When I finally read his determination, I blinked, not sure I had seen the figure correctly. It was only $ 15,000 lower. Admittedly a lot for a modest home, but a pittance for a high-end property like the Schusters'. I looked up, unable to conceal my surprise.
"Don't look so shocked," he said. "The roof repairs aren't that expensive, and the rest is a judgment call. Some appraisers might mark it down more. But I don't shaft people. The home is in beautiful shape, and it's packed with custom extras."
I leaned back into the worn upholstery and collected my thoughts for a moment. "Thank you," I finally said.
"No thanks necessary. I do my job, Ms. Doyle. And I try to be fair, even with hyper real estate agents bouncing off the walls."
That didn't even faze me. Whether it was the good news or the cream, who cared? Nothing could bother me now. I allowed a smile at last. "Trust me, Chekov, you haven't seen hyper."
"I'll bet. Tell me, have you had any bites on this property yet? Those homes usually go in days, so I figure this one, with its history, might take maybe a couple of weeks."
"Just feelers, that's all. I'll have a better idea after tomorrow. I'm having an open house Saturday, ten to four."
He shook his head. "A six-hour open? Now I know you're crazy."
"I'll have some help," I said, feeling mellow at last, thanks to the cream. "A couple of our office assistants will help me out. Keep track of people. Keep them from causing a traffic jam in the library. Watch where there're going, what they're doing, see if anyone acts suspicious. Stuff like that."
"Suspicious? What do you mean?" Chekov folded his arms on the table and leaned forward.
"Oh, you know how you have to be on guard at opens. There are some light-fingered folks out there. And after Wednesday night, I'm not taking any chances." I drained my cup.
"What happened Wednesday night? Did someone steal something during a showing?"
"No, nothing like that. It was just... well..."
"Go on," he said.
I mentally kicked myself for letting that slip, so I decided to make light of the midnight episode. "I was upstairs, getting ready for Saturday, and I heard noises downstairs. I think someone was trying to get in."
"Did they?" Chekov focused on me like a laser beam.
"Uh, did they what?"
"Don't play dumb. Did they get in?"
"Yeah, but I scared them away when I turned on all the lights." I deliberately avoided the rest.
His eyes narrowed. "Back up a minute. Why weren't the lights on?"
"It's really nothing. I'm sure it was just kids trying—"
"Right. Start at the beginning and don't leave anything out. What time was it?"
I exhaled a long, painful sigh. This guy was relentless. But he'd given me the ammunition I needed to ensure Amanda got a fair deal on her house, so I complied.
"It was nearly midnight Wednesday, and I was still working at the house."
"With no lights on?"
"No, I had a small light on upstairs at the desk, but all the lights downstairs were off."
"Go on."
"Well, I heard a couple of loud thumps. I thought it was the wind, but I decided to leave anyway. I'd turned all the lights off upstairs and was heading down the hall—"
"In the dark? Do you usually do that?"
"Actually, I was about to turn them on, when something stopped me."
"What?"
"A feeling, that's all. So, instead, I crept down the stairs. I was going to throw the main switches, figuring it was probably teenagers trying to get in, when they thought no one was home. I mean, with the lights out."
"A logical assumption. Even for teenagers."
"I thought flooding the house with light would scare them off."
"Did it?"
"Yes, it did." Examining a long crack in the table, I decided I'd said enough.
"Keep going. There's more. I can tell."
Brother. He wasn't going to let go. "Okay, okay. Whoever it was that came in must have hidden in the dining room when I turned the lights on, because one of the French doors slammed right into me when I passed by. I screamed, the lights went out, and I heard him running away. That's it."
Chekov stared at me intently, then said in a low voice, "That's all you have to say? You could have been attacked, or worse, you know that?"
"But I wasn't. It was probably a vandal hoping to steal something, that's all."
"But it could also have been the killer returning. If it had been, tell me, how would you have protected yourself?"
I was feeling very uncomfortable now. "I had my cell phone dialed to nine-one-one, ready to punch in."
