Within one minute, someone gave a slight tap on the door. Before I could cross the room, the door was pushed open by one of my potential new friends. I smiled and fought to find a silver lining to the day. "Good afternoon. How are you today?"
They nodded in return and accepted the flyer I handed them. I asked them to sign in and while they did, took a minute to look them over. The two kids, both teenage boys, wore Old Navy jeans and shirts. I prided myself on my knowledge of teen attire, thanks in part to my fifteen-year-old daughter, Darcy, who knew what was in fashion and what was considered detrimental to your popularity status.
The parents appeared to be in their fifties and wore similarly styled imitation polo shirts with Levis. They were both heavyset and had the same light-brown hair and eye color. It was almost eerie how they resembled each other. Perhaps in a few more years Greg and I would start looking identical. That was a scary thought. I studied the names on the clipboard. Joe and Debbie Waters, 22 Robin Road. Robin Road was located in a middle class neighborhood less than 10 minutes away.
I led them into the kitchen where I invited them to have a sandwich, which they eagerly did, along with chips, water, and several cookies. As they munched away, I described the home. The roof was only two years old, the in-ground pool had a new liner, and wall-to-wall carpeting had recently been installed. They smiled and acted like they were interested, but I knew better.
As they reached for another sandwich, I winced. This was the part I hated. "I'm so sorry, but the sandwiches are limited to one apiece. I do have to save some for the other guests."
Mrs. Waters shook her head as if she'd heard something disturbing. The kids lowered their eyes to the floor, and Mr. Waters said simply, "Wow."
Why did I feel as if I'd slapped them in the face?
At this awkward moment, my cell phone rang, and I gladly excused myself. I hurried into the family room for privacy and studied the number on my screen. Ugh. My manager from hell, Donna Cushman. How lovely. "Hello?"
"Well, now isn't that a professional greeting?" said the chilly voice on the other end.
Donna Cushman had been the manager at Hospitable Homes for about eight years. Six feet tall and willowy, her hair had turned prematurely gray years ago and still didn't quite suit her forty-something age bracket. My co-worker and best friend, Jacques Forte, had once confided in me that he longed to become a hairdresser, if only to have a chance to cut away at the dreadful mop of unkempt hair that fell over Donna's shoulders. She wasn't exactly the easiest person to get along with either. Lately, I had an uncanny knack for finding new ways to annoy her without even trying.
"Yes, Donna, how can I help you?" I struggled to keep the irritation out of my voice.
"Cindy, I need you to do me a favor."
Donna always needed me to do her a favor. If she knew I was coming into the office, she'd call my cell and ask me to pick up coffee for her, then conveniently forget to pay me back. She'd even asked me to grab lunch for her a few times. Unlike mine, Donna's salary was at least six figures. She might be the manager, but I certainly didn't owe her anything. And contrary to her belief, I was not her personal secretary.
Okay, be nice. You need this job. "I'm in the middle of an open house now, remember?"
"Oh, that's right, Tiffany's. Well, I didn't mean this minute. The day after tomorrow I need you to show my new husband some houses. He's looking around for his mother, who will be relocating here shortly. I have an all-day sales meeting, otherwise I'd do it myself."
I moved the phone away from my ear to stare at it. Husband? I didn't even know she'd been dating anyone. "Uh, congratulations. When did you get married?"
Donna giggled like a school girl on the other end. "Almost two weeks ago. And wait till you see him. Ken is gorgeous. Best looking guy in town. Maybe the entire state."
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. This was going to be fun. "Can't Jacques show them to him?"
"Jacques has an inspection scheduled. No one else is available, which is the only reason I thought of you."
How flattering. "Donna, I'm still waiting to hear about my closing. For all I know it could be scheduled for that same day."
She snickered. "You wish. By the way, your redneck client called the office this morning. Apparently, he still doesn't have enough cash to close yet. He would have called you directly but couldn't remember your name or cell phone number. You sure know how to find them." With that, she burst out into cackling laughter, which added more fuel to my fire.
