Page 199 of Love Bites

I did, from both the sun and Ray. “You ready to go?”

“Sure.” He followed my lead, quiet until we climbed into my sizzling Bronco—parked one teeth-grinding block away from my usual spot. “Ray likes to give you a hard time, doesn’t he?”

That was a loaded question. Bad-mouthing a coworker to a client was on Jane’s list of “No-Nos.” I cranked down the window and started the engine, trying to come up with a nice, non-insulting answer.

“Ray can be …”a huge asshole, a colossal dickhead, a gargantuan bastard. “Let’s just say Ray can be a little uncouth, sometimes. I’m sure he means no harm by it.” If I had been made of wood and string, my nose would have been crossing the North Dakota state line right about now.

I could feel Doc’s eyes on me as I wheeled onto the street. I glued a smile on my face and pretended that working with Ray made swimming with blood-sucking leeches sound peachy-keen.

The first house on my list didn’t look so bad, considering it was supposed to be haunted by a murdered prostitute named Lilly Devine.

When Mona had informed me of this well-known rumor early this morning, I’d debated striking the place from today’s itinerary. However, she’d hushed my R-rated rant with one of her shoulder hugs and informed me that every other house in town was rumored to be haunted. With a history as greed-filled and violent as Deadwood’s, the ghosts probably outnumbered the living.

If I believed in Casper and his wispy pals, Mona’s pep talk would have had me jumping at every groaning floor board and creaking door hinge. Fortunately, my fear of things that go “bump” in the night ebbed about the time my period kicked in. However, that didn’t mean I planned to broadcast to a client any superstitions about ghostly hangouts, especially when I was peddling the haunt to him.

Shutting off the engine, I stared at the brick, Tudor-style cottage, the looming chimney and steep roof both desperate for some TLC. “What do you think? You want to see the inside?”

“Sure.” He pushed open the door and stepped onto the cracked concrete drive.

I followed him to the arched wooden door, handed him the printout detailing the property, and fished the key from the lockbox. The front door opened into a yellow living room carpeted in wall-to-wall, orange shag. I heard Doc inhale from behind me and peeked over my shoulder at him, expecting to see his nose wrinkled from the retro color choices or the odor of stale cigarette smoke.

He caught my gaze. A hint of a smile crossed his lips. “Just a beanbag and lava lamp away from 1975.”

“Maybe there’s hardwood under this.” I stomped on the carpet, the underlying padding thin, as outdated as the style.

“Good try, Violet.”

He stepped through the archway into the kitchen, pausing on the green linoleum covered with yellow curly designs. I trailed after him. The cabinets painted peach, the stove autumn gold, the fridge avocado. The built-in microwave appeared to be one of the pioneers of its kind.

Now I understood why the pictures on the MLS data sheet had been in black and white. As I tried to think of a way to sell this place on something other than its looks, we strolled into the master bedroom. I blinked twice, feeling like I’d stepped onto the set of the Brady Bunch’s bedroom. Light blue, from the ceiling to carpet, filled every corner. The master bath boasted a bright pink toilet with a matching sink and bath.

“Whoever picked out these colors must have been color-blind,” Doc said.

“At least the drywall is in good shape.”

“Is that the best you can come up with?” Doc stared down at me, his grin wide, inviting my lips to play copy cat. When he smiled at me like that, I could almost forget about his whole human bloodhound routine. Almost.

“Well, the backyardismowed,” I answered. After wading through Wolfgang’s yard, I thought this was at least a little improvement.

His gaze moved to the box window. “Interesting fountain. Does the water actually spout from the gnome’s pen—”

“Let’s check out the other bedrooms.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the hall.

The stench of stale cigarette smoke thickened as we approached the two bedrooms at the end of the dark hallway.

“If you rip the carpet out, I bet that smell would disappear.”

“What smell?” Doc asked.

I stopped. He’d been sniffing through the place as usual. How could he miss the odor? “Are you a smoker?”

He pushed open the door to the bedroom on the left. “Not since high school.”

“Can’t you smell the cigarette smoke?”

He inhaled deeper and longer than usual. “Sure, but it’s not that bad.”

I stood on the threshold and gaped at him. Yesterday, the light scent of gardenias had sent him running and gagging from the house. Yet here we were, swimming in burnt tobacco from yesteryear, and he just shrugged it off?

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