"Scott Nicholson - Must See to Appreciate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nicholson Scott)

put together by looking at the floor joists. A house needs a good
foundation, especially when it’s clinging to the side of a ridge.”

Damn, Reynolds thought. “David, you’re a man after my own heart. A
real fixer-upper, I’ll bet. Not that you’ll need to do much work on this house.”

Even though every corner is slightly out of square.

Reynolds thought about slapping David gently on the back to
punctuate the statement, then decided against it. David seemed more like
the firm-handshake, no-nonsense type. A tough sell. A man that was hard to
sucker. The kind of man who wore a little tape measure on his belt.

Reynolds headed toward the door that led to the basement stairs.
The chill crept over him as he palmed the door handle. He put an ear to the
door, pretending to check the hinges when actually he was listening for the
spook. Damned thing had cost him a commission three times already. He
made a show of looking at his watch. “You said you had to meet your wife at
the airport?”

“Yeah,” David said, studying the blown gypsum ceiling for cracks.
“But there’s plenty of time.”

“Traffic can be a bear around here. You may have noticed that all the
roads are twisty, and you’re bound to get behind some flatlander
tourist—no offense, mind you.”

David stepped to the basement door. “I’ll manage.”

“David, this is a whole lot of house for the money, David,” Reynolds
blurted. Had he said David’s name twice? In realtor finishing school, he’d
learned that you used the name of the potential buyer as much as possible.
But maybe he was overdoing it. He was losing his concentration. Sweat
pooled in the armpits of his shirt and stained his serge jacket. He lightly bit
his lip to bring himself under control. The bite turned into a disguising smile.

David smiled back. The man was too patient, in Reynolds’ opinion.
One of those forty-somethings who had already finished his life’s work, his
bank account probably set for the downhill run. Had a kid at Duke and one in
an academy somewhere, a tennis-playing wife who probably came from old
textile money. Reynolds saw no troubles in that tan, placid face, and a flare
of jealousy rocketed across his heart.

But it wasn’t David’s fault that Reynolds dropped eighty grand in a
sour time-share deal. No, not time-share. Interval ownership was the new
gold-plated term for it. But by any name, Reynolds was in the hole and had
a lot riding on this sale. Haunted house or not.

David switched on the flashlight. Reynolds turned the knob and let the
basement door swing fully open. The hinges creaked like an old woman’s