"You have fifty thousand in cash?"
"I said under fifty."
"I hear a mistake being made," said Jay.
Cindy looked at him in surprise. "You mean the house isn't sound?"
"Sound as a dollar," said Jay. "Or a yen, or whatever. I just don't think he's going to make back what he's putting into it. Not in this neighborhood, not this year."
"If he's putting in less than fifty thousand—"
"But he's putting in twice that by the time he's done," said Jay. "Plus a year of a highly skilled carpenter's time. Call it a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And I'll bet nothing in this neighborhood sells for more than a hundred."
Cindy smiled her killer smile at Jay. He was out of his expertise now and into hers, and she was going to enjoy showing off a little. "Actually, most things around here have lately been going in the one-ten to one-twenty range. And part of what's keeping them that low is this house—runs down the whole neighborhood. Besides which, this house is something special. Look around. The house next door is the carriagehouse to this one, for heaven's sake—and it's the second-nicest house on the street. So when this one comes on the market, it'll sell for at least thirty above the rest of the neighborhood. If you find the right buyer."
"Which is where you come in, no doubt," said Jay. His cynicism infuriated her.
"Yes, Jay, that's where I come in. Because I am to real estate what you are to engineering, except that I can do it without making little dirty references to members of the opposite sex. So when it's time to sell this house, I won't even offer it to anyone looking for a bargain. I'll offer it to someone looking for a jewel and willing to pay top dollar for it. And if Mr. Lark is as good as you seem to think he is, I'll bet you right now that the selling price for this house is within five thousand dollars of two hundred thou."
"You'll bet?" asked Jay.
"Stop this," said Don. "I don't use agents to sell my houses. Can't afford the commission."
"If I don't meet that price," said Cindy, "then I won't take a commission."
"That wouldn't be right," said Don. "Your work is worth the price. So I won't have you doing the job unless I pay you for it."
"I've made a bet," said Cindy. "Are you men or what?"
"I'll take the bet," said Jay.
"You've got nothing at stake," said Cindy.
"My reputation as a judge of real estate values."
"You don't have a reputation," said Cindy, "or I would have heard of you."
Don laughed out loud. More of a bark, really, a couple of barks. Almost a warning. I'm amused, but stand back because I'm still ready to bite at any moment. But Cindy liked the laugh. Or at least her hormones liked it. Angry at herself, she realized he could probably take his shoes off right now and she'd probably get all excited by the smell of his socks. Get a grip on yourself, girl.
"Won't take the bet," said Don. "I'm not a betting man. But I will think about giving you a shot at it. Not till after you see my finished work, though. Right now you're buying a pig in a poke."
"She's not buying anything," said Jay. "Realtors take houses on consignment."
"On commission," said Cindy. "If you don't know the difference—"
"Let's not fight," said Jay. "Let's just agree that we don't like each other but we both love Don so we have to get along for his sake."
What did he mean by that? Immediately she put on her business face. "I'll tell my client your offer is forty-six five. You may not like to dicker, but he does. When he settles for forty-nine I'll call you to set up a closing."
"You think he will?" asked Don, looking surprised.
"I know he will," said Cindy. Then she gave Jay her fullcourt smile, which she knew would almost blind him with the dazzling sarcasm of it.
Jay ignored her and turned to Don. "It's your money and your life, Don. If you call it a life."
"I don't," said Don. "But it's the only life I've got." He turned back to Cindy. "When should I call you?"
"Tomorrow at five and we'll set up an appointment for the closing."
"Are you really that sure?" said Don. "It could change the kind of fix I do on that front door."
"Fix?" It took her a moment for her to remember that he had broken into the house with a wrecking bar.
"I mean put up a new hasp, only fastened with a slotless head and inlaid so it can't be pried out the way I did. Or just put on a new frame and door, which is what I'll do if I'm actually buying it."
"Put up the new door," said Cindy.
"And what happens when the owner says no?" asked Jay.
"If the owner says no," said Cindy, "I'll pay for the door."
"Thanks for your help, Cindy," said Don. "Sounded to me like you went to some trouble doing research on the place."
He noticed! "I did."
"Maybe at the closing you can tell me more about Dr. What's-his-name—"
"Dr. Calhoun Bellamy." She couldn't help sounding cold; she didn't like being patronized.
"I'm not doing a restoration here, just a renovation. I'm not trying to get the house back the way he first built it."
"I didn't think you were."
"I'm fixing it up so I can sell it at a profit. But as long as you understand that, then I'd like it if you told me about him."
"I'll do that," said Cindy.
Don brought his fingers to his forehead as if to touch the brim of a nonexistent hat. Then he walked briskly back to his truck and drove away.
For a moment Cindy was annoyed when she realized she had been left alone with Jay. But what was he going to do, really? And he knew Don. He could answer questions.
"How many houses has he done this with?" she asked.
Jay shrugged. "About one every four months for—I don't remember now—however long it's been since his wife died. Two and a half years?"
"Four months. Is he that fast?"
"The other houses were smaller."
Only then did the reference to Don's wife register with her. "He really misses his wife?"
Jay shook his head. "I should have said his ex-wife, complete with ugly court battles over custody of their baby daughter. She claimed Nellie—that's the little girl—she claimed Nellie wasn't his. He said she was a drug-pumping drunk."
"Nasty."
"Yeah, but he was right on all counts. The baby was definitely his. And the wife was high on about five different drugs when she piled the car into a bridge abutment. The little girl—she was almost two by then—the mother had her in her safety seat."
"But it didn't help?"
"Might have, except that the safety seat wasn't attached to the car. You can't expect a mother to think of everything."
"My Lord," said Cindy. "He must have been crazy with grief."
"Rage is more like it. We thought at first he might kill himself. Then we were afraid he might go out and kill the judges and lawyers and social workers who decided a baby needs its mother and they shouldn't be judgmental about lifestyle differences when the drug use hadn't, after all, been proved in the criminal courts."
"A baby does need its mother," Cindy said softly.
"A baby needs good parents, both of them," said Jay. "Don't get me started."
"What if I just want to get you stopped?"
Jay looked at her, a bit nonplussed. "You were the one asking about Don."
Cindy looked back at the house. "He does these fix-ups to be alone?"
"Oh, he wanted to be alone. Some of us were clinging to him so tight that he finally told us to leave him alone, he promised not to kill anybody, including himself, if we'd just give him room to breathe."
"Good to have friends, though," she said.
"Yeah, well, friends aren't replacements for a lost child, I can tell you that. And there was Don, bankrupt from the expense of fighting to get Nellie back. He barely had enough to bury her. Lost his contracting business. So he borrows to buy a rundown house out in the county, a two-bedroom ranch that wasn't quite as good quality as a mobile home. But Don's good at what he does so... here he is now, no debts, cash in the bank, and this is the house he's going to fix up."