He shrugged. “It’s steady. A means to an end. I’m not smoking, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not much, anyway. Never around Max. It’s just until something else comes along. Hell, maybe I could sell real estate.” He gave my arm a friendly nudge. To my surprise, I didn’t edge away or break his wrist. Will wonders never cease?
Encouraged, he said, “You look real good, Sam.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“I mean it. You seein’ anyone?”
I stared at him. “Are we really having this conversation?”
He gave me the blue eyes. “It’s not a come-on. I swear. You just look…different.”
I thought of Bernie and got busy with the last bite of sandwich, before my thoughts made it to my face.
“You deserve to be happy, you know.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, do they have Dr. Phil playing in the trim room all day long?”
“I mean it. After—after everything.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “When’s Max get back?”
“Came home last night.”
“You mind if I call him?”
“It’s not up to me.” Max hadn’t said much about his father, but I knew they’d spent some time together.
“Okay, then. Guess I’ll see you around. Thanks for lunch.” He started to rise.
I grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Uh, Wayne?”
“Yeah?”
I looked him square in the eye. “You break his heart, and I’ll kill you.”
“I know,” he said.
Chapter 8
Everett’s car was gone by the time I returned to the office. I sat at my desk and handled the phones for half an hour, using my brightest voice. In no time at all I’d garnered an offer to print my contact information on a gross of keychains, all for an astoundingly low, low price. It was my custom to sign up for promotions like that in the name of my sour colleague, Biddie McCracken, out of the goodness of my heart and on her dime, but the spirit didn’t move me today. Instead, I worked the sales rep until I could picture him frothing at the mouth, then hung up. Rejection is character-building, as I know only too well.
I stared into space for a while, then fired up the computer and scrolled through the homes on the market. On a whim, I pulled up the listing for 412 McMillan, wondering if there might be a way to determine the name of the owner short of rifling through Everett’s files, which I knew to be in a locked drawer. I hacked around for a few minutes until I found the link I needed, then entered the address and parcel number. It took a few minutes for the software to spit out a name, but there they were: Cole and Marian Woods.
A little tickle of memory made me sit up straighter. Where had I heard those names before? One of them. At least. It was here, in this office. I’d been talking to—
Gail burst through the back door. “I got it!” she shrieked. “I got the listing!”
I’d jumped in my chair and cracked my knee on the underside of the desk at her sudden onslaught. “Oh, wow. That’s great. Congratulations!”
“Thank you. You mind if I get on the computer?”
I closed the program and gave her my chair, still pleasantly warm. “So how’d you do it? Great comps? Slick salesmanship?”
“Nope. I was myself, just like you said. Plus, the wife happens to be my second cousin. So that helped.”
“I can see how it would.”
She squinted at the screen. “Now I just have to figure out how to enter my pictures.”
I spent a few minutes helping her navigate the listing software, then sat back in the adjacent chair. “So why are they selling? Buying a bigger place? Maybe you can work both ends.”
“No, they’re splitting up. She married a real knuckle-dragger. They’ve been on the brink of divorce for years.”
A little chime went off in my head. “Oh, jeez.”
“Huh?” Gail had her nose pressed to the screen.
“Everett. One of his ex-wives was named Marian, right? I could swear he mentioned a Marian.”
“I thought it was Lois.”
“She was number three. First came Phyllis. Then Marian.”
“He must pay a fortune in alimony. Why all the interest?”
“The owners of his listing in Campus Heights are Cole and Marian Woods.”
Now I had her full attention. “You think it’s his ex?”
I flashed on the ring. I didn’t think it, I was sure of it. “Maybe. Sellers tend to list with people they know, right?”
“I don’t see why it’s a big deal,” she said, tapping at the keyboard.
“It means they were on good terms.” Recalling the note signed “Love, Marian,” I added, “Really good terms.”
“I’ll do some digging if you like. After I finish up here. Or tonight.”
