Optical Delusions in Deadwood Read Free Page A

should take something for that impulsive oral discharge, Ray.” I slung my purse over my shoulder, giving him my sweetest smile. “Before someone plugs your pie hole with her size eights.”

           

          * * *

           

          I cruised along back streets to Doc’s new place, during which I tried not to think about the Carhart women and their sad state of affairs. A small part of me felt akin to them on the social pariah front.

          The home inspector waited for me in the shade on the gabled porch of what would soon be Doc’s Queen-Anne-style beauty. The guy’s gray polo shirt stuck to his super-sized belly in several dark spots.

          I scurried up the porch steps, trying to smile away my tardiness. “Sorry I’m late.”

          He grunted, his red face rigid. Sweat ran down the side of his double chin.

          So much for small talk during the inspection. I unlocked the front door and pushed it wide; the air rushing out to greet us was stale, but cool. I followed him inside, my nose wrinkling. God, I should have brought a can of air freshener along. He must have rooted in a plate of red onions for lunch.

          Leaving the inspector to work his magic, I detoured to the kitchen, thirsty from the heat. A small stack of disposable cups sat next to the sink.

          I stared out into the backyard as I drank the lukewarm water, watching a dragonfly flicker around the birdbath, wondering what the Carhart house looked like. The way Ray had protested, I imagined another redneck kegger-mess like Jeff Wymonds’ place, with junk cars overflowing the driveway and coffee cans full of used oil sitting about like yard lights. With Jeff’s project house already on my plate, I didn’t need a second.

          Something thumped under my feet. The inspector must have found the door to the crawlspace on his own.

          Would any agent want to represent the Carhart house after the horror that had occurred within its walls? There was no way Millie and Wanda could pull off a For-Sale-By-Owner. They were way too timid, especially Wanda. Not to mention the amount of energy and stress that came with FSBO’s. They really needed a professional to guide them through all the paperwork.

          What would drive someone to bludgeon his own father with a rolling pin? It must have been marble; a wood one probably wouldn’t have been hard enough. Or would it? I recoiled at the direction of my thoughts and dumped the last swallow of water down the sink.

          “Hello, Violet.”

          Jerking in surprise, I dropped the cup and whirled around. “What are you doing here?”

          Doc leaned against the counter, his usual lazy grin on his lips, dark hair ruffled, hands in his pockets. Wearing a pair of blue cargo shorts and a white T-shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders, he looked tanner than he had the last time I’d ogled him. “Awaiting the inspector’s report,” he answered.

          “I thought you couldn’t make it.”

          “Something changed my priorities.”

          “What?”

          His dark brown eyes held mine. “You.”

          “I haven’t even talked to you.” Not that I hadn’t tried— for almost two damned weeks now! “Only your voicemail.” I couldn’t resist that little dig.

          “Frustrated?” He prodded back.

          Hell, yes! “A little. But only as your Realtor, of course.”

          His smile widened. “Of course.”

          More muffled thumps below reminded me that we weren’t the only two people on Earth. “The inspector is under the house,” I said. Pride held a tight rein on my tongue, keeping me from asking why Doc hadn’t bothered to call me back.

          “So I hear.” His gaze made a leisurely crawl down to my painted toes and back up. “Great dress. It matches your eyes.”

          “Thanks.” I straightened my green wrap