"It doesn't matter. He's still a paying client." Well, maybe. I already knew about the shortage of funds since the bank representative had called me with the good news yesterday. My client was currently trying to get a loan from his parents. Several other agents in my office had million-dollar deal prospects going while I had issues with a house selling for a mere fraction of that.
I was tired of Donna walking all over me. "Okay, I'll show him the houses on two conditions."
I heard her suck in some air. "And who do you think you are to offer me an ultimatum?"
"Oops, it's getting crowded in here. I'll speak to you later, Donna."
"Wait!" she shrieked. "What do you want?"
"First off, if he finds something he likes, I get 25 percent of the deal. And I want an email from you stating that beforehand." Donna had pulled something similar when I first started with her office, and I'd be damned if she did it to me again.
She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth for a few seconds, further annoying me. "Fine. And what's the other condition?"
"You talk to Tiffany, and tell her to give me back the listing she stole from me."
"What are you talking about?"
"Six Partridge Lane. Mrs. Hunter had promised to sign with me. Remember, I told you about it?" That had been my first mistake. "All of a sudden, I was informed today she's listed with Tiffany."
"That's unfortunate."
I clenched my fist and tried not to sound desperate, which of course I was. "Donna, that's my listing. I want you to tell Tiffany she can't have it."
"Why should I? It's all your fault anyway."
I was perplexed. "How exactly is this my fault?"
"If you'd been faster than Tiffany and gotten over there yesterday, you'd already have your listing."
Was she serious? I couldn't believe my ears. "I was at the twins' school all day yesterday. You know I manage their food drive for the community every year."
"Perhaps you should be worrying about your own children eating. Lack of recent sales tells me unemployment might be in your future." Donna yawned noisily into the phone. "Maybe Tiffany will split the deal with you."
"Forget it. The listing belongs to me."
"Well, if you don't want to split it, your only other option is to have Mrs. Hunter call and tell Tiffany she doesn't want her representation any longer."
"How about this," I said dryly. "I'll report her to the Realty Association. There are witnesses who overheard me tell you about the appointment."
Donna snorted. "I assure you that would be a mistake."
I laughed. "A mistake? It's about time Tiffany got what she deserves. She's a disgrace to the business."
"There's really no reason to speak that way about her." Donna loved pulling the righteous card on me. "Perhaps she would be willing to issue you referrals from the house as well."
I gritted my teeth and couldn't believe the gall of these people. What planet was this woman and my co-worker from? "I should get all the referrals anyway. It's my listing, not hers."
"Sorry, no can do," Donna said.
"Nice talking to you."
She practically barked into the phone. "All right. I'll call her and mention this conversation, but that's all I'm going to do."
"I'll take care of the rest, don't worry. And I'll be waiting for your email." Since I was on a roll, I decided to go for the jugular. "By the way, you owe me $26.50 for coffee in the past month and $15.00 for last week's lunch."
Her to
ne was so sharp I was afraid it might shatter the window I was standing next to. "Fine. I'll leave the money in your office. And Ken will call you with the list of houses he wants to see." She clicked off without another word.
I pumped my fist in the air. Yes, score one for Cindy. Greg would be so proud of me. He was sick and tired of my so-called manager manipulating me. Frankly, so was I.
I put the phone back in my blazer pocket and returned to the kitchen. The freebie family was long gone, along with more than half of my sandwiches and all the beverages. I looked around, dumbfounded. What the heck had I been thinking to leave them alone with the food? I smacked my head hard with the palm of my hand. Stupid, stupid. Hopefully, I wouldn't get many more visitors. I quickly rearranged the sandwiches, hoping to give the impression that there was a larger quantity than I actually had.
At that particular moment, the door opened and a middle-aged man and woman walked in. The man, dressed in a Dolce & Gabbana suit, was on the stout side and balding. The woman, who I assumed was his wife, wore a black Chanel dress and carried a Gucci pocketbook the size of my kitchen sink. She was petite and had short, dark hair that showed off large diamonds in her ears. She scanned me up and down and attempted a smile, but it felt like more of a smirk to me.
