back to 101 Potsdam Street in the company of Rafe Collier being particularly careful.
Morning came all too soon, and I took a shower and brushed my teeth and did my hair and put on make-up and managed to get to Potsdam Street a little after eight. Rafe was there before me, sitting on the front steps in the bright glare of the sun, looking disgustingly awake for this time of the morning. “Big date last night?” he inquired dryly when I stopped in front of him. I grimaced.
“Do I look that bad?”
“There are bags under your eyes and you forgot to put on glitter.”
He tugged one of his ears to show me what he meant. I felt my own earlobes — they were empty — and squinted suspiciously. “Are you a detective or something?”
That suggestion earned me an honest to goodness, full-throated laugh. “God forbid. No, darlin’, just a man who likes looking at women.”
“From what I understand,” I said snidely, “that’s what got you that black eye, too.”
He grinned. “You been asking the sheriff about me?”
I shrugged.
“Yeah, ole Cletus got a little carried away. Not the first time, neither. Seemed to mind me talking to Marquita.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“As it happens, ain’t nothing going on with Marquita and me. And it ain’t Cletus’s business anyhow. She left him.”
“So I understand,” I said.
Rafe squinted at me. “Ain’t no business of yours, neither, come to think of it.”
“I guess not. So are you ready to go inside?” I smiled brightly.
He looked at me for a second — debating whether or not to push me further, probably — then got to his feet. “Sure.”
“Let me just open the door for you, and you can look around as much as you want.” I got the new key out of the lockbox and into the lock. “There you go. Have fun.”
I pushed the door open and smiled him in. He didn’t move.
“After you, darlin’.”
“I think I’ll just stay out here, if you don’t mind.”
He grinned. “Scared?”
I shrugged.
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the ghostly ghoulies.” He lifted his arms and wiggled his fingers suggestively, in the manner of ghostly ghoulies everywhere. Muscles bunched under the tight sleeves of the T-shirt.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m afraid of you ?” I said.
Obviously it hadn’t, because he looked stunned. For just a second before his face and eyes were smooth and under control again. His voice was light. “Can’t say as it did, darlin’. But now that I know, I’ll be sure to keep my distance.” He ducked through the door before I had time to answer. I pulled a face. I hadn’t meant it that way, exactly.
In the end I stayed outside just long enough to — hopefully — give him time to simmer down before I went inside. “Rafe?”
“In here.” The voice came from the back of the house. I headed that way.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like I’m doing?” He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking around. I stepped onto the cracked vinyl and did the same.
Back in the days when the house on Potsdam was built, the kitchen was a separate building at a safe distance from the main house. That way, the house wouldn’t catch fire if the kitchen did. As time progressed and cooking over an open flame became a thing of the past, people decided they liked the convenience of having a kitchen that was part of the house, and those houses that weren’t originally built with kitchens, had one tacked on or inserted somewhere. Back home in Sweetwater, one of the smaller rooms on the first floor has been converted to a kitchen. Here, an extra room had been added to the back of the original structure. From the looks of it, it had happened sometime in the 1930s, and nothing had changed appreciably since then, except for a new stove and refrigerator. ‘New’ being relative terms; they were avocado-green and dated from the -70s
“This needs a complete overhaul,” I remarked, in my
Morning came all too soon, and I took a shower and brushed my teeth and did my hair and put on make-up and managed to get to Potsdam Street a little after eight. Rafe was there before me, sitting on the front steps in the bright glare of the sun, looking disgustingly awake for this time of the morning. “Big date last night?” he inquired dryly when I stopped in front of him. I grimaced.
“Do I look that bad?”
“There are bags under your eyes and you forgot to put on glitter.”
He tugged one of his ears to show me what he meant. I felt my own earlobes — they were empty — and squinted suspiciously. “Are you a detective or something?”
That suggestion earned me an honest to goodness, full-throated laugh. “God forbid. No, darlin’, just a man who likes looking at women.”
“From what I understand,” I said snidely, “that’s what got you that black eye, too.”
He grinned. “You been asking the sheriff about me?”
I shrugged.
“Yeah, ole Cletus got a little carried away. Not the first time, neither. Seemed to mind me talking to Marquita.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“As it happens, ain’t nothing going on with Marquita and me. And it ain’t Cletus’s business anyhow. She left him.”
“So I understand,” I said.
Rafe squinted at me. “Ain’t no business of yours, neither, come to think of it.”
“I guess not. So are you ready to go inside?” I smiled brightly.
He looked at me for a second — debating whether or not to push me further, probably — then got to his feet. “Sure.”
“Let me just open the door for you, and you can look around as much as you want.” I got the new key out of the lockbox and into the lock. “There you go. Have fun.”
I pushed the door open and smiled him in. He didn’t move.
“After you, darlin’.”
“I think I’ll just stay out here, if you don’t mind.”
He grinned. “Scared?”
I shrugged.
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the ghostly ghoulies.” He lifted his arms and wiggled his fingers suggestively, in the manner of ghostly ghoulies everywhere. Muscles bunched under the tight sleeves of the T-shirt.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m afraid of you ?” I said.
Obviously it hadn’t, because he looked stunned. For just a second before his face and eyes were smooth and under control again. His voice was light. “Can’t say as it did, darlin’. But now that I know, I’ll be sure to keep my distance.” He ducked through the door before I had time to answer. I pulled a face. I hadn’t meant it that way, exactly.
In the end I stayed outside just long enough to — hopefully — give him time to simmer down before I went inside. “Rafe?”
“In here.” The voice came from the back of the house. I headed that way.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like I’m doing?” He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking around. I stepped onto the cracked vinyl and did the same.
Back in the days when the house on Potsdam was built, the kitchen was a separate building at a safe distance from the main house. That way, the house wouldn’t catch fire if the kitchen did. As time progressed and cooking over an open flame became a thing of the past, people decided they liked the convenience of having a kitchen that was part of the house, and those houses that weren’t originally built with kitchens, had one tacked on or inserted somewhere. Back home in Sweetwater, one of the smaller rooms on the first floor has been converted to a kitchen. Here, an extra room had been added to the back of the original structure. From the looks of it, it had happened sometime in the 1930s, and nothing had changed appreciably since then, except for a new stove and refrigerator. ‘New’ being relative terms; they were avocado-green and dated from the -70s
“This needs a complete overhaul,” I remarked, in my
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