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He nodded. “Although the door creaks. It’s on its way out.”
We tromped back downstairs and onto the front porch.
Thunder rumbled, this time loud and close. Dark, threatening clouds blocked the sun. I hadn’t noticed the change in lighting in the shut-up house, too lost in my world of “what-ifs” and “oh, shits.”
“What do you think, Miss Parker? Can you sell it?”
Sure, but not in three weeks, and therein lay my problem. Unmarketable, “as-is” houses sold quickly in a seller’s market; but Deadwood was mired in the buyers’ pockets right now.
However, with a little—okay, a lot—of elbow grease, this place had the potential to be a big-ticket sale. Maybe I could convince Jane to keep me on longer with the promise of a high commission. Or even all of my commission.
What the hell. I had nothing to lose. “Yes, I can sell it, but under one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You sign the listing agreement today.” If I was going to put sweat equity into this house, Ray wasn’t going to steal it out from under me.
“Deal.” He held out his hand to seal it. “But only if you start calling me Wolfgang. ‘Mr. Hessler’ was my grandfather.”
“Okay, Wolfgang.” I clasped his hand and squeezed. “No more Miss Parker, either.”
“Violet, it is.” He squeezed back and gave me another one of his de-pantser smiles. “Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful hair?”
* * *
The black CamaroSS with rally stripes had stolen my spot again. Two blocks later, my windshield splattered with fat raindrops, I found a parking spot. Halfway to the office, the clouds split open with a loud crack and dumped buckets of icy cold water over my head. I swam through Calamity Jane’s front door, my pink silk blazer soaked, my hair a drippy mess. The place smelled like permanent ink and jasmine, a lovely bouquet.
“Oh, good, you’re back,” Mona said as she capped the marker she’d been using to write on the whiteboard.
“Do you know who owns the black Camaro that keeps stealing my spot?” I strongly suspected it was one of Ray’s buddies.
“No.” Mona handed me a tissue. “Your face is running.”
I wiped away the rain and half of my makeup.
“You missed some.” She placed another tissue on my desk. “Did your Ken doll sign a contract?”
“Yep.” I pulled out the comb holding the remains of my French knot in place and shook out my waterlogged curls. The peachy scent of my shampoo surrounded me.
“Congratulations!”
“Don’t buy any party poppers just yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wolfgang’s house is a mess. I’m not sure I’ll be able to have it ready to show within three weeks, let alone find a buyer.”
“Damn.”
I grabbed the Yellow Pages and scooted up to my desk. “Do you know the name of any good contractors?”
Twenty minutes later, I’d found plenty of contractors, just no available ones. Deadwood winters were often harsh and snow-filled, so summer was the busy season for building, remodeling, and anything else that required a hammer and nails. Same went for gardeners, too, as it turned out.
My hair frazzling more by the minute, I gave up on the outside of the house and focused on the groaning pipes and leaky upstairs faucet. The soonest I could get a warm body lined up was two weeks from now. I booked the plumber and called the cleaning company we used when preparing for a showing.
“Margo, it’s Violet from Calamity Jane’s. I’m in need of your magic touch.”
“You’re out of luck,” Margo said.
