The Most Famous Illegal Goose Creek Parade (18 page)

“Good news,” she announced as she exited the car. “The electricity
and plumbing are in excellent shape. Apparently Mr. Updyke updated both shortly before he died.”

Al tried to keep his shoulders from drooping. He'd counted on the huge cost of replacing ancient wiring to further his cause. Or at least rusty plumbing.

“Lead paint?” he asked hopefully.

With a bright smile, Millie shook her head and opened the back door to let Rufus out. “The wallpaper is ancient, of course, but the house was repainted in the late seventies. No trace of lead.” She waved a folder in his direction. “I have the inspector's report here. Let's have a cup of coffee while we go over it.”

The black cloud of doom crept over him as he followed her into the kitchen. She set the folder on the table in front of his chair and headed for the coffeemaker. Al lowered himself onto the cushion. A thread of hope dangled before him when he flipped open the front cover and located the inspector's list of items. It was three full pages long. Surely there would be
something
expensive in there, some showstopper. As he scanned the list, the thread unraveled.

“The roof has to be replaced,” he commented.

“We knew that.” She plugged in the coffeemaker and pressed the switch. “But that's the biggest thing.”

“The furnace is seventeen years old.”

“True, but it's a high-end one, and in good shape. The man said it should last another ten years at least, and probably longer.”

“Hmm.” He studied page after page, zeroing in on the checkmarks in the 'Unsatisfactory' column. There were plenty. Chandeliers with wiring issues, loose banisters and railings, cracked outlet casings. The garbage disposal needed replacing and one of the burners on the stove didn't work. But besides the roof, no single deficiency would have a price tag big enough to justify his refusal to move ahead with the deal.

“That roof—” he began, but Millie cut him off.

“I've already contacted that handyman I told you about. Hinkle the Handyman. He's coming Monday to give us an estimate. On
everything, in fact.” She set a steaming mug on the table and slid the fake sugar bowl toward him. “He's never worked with those decorative slate shingles, so he'll give us a good price since the job will give him experience.”

He caught her gaze in a stern one of his own. “I'm not interested in restoring the roof to its original condition. Just putting on one that will keep the rain off our heads.”

An argument appeared on her features. She opened her mouth, but closed it a second later. Her head dipped forward in acknowledgement. Somewhat mollified, Al continued his perusal of the inspection document. He'd expected more of a fuss.

“I don't know, Millie.” He closed the folder and took his time stirring sweetener into his coffee. “The cost of repairing all those things will add up quickly.”

“We don't have to do everything at once, just a bedroom and the kitchen. Enough that we can live there comfortably for a while. We have years to get the rest done.”

Cocking his head, he gave her a cynical look. Did she really think he'd go for that? Once she started a project, she would hound him to the ends of the earth until it was finished. But since she returned his stare with wide eyes and covered his hand with her warm one, his reply went unspoken.

Heaving a sigh, he pushed the inspection report away. “Let's see what your handyman says on Monday.”

His reward was the appearance of those kissable dimples that never failed to soften him.

They flashed out of existence. “Oh, I almost forgot. Louise called. We have another showing today at three-thirty.”

A scowl weighed heavy on his face. “I want to put up the feeders this afternoon.”

“Can't it wait? Please?”

Another dramatic sigh. Goodness, he was starting to puff like a steam engine. “I suppose.”

“Good. Violet and I are going to run over to Lexington to look at wallpaper. Would you like to join us?”

“Not a chance. I drive that road ten times a week as it is. I have no desire to do it on the weekend.”

“Then you'll need to find something to do for an hour or so. And take Rufus.”

At the mention of his name, the dog raised its head from yet another nap and turned a liquid brown gaze toward them. Deepening his scowl, Al sipped from his mug. More strangers tromping through his house, disrupting his Saturday while he was left babysitting the world's smelliest mutt. The gloomy cloud that darkened his mood grew heavier, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being shoved closer and closer to the doom that would render him the poverty-stricken owner of an ancient real estate monstrosity.

Al left Rufus soaking up the sunshine outside Cardwell's and entered the store a few minutes after four. He'd taken a detour to walk by the Updyke house on the off chance that he'd discover the roof had collapsed in the hours since the inspector left. No such luck.

Mid-afternoon at the soda fountain wasn't a peak time, so the place was practically deserted. An out-of-towner, a woman dressed in jeans and boots, sat at one of the tables sipping coffee and glancing around with a half-smile on her face. The old-fashioned charm often hit visitors like that, though Creekers had gotten used to it. He slid onto an empty stool between Woody and Miles, who had perched on opposite ends of the counter.

“Got any pie?” he asked Lucy.

“You know it.”

She produced one from the icebox and sliced a generous wedge. Thick cherry juice oozed from beneath the browned top crust, and his mouth flooded at the sight.

“Heated, please, with ice cream.”

