Medium Well (9781101599648) (6 page)

“Sure.” She leaned back in her chair. “Most of the catalog's been computerized by now, and a lot of the collection has been digitized, too. Of course, a lot of it's still in boxes in the storage room upstairs.”

“Right. Let's hope it's at least on microfilm.”

Gracie sighed. “Do not use
‘
we' when you talk about this, Ramos. Assuming you find anything, you'll be doing all the looking yourself, trust me.” Her lips spread in a slightly evil smile. “Now that I'd like to see. Danny Ramos up to his ass in dusty manuscripts. Unless you can find somebody else in your office to do the scut work for you.”

He gave her another careful smile. “Ever heard any stories connected with the house, Gracie? You know, not history but just . . . legends, anecdotes, anything associated with that property?”

She studied his face curiously. “What do you mean? Ghost stories?”

Great.
The last thing he wanted was for Gracie to make a connection between ghosts, the Steadman carriage house, and him. “No. Well, not exactly.” He shook his head. “I'm just looking for local color here.”

“With the Steadman house?” She raised an eyebrow. “Believe me, Beatrice Steadman wouldn't have allowed any ghosts in her house. That woman was born with a stick up her . . . well, she was pretty socially correct.”

“Right. I guess I'll check out that deed registry, and then I'll be back. You can show me how your catalog works.”

“Be still, my heart,” Gracie muttered as he headed for the door.

Danny kept walking. Maybe Brenda would like dinner tonight. Maybe Brenda would also be available for a little nonspecific R & R afterward. God knows, he'd earned it.

Chapter 6

Biddy managed to avoid her sister all the next morning by staying away from her cubicle and turning off her phone. She spent a couple of hours at her real estate licensing class, and another half hour or so talking to the administrative assistant at the title company. At least Araceli couldn't accuse her of slacking off.

But eventually she had to go back to the office. Her sister pounced within the first fifteen minutes.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “Why did you turn your phone off?”

Biddy stacked the papers from the title company in her in-box—no way she'd get to file them now. “I was in class. You know how they hate it when your cell phone makes noise.” A rule she thoroughly approved of in this case.

“Where's Ramos?” Araceli snapped. “We've got some more customers interested in that carriage house. He'll need to set something up.”

“He's showing a house in Monte Vista. He said he'd be back before noon.”

In fact, Danny hadn't said anything at all, but he'd left a note taped to Biddy's computer monitor saying he'd be back later, and they did have a house in Monte Vista to show. She had a feeling he was avoiding her after their conversation yesterday afternoon.

“They'll be here in fifteen minutes. I suppose I could always show it myself.” Araceli's gaze darted around the office as if she were trying to make sure Danny was safely out of the picture so that she could sell the place before he got back.

Well, crap.
“Or I could show it,” Biddy mumbled.

Her sister blinked. “You?”

“I've been over there more times than you have, Araceli. At least I know the property. And then Mr. Ramos can take over from me when he comes back. Besides,” Biddy looked down at her toes, playing her trump card, “you said you wanted me to learn the business. How will I ever learn if I don't get to do some walk-throughs on my own?”

She took a quick glance at Araceli. Her lips were pursed, her eyes narrowed. “I don't know about this, Biddy. You're still short some hours of coursework before you qualify for a license.”

“But I'm allowed to do open houses, and this is sort of like that. And it wouldn't just be me. I'd be setting them up for Mr. Ramos. It's his sale. Besides, it'll be good practice for me, Sis.” She assumed her most guileless smile. “It'll give me a chance to talk to the customers, find out how they feel about the place. Maybe they'd be more willing to talk to someone who wasn't a realtor. I swear I won't talk business. I know better than that.”

“Make sure you don't.” Araceli didn't look like the thought of her sister showing the carriage house had taken her to her Happy Place. “And don't mess up, Biddy, you hear me? If they want anything more than a walk-through, you call me. It's bad enough Ramos isn't on his game without you making it worse.”

“No, ma'am. I mean, yes, ma'am. I mean, thanks for the opportunity, Sis. I won't let you down.” She reached for her purse again, pushing her glasses up her nose. At least she had on one of her better work outfits. Or anyway, she thought she did. As she glanced down at her skirt, she noticed it seemed to have developed wrinkles that looked like an aerial view of the Rift Valley.

Biddy sighed. She really wasn't cut out for this line of work.

***

Danny looked down once again at the list of owners' names he'd collected at the courthouse. There were a lot more of them than he would have guessed, given that Beatrice Steadman had lived in the house for fifty years. But before Mrs. Steadman had shown up, the main house had had a veritable parade of owners.