A pained expression crossed Chekov's face. "That's all? A lot can happen in the ten minutes it takes police to respond. You could be assaulted, even killed. Had you thought about that?"
"Not until now," I retorted, unhappy with the unpleasant turn this conversation had taken. "Thank you so much for scaring the daylights out of me."
"Maybe that's good. You need to be more aware of the dangers out there. Working alone late at night in that house was risky. The killer is still out there."
A chill crawled up my spine, so I sent a cold blast his way. "I don't need you to remind me."
"You're in a hazardous occupation, you know that?"
"I'm a real estate broker, Chekov. Get a grip."
"You regularly go off alone to meet with strangers in deserted houses, some in remote locations with no one else around. You don't think that's risky?"
That stark depiction definitely sent another chill through me. At this rate, I'd need more coffee to recover from Chekov's active imagination. "My office always knows where I am," I shot back.
"Great. They'll know where to look for the body."
"What is it with you? You like scaring women? You're way out of line, Chekov."
"You don't believe me, check with Ronnie. At least one real estate agent a year turns up dead or assaulted. All from being unaware and not taking precautions."
I froze. One a year?
"Got your attention? Good. Aside from the cell phone, what other means of protection do you have? Any martial arts training?"
I was still trying to process the startling statistic. "Uhhhh, no. No martial arts."
"Would you like a weapon? If so, I can help you choose one, then teach you how to handle it. I've taught several real estate agents over the years."
I blinked at him. Surely he hadn't said what I thought. "You mean a gun?"
He gave an aggrieved sigh. "Yes, a gun," he enunciated. "A weapon."
I stared at him, disbelieving. If the first images caused problems, the image of me waving a gun in some randy client's face was more than I could process. "Are you nuts? What am I supposed to do with a gun? Carry it around in my briefcase?"
"The purpose is not to ever have to use it. It's a deterrent."
"Deterrent?" my voice traveled up an octave. "You've got to be kidding! The only thing it would deter would be clients. I reach inside my briefcase for a property disclosure and out comes the 397 Magnum. Great!"
"357."
"Whatever."
"Just consider it, okay?" he said slowly, as if I had trouble understanding the words.
I understood all too well. Carrying a gun would be ludicrous. I'd be more of a danger to myself than to any criminal. Not to mention the harm I could accidentally inflict upon clients.
"Before you reject it out of hand," he said, voice dropping, "remember that you've already made yourself a target by asking questions all over town. You think the killer won't pay attention?"
"How do you know what I've been doing?"
"I spoke with Ronnie. She's worried about you."
That did it. Now he was pumping my boss for information. Who the hell did this guy think he was, anyway?
I pushed back my chair with a loud scrape and stood up. "Okay, Chekov, I've had it. I don't know what your problem is, and I don't care. You may be a great appraiser, but you're one
sorry-assed conversationalist. I thought being nice would help you respond in kind. Obviously not. Polite is just not your strong suit."
He quirked an eyebrow and peered at me. "I take it the cream has worn off."
I hesitated for a second. "Chekov, there's not enough cream in the world to sweeten you." I watched him try to hide a smile, and I knew I'd better leave before I really insulted him. "I'll recommend you to others, but I'm afraid I have checked you off my list." At that, I turned and walked away.
"You've been thinking about that one, haven't you?"
His parting shot grazed my shoulder. I let it go.
Chapter 12
"Everything going okay upstairs?" I asked Lisa, one of our young office assistants.
"Yeah, busy, but no problems," she said, bending over the Schusters' refrigerator and withdrawing a cola. "Melanie and I are switching at one o'clock."
I looked behind me at the assorted couples milling about the Schuster great room. "Sounds good. Remember, direct any questions on the property to me. You just hand them the printout."
"Gotcha." She twisted off the cola cap with a hiss and headed upstairs once more.
