Death at a Fixer-Upper Read Online Free PDF

didn’t recognize the number. Punching a button, I snapped, “Hello!”
    “Oh. Sorry. I must have dialed the wrong number. I was looking for a real estate agent.”
    Oops. “You got one. Sorry. Hold on just a second.” I held the phone away from my ear and took a deep, calming breath, then blew it out. “Sam Turner here, Home Sweet Home Realty.”
    “Oh, good.” A man’s voice, a pleasant bland tenor that still somehow impressed me negatively. “I apologize if I’ve caught you at a bad time.”
    “Not at all. This is perfect. How can I help you?”
    “My name is Richard—Richard Ravello, with Eastside Builders. It happens I’ll be in town tomorrow for a day or two. Our firm is based in Redding. Quite a contrast in climates, wouldn’t you agree?”
    “Definitely.” The temperature in Redding often hit triple digits, with such searing dryness that it hurt to breathe. Arlinda enjoyed a more temperate climate ideal for the cultivation of mold and fungi.
    “I’m sure time is valuable, so let me get to the point. I got the green light from Eastside to investigate a piece of land that’s ripe for development. Plus it would give us a toehold on the coast. The Redding area is somewhat overbuilt at present. Interest in new homes is stagnant.”
    I read between the lines and decided no one wanted to live there. And who could blame them? “Did you have a particular property in mind?”
    “As a matter of fact, I do. Just came on the market this morning. The address is 13 Aster Lane.”
    My eyebrows climbed. Talk about coincidence. “You realize, Mr. Ravello—”
    “Richard, please.”
    “—that this isn’t a vacant parcel? There’s a house there.”
    “In very poor repair, from what I understand. There’s no question in my mind that razing it and building a planned community of up to twenty-four semi-attached homes, each with its own square of lawn and access to a central play area for the kids, will represent a significant benefit to Arlinda’s economic well-being.”
    “Wow! That many homes?”
    “We reduce the footprint of each home and build vertically to create a higher-density, more intimate living environment,” he said smoothly.
    “I think you’d have to clear that with the Planning Department.”
    “I trust I can leave that up to you,” he said. “I’ll be in Arlinda tomorrow morning. Shall we say eleven o’clock at the site?”
    I gave myself a brisk rap on the head. What did I care what a buyer did with a property? My job was to make the deal and deposit a big fat commission check in the bank, not lecture potential clients on local building codes.
    “I’ll set it up,” I said. “Can I call you at this number if there’s an issue?”
    “Absolutely. I look forward to meeting you.” He hung up.
    I folded up my phone and stuck it in my bag. The brief exchange had left a bad taste in my mouth. There was something off-putting about Richard Ravello. He was too glib, too slick. Or maybe I had a prejudice against out-of-towners. It couldn’t be any fondness for the derelict old mansion. The place was a wreck. Demolition was surely the only cure. An image of the wishing well and its backdrop of sweet-smelling roses being scraped away by a bulldozer’s blade made me wriggle with discomfort.
    I chided myself for being a sentimental fool and checked my watch. I needed to make the appointment with the listing agent in order to meet the twenty-four hours’ notice required, so I hauled out my phone again and punched in Lois Hartshorne’s number, resting my spine against the façade of Art’s Printing and T-Shirt Screening. The phone rang four times before a gravelly tenor said, “Hartshorne and Associates.”
    “Lois Hartshorne, please.”
    “Speaking.”
    “Oh. Hello. This is Sam Turner. I’m with Home Sweet Home Realty.”
    “Good for you. How can I help you?”
    “I have a client who’s interested in looking at your Aster Lane listing—”
    “What for?”
    I blinked at the