“I put myself through school, and now I’ve made a success of my career. No thanks to my bitch of a sister. It taught me a lesson though. Now I find out everything there possibly is to know about a neighborhood before I sell there. I read the local papers front to back, and I maintain friendships with zoning board members and local developers. I won’t let my clients be caught by surprise.” She glared at me.
I swallowed. “Great. Good to know.”
“Oh, yes. That was the first and last deal where I ever lost money. You expect clients to screw you over, not family. And that, Daisy Buchanan, is why I didn’t speak to my sister.”
I blew out a breath and glanced out of the window. We passed a nursery and a farm stand, and the trees thinned to reveal acres of open land. There was the occasional house, but for a while there was nothing but grass and utility poles, until the two-lane road opened up into four lanes.
The road straightened and the powerful sedan started to cruise at higher speed, carrying me farther and farther away from where I wanted to be.
More homes were clustered together now, with actual yards carved out of the wilderness. It was a curious mix of farmhouses, ranchers, and well-maintained substantial properties. Bales of hay were rolled up next to the road in front of one old white farmstead, plain except for its decorative porch columns. A red barn sat next to it, the wooden slats rotted where they met the ground. Down the gravel-covered side roads were wide potholes full of rainwater.
The only sound in the car was the subtle hum of the climate-controlled airflow and the occasional click of Marybeth’s fingers against the steering wheel.
While it was obvious she was bitter toward Harriet, why kill her now, years later? And whoever the guest was that Harriet was expecting that night, it certainly wasn’t her sister.
We cut off River Road onto Lower York Road, passing more signs of civilization—a Dairy Queen, a gas station, an Italian restaurant, traffic lights, and shopping centers, until we came to our next destination, just past Peddler’s Village.
A nice cluster of one-story white buildings with black shutters and plenty of parking in front.
“Here’s the one I wanted to show you,” Marybeth said as she swung into the lot and parked in front of a freestanding building. “It’s a former antiques store, and the other shops are an art gallery and a saddle and tack shop. This is a great location, Daisy. You’ll capture the tourists coming from New Hope and Lahaska.”
She was right, but the busy thoroughfare didn’t quite have the small-town charm of Millbury.
“This one’s not even on the MLS yet. The owner is listing with me for thirty days first.”
The store had large, open rooms and nice display windows, and I could see how it would be a good possibility. I tried hard to seem interested, and not like a spoilt child who there was no pleasing.
Next we headed to Doylestown, and a shop on West State Street. Doylestown was a beautiful town of tree-lined streets, with a mix of Victorian, Italianate, Greek Revival, and Federal buildings, some with gloriously ornate architecture.
Streetlights were adorned with hanging baskets of flowers. It was the county seat, so there were lots of lawyers’ offices, and also upscale gift shops, fashion boutiques, and chic restaurants.
The shop was about eight hundred square feet, and the rent was double what I was paying now. It was very pleasant, but it didn’t have the soul of my current Victorian either.
“The price includes water, sewer, and common-area maintenance,” Marybeth said.
I took a deep breath. “Well, I can see that parking might be an issue, although there’s lots of foot traffic.”