“Do you think Susan should hire a bodyguard?” I asked Jenx.
“Is Abra going to be there?”
“She’s the reason I’m going.”
“Then, yes, Susan needs a bodyguard.”
“I meant because of the shootings!”
“If Susan can afford a bodyguard, she should hire one,” Jenx said.
“Of course she can afford a bodyguard. She’s married to Liam Davies.”
Jenx didn’t respond.
“Hello?” I said.
“I hear Liam Davies is cash-strapped.” Jenx lowered her voice. “His development business is over-leveraged, and he’s amassed a lot of personal debt. Susan’s spending sprees haven’t helped the family finances.”
Headline news to me. Suddenly I wondered if Big and Little Houses on the Prairie were a pipedream.
“The Davies’ financial problems are just rumors,” the chief added. “So are their marital problems. But in my line of work I pay attention to gossip.”
So did I. Every successful Realtor keeps an ear to the ground.
Jenx continued, “Got any idea how many Afghan hounds Susan owns?”
“Too many.”
“Eight, according to my sources. And she shares six more with her co-breeder. That’s a lot of dog shit.”
I agreed. “Susan needs MacArthur. He’s a cleaner as well as a bodyguard.”
Chapter Eight
I asked Jenx how she’d found out so much about Susan and Liam Davies.
“I’m in law enforcement,” she said. “Therefore I investigate.”
“How come you need Chester and me to work for free?”
“I like to delegate.”
The more I pondered my trip to the Afghan hound show in Amish Country, the more I dreaded it. I despised anything that came under the heading of crafts, and I did my darnedest to avoid most dogs. But given what Jenx had said about Davies’ development business being maxed out, it would probably be in Mattimoe Realty’s best interest for me to learn all I could about Liam and Susan.
As soon as I hung up from Jenx, I speed-dialed Odette. Since she was representing us as Realtor of record for Davies’ newest project, I wanted to keep her in the loop.
“What is it, Whiskey?” Odette snapped. “I’m with a client.”
“A client?” It had been too long since I’d heard that phrase.
“I’m showing a home in Pasco Point,” she said. “Can this wait?”
Of course it could. Pasco Point was arguably the best four-digit zip-code suffix in Magnet Springs. Perched high on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, the subdivision boasted a baker’s dozen multi-million-dollar estates, each with its own ostentatious name. Until Davies developed Big House on the Prairie, assuming that he eventually would, Pasco Point was where our big commissions came from.
Odette said she’d call me right back. I told her to take as much time as she needed.
Tina’s dentist-drill voice immediately announced there was a call on line one. If my phone rang at all lately, it was either a wrong number or the police. I answered cautiously.
“Top o’ the morning to you, Miss Whiskey! This is MacArthur.”
I wondered why Tina hadn’t said so. He was one of our part-time agents. The one who sounded like Sean Connery, without the lisp. To my embarrassment, I felt a small thrill at the sound of the cleaner’s baritone brogue.
“Chester and I were just talking about you,” I said, omitting the fact that the chief of police and I had just talked about him, too.
“Could we meet for lunch in half an hour?” MacArthur asked.
“Well… “ When I hesitated, it wasn’t because my schedule was full. My stomach was. Painfully so. It felt like Chester’s waffles had expanded in there.
“My treat,” the cleaner added.
Nice of him to buy, especially since he had taken my disagreeable stepdaughter off my hands. In the grand scheme of things, I was sure I owed him. We agreed to meet at the counter at the Goh Cup, the coffee and sandwich shop run by Magnet Springs’ mayor. It wouldn’t matter if I couldn’t eat a bite; MacArthur was the kind of eye candy no woman passed up.
I buzzed Tina to ask if she had any antacids on hand. When she didn’t answer, I wandered out to the lobby. No one was in sight. Depressing indeed. This should have been a busy week at Mattimoe Realty. Historically, Leo and I had made almost twenty percent of our annual sales in September. So far this month, Odette had closed three sales. Nobody else had produced squat.
Since Tina’s purse was still tucked neatly under her desk, I assumed she had taken a bathroom break. I was about to return to my office when her computer pinged, signaling an incoming email message. In the vain hope that it might be a real estate inquiry, I took a peek. Alas, it was spam. The new message, from someone calling himself Rod Wunderly (oh sure!), featured this subject line: Thrill her with your amazing manstick. I groaned. That was the kind of email opened by only the most gullible and insecure of men.
I was about to delete it when I remembered that this was Tina’s work station, not mine. Given how slow business was, taking the time to delete it would at least offer her something to do. I glanced at her inbox. To my amazement, Tina had received, read, and not deleted more than a dozen recent spam emails, all of which seemed, ironically, to be about enlarging an organ she didn’t possess. Even if Tina was bored enough to glance at spam, I couldn’t believe she’d read let alone save these. Tina Breen was the most prudish person I knew.
The toilet flushed, and I jumped back from her computer as if it had bitten me.
“Looking for something?” Tina asked, a little sharply, I thought.
“Actually, I was looking for you. Do you have anything for indigestion?”
Without answering, she opened her top right desk drawer, scooped out the contents, and lined them up as if for a TV infomercial. I counted six OTC brands and several prescriptions.
“Take what you need,” she said. “Since I developed my ulcer, I’ve tried every stomach medicine known to man.”
“All I want is a Rolaid. Or something.” I eyed the assortment. “Which one works best?”
Tina burst into tears again. “For me, nothing works! I’m in constant misery! My doctor says it’s because of the stress!”
My own stomach now hurt much worse than it had a minute earlier.
“Please, please don’t fire me, Whiskey!” Tina cried, pitching herself onto her knees. “And please don’t let your business go to pot!”
“To… pot?”
“Down the drain. Kaput. Pfft.”
“Okay, I won’t. Please, Tina, get up off your knees. There’s no reason to panic as long as Odette still works here.”
“You’re right.” Tina wiped her face on her sleeve. Then she grabbed the edge of her desk, grunted, and pulled herself up. Suddenly she shrieked in pain.
“Now what is it?” I said.
“My back! Ohhhh. Spinal stenosis, the doctor says. Ever since your business started falling apart, I’ve been falling apart, too.”
“I’ve had better days myself,” I murmured, gently guiding Tina into her desk chair. “Can I get you something? Water, maybe? To replace all the fluids you’ve lost?”
“Just let me keep my job!”
I nodded. “My late husband built this company, Tina. No way it’s going under on my watch. At least not if Odette can help it.”