"Would you mind signing in?" The man took the pen I handed him and wrote his name with a flourish while the woman stood there and appraised me further. Her stare made me very uncomfortable.
They followed me into the kitchen, and I reached for the plate of sandwiches and offered it to them.
"I'm sorry there aren't many left. There's been quite a crowd so far. I'd be surprised if the house is still available tomorrow." Gee, now I was starting to sound like Tiffany. I thought my little speech sounded convincing, but the man remained expressionless. The woman wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
They had written down Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Benson on the clipboard. I found myself wondering if they were related to the Bensons who owned the various car lots in the area. They sold new cars, used cars, leased cars, and would take any vehicle in for a trade. I stared at the man again, trying to picture the obnoxious guy on television always waving his arms around, telling you to come on in for the deal of a lifetime. Yes, it could be him, except the man in the commercials had more hair. Maybe he wore a toupee.
I led them on a tour of the home and pointed out various things I thought might be of interest—the pool, hot tub, etc. We climbed the plush carpeted stairs so that I could show them the bedrooms. "Have you been looking for long?"
Mrs. Benson laughed. "The house isn't for us." She acted as if I'd offended her by suggesting such a thing. "It's for our daughter. She has very particular taste though. I don't think this would quite meet her standards."
"That's unfortunate." I certainly wouldn't have minded living here. The house was 2,500 square feet with a gorgeous California kitchen and a walk-in closet upstairs larger than my entire bedroom.
When the front door opened, I took a step backward. "Please excuse me for a moment?"
They nodded, and I took off downstairs. I knew I didn't have to worry about them taking anything. It was obvious nothing here was good enough for them.
As I came down the last few steps, I noticed two elderly women in the foyer writing their names on the clipboard. Between them stood a robust, brown-and-white bulldog on a bright-red leash.
The dog looked up and growled at me.
"Be still, Sherlock." The smaller woman had white hair and weighed about a hundred pounds soaking wet. She extended her hand. "Hello, I'm Gloria Danson. This is my sister, Lila."
"Cindy York with Hospitable Homes." I shook their hands. While their facial features were very similar, Gloria's hands were cold and frail to the touch and her sister's warm and moist.
I glanced down at the dog. "I'm very sorry, but we don't allow animals in here. He'll have to wait in the car."
"His name is Sherlock." Lila, the same height as Gloria, but much heavier, glared at me.
I was taken aback by her tone. "Well, Sherlock will have to wait in the car until you're done."
"He doesn't like to be by himself," Gloria whined. "He gets lonely. Can't he stay? He'll be good."
Were these people for real? "Miss Danson, please don't ask me to go against my orders. I can't let you keep him in the house. The owners don't want pets in here."
"Don't they like them?" Gloria drew her eyebrows together in confusion.
I blinked. "It really doesn't matter if they like them or not. We don't allow animals of any kind during the showings."
Lila pursed her lips. "Well, you don't have to be so rude."
"I apologize. I'm not trying to be rude. But I do have to follow my instructions, and the dog can't be inside the house." I gestured toward the door. "Please take him outside now, or I'll have to ask you to leave."
With that remark, Sherlock growled at me again, exposing large, snarling teeth this time. I backed up a little. Okay, maybe not.
"You won't touch him," Lila said.
She was probably right. I had no desire to experience another animal sinking their teeth into my fingers. "He either stays outside while you tour the house, or you all have to leave. It's your choice."
Lila motioned to Gloria. "Let's go. You don't want this rat-infested dump anyway. Come on, Sherlock."
As they moved toward the door, Sherlock refused to budge. Lila tugged at the leash, but Sherlock sat back on his haunches and wouldn't move. I guess he liked it here.
I grabbed a sandwich off a plate and walked toward the door, holding it out to the dog. "Come on, Sherlock," I crooned. "Here, boy."
