And then I waited. After a while, tired of pacing I sat on the toilet. Note to myself, bring a folding chair and leave it in the garage. Also bring a roll of paper towels because you never know when they may come in handy. My prospect was now forty-five minutes late and then it hit me. I didn’t give her the gate code. How was she going to get past that? Noooo.
How could I be so careless? Strong work ethic, yeah! She could have called me? Did I miss her phone call? I checked my messages, voice mail, and texts. Nothing. What if she called my broker, told Kay what a careless agent I was? After playing all kinds of what ifs in my mind, I punched in her number. It rang four times before someone answered. “Yes?”
Didn’t expect that, “Hi, it’s Monica, Monica Baker, the realtor? We spoke earlier.” Nothing, so I said, “You were interested on checking out my listing at...”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I forgot, I had this — thing. Can’t do it today. Don’t call me again, I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
Whaaat?
Well, I’ll be. What a rude B***H. I wasted my whole morning, like I had somewhere else to go. So much for my first prospect. I sat on the john for a long time. Suddenly being a realtor didn’t feel so good or appealing or promising. Maybe it was time to pack it up and go home.
I had money coming my way and Christmas was around the corner. I’d heard you could get last minute plane tickets cheap. And those pool pics made especially for my family, I could deliver them in person. Images of myself dressed as Santa Claus, Babbo Natale, bringing gifts from America, flashed through my mind and made me feel oh, so weepy. Screw this!
I flushed the toilet in a gesture of defiance, went around to close the house and found a note by the stack of fliers. From the sellers. “Great job Monica, we come by from time to time, hope you don’t mind.” Oh, that explained the stain in the sink, I sighed. Good. One less worry. All good. Twenty minutes later I was on my way back to the Desert Homes Real Estate office. But the taste of the breakfast food had been lingering somewhere between my brain and my stomach, so when I spotted the yellow arches, a quick sharp turn got me there. Breakfast in the afternoon. Only in America. God, I love this country!
By the time I parked my Fiat, I counted five cars in the office parking lot. Okay, one was Kassandra’s Kia. Scott’s truck wasn’t there. Sonny’s Cadillac occupied her assigned spot but I didn’t recognized the two black, imposing sedans. Not like money imposing, more like ‘official something’ imposing. I checked my lips and teeth in the side mirror. The last thing I needed was left over egg yolk on my teeth; I fluffed my hair and tried to walk as professionally as possible. I have no idea how a professional real estate agent of the female persuasion walks, but one could give her own spin. On that thought, I almost got knocked to the ground by someone opening the office door on me.
“Sorry miss,” he mumbled. He looked vaguely familiar. Ah, a cop. Not officer Clarke, him I would know for sure. I dawdled before going in and watched the plain clothes cop go to one of the black sedans, open the front passenger door and search for something in the glove compartment and front seat. When he slammed the door shut I quickly let myself into the lobby and closed the door behind me. Didn’t want Mister Cop to think I was snooping. After all, that’s his job.
A sense of excitement hovered over the office.
Kassandra’s welcoming, “There you are,” bolstered my spirits and then the cop came back from the parking lot and stopped by Kassandra’s desk.
I could see Sunny standing by her office door, talking to... oh no, the two detectives, Adam and Eve I called them. The ones investigating the death of Miss Fortune. Somehow the excitement in the air took a dark turn as a little voice kept repeating, investigating the murder of Miss Fortune. I was done trying to eavesdrop, and without a word, I headed toward my cubicle. Obviously not fast enough because Sunny called out to and waved me over.
What now? This day was growing weirder by the minute. I could see a young woman in the back of the bullpen; she must be new, and shy from what I could see of the top of her head as she bent low in front of her computer. That explained the fifth vehicle in the parking lot. I should go say hi, make her feel at ease.
“Monica.” Sunny’s voice changed my mind and I headed her way.
Kassandra and the other cop were right behind me, headed in the same direction. What was going on? We all stood by my old desk, in front of Sunny’s glass office. And to say I felt a little uncomfortable was like saying Godzilla was a little monkey.
“Monica, the detectives are here to show us some photos of the person or persons who may have — hurt — the uh, psychic. What I mean is, they are here to show the photos to Kassandra and...” She paused, cleared her throat. “Kassandra and Celine, to see if they remember or recognize or...”
Her eyes traveled
