Medium Well (9781101599648) (2 page)

He saw an entry door with some ornamental stonework on the lintel and a basket of bedraggled petunias at the left corner of the building.

Biddy sat next to it in a rusty metal lawn chair. Danny checked his watch. Four fifteen. Oh, well.

“Sorry I'm late. Why didn't you go on inside?” He squinted up at the double-hung windows across the second story. The glass almost looked original, particularly when you took the cracks and holes into consideration. He'd put the construction date around the end of the nineteenth century.

“It's a nice day. I just thought I'd sit outside.”

Something about her tone seemed odd, but Danny didn't feel like pursuing it. “Okay, let's do this so you can be on your way.”

“Right.” Biddy nodded, pulling the key out of her purse.

They walked in through the large, dark room that had once housed the carriages toward a staircase at the side. The room smelled of dust and something stale, the smell of closed off spaces. He followed her up the dusty wooden stairs to the second floor. Dim light filtered down from the windows overhead, making the narrow stairwell seem even dingier.

At the top of the stairs, she unlocked a second door, then stepped back. He peered around a low-ceilinged room that must have been the main living area. The limestone fireplace on the far side rated as a plus. The thick layer of white dust on every surface qualified as a minus. Ditto the cobwebs, the smeared windows, and the miscellaneous boxes piled in the corners.

He sighed. “I guess we could always say the owner gets the house and contents.”

“Who would live here?” Biddy asked from the doorway.

“Hopefully, a client.”

“No, I mean who lived here originally?”

“Coachman, probably. Chauffeur after that. Whoever was taking care of the vehicles.”

“Looks like a pretty grim place to live.”

He glanced back at her. She still stood in the doorway, her arms tight against her sides, as if she were afraid of touching anything. In the somber light, her hair shown like silver, the shadows bringing out the surprisingly delicate bones of her face. Danny licked his lips. “Hey, Biddy, it's not that dirty. Honest.”

“I know.” She swallowed hard. “I just . . . don't like this place much.”

Danny shrugged. “It'll look better when it's been cleaned up. The structure's sound and there's a lot of square footage. The right buyer will see the potential.” Even to his own ears that sounded a bit overly optimistic. But potential was always there, even if you had to dig for it.

Biddy gazed around the grimy room. “It's not that.” She grimaced. “Well, not just that. It's like there's something off here. Don't you feel it? Bad karma or something. To tell you the truth, that's why I waited outside.”

Danny narrowed his eyes. “Okay, you can say that to me and maybe to your sister, but don't ever say that to a client.”

“Of course not!” She raised her chin commandingly. “I'm not that dim.”

Danny fought back a totally inappropriate grin. No way was he finding his assistant cute. He moved around the room, telling himself he didn't feel anything like unease. He'd seen worse. Hell, he'd sold worse.

An alcove opened off the room at the back. “Looks like the bedroom. Does the place have electricity?”

“It's supposed to. There's a switch box over there,” she gestured toward the far wall, “but I don't see any overhead lights.”

He checked the baseboards for outlets. One. In the corner. “Probably needs some rewiring.”

Biddy pulled open another door at the side. “Eew. This we do
not
want people to see until it's been cleaned up or something.”

“What is it?”

“Bathroom. Theoretically.” She backed out quickly, then leaned into the bedroom alcove, surveying the walls. “No closets.”

“There wouldn't be. Closets are a modern invention.” He nodded toward a door on the far wall. “Did you check in there?”

“Not yet. Maybe it's the kitchen.”

Danny took hold of the doorknob and turned. “Locked.”

“Why would they lock the kitchen? I don't know if we have a key. Maybe the front door key works here, too.” She started toward him.

Danny rattled the knob again. “Probably just stuck. I don't see a keyhole.” After a moment, he put his shoulder against the door and pushed, gritting his teeth at the thought of his recently cleaned Hugo Boss jacket. The door opened with a tooth-jarring creak.

He stood in the doorway staring at another filthy room. A utility sink stood against one wall, an ancient wood-burning stove on the other. “At least it's got plumbing. Not all these places do.”

Biddy peeped in the door over his shoulder. “Do you think the stove is worth anything? Maybe it's an antique.”

He glanced at the stove—black metal with a steel top, covered with a half inch of filth. It looked like it weighed a ton. “Could be valuable. Assuming you could actually get it out of here. You'd have to use a crane or something.”

He walked across the dusty floor, stepping over the occasional piece of trash, then ran his fingers across the scalloped edge at the top corner of the stove.

And suddenly his hand was on fire.

Electric sparks seemed to flow up from his fingertips to his shoulder. The surface of his palm throbbed with heat, as if the stove were flaming. “What the hell?” Danny gasped, snatching his hand away.

