Aurora 04 - The Julius House by Charlaine Harris Read Free Book Online Page A

five foot ten, swarthy-skinned, with muscles that were truly impressive, even to one used to Martin’s muscular build. His hair was a dusty black, shaggy, only a few threads of gray, and his mustache was the kind that framed his mouth. His eyes were blue, and he wore old jeans and a faded T-shirt. His hands looked broad and hard.
    “Miss Teagarden?” he asked, in a pleasant voice. “I’m Shelby Youngblood.” I’d expected him to growl.
    “I’m glad to meet a friend of Martin’s,” I said honestly. “Please call me Roe.”
    We shook hands. His were very hard, ridged and scarred.
    “Come see the garage apartment,” I suggested.
    I got my keys and led the way, out the kitchen, under the roofed walkway, over to the garage with the covered stairs running up the side closest to the house. I unlocked the door at the top, and we went in. Since the garage was not only more than wide enough for two cars, but had a deep storage room running all its width along the back, the apartment was larger than one expected from outside. It was a very good size for one person—it was basically one large open room. I hoped two people would be comfortable there. The bathroom was small but adequate, and more modern than the ones in the house, since it was the Juliuses who had turned what had been a glorified hayloft into an apartment for Mrs. Julius’s mother. The tiny kitchen was not meant for producing a full Thanksgiving feast, but would be bearable for someone who was not an enthusiastic cook.

    I looked at Shelby Youngblood inquiringly.
    “Is this okay?” I asked, when he didn’t say anything.
    “It’s fine,” he said with some surprise, as if he hadn’t realized I was waiting for his verdict.
    “This carpet is mildewed, I think the carpet pad is, too,” I said, wrinkling my nose. I hadn’t noticed this the other time I’d looked at the apartment. “I’ll replace it. Is there any color you particularly like? Anything that might match your furniture . . . ?”
    “Right now, we don’t have any,” he said calmly.
    He seemed amused.
    All right! What was so damn funny about not having furniture, about my wanting to know if their furniture was any color I should be mindful of when I ordered carpet! Didn’t most people in their forties have furniture? It wasn’t as if I’d asked about his racial origin or asked him to describe a shrimp fork. I could feel myself turning red.
    “Angel and I haven’t been in one place long enough to accumulate much,” he said, and I nodded curtly.
    “Then I’ll rent it furnished,” I said, and turned and walked out.
    I stomped down the stairs breathing heavily.
    I spied John Henry’s wife’s best friend’s son going into my house with a cigarette in his mouth.
    “Excuse me!” I called.
    He stopped and turned.
    This kid had an attitude, no doubt about it. He looked at me as if I’d crawled out from under a rock to question his God-given right to smoke in my house.
    “Please put out the cigarette before you go in,” I said as evenly as I could manage, coming to a stop in the front yard a few feet away from the boy as he stood on my front steps.
    He rolled his eyes and sneered. It was one of those teenage grimaces that make you amazed that so many of them survive to adulthood. Of course teenagers had acted like this in the library, and I had handled it then, but a few months away had resensitized me.
    Already angry, I was now inwardly berserk. What this translated to on the outside was that I had my hands clenched in fists by my side, my jaw felt soldered together, and all I needed to complete my Shirley Temple imitation was to stick my lip out.
    The boy dropped the cigarette on my wooden porch and ground it out with his foot. He took another step inside.
    “Pick it up,” suggested a quiet voice from behind me.
    “Huh?” The boy’s mouth was open in amazement at this novel idea.
    “Pick it up and put it in your pocket,” the quiet voice said, as if it were implanting a