Hot Property

by Jenna Bennett

  I’ve never made love in an elevator, a fitting room, or the back seat of a car – mine or anyone else’s – and I couldn’t imagine it becoming old hat, but I’d take her word for it. “So you thought telling me you were interested in buying a house and making me waste my time showing you houses you had no intention of buying was the way to go? So that you could make love in other people’s bedrooms? I’m sorry, but that’s just creepy. Not to mention probably illegal. It’s certainly enough to ruin my career. If word about this gets out, I’ll be known as the Realtor for the sex-crazed.”

  Gary Lee and Charlene exchanged a look. “We’re sorry, Savannah,” Gary Lee said, but not without a betraying twitching of the lips. Charlene wasn’t even trying to hide her smile.

  I fumed in silence for another moment – it was a serious matter, darn it! – before I opened my mouth again. “Fine. You’ve told the truth. Now what?”

  “Well...” They glanced at each other. “See, there’s this house we want to see...”

  I shook my head. “Oh, no! We’re not going through that again.”

  “But this time we’re serious, Savannah. We really think this might be the one. It’s the perfect price, and the perfect size, and it’s got mirrors on the ceiling above the bed, just like that house in Brentwood...”

  “I’m not letting you into another house so you can have sex in the bedroom!” I yelled, and then subsided, with a guilty look at the closed door. Lord, what if somebody heard me?!

  “Please, Savannah. Just one more. If we like this one, we’ll buy it. I promise.”

  Charlene folded her hands and was giving me what my brother Dix refers to as his daughter Abby’s ‘frog-face’, with bulging eyes and an out-thrust lower lip. My niece Abigail is so firmly convinced of its efficacy that none of us have the heart to disillusion her by refusing to give her whatever it is she’s trying to obtain by the use of it.

  “Well...” I said, weakening. (Yes, it was the possible commission that did it. Shallow and horribly immoral of me, no doubt, but I desperately needed the money.)

  Charlene saw the opening and took it. “Oh, thank you, Savannah!” She jumped up and ran around the table and threw herself around my neck. I grimaced, but allowed the hug.

  “You’re welcome. But that’s it. If I catch you doing something you shouldn’t be I’m never showing you another house. And I’ll tell every other Realtor in Nashville what you’re doing, so they’ll watch you every minute you’re inside someone else’s house.”

  It was an empty threat – I hoped to God no one else ever heard about what had been going on – but it worked. Gary Lee and Charlene exchanged another look. “OK, Savannah,” Charlene said meekly. Gary Lee nodded.

  We agreed to meet the next day at the usual time – I tried not to see any significance in that – and then I walked them out through the reception area and to the front door, just in case they had some idea of going at it like rabbits on the conference room table if I left them alone.

  Chapter 17

  Beau didn’t call back until after 5 pm, and then he told me he couldn’t get together until the next day, if then. “I’ve got a date, sweetie,” he said, “with the most gorgeous little Latin spitfire..!”

  I winced, picturing Beau and some swarthy guy named Jorge doing the town. “Spare me the details, if you don’t mind. We can just talk on the phone, if that works for you.”

  “Sorry, darling,” Beau said, “but I’ve got a lot to do between now and 6:30. Cleaning can be so hard on the hands, and I wanna do a manicure and paraffin wrap, to be sure I’m ready for whatever might happen later. It’s no good touching all that soft skin with work-roughened hands, you know.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m doing floor-duty at the office tomorrow from 8 until noon, and then I’ve got an appointment to show a house at 3:30, but I’m free in-between, if that’ll work for you.”

  “Unfortunately, I have to do floor-duty too. So to speak. I’m doing Caleb Horwitz tomorrow.”

  “Doing...?”

  “His house, darling. I’m doing his house.”

  “Right,” I said, flushing. “Sorry.”

  He waved it away. “Happens all the time. How about Sunday? It’s the Lord’s Day, and I don’t figure He’d want me strutting my stuff, so I don’t work.”

  “That’s fine. What time?”

