I used a stop light to check the appraiser's number and punched it in. A baritone voice introduced itself as belonging to "Jake Chekov" and left instructions for voice-mail. I obediently left my number and a brief message. Appraisers rarely answered their cell phones. They were usually out in the field, crawling through houses, apartment buildings, or other structures. Plus, they weren't selling anything. Unlike real estate agents, who're so afraid they'll miss a call, they take the phones into the bathroom with them.
Pulling into the condo parking lot, I noticed Jonathan Bassett's silver Acura next to Amanda's jet-black baby Jag. As I approached the door, I decided I'd better stay on the balcony and make calls, so I wouldn't hear any attorney-client discussions.
Much to my surprise, Jonathan opened the door before I even knocked. He was still talking to Amanda over his shoulder. "Amanda, I've told you that will never happen. But even if it did, Bob Carruthers would take care of you. He's the best in town." He started through the door, so I stepped aside. Amanda spotted me.
"Kate! Thank goodness, you're here," she exclaimed. "Some investigator called me today and asked all these questions. He scared me to death! He kept asking about the divorce and what properties had Mark sold and where was the money—"
Jonathan swiveled around just in time to avoid colliding with me as I slipped through the doorway. "Oh, hello, Kate. Sorry, didn't see you there," he said before turning his attention back to an obviously distraught Amanda.
One glance at the coffee table told me how bad it was. Three ashtrays were overflowing with cigarette stubs. Totally out of character for fastidious Amanda.
"Amanda, do not worry." Jonathan's tone scolded. "The police are only gathering information as part of their investigation. Don't get paranoid."
"How can I help it, Jonathan?" Amanda's voice went up the scale. "You didn't hear that detective. It was—"
She broke off as her cell phone rang. Her face paled for a moment until she obviously recognized the caller's number. She waved Jonathan goodbye as she headed for the balcony and privacy.
Deciding to take advantage of her absence, I positioned myself between Jonathan and the door, blocking his retreat. "Jonathan, I'm really concerned about Amanda," I said. "She's Prime Suspect Number One in everybody's eyes. The police have already questioned her once, and today they're after her again. Frankly, I'm worried."
Jonathan's lawyerly skepticism softened just enough to bring a slight smile. "Now, Kate. Not you, too? It's bad enough that Amanda's getting paranoid." He shook his head, admonishing. "The police couldn't possibly suspect Amanda. She's just not the criminal type. They're simply gathering information, that's all. You're letting your imagination get the better of you."
Surprised, I countered, "Jonathan, you don't know Bill Levitz. I do. And I know when he's 'locked on' someone and when he's not. I've watched him work for years. And he definitely suspects Amanda. And he's the chief of detectives."
"I'm sure he's just doing his job, Kate. In Amanda's present state, she cannot tell the difference between probing questions and interrogation."
His patronizing tone annoyed me, so I decided to do a little admonishing of my own. "Jonathan, you're missing the picture here. Trust me. I know Bill Levitz. You do not ignore him. He's like a pit bull, once he's latched onto someone. Now, you're Amanda's lawyer. You've got to convince her to protect herself before this goes any further. Maybe she needs to hire a detective of her own."
"A detective?" he echoed, not even bothering to hide his amusement. "What on earth for, Kate?"
"Mark had enemies, Jonathan. He had his fingers in a lot of deals around town, you know that. Amanda's mentioned some of the ones that went bad. Plus, he ran roughshod over a lot of people. Not just in business either. I'd say that's reason enough to investigate."
Jonathan chuckled and fixed me with a patronizing grin, as he verbally patted me on the head. "There, there, now, Kate. You need to relax. You will not help Amanda with all these wild imaginings. Obviously, this whole ordeal of walking in and finding the body has been too much for you. I suggest you go home and rest. Better yet, call your doctor and get something to relax you first. Then go home and rest." He stepped around me and aimed for the door.
That did it. His patronizing manner I could handle. I'd been patronized by the best and survived. But his cavalier dismissal of the very real threats to a dear friend was too much. Obviously he wasn't going to protect Amanda, so I cut him loose.
