Realtors For Sale
Page 1
REALTORS
FOR SALE
(SIDEKICKS MYSTERY SERIES, BOOK 1)
Quick Silver’s Lord Bentley
DIANE RAPP, AUTHOR
Dedication and Acknowledgements
This novel is dedicated to dog trainers everywhere. Training dogs is actually easy, but teaching the people to handle their dogs properly can be very trying.
My deepest thanks go to my husband, Corey, who did the hard work of training our energetic Standard Poodle, Bentley. He also performed the tricky job of reading my first draft and pointing out potential problems (very courageous). He supports my writing efforts and encourages me to keep working when I get stuck.
Disclaimer
All the characters in the book are imaginary, and any resemblance to real-life people is accidental. Public places described in Santa Barbara are real but individual homes described are fictional.
Copyright © 2018 Diane Rapp
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be used, reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or distributed by any means (electronic, photocopied, recorded, or mechanical) without prior written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Prologue
Chapter 1 – Emergency Meeting
Chapter 2 – Agility Training
Chapter 3 —The Office
Chapter 4 – Open House
Chapter 5 – The Attack
Chapter 6 – The Rescue
Chapter 7 – “Hey Doggie, Doggie”
Chapter 8 – Protective Custody
Chapter 9 – Brinkerhoff Street
Chapter 10 — A Needle in a Stack of Needles
Chapter 11—Follow the Money
Chapter 12—Searching for the Women
Chapter 13—Operation Farmhouse
Chapter 14—Building a Tight Case
Chapter 15—Showdown at Midnight
Chapter 16—The Santa Barbara Courthouse
About the Real Bentley
About the Author
New “Sidekick Mystery Series”
Prologue
Thursday—Charlotte Baxter
San Francisco real estate brokers were scheduled to preview new listings each Thursday from twelve to four. Real estate broker, Charlotte Baxter arrived at her listing early. She arranged an assortment of fresh pastries and hot beverages, that might tempt brokers to linger in the chef’s kitchen, and placed expensive brochures strategically in each room of the mansion.
Charlotte cultivated a sophisticated personal appearance, dressed in a tailored royal-blue gabardine jacket with matching pencil skirt over a white silk blouse. Glancing into the antique mirror in the entry, she nudged a single stray hair back into place. Early that morning the deft hands of a celebrity stylist had swept her champagne-blonde locks into a classy French twist, complimented by the subtle tones of professionally-applied makeup.
Charlotte felt ready to greet the city’s most exclusive brokers.
The mansion was a true “painted lady” with a prestigious address. Over the years, its façade had graced the pages of magazines showcasing homes located in premier neighborhoods. The home’s windows and balconies offered spectacular harbor views, the spacious property included a three-car garage, and valuable antiques were included in the sales package.
For months Charlotte campaigned to secure this listing, courting heirs of the estate with a detailed marketing proposal. Success felt satisfying. Today, she planned to hear praise from other brokers as they appreciated the elaborate décor and consumed free food.
The afternoon sped past quickly, but she felt grateful to see the last of them. Gathering the stack of brokers’ cards from a silver bowl in the foyer, Charlotte dialed her assistant. “I’m closing up the property now and should be back to the office within the hour,” she said. “Please confirm reservations for dinner tonight.”
She walked across the polished walnut floors. A grandfather’s clock ticked loudly, keeping time with her red-soled Louboutin pumps as she checked the locks on windows and doors. The clock chimed four times as Charlotte arrived at the front door and turned the bronzed handle.
A tall man, wearing a blue pinstriped suit, pressed the bell just as Charlotte opened the mahogany door. He grinned and said, “You’re mighty quick, young lady. I hope I’m not too late to preview this listing.” He shoved a business card into her hand and barged past her into the elegant foyer. “This is just the right type of house for our clients. Do you have a flyer available?”
