Chapter Eleven
Hell House Client Brief: We don't know what's in the walls. Probably for the best.
“OK,” Kel said as he walked up the garden path. He held a coffee out toward Shepherd. “I’m all in. Where do we start?”
Shepherd finished the brushstroke on the big bay window that overlooked the street. Shrimpboat Pink was a less offensively vivid color than it sounded. He leaned down to set the brush in the tray and then accepted the coffee.
“It’s been an hour,” he said. “That’s how long it takes you to decide the final distribution of your soul?”
Kel shrugged and took a swig out of the coffee he’d kept for himself.
“Actually, I knocked that out in about twenty minutes,” he said. “I know I’m not going to change my ways enough to get a crack at heaven, so it really came down to deciding if I could get a better offer or not. After that I went to lunch. How long does it take most people?”
“I…” Shepherd started to answer, but had to stop to think about it. He finally admitted, “I don’t know. In my line of work, most people have left that decision in the rearview. Twenty minutes could be industry standard.”
“How long did it take you?”
Shepherd took a drink of coffee. “Eighteen years,” he said slowly. “Give or take.”
“Je...epers,” Kel said. “You ever heard of shitting or getting off the pot, Shepherd?”
He shook his head and walked away down the side of the building until he got to the corner and stopped to squint up into the eaves. Shepherd watched him for a moment and then snorted softly to himself.
It wasn’t like he’d not thought that himself a couple of times.
He took another drink of coffee and then followed after Kel. They stood next to each other as they contemplated the roof. After a bit, Shepherd bumped his shoulder against Kel’s arm.
“Are you trying to fix the tiles with the power of your mind?” he asked.
Kel looked away from the eaves and at Shepherd. He raised a rusty-auburn eyebrow. “...if I was, would it work?”
“It’s not really that sort of magic.”
“Then no, I’m not,” Kel said. He stepped back onto the grass and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.
Long fingers dug into the muscles, and Kel stretched into his own massage like a cat.
“So is there a reason you’re doing this by hand and not subcontracting it to someone from Taskrabbit?
Don’t get me wrong, I like watching you get sweaty.
I can just think of more fun ways to get the same result. ”
Shepherd cleared his throat and dragged his attention away from Kel’s shoulders. He glanced down at his paint-blotched shorts and scuffed-up knees.
“Me too,” he said as he took a drink of coffee. He held up two fingers as he swallowed. “Two problems with that.”
Kel crossed his arms and rocked his weight back onto his heels.
“Hit me,” he said.
Shepherd looked at his fingers for a second, wriggling them back and forth as he tried to decide what problem to lead with.
“Can’t get anyone to come out,” he said and folded one finger down. “No money to pay them if we did. Renfield’s only covers emergency repairs, and while the estate is in probate, Dio’s accounts are frozen.”
Kel chuckled as he glanced at the house and reached out to pat the shingled siding. The look of amused exasperation on his face was the sort usually worn by little old New York ladies with angry purse dogs.
“I thought you were going to say the house would eat them,” he said.
Shepherd wrinkled his nose as he considered the house. “I mean, probably,” he admitted. “Renfield’s will cover that, though.”
Kel took that in and took his hand off the side of the building. “Good to know,” he said. “...do you mean literally eat…OK, actually, that can wait. First things first. It’s time to show the HOA how I’ll be handling home ownership.”
Shepherd paused and cocked an eyebrow. He looked Kel up and down. It took a while, but at this point he couldn’t pretend he didn’t like the view.
“Is it by lying to them?” he asked.
Kel laughed and reached out to hook his fingers in the waistband of Shepherd’s jeans. He pulled him closer and leaned down, his breath coffee and smoke against Shepherd’s mouth.
“This is why our relationship works,” Kel said. “Mutual respect and understanding.”
Shepherd snorted. “I don’t do commitment,” he said. “I’ve been married once. I’m in no rush to do that again.”
A slow, wicked smile tucked one side of Kel’s mouth. It carved a long, deep dimple in his cheek and crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Marriage?” he said. “Put the brakes on. I never mentioned romance. I meant our working relationship. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
The kiss was light and teasing as Kel brushed his mouth over Shepherd’s cheek. He straightened up, smirk still tucked in the corners of his mouth, and then, before Shepherd could muster a response, sighed.
“Fuck it,” he said and dipped back down to claim Shepherd’s mouth hungrily.
The kiss was impatient, teeth sharp and lips hard.