"Forgive me, Jonathan. I shouldn't be burdening you with this anyway. You've got too much on your mind right now. I was very sorry to hear about you and Sharon." I headed into the living room, and watched Jonathan's reflection in the mirror as he turned to stare at me, all trace of amusement wiped clean.
"What are you talking about, Kate? What about Sharon and me?"
I sat on the sofa's soft arm and said with genuine sincerity, "Marilyn said you and Sharon are divorcing. I know how painful that can be, Jonathan. You have my deepest sympathies." I meant it.
A quick flash of anger swept across his face, then was gone. The cool arrogance that had been his hallmark for years returned. "Marilyn is mistaken. Sharon and I are not divorcing. Not at all. We're simply working out a few problems right now." His lips curled. "That gossiping shrew ought to know better than to spread rumors." He turned and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.
Surprised, I stared after him, wondering if Marilyn's impeccable instincts had slipped this time. Just then, Amanda returned from the balcony. "Jonathan's left?" she asked wearily and collapsed into the buttery soft sofa.
"Yeah. Did you need to talk with him again?"
"Heavens, no. I'm exhausted." She laid her head back on the leather. "Kate, can we just order in? I don't think I want to go out to eat. I'm afraid people will stare at me. And I just don't think I can deal with that right now." She closed her eyes.
Amanda always preferred going out. Seeing her cowering in her condo made my heart ache. "Sure. We'll order ethnic."
I headed for the kitchen and the directory, when her tired voice spoke up. "Kate. I want you to take care of whatever needs to be done with the house, then sell the damn thing and take what you can get."
"Amanda, I will not let you dump that property. It's too good."
She sighed loudly. "I know, Kate. But I just cannot handle any of it right now. You'll have to do it."
"I will. Don't worry about a thing," I reassured her as I reached for a notepad in my purse. "I need your cleaning girl's number. You trust Rachel to go in there and take care of everything, don't you?"
Her eyes flicked open. "Of course. She'll do it for me. And her son helps her out. You may need to... uh..."
"Don't worry. We'll get everything clean and polished, and strip the library down to the wood. I'm leaving that empty. Next, we'll have the appraiser in, and then I'm having an open house."
Her tired face paled beneath her makeup. The lines and wrinkles that had suddenly appeared the other day were still there, aging her quickly. "Good Lord, Kate, you've got brass. Go ahead. I don't care. Let the ghouls come."
I grinned. "That's okay. Buyers are out there, too. We'll just pretend it's Halloween. Now, what's Rachel's phone number?" I scribbled down the number, then rifled through the yellow pages for the restaurants.
Chapter 7
The morning air held the early fragrance of fall. It was unmistakable, especially this early in the morning. I wheeled around the corner leading into the Schusters' neighborhood. Elementary students were walking to school, laden down with backpacks large and small. Some packs looked huge on the small bodies. I wondered if we were raising a generation of future hunchbacks. How'd we carry all that stuff to school?
Turning into the Schusters' triple-wide driveway, I deliberately parked on the far side. Rachel and her son would be arriving any minute. I grabbed the empty boxes in my back seat and headed for the door, then stopped. I couldn't help it. The last time I'd walked up this beautifully landscaped path, I was bl
issfully unaware of what horror awaited me inside. Now, I'd never forget it. The image of Mark's death-pale face still popped into my head at unnerving moments, almost like Marley's ghost. But there was no warning with this vision. I almost wished there was.
I dug into my jeans pocket for the keypad as I approached the door. The key dropped obediently, and I slipped it into the lock, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. The house was just as beautiful as ever. Morning sunshine poured through the windows, bathing the warm woods, dancing from mirror to crystal to mirror again. Despite that and my warm sweater, I shivered with the chill of memory. I tried to shake that away as well, but it didn't leave easily.
"Okay, stop it, you're getting weird," I said out loud. Just then, I heard the sound of a car door slamming, and exhaled a grateful sigh. Rachel.