Charlotte decided the man looked more like a used-car salesman than a real estate broker. His suit was obviously off-the-rack and his dark shoes could stand a fresh polish. Reading the business card, she pursed her lips. Perhaps clientele in Santa Barbara were less discriminating than the San Francisco elite.
Closing the heavy front door, she retrieved a full-color brochure from a marble table and handed it to him. She stated, “The property is part of an estate sale. All the furnishings and décor are included in the listing price, therefore, appraisals will be provided to qualified bidders. Offers may be delivered to my office for seven days, and the top bids will be presented to probate court in three weeks.”
He whistled at the three million-dollar price but shrugged and sauntered down the hallway. “I assume the kitchen is this way.” He snapped photos with his phone as they entered the large kitchen with marble countertops and cherry cabinets. “If buyers balk at the price, they can’t afford it. Where’s the master bedroom?” He popped a pastry into his mouth and abruptly turned.
Charlotte cringed at the sly smile he cast in her direction. Quickly moving ahead of him, she said, “The master suite is on the second floor. It enjoys a private balcony and attached library. Come this way.” She climbed the stairs hurriedly, trying to maintain a discreet distance from the distasteful man.
She commented, “I notice that your brokerage firm is located in Santa Barbara. What brings you to San Francisco?” She felt her composure slipping as he inched closer.
He chuckled, a gruff sound that made her shudder. “We go where the merchandise is offered. This week we’re shopping here and in Sacramento.”
Feeling like she was fleeing from a predator, Charlotte entered the master suite and stood next to the fireplace. When she glanced up, his camera was pointed in her direction. She swallowed and said, “This mantle was imported from a French château along with the antiques in this room. Similar décor can be found in guest rooms at Hearst Castle.”
He clicked another picture of Charlotte as she gripped the mantel. “What are you doing?” she asked, as he zoomed in on her face. When he smirked, she skirted past him toward the door. “I believe this showing is over.”
“No! It’s just beginning,” he growled and jumped forward. She saw a hypodermic in his hand and felt the needle jab through her jacket.
She huffed. “You can’t do that!” Fumbling for her phone, she dialed for help. Rapidly, her vision blurred and she felt dizzy. Hearing a voice answer the call, she couldn’t utter a sound.
The vile man calmly grabbed her phone, turned it off and dropped the instrument into his pocket. “You won’t be needing this anymore, Marilyn.”
The room spun and her knees gave way. She felt him lift her body and heard footsteps on the staircase. There was a woman’s voice in the distance. She wondered why the man had called her Marilyn. Everything went black.
Saturday—Bonnie Jamison
The alarm beeped insistently and Bonnie stretched out to press the snooze button. It was no good trying to sleep five more minutes. She had agreed to hold an open house for her broker and wou
ld not disappoint him. Dragging herself out of the queen-sized bed, she rubbed her forehead and slipped into a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers.
As a new real estate agent with no listings of her own, Bonnie knew the best way to develop a client list was holding an open house. Her successful broker had too many listings of his own, so he offered open house duty to various newbies in the office.
Today she would sit open house at a two-story French country manor in an upscale neighborhood outside of Sacramento. It had a stucco and rock-faced exterior, wide plank flooring, and a cozy fireplace opening on two sides through the common wall. Bonnie planned to arrive early. At the house she’d bake chocolate chip cookies (the smell tempted buyers to linger), dust the floors, and polish fingerprints off the gold-plated bathroom faucets.
Stepping out of the tiny shower of her brother’s guest bathroom, Bonnie quickly dried her luxurious mane of brown hair, applied a thick layer of scented lotion to her skin, and slipped a fake wedding ring onto her left hand. She wore the ring to dissuade flirtatious customers, after all, her goal was to build a successful career before contemplating marriage. Bonnie would not relive her mother’s story, a divorced mother supporting two children by cleaning houses.
