“Mind if I bring my dog?” she said through the screen door.
I hesitated. “I—uh—”
She gestured toward the dog. “He’s a registered service animal. Legally he’s allowed to accompany me everywhere I go. And don’t worry, he’s completely trained. Top of his class in obedience school.” She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The dog rushed at me and stuck his nose in my crotch.
“Winston, sit!” the woman said.
Winston ignored her. I gave him a little prod with my knee, and he bounded off, pulling the leash out of his owner’s hand. Tail wagging, he executed two fast circuits of the couch before stopping to sample the leather armrest with his teeth. To my horror, I saw that he’d left huge, muddy paw marks all over the ivory carpet.
“Come here, you stupid dog,” the woman snapped. “Heel!”
Winston danced away from her, then flopped onto the carpet and began to scratch, his hind leg working like a piston to reach a spot just behind his left ear. Apparently this wasn’t getting the job done, because he rolled onto his back and began to wriggle, working the itchy skin deep into the shag. I was speechless.
The woman leaned down and grabbed Winston’s leash. “I swear, I’m gonna sue that goddamn obedience school,” she said to no one in particular.
“I really think—”
“He has a lot of energy,” she explained. “You know what, let me walk him around the neighborhood, then we’ll come back.” She hauled Winston away from the arm of the couch, which he was gnawing happily, and the two of them went out, Winston stopping to mark his territory on the front door.
I groaned. They hadn’t covered this in my real estate book. Grabbing a towel from the kitchen, I wiped down the door. Then I tried scrubbing up the muddy tracks. It didn’t do much good. I tossed the soiled towel under the sink and retired defeated.
Where were Norm and Ethel? They’d been holed up in the bathroom for ages. Only fifteen minutes into my first open house, and I’d already damaged the premises and lost track of the guests. What next?
Cookies, that’s what. I leaped into action, cranking up the oven to 375 degrees and searching the cabinets until I found a cookie sheet. I was rummaging through the freezer when I heard a car pull up outside. I inhaled deeply, thinking of Stacy and Bird of Paradise. I exhaled, letting the tension flow out. Maybe there was something to this yoga business after all.
My pulse quickened when a well-dressed young couple strolled up the walk. “Please, come in,” I said, opening the door wide and handing out booties.
“Oh, honey, I just love the location,” the woman said. She was fresh-faced and clean-cut, dressed in a mid-length cotton skirt and pale pink blouse. A canvas satchel needle-pointed with little daisies hung from her arm.
She squealed and rushed to the sliding door. “Look at this view!”
Her partner held out his hand. “Bill Dorfman. This is my wife, Natalie.” Bill had slicked-back sandy hair and a chunky build. He wore Dockers and a red polo shirt, with a nylon day pack slung over one shoulder.
“Sam Turner,” I said. “Let me show you around.”
“We’ve been hoping to find a home in this neighborhood for years,” Bill said.
“This is it. It’s perfect,” Natalie put in. My heart gave a leap, and I mentally inventoried my bag for a blank purchase contract. My boss would be floored.
“Now, sweetheart,” he said. He smiled at me. “Looks like love at first sight. But we’d sure like a tour.”
He and his wife signed my clipboard and prepared to follow me down the hall. Before we could get started, Norman emerged from the bathroom, followed by his scraggy wife.
“Crapper’s clogged,” he announced. “Probably the sewer line’s full of tree roots. We had to have ours dug out two years ago. They got a little camera now they can send right down the lateral. Kinda like a colonoscopy, only the camera’s a lot bigger. Cost me a thousand bucks. At least Medicare covered my colonoscopy.” He helped himself to a flyer.
Ethel tugged at his sleeve. “Honestly, Normie, couldn’t you have waited till we got home?”
He shrugged her off. “Says the woman who served me prune Danish for breakfast.”
“It’s my mother’s recipe.”
“I’m sure it’s a hit at the old folks’ home.” Norman cast an eye around the living room. “What the hell happened in here? A bomb go off?”
