“No. You come to my office instead.”
“All right. Then I’ll see y—” He was gone before I could finish. I dropped into my seat, feeling like a hit-and-run victim.
A pounding on the front plate glass made me jump out of my chair. Mr. Nyce waved at me and slid an envelope through the brass mail slot in our door. He disappeared around the corner again before I had time to frown.
Heart pounding, I picked up the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a piece of paper and a hundred-dollar bill. I fished out the paper: Sorry about your pants—Doc Nyce .
In spite of the whole Marx Brothers routine with Mr. Dane ‘Doc’ Nyce, I grinned. I had a buyer.
Now I needed a house that wasn’t on the brink of being condemned.
Chapter Five
Wednesday, July 11th
Jane once told me she believed that blinds were bad for business. Which meant squinting was my only solution for the mid-morning sunshine ricocheting off the SUV parked in front of Calamity Jane’s.
I sat hunched at my computer. I should have been combing the Internet for a cleaner or a contractor within a fifty-mile radius. Instead, I was hunting with little success for crumbs on the first girl who’d disappeared last summer. A trip to the library might be in order soon.
At the next desk over, Ray polished his Tony Lama boots while chatting with his nephew on the speaker phone. The smell of stinky feet and leather had my stomach bucking.
“You have nothing to worry about, Ben,” Ray told his nephew. “I could tell Jane liked you by the way she drilled you on that condo project going up in Sturgis.”
I tried to breathe through my anger in spite of its strangle hold on my windpipe. An hour ago, Ray had danced into Calamity Jane’s with a victory smile so wide it looked as if someone had stuffed a banana in his mouth sideways.
“I hope you’re right,” Ben’s husky voice crackled slightly as it came through the speaker phone. “I forgot to tell you, the owner of Moonbeam Lodge is almost ready to sign with me, but he’d prefer I was backed by a broker.”
“Tell your seller you’ll have a broker in three weeks.” Ray snickered while slipping on a boot. “There is definitely nothing happening in Blondie’s ballpark.”
“She might hit a home run in the last inning.”
Ray’s laughter echoed off the plaster-covered walls. “The Queen of Strike outs? No way.”
My molars grinding, I glared at Ray.
He blew me a kiss.
I flipped him off.
It was one of those warm, fuzzy moments they wrote about on Hallmark cards.
“Listen, Ben,” Ray tugged his other boot on. “I have to go show a place. I’ll see you tonight at the poker game.” He disconnected the call and spun my way. “Was that an invitation, Sweetheart? You interested in putting our differences to bed?”
I aimed a second bird his way.
The front door whooshed open.
I jammed my hands under my desk.
“You two sharing your love for each other again?” Natalie Beals asked, placing an iced latte on my desk.
I smiled at my best-friend-since-childhood. Natalie’s cousins, the Morgans, were my next-door neighbors while growing up down in Rapid City. Her cousin, Claire, had introduced us while playing kick ball, and the rest was history.
Ray made a gargling sound in his throat—his version of a tiger growl usually reserved for Mona on her tight-sweater days. His gaze slithered up Natalie’s body before settling on her full lips, a focal point for most testosterone-driven suckers. “I wouldn’t mind sharing some love with you, Cupcake.”
“Give it up, Ray.” Natalie sank into the seat across from me. “There isn’t enough
“All right. Then I’ll see y—” He was gone before I could finish. I dropped into my seat, feeling like a hit-and-run victim.
A pounding on the front plate glass made me jump out of my chair. Mr. Nyce waved at me and slid an envelope through the brass mail slot in our door. He disappeared around the corner again before I had time to frown.
Heart pounding, I picked up the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a piece of paper and a hundred-dollar bill. I fished out the paper: Sorry about your pants—Doc Nyce .
In spite of the whole Marx Brothers routine with Mr. Dane ‘Doc’ Nyce, I grinned. I had a buyer.
Now I needed a house that wasn’t on the brink of being condemned.
Chapter Five
Wednesday, July 11th
Jane once told me she believed that blinds were bad for business. Which meant squinting was my only solution for the mid-morning sunshine ricocheting off the SUV parked in front of Calamity Jane’s.
I sat hunched at my computer. I should have been combing the Internet for a cleaner or a contractor within a fifty-mile radius. Instead, I was hunting with little success for crumbs on the first girl who’d disappeared last summer. A trip to the library might be in order soon.
At the next desk over, Ray polished his Tony Lama boots while chatting with his nephew on the speaker phone. The smell of stinky feet and leather had my stomach bucking.
“You have nothing to worry about, Ben,” Ray told his nephew. “I could tell Jane liked you by the way she drilled you on that condo project going up in Sturgis.”
I tried to breathe through my anger in spite of its strangle hold on my windpipe. An hour ago, Ray had danced into Calamity Jane’s with a victory smile so wide it looked as if someone had stuffed a banana in his mouth sideways.
“I hope you’re right,” Ben’s husky voice crackled slightly as it came through the speaker phone. “I forgot to tell you, the owner of Moonbeam Lodge is almost ready to sign with me, but he’d prefer I was backed by a broker.”
“Tell your seller you’ll have a broker in three weeks.” Ray snickered while slipping on a boot. “There is definitely nothing happening in Blondie’s ballpark.”
“She might hit a home run in the last inning.”
Ray’s laughter echoed off the plaster-covered walls. “The Queen of Strike outs? No way.”
My molars grinding, I glared at Ray.
He blew me a kiss.
I flipped him off.
It was one of those warm, fuzzy moments they wrote about on Hallmark cards.
“Listen, Ben,” Ray tugged his other boot on. “I have to go show a place. I’ll see you tonight at the poker game.” He disconnected the call and spun my way. “Was that an invitation, Sweetheart? You interested in putting our differences to bed?”
I aimed a second bird his way.
The front door whooshed open.
I jammed my hands under my desk.
“You two sharing your love for each other again?” Natalie Beals asked, placing an iced latte on my desk.
I smiled at my best-friend-since-childhood. Natalie’s cousins, the Morgans, were my next-door neighbors while growing up down in Rapid City. Her cousin, Claire, had introduced us while playing kick ball, and the rest was history.
Ray made a gargling sound in his throat—his version of a tiger growl usually reserved for Mona on her tight-sweater days. His gaze slithered up Natalie’s body before settling on her full lips, a focal point for most testosterone-driven suckers. “I wouldn’t mind sharing some love with you, Cupcake.”
“Give it up, Ray.” Natalie sank into the seat across from me. “There isn’t enough
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