Death Warmed Over

by Kate Flora

  If I was looking for sympathy, I wasn't getting it. Perfectly fair. I've made my life the way it is. I don't try hard enough to combat my workaholic genes. I love my work. It's exciting to try and help my clients solve their problems. Andre is no better. The call comes about a crime, and he's out the door in a flash. Buying a house together was supposed to mark the beginning of a new beginning for both of us.

  Sometimes I think fate just has it in for me. Us. My partner, Suzanne, recently remarked that she also consults to private schools and she has never come across a body or stared down a dangerous thug. I didn't respond that once I'd beaten my first bad guy, all that kind of stuff came to me. That I had a reputation for being fearless and able to handle difficult situations. Nor did I suggest that I'd be safer if we stopped offering our services in the more serious kinds of campus crises and went back to writing well-researched and detailed reports. Suzanne wouldn't want to hear it.

  She was the petite, smiley, wear the chic Chanel suit and make nice with the trustees arm of our operation. She had the Miss Porter's, Wellesley, upper middle class veneer. I was big bad Thea, called in when something hit the fan. I was Oz the Great and Terrible, only without a curtain to hide behind.

  Roland cleared his throat, a gentle gesture to draw me back to our conversation. "Did she ever say anything about her background? Family? Where she might have come from? Places she'd lived?"

  He was leaning into my space like his physical presence could draw out what his words could not. Telegraphing his sense of urgency. I was doing my best here. I'd carved out a space for him, but I was giving him time I really didn't have. I had prep work to do before my early morning departure. Maybe he was reading that, too. Smart cops are good at reading people and at pursuing their own agendas, regardless of ours. They have to be like that. People don't want to get involved in sordid things like murder. Cooperation often doesn't come easily.

  I tried to answer his question. In the back of my mind, there was something triggered by his question about violence that I was trying to recall. But the thought was stuck. I'd just have to wait until it surfaced.

  "She said that she'd only lived in Maine a few years, and that she'd been in Florida for a while before that and hadn't liked living there. There was one of her hesitations after that, like she hadn't meant to say it. I figured something had happened in Florida that she didn't want to talk about. I asked where else she'd lived, and she didn't answer. And then I asked her what brought her to Maine and she didn't answer that, either. At the time, I just thought she was distracted. We were looking for a house and it didn't seem to be where the map said it was supposed to be. I thought she was focusing on that. Looking back, I can see she did that several times when I asked her about herself."

  "What else did you ask that she didn't answer?"

  "I asked if she'd been a realtor in Florida. She said yes. Then she said no, not really. But if she was a realtor down there, there would be a record, right? She'd have to be licensed?"

  Roland made a note. "Anything else?"

  There was something, but I couldn't call it up. I was having a lot of trouble with recall tonight. Another symptom of notimer's disease. After any day of triage, my brain was fried. Tonight I was double fried.

  "Maybe more things will come to me," I said, "but right now, I'm drawing a blank."

  "What about friends or relatives? She ever mention any?"

  "Not that I remember. I remember making a remark once about my mother being difficult and she said yeah, she knew all about that. But she didn't elaborate."

  Roland switched subjects. "Ginger was a realtor," he said. "Lot of people feel about realtors the same way they feel about car salesmen. There can be a whole lot of animosity there. She ever mention disgruntled clients? People she'd had trouble getting along with? Real estate deals that hadn't gone well?"

  It was an idea that had never occurred to me. Andre and I had liked Ginger. But I knew sometimes people did feel betrayed by their realtors.

  I thought about our conversations. Had she said anything about other clients that might be significant? "Maybe. It's just a snippet, Roland. It was that same day that we were looking for the house we couldn't find. I guess that made her jittery, because she said something kind of defensive, like "none of us are perfect," and "sometimes people expect too much of us," and when I asked her what she meant, because she sounded so down, she said she'd had a really bad day the day before with a seller who thought she was trying to unfairly knock down the price of a house. She said the house was a nightmare. That it needed a ton of work but the seller thought it was a palace and wouldn't listen to any of her advice about how to price it or things he could do to make it more appealing."

  I tried to recall if she'd said anything else, anything about the people, or a location. I couldn't remember any other details. "That's all I remember, except that she said curb appeal was really important in her business and why couldn't they understand that? I could probably find the date in my calendar, if that would help. Then maybe you could check her appointments or her clients and see if the people in her office could help you identify who that was."

  "That's all?" he said.

  I thought it was something, but I bit my lip.

  "She never mentioned any other troublesome clients?"

  I shook my head.

  "But that conflict really seemed to get her down?"

  "She was usually pretty upbeat, Roland. I envied her. I couldn't do her job without a whole lot more complaining. I'm good with my clients, but I don't have a lot of patience with whiners."

  The truth was that I had to have a lot of patience with whiners and complainers. It was part of doing business. Whiners, complainers, and people who were being deceptive. He'd never believe it, but I sometimes did Roland's job. Leaning on people, pressuring them to do the right thing and tell the truth. It was a supposedly genteel world I worked in, and yet I'd seen every kind of bad behavior. I was grateful when I worked with clients who had manners and self-control. And cared deeply about their students.

