7. Crystals and Scumbags

Chapter 7

Crystals and Scumbags

Joy bid a reluctant good-bye to Sunny and Luna, locking the door on her way out just as Charlie had instructed. As she walked toward Crystal Harmony Haven, her newly washed shoe squishing slightly—and still stinking—it occurred to her how nice his gesture had been. He hadn't needed to open his home to her, yet he had, and he'd trusted her enough to leave her there alone.

"So you could snoop through his stuff and empty the contents of his medicine cabinet," she huffed aloud into the morning air that was quickly heating up.

Her mind turned over his bare medicine cabinet. One time, when she'd been washing her hands in Sterling's master bath, his had swung open, revealing a space crammed with every man cosmetic on the market. Even clear nail polish. Such a contrast.

It occurred to her she was ravenous again. Instead of returning to Mountain Coffee, where irate customers might recognize her—and where the proprietors would see just what a piggy she was making of herself—she made a quick stop at the general store to cash in her two water vouchers and grab packing materials and snacks. Prepackaged, processed junk had never been her jam, yet here she was, loaded down with fruit cups, beef jerky, and popcorn. Because her choices were on the healthy side—okay, borderline healthy—she added a bag of Reese's Pieces for dessert. The mountain air had to be fueling this hunger. Or maybe she was stress-eating, except she didn't do that either , despite her high-anxiety lifestyle.

Back inside her mother's store, she set her purchases down and took another tour around the place, telling herself to take slow, even breaths within the oppressive walls. She felt herself falling back into a dark place, like being locked in a tiny hall closet, where gut-wrenching memories swirled around her like a band of Death Eaters from a Harry Potter movie. Ever since she'd been given the news of her mother's death, when she realized what stood before her, they'd been slamming into her, making her reel—and that was before Charlie had delivered the devastating news that she was stuck with this heap of rotten boards and the memories trapped inside it. If she didn't hold herself in check, he would become a lucky witness to a wrestling match with her demons.

Dragging her butt back to the kitchen, she blanked out and turned on the faucet. She would beat this death grip her mother had on her. She was a big girl now, safe from the clutches of adults who had made her feel insignificant and unworthy.

The water ran clear, she suddenly realized. Ah, the miracles of modern chemistry … or whatever had caused the welcome change. One celebratory pirouette, and she shut it off.

"Woo! One problem down and only 99,999 to go."

She snagged a water bottle and popped its top as she crossed the threshold into the store. What the hell was she going to do with all this crap?

As if her sister had heard her silent question, her number flashed on Joy's phone. Joy pushed out a breath and picked up. "Hi, Mary."

"Hello, Joy. How goes it?"

"You've seen this place. How do you suppose it goes?" Joy replied in a clipped tone.

Mary snorted. "Not only have I seen it, but I've lived it." Mary never missed an opportunity to remind Joy how she had nursed their mother during her final days. Never mind that Mary was a nurse, or that Joy had offered to split the load and help care for their mother—or hire a nurse in Colorado to do it—but Mary had informed her that neither she nor Helene wanted Joy around or any "handouts" from her. They hadn't been close for years, but there was no sugarcoating it: that had hurt.

"The only new thing in there is the bed in the second bedroom," Mary continued. "It was the one luxury Mom allowed and a must-have if I was going to stay there as long as I did."

Mary was Helene's golden child, so it came as no surprise that their mother had granted her wish. Helene had always treated Mary as a real flesh-and-blood daughter, not one to be discarded like she had Joy. Despite the bitter feelings Joy clung to, she was glad Mary had been there. She was a trained nurse, and having Mary by their mother's side must have brought her much-needed comfort at the end.

Mary's next question pulled Joy from her morass of thoughts. "How did your meeting with the contractor go?"

"Honestly, I have mixed feelings. He's pushing to take the improvements to the nth degree, and I'm still not convinced we have to do any renovating at all."

"Who did you pick?"

Mary's voice was charged with challenge, and Joy's defensive dander got up. "Past Perfect Restorations. My research indicated they're the best at dealing with these old structures, and there's no one with a better reputation within a hundred-mile radius."

"Charlie Hunnicutt? Exactly who I would have recommended, had you asked my opinion." An unexpected compliment laced with a barb that struck at Joy's frail fortress walls. She took a swig of water to counter the sting. Mary's voice took on a wicked tone. "Not to mention that man is what dreams are made of."

Joy nearly choked on her sip. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Even you, Joy Holiday, are not immune to those eyes … those muscles … that flowing blond hair."

"He doesn't have flowing blond hair!" she sputtered. Had she just admitted to admiring his eyes and his muscles? Crap!

