Beach Thriller(49)

She didn’t know whether Ethan had lived in Beauport the summer Anna died. Could he know something? Was he involved in some way? He might be playing a game—getting close to her, working on her house to gauge what kind of threat she posed.

The old saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer came to mind.

Holly sipped her coffee. For a moment, she entertained the idea that he’d spiked her drink and that, in a few minutes, she’d pass out and wake up barricaded in a dingy basement with blacked-out windows. Hmm. Perhaps she was a thriller writer after all.

“Where’s Jade?” she asked.

“She wasn’t here when I showed up. Maybe she went off to work,” said Ethan. “And the door was unlocked. Sorry if I was presumptuous letting myself in. But I figured I could get a few things started.”

It was then Gail sauntered into the kitchen, her pearl necklace white as her teeth, her hair lacquered in place. She took one look at the morning coffee klatch and smiled.

“Oh, already?” She winked at Ethan, implying he had spent the night. “I warned you, Holly. This one’s a real charmer.”

“How charming can I be when I’m eating dinner alone most nights?” Ethan chirped back.

He eats alone? Had Mr. Handy (and potentially Mr. Dangerous) recently become Mr. Available? Her common sense kicked in. Mutilated book. Weird aura. Handsome stranger. Unsolved murder. Keep your hands to yourself, Hol.

“Ethan just got here, Gail,” Holly said. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she added under her breath.

“The front of the house looks great,” Gail said, on her own trajectory. She grabbed a mug from the cabinet (How did she know where they were kept?) and poured herself a cup. Make yourself at home; everyone else does.

“I’m starting on the kitchen today,” Ethan said.

“Well, you may want to put your toolbox away.” Gail’s eyes were alight. “We just got an offer on the house.”

Holly felt the floor shake, and that odd Ethan aura vanished in the aftershock. “What do you mean, you got an offer?” she asked. “Gail, the house isn’t for sale. It’s caught up in probate.”

““I know … I know…” Gail’s red manicured nails sliced the air, brushing away Holly’s concern. “But that doesn’t stop people from making offers. And this person wants to remain anonymous, even from me. They sent a letter with a PO box for a return address, no name given, but I can smell the money. They’re offering twenty-five percent over market value. That’s crazy. Plus, they’ll cover all your relocation expenses.”

Holly squinted, suspicion flickering. “What’s up with this town? I have a lawyer writing me personal checks without paperwork, and an offer on a house that isn’t even on the market.”

Gail gave a lopsided smile. “Allen does that sort of thing. Don’t overthink it. It’s the small-town way—people here actually like helping their friends and neighbors, and nobody betrays that trust.”

“If they’re so trusting, why doesn’t this mystery buyer tell us who they are?” Holly asked.

Gail shrugged. “Money makes people behave strangely. But they want the house right away, and they’re rich enough that you can hold on to the deed until probate clears—they’ll settle for a memo of understanding. Twenty-five percent over the market value! That’s a huge offer.”

“If they’re interested now, they’ll be interested later, when, and if, I decide to sell,” Holly said firmly. Instead of tallying numbers, Holly’s thoughts reeled back to the threat she’d received, which had also been delivered anonymously. Same person? Most likely. But why menace her with one hand and pay her off with the other? The truth had no price tag, and she was here to stay.

One giant obstacle, however, stood in her way: a nasty cop named Tommy Boy. Holly had an idea.

“Gail, let’s have our coffee on the screened-in porch so Ethan can get started in the kitchen.” She shot the Realtor a look, and Gail followed her to the wicker chairs in the sunroom while Ethan went to retrieve his tools from his truck.

The old furniture creaked as they settled in. Holly cast a glance over her shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot. She assumed Gossipy Gail already knew about her family’s tragedy.

“To be honest, there are too many questions around my sister’s death for me to leave town. I went to the police station to look at the evidence box from the investigation, and Tom Walker is guarding it like it’s the nuclear codes. You know everyone in Beauport. Any suggestions on how I might get around him?”

Gail snorted in disgust. “Tom Walker is a POS, pardon my French. But good news—I know his supervisor. Sold him the cutest three-bed townhouse.” Her eyes turned wistful. “Open-concept kitchen, beautiful quartz countertops, and it had this to-die-for walk-in pantry. Such a find.”

Holly realized she was dealing with a savant of sorts—someone who not only saw the world not in numbers, but in comps and sellable features. In order to close so many deals, Gail had to be adept at knowing which levers to push and pull to get results.

“I’d really appreciate it if you could help me with this,” said Holly.

Gail’s devious smile read as quid pro quo: I scratch your back, and you sell this place to that anonymous buyer.