“Hey, just trying to help. So what’s next?”
“What’s next about what?” Kassandra was still pushing the olives around on her plate. I’m ashamed to confess I ate all the crescenza cheese and had now started my attack on the prosciutto. I shouldn’t be enjoying the food, instead I should be sad and depressed like Kassandra. And not knowing the dead woman personally was a poor excuse.
“Wait,” I said before biting into a prosciutto-laden bruschetta. “Was she plucked out of a local canal? Like our canal? The one running about thirty feet from the back of this restaurant?” And suddenly I did feel awful, probably for the wrong reasons.
“Ah. Now that you mention it... it’s possible. I’m not sure if it’s the same canal. How many canals are there in Phoenix?”
I shrugged, had no clue. Besides, we weren’t talking Venice’s Grand Canal. In Phoenix they all looked alike to me.
“You know what? I bet that’s why we decided on North Italia... it’s that thing, you know, mind association? The body in the canal and the restaurant by the canal. Ewwww. I’ve also lost my appetite,” I said while scooping up the last of the prosciutto. My grandma must be turning in her grave. I had become totally jaded. Blamed it on all the cop shows I watched.
“Let’s change the subject.” Kassandra sipped more wine, “I need a car, and so do you. You can’t seriously expect to drive prospects around in your hot pink Fiat, right?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. I took criticism of my beloved car very personally. “It hasn’t hurt me yet,” I declared.
“Come on, Monica. Who do you think you’re fooling? So far you’ve been able to meet clients at the properties. Your luck will run out sooner or later...”
I knew she was right. “I’m waiting until we close on the Tucson horse ranch.” Carefully avoiding his name.
“Oh, that’s right. You’ll get a big fat check when Tristan Dumont’s escrow closes.”
Noooo. She mentioned his name. Let the heartache begin.
TWO
DECEMBER BROUGHT SHORTER days. By seven o’clock sunset was history. Driving east on Camelback Road on my way home, I had to cross over the canal. It felt creepy, even without knowing if this was the canal where Miss Fortune’s body had been found. Creepy or not, I planned on Googling the ghoulish story the minute I got home. Between the dead psychic and the mentioning of Tristan Dumont, that flurry at the pit of my stomach wasn’t food-related, that was for sure. Another ironic reminder that even going to happy hour with a good friend doesn’t guarantee happy anything.
As for Tristan, or to be fair, my obsession with Tristan, I had lulled myself into believing I had built immunity to his charm. This was in theory, of course, because we hadn’t spoken since I visited him back at the beginning of November while he was bedridden due to our car accident.
One of his friends drove him to the office after that visit. Tristan moved slowly, walking with a cane. I waved at him, from a safe distance, and then left the real estate office with some lame excuse. Kassandra winked as I walked out the door. Was I so transparent? When I drove out of the parking lot, I had the feeling someone was watching me. Could it be him? From the office window? Why? He was a married man. Nothing good could happen between us... except the obstinate crush I fought hard to keep in check.
I thought of Tristan as a sinful temptation, a residual from my Catholic upbringing, I guess. And I couldn’t help comparing that temptation with poor Max every time he came near me. Sheesh, like comparing French bubbly to soda water.
Max — fingers crossed he wouldn’t show up at my place tonight. Between Miss Fortune and Tristan... well, the only thing I looked forward to this evening was getting into my pajamas and watching television while searching for details of the mysterious drowning of the psychic. Drowning? There I was, assuming again. Who would tie a bra around the neck of a drowning woman? And why? So she wouldn’t catch cold? Stop it, Monica, that’s very disrespectful.
But that brought a lot more questions to the surface. Was Miss Fortune naked or did she end up in the canal with her clothes on? I could spin scenarios in my mind all night and still find no logical explanation regarding the bra.
My friend Kassandra’s bra.
She hadn’t said much to the detectives about why she left it behind at a stranger’s house, the same house she had gone to for the séance. There had to be some connection, however, it had been what? Seven weeks since that day? It happened before Tristan’s house warming and the house warming was before Thanksgiving. Now here we were, early December although every inch of town was already decked out as if Christmas was but a stroke of the clock away.
I liked to drive home through Paradise Valley even with the forty miles per hour speed limit strictly enforced. Rumor had it that the income from the speeding tickets kept the town of Paradise Valley solvent. That counted for a lot of tickets.
Oh, such a pleasant drive on Tatum Boulevard, unfurling through most of the town, from North to South, from Camelback Mountain to Phoenix Mountain Preserve. Large homes set away from the road, on vast acreage, no horses in sight, and few night lights. The first impression felt a little pastoral. Pastoral? The most expensive dirt in Maricopa County? Okay, Monica, maybe you need to cut down on the Pinot Grigio, especially if it’s served by the bottle. In spite of all the promises and good intentions, I made a small detour and drove by Tristan’s street. Thanks to the house setbacks and the early darkness, I figured even my hot pink Fiat could zip by unnoticed...