A hot curling iron added volume to her fluffy shoulder-length hairdo. She applied smoky brown eyeshadow and black mascara, trying to mimic the technique of the girl who sold her the expensive beauty products. The sales girl had gushed over Bonnie’s sexy dark brown eyes, flawless complexion, and upturned lips, but Bonnie thought it was a sales tactic—one that worked on her.
The house was typically silent. A stock broker by profession, her brother Sam spent his weekends at the golf course. Amateur golf trophies filled shelves in his office. Golf wins garnered Sam an air of celebrity at the country club and more than a few stock market clients. He hoped to break his firm’s million-dollar sales club this year and earn another trophy.
Bonnie shared Sam’s modest tract home in the suburbs until she could save enough to buy her own small condo. They hardly ever saw each other but often left funny notes on the refrigerator. She read his latest message, Don’t let the buyers get away today! She laughed, imagining herself chasing potential buyers with a sales contract in hand. She drew a smiley face on a post-it and left it on the fridge next to his note.
Packing a bologna sandwich and bag of chips into a small cooler, she added a bottle of water, an apple, and a roll of slice-and-bake chocolate chip cookie dough. She’d avoid those cookies! Barely five-foot-two, Bonnie couldn’t afford to gain weight as every pound was obvious.
She glanced into the hall mirror as she buttoned the gold jacket over a brown skirt. Some agents hated the gold color, but her fluffy brown hair contrasted nicely. She clipped on a name badge and left the house with a lilt to her step. Today she wouldn’t let those buyers leave the open house without collecting their names and phone numbers!
Six hours later, Bonnie felt exhausted. When the man dressed in a pinstriped suit entered the door, she forced herself to remain perky.
The man gave her the creeps, staying much to close as she conducted the tour. He took photos in each room but didn’t seem very interested in the property. She couldn’t wait for him to leave. As they entered the master suite, he grabbed her arm and stuck a needle through her jacket.
She stomped her heel onto his foot and tried to run, but he just laughed and lifted her off her feet. “Struggle all you want,” he said. “It just makes it more fun for me.” His repulsive voice sounded distant as she lost awareness.
Sunday—Maureen Collins
The day started early on the farm. Before breakfast Maureen had already gathered the eggs and her husband, Frank, had finished milking the cows. They fell into the familiar routine developed over the past five years. Since it was Sunday, Frank wouldn’t need to leave for his construction job. He let Maureen jump into the shower while he fried bacon and eggs.
The delightful scent of bacon drifted down the hall, making Maureen rush faster. Her curly red hair could air dry, so she pulled on her “dress jeans” and checked shirt, tucking the legs into polished knee-high boots. It didn’t pay to dress like a city girl. Anyone attending her open house today would expect to meet an agent dressed for the country atmosphere of the agricultural area of Paso Robles.
Frank slid the perfectly cooked breakfast onto a white plate, covering the hand-painted pictures of a farmhouse in the center of the dish. Maureen grinned and planted a kiss on his bearded cheek. “You know just how to make a girl happy,” she said.
He nodded, sitting down across the table. “If you didn’t need to work today, I’d let you do the cooking. Hope you get the Hawkins farm sold right quick. They really need the money.”
Maureen swallowed a gulp of hot coffee as she nodded. “I sent out flyers to attract more buyers to the open house today, but I should be home by six. We’ll barbeque and watch the DVD that arrived yesterday.”
“Great! I love eating steak while watching a good western. I’ll fire up the barbeque pit and have it ready by the time you get home.”
“Put the potatoes in the oven at five-thirty so everything is done at the same time.” Maureen picked up her empty dish and rinsed off the egg yolk in the sink. She noticed a paper sack sitting on the counter and smiled. “What did you pack for lunch?”
“Your favorite, peanut butter and honey on homemade bread. I also added corn chips, a raisin cookie, and carrots to make your hair redder.” He laughed at the old joke and she nodded.