He grimaced, then headed up the stairs to his office. If Beatrice Steadman hadn't lived so long, he might have had a chance of finding one or two of those previous owners and having a little talk about the bloody carriage house. Now he figured the chances of having a talk like that were nil. After forty-odd years, even if he found somebody, they'd probably be so decrepit they'd have only the haziest memories of the house no matter how bloody it had been.

Biddy's cubicle was empty, but a note that looked like her handwriting was taped to his office door. He squinted at it.

“I'm showing the carriage house,” he read.

“Goddamn.” Danny balled the note in his fist, grabbing the house folder off his desk. Looked like Biddy had ambitions to be just like her big sister. And if she tried to sell anything without a license, they'd both be in deep, deep doo-doo.

***

Biddy's stomach flip-flopped again as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Danny always made it look so easy. But when she tried to explain about native limestone fireplaces and hardwood-planked floors, she just sounded like she was rattling off something she'd memorized. Probably because she was.

She'd told them Danny was on his way, and she really hoped he would be, since she'd only been able to reach his voice mail. At this point, she wanted to turn the whole thing over to anyone who knew what they were doing better than she did, including Araceli.

At least the customers were a young couple this time instead of the middle-aged speculators they'd been dealing with before. Not that the young couple weren't speculators, too.

“Lots of space,” the man, Mr. Graves, muttered. “Room to renovate.” He didn't sound like renovating ranked high on his list of “Fun Things to Do in San Antonio.” “Of course it's going to cost a mint to get it up to code.”

“The structure's sound,” Biddy stammered. “We have the inspection report if you'd like to see it.”

Mr. Graves turned his pudgy profile toward her, giving her a look that said clearly how little he thought of her opinions. He'd been doing that a lot as they worked through the lower floor. Biddy was thoroughly sick of it, and of Mr. Graves, too. Then again, a jerk like Mr. Graves probably deserved a haunted money sink like the carriage house.

On the other hand, Biddy didn't think Mrs. Graves did. She wasn't having a good time, which seemed to have less to do with Mr. Graves than with the carriage house itself. Mrs. Graves kept rubbing her arms, hugging herself as if she were freezing. She'd pulled on a sweater soon after they'd walked in, even though it ruined the line of her chic black sheath, but it didn't seem to help. Basically, she did the same things Biddy did herself every time she walked into the place—hugged herself, rubbed her arms. Froze, mostly.

In contrast, her husband swabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. His face had turned bright pink on the climb to the second floor. “No air-conditioning?”

“Vincent, for God's sake, it's a hundred-year-old carriage house. Of course there's no air – conditioning!” Mrs. Graves glanced back at the lower floor, then rubbed her arms harder, frowning as she gazed back down the stairs.

Mr. Graves shrugged. “Somebody might have put a window unit in.”

“No, I'm sorry,” Biddy said. “No one has lived here for several years. The wiring could probably support air-conditioning, though. Would you like to see the apartment now?”

Mrs. Graves shook her head as her husband nodded, then pushed through the door ahead of Biddy as if she weren't there. Mrs. Graves gave him a faintly homicidal look.

Biddy didn't blame her. Mr. Graves stood inside the doorway, blocking the view with his somewhat doughy body, narrowing his eyes as he considered the space, then folding his arms across his chest.

“Dirty,” he said accusingly.

Biddy gritted her teeth. “It hasn't been cleaned in some time. Mrs. Steadman only used the carriage house for storage.”

“Move, Vincent.” Mrs. Graves placed one elegant hand in the middle of his back and shoved him out of the way.

“Does all this junk come with it?” Mr. Graves regarded the stacked boxes in the corners curiously.

Biddy nodded. “It's the building and contents.”

Mrs. Graves walked slowly to the windows, her high-heeled sandals clicking on the wooden floor. Her shoulders shook as she turned back to the room again. “Vincent, let's go.” Her voice trembled slightly. “I'm ready to get out of here.”

Biddy glanced at her more closely and stopped. The woman's face was the color of parchment, and she held her arms tight against her body.

“In a minute,” her husband muttered, not looking at her.

“Well, I'm leaving. Right now. You can do what you want.” She turned abruptly, slamming the door behind her before stumbling down the stairs.

Biddy started after her, hearing the heavy thump of her feet across the lower floor.

“Where's this door go?” Mr. Graves reached for the kitchen door, giving it a firm tug.

“Your wife . . .” Biddy stammered, “don't you want to . . .”

The man waved an impatient hand. “Let her go. So what's in here?”

