Page 39 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

No one’s come for the past two days, so I nod. What’s one more day of sitting in here for an hour and getting eyed by the Santas while I send off job applications?

“Of course. I’ve got it covered,” I say.

Cynthia went back to work,and Anabelle said she was going to her favorite spot for thinking, which is apparently in her bedroom with her yowling cat.

I’m not expecting anyone to show up for happy hour, so I get excited for approximately thirty seconds when a big, bearded dude wearing a utility jacket and jeans shows up at the front door.

“Are you here for hot chocolate?” I ask, eager for something to happen, even if it’s a conversation with a stranger who has a thing for women wearing bonnets. I mean…why else would a dude travel to Colonial Williamsburg by himself other than to fulfill a promise to a dead woman?

But the guy gives me a hard look and says, “I don’t take bribes.”

“Wasn’t offering one. Who are you, if you’re not one of Anabelle’s guests?”

I’ve never seen the guy before, and I’ve been hanging out in and around the inn for the last few days.

“I’m a building inspector. It’s been reported that several areas of this building aren’t up to code.”

Goddamn, the trumpet thing must have really pissed Westie off.

“I’m guessing this report was anonymous?” I ask, still standing in the doorway.

“I’m not at liberty to say.” He shifts on his feet, looking nervous suddenly.

“Can I see your credentials?”

He hands over a business card, and I look it over. His name is Sam Jones. It looks straightforward enough, but I have reason to be suspicious. I was always given identities that looked legit before Roark sent me on a job.

“The owner isn’t around,” I lie. “It would be more appropriate for you to come back when she’s here to accompany you. Making an appointment would help.”

“You’re here,” he says gruffly.

“Yes, but she’s the owner.”

The guy looks like he’d love nothing better than to shove his way past me, but the rule of law is on my side for once. Well, I’m guessing. I actually don’t know shit about property law.

He pulls out his phone and messes with the screen, then looks up. “Friday at noon.”

“You can ask the property owner,” I say with emphasis. “Her contact information is available on the inn’s website. I’m sure she’ll get back to you promptly.”

“You don’t want to make this any harder than it needs to be, friend.” His tone is hostile, and he shuffles on his feet again, as if he needs to take a piss and is anxious to get inside so he can use the bathroom. If there was any truth to that, I’d probably let him, but I have a feeling old Westie is behind this sudden visit. I suspect he’s planning to hit Anabelle with an avalanche of code violations before he makes her a lowball offer to “save” the business.

I tilt my head and crack my knuckles, feeling like this guy deserves some intimidation in exchange for intimidation. “You wouldn’t be implying you’re not going to do your job properly, are you,friend? There might be people you work with who’d care about that. Obviously not whoever sent you over here, but if Idig deep enough, I’m sure I’ll find someone who’s honest. The woman who owns this building is. If there’s a genuine problem, she’ll fix it.”

“She’d better.” He glares at me in silence for a full ten seconds, but I don’t budge. Recognizing defeat, he turns to leave in a huff.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ANABELLE

Santas sold: 3

Santas bought: 0

B&Bs in peril: 1

Chatroom conversation with Jo

Jo-Ho-Ho: I missed you last night.

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