A Killer Location

by Sarah T. Hobart

  Another woman was picking her way down the walk, a gardening trowel in one hand.

  “Josie, meet our new neighbor Sam,” Phyll said.

  “Oh, Sam, we’re so happy you’ve moved in,” Josie said, peering into my face through thick lenses and making a sandwich of my hand with both of hers. She was as petite as her partner was bulky, with gray-brown hair that stuck out in two braids like an aging Pippi Longstocking. Her bangs were held back by plastic barrettes shaped like dog bones. A floral housedress hung on her shoulders, as shapeless as a sack, and her feet were encased in wool socks and Birkenstocks. “We’ve been so worried about the house sitting vacant the way it was.”

  “An invitation to crime,” Phyll said. “Squatters. Vandalism. Fortunately, we have a first-rate Neighborhood Watch. Meets the second Tuesday of the month. Seven p.m. sharp, my house, bring a dish to share. Great stuff.”

  “Phyll is our watch captain,” Josie added shyly.

  “Always had a knack for organizing. Happy to say we’ve had only two reportable incidents so far this year.”

  “Oh, Phyll, you really shouldn’t count the Greenholtz boy knocking over the Andrewses’ mailbox. He’d just got his license the day before.”

  “Reckless operation of a motor vehicle. Vandalism. Hit and run. I was disgusted when Nina Andrews declined to press charges. You can bet your bottom dollar that young man’ll have a rap sheet as long as your arm by the time he turns eighteen.” Phyll suddenly winked and gave me a playful poke in the arm, which I was pretty sure would leave a mark. “Of course, we’re already seeing increased police presence on the street since you moved in. Am I right?”

  I blushed. “Um, I guess—”

  “Phyll, don’t tease.” Josie smiled at me apologetically. “Sam will think we’re nosy neighbors. We don’t mean to embarrass you, dear. Phyll, tell her about the washer and dryer.”

  “Can’t help but notice you lugging your wash into town,” Phyll said in her deep voice. “It just so happens we recently replaced our old Maytag set. They’re free to a good home. Quality units. They’ve seen a few loads of laundry in their day, but these machines were built to last. Not like today’s appliances where they push a service contract on you because they know damn well you’ll need it right out the door. These got a lot of years left in them. They really knew how to build ’em in 1978. Yours for the taking. You got hookups?”

  “Really, this is too generous of you. I don’t think—”

  “Nonsense. What are neighbors for?”

  “We’d be happy for you to have them, dear,” Josie said. “It’s our way of welcoming you to the neighborhood.”

  “Gosh, that’s really nice of you. I’m pretty sure I have hookups.” Didn’t I?

  “Tell you what,” Phyll said. “When you get in tonight, give me a holler. I’ll pull out the hand truck and we’ll get you set up. No more running back and forth to the Laundromat. You’re a homeowner now, am I right?”

  “It still feels pretty new to me.”

  “Remember those days, Phyll?” Josie said. “When we first moved in?” She smiled a little mistily. The two of them exchanged a long look.

  “Well, I’d better get to the office,” I said, glancing at my watch.

  “See you tonight,” Phyll said.

  The air seemed to crackle with pheromones. Josie put a hand on Phyll’s wrist and the two of them turned back toward their home. I jumped into the VW, giving them a moment to get out of range before cranking over the engine. I didn’t want to spoil the moment.

  —

  My co-worker and desk mate, Gail Kelly, was at the computer when I arrived at the office shortly after nine. A rookie like me, Gail was a recent addition to the Home Sweet Home Realty family, after her first brokerage closed down a few months back. Her face, under its mop of purple curls, was sweet and sincere, with that hint of eagerness that let you know she was in sales and might try to ferret out your phone number. She had a pear-shaped figure that was whiplash in its curves; her generous behind, so derrière non grata five years ago, was suddenly the height—or breadth—of fashion. Next to her, I felt about as shapely as a stick of gum, a Laurel to her Hardy. She was also, I’d recently realized, my best friend.

  I dropped my bag on the desk belonging to Carl Stopowitz, an absentee agent who made a lot of handshake deals that seldom involved the inconvenience of a conventional mortgage. “You’re here early.”

