Stretching her arms overhead, she rolled out the crick in her neck.

Day Two had been just as satisfying as Day One. The rest of the roof was stripped. Electrical work had officially begun that morning. The kitchen had been gutted down to studs. Dean hadn’t blown a gasket over her kitchen appliance wish list. And Silas’s tree gal had shown up and accomplished a hell of a lot of work on the trees eating the driveway.

Maggie picked the library at the back of the first floor to use as her office. It was quieter here, which made marching her way through her to-do list easier. Grabbing the rough sketch she’d started the night before, she headed into the kitchen to pace out the measurements. She was debating whether she could get another foot of quartz for the island when something that sounded like a creepy cathedral organ exploded overhead.

“What in the scary fuck was that?” Dean demanded from the stairs. He’d claimed a bedroom on the second floor as his on-site office space. They knew from years of experience that working in the same room wasn’t the best idea.

Maggie poked her head into the hallway and saw a figure standing on the other side of the screen door on the porch.

“I guess we have a doorbell,” she said.

“Not it,” Dean said, shaking his head. “I haven’t had enough coffee to deal with a disgruntled local today.”

“You owe me,” she hissed at him before heading toward the door.

The visitor was short, round, and bald except for the neatly trimmed ring of white hair that ended just above his ears and the thick mustache. His pants were hiked to belly button height and held in place with suspenders.

“Hi,” Maggie said.

“You the new owner?” the man demanded gruffly. She heard Dean sneak back upstairs. Chicken.

“I am,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. She’d been at this long enough to know the type. Either he was a local historian afraid she was an evil developer out to ruin a piece of town history or he was a self-appointed tattletale who wanted to make sure she was following the letter of the law.

“I’m Wallace Pfeffercorn. I was a volunteer here when it was the Campbell House Museum.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Wallace. I’m Maggie. What can I do for you?”

He harrumphed at her politeness. “I’m dropping by to give you a piece of my mind.”

“Would you like something to drink while you do that?” she offered. “I’ve got water, lemonade, and beer.”

His frown lines deepened into canyons. “Suppose I wouldn’t mind a lemonade. But don’t think you’ll be winning any points with me, missy.”

“Come on back,” she said, waving him into the house.

He hesitated before stepping inside with his cane.