored cabinets and hardwood floors, understated brass chandeliers and decently-updated appliances. There were other note-worthy features scattered throughout: large windows with fantastic views of the woodlands behind the house, a beautiful claw-foot soaking tub in the upstairs bathroom, and six large bedrooms all outfitted with wood-burning fireplaces and large walk-in closets.

"So, what's the verdict?" Paul said when we finished the tour and we returned to the sitting room. "Am I lost cause?"

He said it as a joke, but I could see the worry in his eyes, could see his tension by the grip of his coffee cup.

"I'll be honest, it may be slow-going here in the beginning," I said. "I'm going to have to get approval from my boss to get a team in here to do some renovations -- nothing huge, just new coats of paint, floor polishing, that kind of thing. We'll get some furniture and décor in here, probably give it a more neutral-feel to appeal to a wider demographic..."

"But you'll sell it?" he interjected, and his voice sounded choked. There was a vein protruding from his forehead that wasn't there before, and the intensity took me by surprise.

I cleared my throat, feeling the weight of his urgency. I met his eye.

I'm not sure why I lied. In that moment, Paul's pleading voice had struck a nerve in me, hit me right in the soft spot of my heart. Maybe, in the look in his eyes, I saw a desperation there that I could relate to. In that moment, I could see he needed this just as much, if not more, than I did. I thought about his drunken voicemail, and I was sure now that I had been right, that there had been fear in his voice when he'd called me in the dead of night. I could hear that fear there now. I wanted to help. I needed to help.

"I'm going to sell this house," I said.