Flamingo Realty Mystery Box Set

by CeeCee James

  “When did she do that?” I asked.

  “When Ian was signing the listing agreement. Jasmine said it was her dream house and she loved it. But Ian wouldn’t hear anything she had to say. He definitely ran that show.”

  “I heard she was kind of rescued by him. Maybe that’s why Jasmine felt like she couldn’t say anything. Maybe he threw it in her face.”

  “Well, you know what they say. When you marry for money, you earn every cent of it.”

  That was such a depressing statement. I nodded.

  Joe didn’t seem as impressed. “Hey, we going to eat or what? Gossip later because I’m starving!”

  Dinner was a success. How could any meal that consisted of tacos not be a success? The wine continued to flow, emboldening Thomas to declare at one point, “You are the guacamole to my burrito.”

  I had to laugh. Kari soundlessly mouthed “sorry,” to me and Joe got out a card game. By the third round, we were all laughing, and I was actually quite pleased I’d decided to come after all. Thomas must have figured out he was friend-zoned, because, although he did walk me out to the car that night, he merely said, “I had a lot of fun. But the next time we play cards, it’s going to be for real money.”

  Chapter 21

  Sunday morning woke me with a beam of sunlight cutting straight through the minuscule space between the curtains to land right into my face. I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head. Forget flooring, I need to get blinds on that, stat!

  Still, it was a good idea to get up. I wasn’t used to drinking wine, and who knows how long I would have slept in. I sat and cupped my pounding head and remembered why I didn’t drink wine.

  Never. Again.

  I groaned some more and floundered out of the covers and into the bathroom like a cross between a zombie and a catfish. By the time I had my shower and brushed my teeth, I felt much more human.

  And it was a good thing because I had a list of things I wanted to do today. Needed to do, actually. First on my agenda was to see if I could talk with the gardener, the one that the Valentines hired. I remember Charity mentioned that he came on Sundays, and from what she’d said, he had a pretty good scoop about the Stubers. One that seemed to agree with the argument that the Clarks had overheard.

  The second thing on my agenda was to visit the Heritage Dispensary to check out their pendants. I wasn’t sure how useful it would be, but it would be interesting to see if I could identify the vial by the top I’d found, if I could remember it correctly. I wish I’d taken a picture of it before handing it over to Officer Carlson. Who knows, maybe they even had a record of who bought it, especially with their classes and such. You never know.

  After starting my coffee maker, I pulled up the MLS and searched for houses that had sold on Novelty Hill in the last year. It didn’t take long to find the Valentines’ new place. It was literally a stone’s throw away from Jasmine’s home.

  I really, really didn’t want to get caught at the Valentine’s house though. I could only imagine the glee in Ms. Valentine’s eye as she called the cops on me for trespassing. So I decided to do some snooping instead. There, I said it. I was a snoop. But only when I needed to, I reminded myself.

  An hour later found me driving past Jasmine’s house. I couldn’t help staring as I went past. The house blinds were down, with no cars in the driveway. Maybe they were parked in the garage.

  I stepped on the gas when I realized I’d slowed down way too much. Be cool, Stella! Geez, watch me get reported to the police on my first stake-out. I could just imagine Officer Carlson with his wry grin and funny dimple coming to haul me away.

  Wait a minute… a stake out… was that what I was doing? I shook my head. No, it was nothing that sinister. I was just on the lookout for a company gardening truck that Charity had said would be there today.

  Beautiful house after beautiful house went by. Finally, I spotted a rose hedge, likely part of the rose garden that Charity had mentioned.

  As I approached, I caught sight of something so shocking it made me gasp. And not a sweet gasp, more like sucking in on a tin whistle. Quickly, I jerked the car to the side of the road and slammed my brakes.

  No, no, no. It can’t be.

  Parked in front of the Valentine’s house was a black truck.

  My jaw opened like I was a seal trying to catch a fish. I just couldn’t believe it. In fact, was I even sure? I mean there had to be a million black trucks out there.

  Oh. Yep.