  “You didn’t return my call last night.”

  “I turned off my phone. Long day.”

  “They found a dead woman up in Campus Heights. It was on the six o’clock news. You know anything about that?”

  “Why would I?”

  She looked at me. “You know why.”

  I slumped back into Carl’s chair. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “I knew it! I want all the details.”

  I gave her the highlights: Norm and Ethel, the fleas, the kleptomaniacs, the frozen finger, the corpse.

  Her eyes grew rounder and rounder. “It beats me how these things happen to you. I held a few open houses back when I worked for RealtyKing. Most agents don’t want to bother with them, so they got sloughed off on me. Seriously, it was like watching grass grow. Whose body was it?”

  “That’s the big question, I suppose.” I didn’t mention the wedding band and the uncomfortable theory that was lurking in the back of my mind. Probably wouldn’t until I had a chance to talk to Everett. “What are you working on?”

  She turned back to the computer. “Listing presentation. My first. We’re meeting for coffee at ten, and I want to wow them with my market knowledge. I’m a little nervous, to tell you the truth.”

  “Just be yourself.”

  “Like that’s worked for me so far.”

  I shrugged. Gail gathered up her material and left for her appointment a few minutes later, so I moved over to our desk and picked up the open house sign-in sheet. Time for some follow-up calls.

  The first name on the list was Wanda’s. I stared at her cramped cursive and decided that her last name was Davis. The phone rang five times before she picked up. “Yes?”

  “This is Sam Turner from Home Sweet Home Realty,” I said, aiming for a brisk professional tone.

  “Who?”

  “Sam? From the open house on McMillan yesterday?”

  There was a pause. “Oh, right. The open house. How are you?”

  “Good. I’m good. Just following up to see if you—that is, what you thought about the place. If maybe you wanted to take a second look.” I gave my noggin a brisk smack to settle my nerves.

  “Listen, this is a bad time for me—”

  “Sorry.” I gave myself a second smack for apologizing. Super-agents never apologized.

  “—but I suppose a second look wouldn’t hurt. Sure. Why not? Today?”

  “Today works.” Assuming the police were done with the place.

  “Make it six o’clock. I’ll see you there.”

  “Perfect. I—” But she’d disconnected.

  I was still grinning when I moved on to the next name on the list. One for one. I was going to have this house sold in no time. I dialed the number.

  A gruff voice picked up. “Yeah?”

  “May I speak to Marcia?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Sam Turner from—”

  “How’d you get this number?

  “I—uh—”

  “Marcia doesn’t live here anymore. So fuck off.” He slammed the phone down.

  “Dick,” I said, crossing Marcia off the list. I tried a third number. It rang and rang until a woman’s harried voice answered.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “We’re on the ‘Do Not Call’ list,” she snapped. “Who’s this? I need to report you to the FCC.”

  I dropped the receiver as if it were a hot coal. This was trickier than I’d thought. But I had a job to do.

  I worked my way through the rest of the list. Two numbers were no lon
ger in service, and another got the phone slammed in my ear. The last one connected me to the Arlinda Welcome Center, where the chirpy receptionist kept me on the line extolling the virtues of small-town life.

  “So, you wanna buy a house here?” I asked hopefully.

  “Oh, honey, not a chance. The state cut our funding and I’m out on my ass next week. But good luck.”

  “Yeah. Same to you.” I hung up the phone and rested my head in my hands for a minute.

  It didn’t take me long to regroup. After all, one for nine wasn’t too terrible; in fact, it was better than average in real estate, where nine out of ten leads turn out to be dead ends. And I had high hopes for the one. Wanda sounded like a seasoned investor, already working with a mortgage broker. I just had to overcome her doubts. I picked up my real-estate bible and reread the chapter titled “Getting Past No.” The techniques outlined seemed a bit obnoxious to me, but the author had bought and sold more houses than God, according to his blurb. And who would fib about a thing like that?

  The back door creaked open, then slammed shut. Everett, right on time. I gathered up my notes from the open house and gave him a minute to get settled at his desk. Then I marched down the hall to his office.