  I guess we all had versions of the same job. It came with interacting with other humans. Ginger had been mannerly and caring and very forgiving and patient. That seller must have been extremely difficult to get her down like that.

  More of the conversation was coming back to me now. "She said the man had called her a cheat and a liar and said she was only out to make a buck and never mind the poor people who were just trying to sell their house."

  She'd been really upset. So upset I'd given her a hug and suggested we stop for some cocoa. And she'd taken me up on it. I shared that with Roland.

  "Is that the only time she ever mentioned trouble with a customer?"

  "The only time I can remember." Ginger had almost been in tears. I told him that. "The thing is that she was pretty unflappable and this really disturbed her. I think it might have been more than just angry words. I think he must have threatened her. She didn't come out and say that. She only said he'd acted 'threatening.' But I read more into it than that."

  He sighed and made a note, once again making me feel like I was failing him somehow because I hadn't followed up. But I didn't know what else I could have done. Ginger hadn't wanted to say any more. When people set boundaries, most of us respect them. And I wasn't the prying or gossipy type. I only pried on behalf of my clients.

  Then I remembered something else. "There was one other thing. Just the briefest mention, but something that sounded potentially dangerous. Maybe her co-workers can fill you in. We'd gone to see a house, and only the husband was home. His manner was kind of creepy. Too familiar. He followed us through the house, trying to make conversation with her and he kept getting into her space. It made looking at the house impossible. At the time, I thought maybe he was just too eager to sell us on it, but Ginger rushed through it. When we got back to the car, she said something like 'God, some of these guys!' and then she said 'you have to be really careful in this business' and told me about this man who'd
called about wanting to see a particular house."

  Roland was leaning forward eagerly, like I was finally giving him something useful. "I guess this house was in a pretty remote place. He wanted to meet her there for a showing. She said she didn't like to do that. She liked to meet people at the office first, so she could check them out. I think maybe the office even has some kind of surveillance equipment."

  He gave me a funny look and wrote that down, like he'd talked to people at her office and they hadn't mentioned this. Then he gave me a nod. "Go on."

  "This guy didn't want to do that. He was pretty insistent about meeting her at the house. Finally, she agreed. She said she needed a sale too much to pass up an eager buyer. Then, at the last minute, some problem came up with the closing on another house and she couldn't go, so she sent someone else. When the other realtor—a guy—got there, the buyer was sitting in his car, waiting. When her colleague got out of the car and the customer saw that it wasn't Ginger, he didn't say anything or walk toward the guy or anything. He just got back in his car and drove away really fast."

  Roland was definitely writing that down. I knew what he'd want to know. Was it a car or a truck? Make and model. What had the man looked like? Things he'd have to get from Ginger's co-worker. But it was something.

  "If he'd wanted to look at the house, whoever showed up wouldn't matter. So Ginger thought he was trying to get her out there alone. It happens, she said. And you know, she was really cute and her picture was right there on the sign, and on their website, and on her cards. There hasn't been a series of attacks on female realtors, have there?"

  I tried to recall when this had happened. Ginger and I had been house hunting for months, when I could find the time or she could find the house. "This might have been back in the fall."

  "This customer was driving a car or a truck?" he asked.

  "I have no idea."

  Roland was tired. He needed coffee. I thought he also needed a nap. That made me think of Andre, who would be just as tired, doing the same thing with other witnesses, or going through Ginger's place and car again, looking for where she might have hidden her secrets.

  "Would you like me to make some coffee?"

  He unfolded like a stork from the deep sofa. "You mind if I do?"

  "Make yourself at home. It's a Keurig. And there are a zillion different k-cups on the counter. Skim milk, half and half, or almond milk in the fridge."

  Using the word 'home' stung. I wanted a home, and what I got was this—a too-long day, my husband unavailable, with another police officer asking questions I couldn't answer while I pulled fragments of conversation out of my weary brain. I had too much on my plate, and no clarity about how I kept getting into situations like this. I'd done nothing to bring on this morning's events.

  Was it time to change my life? Find something else to do instead? I was good at this. Not at finding bodies—I never wanted to get good at that—but at helping troubled schools. The problem was that my life was beginning to look like one of those TV shows where every place the character goes, someone dies. Except for me, it was closer to the truth to say that people died and then I went there because my clients needed me. Maybe I should trade roles with Suzanne. I could wear the chic suits and the smile and she could face down bad guys. Somehow, I couldn't see it. Smiling isn't my thing. Neither are chic suits.

  No one had better die at Stafford. I was tired of people dying. I'd never tell my clients this, but a drug scandal was kind of refreshing.

  My life had had more than my share of death in it, but there was no way that Ginger's death had anything to do with me except for the coincidence that I happened to be the client she was meeting. But was it a coincidence? Some of my exploits—Adventures? Disasters?—had been played out pretty graphically in the Maine press. What if someone thought I'd be the perfect addition to their revenge plot against Ginger? But how would anyone even know that I was her client? Was I letting my imagination run in crazy directions?