  There was the silver frame around the license plate. That’s it. I wasn’t going to mess around. I fumbled for my phone to call Officer Carlson.

  Then I paused. What would he say? Probably one of two things. Why didn’t you report this black truck at the time? Or option B—You do realize that vehicles often turn around in roads and it probably had nothing to do with you.

  Maybe I could just get a little closer and see who the driver was.

  I parked my car and, after glancing both ways to see if anyone was watching, climbed out. Feeling about as stealthy as Velma, I tiptoed over to the very healthy and very green hedges. Cautiously, I parted two prickly branches to peek through to the house.

  The house was cute and quiet. But no one was in sight.

  I was considering my next move when I felt a tickle on my head. Annoyed, I swatted at it. I swear it moved down my neck.

  Now I’m a squirrelly kind of gal when it comes to bugs. You get me around a spider, and I’m more dangerous than any ninja. The problem is that I’ve freaked out too many times over nothing, so I knew exactly how my imagination worked. It even happened at the surprise party when I had sweat trickling while hiding behind the couch. My brain starts exaggerating little tickle sensations—see, there it goes again, it feels like it’s down my shirt. Right now, I was on a serious stake-out. I definitely couldn’t afford to let my imagination run away from me this time.

  Besides, this was getting ridiculous. My brain was imagining that it had gone down my pants. And everyone knows that bugs do not crawl down pants.

  I stood there, feeling the tickle argue back with my logic. Finally, I gave in and hurried back to my car. I was going to look like an idiot in the please-don’t-let-there-be-a cop-drive-by-and-arrest-me-for-indecent exposure kind of way, but I had to check. I climbed into the back seat where at least there were tinted windows and lowered my pants.

  A big, fat beetle waved one crawfish leg at me. I screamed so loudly, I’m positive the windows rattled.

  “Ew! Ew! Ew!” But how to get rid of him? I couldn’t very well flick him free in my car, and I couldn’t open the door until my pants were in their proper place.

  First things first. I grabbed a napkin and whisked him onto the floor and then shimmied back into my pants, mentally cursing myself for ever second-guessing a creepy crawly feeling.

  Then I carefully lay down the napkin and hoped the beetle will crawl on it.

  He was not having it. Not after being swept away from his warm home so rudely. No, his beetly little brain seemed to decide that he was going to strike out on his own. He started to lurch under the driver’s seat.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” I said, thwarting his march with an old fast food bag. I heard whistling up ahead and glanced up.

  Coming around the hedge towards the black truck was the guy in the suit that I’d seen at the funeral. The one who had chased me down when I was carrying the garbage.

  My jaw dropped open as I stared.

  Today, he was dressed more casually, but still wore a sports jacket. He opened the truck door and stepped up onto the silver running board. Then, for some reason, he paused and glanced back in my direction. Nightmare of all nightmares! I ducked, hoping I wasn’t noticeable in the back seat.

  I froze, waiting for the sound of the truck door closing, my breath hot against my knees. The beetle waved a leg at me from the floor as if warding me off from getting too close.

  What was he doing here? Why at the Valentines’ house?

  The whistling stop
ped. Now my heart speeded up. What was he doing? Was he coming closer? Did he recognize the vehicle? I hyperventilated, afraid to move, held hostage by a bug.

  Finally, the truck door slammed. I heard the engine turn over and then the gravelly sound of tires grabbing the road. I chanced a peek just in time to see him speed away.

  I sat up and watched him disappear around the corner, my mouth feeling as dry as an abandoned corn husk. I realized I was going to have to risk Ms. Valentine calling the cops because I had to know who he was. And the only way to find out was to go ring their doorbell.

  But first, it was time to say goodbye to my little friend. Between the bag and the napkin, I managed to scoot him onto the paper and then shake him outside on the sidewalk.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I whispered as he waddled rather indignantly into the grass.

  Feeling like a hot mess, I smoothed back my hair and took a deep breath. I’ve got this. Shoulders back, I walked up the driveway of the cute, Bavarian-inspired cottage.

