A Cutthroat Business (23 page)

Every Saturday morning since I got my real estate license, I had gone down to the office to hang out for a few hours, answering phones and keeping my fingers crossed in the hope that someone would call who wanted to buy or sell something. Finding clients had so far proven to be a challenge, made worse by the fact that the entire real estate market was in a slump.

After last week’s fiasco, I had considered staying in bed this week — the last thing I wanted was for someone else to call me with another dead body — but when the rubber met the road, I ended up going to the office after all. Call it greed, or desperation, or whatever you want, but with both Brenda and Clarice gone, the chances of my finding a client were better than ever, and I wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass me by.

And before you judge me too severely, keep in mind that I was only about two months away from having my lights and water cut off for non-payment. Bradley’s settlement had kept me afloat since the divorce, during the lean times when no one had bought much make-up, but with the start-up costs of becoming a Realtor, I had exhausted most of my resources. I had to make a sale soon, or ask mother or Dix for help, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

Unfortunately, the office phones didn’t ring that much on Saturday mornings. Home buyers are just as fond of sleeping in as the rest of us, and I’m sure they had better things to do between the sheets on a lazy weekend than worry about finding a Realtor.

My own sheets have been empty — of anyone but me — since I left Bradley, and now I sat for a second and processed the thought that I could have asked Todd to come in last night. He hadn’t hinted — was too much of a gentleman to hint — but he probably wouldn’t have said no if I’d suggested it. He found me attractive — at least he said he did — and he was only human, after all.
 

I had never slept with Todd. When we’d dated back in high school, we had both had enough sense to know that it was a bad idea. Plus, like I mentioned before, we dated more because it made our parents happy than because Todd and I were all that much in love with one another. At least I hadn’t been in love with him, although if he had truly married his ex-wife because he couldn’t have me, I must have made more of an impression on him than I realized.

The idea of going to bed with him still didn’t hold much appeal for me, though. He was good-looking enough, certainly, and had all the other attributes a girl should be looking for in a mate: good manners, a nice car, enough money to provide for me in the manner to which I was accustomed, antecedents that dated back to the War Between the States... there just wasn’t any spark there. Plus, he’d probably expect me to want to marry him — a gentle-born Southern Belle doesn’t sleep with a man she wouldn’t want to marry — and I didn’t. At least not right now. It was much safer just to continue to live vicariously through the last in a long line of panting heroines in genre fiction.

I sighed and turned my mind to business, which in this case was making sure that the phones were turned on and operational, and then sitting back and waiting for them to ring. For something to do, I pulled out
Tartan Tryst
again, and dove in. But for once, the perils of the heroine at the hands of the dark and dangerous highwayman failed to hold my attention. After a few minutes, I put the book down and decided to finish my search from the other night while I had the office to myself.
 

I wish I could tell you that I found a really spectacular clue, something that the police had overlooked, but I didn’t find a blessed thing. I put Brenda’s Stor-All key back in her desk drawer, after making sure I wiped any fingerprints off on the hem of my skirt, and that was pretty much the long and short of it. The
101 Potsdam Street
file was nowhere in Brenda’s office, or Clarice’s and Heidi’s shared office, or Tim’s office, or on
Brittany
’s desk, and if Clarice’s special drawer had ever contained anything of interest, the police must have taken it. All that was there now, was a half-empty package of Italian
biscotti
and a few magazines, an open box of tissues, and some other odds and ends. The only interesting thing was a romance novel of the bodice ripper variety, which gave me a guilty feeling — Clarice and I had had something in common after all, even if it was just a shared passion for Barbara Botticelli’s rogue heroes! — but there was nothing anywhere that explained why she had done what she did.

If she had done it, that is, and hadn’t been murdered, too. That explanation was looking a lot more likely, now that I was standing here. Everything about the office was a mute testament to Clarice’s devotion to Brenda. A photograph of the two of them, lovingly framed, stood on the desk. All of Brenda’s files were conscientiously labeled and filed in the numerous filing cabinets. Clarice’s desk calendar kept meticulous track of all of Brenda’s appointments.
Alexandra dentist 4 PM. Closing 1457 Carteret 11 AM.
Conference
Montgomery
Bell
Academy
2:30 re
Austin
. GNAR luncheon 11:30. P/u red suit from cleaners first!

