Touch of Evil (9 page)

"Well—" she began, and fidgeted nervously. "It wasn't the pipes at first."

My eyes narrowed a bit and I growled, "At first? "

As usual with her, she spilled everything in a rush. "It was just the faucet. It was dripping a little. I left you a message on your machine, but you didn't call back—"

"I was ou—"

She didn't even give me a chance to finish the word. "So, anyway, this guy I'm seeing, Clyde, he's really nice, and he said that he could fix the faucet with a little kit from the hardware store, so he went out and bought one, it's this cute little set of rubber pieces with an itty-bitty screw—"

Okay, at this point I was just amazed at her ability to make all that one sentence without drawing a breath. I continued to stare, openmouthed.

"And he turned off the water, or at least I thought he turned off the water—" I winced and closed my eyes, waiting for the next admission.

"So off comes the faucet and there's this geyser of water coming from the sink."

"Did you get the water turned off?" I asked. Well, at least she had a ground floor apartment. None of the ceilings would cave in. And no, I wasn't paying the bill now that I knew the story.

"He couldn't get the valve to turn. He said it was stuck. So he got a wrench and started hammering on it. I didn't watch it because he kept the door closed, but I could hear him in there, swearing a blue streak and banging away."

Oh, man! My poor plumbing! "Connie, it shouldn't take a wrench to turn those valves. They're brand new!"

"Yeah, if he had turned the right one it would have been easy!"

"Wha—" I started, and then understanding settled in. Connie was the first person to sign a lease, so she got some control over what her place looked like. She had gushed over the old claw foot tub in the bath, which was a pretty unusual item to have in a factory, I had to admit. Maybe it was for the owner. Anyway, I had told her she could keep it. I'd had to run a separate water line and drain to hook it into the new plumbing. But she'd liked the look of the old water intakes that came down from the ceiling, so we'd left them in, as decoration. A chuckle escaped me. "No doubt those old lines were a little hard to crank!"

"No shit! The idiot! I didn't even know until he finally unlocked the door and the place was flooded. It took hours to mop up all that water before it ruined the hardwood!"

"But you got it turned off?"

"Oh, sure! I walked in and turned it right off. But he had bent one of the pipes going into the tub, so I had to bring in a plumber. Don't worry, though. I'll pay for it. You're welcome to come in and look at it to make sure that we don't have to bring in someone to redo the floor."

I opened my mouth to reply but she interrupted,

"I told Clyde I'd take it from his hide!" If she didn't, I might.

"This really is an incredible place." Connie shook her head in awe. "I don't suppose—" She looked longingly at the loft. I could tell she wanted a tour. But I wasn't giving her one. There's not much to see in the place that can't be viewed from the front door. The loft is my bedroom and not really up to a tour right now. It was a pit.

"I've really got to give my brother a call before he goes on shift. Since I was out of town, he probably got the call from the alarm company." It was a logical lie and I tried to sound apologetic. "I really appreciate you chasing off the intruder. That was really brave!"

She blushed to the roots of her dyed hair. "Aw heck, it was nothing, Kate. She was a skinny little thing—probably just looking for loose change for a fix. I deal with a lot worse types than her every day. Yep, you should give Joe a call, 'cause he's probably a wreck. He seems to really care what happens to you. I'll let myself out."

I realized she was right. Connie is a bail

bondswoman and a good one. She's been in the business long enough that she's probably seen everything. A teenaged junkie was just a minnow in the sea of bad guys she knows. And she was right about Joe, too. I realized how much restraint it must be taking for him not to be here right now checking up on me.

I waited until she left and slid the deadbolt home. I took a deep breath and dialed Joe's cell number. He always has it with him unless he's in the ER—no electronics allowed because of the

equipment. After the fourth ring, his voice mail answered. I left a short message that I was fine, was sorry that I didn't call him, and had picked up the prescription that Dr. MacDougal had given me. It was time to get back to life. Cooking would take awhile, and would be messy, so I decided to throw on my paint-splattered coveralls in lieu of an apron. They're comfy to slop around in and virtually indestructible in case anything spilled. But first, I figured I should get the mail. I was getting increasingly nervous that if I had forgotten to pay the classified advertising bill, what else was past due? I left the apartment, making sure to lock the deadbolt behind me and went down the grate metal stairs two at a time. The building inspector had assured me that they would last until my greatgrandchilden died of old age, and it would please the insurance company if I didn't replace them, because they don't burn.

