Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic

by Maria Grazia Swan

  She shook her red mane and I sort of felt sorry for her, but it didn’t last long. I went to unlock the front door while Jessie began to unload her equipment from the back of the van. I have to admit, it all looked legit.

  “What happened to the regular guy? What’s his name? Al?”

  “Alan got married; he’s on his honeymoon?”

  She carried one of those things into the entrance. A tripod?

  “Huh? Married? He must be seventy at least. Not that it matters of course. Now don’t go out there screaming age discrimination.”

  “What age discrimination? He probably is seventy, but last time I checked there is no law against getting married at seventy.”

  “No, there isn’t it.” I sighed, and flashes of paler, thinner skin and Angelique’s aging face raced through my mind. I doubted Mrs. Dumont was that old. I looked at J.S. who was looking at me. Couldn’t help wondering if we shared the same brief insight but I’ll never know for sure. While she walked around to familiarize herself with the floorplan I explored the closets and the pantry.

  The home had that smell of shut-off, old places. It didn’t matter that the house had been thoroughly cleaned and, thanks to our dry climate, no mold or mildew to be concerned about. But unless you used plug-in air fresheners overloaded with chemically-induced, icky odor cover-ups, you got old folks smell. Personally, I would take the stale smell over flowery air fresheners any day, for sure. But right this moment I went from room to room and opened the windows wide. In the pantry, I found some silk plants and a few old baskets that could be used as props. Nothing of great monetary or sentimental value because, as Kay always reminded me, you can’t trust everyone. Since I was the key holder, it was my responsibility to keep the place safe.

  “Before it hits the market, I want to come back and place some nice fluffy towels in the master bath,” I said.

  “Oh, any particular thing I should be aware of before shooting it?”

  “Nah, it’s just the walk-in bath tub. I’ve never seen one before, it looks odd.”

  “Let me see.” J.S. followed me through the master bedroom and looked inside the empty tub.

  “I see what you mean,” she mused. “What happens if after you’re in there, surrounded by water and bubbles, you need to go?”

  I gave her a look.

  “No, not to pee,” she said quickly. “That’s a no brainer. I’m thinking — number 2?”

  We stared at each other. “Whoa, that could get messy quick,” she snickered. “Gross.”

  I nodded. “It sucks to get old.”

  “You should talk, I’m probably five, six years older than you are.” She turned, adjusted her camera and clicked a pic of me, standing by the walk in tub, with my mouth open as usual.

  Two hours later she was done and packed, ready to go. I gave her all my info for R.E. Assist Company. Part of their service was to post the photos to the Internet, but I had to approve them first. When Jessica left she had my phone number, email, and, nagging thought, my realtor member number and password. I kept my fingers crossed behind my back while sharing the info. Although it was all very legit, the uncomfortable feeling wouldn’t go away. I locked up the house and took the long way to the main gate. I wanted to see the community pool and the crafts room. To my surprise, I realized there was also a tennis court and a nine-hole golf course. Very nice, perfect for a retired couple, I assumed.

  On the way back to the office, I stopped to top off the Kia’s tank and the concern about sharing info with J.S. came nagging at me with renewed vigor. She had to have had my info before we met at the listing. I maintained an account with the company that employed her and she was waiting there for me. Certainly, she’d been briefed and supplied the necessary data. Why did she ask for it again?

  What if Al wasn’t on his honeymoon and J.S. being assigned to my account wasn’t a coincidence? And what if I stopped making myself sick over that? Why would she care? Why? The name Tristan came to mind. Crystal clear. Mercy me, between the camper dude and the former reporter chick this was definitely an Excedrin kind of afternoon.

  The minute I locked the Kia, my eyes went to the installed spare tire on my pink beauty. Yes. Thanks AAA. How could I ever give up my little Fiat? We had been through so much together. My high heels clicked toward the office entrance, the listing file proudly tucked under my arm and the Kia’s keys jingling in my hand.

  Slam! The hefty office door was pushed open so fast it hit me hard, and I found myself falling backward. I dropped the keys trying to grab the decorative metal handle. That was close. As I worked at catching my breath and my balance, a pissed off Celine hissed, “You. Get the hell out of my way.”

