Medium Well (9781101599648) (5 page)

Her pulse picked up.
Oh, shit.

“Did you notice the fireplace, Mr. Henderson?” She tried to make herself sound like Danny usually sounded. Bright. Chipper. Somebody who knew everything there was to know about the art of selling historic houses. Someone who had an intuitive feel for them, unlike Biddy herself, who couldn't tell Gothic revival from Spanish colonial. “It's native limestone. There's another one on the lower floor. Both in very good condition, although the lower one has been bricked up. But it could be cleared out. A wonderful architectural detail, don't you think?”

God, she didn't sound chipper at all. She sounded like a lunatic.

Henderson stared at her with eyes as cold and black as a tiger shark's. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Biddy,” she stammered. “Biddy Gunter. Mr. Ramos's assistant.”

“Gunter?” Henderson raised an eyebrow. “Any relation to Araceli?”

“Miss Gunter is learning the business.” Danny's voice still sounded choked, but maybe Henderson wouldn't notice the difference.

“Well, learn it with somebody else. Spare me the sales pitch.” Henderson's glance flicked over the fireplace. “Needs a lot of work.”

So do you.
Biddy bit her lip to keep from saying anything more.

“All of it needs work, Clark.” Danny's voice was almost back to normal as he paced across the floor toward the stairs. “That's why we thought of you. You've got the rep for taking crap like this and turning it into platinum.”

He wrenched open the door. Biddy had the feeling he would have pushed Henderson through it and down the stairs if he could have gotten away with it.

Henderson blinked at him, his face expressionless.

“The structure's sound.” Danny stared down the stairs toward the lower room, rattling off the sentences like he was in some kind of word race. “The place has a lot of space. It needs to be cleaned up and renovated, but the possibilities are there. You could even subdivide—make it a duplex. You know what's here, and so do we. You can get back to us.”

He bolted down the stairs, his footsteps echoing back up to the apartment.

Henderson's eyes narrowed to slits. “Doesn't believe in stroking the customer, does he?”

Biddy took a deep breath. “Maybe other customers, Mr. Henderson, but not you. You said you didn't want a sales pitch. Mr. Ramos has too much respect for your experience to pretend the house doesn't have problems.”

Which was better than saying Mr. Ramos had just had another freaky episode and was leaving like a bat out of hell.

Henderson turned his flat black gaze toward her again, then shrugged. “He's got a point. Tell Araceli I'll get back to her.”

***

Danny sat on the deck at a restaurant in the Blue Star Complex, staring at the tequila shot on the table in front of him, willing his hands to stop shaking.

Handprints.

He hadn't seen them at first, and thank God Biddy had managed to put herself between him and the kitchen. He didn't know if she'd done it deliberately or not. Probably not. She wouldn't have any reason to know he didn't want to look at it.

Then Henderson had started doing his thing about the filth. And Danny had been all ready to step in, start the counter dance, list the reasons the place was a freakin' jewel.

But he'd seen the first handprint.

It had been low on the wall near the kitchen door, like someone had tried to pull himself up. Someone who'd been in a world of hurt, judging from the blood spatters on the floor and the baseboard. The blood spatters that hadn't been there the last time he'd been inside the carriage house.

Danny picked up the shot glass and tossed back the tequila, sucking in a breath as it seared the back of his throat.

He'd seen the other handprints a few seconds later. On the doorjamb. On the wall next to the door. Someone pulling himself up inch by agonizing inch, maybe trying to get into the kitchen. Or away from the kitchen.

The kitchen. Where something else had happened. Or maybe just more of the same.

He knew what they said about him at the office, about his sixth sense when it came to houses. About how houses talked to him. All true, as far as it went. Sometimes he got feelings from houses, feelings that helped him tell the houses' stories to potential buyers. But he'd never
seen
anything in any of the houses before. And sure as hell, he'd never seen anything like this anywhere!

As he raised his hand to catch the waiter's attention, someone slid into the chair beside him. He turned to see Biddy unfastening her barrette to let her silvery hair swing free on her shoulders. He felt a brief, largely unwelcome surge of awareness.

“He's considering it.” She sighed. “I really thought you might have sold him there at the end. Not that you meant to, of course, but you made him stop and think instead of doing all that game-playing.”

