The Woodpecker Always Pecks Twice
Page 28
Paul shook his head. “No room. Lots of construction materials, equipment, you know?”
“You know, there are laws against living on the street.” Okay, I was bluffing. Sort of. Come to think of it, weren’t there laws against opening places that sold alcohol? Permits required? Did this guy have any of those? The man seemed a bit oblivious. I made a mental note to check with the building department.
Paul smiled. “Nobody’s complained so far. Besides, it’ll only be for a few months.”
As much as I was tempted to file a complaint, I knew I wouldn’t either. In the end, I was a live-and-let-live kind of person.
Then the few months line sunk in. “Over my dead body.”
Okay, so I’m a hypocrite. Aren’t we all one time or another? I could imagine the noise, the late nights, the fights. The drunks stumbling over to Birds & Bees looking for a place to spend the night. The house had been an inn for years, after all. No, this was not going to end well.
“You got something against beer? Or gardens?” Paul Anderson inquired. “Or maybe people having fun?”
“Fun?” I crossed my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means people having a good time, enjoying each other’s company. Capital F-U-N.”
“I know what fun means. What I don’t know is what your game is.”
“No game, Amy. I’m merely an entrepreneur out to build my business.” He nodded toward Birds & Bees. “Just like you.”
Okay, so he had me there. I was disliking this guy more and more by the minute. “What made you decide to start your bar here? In Ruby Lake?”
“Biergarten.”
I rolled my eyes. “Biergarten.”
I stepped aside as Gertrude Hammer, Gertie, town curmudgeon, ambled past, pushing a grocery cart that had no doubt been stolen from Lakeside Market. I say no doubt because the green plastic LAKESIDE MARKET placard was still welded to the back of the cart.
“I heard it was a nice little town,” Paul replied. His close-set hazel eyes scanned me from head to toe. “Full of friendly people.” Paul popped open the passenger-side door of his truck and pulled out a battered toolbox, which he dropped carelessly to the sidewalk, where it landed with an ear-splitting rattle. “At least that’s what my buddy said.”
“Ha!” We both heard Gertie snort from ten feet away. Gertie spun around, letting the grocery cart roll free. “Not Simms!” She had on a baggy gray sweat suit and a pair of shoes that looked like they might have been made from triceratops hide.
Gertie had sold me the house and, while I’d felt ripped off and foolish at the time, for some reason she’d been desperate to buy it back from me. I hadn’t figured out why yet. The cart bounced down the curb and into the street.
The tour van in its path screeched to a halt. I leapt into the road and retrieved it. “Here you go,” I said with a flourish, whipping the cart into old Gertie’s hands. Gertrude’s about a million years old, give or take an epoch.
“Thanks,” Gertie spat. Her eyes fixed on me. “Watch out for this one. She’s a death magnet.”
With that, the old woman gave her cart a shove and continued up the street.
“Death magnet?” I huffed and stamped my foot.
Paul laughed. “Man, Craig told me Ruby Lake had potential, but he never told me what a bunch of characters you all were!”
“Craig?” I felt a terrible tension creeping up my neck, the blood draining from my face.
“Yeah.” Paul’s teeth flashed white against his swarthy complexion. “Craig Bigelow. He’s the friend who turned me on to this place. We’re partners. I can’t wait till he gets here.”
My heart went cold. I clenched my fists.
“You okay?”
Craig Bigelow—rhymes with gigolo, of course—was the man who’d taken my heart and broken it into six pieces. One for each year we’d been together. He wasn’t the only reason I’d left Raleigh and returned to Ruby Lake, but he was a big one.
“I don’t know him at all.” I turned on my heel and retreated.
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