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“This problem of yours. The one that requires an investigator.”
Amy fixed him with a frosty glare. “It’s a confidential matter. I see no reason to discuss it with someone who is not going to be working for me.”
“Hell, I’ll take the case. Now tell me what’s got you in such an uproar.”
“I don’t think that I care for your unprofessional manner.”
“Sorry, it’s the only manner I’ve got.” He considered her thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then he came away from the gate and took her arm. “Come on, let’s go inside. I’ll make you a cup of coffee and you can tell me all your problems.”
“I’m no longer sure that I want you handling my case.”
“Don’t be silly. A few minutes ago you were practically begging me to take your precious case.”
“I was not begging you. And furthermore, I’ve changed my mind.”
“So have I.”
Amy thought about digging in her heels, but her options were extremely limited. It would take time to hunt up an investigator in Seattle. And money. She did not possess unlimited quantities of either. She allowed Owen to lead her up the steps.
The interior of the house was as run-down and abandoned-looking as the garden, but at least nothing appeared to be actually growing on the walls or springing up through the floorboards.
Threadbare velvet curtains that had faded to a peculiar shade of maroon flanked the grimy windows. An atmosphere of gloom and decay hovered over the front parlor. Several pieces of heavy, claw-footed furniture clustered near the black-marble fireplace. There was very little paint left on the walls and the wooden floors were raw and scarred.
A pang of guilt went through Amy, temporarily erasing her irritation. “I did try to warn you that this was a fixer-upper.”
“A fixer-upper?” Owen gave her a derisive look. “It’s a life sentence. Wiring’s shot. Plumbing’s rusted out. Roof needs repair. I’ll have to replace the furnace before winter sets in, along with all the appliances.”
“Don’t you dare blame me. I made you read every single word on the seller’s disclosure statement. You knew what you were getting into when you bought this place.”
“Did I? That’s debatable.” But Owen appeared perversely satisfied with his purchase. “Have a seat.” Not ungently, he pushed her toward a high-backed, velvet-covered sofa. “I’ll get the coffee.”
Amy sat down gingerly and surveyed the shabby interior of the parlor. She shook her head in amazement. It was true that she had sold him the house, but she had no idea what he was doing here in it. Why had he come here to Misplaced Island? she wondered.
Owen reappeared a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with a French press coffeepot and two cups. He set his burden down on the battered old coffee table.
“All right, tell me what this is all about.” He sank into the depths of one of the massive wingback chairs.
“It’s a very straightforward case,” Amy said crisply. “My aunt, Bernice Comfort, has recently announced her engagement. I want you to investigate her fiancé, Arthur Crabshaw.”
Owen looked up as he poured coffee. “Why?”
“Because there’s something about Crabshaw that I don’t quite trust. I met him a couple of weeks ago, and I have the distinct feeling that he’s hiding something. He appeared out of nowhere a few months after her husband, Uncle Morty, died, and immediately swept Aunt Bernice off her feet.”
“You write romance novels, don’t you? I would have thought you’d have approved of Crabshaw’s technique.”
“If you’re not going to take this case seriously, please tell me now so that I can find another investigator.”
“I’m serious. You have no idea just how serious.”
She glowered at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Forget it. Why are you suspicious of Crabshaw?”
“My aunt was left quite comfortably well off after Uncle Morty died two years ago,” Amy said carefully. “She lives in a small town on the coast. Villantry, Washington. Know it?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s the sort of town where everyone knows everyone else. Crabshaw lived there himself at one time, but he left the place some thirty years ago. Now he’s back.”