Danny stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out what she was talking about, until his brain connected all the dots. “Henderson.”

She nodded. “Henderson. We're supposed to tell Araceli that he'll get back to her, and I'd say there's a chance he might go for it.”

The waiter stepped up to the table, leaning down slightly to avoid the striped sun umbrella that angled behind Biddy's head. Danny pointed to his shot glass. “Another one. And whatever the lady wants.”

“Iced tea.” She gave the waiter a smile that did some interesting things to Danny's solar plexus. He told his solar plexus to cool it.

“So anyway—” she turned back to face him again “—Henderson may be interested. At least he's a possibility.”

Danny took a deep breath. “How exactly did you find me, Biddy? And what are you doing here? Don't you have a gig to get to or something?”

She shrugged. “You weren't that hard to find. This is the closest bar, and you looked like that's where you were heading. I don't have a gig, but I do have a rehearsal. They'll wait, though.”

“And you're here because . . .” He raised a questioning eyebrow.

She dropped her gaze to her hands, then looked back at him, her turquoise eyes wide behind her glasses. “I'm here because I want you to tell me what's going on at the carriage house.”

Chapter 5

Danny's eyes went opaque, as his expression became smooth and blank. “In the carriage house? What do you mean?”

The waiter set Biddy's glass of iced tea in front of her, then slid Danny's shot glass onto a plate with a lime wedge. Danny picked up the wedge, flipping it between his fingers.

“Nothing is going on at the carriage house. No sales, that's for damn sure. If Henderson doesn't take it, we should try to get it cleaned up before we show it to anybody else.”

She bit her lip, trying to think of another way to ask him the same question. “You don't seem to like it there much.”

“No, I don't.” He sprinkled salt on the side of his hand, licked it, knocked back the shot, and bit down on the lime wedge. “I don't like places I can't sell.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bad for my image.”

“No, I mean . . .” She sighed. “Look, I feel it, too. Whatever it is in that house. I hate being there. Something's really wrong about that place. Really,
really
wrong.”

The corners of his mouth edged up in a thin imitation of a smile. “You mean like evil spirits? Good idea. Maybe we can use that. We can tell people it's haunted. Lots of customers go for stuff like that.”

“I hadn't thought of it as a selling point,” she muttered.

“But it could be.” He pushed the shot glass away from him. “We could make up a story. Indian burial grounds. Leftover soldiers from the Alamo. Civil War veterans with some buried gold. Hell, I bet we could come up with something really good if we tried. As a strategy, it's better than anything we've come up with so far.”

Biddy stared at him. His face looked like a plastic mask, smooth and bland. “I thought you believed in being honest with the customers. That's what you always told me before.”

He licked his lips. “I've never had to sell a place like this. Making something up about it may be our best option.”

“But we wouldn't have to make anything up, would we? Because something's already there.” She stirred her tea, listening to her spoon clink against the glass.

Danny's face clenched, his lips tight. He stared back at her.

After a moment, she blinked. Damn it, she always blinked first!

He pushed himself up from the table. “Go home, Biddy. Go on to your rehearsal. Go wherever the hell it is you need to go. We're done for the day.” He turned abruptly, digging into his pocket, then tossed some bills onto the table. “See you tomorrow.”

She watched him stride across the deck toward the street, the slight evening breeze ruffling his hair, then leaned back in her chair. “All right, so we're definitely not making the haunted part up. Good to know.”

She reached down to pick up her purse, feeling her cell phone vibrate in the outside pocket. Sighing again, she identified the number. “Hi, Skip.”

“Biddy, where are you? You're missing rehearsal again.”

“I'm on my way.” She started toward the street. “Did you listen to that MP3 I sent you?”

“Yeah.” He snorted. “Cab Calloway? Come on, Biddy.”

“Trust me. It's us.” She grimaced as the call-waiting sound chirped in her ear. “Look, I've got another call, but I'll be there as soon as I can. Honestly. I'm moving as I speak.” She clicked on the incoming call, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, Sis?”

“Did he take it?” Biddy thought she could hear Araceli's fingernails tapping on her desktop. Probably her imagination.

“Mr. Henderson? He said he'd get back to us. He didn't seem too impressed, though. He thought the house was dirty.”