His shoulders ached, his back, his neck. Danny grabbed hold of his burning hand and the sparks flowed to the other side of his body. “Jesus Christ!”

“Mr. Ramos?” Beside him, Biddy frowned. “What's wrong?”

“Christ!” He shook both hands, trying to cool them. Slowly, the heat began to recede.

“Don't touch the stove,” he gasped. “It's got some kind of electric charge or something.”

“The stove?” She gave him an incredulous glance, reaching her hand toward the stove top.

“Biddy, no!” Danny grabbed for her, missing her hand, so that his palm landed on the burner again.

His hand rested upon cool metal.

Biddy stared at him with real concern. “Mr. Ramos? It's okay, really. There's nothing here. I don't feel anything.”

Danny took a deep breath, willing himself not to snatch his hand away again. The stove top felt cold. There were no electric sparks. “I must have touched something else. Something hot.”

“Up here?” She glanced around the room. “But it's not hot here at all. I mean, actually it's cold. I wish I'd brought a sweater.” She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her shoulders.

Danny stared around the room again. Dust. Trash. Two dirt-stained windows. He stared down at his hands, but they looked perfectly normal. No burned skin. Nothing.

His jaw clenched. Too much coffee. Too little sleep. Nothing freaky going on. “Anything else to see? Any other rooms?”

She shook her head, watching him with narrowed eyes. “Just the downstairs. The garage part.”

“Okay.” He blew out a breath. Time to head back to the real world. “Let's go down there and check it out.”

He took the key from her fingers, feeling a quick brush of warmth as their hands touched, then shooed her out the front door, leaning back to lock it. His fingers still tingled slightly. He glanced down.

His hand was stained crimson, his fingers dripping blood.

Danny stood frozen in the doorway, staring. He didn't feel any pain. How could he be bleeding?

“Mr. Ramos?” Biddy called to him from the bottom of the stairs. “Okay?”

He glanced down at her, then back at his hand again.

His clean, dry hand.

He closed his eyes.
Trick of the light. Just a trick of the light. Nothing to worry about here. Nothing at all.

Right. Time to go downstairs and finish the goddamn walk-through. The story behind this house must be a real beaut. Assuming he could find it.

Chapter 2

Fortunately, the downstairs part of the carriage house looked routine, meaning large, empty, and dirty. The fireplace matching the one upstairs had been bricked up but could probably be restored. The room had several dark wood support posts that should make a decorator either salivate or tear his hair out. Under the grime, the floor looked like paving stones, although some of them were cracked and crumbling.

Danny folded his arms across his chest, taking his mental temperature. He felt back on track again. His hands weren't tingling, and the chill was gone. “Good space,” he commented. “Original floor.” He thought his voice sounded normal. Good for him.

Or not.

Biddy peered at him from behind a post, her forehead furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” Danny gritted his teeth. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Not a good question to ask, actually. She frowned. “Because you were acting sort of . . . well . . .
weird
upstairs. I thought you might still be upset.”

Danny looked away. The concerned expression in those very blue eyes was disconcerting. “I'm not upset, and I'm sure as hell not weird. Has the listing already gone up for this place?”

“Next week, as I recall. But I think Araceli wanted you to show it before that. She said Herman might be interested.”

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginning of a sinus headache. “You mean Herman Zucker?”

She nodded, her silvery hair bobbing. “Araceli told him about it going on the market.”

“Why didn't you mention that before, Biddy?”

She looked slightly confused. “Well, he didn't actually say he'd look at it. Just that he might be interested.”

Danny's jaw locked. “The fact that he's interested is information you need to pass along to me. Zucker's just the kind of customer who'd be interested in this place. It's perfect for a speculator like him. This place and the big house both. Is that what's happening here, Biddy? Is your sister trying to go around me to make the sale?”

Biddy stared at him, blue eyes stunned, and he felt a brief tug at his conscience. “No. Honest. I just screwed up. I forgot Araceli had mentioned him until now. I'm sorry. I guess I didn't understand how important . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Her voice trailed off a lot, Danny realized. Great. Now he'd become the boss from hell, terrorizing his inexperienced administrative assistant, along with freaking himself out.

He studied her in the gathering evening shadows. Her pale hair hung in wisps around her face, and she had a smear of dust across her skirt. Her glasses had once again slid halfway down her nose, and she was biting her lip. Hell, she
always
bit her lip. Why exactly had Araceli thought her sister had the potential to be a great salesperson? Or even a mediocre salesperson?

And why did he keep having these totally inappropriate bristles of awareness around her?

He sighed. “Go home. I'll check on Zucker tomorrow. If he's interested, maybe I can juggle some appointments and show this place tomorrow afternoon.”