"Don't you dare give him that—he has allergies!" Lila shrieked.
At that moment, Sherlock got off his haunches, walked toward me, and peed on the Pergo floor. He missed my shoe by a mere inch.
"Oh, Sherlock, that was very naughty." Gloria shook her head at me. "He never does that. See how upset you've made him?"
I shut my eyes and started to count to ten, but perhaps ten million would have been a better number. Something tugged on my hand, and I opened my eyes to see Sherlock grabbing the sandwich I held. While I watched, he swallowed it in one gulp. "Please take him outside. Now."
Lila pointed a finger in my face. "You'd better hope he doesn't have a reaction, or we'll sue!" She picked Sherlock up around his thick middle and carried him out the door, with Gloria following close behind. The dog looked back in my direction, and I swear he winked.
Maybe I need a career change. I searched around in the kitchen cabinets and quickly located some Formula 409 spray. Thank goodness Sherlock's puddle hadn't hit the wall. I grabbed some paper towels and got down on my hands and knees to clean up the mess.
A step sounded from behind. The Bensons stood there, silently watching me. Perfect timing. I scrambled to my feet. "We—uh, had a little accident here."
Mrs. Benson smiled. "Why, honey, aren't you a little old for that?"
I bristled inwardly but chose to ignore her comment.
"We're done here but do have one question for you," Mrs. Benson said. "Are the owners interested in selling any of the contents of the house?"
I hadn't been expecting this. "I'm not really sure. This isn't my listing. I'd be glad to find out for you though."
"Not your listing?" Mr. Benson seemed confused.
"I'm hosting the open house for the listing agent. She had a conflict, so I'm filling in."
Mrs. Benson spoke sweetly. "Of course you are."
"What is it you're interested in? The living room set?" It was a handsome brown leather sectional with a loveseat to match. It would have been nice to have something like that in my own house, but between the twins and our puppy, it wouldn't last a day.
Mrs. Benson laughed. "Oh, no. I'm wondering how much they want for that ruby necklace."
Now I was confused. "You want to know if the jewelry is for sale? Did the owner leave it out somewhere?" Instantly, I panicked. I'd meant to do a quick scan throug
h the house when I first got there but hadn't had time. I hated when people left things of value right out in the open, such as a ring on the fireplace or a bracelet in the bathroom. If something went missing, it would be my fault, and I might be fired. Tiffany wouldn't have a problem making that happen.
"Why no." Mrs. Benson gave me a look as if I was some type of idiot. "It was in the owner's jewelry box."
I couldn't have heard her right. "Excuse me?"
"I saw it in her jewelry box." She slowly pronounced each syllable, as if this might somehow help me to understand.
My mouth dropped open. "You went through her jewelry box?"
"We didn't take anything," Mr. Benson volunteered.
Mrs. Benson tossed her head. "I didn't do anything wrong. This is an open house, right? That means you come in and look around, which is exactly what I did."
"Well, yes, but you—you can't do that."
She giggled. "Too late, darling. I already did."
I clearly wasn't getting through to these people. "I think it would be better if you left now."
Mr. Benson took a step closer and thrust his finger into my face. "Don't you know who I am?"
I crossed my arms over my stomach. "No, I don't know who you are, but that's really not the point here. You need to leave. Please."
Mrs. Benson tugged at her husband's arm. "Come on, darling. I have better things to do than be insulted by a tawdry salesperson."
I clamped my lips together tightly, not trusting myself to open my mouth because I knew something insulting was going to fly out of it.
Mr. Benson started to speak, but apparently, he thought better of it as well. He turned toward the door, his wife at his heels. "We'll see what our attorney has to say about this." He glared in my direction and then walked outside.
Mrs. Benson gave a lingering look at my JCPenney blazer, smirked, and then followed her husband. I closed the door behind them and then rapped my head against the fake wood grain several times until my forehead started to hurt.
Baked to Death (Cookies & Chance Mysteries Book 2) Page 23