“The kitchen.” Biddy bit her lip. She should stay with the potential buyer. Her sister would have had that kitchen door open in less than a minute, as if Mrs. Graves had never set foot in the place. God, she hated this job.

“Biddy?”

Biddy jumped back a few inches, then swiveled to see Danny Ramos standing in the doorway to the apartment. “Mr. Ramos,” she gulped, resting a hand on her chest.

“Maybe you should go see if the lady needs any help. I'll go on showing the house.”

Danny's eyes looked like green ice. Biddy felt a chill just from seeing him. Not that she wasn't thoroughly chilled already.
Terrific. Now he's pissed.

“Yes, sir, of course.” She started toward the stairs, then stopped. Danny would show the house? That meant Danny would go into the kitchen. That meant . . . all kinds of bad things.

“Um . . . Mr. Ramos, maybe I should . . .” Biddy took two steps toward the kitchen door.

“Go on, Biddy,” Danny snapped. “I'll take it from here.”

Everything about Danny's posture was rigid, from his stiff spine to the way he held his arms against his body. Biddy couldn't decide whether he was mad or terrified or both. Plus he looked almost as cold as Mrs. Graves had. Clearly, however, he wouldn't listen to her.

And the last thing they needed was a fight in front of a customer. “Yes, sir,” she mumbled and started back down the stairs.

Mrs. Graves stood just outside the front door, holding a cigarette as if it were a lethal weapon.

“Mrs. Graves?” Biddy murmured. “Could I get you anything? Maybe a glass of water?”

“What? No. No, I don't need anything.” She took another furious puff. “Except maybe a smarter husband.”

Biddy couldn't think of a good answer to that, particularly since she pretty much agreed with the woman. “Would you like to sit down? I think there's a swing over under that live oak.”

She pointed toward the deepening shade. She'd seen the swing last week, but she hadn't checked it out yet. With her luck, the wood had probably rotted through.

Mrs. Graves looked at the spreading branches as the wooden swing moved slightly in the late afternoon breeze. She shuddered. “No. No, I'll just wait here.”

Biddy sorted through a series of things she might say.
So what do you think of the place?
led the list. Unfortunately, she had a pretty good idea what Mrs. Graves thought. And she also had a good idea why.

“Do you go in there all the time?” The woman's voice shook.

Biddy blinked. “Just when we show it. Maybe two or three times so far.”

“How do you stand it?” Mrs. Graves's large brown eyes were suddenly swimming with tears.

Biddy reached for her elbow. “Ma'am? Are you sure you don't want a glass of water?”

She shook her head. “I couldn't bear it if I were you. I'd never go in there. My God, that's the creepiest place I've ever set foot in. Are you telling me you didn't feel it?”

Araceli would tell her no. Araceli would tell her it was a perfectly ordinary historical building with great structure and lots of potential. And Araceli would be telling her the truth as she saw it—Biddy had no doubt Araceli had never felt anything weird in any of the buildings she sold, and probably wouldn't feel anything here, either. Henderson and Zucker hadn't.

“I feel it,” she murmured. “But not everybody does. It'll make a good house for someone who doesn't get the creeps easily.”

“Like Vincent.” Mrs. Graves's lips tightened. “But the demons will be ice-skating in Hades before we buy this place, believe me.”

“I do believe you.” Biddy sighed. So much for the sale. She just hoped Danny didn't do anything in the kitchen to make it worse.

***

Vincent Graves ranked among the least sensitive people Danny had ever met. Which was just as well. Walking through the carnage in the kitchen with somebody mainly interested in square footage was a surreal experience, but it kept Danny from getting sick again.

He found a spot on the far side of the room that wasn't covered in blood and concentrated on it as he rattled off the specs. Graves hadn't seemed to notice.

Now he followed Graves down the stairs, wondering if that lack of sensitivity would lead Graves to buy the carriage house.
Go, moron, go! Let's hear it for insensitivity!

“Unique place. Asking price is out of the ballpark, though.” Graves tried to sound cool, but his eyes gave him away. Definitely interested.

Danny managed not to grin. “Well, that's the game, isn't it? You submit your bid, Mr. Petrocelli gets back to you. You never know—he might be willing to entertain a lower price, if you could make it worth his while. Particularly in the current market. And, of course, the place does need to be cleaned up.”

Hell, the way things were going, Petrocelli might be willing to be paid off in baseball cards. Anything to get this white elephant off his hands.

“Vincent!” A woman's voice cut into Danny's reverie. Mrs. Graves, unless he missed his guess. Not a happy woman at the moment. In fact, given her pallor, she looked about ready to pass out.