Pick Your Poison by Leann Sweeney

with an alligator with chapped lips,” I mumbled, following him.
    Once inside, I saw he’d been hard at work. The scent of pine welcomed me when I entered, and the ceiling fan in the parlor was spinning furiously. The wooden shades were all open, revealing gleaming windows.
    Steven was in the kitchen watching a few roaches squirm in the throes of chemical death on the tile floor.
    “Looks like a different place. I’m impressed,” I said, nodding in appreciation.
    My reaction seemed to soften him up a little, because he almost smiled. “I paid the cleaning crew a hundred and the exterminator fifty. My treat. But where in hell have you been?”
    “Sorry, but I had a few visitors this morning.”
    Steven pointed to a spray bottle on the counter. “While I remember, the bug man left extra juice in case a few critters need an extra push to roach heaven.”
    “There’s always some who hang on. Have you eaten yet?” I asked.
    “No, and I’m pretty darn hungry. Let’s head for the beach and the shrimp. These chemicals may be odorless, but I don’t like to hang around right after the exterminator has done his business. Stuff is pretty potent.”
    “How did you know I was craving seafood?” I said as we walked out through the back door.

    Stan’s Shrimp Shack, a tiny restaurant off Seawall Boulevard, had few customers, so we had our choice of tables. We sat in the corner farthest from the bar. Between mouthfuls of crab salad, I filled Steven in on what I had learned about Ben after the funeral yesterday and how I hoped to find answers.
    “So you talked the county mountie out of his paperwork, huh?” He peeled a shrimp and dunked it in hot sauce. “I knew you couldn’t keep your pretty nose out of this mystery.”
    “Hey, I can do what I want with my pretty nose.”
    “And how I love it when you remind me. Let’s talk about the house. That’s what I’m doing in Galveston, right?”
    “I know the place is in bad shape,” I said.
    We spent the next thirty or forty minutes discussing the needed renovations, and by the time he finished, I wondered if we might be better off tearing the place down and starting over.
    Steven, who could still read my mind as well as ever, said, “And don’t even think about razing the Victorian. I contacted the city, and the house is more than a hundred years old. You don’t tear down hundred-year-old houses in Galveston without dealing with reams of paperwork and getting multiple stamps of approval.”
    “Okay. But this sounds like a huge undertaking. Can you handle this project alone?” I asked.
    “No way. But I will get the house in good enough shape to last through hurricane season. Fix the roof, replace windows, that kind of stuff. Meanwhile, I’ve arranged to have a more experienced renovator come by and take a look.”
    I nodded. “You’ve impressed me twice in one day, Steven. Sounds like I hired the right man. But we haven’t discussed your fee.”
    He stiffened. “I don’t want your money. I got enough when we divorced.”
    “That’s not what you told the judge.”
    “Hey, I was knee-walking, spit-slinging drunk the day we finalized. You can’t hold me to anything I said back then.”
    “Okay. Maybe that’s so. But I’m still paying you for your work. I want this to be a professional relationship.”
    “You don’t want to owe me? Is that it?” He sat back, arms folded across his chest.
    How did he always manage to turn things around? I took a deep breath. “If you want, I’ll have Willis work with you about payment. That way you and I can stay clear of touchy issues like money.”
    He said nothing for several seconds; then his face relaxed in a smile. “Good idea.”
    I smiled back, relieved. If Steven stayed sober and if we both controlled our tempers, this renovation might actually be fun.

    We went back to the Victorian after lunch, and he showed me where we needed the most urgent repairs, pointed out the phone he’d had installed, and then went