Kel’s breath was hot enough to sting the back of Shepherd’s throat, and Shepherd leaned into the contact before he could think better of it.
When Kel pulled back again, Shepherd blinked up at him like an idiot.
Kel brushed the side of his face with the backs of his fingers in a light caress as he smirked down at him.
“For the record? That doesn’t count. You’re still the one that brought up making it a thing first.”
Bernie Cargill was a bony, lanky woman with eyebrows paler than her skin and a fondness for Hawaiian shirts.
She was also one year retired and, based on the various write-ups in the HOA-produced gazette that Kel had pulled off their site, she’d redirected the drive and high-achieving streak that had made her a good forensic accountant into her new passion for gardening.
Competitive gardening.
Shepherd slapped his hands against the stack of burlap sacks piled up against Birdie’s fence.
He leaned his weight on them as he gave her an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry about this. I don’t know how they got the address wrong.
Dio has been ordering his mulch from them for years, but I guess they got a new driver. ”
Bernie paused mid-slightly insincere assurance that it was fine. Her eyebrows twitched up.
“Oh,” she said as she pushed her Ray-Bans up on top of her head, salt and pepper curls sticking out around them. “You’re not telling me this is it? Dio Madden’s secret formula?”
“I don’t know how secret it is,” Shepherd said with a laugh as he grabbed one of the bags and hoisted it up onto his hip. “He gets it online.”
“Does he now?” Bernie said. “That’s not the impression he gave when he won Marble Falls Best in Bloom last year….Can I have a look?”
Shepherd hesitated as he glanced up and down the street. He didn’t know why. It just added a bit of drama.
“I mean, I guess,” he said. “It’s just potting compost.”
He set one of the bags up on its base and pulled his knife out of his pocket. The blade clicked out, and he sawed through the burlap. The frayed edges were rough against his fingers as he tugged the bag open for Bernie.
She reached in and took a pinch, rolling it between her fingers like a connoisseur with a cigar.
“So it’s just bonemeal and potting compost?” she asked.
Shepherd crouched down on the other side of her fence and extended his fingers to the big, white bull terrier. The dog ignored the option of a wary sniff and went straight to slamming her body against the slats to get scritches.
“That’s it,” Shepherd said as he dug his fingers into the dog’s shoulders and hips. Its tail battered against the fence as it leaned harder. “You know gardens. If you want them to grow, you need to throw them a corpse or two. He does get the premium package, though.”
Bernie licked the bit of dirt, grimaced at the taste, and then dusted her hands off on her thighs as she pursed her lips.
“Oh,” she said. “And what does that get you?”
Shepherd shrugged. “The quality of the bone,” he said. “And the percentage of exotic content.”
Bernie cracked a smile. “Now that sounds like a secret formula,” she said. “How about I make you a cup of tea, and you can tell me where Dio gets his deliveries from? He does owe me. The delivery company damaged my fence when they dropped those off.”
She pointed at the damage.
They had. Huh. It turns out they did read the delivery instructions.
“Tell you what,” Shepherd said as he straightened up. His hands were covered with dog hair, and he wiped them off on his shorts. “I’ll give you Dio’s contact if you give me the name of your fence guy? I’m trying to get some repairs done and, ah, not having much luck.”
Bernie screwed her face up.
“Oh,” she said. “Yes. Easy’s little vendetta against your property. Look, I think it’s ridiculous, but I can’t get involved.”
“Of course not,” Shepherd said. “I didn’t know you were on the board, or I wouldn’t have asked.”
Bernie snorted. “Liar,” she said. “But the offer of tea is still on the table?”
An hour later Bernie was sitting on the neat, wrought-iron bench in her sun room as she offered Shepherd a cookie.
“...murders or not,” Bernie tutted. “At least Dio tries. Have you seen Easy’s house?
Grass and gravel. That’s it. How is our neighborhood even going to place in the Horticultural Society’s Beautiful Neighborhood awards?
I do my bit, Dio does his, and then you have the whole Stepford Wives dystopia vibe of Easy’s property.
Meanwhile Annette hasn’t even pruned her roses this year.
I mean, I know her husband died, but still.
I never saw him in the garden; it can’t remind her of him. ”
She heaved an aggrieved sigh and took a drink of coffee.
Shepherd perched on the edge of his chair and thumped the dog’s shoulder as he watched Bernie with admiration. If she had been even a quarter as passionate about her job, fiddled books across the state must still be clenched for fear she’d change her mind about retiring.