The postal boxes are ugly—brushed steel and aluminum that are an embarrassment to the rest of the room. They don't match the Art Deco lobby at all and I just hate it. But the post office has standards. If there had been existing boxes in place, I could've used them. There weren't. So I had to put up boxes that are really too small to hold much of anything and clash with the decor. The biggest reason they clash is that I had succumbed to reality. I'm gone often enough on trips that my mail backs up. Before I put in the large drawer, I'd have to go visit the post office to claim things every other day.

The key turned smoothly in the lock, but the drawer wouldn't open. A peek inside told me why—it was overflowing, and several of the envelopes had annoying yellow and red stripes on them that indicated past due notices. Ick!

No, I just couldn't deal with it now. I pushed and squished the contents until the drawer reluctantly shut and turned to go back to my cooking. But my eyes lighted on a package on the floor next to the elevator. They'd delivered the moldings while I was gone! I opened the long reinforced cardboard boxes and eased out one of the thin strips of custom cut hardwood. I placed it next to the one I'd just finished stripping and nearly jumped up and down with joy. It matched, down to the smallest leaf!

My original goal for this room was to replace about a dozen missing hammered tin ceiling tiles, fix the broken light fixture, put in new linoleum and take down the damaged moldings. But once I

actually got up to the ceiling, I realized how delicate and detailed they were under the dozen layers of (probably lead-based) paint. I decided to see if I could salvage them and used the last of my savings to get three more strips made so that they would all match.

Well, no time like the present to get started!

Maybe actual physical work would help shake off the vague dread.

I hauled out the big ladder from under the table and balanced the long strip in my hand as I climbed. It bounced and flopped over the ladder's top while I fumbled for my hammer, but then remembered that I'd forgotten to set up my helpers and had to climb back down.

I'd figured out a way to install the ten foot lengths of trim by myself early on, while I was pulling down the others to strip them of paint. Two lengths of two-by-fours on a crossed stand rose up like a Christmas tree. Each held a wide notched piece of scrap plywood. Once standing, it nearly touched the ceiling, so that all I had to do was position one in each corner, lift the trim onto them and start hammering.

I was completely engrossed in making sure that the brads countersunk into the trim without leaving big ugly hammer marks on the wood, so I didn't notice someone appear outside the front door glass. What happened next could take the prize on

Funniest Home Videos. A visitor opened the door, which knocked over one helper. It hit the floor with a bang. The suddenly loose trim strip smacked the man on the side of the head and the whipping motion ripped out the three brads I'd been able to hammer in. The other end smacked me in the head before clattering to the floor. I nearly lost my balance, and did drop the hammer, which knocked over the almost empty can of paint on the table and splattered paint onto the ladder, my arm and the side of my face.

I stood there on the ladder, stunned, rubbing the sore spot on my head.

"Wow!" said the visitor, likewise rubbing his scalp. "I can't think of any way that I could have made a worse first impression. I think I'll just quietly slip out now. I was looking for the owner. Really sorry to bother you."

He turned to leave so quickly that I had to shout.

"Hey, wait a minute!"

I climbed down off the ladder. He stopped and turned his head, so that I finally got to see his face. He was my height exactly, with dark curls the shade of brown that is almost, but not quite black. Intelligent, chocolate brown eyes looked out from behind long curled lashes. The standard business uniform of grey suit, white shirt and patterned red tie couldn't hide the amazing build. This was obviously an athlete. He was without a doubt the most handsome man I'd ever seen, and I suddenly couldn't speak. All I could think of was that I probably looked the worst I had in my life. I was dusty and sweaty, wearing paint covered overalls and, of course, had a wide swatch of creamcolored paint next to my ear. I offered my hand, but then hurriedly pulled it back and cleaned it on my pant leg before holding it out a second time. He smiled, revealing deep dimples and perfect white teeth. This guy's girlfriend is one lucky lady! Yeah, I looked for a ring. There wasn't one, but a guy like this wouldn't be without female companionship—probably blonde with a Penthouse figure. "I'm Kate Reilly. I am the owner. What can I do for you?"