  Goosebumps sprouted on my arms. I pushed myself up and hurried into the kitchen. I needed to test that assumption on Roland.

  "Hey," I said, as he deftly poured in the water and stuck in a cup of French roast. "You don't think my being the one to find her was part of someone's plan, do you? I mean—that I was meant to find her?"

  Roland looked up, surprised. "You mean, do I think that this was somehow directed at you? No. I don't. I think you happened to be the person she was showing that house to on the day when whoever did this found a place and opportunity to act."

  "But he called me. He called me, Roland. On her phone. He didn't know when she was having a showing and then set this up. He set this up... moved the showing until later... to... uh... so that I..."

  But I didn't know what. To give her time to die? To give her time to almost die? Would my being on time have made any difference? Could Ginger have been saved if I hadn't taken all those phone calls? Driven faster? If I hadn't pulled over to mop up spilled coffee or lingered to admire the dining room?

  "Earlier, you said you couldn't remember whether it was a man or a woman who called to change the appointment," Roland said. "Now you think it was a man?"

  "It was a man."

  I felt one of those sudden chills that happen when knowledge hits home. Whoever did this knew my name, my phone number, and where I worked, while I knew nothing about him.

  If I could roll back the clock, meet Ginger at nine instead of 10:30, she might still be alive, and I might have just found my dream house.

  Okay. Who doesn't engage in wishful thinking sometimes, especially when reality is so grim and ugly? Instead of Ginger's agonized, terrified face, I'd have living in that lovely house to ponder. Instead, I now had a new worry to come between me and sleep. Along with Ginger's face, I had the disturbing knowledge that a brutal and deliberate killer had my name and number.

  "How would the killer get my number? Before I left the office, I mean. Even if he used Ginger's phone, he called me well in advance of when we were supposed to meet, which suggests he knew her schedule and who she was meeting. Or that she was at the house well in advance of our appointment."

  "Her office says she had an appointment to show the house to someone else at eight. They didn't have a name or any other information."

  I pushed away my irritation at the idea that Ginger had been cheating on me. Showing my dream house to someone else, reminding myself that she was in the business of selling houses. It didn't matter now.

  I listened to the sounds of the coffee maker as I stared down at my bandaged hands, sore whenever I flexed them, and pondered. Would the cops find out who did this, and why? Would they find out quickly, so those who were touched by the case could move on? Sleep? Breathe easily? I wondered where Ginger Stevens had come from and what her real name was. What were her secrets, her terrible secrets, that had led to today's events?

  Chapter 8

  After his coffee, Roland left, taking away in his notebook the few bits I'd been able to supply. He and I were both hoping that at some point I'd remember something else. The thought that had lurked in the back of my mind had stayed there. Who knew when it would surface and whether it would be useful?

  Maybe, with the information about her having lived in Florida, they could find out more about her. Maybe her colleagues would sleep on it and tomorrow they'd have some helpful information. At least he could ask them about the fleeing customer and the aggrieved seller. That might lead somewhere. And it might prompt their memories in other ways. I wanted this over with. I didn't want Roland coming back with his hopeful gaze and weary shoulders, pressing me to keep remembering.

  Before he left, he took me firmly by the shoulders, looked me directly in the eyes, and declared, "This is not about you. Aimed at you. There is no reason for you to be worried about that."

  I wished I believed it as fervently as he did. Sometimes it seemed like I lived in a very dark world that was full of bad guys. I still didn't understand how he and Andre kept their balance in
that world.

  I went back out to my car to grab my coffee stained clothes from this morning so I could throw them in the wash. As I walked through a foggy, dark night that reminded me way too much of another such night on a boarding school campus, I thought about Ginger's last words. "Airy. Bobby. So long. Safe. So sorry." What had she thought she was safe from and what was she so sorry about? Did those regrets have something to do with her killer? With why she was killed?

  What if "Bobby" wasn't a name? What if she'd said "baby?" Would a reference to a baby suggest she might be pregnant? Had lost a baby? Or that she was regretting the fact that she'd never get to have a baby? Was she having a premonition of her own death? Did she feel death lingering close by? In a situation as agonizing as that, could a person think about anything but the immediate events?

  What about airy? It could be so many things. Like part of the word scary. Or a description of her killer, like she was trying to tell me that he was hairy or scary. It might be a person's name, but there the possibilities were great. It might be Harry, Barry, Larry, Mary, Sherry, Perry, Jerry. Gary. If it even was a name. It certainly didn't narrow the field. And that was only first names. I didn't want to start running the list of last names.

  "This is not my problem," I muttered. Right now, my concern was my client's problems.

  Who did I think I was fooling?

  I cleaned up the coffee table, pouring my undrunk wine down the sink. It seemed there were enough phantoms around tonight. I pretreated the stains and threw the clothes into the washer, then stripped off everything I was wearing and threw that in, too. Even the clothes I'd changed into carried the taint of the morning's awful smoke.