“You’re not thinking of opening the Salt Box for business anytime soon, are you?”
“No.”
“Then forget the storage unit.” He chuckled. “Your mother always swore up and down she’d never get one. She said that’s only for hoarders and amateurs.”
“I can barely breathe in this house, Bernie.”
“I get it. Listen, I’ll bring a couple of my guys over. We’ll rearrange the stuff in the barn and move everything in the house out there.”
“When?”
“When do you want me?”
“Today?”
“Okay. This afternoon it is.”
As I nodded, more to myself than anyone, a car rolled past slowly. Tinted windows. I couldn’t see the driver, but I had a feeling I was being watched. Maybe I was just on edge. Maybe not.
“While you’re here,” I added, “could you change the locks on the barn? Both doors. I don’t want people trespassing.”
“I can do that.”
“And will Mateo be one of your helpers?”
“Do you want me to bring him?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t do it, Skye. I’m telling you. I’d stake my name on it. That kid wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“That’s not why I asked. I actually like having him here, working with you. If he used to be around Clare’s house, I want that to continue. If feels right.”
Also, I wasn’t feeling great about our talk with Mateo. We’d looked at him with full on suspicion. Judged him too quickly.
Arthur had vouched for him again this morning while we were locking up the barn. Said the kid was solid. Reliable. Kind.
That should count for something. It did to me.
And even though he admitted to smoking weed, I wouldn’t want that to cost him his job with Bernie. I mean, how many kids didn’t smoke weed these days?
I stood up, ready to go into the house, when my phone buzzed.
Karen White. Of course. The realtor’s name lit up my screen like a warning flare. I let out a sharp breath through my nose. Ever since I’d called her, she’d been fanning flames that didn’t shouldn’t have been lit in the first place. According to Arthur, she’d started dropping hints and chatting up locals, making it sound like the house was already on the market. And this morning? Elara Vance had taken that gossip as permission to break into the Salt Box.
I answered, cutting her off before she could launch into a new pitch. I’d spoken to her twice. That was enough to know she liked the sound of her own voice.
“Good morning, Karen. I assume you got my text about canceling tomorrow.”
“I did, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t tell you I’ve got a cash-offer buyer ready to move?—”
“Karen,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “Please, just listen. My mother’s funeral is next Wednesday. I’m snowed under with the arrangements and the legal mess. And frankly, I don’t have space in my brain for this right now. Can we pick this up next week?”
“I completely understand,” she said, tone softening just enough to sound like sympathy before pivoting right back into pitch mode. “But this buyer is only in town for the weekend.”
“There’ll be other buyers,” I snapped.
“Of course,” she said smoothly. “But this one’s different. He’s a Michelin-starred chef. He’s been scouting properties all over Harbor View and the surrounding towns. Historic homes, character, charm. I’ve shown him a dozen places, and none of them clicked. But Clare’s house? He’s driven past twice already. Told me the house and the barn are exactly what he’s looking for. Perfect setup for a destination restaurant. He called it a once-in-a-career find.”