  “How about I call you in the morning?” Beau suggested. “I like to sleep in, seeing as it’s the only day of the week I don’t have to be up early.”

  I agreed that that would be fine, and we hung up. No sooner had I put the phone down, than it rang again. “Savannah? Todd.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Todd hesitated. “You don’t sound very excited to hear from me.”

  I did my best to force some cheer into my voice. “Forgive me, Todd. Of course I’m excited to hear from you. It’s just... it’s been a long couple of days, and I’m tired and not really in the mood to argue.”

  “Why would we have to argue?” Todd wanted to know, with what sounded like genuine surprise.

  I suppressed a sigh. “I assume you’ll bring up the subject of Rafe Collier again, just like you always do, and if you do, then we’ll argue.”

  “You make it sound as if we never talk about anything else,” Todd said stiffly. When I didn’t answer – because, frankly, I felt as if we never did talk about anything else, or not at any length – he added, “How about if I promise not to mention Collier’s name at all? Would you have dinner with me tonight?”

  “I’m not sure...” I hedged. Partially it was because mother always told me not to appear too available, but more so, it was because I really, really didn’t want a repeat of Tuesday night’s dinner. Plus, I really was tired. Ever since Todd had dropped his bomb on me, I felt as if it had been just one thing after another.

  But Todd was persistent. “How about tomorrow night?”

  “Well...”

  “Fidelio’s at 6:30? I’ll pick you up at 6?”

  “I guess...”

  “Wonderful,” Todd said. “I’ll see you then.”

  He hung up before I could say anything else.

  I spent the rest of the evening at home with a book, alternately hoping for and dreading the next phone call. It might be Rafe, calling to tell me he was in Arkansas or Florida, or Detective Grimaldi, telling me he was in jail. It could be a potential client, calling to ask me to show him or her a house, or it could be my mother, if Todd had gotten around to showing her those pictures of me. All in all, it was more a relief than a disappointment when the phone stayed silent for the rest of the night.

  Ever since I got my real estate license, I had made a habit of doing floor duty in the office every Saturday morning. I’m not sure exactly why, because it wasn’t as if the phone rang a lot there either. Mostly I guess it just made me feel as if I was doing something. Leaving no stone unturned in my quest to become a successful Realtor. Nobody else was there, so it was nice and quiet, and on the occasions when the phone did ring, unless the caller specifically asked for someone else by name, the call went to the agent on duty, i.e. me. That was how I’d ended up with Rafe Collier for a client a few weeks back. He had arranged to meet Brenda Puckett one Saturday morning, to see the house on Potsdam Street, and when she didn’t show up – because she was dead – he’d called the office. Tim and Heidi and Clarice Webb, Walker’s second victim, had kicked up a fuss about it later, because they thought Rafe should have been referred to one of them, but Walker had backed me up. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it at this point. On the one hand, my life might have been a heck of a lot easier if someone else had gone to meet him, but on the other hand, I hadn’t done too badly. I had gotten him his grandmother’s house back, and had kept Mrs. Jenkins alive (despite overwhelming odds), and – in spite of what I was telling Todd and Dix and anyone else – I rather liked Rafe. Or maybe I just liked the way he made me feel. Being with him was relaxing, because he didn’t put any pressure on me to pretend to be anything bu
t what I was. I could ask him anything I wanted, without having to worry that I’d shock him, and he wouldn’t judge me, or think less of me, or tell my mother.

  Anyway, today I started out surfing the internet, because I was thinking about getting myself a real estate website, just in case I’d get some leads that way. I also familiarized myself with the houses that had come on the market in the past couple of days, while I’d been too busy worrying about Lila and Connie and Rafe to keep my mind on business. It’s important to keep up with what’s going on, even if I didn’t actually have any clients looking to buy anything right then.