"That's a crying shame, though it doesn't take away from the other stuff, including the tats. Yum."

Mary had never mentioned men and appeal in the same sentence, and Joy's head spun. The effect paralyzed her mouth .

Mary didn't seem to notice, running full steam ahead. "Here are my two cents, whether you want them or not. Mom would have been thrilled to know Charlie Hunnicutt was chosen for the job. She loved Charlie—like the rest of the women in town." Mary dropped her voice into a husky range on the last bit. "He always took care of little things that went wrong with the house and never charged Mom. When he'd be here fixing things, they would talk on and on about improvements and making that place shine for all the town to see. That was a dream of hers, you know, but she ran low on money and faculties, and those hopes faded like her hair color."

Joy held back a frustrated snort. "Why would I want to risk the estate's only asset to fulfill the dream of a woman who's no longer here and who didn't care enough about me to even tell me she had that dream?" The words were out, and she couldn't reel them back in.

"What exactly is at risk? It should sell for top dollar once it's done, and we'll split the profits."

"And who's going to pony up the money for this renovation? Mom certainly didn't leave enough for that kind of extravagance." Dead silence. I thought so . "You expect me to pay for it, don't you?"

"You have more money than God, Joy." Mary had no clue how much Joy was worth. Nevertheless, her resentment toward whatever she imagined it to be rang clear in the bitterness of her tone.

"That's a teeny-weeny exaggeration, Mary, but what I do have I worked my ass off for. We all make choices, and you made yours and became a health care professional, for which I commend and admire you. I went a different route, and I've done well with it, but I'm not planning to piss it away on someone else's dream. That would be a nice deal for you, though, wouldn't it?" Joy's heart slammed against her chest, and she drew in a deep, calming breath to stave off an anxiety attack.

"What do you mean?" Mary snapped.

"I put up the money and do all the work, while you sit on your hands. Somehow, you still collect half when it sells."

"Charlie's the one doing the remodel, not you."

"Doesn't work like that. I have a laundry list of responsibilities, including supervision, making sure the utilities stay on, keeping insurance in place, and paying for Charlie's services and the materials—to name a few. "

"You could pay yourself back from the proceeds. With interest." Mary didn't sound quite so bold now.

"Unless the interest rate is bumping up against usury limits, it won't be enough."

"You are such a bitch, Joy. No wonder Mom didn't want you around." Joy refused to take the bait, pressing her lips together until Mary capitulated. "Fine. Deal with the store however you want."

"I will because that's exactly what an executor is supposed to do." She wanted to add—but refrained—that their mother had chosen Joy because she was the best woman for the job.

They hung up, and Joy caught her breath and brought her pulse back under control. She'd avoided a panic attack, so there was that. Progress. Wait till I tell my therapist. Yay, me!

Absently, she wondered how many more conversations she would have to have with her sister through this process. And would they talk at all once it was over? Other than their parents, they had zero in common, so probably not.

She stood staring at the filthy crystals suspended in the store's front window. They had been pretty once, their shiny surfaces catching and reflecting the light in tiny prismed rainbows. Now they were caked in years of dust, hidden beneath layers where the light couldn't reach. It was a sad metaphor for her mother's last years.

It was also time to purge.

Gnawing on a piece of leathered jerky, she taped a box together and began sorting debris on the floor so she could clear a path to the crystals. Might as well start somewhere . Some of the items could be donated, while others were headed to the nearest dumpster. But there was a third category she hadn't expected: pretty things someone might pay for once they were cleaned up. Wasn't that her job as executor too? To capitalize on anything of value ?

A giant geode caught her eye, and she crouched down and traced its grimy surface with her fingers. This had to be worth something, didn't it? Without thinking, she polished its smooth side with her forearm, using her designer sleeve as a buffing cloth. The thing was beautiful, made of turquoise stone ringed in dark blue. Charlie had mentioned a company who did estate sales. Maybe if she—

The front door whooshed open, revealing a fifty-ish portly man with a receding hairline and tinted glasses that changed according to the light. Right now they were a dark blue, quickly clearing to a light blue. He flashed her a white-toothed smile. "Ah, good! I've been stopping by for weeks now, hoping to catch someone here."

Who had left the front door open? Joy had come in the back way.

She popped up to meet him and had to lower her gaze an inch. Beyond the window, on the sidewalk, a flash of green shirt caught her eye as it hurried away. She pocketed the detail. "And you are?"

The intruder extended a beefy hand. "I'm Carl. Weatherly. Carl Weatherly."

