Return of the Wolf Man by Jeff Rovin

said, “or the maximum allowable tax is levied.”
    “Levy it,” Caroline dared.
    “He won’t,” Pratt said. “Because then the Florida Probate Commission will have to review the case and I’ll argue that we made a reasonable effort to accommodate Mr. Porterhouse. If we win, they get the minimum allowable tax.”
    “You call this effort sincere?” squawked the assessor. “An opening the size of a doggie door?”
    “If the other shoe fits . . .” Banning said as he edged past Caroline.
    “Mr. Porterhouse,” Pratt said, “we cut a hole suitable for your size if not your attire, for which I’m truly sorry, and have placed no time restrictions on your examination. We stand here ready to help in any way we can. I would say that that constitutes a sincere effort. Which leaves us with option number three. You can stop complaining, go in there now, and get this damn thing over with.”
    Porterhouse stood still, his mouth drawn tight, his eyes furious little squints. After a long moment, he turned and stalked over to the two-foot-tall by three-foot-wide opening. “I don’t appreciate being bullied,” he said. “A formal complaint will be filed against the executor of the estate.”
    “And we don’t appreciate being threatened,” Pratt replied. “A countercomplaint will be waiting.”
    Porterhouse huffed once, then again. Then he looked at Caroline. “In deference to the grieving niece, I’ll go.”
    “Thank you,” Caroline said.
    Porterhouse removed a tape measure from his blazer pocket. Then he unshouldered his camera case, which hung from a long, leather strap. Finally, he slipped the jacket off, laid it carefully across the chair behind the desk, and squatted outside the opening. He flicked on the flashlight, shined it in, and poked his head through. He quickly withdrew it.
    “Lord!” he, said.
    “What’s wrong?” Caroline asked.
    “It smells foul down there.”
    “I can imagine,” Banning said. “It was pretty mildewy when I was down there.”
    Pratt crouched beside the tax man. “If you’ll agree that the basement’s between five and seven percent of the entire area of the house, as I’ve calculated, we can close it up and skip the smells.”
    “That is not the way to do a proper assessment,” Porterhouse said.
    “Suit yourself,” Pratt replied, rising. “We’ll see you later.”
    Frowning, Porterhouse pushed his camera through the opening, lowered himself to his knees, and squeezed in. He had to angle his shoulders to get his chest through. The sides of his belt caught on jagged pieces of brick. He had to jiggle to free himself.
    “Call if you need anything,” Pratt said.
    “A larger opening,” Porterhouse said as he struggled through.
    “Except that,” Pratt said. As Porterhouse vanished, Pratt turned to Caroline. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of this.”
    “It’s all right,” she said. “I actually feel kind of bad for him.”
    “Save it,” Pratt advised. “People who only see black and white make their own problems. There’s got to be give-and-take.”
    “I suppose so,” Caroline said.
    She stepped aside so Banning could lay a blanket on the old tiles. A moment later he pulled in a dolly loaded with fresh bricks. As she stepped back into the doorway Caroline saw that the full moon had risen high and proud over the mainland. She walked outside and smelled the salt air, felt the cool, refreshing breeze. Pratt followed her and they both stared up.
    “It’s funny how my great-aunt saw the moon and thought of vampires and werewolves,” she said.
    “Only a full moon for werewolves,” Pratt pointed out. “How did Ms. Raymond put it in The Wails of Wales? ‘The force that pulls man from God as irrevocably as it pulls the tides from the shore.’ ”
    Caroline smiled. “It’s strange. Whenever I look at the moon I feel a real sense of tranquility.”
    “So do I,” said Pratt. “In another of Ms. Raymond’s werewolf stories—‘Destiny,’ I think