Free Death at a Fixer-Upper by Sarah T. Hobart Page B

dressed in a navy blue power suit. She’d given birth to a strapping baby boy a few months back and I’d seen her on two hours’ sleep with spit-up on her shoulder, so this was a different look.
    I settled into a padded office chair, glancing around. Something was missing. I stole a peek under the desk.
    She hung up. “Rob’s doing the dad thing today. It’s our new routine. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays Xander comes to the office with me. Tuesdays and Thursdays he stays home with Daddy and they do guy stuff. I have a freezer full of breast milk banked ahead, thanks to this little wonder.” She patted a breast pump that was positioned on her desk between the computer monitor and electric stapler. “This is the Cadillac of pumps. Twelve volts with battery backup, six-amp motor, dual action. State of the art. Makes me feel like a pedigreed Holstein.”
    “That’s dedication.”
    “Breast is best,” she said. “Now, what can I do for you? Checking in on Fickle Court?”
    “Yeah. How do things look?”
    She pulled up my file on the computer. “Nothing but blue skies. Appraisal came in right at the contract price, so that’s perfect. We’re on track to sign papers Tuesday at Calville Title and Escrow, fund in the afternoon, close Wednesday morning. By noon you’ll be a homeowner.”
    A little uneasiness wriggled through my gut. “You think it’s a lock? I’ve heard horror stories about last-minute issues.”
    “All our ducks are in a row. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
    “Great. That’s just great. I can’t thank you enough.”
    “Don’t mention it. I appreciate the business. Anything else I can do for you?”
    “Actually, yes. Let’s say a client of mine wanted to buy a house in disrepair. He has some cash to put down. Can he just use conventional financing?”
    “That depends,” she said. “Does he plan to live there?”
    “I think so.”
    “How bad’s the house? Any structural issues?”
    “I’d say most definitely yes.”
    “A renovation loan might fit the bill, then. Did you mention that to him?”
    Since this was the first time I’d heard of such a thing, I shook my head.
    “Tell you what. Have him give me a call. I’ll be here until four today. Tomorrow I’ll be attending a continuing professional-education seminar from nine till three, then working from home after that. You can give him my cell.” She glanced at her watch. From under her desk, she produced a small insulated carryall. She unzipped the top and took out a picture of Xander, all exquisitely plump cheeks and downy hair, his little face wreathed in a toothless smile.
    “Inspiration,” Becky said. Next she took out what looked like two giant suction cups with a clear plastic line trailing from them and glanced at me. “Time for me to make some milk. Go on. You were saying?”
    I was out of my chair as if it’d been electrified. “Gotta go. Keep me posted.”
    “You bet. Ta-ta. Lock the door behind you, if you would.” She had the top two buttons of her blouse undone before I reached the safety of the porch landing.
    Back in the van, I glanced at my watch. I was late. Perfect. I hopped aboard and punched the gas, skidding to a stop in front of Home Sweet Home a minute later. Gail was waiting, a sandwich bag of ice pressed to her face. She opened the passenger door and climbed in.
    “Ith afther thoo,” she said.
    “Sorry.” I signaled and pulled into traffic. “I lost track of the time. How was the dentist?”
    She moved her jaw gingerly. “Rooth canal.”
    “Seriously? Ouch. You sure you’re up for this?”
    She nodded. “Wanna see the houth.” A bead of drool rolled down her chin, and she blotted it with a piece of tissue.
    Two minutes later, I was steering the bus between the big stone pillars. Gail braced herself against her seat, wincing a little as we bounced over the rutted driveway. Her eyes widened when we turned the last corner and the house came into view.
    “Holy craf,” she said,