Nearly Departed in Deadwood by Ann Charles Page A

inside?”

          Excellent question. One to which I had no answer. “I’m working on that.”

          “Let me know when you want me to hire a moving company to remove the furniture and boxes.”

          “Okay.” Wolfgang was all business now. I was beginning to wonder if I’d imagined that little flirting tango we’d danced a moment ago.

          “I need to make a quick trip to San Francisco for a couple of days next week, so you’ll have free rein of the house. You remember where the spare key is hidden, right?”

          “Yep.” After he’d signed the seller’s contract yesterday, he’d shown me the key’s hiding spot under a loose board on the bottom porch step. There was no need to get a lockbox for the place until I had it ready to show.

          “I’ll drop off a check tomorrow to cover initial costs.”

          “Sounds good.”

          “That leaves just one more thing.”

          “What’s that?”

          He reached out and tucked a stray curl behind my ear, his fingertips lingering on my jaw, his touch feather-light. Cobalt eyes locked onto my lips.

          Oh, boy! We were dancing again. He’s a client . The little voice was back.

          “Will you have dinner with me Friday night, Violet?”

          “To talk about your house?” I needed clarification. Should I spend the next two days preparing notes? Or trying on skimpy dresses? He’s a client .

          “I’d rather talk about you ... and me ... together.”

          He’s a client!

          Oh, what the hell. “Yes.”

           

          * * *

           

          Thursday, July 12th

          “Where’s your shotgun?” I asked Old Man Harvey while climbing out of my Bronco.

          Leaning against his porch rail, Harvey’s gold-toothed grin was coat hanger wide. “I save Bessie for bill collectors, bank presidents, and four-wheelers.”

          Bessie? He’d named his shotgun after a cow? He was right; living out here alone all these years had warped him.

          My sandals crunched on his gravel drive. The mid-morning sunshine had me squinting behind my sunglasses. There was something about being five thousand feet above sea level that made me feel like I could reach up and punch the sun.

          The porch’s shade still held a trace of coolness, keeping me from shedding the short-sleeved sweater covering my sleeveless paisley dress. I took a step toward Harvey and stopped, cringing. “What’s that smell?”

          Harvey checked the bottoms of his boots.

          My eyes watered. “It’s like heated vinyl and spearmint.”

          “Oh, that’s my new cologne.”

          Noticing his greased-back hair under his weathered cowboy hat, I raised my brows. “You sprucing up for me now, Harvey?”

          He hooted a little too loud for my self-esteem. Not very encouraging for a single mom midway through her thirties. “My cleaning lady came this morning. She’s quite a looker.”

          I jumped on that like a hyena on fresh kill. “Who is she? Is she taking new clients?”

          “I don’t think Margo has any time for new clients. She seemed pretty frazzled this morning. She vacuumed Red and then raced off and left her cell phone behind.”

          Upon hearing his name, Red—Harvey’s fat, yellow dog—lifted his head from the porch long enough to sneeze.

          I sighed. Margo again. I should’ve known. Hers was about the only cleaning company in the Hills. “Isn’t she married?”

          “Who cares? I like to play the odds.”

          I did, too, lately. I pulled Mona’s digital camera from my purse. “All right, Harvey. Let’s take some pictures.”

          The inside of Harvey’s ranch-style house smelled like fresh-baked cookies. I moved from room to room, snapping shots for the website. Contrary to his own