  It was easy to see the ladies’ attraction to this home, with its old charm construction, sweeping overhead trees, and fragrant rose hedges.

  At the porch steps, I took a few more breaths, like I was the quarterback about to run the football through a defensive line. Then I marched up the stairs and knocked on the front door.

  There was a patter of footsteps, a clatter of a lock being turned, and then it swung open to reveal Charity. I caught a glimpse in the window of my face set in a grim, determined line and reminded myself to smile.

  “Why, Stella! You found us!” The tiny woman clapped her hands. She’d always been eager to have a reason to celebrate.

  Thumps echoing through the dark interior heralded the approach of her tall sister. Soon, Ms. Valentine was at the door. She didn’t say anything, just arched a brow suspiciously at me.

  “Look, Sister, it’s Stella!”

  “I see that,” she sniffed. “What can we do for you? Do you want to try and get another Valentine arrested?”

  Oh, boy. This was not going well, and every sense in my body was telling me to get off that porch and fast. Instead, I pushed through.

  It was at that startling moment that I realized I needed to come up with an explanation of why I was standing there, like a student peddling cookies for summer camp. My brain whirred, flashing different lies in my head, each one I promptly rejected. A lost puppy— no. Car broken down—no. Lost—good grief, Stella. No.

  Finally, a suitable one popped up. “I was driving through when I noticed that gentlemen leave in a black truck. I used to know someone who had a truck like that and wondered if it could be him. I happened to see he left this house, and much to my surprise, it’s you guys.”

  “Guys? We’re not guys,” Ms. Valentine dragged out the last word, staring down her nose.

  “Ladies,” I apologetically amended.

  “Oh, that was Jeffry,” Charity offered, oblivious to the nudge her sister gave her. “He’s our gardener.”

  That was the gardener? The shock must have shown on my face because Charity continued. “Jeffry owns the business. He does all of our yards. He dropped by to say that he was retiring soon, and would be hiring someone to take over our place.” She sighed and batted her eyes. “I’m going to miss him.”

  “What about your boyfriend at the nursing home?” Ms. Valentine asked, dryly. “Love is fickle, as they say.”

  “I can look, just not touch,” Charity pouted. “Anyway, I hope he finds someone who will take care of our lovely Sunsprites and Lincolns as well as he does. He does have such an eye for roses. Since we hired him, he’s really had a vision of bringing this garden back to life. He’s even saved some heritage roses I haven’t seen since my childhood!”

  “Fancy they’re still around, Charity. You would have thought they’d died out with the dinosaurs.”

  “Oh, pooh,” Charity said. “You’re older than me, you know.”

  Ms. Valentine said nothing but rolled those pale eyes. I smiled, loving the more relaxed nature of their relationship now that the burden of the old Valentine manor no longer rested on their shoulders.

  “How did you find him?” I asked. “Your gardener.”

  “He came highly recommended. The whole neighborhood uses him. He’s famous for using natural things to fight fungus, mildew, and bugs. It’s quite amazing.”

  “We’re all green around here,” Ms. Valentine commented, slightly ironic.

  “Really? Like what?” Charity’s zeal was reminding me of something. I struggled to remember it.

  “Oh, different things. Once it was soap bubbles. Beautiful smelling, it was.”

  I thanked the sisters for their time and then headed back to my car. As I passed the hedge, I couldn’t help whispering goodbye to the black beetle, wherever he was.

  Back in the car, I pulled out my phone. It was time to figure out who Jeffry was.

  Chapter 22

  It’s a funny thing. It seems you can’t type in “Jeffry the gardener” and expect any serious links on a search engine. I clicked on a few—and click out just as fast on one that made my jaw drop—before I realized that wasn’t going to work.

  All right. I’ll bite the bullet and put a call in to Officer Carlson. Of course, he wasn’t there. I asked to be patched into his voicemail.

  His request to leave a message was as dry and grumpy as I imagined it would be. Finally, it beeped, and I said, “Officer Carlson, I found out that the jewelry is a piece of a roller ball for an oil vial. It’s probably from Heritage Dispensary. I’ll check later and let you know. And I forgot to tell you, but I had a weird thing happen with a truck that I thought was following me. Well, guess who owns the truck? The guy that had that note at the funeral. Well, I’ll talk to you later so….”