  And she stomped out in such a rage she even forgot to sashay her hips. What was going on? How did I miss her powder blue Sebring? Too busy looking at my pink chariot?

  Kassandra was at my side, Sunny trailing by seconds, “I’m sorry Monica, are you okay?”

  I was still too shaken up and frankly — stunned —even to spell out a few choice adjectives befitting that spoiled brat Celine. A little voice in my head told me she must have had a fight with her mother, and by her explosive exit, she lost the argument.

  Kassandra collected her car keys from the travertine floor. Our eyes met and she winked at me. Oh, that must have been a juicy squabble between my boss and her blonde nitwit kid. More tattle for our happy hour chats. “It’s okay, Sunny. What’s wrong with Celine, that time of the month?”

  She rolled her eyes, “With Celine every day that she doesn’t get her way is that time of the month.”

  Poor woman. I headed over to my cubicle and noticed Kay’s office door open, so I adjusted my route and popped in to say hello and report on the progress.

  Kay’s office was very small and windowless. Perhaps a closet in its past life? She’d had the place decorated in pale green and white, more beach house than Arizona office. The door was left open when she didn’t have guests so I poked my head in. Today her knitted sweater matched her chair pillows and set off her naturally silver hair. If only I could look so chic when I’m her age...

  “Well, I hope this new photographer is as good as Al.” I put it out there and waited.

  “New photographer? Why? What happened to Al?” I knew it.

  I told her the whole story. Okay, I left out sixty percent of my suspicions and even with barely forty percent, I caught Kay looking at me like I was batty. She kept staring, at least I thought she was looking at me since I was the only one there. Then a smile spread from her eyes to the rest of her face, and she asked, “Wait, are we talking about that dingbat reporter who wrote all that garbage about Celine and that young man? Oh, now I remember, the redhead who showed up at your first open house. Right?”

  I nodded yes so enthusiastically I feared my head would come unhinged and roll off my body. Kay was obviously agreeing with me about J.S. Smith. Finally. I felt vindicated. She picked up the phone.

  “This is easy. The owner of the company is an old friend. Let’s find out.” She got a busy signal. “I’m curious, why is this S.J, J. S. whatever the name, always chasing you down? What is it she wants from you?”

  I shrugged, “She’s sort of stuck on Tris — Mr. Dumont.”

  “What? Her too?” Her too? OMG, was I that transparent? Kay’s fingers tapped on her desk. She looked amused. “Oh, I guess you weren’t here. You missed Celine’s big drama scene. That poor Sunny. I don’t know how she can put up with her. It’s days like these I’m thankful I never had kids.”

  I cleared my throat, “What drama scene?”

  “Celine went to some witchcraft thing. No, no, a fair. Yes, A Psychic Fair. That’s what I heard. That’s what we all heard, and I’m not sure what’s the big deal except that the nitwit went there to buy a love potion.”

  She laughed openly, “A love potion. Unbelievable and I bet she gave it, or tried to give it to that Tristan Dumont. Apparently, it didn’t work.”

  She covered her mouth with her free hand not
to sound too — amused?

  “She and the reporter should get together and compare notes.” The phone still in her hand, she checked her watch, “Oops. Got to go. Let’s get together as soon as you receive the download and we’ll get you set up with your listing. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to my friend and find out about that Smith woman.”

  I went back to my cubicle. Celine and the Psychic Fair. Love potion Kay said. Was the whole office at the fair? No, what was I thinking? Kassandra said she didn’t go. Not so, she went but didn’t stay. And Brenda was my aunt. However, she didn’t have anything to do with Desert Homes Realty, right? I could sure use some Excedrin, no joke. The tiny counter that made up my desk had a few post-its stuck in the weirdest places. Must be Kassandra’s wicked sense of humor. I was dying to hear her version of the love potion. Why would Celine tell her mother about it?

