“Yeah. So she needs to flip it as soon as she can.” He opened the door for Chantal, who recoiled.
“I’ll pass on the inside for now,” she said. “I’m guessing crappy insulation, maybe four entire electrical outlets and plenty of wildlife.”
“You’re psychic.”
“So how much money can your client spend on it? If we put on an addition, a master suite with sliders and a deck, a big bathroom with a Jacuzzi, gourmet kitchen, build a big patio into the hillside here, outdoor fireplace…we can get a gay couple in here faster than you can say, ‘Bar Harbor is unaffordable.’” Chantal licked her red-painted lips in anticipation.
“She has about ten grand,” James said.
“Well, shit, then.” She sighed. “There are back taxes on this place, did you know?”
“No,” James said. Crap. If he’d known that, he could’ve paid them off. Why Parker didn’t, he had no idea. Then again, she didn’t even remember that she owned the house.
Chantal nudged a piece of trash with her foot. “Julia was broke, and no one in Town Hall ever had the heart to go after them while she was alive. Sorry to say, Harry’s daughter will have to pay about fifteen years’ worth of taxes. Guess it slipped through the cracks until now.”
“What if we did a teardown?” James asked.
Chantal shrugged, pursing her full, red lips. “Nah. Waterfront property up here isn’t worth a ton, because who the hell wants to live in Washington County, right? It’s too far from everything.”
“Right,” James acknowledged.
“And this is what we call a postage-stamp lot. You can get two acres of waterfront over on Mutton Chop Bay for next to nothing. Judy Phillips has been trying to sell a parcel for three years now. Not one offer.” Chantal tipped her head and folded her arms under her chest, making her breasts swell, then glanced at James to make sure he noticed. How could he not? She winked.
“So what’s your advice, Chantal?”
“Well, her best bet for a quick sale is to make it pretty. Strip it down, slap on some new flooring, new roof, new shingles, paint the inside. Market it as a tiny jewel of a hideaway. Maybe we can get enough to cover the back taxes and give her a little nest egg besides, little being the operative word here. The place isn’t even winterized. But curb appeal, you hear? Make it adorable. You might get a family or a retired couple looking for a cheap summer home.”
“Okay. We’ll shoot for that. Thanks, Chantal.”
“You’re welcome.” She gave him a sunny smile. “How’s your family? Dewey says everyone’s doing about as well as can be expected.”
“Yep. Everyone’s fine.”
She shaded her eyes and looked him up and down. “You turned out awfully nice, James Cahill.”
“And you’re just as beautiful as I remember.”
“Aw. Give me a kiss. On the cheek, now. I’m extremely faithful to my young stud of a husband.”
“How’d he get so lucky?” James asked.
“He knocked me up. Let me know if I can help, okay? I’ll probably see you at Dewey’s, and you have my number.”
“You bet. Thanks for coming out, Chantal.”
“Nice to see you again, honey,” she said. She got back in her car and backed out of the overgrown driveway. No sign of Parker, who’d been at the hardware store for a couple hours now. Or she’d fled.
In the truck he’d borrowed from Chuck, one of his basketball buddies—who’d been more than happy to take the Lexus off his hands for the summer—was James’s own stuff. Some tools, left over from his summertime work as a construction worker, not from his father, God knew—Frank Cahill wouldn’t give James a staple, and James wasn’t dumb enough to ask. A few boxes that he’d found in Grayhurst’s attic. He wasn’t sure if Parker had meant to leave them or not, but the Feds hadn’t wanted them.
And his laptop. The old résumé would need brushing up. Unfortunately, there seemed to be more unemployed lawyers in the world than Chinese, and getting a job that paid him what Harry had…not gonna happen.
Speaking of Harry…James reached into the cab of the truck and pulled out his cell phone. A few minutes later, he had Harry on the line.
“How you doing, boss?” he asked.
“Not bad, James, me boy,” Harry said. His jocular tone told James that someone else was nearby, so Harry would be keeping up appearances. “Where are you?”
“Up in Maine. About four hours away from you, give or take.”
“I appreciate you going up there.”
“No problem, Harry.” Playing along with Harry’s mood—because it was one of his few talents—James added, “You’ve paid me enough to go to the Black Hole of Calcutta for the summer, let alone the coast of Maine.”
Harry burst out laughing. “True enough, true enough.” He paused. “I’m trying to get in touch with some of my former associates about a job for you, kid.”
Whatever James had done to earn Harry’s affection, he didn’t know. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Well, I’ll let you know if something turns up. How’s my daughter?”
“She’s okay.” James paused. “The house isn’t worth much.”
“No?”
“No. And it’s a mess.”
Another lengthy pause. “So what’s the plan?” Harry asked. There was some noise over the PA about visiting hours.
“Well, we’ll fix it up as best we can, try to sell it.” He paused. “You doing okay, boss?”
There was a long silence from the other end. “It’s not bad,” Harry said in a low voice. “I have a lot of time on my hands. Not much to do. Plenty of time to consider my sins, right?” He gave a halfhearted chuckle.
“I guess so,” James said. “Did you get the books?”
“I did. Shogun and Moby-Dick, huh? Trying to educate me? Afraid I’ll join a gang while I’m in here?”
“Yep. I also figured you could use them as weapons if a riot broke out.”
“Good thinking. All right, I should go. I have a meeting. Take care of yourself, son. Talk soon.” With that, he hung up, sounding much like the corporate wheeler and dealer he’d been.
A meeting. That was good. One good thing about prison—Harry would have to sober up.
Well. Back to work. Parker’s room was almost clear.
He had to admit, it was more satisfying than Nerf basketball.
* * *
“O KAY, FOR MOLD KILLING, this here’s what you want, little lady,” said Ben, one of the three senior-citizen gentlemen who’d pounced the second she’d walked into the tiny hardware store.
“Mold killer. Got it. Thank you so much, really.”
“Oh, my Lord, it’s a pleasure,” Rolly said. “Pretty ladies who don’t know nothin’ about home repair…it’s what we live for.”
“You guys are angels.”
I resent that, said Spike. A totally overused word.
“You’re sweet, dahlin’,” said Stuart. “It’s our pleasure. You ever painted a room before?”