Page 4 of A Murderous Crow
“That, I do…” I muttered, moving the mouse on my PC to wake it up.
“Anything for me to do?” she asked.
“Not right now,” I told her.
She pushed off the edge of my desk where she’d parked her shapely ass and said, “Holler if you need anything.” She arched one dark brow over her shoulder at me suggestively.
“Will do,” I said distractedly, scanning the emails up on my screen for anything that needed my immediate attention.
A new one popped up at the top from Savvy Savannah Davenport, and I scowled.
We had a meeting at three o’clock this afternoon, a phone call about the old Shriver’s place. Old man Beauregard was selling, my clients were buying, but it was a mess of what my clients could and could not modernize due to its place on the National Register of Historic Places. Thus, the negotiations had gotten… sticky.
It annoyed me that she was emailing me to confirm this afternoon’s appointment, like I’d forget. Avoiding confrontation was one of my father’s favored plays, but I was not my father. I relished the back-and-forth, the bargaining, and the sparring.
I loved the thrill of the chase, the hunt, and lived for the capture and the triumph of having the opposition bow to my will.
It was my thing, and when it came to the old Shriver place? Savvy Savannah was in my fucking way.
At least she was pretty, as far as prey went.
Chapter Three
Savannah…
Corbett Prescott was nothing short of incorrigible, and it was getting on my lastfuckingnerve! I shot him a text back, noting that I was about to show a place and that there was nothing more to discuss. Thatno, the current owners weren’t willing to go forward with the sale to his clients. They wanted to ensure their property went to someoneresponsiblewhen it came to the property’shistoricalhusbandry.
His buyers had lost them, and the sale would not move forward. There honestly wasn’t more to discuss. Now kindly let me get on with my day…Jesus H. Christ, typical male, he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer!
I put my phone on silent, texted my assistant back, and told him where I was – the Habersham property. It was one of ours, so I wouldn’t have to deal with Corbett Prescott or any of his bullshit. It was just a question of whether Hal Lindstrom would like it.
His budget wasveryforgiving, but by the same token, he was looking for just himself. He didn’t want or need anythingso grandiose as a five-bedroom,buthe still wanted something historic, and that would allow him to live that Jim Williams,Midnight in the Garden of Good and Eviltype fantasy.
I’d scoured listings and found something to start with that I thought might suit him. It was a one-bedroom, two-bath home for just under a million in the heart of the historic district, just off Columbia Square near Colonial Park Cemetery. There was plenty of fine dining and entertainment well within walking distance, however, it was on-street parking only. Still, while unassuming from the front, its two stories had beautiful porches overlooking a small patio garden in the back with huge potential for elegant entertaining within its twelve-hundred-square-foot footprint, and it had once belonged to the prominent Lane family. It checked more boxes than it didn’t where Hal was concerned.
I had gotten lucky and found parking on the street, right out front. I looked fondly at the 1995 Silver Jaguar XJS. It was the car my grandparents had bought the year I was born to celebrate their semi-retirement.
My grandfather hadlovedthat car, and my parents had taken ownership of it after his death. It’d barely been driven, and upon my college graduation, it had been gifted to me, just as my grandmother’s watch had been gifted to me by her at my high school graduation.
I loved both so much and missed home with a fierce ache in my chest. But that ache was one that would have to be pushed down and ignored, as a sleek black Tesla pulled up and stopped in the middle of Habersham Street, essentially double parking beside my Jag and flipping on its emergency flashers.
Ah, Hal’s Uber is here,I noted, as the man himself climbed out of the back and let his gaze critically eye the property’s front. I stood on the small front porch, forcing a smile as he slowlyclosed the door and stepped behind my Jag and up onto the low curb.
His Uber pulled away just in time, as the person behind them looked like they were about to lay on their horn to get them moving.
“Savannah, good evening!” Hal called out from the sidewalk, and I could hear the trepidation in his voice.
“Good evening, Mr. Lindstrom! Come on inside. I know it doesn’t look like much from the street, but once you’re inside, I’m sure you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” I laid my accent on thick as golden honey, and Hal didn’t bat an eye.
He came up the steps to the modest front stoop, and I pushed open the door to let him pass me into the cooler interior of the old Lane house.
“This is not…” he faltered, and cleared his throat as he passed into the living room, and I closed the door behind him.
“Oh, now, don’t you worry about a thing, honey.” I playfully patted his arm. “This is just the first of many properties I have to show you. This is just to get an idea. Now, I know it doesn’t look like much from the front, but just look at this, right here!”
As you entered the home, there was a hall that led directly into it – a living area off to the left with an upright piano against one wall and a modern working gas fireplace. The home was full of big, beautiful, tall windows, allowing plenty of natural light, and the stark-white walls made it feel voluminous.
It had a quaint dining room and a modern kitchen, both open to the living room, but, more importantly, to the vast entertaining space of the lower back porch and the small back garden.
