Read Optical Delusions in Deadwood for Free Online

A buffer strip of tall, scraggly weeds bunched up along the fence’s base.

          I tested the fence to make sure it wasn’t electrified, then clasped my fingers around the wire and peered down, down, down. I couldn’t see the bottom.

          How could I sell this?

          The answer popped in my head— territorial view.

          I grinned against the wire. Perfect!

          Then I remembered all of the warnings I’d been battered with this morning. I pushed away from the fence, back-peddling to the drive, hesitating in front of my Bronco.

          Okay, so Addy needed glasses and Layne needed shoes. Maybe I could find a part-time job in the evenings to help pay the bills until my clientele grew and regular commission checks started pouring in.

          A sheer white curtain twitched inside one of the downstairs windows, just enough to make me wonder if I’d really seen it move. I stared. It twitched again.

          Someone was watching me. I might as well make my appearance, see the inside of the place, and then say my goodbyes.

          I was not going to offer to list the Carharts’ house, I reminded myself on the way up the steps of the wide, one-story porch. No way, not even if their home’s interior glimmered with as much potential as the exterior. I’d catch way too much crap for even considering it.

          The porch floorboards didn’t creak under my feet. I added a little extra bounce with each step. Still nothing. Hmmm. Maybe it was newly rebuilt. I could add that as a selling point ... if I were going to list their house, which I wasn’t, of course.

          The front door opened before I had a chance to knock.

          Millie’s owl eyes met mine through the screen door. “Come in, Miss Parker.” She opened the screen just enough to hurry me through it.

          I’d anticipated a musty smell for some reason, probably because Millie and Wanda had a musty look about them. I’d also envisioned long shadows and dark wood accents—a structural version of Millie herself.

          Apparently, my inner prophet needed glasses, too.

          Myriad Tiffany-style stained glass lights filled the foyer and adjacent formal sitting room. From table lamps to floor lamps to wall sconces to chandeliers, stained glass tints filled the rooms with pastel shades of red, blue, green, and yellow happiness.

          Light caramel stain added warm charm. In the sitting room, islands of thick cream-colored shag rugs floated on long, narrow slabs of birch flooring. A burgundy leather sofa pinned down one rug; a matching chair and ottoman occupied the other. Millie ushered me toward the chair. Its ultra-soft leather caressed the backs of my bare legs as I settled in.

          “I’ll go get Mother.” Millie spoke so quietly that I had to lean forward to hear her. “Would you like something to drink?”

          “A glass of water would be great, thank you.”

          Millie’s long wool skirt swished away, leaving me alone to absorb more of my surroundings. Off-white silk wallpaper dotted with flowers covered the walls. The high ceiling gleamed with a pearlescent shade of pink paint on pressed tin squares, each trimmed with decorative swirls.

          The scent of vanilla filled the rooms, so rich I could almost taste it on the back of my tongue. The faint sound of a Flamenco guitar filtered down a wide stairwell trimmed with an elaborately carved banister ending in pineapple-shaped newel posts.

          I settled into the soft cushions, imagining the bidding war this place could spur. If the rest of the house was as polished and enchanting, the online pictures alone would sell the property.

          I wondered in which room the murder took place. It certainly couldn’t have been this one. It was too calming, too pretty for such a gruesome scene. Maybe it was in the kitchen, where the rolling pin resided close and