Crawlspace (Home Repair Is Homicide Series #13)   by Sarah Graves

By Sarah Graves

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Sample text

She didn’t mince words. “There’s one other thing. I should have told you before. ” He nearly spit beer in outraged surprise. ” Who did she think she was, anyway, to be revoking his phone privileges as if he were a naughty child? Putting his mug down carefully, wiping up a spilled drop with his napkin, he tried summoning some composure, but without success. Carolyn dragged a chair out and sat facing him, her limpid blue eyes full of what he used to think was sincerity, before he got to know her better.

Moisture glistened on her cheeks. Crocodile tears, he thought, as he produced a tissue and handed it to her. Well, maybe not all of them, he conceded. But he was still very angry. Sniffing, she twisted the tissue’s corner to a point and blotted expertly with it, not even smearing her mascara. When she passed the tissue back to him, her composure had returned. “So, anyway, that’s it,” she said, all traces of emotion gone with her tears. She was efficient about things like that. Tears. Gratitude.

When she first came to Maine ten years earlier, a telephoned death threat would’ve unnerved her. But nowadays she reserved her anxiety for true emergencies. Such as, for instance, the fact that it was nearly winter and despite earnest promises from a succession of remodeling contractors, her old house still had no insulation in it. So she was doing it herself, a decision she dearly hoped would not end up making her wish the death threat were carried out. She was only putting about a gazillion cubic feet of fire-retardant-treated cellulose into the old walls, though, so what could go wrong?

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