“So?” This time she definitely heard tapping. “Of course it's dirty. The carriage house hasn't been occupied for thirty years at least. I think Beatrice Steadman just used it for storage. Ramos should have been able to talk him through that. That's standard stuff.”

“Mr. Ramos did talk to him, but Mr. Henderson didn't listen. He didn't say no, though. Just that he wanted to consider it.”

Her sister snorted. “Shorthand for no sale. Something's going on with Danny Ramos. He used to be able to close a sale within a couple of days. He's either losing his touch or he's up to something.”

Biddy's shoulders tightened. “‘Up to something'? Like what?”

“Like trying to queer the deal so that he can buy the place himself—or have somebody else do it for him. For a cut-rate price.” Her sister sounded as if she'd bitten into something very sour. “I've worked with salesmen who pulled that before. Only I won't let him get away with it in my office. I'm going to call Big Al about this.”

“No, Sis, don't do that!” Biddy managed to keep her voice level. “Mr. Ramos is really trying to sell the house. But it's a very tough sell. I mean, have you ever seen the place? It's a dump.”

“You don't have any idea what he's trying to do, Biddy. You've only worked for him for a couple of months. You're just starting out. I know this business. Believe me, it's more than possible that he's trying to pull something here.”

“Araceli, he's not doing anything like that. Honestly, he's not. He's doing his best to sell the place. It's just . . .
really
hard to sell.” Mainly because he freaked out every time he walked in the door. Biddy paused at the corner of the patio, trying to think of a way to end the call.

Her sister's voice dropped an octave. “Okay, you're so sure he's trying—prove it to me.”

“Prove it?” Biddy pinched the bridge of her nose. “How am I supposed to prove it, Araceli? You either believe me or you don't.”

“From now on, give me a report about everything that happens with him. And I do mean everything—hour by hour if you need to. You send it to me by e-mail at the end of the day. Every day. Starting now.”

“A report?” Biddy felt the beginning of an ache at the base of her skull. “You mean you want me to spy on him?”

“Call it whatever you want. If he's honest, it won't make any difference to him if you tell me what he does. I need to know everything that goes on, in detail, Biddy! I'm the manager here; I don't need any surprises. You may not know what to look for, but I do.”

“Fine. Will you promise to stay off his case if I do this?”

Araceli blew out an exasperated breath. “I'm running a business. I can't promise something like that.”

“You can promise to back off and let both of us do our jobs. I can't get anything done with you hovering like this.” Biddy paused, then plunged ahead. “If you don't think I can do this job, maybe you should give it to somebody else.”

“So that you can do what? Go back to your so-called ‘musical career'?” Her sister's voice dripped acid. “Honestly, Biddy, it's time to grow up!”

Biddy bit back all the answers that immediately sprang to her lips, including the news that the Chalk Creek Changelings had more bookings than they could handle at the moment. “I love music, Araceli,” she said quietly. “I'm not giving it up.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, followed by a sigh. “Okay, Sis, I'm sorry. I know music means a lot to you. I just want to be sure you learn how to do a job that will pay the bills. I promised Mom I'd look after you.”

“I'm trying to learn my job, but I can't do it right unless you back off. Honest, Araceli.”

“All right, all right. As long as you keep me informed, I'll stay out of your way.”

“Good. I have to go now. I'll talk to you later.” Biddy reached for the disconnect button.

“Just don't forget the details. Maybe you could also look through his mail,” her sister's voice echoed as Biddy took the phone from her ear, “and those files he keeps in his desk drawer . . .”

Biddy hit the disconnect button. Hard.

Spying. Terrific.
She wondered just how little she could tell Araceli without getting both Danny and herself into more trouble. She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes of rehearsal time already gone. And it would take her at least ten minutes to get to the place where they'd rented the studio.

She sighed. However you looked at it, it had turned out to be one sucky day.

***

Danny stood outside the King William Historical Association, steeling himself to push open the door. He'd used the association's library occasionally to track down a house's story. But this time he didn't even know what to ask. “Do you know if something really,
really
bad happened in the Steadman carriage house at any time in the last hundred years?” That would probably go over well.