I went back to my pacing. Kitchen, great room, foyer, dining room, wherever necessary to stay out of a visitor's way. Glancing around, I counted heads. Curiosity being what it was, I'd figured a lot of people would take advantage of the open house to gawk and gossip at the murder scene. I was sure it would be topic number one in some offices on Monday. But I hadn't anticipated such a large turnout. I just hoped there would be some real buyers in there somewhere.
Melanie had been playing discreet traffic cop for the past three hours, shepherding the cluster that hovered at the door to the library. There was nothing to see. The room was stripped bare, sparkling clean, and scented with orange. But still, people lingered at the doorway, conjuring probably. Melanie let them hover, then would gently guide them along so others could take their place. That way I was free to answer any genuine questions about the property.
So far, there had only been two couples who appeared to be serious buyers. Both were accompanied by real estate agents, and both couples were from out of town. Hopeful signs.
My cell phone rang, and I headed down the hallway and away from visitors. "This is Kate," I answered.
"Well, finally," came Marilyn's voice. "I've been trying to reach you since yesterday, but all I get is voice-mail."
"I've been swamped. In fact, I'm in the middle of the Schuster open house right now, so I can't talk long. What's up?"
"How's it going?" she asked.
"About as I expected. Lots of gawkers. Only a couple bona fide buyers so far."
"How long will you stay?"
"Till the bitter end. Four o'clock."
"Well, take it easy. Listen, I never got to hear any feedback about Finley. So, tell me? How'd it go the other night? You looked like you two were really focused on each other. Such intensity. I was amazed you had it in you, frankly."
"What you saw was me giving him my full, undivided attention all that time. Boy, was it draining. I was wiped out when I got home."
"What do you mean? He was talking to you, that's all. I swear, Kate, you find fault—"
"I'm not finding fault, Marilyn. Honest." I lowered my voice. "He's a really nice guy. Too nice, almost. But he's got a lot of problems to sort through. Plus he's searching hard for the next woman."
"Well, what's wrong with that?" she countered. "That's what we all do."
"Yes, but he's searching so hard, it's scary. I felt this wave of desperation come at me. Kind of like a tsunami. It was all I could do to stay afloat."
I heard an exasperated sigh. "Now that is a novel excuse, if ever I heard one."
"It's not an excuse. He's just too needy right now. What he should do is take some time and find out how to be comfortable with himself for a while, then go looking."
"You've been reading those empowerment books again, haven't you?"
I snickered. "Yep. Can't help myself."
"I won't be able to help you, either, if you keep finding microscopic flaws with everyone."
"Marilyn, I've got to go. Catch you later," I said, and switched off my phone.
I'd spotted a familiar face in the throng near the library. Stanley Blackstone, Cheryl Krane's devoted swain. What was he doing here? Instinct told me to watch him, so I eased down the hallway to find a less noticeable vantage point. The artistic glass-and-stone planter at the edge of the great room offered me an unobtrusive place to watch the crowd.
Stanley hovered with several others in the doorway to the library, then glanced about the great room. I watched him carefully, and concluded he was not here to look at real estate. The brief, disinterested gaze he cast about the Schusters' impressive great room was a giveaway. Why was he here, then? Idle curiosity? Perverse pleasure in viewing Mark's murder site? That wasn't out of the question, given Stanley's reaction at the funeral.
Grateful that the plants concealed my spying, I continued to watch Stanley as he meandered through the downstairs. After a cursory glance over his shoulder, he headed for the kitchen and out of sight. I left my spot and edged slowly around the great room, following him. I hovered near the dining room doorway and watched Stanley wander about the huge kitchen, casting brief glances left and right.
An exuberant couple entered the kitchen and commented loudly on the decor. Stanley didn't leave, which surprised me. He hadn't shown real interest in anything, yet he stood staring at the cabinets for a full five minutes. My instinct sent a buzz through me. Something was definitely up.
Sure enough, after the chatty couple wandered off, Stanley glanced over one shoulder, then another, then stealthily approached the door that led to the garage. Son of a gun. He was looking for something. Just like Ackerman, he had come to search the stuff from Mark's library.
