Free Hell Fire by Ann Aguirre Page A

belonged to Mrs. Everett. She passed away, oh, a good three years ago. She had no kin, so I bought the property myself for a song. I intended to flip it—” At our blank looks, he explained, “Renovate, then sell on a mark-up. So far I’ve had no luck.”
    “How come?” I asked.
    “Superstitious idiots. Mrs. Everett passed away there. In her sleep,” the real estate agent hastened to add. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, but I can’t even get anybody out there to remodel the place. So other than having it dusted and aired out every few months, I haven’t been able to do anything with it. So it’s still mostly furnished.”
    I wondered if it would still be full of old-lady smell, lavender, and Vicks VapoRub. I hoped her possessions didn’t clutter up the place as well. Old ladies were notorious pack rats, keeping boxes of rubbish nobody else could see a use for.
    “Her personal things?”
    “Gone,” Regis assured me. “I’m sure it just needs a good airing. Leave a window or two open, and you’d be just fine out there. I could lease the place to y’all for a month . . . and I’d be willing to go longer if you decide you want to stay. We could work out a rent-to-buy program, if you don’t have a down payment.” He sounded so hopeful; I didn’t have the heart to tell him there wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening.
    Chance studied the picture with such concentration, I took another look: white house, windows on either side of the front door, and red steps leading up to a wraparound porch. Ten thin rectangular columns supported the roof over the porch. The downward slope gave the black tile roof a tiered but pointy look, like a witch’s hat.
    All told, it appeared habitable enough, but I didn’t like the weird triangular window I assumed led to the attic or other unused space. Why else would it have been boarded up? But maybe those were just creepy storm shutters. I read the amenities with half attention: three bedrooms, bath and a half, bi-level with storm cellar and artesian well.
    “What’s the other option?” Chance asked, as if he sensed my hesitance.
    If Regis was disappointed we didn’t leap on the house immediately, he didn’t show it. Instead, he flipped through the binder some more and then turned it so we could see.
    “This is a bachelor apartment, above what used to be an accounting business. But he left town, and I haven’t rented that space to anyone yet.”
    From what I’d seen of Kilmer, he wasn’t likely to, either.
    “Do you own that building too?”
    “No, but I manage the property for August.”
    For a moment, I thought he meant the month, and it was November. Then it hit me. Augustus England, publishing magnate.
    “He runs the newspaper and prints up the town phone books, right?” The question spilled out before I thought better of it.
    Stupid. Regis’s gaze sharpened. I could tell he wanted to know why I knew that much about the town, if we were just tourists passing through. For the first time, I saw steel behind his bluff, friendly exterior. The very air in the office seemed to chill.
    “We looked you up in the directory over at the filling station,” Chance said easily. “Corine has a head for trivia. I’m sure she read the information page, the credits, the emergency numbers, and who knows what else while she was looking for a real estate agent.”
    I made my smile sheepish. “I read the copyright page in books too. I love finding out real names when authors write under a pseudonym.”
    I hoped I looked properly guileless. I had the feeling he wouldn’t rent us anything if he knew we were here to poke around. Sure, he’d find out sooner or later. Such was the way of small towns, but once we had a contract, he couldn’t boot us out.
    Regis seemed to relax. “Oh, my wife’s the same way. She’ll read anything, even the cereal box.”
    Wife, huh? I wondered whether the woman knew Agnes Pettigrew would dearly love her job. Filing that away under