Oh, this was going nowhere fast. “Why don’t you go ahead upstairs and I’ll join you in just a minute?” I said to Bill and Natalie.
When they were safely out of range, I ushered Norm and his wife out the door, using a little more force than was absolutely necessary. Then I tiptoed down the hall to assess the damage. The odor hit me like a wave and I recoiled, fighting the urge to gag. With one finger I reached into the bathroom and flicked on the exhaust fan. Then I pulled the collar of my shirt up until it covered my nose and mouth. It was now or never.
Five minutes later I staggered out into the hall, gasping. I’d used a plunger from under the sink to clear the bowl, drawing on my years of experience with substandard plumbing at our old apartment. When I’d achieved a successful whoosh, I ransacked the cabinets until I found a can of Glade and depressed the button for about thirty seconds. I rushed into the kitchen and washed my hands under scalding water until my fingers turned pink. If only I could wash away the images burned into my brain.
I found Bill and Natalie in the living room, pacing off the dimensions.
“Looks like there’s plenty of room for our couch along this wall,” Bill said.
“I thought the bookshelves could go there. What about putting the couch under the big window? Then we can mount the flat-screen on the wall, here.” Natalie stood back, framing the room with her hands to get a better sense of the imaginary layout. Then she spotted me. “Oh, Sam, we’re just so thrilled. Let’s sit down and talk about this.”
Bill glanced at his watch. “We have the church potluck in twenty minutes, honey,” he said.
“Oh, pooh,” she said.
“I’ll be here till two,” I put in helpfully.
Bill took one of my cards. “If we don’t make it back in time, can we call you later today?”
“Of course. Call anytime. Really.” I realized I was babbling, so I shut up.
I saw the couple to the door and waved goodbye. They hopped into a car, pulled away from the curb with a chirp of tires, and roared off.
A beep from the oven told me it had reached cookie-baking temperature. I crossed the living room, noting that the mud on the carpet was nearly dry. A quick run of the vacuum and the room would be mostly restored to its pristine whiteness—
Hold on. It was too white. I squinted at the mantel. Where was the Chinese vase? Oh, no, no, no. I rushed over to see if perhaps I’d just overlooked it. Where the vase had stood there was only a faint ring in the dust.
Everett had warned me to stick like glue to every visitor. But surely a nice couple like that…
In two strides, I was up the stairs. Everything was gone: the glass doodads, the plum-colored hand towels, the matching curtains, even the little rounds of lilac-scented soap. While I’d been struggling with a plugged toilet, Bill and Natalie had systematically stripped the house of everything that wasn’t nailed down. I thought of Natalie’s big satchel, and Bill’s backpack.
Morosely I dragged myself back to the kitchen. What would I say to Everett? How could he explain to his client that his rookie agent had let a couple of thieves clean the place out? I couldn’t bear to think about it. Instead, I snatched up the sign-in sheet and took out my phone. Maybe, just maybe, I’d get lucky. I punched in the number Bill had written down.
“Arlinda Pizza and Deli,” a woman’s voice said. I hung up.
Great. Just great. I flopped onto the leather couch, noting with dismay the small tears in the leatherette left by Winston’s teeth, and rested my head on my hands for a minute. This was it, I told myself. Things couldn’t get any worse.
&n
bsp; Black dots swirled before my eyes. I blinked. The dots were still there. In fact, they were moving, advancing in small hops across the carpet. I scratched idly at my ankle, and one of the dots hopped onto my wrist. I leaned in to take a closer look.
“Shit!” I shrieked, leaping to my feet. “I have fleas!”
I danced in place for a moment, slapping at my clothes. Then I rushed to the kitchen and began ransacking the cabinet under the sink. Scouring powder, stainless steel polish, rusted Brillo pads…Ah. I pulled out an aerosol can with the label mostly eaten away; I could just make out the words “Toxic if ingested” in faded letters, along with a skull and crossbones. Bug spray. Just what I needed.