"There you are, Kate," Rachel called as she entered, arms laden with cleaning supplies. "I was hoping you'd be here, because I wasn't about to come in all by myself." She brushed away a wisp of pale blonde hair that had escaped its bun. Her face had that careworn, sad look that settles on some women's faces later in life.
"Yeah, I know how you feel," I said. "It spooks me, too. I just hope it doesn't spook away the buyers."
"Well, let's see what we can do about that. Jerry will bring his truck later and help us when we have to clear out that room." She pointed to the library.
From where we stood, I could see the furnishings were still there, which meant the bloodstained carpet would be there as well. Hopefully, that cleaner in Denver would be able to salvage it. At least he wouldn't be able to gossip.
"I can help all day, Rachel, so maybe we can finish. I want to schedule that appraiser, and I can't until we've got this place immaculate."
"Don't worry. I've cleared all day and rescheduled my other people. Amanda needs our help. We'll get it done." She glanced around the vaulted great room. "I still remember all the parties. Amanda would have everything just perfect," she said wistfully before she headed toward the kitchen.
I remembered those parties too and the many dinners—all filled with laughter, joyous good fun, fine wines, and delectable food. They were good memories, and they were real. In time, they'd replace these awful scenes.
"C'mon, Kate. Let's start in here." Rachel's voice beckoned.
I willingly obeyed. Amanda was counting on us.
* * *
The sun was edging toward the foothills by the time I stepped outside again. Lacing my fingers together, I indulged in a long stretch. We were almost finished. We'd worked steadily since early morning, with only a few breaks, and the end was in sight. I took a long drink from my water bottle. We'd sent Jerry for a pizza so we could keep working. This close, we didn't want to stop.
Thank goodness for Jerry. Quiet and methodical, he hadn't flinched at the odious job he'd been given—clearing out the library with its all-too-fresh reminders of death. Bless him, he simply went into the room and took it apart, piece by bloody piece. Then he piled the desk and carpet into his truck and hauled them to Denver—the carpet to the cleaners and the desk to be refinished. Amanda would decide later if she wanted to keep them.
With the grim reminders of murder removed, Rachel and I were actually able to enter the room and finish the job. I packed up everything in boxes—books, computer, pictures, files, whatever was left—labeled and stacked them all in the garage. Amanda could go through them later, if and when she felt up to it. Meanwhile, Rachel scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed some more. Even though there was no trace of blood on the floor or walls, a telltale odor permeated the room. It made us both shiver. Rachel scrubbed until our shivers stopped.
The metallic clatter of skateboard wheels rattled the late afternoon quiet. I watched as three young boys careened past, one wiping out as he attempted to jump the sidewalk, the others veering off into the grass, and laughter. Instinct prompted me down the steps and across the wide expanse of lawn, heading for the boys before they boarded up once more and rode off around the corner into the approaching sunset. I skirted the For Sale sign at the lawn's edge and sped across the street. They were still trading mutual insults on each other's riding abilities.
"Hey, guys, you got a minute?" I called as I neared them. All three heads turned and gave me a cursory glance. "You guys live here, in this neighborhood?"
No response at first, then some nods. A wariness registered on a couple of faces, so I broke out my friendliest smile. "My name's Kate Doyle, and I'm the real estate agent who's selling the Schusters' house over there." I pointed toward Shamrock Realty's bright green sign. "I'm going to have an open house this weekend. So there'll probably be a lot of cars parked all over. You might want to tell your parents, so they won't wonder what's happening."
All three stared at me with that expression which appears on pre-teen faces somewhere between sixth and seventh grade. A shade comes down over the eyes and guilelessness is gone forever. Guardedness is the order of the day, especially when communicating with adults.
"Yeah, we saw you hauling stuff out," the blond boy said laconically, twirling his board on its edge.
"Was that all the bloody stuff?" The short dark-haired one spoke up, a hint of childish curiosity in his voice.
I hesitated to go into details, but the piercing gazes fixed on me told me this was a test. They knew what happened there and wondered if I would lie to them or not. I didn't. Children have unerring antennae, when it comes to adults trying to hide things deemed unsuitable.
