A Killer's Agenda by Anita M. Whiting

mellowed to a pleasant cream color and a huge front porch surrounded the house on three sides with windows so tall a man could walk right through them. Wide-seated rockers were set at various angles, affording whoever sat in them a breathtaking view of the water behind.
    “PI work must pay very well,” he said dryly and then cursed
    himself for sounding so critical.
    There was a flash of hurt in her eyes that was quickly replaced by anger. “You of all people should know not to jump to
    conclusions,” she said, opening the car door and grabbing her briefcase and anything else she could carry, slamming it after her.
    She marched up the front walk and left him sitting there.
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    A Killer's Agenda
    Now what? He reached in back and gathered what was left in
    his arms and followed her. Damn it! Only Maggie could find a way to make him feel this guilty. She ignored him, unlocking the ornate wood door and flinging it open. He stepped in out of the rain and was immediately captivated. It was like stepping into another era.
    The foyer was huge, highlighted by a gracefully curving
    staircase in rich cherry that wound its way upward. Tall windows flanked each side of the door, allowing light to spill into the area.
    The ceilings had to be at least twelve or thirteen feet high, complimenting the vibrant rose shade on the walls and the cream crown molding. Oddly enough, amidst the old world charm there was a hint of freshly sawn wood and paint. He set what he was carrying down and spun slowly around
    “Nice place.”
    Two spots of color touched her cheeks. “Wasn’t so nice about five years ago. Much of the inside had been destroyed by fire. The owner collected on the insurance and let it sit for a number of years. What you see is a whole lot of hard work. I bought the house cheap and have been remodeling room by room slowly. Most of the downstairs is done and half the upstairs. I’d have the entire thing completed by now, but that rich PI salary for some reason doesn’t stretch like it should.”
    He shook his head ruefully. “How do you do it?”
    “Do what?”
    “Make me feel like such a jerk.”
    “If the shoe fits…” she began.
    “You want help with this stuff or not?” he threatened.
    She laughed, putting a slender hand out. “Truce?”
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    Anita Whiting
    He took it, rubbing a thumb along her soft skin. “Until the next time I tick you off? Sure.”
    “Then let’s get moving,” she said lightly, handing him her guitar while she grabbed a suitcase.
    When he put the last item away, he leaned against the newel
    post and took stock. “I have to say I’m impressed, Alex. You’ve taken a shell of a house and made it a home.” He strolled to the mantel in the front room, examining the personal touches that he was beginning to realize were part of her personality. Fat candles sat on the gleaming wood frame along with whimsical statues of dragons and fairies. Antiques paired with the modern. Rich jewel tones covered many of the walls and so did her artwork.
    “Why aren’t you painting full time?” he asked, examining a
    particularly stunning seascape.
    “Because I like to eat,” she shot back. “The term starving artist comes to mind.”
    “You’re talented, Alex. These would sell.”
    He could see the uncertainty in her eyes and was surprised by it. Since he had met her, the confidence she exuded didn’t lend itself toward her being shy about anything. The contradiction intrigued him.
    The doorbell rang just as they were returning to the lower level.
    Alex opened the door and smiled at the elderly gentleman that stood there.
    “Mr. Newsome, how are you?”
    “Can’t complain, my dear.” He handed her a thick pile of
    letters. “I saw the car and figured maybe you’d want to look through your mail as soon as possible. I was passing right by the house so I thought I’d drop it off.”
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    A Killer's Agenda
    Alex put the letters on the foyer table and hugged him. “That was really nice of