  No, I didn’t have great hopes for Gary Lee and Charlene. Mostly, I assumed they were trying to throw me a bone, to make up for having dragged me around to house after house to cool my heels while they were having sex inside. If it hadn’t been for Connie’s murder, and Gary Lee’s DNA, and Detective Grimaldi’s no doubt stern lecture, I doubted they would have told me anything about it at all. Nonetheless, I looked up the information on the house they wanted to see later, and printed out an information sheet. It looked like a nice house, apart from the mirrored ceiling. I could see why it would appeal to the artistic Gary Lee; the construction was modern, the paint colors were funky – deep teal, dark mustard, rich burgundy – and it was in the heart of a neighborhood that was rapidly becoming one of the choice areas for musicians and artists. In a moment of abandon and outrageous optimism, I fished a Purchase and Sale Agreement out of the file-drawer and put it in my briefcase. It never hurts to be prepared.

  Once that was done, I sat back in my chair and waited for the phone to ring. And while I waited, I did my best to finish my book. But for once, Barbara Botticelli’s beautiful, blonde heroine and dark and dangerous hero failed to hold my attention. Usually, I identified with the heroine and her token struggles against the hero’s smoldering sex-appeal, even if I knew she’d surrender in the end, but today, like last time, I pictured Elspeth swooning in Rafe’s arms, and the image just wasn’t sitting right with me.

  The phone rang just before I was ready to head out. My cell phone, not the office phone. The display number was unfamiliar, but the overly familiar voice on the other end wasn’t. “Savannah? This is Perry.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Hello, Mr. Fortunato.”

  Perry chuckled. “Don’t let’s be so formal. After all, you’ve made out in my house, haven’t you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well,” said Perry in a reasonable voice, “you brought your boyfriend to the open house last weekend, and of course I couldn’t help but notice that the bed had been used…”

  “I’m sorry,” I said icily; not sounding a bit like I meant it, but quite a lot like my mother, “but I have no idea what you’re talking about. He’s not my boyfriend, and even if he were, we’d certainly not be making love in your bed. Such a thing would be totally inappropriate, not to mention grossly unprofessional on my part. It would never cross my mind. And if someone else made use of your bed...” Gary Lee and Charlene, obviously, “then I apologize for it having happened on my watch, but I assure you, I had no part in it.”

  “I see,” Perry said, and had the nerve to sound disappointed. I guess he liked the idea that I’d been having sex in his bed, even if it was with someone else. Hypothetically with someone else. “In that case, please accept my apologies. I guess I jumped to conclusions.”

  “That’s OK,” I said graciously.

  “I was really calling to ask a favor. When you called me yesterday – thank you so much – you said for me to call if there was anything you could do...?”

  “Yes?” I crossed my fingers, and for good measure my legs too, hoping he wouldn’t ask for anything icky.

  “...and I was hoping that maybe you’d be willing to host another open house here tomorrow. Now that my dear wife is gone...” His smooth voice wobbled, “...it’s more important than ever to sell the house quickly. The memories...”

  He trailed off.

  “Of course,” I said. Poor man! “I’d be happy to.”

  “Thank you,” Perry choked out.

  “It’s no problem. Although I’d only just met her, I liked your wife. It’s nice to know I’m able to do something to make things easier for her widower during this trying time.”

  Hopefully that little zinger would keep him in line and off my back while I was at his house tomorrow. “I’ll be there a little before two, like last time.”

  “Thank you,” Perry said again. I assured him, again, that it was no problem, and hung up.

  I still had plenty of time to kill before I had to go meet Charlene and Gary Lee at their latest house of choice, so I stopped off at home for some lunch – a dry crust of bread with some Brie and a pear, which was all the refrigerator yielded – and then I headed back out. Call me a Nervous Nellie, but with two women already dead, one of them in the very house I’d be going to tomorrow, I decided I’d feel better with some protection. So I dug the piece of paper with the address Detective Grimaldi had given me earlier in the week out of my bag, and set out for the store that sold the Mace and other police issued self-protective gear.

  I guess I expected it to be dark and dingy and scary – maybe an industrial-looking building in a not-so-nice area of downtown – but as it turned out, the store was located in a sunny, renovated bungalow in the heart of the antique district on 8th Avenue South. Its big windows and high ceilings had nothing dark or dingy about them; in fact, the only scary thing about the place was the proprietor.

