Free The Flaming Luau of Death by Jerrilyn Farmer Page B

and moldings. They replaced missing items, when necessary, with authentic chandeliers and drawer pulls and whatnots that Wes scouted out from his favorite antique salvage dealers. He would devote days to hunting for authentic period replacement pieces rather than just rip it all out and install something easy to find and cheap and new. What Wes was really passionate about was more like fine historic home restoration rather than just gutting and rehabbing, and in a city with lots of cashheavy superstars looking for a special nest and a ten-year boom in real estate prices, it had developed into a lucrative side business.
    “I told the old guy I intended to live in this house forever,” Wes said, his voice low. “I meant it, Maddie. It was going to be my forever house. I love the house.”
    I knew this story. Wes, with his fabulous eye for finding just the right blemished gem, plus his elegant improvements and terrific good taste, had worked his magic on the house on Alta Loma Drive. He had uncovered and refinished the hardwood floors, used a razor blade to scrape old paint off a hundred panes of glass to restore a dozen French doors, and cleared the hills and landscaped until he had revealed the true beauty of a home that had been embarrassed by decades of neglect and tacky remodels. The house was now pristine. The property’s 360-degree views of Hollywood could now be seen clearly for the first time in fifty years. So it wasn’t surprising that Wes was regularly getting callsthese days from interested parties. A guy wanted to photograph it for a feature for the Sunday Times. A location scout asked if the perfect 1920s-style kitchen might be available for a Bounty commercial. So even though the Alta Loma house was not officially on the market, offers were arriving.
    All the realtors knew Wes. They had buyers. And as the purchase bids went up and Wesley’s restless creative eye wandered to other distressed properties across town, it was only a matter of time before he’d be moving again. And if I could figure this out, I was sure his neighbors were getting the same feeling. Elmer must have heard a rumor that Wes had said yes to a buyer.
    “He was vicious,” Wes said. “He left a rambling message. He hates what I did to the house now. He used to say he loved it, but not anymore. He accused me of destroying the historical authenticity of the property. He says I ruined the house.”
    “Now, Wes—”
    “I moved the front gate. That was it.”
    “Elmer is an older guy. Late sixties, early seventies?”
    “Something like that.”
    “And he’s lived in that house of his for fifty years, Wes. He is getting emotional. Maybe he liked you. Maybe he figured you’d look after him in his waning years.”
    Wes smirked at that thought.
    “Maybe Elmer got attached to your handyman ways and your fresh baked croissants and now he’s upset because you might leave him.”
    Wes shook his head, concerned. “You should have heard him, Mad. He called me names.”
    “You’re kidding me. What did he call you?”
    “He yelled on my machine. He said, ‘Flipper! Flipper!’”
    I would have smiled right then and there—flipper! Someone who buys homes and turns around and sells them for a big profit. But I knew Wes was sensitive to this whole thing, so I kept a straight face.
    “I don’t just slap a coat of Cottage White on the walls and then turn around and jack up the price a hundred grand. I think I have integrity in the work I do, but—”
    I had to stop him. “Wes. Get a grip, honey. This is an old angry guy. Forget about it. Okay?”
    “Why do people get so nasty?”
    I shrugged.
    “But if I do sell it, Mad, you might like this house. It’s pretty perfect for you.”
    “Oh no,” I said, smiling big. “You can’t get out of this trouble with Elmer by getting me to move in and take care of him.”
    “But you’re looking for a new place, right?”
    “I love your house, Wes, but I don’t want another great old house