“If it’s no trouble.”
“Nope. The girls are taking Jim out for an early Father’s Day pizza, so I’ll have time on my hands.”
I told Gail about Gordon Dettweiler’s visit and described what I’d heard, including the board president’s parting words. Gail pressed me for details.
“I couldn’t hear much. The door was closed.”
“You could’ve lingered outside the office.”
“Sorry to disappoint. Next time I’ll put my ear to the keyhole.”
“Gordon runs the association like boot camp. Everything by the book. His brokerage is the same way. Agents don’t do things his way, they’re out on the street. His turnover is through the roof.”
I gathered my things. “I’m going to head out. I have a showing tonight, and I need to run some laundry.” My basket of clothes still sat, unwashed, in the back of the VW. I was counting on Phyll’s cast-off machines to save me a roll of quarters.
“Don’t forget we have the Emerging Mortgage Products seminar in Grovedale tomorrow.”
I had forgotten. “Will there be lunch?”
“Buffet. I’ll drive. And I’ll call you on the Marian business.”
“Ten-four.”
I left through the back door. On my way out, I poked my head into Everett’s office, scanning his desk. The manila folder was gone. I glanced around for security cameras, then stepped behind his desk and tried the big file drawer. Locked. So much for my secret identity as Mata Hari. With a shrug, I trotted down the back steps and hit the road for home.
Chapter 9
My neighbors to the north, Fred and Sunshine, were out in their yard when I pulled up, hammering away at a small, lopsided structure. They waved me over.
“We’re getting chickens,” Sunshine said breathlessly. “A friend of mine got them as Easter chicks, but they outgrew her bathtub and her landlord found out. So she’s giving them to us.”
“Buff Orpingtons.” Fred said, pulling off his glasses and mopping sweat from his face with a purple bandana. “Proven egg layers.” He was shirtless, his chest skinny and sunken with about three chest hairs. The wash of afternoon sunlight had added a touch of red to his dead-white skin. He was in his twenties, but his lank brown hair was already thinning.
“That’s terrific. This is a coop, I take it?”
Sunshine nodded. She had a ripe, Rubenesque figure, in contrast to Fred’s narrow build, with henna-dyed hair teased into dreadlocks and a sweet smile. “We found it online. Isn’t it darling? The bottom is open and you just move it around the grass, so the chickens always have a fresh place to do their chicken thing. Takes less than an hour to build.”
“We’ve been at it three.” Fred scratched at his sunburn.
“It’s the instructions. They’re in Mandarin. Can you read this, Sam?” She held up a sheet of drawings labeled with tiny characters.
“Uh, Mandarin’s not my specialty, I’m afraid.”
“Oh yeah, you’re in real estate, right?” Fred said. “Hey, we might have some questions for you.”
“Any time.” Except now. I peeked at my watch.
Sunshine pored over the diagram. “Honey, it looks like we need to attach t
his long piece to the square thingy.”
“You got it, baby.” Fred flexed his hammering muscle; the biceps looked more like Kansas than Colorado. He positioned a nail over one of the pieces and swung the hammer. It struck with a muffled thud.
“F-f-fudge!’ he gasped, dancing on the balls of his feet a minute before sticking his thumb in his mouth.
“You okay, hon?”
“Whew. Yeah. Wow. Okay. I got this. What I need is someone to steady the nail. Sam, could you—”
I was saved by a hail from across the street. It was Phyll.
“Ready when you are!” she bellowed from her front door.
“Gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.” I left the two of them toiling away under the thin haze of sun.
Phyll had her garage door rolled up by the time I hoofed it over there. “Feast your eyes,” she said.
I took a look, and was instantly transported to my childhood, when avocado-green appliances were the pride of every household on the block. These were practically museum pieces. But it sure beat going to the Laundromat.
“Let me round up some muscle,” I said.
I found my offspring sprawled on the couch reading a magazine, and told him, “If you could take a quick break from this life of Riley you’re leading, we have a chance to pick up a free washer and dryer.”
