“You owe me,” she hissed at him before heading toward the door.
The visitor was short, round, and bald except for the neatly trimmed ring of white hair that ended just above his ears and the thick mustache. His pants were hiked to belly button height and held in place with suspenders.
“Hi,” Maggie said.
“You the new owner?” the man demanded gruffly. She heard Dean sneak back upstairs. Chicken.
“I am,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. She’d been at this long enough to know the type. Either he was a local historian afraid she was an evil developer out to ruin a piece of town history or he was a self-appointed tattletale who wanted to make sure she was following the letter of the law.
“I’m Wallace Pfeffercorn. I was a volunteer here when it was the Campbell House Museum.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Wallace. I’m Maggie. What can I do for you?”
He harrumphed at her politeness. “I’m dropping by to give you a piece of my mind.”
“Would you like something to drink while you do that?” she offered. “I’ve got water, lemonade, and beer.”
His frown lines deepened into canyons. “Suppose I wouldn’t mind a lemonade. But don’t think you’ll be winning any points with me, missy.”
“Come on back,” she said, waving him into the house.
He hesitated before stepping inside with his cane.
“I see you haven’t completely gutted the place. Yet,” he said, eyeing the intact wallpaper with terrifying ferocity.
“Some of it will have to change,” Maggie said, heading down the hall to the kitchen. The refrigerator stood by itself on a now-empty wall.
“Good Lord, girlie! You owned the place for five days,” Wallace sputtered. His heavy eyebrows lowered, obscuring his eyes.
“They weren’t the original cabinets, which I’m sure you knew,” she said, plucking two plastic cups off the rolling cart and grabbing the lemonade.
“Mrs. Campbell is rolling over in her grave,” he predicted.
She had the feeling she was getting a glimpse of Future Dean. Maybe she should have offered the man coffee.
“I bet you didn’t even keep the portrait. You probably just chucked everything into the garbage.” He was working himself up into a good fit, and Maggie had concerns about whether or not his heart could handle one.
“Why don’t we have a seat,” she suggested and led the way back to her office.
Blustering about progress and the disrespect youth had for the past, Wallace followed. His tirade cut off abruptly when he stepped into the room.
She smiled as he eyed up the art she’d collected from the first floor and stacked up against the walls. Knickknack treasures found in built-in curio cabinets were half-packed in boxes with bubble wrapping. Framed photos were spread out on a second table.
“Where’s the furniture? You chop it up for kindling?” he demanded.
“We moved it into the garage for safekeeping.”
He didn’t acknowledge her answer. “This must be your sorting pile for the trash,” he said, eyeing the paint-splattered worktable that held a few treasures she was keeping unboxed so they could be photographed first. There was an exquisite crystal decanter, an old inkwell, a few antique glassware items, and the needlepoint she’d rescued from the front den. It said: WHERE IS THE ADVENTURE IN FINDING ONESELF IF ONE USES SOMEONE ELSE’S MAP?
“Mrs. Campbell stitched that herself, according to her granddaughter,” he said, peering at the needlepoint. “Not that you’d care. It’s hung on that wall in Aaron Campbell’s study for over a hundred years.”
“It will hang there again once we refinish the floor and fix the plaster ceiling,” she told him.
“You don’t even realize what you’re sitting on,” he muttered to himself, settling heavily in the metal chair opposite her.
“Then tell me. I don’t just fix things up; I also tell the stories of what happened within the walls I’m fixing.”
“Aaron Campbell put this town on the map,” Wallace snapped. “His novels still to this day bring in tourism dollars because he was a master storyteller. Have you bothered reading even one?”
“Not yet.”
“His books are still in print, you know. The royalties are paid into the trust the Campbells left to the town. You could use that fancy show of yours to encourage those screen addicts to pick up a book, put some money in the town’s pockets. But you’ll probably just turn all those volumes spine-in on the shelves for aesthetics.”