Clarice herself didn’t appear to have had a life outside the office, for none of the notations applied to her. There was nothing written down for Thursday night, so either the appointment had been personal rather than business, or she just hadn’t wanted a record of it. On a whim, I flipped back to the previous weekend, to see if Clarice had made a note of Brenda’s appointment with Rafe, and maybe even of whom Brenda was taking with her, but that whole page was missing. Torn out, probably by the police.

I grabbed the calendar and held it up to the light, turning it this way and that. Clarice hadn’t had a particularly light hand with a pen, so there was a possibility that whatever she had written, had made an imprint on the page below. And lo and behold, there was something there. The indentations weren’t deep enough that I could make out what they said, but that was easily fixed. Looking around, I found a soft pencil and sat down to rub the tip gently over the back of the page.

It took several minutes, but finally I had a perfect, inverted copy of Clarice’s note.
7:30 101 Pots--m,
it said, followed by
R. Co---er,
plus a phone number. Rafe had said that their appointment was for 8 AM, so either Brenda wanted to be early, to open the draperies and make sure things looked as good as they could, or he had lied. Or she had arranged to meet someone else there at 7:30, killing two birds with one stone, as it were. I took hold of the desk phone and dialed the number.

A couple of rings went by, then a gruff, male voice answered. “Car lot.”
 

“Oh,” I said, “um... Rafe?”

The voice grunted a negative.

“Rafael Collier?”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He also didn’t sound like Rafe, so I apologized and hung up, feeling stupid. Maybe I’d misinterpreted the number. Maybe the indentation I had thought was an eight, was a three; or the one I had thought was a four, was actually just a one...

The phone rang again before I had even gotten up from the desk. I picked it up, putting the perkiness back into my voice. “Good morning. Thank you for calling Walker Lamont Realty. Savannah Martin speaking. How may I help you?”

“Savannah Martin?” a male voice said.

“Speak of the devil.”

“That sounds promising.” I could hear the grin in his voice, and ignored it.

“I want to talk to you.”

“I figured.”

“What do you mean, you figured? How did you...? Oh, God.”

I resisted the impulse to knock my forehead against the desktop. It would rearrange my hair, and probably give me a bruise, too. “That
was
your number I called.”

“As near as makes no difference. So what can I do for you, darlin’?”

“I want to talk to you,” I repeated.

“Yeah, I got that. You wanna know what I found in Brenda Puckett’s storage unit, right?”

“Among other things. And I don’t want to do it over the phone. Especially not the office phone.” I glanced over my shoulder. Nobody was there, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

“I hear McDonald’s is having a sale on cheeseburgers.”

I shuddered. “I think I’ll pass, thank you.”

“Fine. We can go someplace else. Be ready at six.”

He hung up before I had a chance to tell him I didn’t want to go to dinner with him. I also didn’t want to wait until tonight to get answers to my questions. So of course I tried to call back, but this time there was no answer at all. Gritting my teeth, I added another item to the list of questions and gripes I had, and put it on the back burner until later.

There was one more thing I could do to track down the elusive paperwork for
101 Potsdam Street
, and that was calling Detective Grimaldi. It had occurred to me that maybe the reason why the file wasn’t here in the office, was that the police had confiscated it.
101 Potsdam Street
was where Brenda’s murder had taken place, and it made sense that the police would have wanted a look at the file. I dialed.

“Detective? This is Savannah Martin.”

“Good morning, Ms. Martin,” Tamara Grimaldi’s voice said. “What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to ask a question. Do you by any chance have the paperwork that Brenda Puckett filled out for the sale of the house on
Potsdam Street
? I need to have a look at it, and I can’t find it here in the office, so I thought maybe you had taken it.”

I crossed my fingers, hoping that the intricacies of real estate were such that she wouldn’t realize I had no business wanting to see the paperwork for someone else’s listing.

Apparently she didn’t, because she answered readily enough. “We did, yes. But as it wasn’t pertinent to the murder — the papers themselves, I mean — we just made a copy and gave the originals back to Mr. Lamont.”

“Oh,” I said, looking around as if I was hoping to see the file waving at me from somewhere. “I can’t find them.”
Walker
might have the file in his office, but I wasn’t about to look there. There are limits to my snoopiness, and digging through my boss’s files is firmly on the other side of that line. Plus, he usually locked his door when he wasn’t around, anyway.