The rumors of Dale Wolf, broker extraordinaire, trying to get Kay to transfer her license to his company must have been true. The very idea brought me down. Not Kay. I liked her, a lot. She was my mentor, a shining example of charm, sophistication and professionalism. All the qualities I didn’t possess—yet.
Something didn’t add up. Why hire B&B Catering? Certainly, Kay was aware of Brenda’s tight friendship with Sunny Novak, broker and owner of Desert Homes Realty.
All that drama made me feel like a boiling pot of pasta about to spill over. I had to talk to someone—who? Kassandra, our office secretary, always knew everything that went on at work—in, out, and around. Except she hadn’t even set foot at the real estate office in the last eight days. Not with what that creep Bill Smith did to her when he broke into Desert Homes Realty. Considering he intended to kill her (and me too for being an accidental witness), we lucked out. Compared to her injuries, my cuts and bruises were nothing. And my ribs had healed nicely.
Kassandra left the hospital two days ago, but because her condo didn’t have an elevator and she couldn’t climb stairs on her own, she ended up in a convalescent home across from the hospital. I had visited her once already, and we spoke on the phone. I doubted anyone else went to see her. The whole office did pitch in to get her flowers and Mylar balloons.
I checked the time. By now visiting hours at the convalescent home were way over. Damn. Might as well go home and take Dior for a walk before it got to dark. Then I would wait for Brenda to get back and ask her what kind of cheating games our charming Kay has been playing on us, her trusting friends and colleagues.
It was more Dior dragging me on a walk than the other way around. We circled the block where all the neighbors always looked out for each other, and we were back before nine. I fed the Great Dane and myself. No matter what day or time, I could always count on finding food and some chilled Pinot Grigio in Brenda Baker’s amply-stocked fridge.
At some point I must have fallen asleep on her couch with Dior next to me and the television on. I woke up to the sound of a police car siren—coming from the screen, not from the street. I pushed on Dior to free my legs and rubbed my eyes. What time was it? And what cop show was I watching?
Something looked familiar. A rerun? Hardly. Nooo, that was a live interview. A local reporter interviewing—Leta? Yep, Leta, Brenda’s number-one assistant. Both Leta and the reporter stood outside the entrance of the high rise, same spot where I’d crossed paths with Double Wide and his Maserati.
“No, I can’t say I know the victim. A resident perhaps? I’m sorry. I was serving after-dinner drinks at a private party on the twenty-fourth floor when the cops—I mean the detectives came knocking and asking questions.” Leta paused and looked around, moving her head in short, quick motions like a nervous chicken. “I heard someone say a man drowned in the pool on the rooftop. Then it was like—oh, no it was a woman with cropped hair.” Leta shook her head. I had to say, she was keeping both her composure and the B&B Catering logo on her shirt in full sight throughout the whole interview. The reporter nodded, and suddenly the camera angle moved to show dozen of cop cars and onlookers, and I caught a quick glimpse of Camelback Road. Then a commercial came on.
The knock on Brenda’s back door sent my heart to my throat, and I couldn’t find my voice nor did I want to. That was when Dior barked, of course.
TWO
I OPENED THE door to the busybody widow from across the street, the one who always smelled like an open perfume bottle. The Great Dane pressed against my butt and the widow stretched her neck to the point of injury trying to peek over my shoulders. To see what?
“Oh, hi, Monica”—her eyes squinting—“I wanted to tell Brenda that the reindeer on the roof, you know, the one your aunt’s boyfriend put up...”
“Not her boyfriend.” I yawned.
“Oh”—a little stretch of the lips—smiling, sort of—“Oh, well, whoever the nice gentleman who comes around so often is...” Waiting for me to volunteer information? Fat chance.
“Officer Clarke.” I could be mean and keep this aimless conversation going ‘til the wee hours of the morning. Better not. “He’s a friend of—the family. Anyway, what about the reindeer—needs to be fed?” Good one, Monica.
She opened her mouth, closed it again. If looks could kill... “No. It’s about to slide off the roof. Please make sure and tell your aunt Brenda.” She turned around and sashayed down the driveway as if a busload of men was watching. Nuts. I wondered what kind of performance she would have put on had the nice gentleman been present. Maybe this was a rehearsal.
“Stop pushing me, Dior. Didn’t you hear how mean I am to people?” I blamed my bad mood on my lack of sleep, or sex...hadn’t decided which one I missed most, not yet.
My phone chimed before I made it back to the couch. “Monica, can you give me a ride home?”
“Huh? Brenda? What happened to your car? Where are you? What time is it?”
“Please, not now. There was...is...something happened—a drowning. Look, I can’t get my vehicle out of the underground parking. The cops have the whole garage sealed off. So, can you give me a lift or not?” She barked out a raspy cough. I could feel her stress over the phone.
“Okay, okay. Where do I meet you? And what about the food, the equipment?”
“Leta had already packed, and the
