Free Murder at the Holiday Flotilla by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter Page B

continued along his train of thought. “Now as I explained to you yesterday on the phone, with the depreciation in property values, six mil is just too much for any house. Unless it’s the Taj Mahal.”
    Melanie turned to him and chuckled. “Who wants to live in India, Jack? While the Carolina coast is the perfect location. And you know what they say about real estate . . .”
    “ Location, location, location,” he sang with a grin.
    “ Look, Jack, you’re a practical business man. So am I . . .”
    Jack gave her a once over. “Nobody would ever confuse you for a man, Melanie.”
    I smiled to myself. Okay, Melanie, I thought, enough of this flirtatious banter. If you want to sell this house, you’d better get serious and stop the flirting.
    She must have read my mind because she said, “Jack, listen to me, once this recession is over – and it will end – inflation is going to kick in and this place will be selling for twelve mil, not six. And in about two years, a tidal wave of baby boomers is going to hit this coast like a tsunami, and the cost of nice houses is going to go through the roof. You mark my words. I attend the conferences, the workshops, where economic forecasts are laid out for us by the experts. You’re one yourself. You know I’m on target here.”
    Jack folded his arms over his chest. His chin tipped perceptibly. “Yeah, you’ve got something there. Well, okay, what are we waiting for? Show me around inside.”
     

 
     
     
     
    9
     
    We strolled off the boat dock and up the paved path that was bordered with tall, willowy sea grass swaying in the soft breeze.
    “ Two acres,” Melanie told him. “The nearest neighbor,” and she pointed to a closed-up looking house a distance away where a black pick-up truck was parked in the driveway, “lives up in New England someplace and doesn’t get down here much. The perfect neighbor.” She smiled sweetly at him and he returned the smile, his eyes conveying all sorts of admiration and invitations.
    Mind your own business, Wilkes, I told myself.
    The circular driveway was nicely landscaped and we trotted across it to mount a set of shallow flagstone steps that led to a broad sheltered front porch.
    A large green Christmas wreath hung on the oversized, elaborately paneled front door. Melanie inserted a key in the lock and the front door swung inward.
    “ Now, isn’t this a breathtaking entrance?” she asked.
    I couldn’t agree more. A grand staircase curved upward, following the contour of a bowed, windowed wall that overlooked the driveway.
    “ Look at that,” I said, indicating a cat walk on the second floor that curved around in front of the upper windows.
    Jack was silent, gazing, considering. He didn’t have to speak. I could tell from his expression that he was as smitten with Melanie’s house as he was with Melanie.
    “ Come on, wait till you see this,” Melanie invited. Jack and I followed her lead, and strolled down a hallway that looped around to an immense open area. “Look at this, Jack. Some party room, huh? Kitchenette, lots of room for entertaining. Sliding glass doors all around.”
    She went to unlatch one of the doors, fumbled with it, looked puzzled, then slid the door open easily. We stepped out into the sunny November air. “The wood decking is specially treated so that it never gets hot under your bare feet in summer.”
    “ Nice pool,” Jack said, admiring the dazzling blue water of the kidney-shaped swimming pool that was surrounded by decking. “And what’s that body of water over there?”
    “ A salt water stream,” Melanie responded. “Your very own. On your very own property.” She beamed at him like he was just too smart for words.
    I trailed along behind them toward the Waterway side, as Melanie said, “You’ve got views in three directions.”
    To myself I thought, if the views of the incredibly breathtaking Intracoastal Waterway did not close this deal for her, short of sleeping with him, I