Читать книгу A Killing Frost - Margaret Haffner - Страница 13

Catherine was in her study wrestling with a data analysis program on her computer when the doorbell rang. Her eyes narrowed – she wasn’t expecting anyone. She strode over to the window and strained to see the front door, but it was hidden by the juniper bushes. Should she just ignore it? It was likely just a salesman, or a canvasser for some charity. Still, she could use a break. She descended the stairs as the bell sounded again. She crept into the living-room and parted the curtains just enough to peek out. She didn’t recognize the stocky, balding man, but he looked harmless. His heavy boots and ragged T-shirt gave him the air of a workman.

She opened the door a crack. ‘Yes?’

‘So you are home,’ the man exclaimed. ‘I was about to give up.’

Catherine didn’t release the chain. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’m Dias. I’m here about your window.’

‘Window? What window?’

‘Ernie Grant said you had a broken basement window you wanted fixed,’ he explained with a touch of impatience.

Her brow cleared and she smiled. ‘Of course. Come on in.’ She released the chain and stepped back to let him enter. ‘I don’t usually do small jobs,’ he said, ‘I’m a contractor not a carpenter. But Grant asked me special. Said you was in a hurry.’

‘Sort of,’ she admitted with an apologetic smile. ‘The way the window is now, anyone could get in.’

‘Well, I’d best have a look at it.’ He scratched his belly as he headed for the basement door. ‘Shouldn’t be a big job.’

He seemed to be familiar with the house and Catherine let him lead the way into the dank cellar. ‘It’s the one on the east side,’ she said, as she followed him down the stairs, but he was already heading towards it. By the time she stood beside him under the window, Dias had it open. ‘The hinges is busted,’ he said.

‘I know.’

He dug into the window frame with his dirty thumbnail. ‘Frame’s rotten too.’ He sucked on his teeth, eyeing the opening.

Catherine waited for the verdict. ‘Well?’ she prompted.

‘Needs a whole new window. Frame, seating …’ He eased the window shut. ‘Can’t do it today.’

Dismay and disappointment struggled for supremacy on her face. ‘But it’s already been over a week …’

Dias scratched his ample belly yet again. ‘I can send Manuel around to do the measuring later today, I suppose …’

‘Manuel?’

‘My nephew. He works odd jobs for me after school. Guess I could let him do the work tomorrow.’

Catherine smiled. ‘That would be wonderful.’

She couldn’t conceal her relief and the contractor grinned, revealing a glint of gold in his eyetooth. ‘It won’t be a great job, mind you. Manuel can put in a window, but it won’t be pretty.’ He led the way back upstairs. ‘I wouldn’t let the boy do it if it wasn’t in the basement.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘My sister seems to think he’s the Michelangelo of carpentry.’

‘Just as long as it’s secure,’ Catherine assured him, ‘I don’t care what it looks like.’

Dias stepped out on to the porch. ‘Then he’ll be along to measure in an hour or so.’ He sketched a wave and ran down the steps. ‘I’ll set a fire under his ass.’

The fire must have been a hot one, because the youth was ringing the bell in much less than an hour. If she hadn’t been apprised of his coming, Catherine wouldn’t have answered the door to the skinny youth with the lank, black hair and the piggy eyes.

He surprised her, however, with his polite, articulate address. ‘This is my assistant, Jimmy Grant, ma’am,’ he said, indicating a beefy, ruddy-faced teenager beside him. ‘We’ll try not to make too much mess.’ He wiped his feet carefully on the mat. ‘Tomorrow, after I get the old window out, I’ll lower my equipment through the hole.’

‘Don’t worry about a mess,’ Catherine replied, resisting the impulse to brush his hair out of his eyes and running her fingers through her own instead. ‘Just be sure it’s strong.’

Manuel raced lightly down the stairs into the gloom while the Grant boy lumbered after him. She hesitated in the doorway at the top. ‘Don’t bother coming down,’ the young man called. ‘We’ll only be a minute.’ Catherine hovered at the top of the staircase watching them.

‘We’ll be here around three-thirty tomorrow afternoon,’ Manuel said when they came back up. He stowed his tape measure in his jeans’ pocket. ‘You don’t have to stay home if it’s not convenient. Just leave us a key.’

But Catherine had no intention of letting anyone into her home when she wasn’t around. ‘I have plenty of work I can do here,’ she said. She dismissed as imagination the shadow of annoyance she saw flit across his narrow face.