  She looked to be in her late forties, and if she couldn’t bench-press my weight without breaking a sweat, I’d be very surprised. Her upper arms bulged with muscle, nicely off-set by the sleeveless shirt she wore with her skin-tight jeans, and her hair was shaved on the sides and left in a mohawk on top. It was colored a virulent red, like a particularly brilliant sunset, and made her look like a rooster. “Hello, princess,” she said, looking me up and down from her vantage point behind the counter.

  “Hi,” I answered, picking my delicate way through the displays of tasers, surveillance equipment, and spray-bottles full of various lethal and non-lethal substances. “My name is Savannah Martin.” I gave her one of my business cards.

  She glanced at it. “Realtor, huh? Guess you want some personal protection, dontcha, Miss Priss?”

  “I do,” I said, deciding not to take the name-calling personally. “Detective Tamara Grimaldi told me to come here.”

  “Oh, you know Tamara, do you? Well, tell me what you want, missy, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I don’t know what I want,” I said.

  “Well, how big a hole d’ya wanna put in the bad guy, missy? D’ya want him to get back up again, or stay down?”

  “I’d prefer for him to stay down,” I said, “but I don’t want to kill anyone, if it’s all the same to you. I’d prefer something debilitating, but not fatal.”

  “Faint heart never won fair lady, princess. Much safer to get him down and keep him there. But you’re the customer. I guess what you’re looking for would be a nice, safe defensive spray, then?”

  “Something like that,” I agreed, relieved. “I mean, I’m sure a gun would be more useful in certain situations, but I just don’t know that I’d be able to use it, you know. And if I can’t, I figure I’m better off not having one. I’d rather have something I feel comfortable with.”

  She sneered, but didn’t argue. “I have just the thing. Look at this.” She pulled out a tray from under the counter. It was full of what looked like lipsticks, their holsters shiny and glossy in three different colors, plus black and silver. They looked exactly like what I sold from behind the make-up counter at Dillard’s back in my retail days, six months ago. Not to mention that they looked exactly like what I’d taken Walker down with two weeks ago. I wrinkled my brows.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “They’re pepper sprays. Here.” She grabbed one and pulled the cap off, just like a real lipstick. A tiny nozzle appeared. “Weighs j
ust a half ounce, but contains 6-10 one second bursts, and can spray up to eight feet. Available in five classy colors. Just the thing for a pretty girl to carry in her purse. Indistinguishable from all the other lipsticks.” She grinned.

  “I guess I’ll take one of those. I just point and shoot, right?”

  “That’s right. Now, how about a little something else to go with it?”

  She selected another tube and twisted it apart. I took an involuntary step back as the harmless-looking cosmetic transformed itself into a miniscule knife, its blade glittering wickedly. She smiled fondly at it as she explained. “By twisting the applicator, you get a 1.25” serrated blade, and no one will know it isn’t just another lipstick. The blade ain’t long enough to reach the heart, lungs, or kidneys, so it won’t kill anyone, unless you use it to cut a wrist or a throat.”

  “Great,” I said, trying to keep myself from remembering what Brenda Puckett’s throat had looked like after Walker cut it. “I’ll take one of those, too. Matching colors, please.”

  “Of course.” She selected two that matched – silver – and put them in a brown paper baggie. I handed her my credit card, with a silent prayer that the machine wouldn’t emit strident jeers of derision when she tried to run the charge through.

  Once the deal was done, I said my goodbyes, took my bag and headed for the door. Just as I got there, another customer walked up the steps outside, and held the door for me. I passed him with a murmur of thanks and a bright, impersonal smile, the way one does a stranger under the circumstances, and then I did a double take when I realized that I actually knew him. Or didn’t know him exactly, but at least I’d met him before.

  He recognized me, too. “Afternoon, Miz Martin.”

  “Good afternoon. Are you… um… looking for me?”

  “Why’d I be lookin’ for you?” Wendell wanted to know.