“Right.” She brushed ineffectually at some dust on her sleeve. “Do you want me to see if we can get the place cleaned up a little before then?”

He shook his head. “Let Zucker see it this way. He'll be more interested if he sees it messy. He likes to be the one who finds the undiscovered jewel.” He managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. It still could be a jewel. Although it didn't exactly have that vibe. More like a lump of coal.

Biddy glanced around the room, hugging herself. “It still feels sort of creepy here. Not to mention cold.”

“It's just the shape the place is in,” he said briskly. “And cool is good—cuts down on the air – conditioning bills. Probably because of the stone walls. Clean it up a little, add some lights, it'll be great.”

Biddy looked around the room again. She didn't appear to be convinced.

Danny sighed. “Okay, even if it isn't great, it still has some advantages. And Herman's the type who might be able to see them. C'mon. Time to go.”

“Whatever you say,” she muttered, following him out into the yard again.

Danny dusted his hands on his pants before heading up the drive, pausing for only a moment to make sure he didn't see bloodstains.
Bloodstains. Jesus.
He was totally losing it. Time to pull it back together again. He set his lips in a firm line and headed for the street.

***

Biddy knew exactly why she hadn't remembered what Araceli had told her about Herman Zucker. Her sister had told her about him right before Gordy had called with the news about the gig at Tico's Taqueria. That news had promptly taken precedence over every other piece of information in her brain.

She pulled the barrette out of her hair, running her fingers through. As an administrative assistant, she was maybe one step up from a train wreck. But then, she didn't really think of herself as an administrative assistant. Working for Araceli was, at best, a very temporary position. Or, anyway, she hoped so.

You could learn a lot from this experience.
And you promised. And without her, you wouldn't have anything at all.
Biddy felt a quick pinch of guilt. Oh well, maybe someday she'd convince Araceli that real estate and her baby sister weren't exactly a match made in heaven.

She checked herself in the bedroom mirror as she took off her coat. The suit would definitely have to go to the cleaners after the afternoon in the carriage house.

The carriage house. Biddy shuddered slightly. She couldn't imagine anybody buying the place. She couldn't imagine anyone spending more than thirty minutes there willingly, even Danny Ramos, the house whisperer. And something had really gotten to him, no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise.

Biddy blew out a quick breath. Her life would be a lot easier if she could just forget about Danny Ramos once she left the office. Bad enough she had to see him every day. Bad enough he made her pulse race every time he walked into a room. She needed to put some mental distance between the two of them when she got home.

Because no way in hell would he ever be interested in her. Not when he only saw her in her office camouflage. Hell, he didn't even notice her. He probably considered her invisible. During those times when he wasn't thinking she was a spy for her sister. Unfortunately, if their conversation this afternoon was any indication, that's just what Araceli wanted her to be.

She had a sudden memory of Danny Ramos standing in the doorway of the carriage house. That close-cropped sandy hair, those piercing green eyes, those square shoulders, just the suggestion of golden stubble on his cheeks in the late afternoon sun.

He'd look so great with a single earring. A diamond stud.

She shook her head as she hopped toward the shower, stripping off her shoes and tossing them into the closet on the way by. Danny Ramos with an earring. She really did need to get a life. For now, however, what she mainly needed to do was get into her true working clothes and get her ass out to Club 401.

***

Danny contemplated the inside of his refrigerator, trying not to sigh. He'd been doing way too much sighing lately. The refrigerator contained a stack of foam boxes, a bag of good Kona coffee somebody had brought him back from a Hawaiian vacation, two bottles of wine, a six-pack of Shiner and some sad-looking baby carrots that probably should have been moved on to the garbage a week ago.

He picked out the nearest box and popped the lid. Roast chicken and rice from EZ's. Okay, he could live with that, and it hadn't been sitting there too long. At least he didn't think it had—he tried to remember the last time he'd been to the restaurant. A couple of days ago? Should be okay. He blocked another sigh.

He could always drive down to one of the restaurants on Broadway. He might even see somebody he knew. On the other hand, the thought of going out again that evening didn't exactly make his heart leap. He'd been out too many nights lately, and as he looked down at the foam container, he felt tired as hell. He popped the chicken into his microwave to reheat, adding a dinner roll that didn't look too stale.

The Hugo Boss definitely needed cleaning. He'd brushed up against dirt and grime, and somehow he'd managed to pick up an oil stain on the sleeve.

No bloodstains, though.

Danny glanced down at his hands reflexively. They looked fine. No burns. No blood. Obviously, the dim light in the carriage house had made him think he'd seen something.

Trick of the light. Just a trick of the light.