She gave him a look from over the top of her glasses. “Millie will skin me alive if you spoil your supper.”

“I can handle it,” he assured her.

Moments later she set a dish on the paper placemat in front of him, a generous scoop of vanilla already melting on the steamy dessert. “It's sugar free,” she announced.

Enthusiasm dampened slightly, he regarded the dish. “The pie or ice cream?”

“Both. And it's frozen yogurt.”

There were disadvantages to living in a small town, chief among them the fact that his wife had agents everywhere. He took a cautious bite, and his trepidation dimmed. Delicious. He could almost forget it was sugar free.

Woody twisted sideways on his stool. “So what side are you camping on, Al?”

Though he knew immediately what the man meant, he played dumb. “Side of what?”

A grunt sounded from the opposite end of the counter. “You know,” said Miles. “Are you with the Council or the rabble-rousers like Norman and Woody?”

The temperature in the room warmed in the fiery glare the two men exchanged.

“I'm neutral,” Al put in quickly, and sliced off a second bite.

“That's a cop-out.” Woody snatched a half-empty glass off the counter. “You're gonna have to take a side sooner or later.”

He made a show of chewing before he answered. “I don't see why.”

“'Cause you do, that's all,” Miles insisted. “You can't stand around and let everybody else fight this war for you.”

War. The word hung ominously in the air. This water tower thing was getting out of hand. It was starting to feel like the conflict over Main Street's traffic flow. Would Mayor Selbo end up like his predecessor, forced to sell his house and leave Goose Creek? Al hoped not. Jerry was a nice guy. With an effort, Al ignored the accusation and held his silence.

Bells jingled as he took another bite.

“Would you look at this place,” exclaimed a woman's voice. “It's an old-fashioned soda fountain. I wonder if they have chocolate malts.”

“We sure do.” Lucy aimed a smile behind his head. “Best you've ever tasted.”

“Give us two,” announced a man as the door slammed shut.

Al's jaw froze mid-chew. He knew that voice.

“Well, would you lookie here! It's the man himself. Sugar, this is my buddy Bert.” A heavy hand pounded Al's back. “Just came from your place, old man. Nice digs.”

No. It can't be.

Woody, Miles, and Lucy all turned toward him with various expressions of surprised amusement. Al snatched up his water glass and gulped the half-chewed pie down before it choked him. Fear slowed his movements as he twisted on the stool. Before him stood none other than Franklin Thacker. Here. In Cardwell's. On a Saturday.

“Oh, very nice.” The woman gushed and smiled wide enough to reveal lipstick marks on a set of buck teeth. “We just
love
it.”

“You were in…” His throat closed around the words, and he took another swig of water. “…my house?”

“Did we stutter?” Franklin pounded his back a second time. “Or is your hearing going?”

The woman giggled and planted an elbow in Franklin's ribs. “Don't insult him, sweetie pie. After all, we might end up being neighbors.”

Ringing in Al's ears drowned out the sound of his pounding pulse. Franklin Thacker, the most obnoxious man in the world, his neighbor?

“Now, Sugar Bear, don't be giving anything away before we even make an offer. We don't want to tip our hand.” A loud guffaw, punctuated by snorts, filled the previously peaceful sanctuary of Cardwell Drug Store.

The pie soured in Al's stomach.

“I won't accept it.” Al shoved the document away with more force than necessary. Papers fluttered across the kitchen table.

Louise's professional mask evaporated. She gaped. “But it's a full-price offer. Do you know how rare that is?”

Seated to his right, Millie sat ramrod straight in her chair, arms folded. Fire flashed in the stare she fixed on him.

“I don't care,” Al told the realtor. “This is
Franklin Thacker
we're talking about. You don't understand.” He grasped about for an argument that would communicate the depth of his feelings on the matter. “He calls me Bert,” he ended lamely.

“He's friendly.” Millie snapped through gritted teeth.

“It's a show.” Al turned to her with an imploring gaze. “He ingratiates himself at first so he can plague you with his obnoxious personality later.”

Louise snatched the pen out of her blonde bun and clicked it repeatedly while she regained an expression of cool professionalism. “You don't have to live with him. You won't even be living in the same neighborhood.”

“That's right.” He turned on Millie. “Do you want to inflict Thacker on Violet, your best friend?”

She drew a breath through flaring nostrils and did not reply.

“Besides,” continued the realtor, “you'll be making a very nice profit on your house at his expense. Won't that be satisfying?”

Ah, a direct blow aimed at his vulnerable spot—his bank account. “The idea of him living here, in
my
house, grilling burgers on
my
deck, trimming
my
bushes…” He gave an expansive shudder. “No amount of money is worth that.”

“You promised.” Millie punched his forearm repeatedly with her finger. “You laid out a ridiculous set of conditions, and every one has been met. You never expected that, so now you've come up with a final lame attempt to renege on your promise. You gave your
word,
Albert.”