Long curls floated down her back in a cascade of coppery color. “Thanks, I really need more red in my hair, Frank.” She pulled the unruly mass together behind her neck and wrapped an elastic scrunchie over the hair. “I’m tempted to cut it all off.”
Frank nuzzled her neck as he sniffed the coconut scent of shampoo. “If you cut it short, I’d have to find another woman. Long hair floats my boat.”
“Yeah! And I’d have to run away with the preacher. He offers every time he sees me.” Maureen picked up a tote bag filled with printed flyers and patted his behind as she walked toward the door. “Too bad the preacher is almost eighty and his wife makes a mean apple cobbler.”
“Call me if you get delayed. You know how I worry if you’re not home on time.”
She blew a kiss and said, “Six o’clock or I’ll make a call, so make sure your battery is charged.”
He plugged his phone into the wall charger so he wouldn’t forget like last time. Wiping down the counter he marveled at how lucky he’d been to convince such a beauty to marry him.
Maureen dropped her gear at the farmhouse and climbed back into her car. She planned to set up open house signs at each crossroads leading to the property, a fifteen-minute task. At the second intersection, she left her car running as she pounded the metal stake into the grassy shoulder.
A dark blue Mercedes pulled alongside of her, and she heard the door open and close. It didn’t worry her much. People often got lost on these backroads, and this guy looked like a real city dweller. He held out a road map and asked her for help.
She dropped the sledge hammer into her trunk and sauntered closer. The hairs along the back of her neck prickled but she ignored her instincts. She bent to look at the map as he spread it across the back of the dusty car.
“I can see your problem, mister. This is not a map of Paso Robles. I’ll just go get mine and…” She felt something jab into her arm and swung around with her fist clenched. It felt satisfying to connect with the man’s jaw, but her vision blurred.
“You’ll regret hitting me, Rita,” he growled and shoved her into the back seat of the Mercedes.
She remembered thinking, You got the wrong girl, buster! My name is Maureen, named after the famous actress. But she couldn’t get the words out of her mouth before the world faded away.
When Maureen woke later that evening, she found two other women in the room. The window was filled with darkness and she groaned, “Frank is going to be so mad I didn’t call him. Where
’s my phone?”
The blonde woman sat on the bed. She said, “They took our phones and moved us to this farmhouse. We don’t know our whereabouts yet.”
The small dark-haired woman sat down on the bed and said, “My name is Bonnie Jamison and I’m from Sacramento. This is Charlotte Baxter and she’s from San Francisco. We’ve all been kidnapped.”
“I can’t say I’m happy to meet you but my name is Maureen Collins. I live on a farm near Paso Robles. I’m glad I’m not alone in this.”
Charlotte’s expression looked solemn. “We have a lot of things to explain about this situation, so try to remain calm.”
Maureen chuckled. “My husband, Frank, claims I could stay cool in the middle of a hurricane. I’ve obviously got him fooled but explain the worst.”
Chapter 1 – Emergency Meeting
Monday—Tamara Owens
Walking across hard-packed sand toward the Santa Barbara wharf, Tamara Owens strolled by her husband Jeffrey’s side. It was a perfect day. Golden sunbeams danced across the deep blue water, a salty breeze ruffled dark wisps of short hair across her forehead, and nearby children giggled as waves tickled their toes. Tamara hopped over a clump of seaweed, making gnats rise in a cloud. She squealed and batted the insects away.
Jeff chuckled as he walked backwards and stared into her gray-blue eyes. “If you hope to avoid the bugs, simply walk around the seaweed. By the way, your new haircut looks chic and sexy. I love the way it frames your beautiful eyes.”
Blushing, she shrugged. “I thought you always preferred my hair long.”
“I did.” His voice sounded low and sensual. “I especially loved running my fingers through silky black strands while lying in bed, but it’s time you project a career-woman appearance. I’m proud that you passed your real estate exam on the first try.” Small laugh lines highlighted his dark blue eyes as a grin spread across his handsome face.