  I hung up. Most awkward goodbye ever.

  Shaking my head at my suaveness, I searched up the address for Heritage Dispensary and started the car. Carefully, I turned around in the Valentines’ drive and backed out onto the road, then started back to town. So Jeffry, huh. He was the gardener that spread the rumors about the Stubers. What was this all about?

  I was still deep in thought when a white Hummer flew out of a driveway. I screamed and slammed on the brakes. The car narrowly avoided t-boning me and, without slowing down, sharply turned onto the road.

  I gasped for air, trembling like ice-water flooded my veins as the Hummer sped away. What had just happened? I turned to look. The vehicle had come from the Stubers’ house. I tried to swallow, realizing Jasmine almost killed me.

  I was trembling too much to drive. I had to calm down. I pulled into the Stubers’ driveway, sending up a few thanks for still being safe and sound.

  It was ironic, sitting in Jasmine’s driveway after nearly being run over by her. I took a few cleansing breaths and stared down the driveway. This house was the start of it all. Something Ian wanted to get away from, and a place where Jasmine wanted to start a family.

  But how much did she really want to start a family when she suggested that he leave without her? That doesn’t make it sound like a very happy home. I studied the meticulous landscaping, the arched doorway and the enormous window perfect for displaying a Christmas tree. This house looked like it should be full of love. Instead, it was full of … what? And yet, Ian’s death made Jasmine happy because now she was able to stay. Marla Springfield’s words rang in my head. Some places aren’t right. Home strange home.

  As I was sitting there, the front door opened. I straightened in the seat. A feather could have knocked me over when I saw Jasmine step out onto the porch. She stared in my direction, her eyes squinting to see. Her brow lifted and she smiled, waving a hand.

  “Stella! What are you doing here?”

  If words were Scrabble pieces, I was left with a box of vowels with no consonants. I was so gobsmacked, all I could think of were sounds of, “Ahhh, eeeeh, uhhh.”

  She continued down the pathway, and I saw she was in her slippers. I hurried to get out. There was a moment
of panic when I couldn’t unfasten my seatbelt—it had locked when I slammed on my brakes— which added even further to my conundrum.

  “H-hi, Jasmine,” I said when I was finally free and standing outside the car.

  “Was there something I forgot to sign?” She smiled pleasantly up at me.

  “Uh, no.” I rubbed the back of my neck, not sure if I should tell her that one of her guests nearly ran me over like a Mac truck. Her eyebrows lifted questioningly, and I realized I wasn’t in the frame of mind to form an acceptable excuse. I was forced to tell the truth.

  “Who drives the Hummer? Because they flew out of here like a bullet and nearly took me out. I actually pulled in here to try and calm myself down.” I held out my hand, which was still trembling from the final effects of the adrenaline burst.

  “Oh, my gosh! Are you okay?”

  I reassured her I was.

  “That was Celeste,” Jasmine answered. “She’s always been a crazy driver. Come in. Let me get you something to calm you down.”

  I followed her inside, not at all certain about what she was going to offer me. It turned out to be a glass of water. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything else. I’m even out of coffee!”

  I sipped the water. “How about you, Jasmine. How are you doing? I know yesterday must have been rough.”

  “I’m doing okay, actually. Your uncle did an amazing job at the memorial. And Celeste is staying here to keep an eye on me. She normally travels a bit, but she dropped everything to make sure I was okay. I’ll get through this.” She smiled then. It was a tough smile, and for a moment, I caught a glint of a waitress who had the fortitude to fight off her manager.

  “I’m glad Celeste is able to stay with you.”

  “She’s amazing. She’d do anything for me.” Jasmine glanced around her house. “You know, this was my dream house. As horrible as everything is, I’m glad I get to stay here.”

  Her comment weirded me out a bit. Still, I knew grief affects people in strange ways. “It’s probably a comfort to be at home at a time like this.”