I wasn't worried. The door to the garage was securely locked. Stanley wasn't going anywhere. Deciding to corner him, I slipped into the kitchen and pounced. "Can I help you, Stanley? Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"
He jumped at least a foot off the floor. I didn't mean to scare him really, but I did take perverse delight in watching him turn beet-red, mouth hanging open.
"M-m-ms. D-d-doyle," he stammered. "I was just, uh, I just wanted to... to... see the garage." His huge blue eyes bulged behind his old-fashioned, horn-rimmed glasses.
"I'm sorry, Stanley. I can call you Stanley, can't I? After all, we're in Chorale together." I deliberately chose a chatty tone. "We have to keep the garage securely locked now. Everything from Mark's office is stored in there. And someone tried to break in the other night."
All color quickly drained from Stanley's flushed face, and his gaze sought the floor. "Uh, really? That's awful," he mumbled.
"It was probably vandals, looking to steal something," I offered.
"Oh, y-yes, yes," he stammered and began to edge away from the doorway, where I had him trapped.
I stepped in front, blocking his path, and let my tone chill. "Or, it could have been someone trying to search through Mark's belongings. I caught a person pawing through the boxes just a few days ago."
Stanley's head snapped up as if on a string. "Who?"
"I cannot divulge that, Stanley. The police are looking into it now."
Sweat started to bead his forehead. Why would Stanley Blackstone be so nervous? Was he the intruder? What was he looking for? I found it hard to imagine Mark Schuster had anything in his possession that belonged to Stanley Blackstone. Except...
"Oh, yes, of course, I understand," he managed, then drew a deep breath, obviously preparing his next question.
Poor Stanley. He practically had a blinking neon sign over his head, saying: GUILTY. How could this guy be a lawyer? He couldn't even lie.
I gambled and decided to push him and see what happened. "Are you here searching for something, Stanley? I couldn't help noticing how distressed you looked, when you discovered the garage door was locked."<
br />
Panic darted across his face. "Me? No! Of course not! What would I be looking for?"
Following a hunch, I adopted a solicitous tone. "Oh, perhaps an item of a personal nature. Not really valuable, except to the owner."
Bingo. Stanley's huge eyes nearly popped out of his head.
He swallowed, licked his lips, then said, "Maybe."
"If that were the case, Stanley, I promise you that I'd search for the item and return it to the owner."
He stared at me in disbelief. "Really?"
The change in Stanley's countenance told me my suspicions were true. "Of course," I assured him. "There's a place for discretion, after all. Could you give me a description of the item? Everything is packed in boxes. I'd need some clue where to look."
"It's a book. A book of poetry, with a..." These words came harder to him. "With a personal inscription."
"All right, I'll take a look. I may not be able to search until after the weekend, though."
"That's fine." He exhaled a long breath.
Just to make sure, I said, "Oh, yes. Is this book from you, Stanley, or someone else? Someone who was a close friend of Mark's, perhaps?"
Stanley flushed crimson. "Someone else," was his terse reply.
I was about to ask another question, when a woman's voice cut into my thoughts. "Are you the broker? Could you please tell me who the architect was for this property?"
Stepping away from Stanley, I switched back into real estate agent-mode and focused my attention on the tall, stylishly-dressed young woman in front of me. While we talked, Stanley slipped quietly from the kitchen and out the door.
I felt immense relief. Stanley must have been the intruder. Chekov's fears were groundless. Stanley simply came searching for a book. A book that would have caused great embarrassment, if the police found it. And I didn't have to wonder too hard who the book's owner was. My money was on Cheryl Krane.
* * *
One of the sad facts of life for a real estate agent is that there are no weekends free. We work 24/7, all the time. Of course, top-selling real estate agents have assistants and buyers' agents to run open houses for them, handle the office, and oversee transactions. They were the big dogs, so they could lie on the porch and rest in the sun. But I was still a puppy, and waaaaay out in the back yard. I couldn't even see the porch. So I worked all the time. Whenever a client called, I was there.
Dying to Sell Page 10