  Clear your mind Monica, none of your biz. I read my messages: a call from that legal firm, the one with the fancy pants Esquire who was working on the accident settlement. Made me feel funny to be part of it. Tristan’s intentions were good, I just didn’t know how I could claim damages. I was totally recovered and really, Tristan lost his Land Rover and spent weeks in a cast. Oh, well, later. A receipt from AAA, with a notation recommending I replace the tire, meaning buy a new one? Better make up my mind about my Fiat. A folded white piece of paper, hand written in cursive? From Tristan? He was here? In my cubicle? Be still my heart. Maybe that’s when Celine gave him the love potion? How? Mouth to mouth? Stop it Monica. I read the note.

  Hey Fiat, noticed someone working on your car. Call me if you need a ride. Here is my cell #. T.

  How sweet was that? He must have been here meeting with Sunny while AAA changed my tire. On impulse I held his note against my heart. Then looked around, no one saw me. Good. As if anyone cared about my romantic dreams. The office was very, very quiet. I could see Sunny in her glass office, talking on the phone and skimming through a thick file. It always amazed me to see how organized and focused she could be. Celine must take after her father, whoever he was.

  I had a phone call from the couple who hired me to sell their house. I called them back and updated them on the progress. I also promised to let them see the photos before the rest of the world did. They sounded pretty excited, especially the wife who loved the new living arrangements, adding she no longer had to cook. They ate their main meals in the elegant restaurant and, of course, the food had to be fantastic. After all, Brenda was in charge of the menu. Sunny was leaving with a stack of files under her arm. She gave me a thumbs up, without slowing her pace.

  “We have a closing date.”

  No need to explain. My heart summersaulted. We were closing Tristan’s horse ranch in Tucson. Bittersweet news. I was about to get a nice chunk of money. Then again, this meant the end of my business-related connection with Dumont.

  “Why the sad face?”

  I didn’t hear Kassandra sneaking up on me.

  “Everyone is gone. Get your stuff and I’ll switch the phones to the answering service. Let’s go party,” she said with a wicked grin.

  “Seriously Kassandra? It’s Monday. Tomorrow morning we are back here.”

  “Aren’t you a barrel of fun? Let’s go somewhere with outside tables, and I don’t mean North Italia. Somewhere with loud people and music. You are not going to believe what I found out today. Let’s go. You’ve got ten minutes to get to your car before I set the alarm.”

  She turned around and left me there wondering what had she been doing. Bathing in Red Bull?

  Seven minutes later I unlocked my Fiat 500. What was that old saying? “Curiosity killed the cat?” No cat here, just Monica Baker, dying of curiosity.

  TEN

  “I NEED TO get back to my tarot cards. Every morning, before starting the day, I would pull a random card from the stack. It helped me mentally. Haven’t done that in a while and now my whole life is going down the toilet.”

  This from the girlfriend who demanded a place with loud people and music and outside tables, etc. Wow! What’s next? Crying in her drink? “I never pulled any card,” I said, “and my life isn’t any smoother than yours right now. But what happened with Celine?”

  How did we end up here anyhow? I had no idea El Chorro offered happy hours. Of course it wasn’t like the happy hours we were familiar with. I did get a glass of generic white wine at a reasonable price, but the food was a little too upscale right at this moment. I couldn’t even pronounce some of the items on the menu. And even the building was different. Bigger? More modern? I couldn’t be sure. The only other time I’d been there was with Tommy, my ex, and we were newlyweds. While I perused the architectural wonders of the lodge, Kassandra ordered a dirty martini. Not a good thing. I finally settled on my go-to when in doubt: Calamari, hold the sauce, lots of lemon.

  “Oh, that bimbo in high heels.” She wiped olive juice from her lips. “She showed up on Dumont’s trail, as usual. Somehow she didn’t find him right away. I don’t know, maybe he used the john. Eventually she chased him to the parking lot but he drove off. I assume she then noticed your can of Pepto-Bismol parked there, and no trace of you at the office. Of course, I wasn’t about to volunteer that you borrowed my car.” She giggled. “Way too much fun to watch her come unglued. I knew she had visited the fair, and had suspicions about why, but kept it to myself. Then while she’s looking around to see who she can harass next, her mother summons her to her office and before the door closed on her sweet cheeks, I heard something about ‘you at the Psychic fair.’ I swear, she didn’t get it from me.” She gulped down her martini.