He ran a hand across his forehead, closing his eyes. He'd had a headache for at least two days, probably longer. Probably since he'd first set foot in that godforsaken place, which was maybe a much more accurate description than he'd considered before.

Maybe he should get some help. Maybe he could find a hungry grad student who'd be willing to do some in-depth research.

Right.
He took a deep breath. He could imagine how that conversation would go. “I keep seeing blood and guts every time I walk into this place, so I need to know what happened there. No, nobody else sees it. No, I haven't been working too hard. No, I don't think it's time I took a long rest at a nice rehab facility.”

Danny sighed. Might as well check the history out himself. If he could find out what was going on, maybe he could put a stop to it and get the carriage house back to normal again. Assuming the house had a
normal
to get back to, and assuming whatever was going on wasn't just going on in his head. Maybe he could even get in and out of the Historical Society without making anybody curious. Maybe Gracie wouldn't be at the front desk today.

Maybe the sun wouldn't rise in the East. Gracie always sat at the front desk. She probably slept under it at night, assuming she didn't hang from the ceiling.

He pushed his mouth into a smile that might pass for his usual professional one and approached the reception desk. “Hey, Gracie.”

Gracie glanced at him, raising one penciled brow. She'd been a fixture in the district for a lot longer than Danny had been selling real estate. Indeterminate age, but probably on the far side of fifty. Plump body clad in a lime green flowered dress so bright it made his teeth ache. Suspiciously red hair piled on top of her head in a neon-colored clip.

She shook her head slowly, eyes narrowing. “Danny Ramos. You must be desperate if you're coming to us. What dump are you trying to sell this time?”

Time to do a little tap dancing, although Gracie didn't respond well to bullshit as a rule. Hell, Gracie didn't respond well to
anything
as a rule, particularly not anything related to him.

“Gracie, you wound me.” He managed to keep the smile in place as he placed his hand over his heart. “I yield to no one in my admiration of the district's history. I just need a little information about one particular place. Background history, you understand, just to whet the customer's appetite a little.”

She sighed, sticking her pencil into her topknot. “I guess it's too much to ask that you might be interested in local history for any reason other than money.”

“Ah, Gracie.” He grinned for real this time. “You know this is all just an excuse to see you.”

He watched her cheeks turn slightly pink while she fought the urge to grin back. “You're totally full of it, Ramos. What house are you talking about, anyway?”

“The Steadman place, and the carriage house out back.”

Gracie's forehead crinkled. “Beatrice Steadman? She didn't build it, you know. But I'm not sure who did. It's not what you'd call a distinguished house, architecturally speaking.”

“Did you ever hear any other name associated with the place, like the Steves House or the Ike West?”

She shook her head. “Not that I recall. Mrs. Steadman lived there for over forty years. She was one of the first people to move into the district and renovate. But the house never got included on the historic homes tour or anything. I don't think I've ever been inside it, to tell you the truth. She never showed it to anyone as far as I know.”

“I've got the name of the original owner, but apparently he didn't ever live there. Would you have the records of the other owners here from before Mrs. Steadman moved in?”

“We have lots of materials here about the district—newspapers, journals, diaries, books. Even some personal papers from some of the original owners.” Gracie narrowed her eyes. “As you should well know by now.”

“So I could find the names of the owners here?” He reached into Gracie's candy dish, ignoring her frown, and popped a jelly bean into his mouth. It tasted like dusty root beer but he managed not to gag.

She shook her head. “No. If you want a complete list of the owners of that particular house, you'll need to go to the county courthouse.”

Danny frowned, thinking. It wasn't his job to research previous owners—he typically left that to his assistant. How much information did Biddy already have? She knew the name of the builder, the first owner. She might have some of the other owners, too. But getting the list from her would mean admitting he wanted to know the details of the house's history, and she was already a little too interested in what went on there for his peace of mind. “The county courthouse?”

Gracie gave him a dry look. “That's where they keep the deed registry. I thought you sold real estate for a living. Didn't you finish all that required coursework?”

He shrugged. “I try to stay out of the actual records, Gracie. I just want the stories that go along with the houses.”

“God knows you're good at that part of it, at least.”

Danny grinned again. Gracie might be a pain in the ass, but at least she didn't make him feel like a nutcase. “If I had a list of owners, could I look them up in your collection?”