I hustled back to the living room and spritzed the carpet where my feet had rested a moment before. When I was sure nothing was moving, I sat back on my heels with a sigh of relief, picturing the tiny flea exoskeletons dissolving under a blast of pyrethrins. Thank God for chemical warfare.
Already the harsh odor stung my nostrils, so I threw open a couple of windows, feeling a tad light-headed. Time to boost my blood sugar.
The cookies were in a Ziploc bag just inside the freezer door. Chocolate chip—my lucky day! The baking sheet was still on the stovetop where I’d left it—apparently it hadn’t fit in Natalie’s bag. Too bad for them. I ripped open the bag and emptied the rounds of cookie dough onto the pan. A strange object was among them.
For a moment I stood as frozen as a lump of dough, unable to process what I was seeing. It looked like a finger. Dammit, it was a finger. A human finger, frozen solid, with a slim gold wedding band encircling it between the severed end and the first joint.
A dull roar started in my ears. I turned away and rested my head against the cool refrigerator. Maybe I’d inhaled more bug spray than was good for me. I waited for my head to clear, then peeked over my shoulder. The finger was still there.
Suddenly the doorbell rang. A woman’s voice called out, “Hel-looo? Anyone home?”
Quick as a flash, I grabbed the cookie sheet and its gruesome relic and stashed it out of sight on the top shelf of the refrigerator. Then I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. I was a professional, for God’s sake.
A stout woman with an aggressive bust and a towering bouffant hairdo stood on the step. At her elbow was a thin, mournful-looking man.
“Come on in,” I said. “I’m Sam. How are you today?”
“On a tight schedule and that’s a fact,” the woman said. She marched over the threshold and pumped my hand as if to draw water from a well. “Minnie Blotz, and this is Joe Blotz. We have another house to see over in West Arlinda, so let’s get this show on the road.” She scanned my face. “I can tell already, Sam, I don’t like the lighting in this place one bit. Makes you look white as a sheet. Don’t you agree, dear?”
Joe’s lips parted, but Minnie swept on. “Open houses are kind of a hobby of ours. In fact, this is our fourth today. Of course, we own our own home—a sweet little place over by Fowler Creek. Made the last mortgage payment two years ago and now it’s ours free and clear.” She released my hand. “But, Sam, I’ve always said that it’s never too soon to get a feel for the market. Not that we’re ready for assisted living yet—isn’t that right, Joe?”
“Er—”
“Now I’m not one to tell you how to do your job, Sam, but the top open houses always have a little something to offer in the snack department. Why, the last one we went to, the lady set out a plate of sugar cookies shaped like little houses. Just too darling for words. Makes such a difference when you can tell the host has put in some effort. Some agents actually bake a loaf of bread before the open house. Makes a place smell like home. No offense, dear, but I can tell you’re just starting out. When you have more experience, you’ll catch on to these little tricks.” She canvassed the living room rapidly as she spoke, taking everything in. Then she towed her skinny husband into the kitchen.
“My, my,” she said. “I haven’t seen a range like this since Reagan was president. Now there was a man with charisma. A real leader of the people. Not like today’s namby-pamby politicians. Don’t you feel that way, too, Joe?”
Joe nodded, his face as lugubrious as a bloodhound’s. In the infinitesimal silence that followed, he managed to produce two words. “Slab foundation?”
“Perimeter,” I said, which caused his brow to furrow even more deeply.
Minnie clucked over the faded laminate countertop, then reached for the refrigerator door.
“Let me show you the upstairs,” I said hastily, moving between her and the door and closing it with a well-timed jab of my hip. I herded the two of them up the stairs, Minnie continuing her running commentary. In between her flow of words, I thought I heard the screen door open and close, but when we returned to the first floor no one was there.
We whipped through the rest of the house and ended up back in the living room, where Minnie took several flyers. “Price is too high,” she pronounced knowingly. “You want top dollar, the place has to be immaculate.” She gestured toward the muddy carpet. “It’s not just location that sells homes; it’s elbow grease. My guess is the owner never lifted a finger around the place.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I put in, truthfully enough.
