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working a summer job. Paisley pictured a teenager snapping gum and sporting hot-pink streaks in her hair. "The little white place on old Highway 30, near where the river curves around? A big oak tree in front?"
    "That's right," Paisley said, trying to hide her impatience. She wanted to make an appointment, not have a leisurely chat with a stranger.
    But the girl would not be hurried. "I thought so. A nice little old lady lived there. There aren't many houses on that side of town, that's why I recognized the address. Hang on, please."
    Classical music filled her ear: The Hall of the Mountain King , by Grieg. At least the contractor Bruce Harris had good musical taste, Paisley thought.
    A few minutes into the first movement, the melody broke off and the young woman returned, sounding crestfallen. "Gosh, sorry, lady, but it looks like we're all booked up. The earliest we can take you is in four weeks."
    "Four weeks?" Paisley couldn't hide her incredulity.
    "Sorry," the girl repeated. "This is a busy time of year for us. But there's a nice motel in town. You could stay there in the meantime."
    Paisley removed her cell phone from her ear and stared at it. Ray had suggested that as well. Did everyone in this area own stock in the local motel? She put the phone back to her ear.
    "That's not acceptable," she said firmly. "The only reason I came to River Bend was to stay in this particular house." Otherwise, she would be in New York right now, soaking in a bubble bath, being pampered by sympathetic friends, and taking in an occasional show at the Lincoln Center. The thought seemed appealing, and once again she wondered why she had rejected Ray and Barry's advice. Pure stubbornness, probably.
    "I'm afraid you'll have to wait until we've got an opening. Maybe there will be a cancellation before then, but I can't make any promises."
    "Thanks," Paisley said grudgingly, and hung up. She sat staring at the phone for a minute, massaging her neck. No way would she sit around for a month until Bruce Harris shoehorned her into his busy schedule, nor was she going to knuckle under and retreat to the local Motel 6.
    Rummaging around, she found an ancient telephone book in a closet and flipped through the Yellow Pages until she found the only other home repairman listed within forty miles. The ad was nothing more than a couple of lines: the contractor's name, followed by a license number and a local phone number. It posed a stark contrast to the half-page spread for Bruce Harris. The good news was that this guy was probably less busy than Bruce, she thought. And, with luck, cheaper.
    No one answered the first five rings, dousing her hopes. Then, just before the phone went to voice mail, a sleepy male voice yawned into the receiver. "Yeah? Who is this?"
    For some reason Paisley didn't hang up immediately, although she had obviously dialed a wrong number. "Sorry. I was trying to reach Marvin McMurtry Construction."
    Curiosity crept into the voice, which sounded slightly less sleepy. "This is McMurtry Construction. What do you want?"
    Whoever was on the other end of the line sounded as if he were still in bed, although, when she glanced at her watch, she saw it was four o'clock in the afternoon. What kind of construction company was this? No wonder the real estate agent had recommended the competition.
    With misgivings, she explained what she had in mind.
    A longer silence followed. Then, "The Perleman place, huh? Sure, I know it. Exactly what kind of repairs were you thinking of?"
    Her initial picture of a paunchy guy scratching a hairy armpit evaporated when she realized the male voice was younger and lighter than it had first sounded, now that it was no longer hoarse with sleep.
    She remembered Ray's warning about calling a stranger from the yellow pages, but desperation spurred her on. She couldn't live in the house in its current condition, not even for a few days. "Some roof tiles need to be replaced. And the water heater doesn't work." Paisley