He tossed the magazine aside. “Lead the way.”
Half an hour later, the washer and dryer were in place on our back porch. Phyll worked like a steam engine, muscling the units up the back steps like they were made of tinfoil. I was damp with perspiration, and my shoulders ached.
“This is so nice of you,” I said. “Can’t I give you a little something for them?”
“Not on any account. Just being neighborly. Shall we go ahead and hook them up?”
“I can do that,” Max said. “We really appreciate this.”
Phyll clapped him on the back. “Nice to see a young man with real work ethic. Refreshing. Well, I’ll leave you to launder away. Ta-ta.” She took the path around the house toward the street.
“Well,” I said.
Max rubbed his shoulder. “I bet she’s got a mean right hook.”
“Never mind that. Let’s get these things working. I need to run some clothes before my showing tonight.”
It took a bit of fumbling, but we were rewarded in the end with sounds of life from the washer as it agitated a load of flea-bitten clothes.
I sighed with contentment. “This is the life.”
“Yeah. The life.”
I collapsed into my cushy chair. “So, what are you making for dinner? I’m partial to peanut-butter-and-mayonnaise sandwiches.”
Max gave me his lopsided grin. “You got it.”
By the time our early dinner was cleared from the table, I’d moved my clothes from the washer to the dryer. I wanted to get to McMillan a few minutes early, so the minute the drum stopped turning I grabbed a basket and threw open the door. A cloud of hair floated out, swirling like snowflakes around me and settling on the porch floor.
“What the hell?” I said.
I hauled out my real estate clothes. My best stretchy black tee looked like a sheared raccoon coat, and my good jeans—the ones without the quarter-size hole over my left buttock—had grown a pelt of coarse brown and white fur.
“Max!” I yelled.
He showed up in the doorway with a dish towel in his hands.
“What the h—the heck is this?” I shook the jeans and a flurry of hair floated down.
“Oh, wow.” Max started laughing, doubled over until he had to lean against the door-frame for support.
“It’s not funny! Look at this!” I pulled the rest of the load from the dryer. My other shirts looked like they’d been treated with Rogaine. My “delicates” might have been knitted from bunny fur. “It’s corgi hair, that’s what it is. They used these machines for their damn dog laundry.”
“Mom, they were free.”
“Now I see why!”
“We just need to clean the screen. Here, I’ll do it.” He went to work.
I took my basket of furry clothes into the backyard and shook each item out. Hair flew in every direction. When the majority of it was on the grass and not on my clothes, I returned to the porch to find that Max had unhooked the dryer’s vent tube from the wall and was attempting to thread the vacuum hose down it. “Looks like it’s been a while since this was emptied out,” he said.
“No kidding. Decades, probably. Hate to bail on you, but I’m going to change and roll out to my showing. Back by seven. You need anything?”
“I’m good.”
“Later, then.” I left him struggling in a bed of dog hair. Grabbing a roll of package tape, I retreated to my room, where I laid my outfit on the bed and used the sticky side of the tape to remove the rest of the hair. Most of it, anyway. Then I dressed, ran my hands through my own hair, and wiped a smudge of peanut butter from my upper lip. I was ready to sell real estate.
Fred and Sunshine weren’t in their yard as I strolled to the van, but their efforts were evident: a coop of sorts stood on the lawn. The finished product looked like a pint-size barn designed by M. C. Escher, but it seemed sturdy enough. I took a step closer. Five fluffy beige chickens scratched at the dirt in a little wire-enclosed run. A sixth stood poised on the ramp that angled up from the ground into the coop. Her beady black eyes were fixed on me in a way that didn’t convey warm, friendly chicken thoughts. I moved on.