He shook my hand. The laugh that came out was both sad and annoyed. "Naturally you're the owner. I'd heard rumors that there was an apartment for rent in this building, but after wrecking your project, I can't imagine you'd offer it to me." I chuckled. "You hardly wrecked it. Trust me, I've spilled a lot more paint than this during the renovation!"

He bit his lower lip, which made him look like a naughty six-year-old. "Actually, I sort of did." He pointed down to the trim strip that had hit him in the head. I could see now that one whole corner of it had snapped off. "I have a pretty hard head. Sorry."

"Oh, man!" I knelt down on one knee next to it. They just got here! I picked up the index card size piece and held it up against the main strip. Well, then again—with some wood glue and clamps . . . hmm, maybe.

"Like I said," he interrupted. "That probably cost a pretty penny. It looks like vintage stuff. I'd offer to pay for it right now, and I know I should, but I really need to find an apartment in a hurry and I barely have enough for a deposit. In a few weeks I might be able—"

I looked up at those frustrated eyes and dimples and melted. Boy, if I could look at that every morning, even if just when getting the mail! "Then it would be in my best interest to keep you around, huh?" I watched him and saw the surprise on his face.

"But first, how about a name?" I held up a hand to shake his again, but he misunderstood and pulled backward, helping me to my feet. He had a nice, firm grip and wonderfully soft hands.

He grinned with astonishment and hopeful

anticipation and held onto my hand longer than required. "Tom Bishop. Would you really be willing to show me the place? I don't care if you're done with it or anything. Heck, it could be a broom closet off the pool!"

I laughed. "No pool, I'm afraid, but there is covered parking."

He laughed in return. "No car."

I could feel my eyebrows raise. No car, no

home, and he's wandering the bad part of town. Okay, cute or not, he was beginning to set off my little alarm meter. He could tell, and waved his hands quickly. "No, no, it's nothing like that. I have a good job and can pay the rent. It's just that—" He looked undecided suddenly.

"Yes?"

He took a deep breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Okay, fine. I've probably already blown my chances anyway. I'm a lycanthrope, Ms. Reilly. I'm also a fireman. My landlord found out about the werewolf part when Channel 4 did a news story about me. Now I'm getting kicked out. Of course, we werewolves aren't allowed to drive, so I have to find a home close to the station." He clenched his fists and his jaw set angrily. He raised flashing eyes to lock with mine. "So, go ahead, say it."

I probably looked somewhat dim-witted,

because I couldn't for the life of me figure out how he was expecting me to respond. "Uhm, say what?"

"You know, 'oops, I almost forgot. I already promised the apartment to someone.' Don't worry, I'm used to hearing it." His words were biting and sarcastic.

I shook my head and sighed. I sat down on the edge of a chair in the corner, filled with cans and tools. I offered him the matching one nearby, but he noticed the paint splatters, wood shavings and dust and then looked down at his spotless, perfectly creased pants. He bit his lower lip, glanced at me to see if I'd be offended—which I wasn't, and squatted down instead. It put him at just about the same height, and showed off totally ripped thighs underneath the charcoal pinstripe. He stared squarely into my eyes, giving me his full attention. I tucked my heels onto the top leg brace, rested my palms on my knees and returned the favor. His eyes were like chocolate melting in the sun, shiny and luscious and drowning deep. I probably stared too long. He winked suddenly and flashed a smile, which made me melt, too.

I cleared my throat and dragged my mind back to business. "Look . . . Tom. First, I don't play that game. I don't care if you're black, white, yellow, green or furry. If I think I can trust you and you can pay on time, you can rent from me. I have one apartment available. The guy who I'd promised it to just left me a message today saying he couldn't take it after all, and it's ready to move in. The appliances, wiring and plumbing are all new, and the boiler works . . . so far, anyway. You'll have to put up with me finishing the renovations, though. It'll be noisy, dusty and . . . well, slow. I'm gone on business a lot, so I can't give you a for-sure date of when I'll be done but I do work on it whenever I can."