None So Blind by Barbara Fradkin Page A

suggested an old injury. Her opinion softened.
    Belatedly, he gestured to two chairs in front of his desk and then folded himself in behind. “What kind of place do you folks have in mind?”
    Sue glanced at Bob. He always let her do the talking, which sometimes got tiresome, but she sensed Mr. Pickup-truck-and-steel-toed-boots might do better with a man. “You go ahead, honey,” she said.
    But right off the bat, Bob stuttered. “A — a place we can grow into. Quiet and out of the way. The house doesn’t have to be big, as long as it has potential to add on. Most important is the land. Maybe five or ten acres? Wooded, natural. My wife wants to have horses.”
    Harris was already fiddling with his computer. “Will you be commuting? Where do you work?”
    “Downtown Ottawa.” Bob paused. “We’re police officers.”
    Harris’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Like all cops, Sue was used to that. People always did a quick inventory of their sins the minute they heard the word police . “So, not too far out into the country?”
    “No. And with good access to the highway.”
    “It’s a balancing act,” Sue added. “We want the acreage and privacy, but we have to be able to get to town fast.”
    Harris typed and clicked through several links before swivelling the computer monitor toward them. “Here’s a beauty that just came up. Two acres, new building. It’s a divorce, so they’re anxious to sell.”
    The price was outrageous. While Bob dithered, she told Harris so.
    “No problem,” he said, flashing those dentures again. “What range are you looking at?”
    She gave him a figure. His smile evaporated and his brows drew together. “That does limit our choices.”
    “It doesn’t have to be big and fancy. A little old house with some land attached would be perfect.”
    He led them through a few other properties, all of them atrocious. A shack that would be better off burned to the ground, and an old farmhouse stuck together with spit and cow dung as far as Sue could tell. Her hopes for country affordability began to fade.
    “Isn’t there some place that will at least stay standing while we fix it up?”
    Harris pursed his lips in disappointment. “Maybe Limoges or Embrun? They’re up and coming.”
    Sue gathered her purse and began to unfold her stiff body. “That’s too far out. But thank you for your time, Mr. Harris.”
    Harris tugged his lip. Twiddled his pen. “Well … just between us, there might be something coming up. I can’t promise anything, but I’ve been in to see it. The owner recently lost her husband …”
    Sue plunked back into her chair. “The Carmichael place?”
    Harris’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah! You’ve seen the place?”
    “Well, n — not inside,” Bob hastened to add. “The owner wasn’t interested.”
    More twiddling. “It’s a beautiful little property. And the price … the price would be close to your ballpark.”
    “But it’s not for sale,” Sue said.
    “Not yet. However …” He was tapping the pen now. “The owner’s son was in here just yesterday asking what they could get for it. I told him there could be developer interest — which there could be, so you’d have to act fast if you’re interested. The son seemed pretty pleased with the price and said he just needed time to work on his mother.”
    Sue remembered Marilyn Carmichael planted in the middle of her laneway with her arms crossed. Her son had his work cut out for him.
    “We can’t compete with developers, though,” said Bob gloomily. “They’ve got deeper pockets and fancier lawyers than us.”
    Sue was already scribbling their cell numbers on her card. “Can you call us if it comes on the market? We might be interested.”
    The agent glanced at her card before slipping it into his breast pocket. He gave a knowing smile. “I’ll let the son know.”
    Sue was at her desk catching up on routine reports when Paul Harris phoned the next day.
    “We’ve hit a slight snag on the