His overexuberant smile didn't reach his now-visible brown eyes, and she studied him warily as they exchanged handshakes. Something in their dark depths raised the hairs on her neck and was completely at odds with his jolly persona, which made no sense.

"I'm Joy Holiday."

Carl wore a cobalt-blue polo shirt that accentuated his round belly. Stitched on the left side was a white logo in the shape of a hexagon with the letters CDW . Below it were words too small to read without her looking like she was checking out his left pec.

His expression brightened. "Holiday. You must be related to Helene." He immediately dropped his head and wagged it back and forth. "So sorry to hear about her passing. Dreadful, dreadful." Then he waved toward the crystals hanging in the window. "I see you decided to keep a few and shine them up, eh? Nice touch. Very eye-catching."

Her defensive hackles went up. She'd been curious how the more unique crystals would look, but she didn't need or want this guy's opinion on the subject—it was neither welcome nor genuine. He was a terrible actor.

Joy folded her arms over her chest. "What can I do for you, Mr. Weatherly? "

"Carl. Call me Carl." He slid out a portfolio he'd had tucked under his arm, opened it, and extracted a business card. "CDW Construction. I work in Fall River."

Funny. She hadn't come across the name when she'd been looking for contractors, and Joy prided herself on being thorough.

"Interesting. Where in Fall River?"

He lifted his chin toward the back of the shop. "Right now I've got a big remodel job going on at a local restaurant. Ever heard of Dell's? It's owned by a sharp businessman, a lawyer named Bruno Keating."

"Can't say as I've heard of either. Is Dell's on Bowen Street?"

"No, but it's only one block over. Well worth the walk." He smiled so hard his lips stretched over his pearly whites, and she wondered if they might break. "Anyway, I thought I'd stop by, introduce myself, and see how I can be of service."

"Service as in …"

He looked around. "Place looks like it could use some work, and that's right up my alley. You have to be careful who you deal with around here. Too many unscrupulous people in this business."

Joy raised an eyebrow. And are you one of them, Mr. Weatherly? "Actually, I was thinking of tearing it down."

He didn't flinch. "Not a bad move. It's definitely a candidate for a flaming arrow, isn't it?" He guffawed. She raised the other eyebrow, and he cleared his throat. "We can help with that too. Tearing it down, I mean. What did you have in mind, timing-wise?"

"Well, I—my family and I haven't decided yet, and it must be a unanimous decision. You understand." He nodded that he did. "I just arrived yesterday—I'm out of state, you see—and I'm getting the lay of the land, so please forgive my ignorance, but I thought I heard something about a historical designation for the entire town. How does that affect demolishing the building?"

"Doesn't affect it at all." His voice was buttery smooth.

"So there's nothing to the historical thing?"

"Different rules for different folks." He gave her a sly wink that made her skin itch. "The town would be happy to see these wooden heaps disappear so they can put up something new."

Not exactly a straight answer to her question, but still, it juiced up her doubts about what Charlie had told her .

"And if I decide to rehab it instead?"

"Sure, sure. We can do that too."

"Do you have the …" She tapped her chin and looked up at the ceiling, going for her best helpless-me act. "Let's see now. What are they called? Certifiables? Credentials? Ah. The certifications needed to deal with things like lead-based paint?"

His barrel chest puffed. "Of course we do. Don't you worry about these silly details, little lady. That's my department." There came the fake smile again, raising her irritation a rung or five.

Little lady, my ass.

"I'm talking to a few other companies."

"Oh? May I ask which ones?"

"Past Perfect Restorations, for one. Have you heard of them?" Her voice was so syrupy she could have lured flies with it.

He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I have, but nothing good, I can tell you that. You should stay away from that bunch. They charge you superior prices for inferior materials, and they cut every corner possible." He held up his palm like he was being sworn to give testimony.

"Can you give me examples? Maybe a job they did recently where the client was unhappy? I'm just curious."

He pursed his lips. Now he reminded her of a fish. "I'd rather not say. Professional courtesy, you know? I'm a businessman with integrity. I try not to badmouth other companies." He beamed again. It was like he had an on-off switch that he flicked, and it was creepy as hell.

Warning lights went off in her head. In her experience, people who had to tell you what they were, were the opposite. Suddenly, all of her wanted this scumbag out of here. Charlie Hunnicutt might be blowing smoke up her ass, but at least he had some redeeming qualities. This guy? She doubted he had even one.

She opened the front door in an invitation for him to leave. Waving his card in the air, she faked a smile of her own. "Thanks for stopping by, Carl. I'll give you a call when I have more time so we can discuss details."

"Sure, sure."

She practically slammed the door on his grinning mug. Then she locked it.