Free Triple Witch by Sarah Graves Page B

arm’s-length way that people do when they were not expecting you, don’t want you, and really would prefer that you beat it.
    I had seen Willoughby’s lean, ratlike face in a hundred surveillance photographs. Now his blue eyes tookmy measure as coldly as if he were adding up a column of quarterly profits and not much liking the result.
    The question was, did he know me? The llamas looked on with interest. Oh, what the hell, I thought, here goes nothing.
    “Jacobia Tiptree,” I introduced myself, sticking my hand out. “George Valentine said you had a bunch of old shutters you didn’t want, that maybe they were still out back in the Dumpster.”
    Then I waited, but I didn’t see my name flip any switches. Up at the house, a man in a rumpled suit came onto the porch, peering curiously at us.
    “Oh, right,” Willoughby said at last, seeming to relax a bit. “Those old things. Sure, you want to haul them away, you can have ’em. So, how do you like the place?” He waved an expansive arm.
    Now that my eyes had adjusted to the glare of the vinyl siding, I could take in a few more details. The roof was made from the kind of shingles that are intended to look like cedar shakes, but don’t. The new shutters were genuine plastic. And the brick chimneys, I realized, were concrete block, false-fronted with brickface. Even the mailbox, intended to resemble wood when viewed from a suitable distance—say, a mile or so—was vintage Rubbermaid.
    Still, he wasn’t cursing at me, which I took as a good sign. I glanced again at the llamas, to make sure they weren’t sporting little wind-up keys. “Um, it looks as if you’ve poured in a lot of resources,” I replied, trying to be tactful.
    “Hey, that’s for sure,” Willoughby preened. “Goddamned money pit. Knocking out the old plaster, putting up new Sheetrock cost a fortune, and getting rid of the woodstoves—forget about it.”
    He gazed proudly at his creation. “And the facilities—who the hell wants a clawfoot bathtub in this day and age? I mean this may be God’s country, but you need some modern comforts.”
    I tried not to wince visibly, then realized that it wouldn’t matter. Willoughby was the kind of fellow who, once he thought he had you pegged, forgot about you for all practical purposes. Your function thereafter was merely to nod and make agreeing noises.
    Which I did, while Willoughby poured on the charm of the born salesman and gave me a drastically sanitized version of his life history: business in Manhattan, big success, spiritual awakening. Now he meant to enjoy the stress-free life of a country gentleman.
    He liked to talk; all good salesmen did, and in his heyday he’d been one of the best. But nowhere in his recital did there appear the little matter of his conviction for securities fraud, or the fact that his spiritual awakening had occurred—as so many do, nowadays—while he was locked up in the slammer.
    The guy on the porch coughed loudly, as if reminding us that he was waiting. Willoughby grinned, showing gold dental work. “Houseguests,” he confided genially. “The plague of the country life.”
    In a couple of weeks he was going to discover the real plague of country life, which was blackflies. But I just grinned back at him, relieved that he hadn’t tumbled to who I was.
    “Well,” I said, “let me get out of your way. I’ll drive up around in back, load them in, and take off.”
    The fellow on the porch went back inside, slamming the door.
    “Great,” Baxter said, distracted. “Have a nice day.” Then he hurried away back to the house, his step a little too anxious for the true country gentleman, his chin thrust out determinedly.
    To my experienced eye, he looked worried about money. But his money troubles, if any, weren’t my problem anymore. All I had to do was get those shutters.
    This, however, turned out to be more work than I expected. I got the truck backed up around the houseall right. And I found the shutters