  He was on hold, the phone pressed to his ear. His feet, clad in bright blue running shoes with waffle-patterned soles, were resting on his desk, and he was humming something cheery and classical, maybe from one of those rare operas where the heroine doesn’t expire over the course of three arias. He had a corner office, smaller than the one I shared with Gail and Carl but brighter, with a tall window offering a view of traffic on Salmon Bay Boulevard. His desk was made from genuine oak; it had a patina of old varnish and scratches to give it some pedigree. The laptop computer that rested on it was this year’s model, not a hand-me-down from another decade. A framed photo of towering surf at the North Jetty hung on one wall, one of a grove of ancient redwoods on another.

  He caught my eye and waved me to a seat. The gleam of exposed scalp was as shocking as before. His shirt today was all palm trees and surfboards, draped over his soft middle like a towel over a bowl of rising bread dough. When he spoke into the phone, his voice was rich and warm.

  “Make it eight o’clock. Table for two, overlooking the bay. That’s right. Name’s Sweet. S-W-E-E-T. You got it.”

  “Hot date?” I said.

  For some reason, color suffused his face. He cleared his throat. “Business. Tell me about McMillan.”

  I stared at him. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what? You sold it?” He smiled at his little joke.

  “I figured the police would have been in touch.”

  “I was at the lake yesterday. Came straight from there to the office.”

  Before I could launch into the whole story, the front door slammed and purposeful footsteps reverberated down the hall. A tall gray-haired man in his sixties suddenly materialized in the doorway.

  “Everett, we need to talk,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. Then he saw me. “Oh, pardon me, miss.”

  I guessed by the expression on my boss’s face his visitor was about as welcome as a double hernia. He dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. “Sam, this is Gordon Dettweiler, Coastal Real Estate. Gordon, Sam Turner, one of my up-and-coming associates.”

  Dettweiler held out his hand. “Board president three years running, Salmon Bay Board of Realtors.” He was dressed more formally than most agents I’d encountered, in a gray pin-striped suit and white dress shirt. His face was lean and humorless, with barely any chin to speak of and a beak of a nose that was so long and thin you could have teed a golf ball off it.

  He cleared his throat. “I regret the interruption, Sweet, but I’m here on board business that can’t wait.”

  “It never can,” Everett said.

  Irritation added red blotches to Dettweiler’s wan cheeks. I scrambled to my feet. “I was just leaving.”

  “We can finish up later, Sam.” Everett’s voice was casual, but I knew him well enough by now to realize this was going to be a doozy of a conversation.

  Dettweiler stood aside to allow me to pass. As he did, I noticed a manila file folder tucked under his arm. He closed the door behind me.

  I headed back to my desk and applied my ear to the wall. Even with it pressed flat against the plaster, I couldn’t make out much, maybe every fifth word. I tried again using a bottomless paper coffee cup as an ear trumpet, and this time got every fourth word. But the tone came through loud and clear: it was venomous.

  Ten minutes later, Dettweiler slammed out of Everett’s office. “I’m warning you, Sweet. Don’t underestimate me.”

  He strode down the hall and out the door, closing it sharply behind him. I thought about giving Everett time to collect himself, then decided what the hell, and went on back.

  He was seated at his desk, his posture rigid, eyes staring into nothing. His face was as pale and glistening as a hard-boiled egg, and his fingers drummed the desk. Shock radiated from him like heat waves off a frying pan.

  “If this is a bad time—” I faltered to a stop. It was obviously a terrible time.

  Everett turned to me with a smile so forced, I thought it would crack his face. “Why don’t we reconvene after lunch.” There was a manila folder under his fingertips, probably the same one the board president had carried in.

  “Sure.” I scooted out of there, devoured by curiosity but bothered, too. I’d never seen Everett at a loss. Excepting his penchant for unsuitable women, he’d always seemed inviolate, a Hawaiian shirt–clad rock of business acumen and salesmanship, with a bag of chocolate chip cookies he kept in a file drawer and brought out when I was at my lowest. I hated to admit it to myself, but when he wasn’t completely irritating I kind of liked the guy. Now I was forced to worry about him.