As he sat down at his dining room table with the chicken, his cell played a tinny version of “La Paloma.” Danny checked the number and groaned. He could always pretend not to be home, but sooner or later she'd track him down anyway.

He clicked the connect button. “Hi, Ma.”

“Danielo. How are you?”

The corners of Danny's mouth edged up. Just listening to that honied voice pronounce his full name, you'd never know she was an Irish-American Colleen who happened to major in Spanish at UT. “I'm fine. Just sitting down to dinner.”

“Are you? What did you make?”

“Just leftovers.” Best not to admit they were restaurant leftovers. He didn't particularly want his mom to descend on the house bearing casseroles.

“I won't keep you then. I just wanted to invite you to dinner Sunday night. It's been weeks since we've seen you.”

No sighing. Absolutely no sighing.
“I'll have to check my calendar, Ma—I might have a date. Can I call you back later?”

“Bring her along, Danny. We haven't met her, have we?”

Danny pictured Brenda, with her usual four-inch heels and thigh-length skirts, having dinner with his folks.
Nah.
“I'll see what I can do.”

“How are you feeling? Are you still working too hard?”

Danny's jaw clenched. “Hard as I need to, Ma. It's a tough racket.”

“I worry about you, Danielo. You need to take a little time for yourself. Slow down a little.”

“Yes, ma'am, I'll try.”
In a couple of years. When I'm managing one of the branches.

This time his mother sighed. “Danny, I don't know what I'm going to do with you.”

“You don't need to do anything with me, Ma. I'm fine. I'll call you later about dinner.”
No guilt trips here. No siree!

“All right, Danielo. Take care. I love you.”

Danny disconnected, feeling like a prime shit. Oh, yeah, no guilt trips here. Except nobody told his mother not to send him on one.

***

By two o'clock the next afternoon, Danny had convinced himself the whole experience at the carriage house had been a misunderstanding. He'd probably hit a nerve when he touched the stove that had made his arm feel like it was on fire—the heat hadn't really passed from one hand to the other, like an electric shock. Just his overreaction. And there hadn't been any blood on his hand. Just a shadow, or reflected light. Or something.

He stood outside the building, looking up at the cracked stucco walls. The carriage house was old, dirty, and ugly as a three-day drunk. He'd dealt with ugly houses before. Usually he could still find something to recommend them. He closed his eyes for a moment. “C'mon house, give me a hint.”

Herman Zucker would be there to meet him in twenty minutes. So would Biddy. Danny's money was on Zucker getting there first, but Biddy actually arrived with five minutes to spare.

“Got the specs?” Danny raised an eyebrow.

Biddy nodded. “I brought the inspection report, too. I thought he might want some proof that the place isn't going to fall apart.”

Today she wore a maroon skirt and jacket that were the color of dried blood, with a pink blouse. The blouse had some kind of weird floppy bow that tied beneath her chin, sort of like an eighties power ensemble. Danny wondered briefly if she actually bought these outfits new or if she shopped secondhand stores. Surely nobody made stuff like that deliberately anymore. Almost like camouflage, although he wasn't sure what she could be disguising. She stood in the shadows beside the door—turquoise eyes, silvery hair.
Knock it off, Danielo.

Herman Zucker arrived promptly at two thirty, wearing a suit he'd probably bought off the rack at a big-and-tall shop. Herman didn't believe in wasting money on clothes. Not when he could be using it to buy real estate. In his honor, Danny had put on a pearl gray Hart Schaffner Marx suit his father had talked him into buying three years ago. He figured Herman would relate.

Danny estimated Herman's weight to be somewhere in the three-hundred-pound range. He only needed a Panama hat to double for Sydney Greenstreet in
Casablanca
. It was always a bit of a shock when he didn't speak with an English accent, but Herman was more universal than that. He spoke money.

“Ramos,” he barked. “This the place?”

Danny nodded. “The Steadman carriage house. Built circa 1890.”

Herman pursed his lips. “Not by Steadman. She didn't buy this house until the sixties.”

“Right.” Danny nodded. He checked the printout on the available history of the house that Biddy had put together for him that morning. “Built by Marcus Templeton?” He glanced at her. “Sure about that?”

“He built the Steadman house,” she explained, “but apparently he didn't live here. The house supposedly changed hands several times. The carriage house was built a few years after the house itself, maybe by Templeton, too.”

Herman nodded gloomily. “Not exactly an architectural landmark, is it?”

Ah, let the games begin.
Danny restrained his grin. “It's a classic carriage house design, though. Excellent construction. Although it's had a period of neglect.”

“Period of neglect?” Herman snorted. “That's the understatement of the century. I suppose you're gonna tell me those are D'Hanis bricks.”