At ten to six, I parked in the driveway of 412 McMillan, taking care to leave room for Wanda’s car. A dull gray fog blotted out the early-evening light, giving the neighborhood the feel of dusk. The street was empty: no little kids playing kick the can or whatever they played outdoors these days, no couples strolling hand in hand, no neighbors tending their gardens. Probably everyone was seated at the dinner table, hashing over the day’s events. Or, if they were cranky retirees like Norm and Ethel, they’d had the early-bird special at Tony’s Diner and were now positioned behind their curtains, waiting to see what I was up to before calling the cops.
I retrieved the key from the lockbox and opened the front door, flicking on the lights as I wiped my feet on the mat. The chilly rose-scented air seemed sour and faintly disagreeable, so I cranked up the thermostat until I heard the furnace kick on and went down the hall to the bathroom.
As I was retrieving a can of pine-scented Glade from the closet, I noticed the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet was ajar. A couple of drawers in the oak vanity were open, too. Odd. I closed everything up and returned to the living room, spritzing away until the place smelled like a high-school gymnasium. In the kitchen, I found more cabinet doors cracked open, along with the silverware drawer. A little frisson of unease worked its way down my spine. I opened the freezer. It hadn’t been that orderly on Sunday, but it was in disarray now, as if someone had dug to the very back corner looking for the last elusive Popsicle.
I closed the door. Most likely the police had come and searched the place. Sure. That made sense.
As I started up the stairs, my cell phone rang. It was Wanda.
“I’m stuck at work. Can you wait a bit? Maybe we should reschedule.”
“It’s fine. I can wait.”
“I’ll be there soon as I can.” She disconnected.
I found more signs of a methodical search upstairs. Unseen hands had gone through bureaus and bedside tables. Same in the master bath. Nothing was damaged or missing, as far as I could tell.
I turned on all the lights, then returned to the first floor. The sliding door was locked, and the curtain rod was still jammed in the channel where I’d left it. The windows were closed and the catches were fastened. I took a few steps toward the garage. The button on the knob was still in the locked position. But maybe I should—
My phone shrilled again. Wanda?
“Sam, I’ve got the scoop on Marian Woods.” Gail’s voice was pitchy with excitement.
“Spill.”
“You s
ound funny. Where are you?”
“McMillan. I’m showing it in a few minutes. What’d you find out?”
“You’re right. It’s the same woman. She was married to Everett for almost two years. After they split, she married Cole Woods. Still married to him as far as I can tell. He’s a street-maintenance guy for the city of Arlinda Public Works Department. You know what that means.”
“Salary and benefits. Probably a retirement plan.”
“Yeah. No kids, but Cole has a son, Neville, who teaches yoga over in the Creamery District. Marian’s a partner at Atherton & Woods, the investment counselors on G Street. One of those shady firms that take your savings and promise to return big dividends. Then they play the stock market with your nest egg. You ever do business with them?”
“Sure. I can’t keep the shady investors at bay these days.” I cracked open the front door and scanned the street. No Wanda.
“Seriously. A couple years ago, Jim was really keen on the idea. We’d managed to put a little aside, so we went in and talked to Bill Atherton. He said we couldn’t go wrong, but I got a bad vibe. So I made some calls and found out they had a bunch of complaints pending against them. Then we needed a new roof, and that was the end of that.”
“Same old story. It’s our destiny to live paycheck to paycheck.”
“Your client show up yet?”
“No sign of her. Maybe she’s trying to call me.”
“She’s probably on her way.” Gail seemed loath to let me off the line, and I remembered she was alone tonight.
“You’re a mine of information, as usual.” I pulled open the door to the garage, turned on the light, and stopped.
“I have my sources. Jim’s sister knows a guy who—”
“Hang on.” The sour smell hit me like rank garbage, and I knew in my gut that I’d found the source. My nerves were suddenly as taut as guitar strings, and my stomach twisted into a tense knot.
“What’s going on? Is it your client?”
I didn’t answer. Descending the two steps, I approached the built-in cabinets that lined the back of the garage.
A Killer Location Page 7