"Yeah," I replied and watched my candor be rewarded.
They regarded me differently, imperceptible but real.
"Looked like a rug and a desk," the third, a freckle-faced redhead, observed. "Was it all covered in blood and all?"
"Pretty much."
The blond hopped on his skateboard and methodically rocked backed and forth as he addressed his friends. "My mom said he was stabbed in the throat. So it must have splashed all over."
"Gross. Why don't you just pitch that stuff out? Why'd you want to keep it?" Freckles said as he balanced on the edge of his board.
Good question. "Well, first of all, it's not mine, so I can't make the decision. It belongs to Mrs. Schuster and it's a pretty expensive Oriental rug, so we're trying to salvage it, if we can."
"Yeah, those rugs cost a lot," Blondie added. "My mom bought a new one for the dining room last year, and my dad just about split a gut yelling about it."
The smaller, dark-haired one spoke up with an honesty that brought back my hidden fears. "Jeez... who'd wanta buy a house that had a dead guy in it? His ghost's probably walking around at night." He gave an exaggerated shiver.
I tried to eliminate that picture from my own mind. That's all I needed—Mark's ghost to keep me company at the open house.
It was time to broach the real reason I had sought them out. "Guys, I was wondering if you could think back to last week and see if you remember seeing anything unusual that afternoon. Did you notice anyone leaving the house? Or any cars parked outside? Anything different at all?"
Blondie shrugged and started revving up his skateboard, clearly anxious to return to his activity. Freckles, however, scrunched up his face. "Hey, was that the day we got out early?" he asked his friends.
"Uh, that was a Monday. Teacher service something."
"Yeah, that was it," Freckles continued. "I remember that afternoon we were all set to practice jumps 'cause we had extra time, then some jerk parked in our lane."
"Yeah! You're right. That was the day," Blondie said with sudden interest. "There was some junky old car sitting right in our lane. Remember? We couldn't set up the ramp."
My heart speeded up. Mark had been killed Monday before last, and it was a teacher service day. I remembered, because several real estate agents in the office had to find sitters because their kids were off from school.
"It was a white car, too," the smaller dark-haired boy said, eyes bright with excitement.
"It was a Rabbit," said Freckles.
I couldn't
believe my good fortune. I hadn't really expected the boys to remember anything. After all, who remembers cars parked in their neighborhood? But thankfully, this car had been an intruder and had caught their attention as well as spoiled their plans. "Are you sure?" I probed gently.
"Yeah, I'm sure," he said. "My sister used to have a Rabbit before she bought her Toyota. I know what it looks like." He turned to his friends. "Hey, man. Maybe that was the killer's car. Way cool."
I decided to push my luck. "Did you guys see anybody get into the car while you were out here riding? Or anybody walking around near the house? Anyone at all?"
Blondie and Freckles shrugged "no," but I noticed the smaller boy stared at the ground and shifted his board from one hand to another. My instinct prodded me to ask again.
"Anything at all would be helpful. Maybe you boys can help the police catch the person who did this."
Almost as if he could feel my gaze, he glanced up at me, chewed his lip, then stared at the ground again. I waited, hoping something would prompt him to tell what he knew.
"I saw a funny, fat guy running around the block. But I can't remember when. Sometime that afternoon was all," he ventured in a soft voice.
This time my heart skipped a beat. I had hoped I'd be able to glean a few morsels. I hadn't dreamed I'd hit pay dirt. "A funny, fat guy? What made him funny?"
"Because he was wearing a hat and gloves, and it was sunny out. And he was wearing regular shoes, not sneakers. He looked weird."
I deliberately held my excitement in check. "Did you actually see him come out of the Schuster house or come down the sidewalk?"
The dark-haired boy didn't get to answer. His companions, obviously older than he was, broke out into peals of derisive laughter at that point.
"Oh, yeah, Greg! Right! Sure, you did."
"You liar!" accused Freckles. "There wasn't anybody like that on the street, and you know it. You're just tryin' to show off. Pretend to know somethin' when you don't."
Dying to Sell Page 5
