Curb Appeal by Jeff Widmer

Author:Jeff Widmer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, beach, house, female sleuth, tourist, florida, agent, real estate, appearance, luxury
Publisher: Jeff Widmer

20.

THE NEXT DAY after the showing, I packed food for Sugar Bear, walked her next door to Cheryl’s and begged for mercy. Cheryl yelled for five minutes about impulse control. In the end, I played the trump card: my goddaughter, Tracy, had always wanted a dog. All I required were visitation rights.

Cheryl called me a menace and raised her hands in surrender. I gave Sugar Bear a hug and promised I wouldn’t be too late.

Ten minutes later, Skip collected me in his GMC pickup. He wore khaki green cargoes, a shirt with pockets in the sleeves and a proprietary smile that bordered on smug. I’d worn shorts, sandals and a white top with a big red image of a hibiscus and suddenly felt underdressed.

“Where did you say we’re going?” I was too distracted by the virtual debt I was racking up with Cheryl to notice much except the truck shooting onto the interstate.

“This place serves the best burgers in all of Palmetto County. You’ll like it.”

“And that’s why you’re dressed like GI Joe?”

“I promised you an evening to remember.”

“I hope,” I said, “it doesn’t involve physical combat.”

“You can never tell.”

Steering with a knee, he popped a Keith Urban CD into the dash. The sound of “Heart Like Mine” tumbled out of the speakers, Keith singing about a headstrong man with a jealous streak.

I tried to mine Skip’s features for a clue to the man beneath the uniform. Was he loving, confused or dangerous? I gave up on the analysis as the truck entered a side road so choked with vegetation it looked like a tunnel.

“Seriously,” I said. “Where are we going? Costa Rica?”

“Private party. Invitation only.”

“I should be flattered.”

“Wait ’til you see the favors.”

Skip took a right, turned into a shell-covered lot and parked next to a long building that resembled a picnic pavilion. As we stepped from the truck, I heard the report of small caliber weapons and knew that we’d arrived at the Palmetto County sheriff’s gun range. A nervous twitch worked its way through my stomach. I hadn’t fired a weapon in more than two years, not since I’d been forced to shoot a fellow officer in the line of duty. It was a nightmare I couldn’t shake, and didn’t want to repeat. Avoiding guns was my way of avoiding those feelings.

Finally I found my voice. “This is your idea of a romantic evening?”

Skip pulled a duffle bag from the truck bed and cocked his head for me to follow. “You wanted excitement.”

“When did I say that?”

“When you tried to plough me under with the Jet Ski.”

Flashing a smile, he marched the duffel under a wooden canopy.

The range itself resembled a coal mine, with a roof supported by pressure-treated lumber. At the back, a stack of railroad ties formed a low wall below the targets, the targets hanging in front of a dirt berm that stopped the lead. In front, where we stood, a pair of picnic tables sat on a pad. Concrete lanes numbered one through twenty ran front to back.

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