“Well, that’s just my opinion, but Joe and I, we’ve—”
“Darling, time to go,” Joe said.
Minnie’s mouth snapped shut like a metal trap, and the two of them left. I breathed a sigh of relief. My head was in a whirl.
Dragging my heels a bit, I returned to the refrigerator and extracted the pan. Nothing had changed; the finger still sat there. I opened one of the kitchen drawers, looking for something to prod with. The drawer was empty except for a couple of business cards from various local funeral homes. I felt around the back of the drawer and came up with a pencil. It would do.
I gave the finger a little push with the pencil tip. I don’t know what I expected—maybe that the digit would suddenly spring to life. But nothing happened. The skin was pale, almost white, and covered with a fine sheen of moisture from the brief thaw in the fridge. The nail was blunt, slightly nibbled, and lacquered with a deep pink polish.
I avoided more than a cursory glance at the severed end, which was smeared with blood and showed a pale cross section of finger bone. Ugh.
I bent down to take a closer look at the ring. Just then, I heard the sound of tires scraping up against the curb outside. Back in the fridge went the cookie sheet. I straightened my stack of flyers and crossed the living room to take up my welcome position at the front door, stopping to check the carpet for bugs on the way.
The fleas were gone. So were large sections of the ivory shag. Oh, God, what was this? It looked as though an acetylene torch had been applied to the expensive nylon fibers, reducing them to hard plastic knots of dingy gray.
I raced back to the sink and pulled out the aerosol can. The label hung in tatters, but, piecing a few together, I formed the words “Ove Cl aner.” I’d blasted the carpet with Easy-Off.
There was only one thing to be done. I tried lifting the couch by the armrest, but it weighed a ton. Instead, I got my weight behind it and pushed it like a tackling dummy until one end covered the damaged area. Then I did the same with the other end. With my sock-covered toe, I rubbed out the marks left by the couch feet, then stood back and surveyed my efforts. It would do. It had to.
Voices carried up the walk. I greeted a party of three or four people at the door and walked them through the house without ever registering their names or taking in their appearances. My lips seemed to move a lot, chattering away and smiling like a crazy person. They signed my sheet and left.
I reached for my phone. Then I hesitated. Was it illegal for someone to keep human remains in the freezer? Surely there had to be a law of some sort against it. But maybe there was a reasonable explanation. I racked my brain and couldn’t think of one. Still, I couldn’t afford to embarrass Everett or his client. And yet—
I dialed E
verett’s number. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail. Everett took his weekends seriously.
I tapped my fingers on the counter for a minute. Then I swallowed my pride and called Bernie.
The phone rang five times before he picked up. “Sam,” he said.
His voice—so full of warmth, so intimate—made me mute. Suddenly I was filled with a rush of giddy happiness, as if all my birthdays plus the thrill of being at the very top of a roller-coaster ride had been rolled into one sensation. It took my breath away.
After a long moment, I managed a word. “Hi.”
“I was just thinking about you.”
My lips moved, but nothing came out. Oh, this was bad. Very bad. I cleared my throat. “Yeah. Me, too. I mean, about you.” Brilliant.
“How’s the open house going? Lots of people?”
My heartbeat settled down to jackhammer level. “Actually, yes. Pretty much nonstop. That’s sort of why I called. I, um, found something.” Somehow I got the story out. It sounded ridiculously improbable even to my own ears.
There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Bernie heaved a sigh. “Until recently, I thought real estate was a pretty unexciting occupation.”
“It is.”
“Not the way you do it.”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“You could put it that way. Listen, I’m tied up at the moment, but I’m going to send an officer to check things out. How long will you be there?”
I glanced at my watch. “Another twenty minutes or so.” Had I really spent less than two hours at this house? It felt like a day and a half.
“Mike Decker’s the officer on patrol. He should be there by two. If not, give him a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
There was another lull in the conversation. “What are you doing later?”
I thought about some of the options that might be on the table and felt a little weak in the knees. “I, well—”
“Dinner?”
“I could do dinner. Sure. My place?”
A Killer Location Page 3