  Too embarrassed to ask why her cocktail was called dirty, I focused on squeezing lemon wedges on my calamari when she ordered another martini. “Kassandra, you are eating olives and drinking hard liquor. You won’t be able to drive home.”

  “It’s okay, my Kia is like a horse; she’ll take me home, no problem.”

  “Yes. Problem. For starters, we are in Paradise Valley, with the most organized and effective police force. Seriously, why are you drinking so much? What happened while I was gone from the office?”

  “Aren’t you the cutest little curious Italian?” She reached over to poke me and spilled her drink all over the table. I took that as a blessing until the waiter who had been circling the table ever since we got there with his eyes on Kassandra, hurried over and brought another martini. Courtesy of the house, he said. Or something just as stupid. Kassandra didn’t hear him. She was head down trying to find the olive that had rolled under the table.

  “That’s it,” I said. “Get up, I’m driving you home. We’ll leave your car here. You can get it in the morning. I’ll talk to the manager.”

  “No one goes home with me, no one.” Was she crying? “It’s all my fault. Poor Miss Fortune. No, no, not Fortune her name is — was — Peg. Peg Campos. I like Fortune better; what do you think, Monica?”

  “I think that it’s time to go. Can you walk? No, wait. Let me go pay and make sure we can leave the Kia parked overnight. Do you need to get something from the car? Is it locked? Damn, I don’t even know where you live.”

  “I’m not telling you.” She reached over and grabbed my glass, drinking whatever little was left. “Everybody lies. That Bill Smith lied. He didn’t even live in the house where I left my bra.” Kassandra was getting louder and louder. Well, we did accomplish something. We were in a place with loud people, that’s for sure. I left her at the table, mumbling to herself and went to pay the bill. I asked if I could leave Kassandra’s vehicle there. The answer was yes but the whole compound would be locked up until around eight a.m.

  I didn’t care; anything was better than Kassandra attempting to drive home. I still couldn’t understand how she got drunk so fast. Unless she was already drinking at the office.

  Getting her to sit in my Fiat was another chore. I pushed the passenger seat as far back as possible. Her breath reeked of those awful liquid cough medicines that make you drowsy. I drove out of El Cho
rro parking lot and all the way to the shopping center on the corner of 32nd St. and Lincoln. The first place where I could park and talk to Kassandra without risking a fine. I needed to find out her address. I managed to wrestle her handbag away from her and pulled out her wallet. I figured the safest thing was to look at her address on her driver’s license. I kept the windows open, praying she didn’t throw up.

  Luckily, she nodded off when the Fiat started rolling. All the months I’d been at Desert Homes Realty and the many happy hours Kassandra and I had spent together, I had never, ever seen her so wasted. Something must have happened, besides finding out Miss Fortune’s real name. Kassandra’s address on her driver’s license said Scottsdale. Scottsdale? She told me she lived around Seventh Avenue and Northern. Then I understood. She never changed the address at the DMV. What now?

  “Kassandra, what’s the name of the complex where you live?”

  She twitched the left side of her mouth, licked off some drool. “Live? Who? We all die, don’t you know?”

  “Kassandra, don’t go back to sleep. It’s me, Monica.” I shook her shoulder while she tried to wiggle away. Thank god it was dark enough so even a passerby couldn’t see what was going on in the car. “Your condo, where is it? What is the place called?”

  “The happiest place on earth.” She hummed the Disney jingle. My patience was running short. I wasn’t good when it came to reasoning with stubborn adults.

  “Pay attention. When you go home, what does the sign on the entrance of the complex say?”

  “Monica, you’re sooo funny. Signs don’t talk.”

  “True, true, but people do. So talk to me and tell me where your condo is. Okay?”

  “Okay. It’s easy to find, on the corner of seventh and Northern. That’s why it’s called Northern Star. See? On Northern, the star.”

  She kept on babbling and pointing to the dark sky while I quickly entered the name on my phone. Sure enough, the map showed we were close. Finally, something positive. I put the Fiat in gear and headed West on Lincoln that quickly became Glendale Avenue once we entered Phoenix.