Fathom by Cherie Priest Page B

moved up to Tallahassee.”
    “After the murder.”
    “That’s right,” Dave agreed. “After the murder.”
    “You think it’ll make the place less likely to sell? I’m surprised it’s got any takers as it is.”
    Dave waved his arm in a swipe that indicated the house, the yard, and the fountains. “Why? It’s prime property, isn’t it?”
    “Times are hard. Black Tuesday brought a lot of people low.”
    “Not everybody. Not this guy.”
    “Langan.”
    “Whatever he’s named.” Dave wasn’t dressed like a fireman. Nothing was burning except for the afternoon temperatures, and this was only a bureaucratic visit.
    Sam replaced his damp-rimmed hat and checked his clipboard. He brushed away a brightly colored bug and squinteddown at the text. “So the original owner—not the murdered one, I mean, or maybe him, I don’t know—but whoever built the place paid up for the fire insurance. Do I understand that correctly?”
    “Not this far along, no. They only paid up through the year; but the new guy—”
    “Langan,” Sam said.
    “Yeah. He’ll want to pay to have it covered, if he really buys the place.”
    And Dave and Sam were each pocketing fifty bucks extra for looking around. Langan had asked for someone reliable, someone who knew a little about construction or insurance. He’d asked for a report on the structure’s condition, since he lived out of state and might not be able to see the property for himself before purchasing it. Sam thought it must be nice to be that kind of rich: so rich that you can buy big things without looking at them first.
    The house was practically new, even if the property looked like it’d been left to run wild for a hundred years.
    Florida did that to man-made places. It devoured them with jungle in a matter of weeks if no one made a stand and hacked the greenery back.
    Sam made a note on the clipboard’s last sheet of paper. “We’ll need to mention the grounds,” he said. “Langan is moving here from . . . where?”
    “I don’t know. Out of state.”
    “I thought the chief said he was coming in from New England.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Hmm.” Sam folded the clipboard under his arm. “Then he might not know how fast the grounds go downhill here, when no one looks after them.”
    “He’ll find out.”
    “But we shouldn’t surprise him with it. The house looks great, but the rest of it is a mess.”
    Sam dodged a wall of swaying palmettos and glanced down at the shadows underneath it, praying that they were empty of snakes. He ducked his head sharply to avoid a low-hanging curl of moss.
    A feral cat scooted across Sam’s path and shot around the side of the building. The creature was fat from slow lizards and friendly island fishermen, and Sam wondered if the house’s new owner would tolerate a resident feline. The cat settled down beside a rosebush and began to preen.
    “Get out of here.” Dave picked up a broken roof tile and chucked it in the cat’s general direction. “Stupid cat. Better not get too comfortable.”
    The animal hoisted its tail and hopped down off the wall. It disappeared through the arch and wandered back into the main yard. “Don’t do that. He’ll keep the mice down.”
    Dave didn’t argue, and he didn’t throw any more tiles. But the cat didn’t reappear. “Look at this damn place. This courtyard is going to need a team of gardeners to bring it back into shape.”
    “You said it yourself: Langan can afford it.”
    The winding sidewalks were choked with grass; and in the courtyard’s back corner, the latticework of a small vineyard collapsed upon itself beside the blue, gold, and crimson mosaics that decorated the benches. In the center of all the confusion stood a circular stone fountain adorned with sea-blue tiles that were clotted with grass and thorns. Rainwater had pooled in the fountain’s bottom, breeding mosquitoes and scum.
    And there was something else.
    At the far edge of his consciousness, Sam felt a distinct