  Chapter 7

  I grabbed my bag and strolled the four blocks to the center of town, stopping at Off the Wall Deli for one of their hefty sandwiches. The place looked like a fallout shelter, and it was rumored that the Health Department paid biweekly visits, but they made a killer roast beef on rye, with just the right touch of horseradish.

  I added a Diet Coke to my order and toted my lunch to the Plaza, a grassy square in the heart of Arlinda. Two stately palms graced one corner of the park, littering the walkway below with lacy fronds and dark brown seed husks. Local merchants had claimed space at the other corners, installing raised gardens full of bright perennials in beds of bark mulch and cigarette butts. Most of the benches were occupied by the lunchtime crowd: minimum-wage clerks and harried business owners from the various shops around the block, or khaki-clad travelers possessed of heavy army bags and puppies on rope leashes.

  I plumped myself down on the last available bench, just opposite the bronze likeness of William McKinley. His stern gaze seemed to be fixed on me, his outstretched arm accusing.

  “Back off,” I told our twenty-fifth president, and closed my eyes for a moment.

  The bench creaked as someone sat down beside me. I opened my eyes. It was Wayne.

  “You always talk to yourself?” he said.

  My ex had been a good-looking man when we first crossed paths fifteen—no, sixteen—years ago: tall and lean, with a mass of dark curls and blue eyes to die for. He had a devil-may-care smile, a little crooked like Max’s, and an air of recklessness I’d found irresistible. And look how that had turned out for me.

  “I wasn’t talking to myself.”

  “Yeah, okay.” To my annoyance, he stretched out his legs, making himself right at home. “How you doin’?”

  “All right until you came along.”

  “Come off it, Sam. How long you gonna hold a grudge?”

  “I don’t know. How’s fourteen years sound?” Not long enough, in my book. Our one-year marriage had turned out to be as phony as his pledge to love, honor, cherish, and stick around, goddammit.

  He sighed and leaned back, letting his eyelids droop and tilting his face up to the p
ale late-morning light. I stole a peek at him. His plaid work shirt was frayed and his jeans were belted at the waist with a length of twine. His hair was more gray than dark now, thinning at the scalp. I noted the ashy color of his skin, the deep furrows that had formed around his eyes and mouth. As the breeze shifted, I smelled sweat mingled with the distinct perfume of cannabis.

  He opened one eye. “Caught you lookin’,” he said with a flash of that killer smile.

  I flushed and averted my eyes. “I’m surprised you’re still in town.”

  “It’s like I said. I’m here to make amends. And…be something to Max. Maybe not his dad. Not after all this time. But something more than a stranger. I owe him that.”

  A little of the old anger stirred, but I was surprised to feel it simmer, then die down. I couldn’t change the past, no matter how much I wanted to. And, if I was being honest, it wasn’t all that much.

  I unwrapped my sandwich. It had thick layers of meat and cheese, along with tomatoes, onions, and jalapeños. It smelled heavenly. I could feel Wayne’s gaze shift to it.

  “Stop staring,” I said.

  “Who, me?”

  With a sigh, I handed him half. He flashed me the smile again, as if he thought it still had some effect on me. Well, maybe a little. I nibbled at my portion, distracted, while Wayne polished off his in four bites. A little color came into his cheeks.

  “You have a place to stay?” I concentrated on my sandwich to let him know I didn’t give a damn about his answer.

  He wiped the crumbs off his mouth with his sleeve. “Got a room in a boardinghouse on Front Street. It’s not the Ritz, but the roof don’t leak and the roaches only come out at night. Can’t ask for much else.”

  “How are you paying the rent?”

  His eyes wandered over the Plaza and the small knots of Monday shoppers before settling on McKinley’s outstretched arm. “I managed to pick up a little work. Seasonal, I guess you could call it. Pays good. Cash under the table.”

  “You’re trimming.” Marijuana growers, who set up shop in houses all over Arlinda, always needed cheap labor at harvest time for the tedious job of separating the good bud from the plant.