Thick as Thieves(7)

“He was a soldier, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Afghanistan. Iraq before that.”

“He was in combat, then?”

“Oh, yeah. He saw action, all right. Might have spent a little too much time at war, if you know what I mean. But he’s all right. Not dangerous, or crazy, or anything.”

In the ad, a former client of Mr. Burnet’s had left his name as one to call for a reference. Arden had. In addition to his endorsement of Burnet’s craftsmanship and trustworthiness, he’d volunteered the information about his military service.

In truth, she hadn’t known what he’d meant by his comment on Burnet’s spending too much time at war. Now, she wished she had asked him to elaborate.

Maybe war had left L. Burnet taciturn and borderline rude. Or perhaps he was standoffish by nature. But, as long as he could do the work, she didn’t care whether or not he had an engaging personality. She wasn’t hiring someone to entertain her.

His stare was piercing, but she didn’t detect any madness behind it. Quite the contrary. She sensed intelligence, acute attentiveness, and a perceptiveness sharper than an average person’s. Little would escape him, and that was a bit discomfiting. However, she was willing to take her chances that he was of reasonably sound mind.

But—and this was the bottom line—what really recommended him was that over the course of the past two months, she had interviewed many contractors, and he was the last on her list of candidates for the job.

Thanks to the trust fund her late brother-in-law had established for her, she could afford to hire anyone. However, as a matter of principle, she wanted to finance this project using money she had earned, which put a ceiling on how much she could comfortably spend.

In answer to his question, she said, “Honestly, Mr. Burnet, I’ve consulted several others who were qualified.”

“They couldn’t fit your project into their schedules?”

“I couldn’t fit them into my budget.”

“So you called me.”

“Please don’t take offense. The comments posted online said that you do good work, that you’re dependable, and that you’re a one-man operation. At first, I didn’t see that as an advantage.”

“Now you do?”

“Yes. Because you don’t have a crew, I thought perhaps you would be a good choice.”

He propped his butt against the worktable and hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. “You thought I’d work cheap.”

So much for diplomacy. His stance was challenging if not downright belligerent. The placement of his hands was a none too subtle assertion of masculinity. He seemed set on being blunt. To all of the above, Fine. “All right, yes, Mr. Burnet. I thought you might work cheap. Er.”

“No doubt I would. But I’m not the guy for the job.”

She gave a short laugh. “Before you determine that, couldn’t you at least hear me out?”

“Waste of time.”

“How do you know?”

“An extensive project that would take considerable time? Lots of hard work? Sounds like what you have in mind is a complete overhaul of your house.”

“More or less.”

“I don’t do complete overhauls.”

“Would you at least come and see—”

“I’ve seen it.”

Her heart gave a bump of alarm. She had identified herself by name on the voice mail but had said nothing about the location of her house. The vehicle that came past her house each night sprang to mind. “You know where I live?”

He bobbed his square chin.

She studied him for a moment, then said slowly, “When you turned around and saw me here, you recognized me, didn’t you?”

Another brusque nod.

“How?”

“Somebody had pointed you out to me.”

“Where?”

“I think it was in the fried pie shop.”

“I didn’t even know there was a fried pie shop.”

“Oh. Well, then it must’ve been somewhere else.”

“Why was I being pointed out to you?”

He pulled his thumbs from his pockets and pushed away from the table, then glanced aside for several seconds before coming back to her. “You’re the lady who had the…emergency…in the grocery store.”

Her breath hitched, and instinctively she took a step back. “Oh.”

The recollections swarmed her, blocking out light and sound, everything. Her mind unreeled the memories at warp speed, but they were as distinct as though it had happened yesterday instead of two months ago.

She recalled being jerkily conveyed from the ambulance into the ER, the rapid-fire questions of the medical personnel, the pervasive antiseptic smell, the biting coldness of the stirrups against the arches of her bare feet, the kindly voice of the nurse asking if she would like to hold her daughter. Her lifeless daughter.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, remembering, but, as the kaleidoscope of memories receded, she realized that she was slumped forward, hugging her elbows. Her skin had turned clammy. Self-consciously, she straightened up and swiped a strand of hair off her damp forehead with the back of her hand.

She became painfully aware of him, standing motionless and silent, watching her. To avoid eye contact, she looked around and took stock of the workshop. Fluorescent tubes augmented the natural light pouring in from four skylights. Two ceiling fans as large as airplane propellers circulated from the ends of long rods. She could identify some of the tools of his trade, while the purposes of other apparatus and pieces of machinery were unknown to her.