Dying to Sell Page 2

  Of course, I'm not one of the real estate superstars in our community, who've been selling homes for years and make megabucks. I'm sure they see their jobs differently. But this is my second career, and one which I'm entering at what the French fondly refer to as une certaine age. So, I feel that I'm entitled to look at the business with fresh eyes and do things my way. The megabucks guys and gals can continue cutting their swath. I'll just stay on my own little path.

  "Let's go see the kitchen again," the wife said, and I stepped away from the door. "Again." A signal word. Good thing, because this was the eighth house we'd seen this afternoon. Talk about supercharged. These folks wasted no time. Some houses we were in and out in less than five minutes. Others took more time. But none of them had held their mutual attention this long.

  I followed behind them and listened, hoping for the magic words: "We'd like to make an offer on this one."

  The young couple paused in the midst of the dining area and watched the late afternoon sunlight slant through the patio door. Their gazes locked for a second, then the husband turned toward me. "We like this one best of all. But, we'd like to think about it some more. We don't want to rush."

  "Not a problem," I replied, not totally surprised. It was a natural response, and I don't believe in pushing. "You've seen a lot today. You need time to sort through it all. Give me a call tomorrow and let me know what you're thinking. If you want to make an offer, just let me know, and I'll write it up."

  Looking down and shuffling his feet a bit, the young man asked, "If we waited till the weekend, do you think the house will still be available?"

  "I really wish I could tell you yes, but there are no guarantees. The house has been on the market fourteen days. It shows well. And there are still buyers out there trying to find something they can move into before the holidays." I watched anxiety claim their faces, so I added, "But you need to do what's right for you. If you need more time to think about it, go ahead. But I wouldn't be doing my job, if I let you think you have forever. Most of the houses we saw today will be gone in the next two weeks." There. I'd done my job. Now, the choice was theirs.

  They glanced at each other and nodded. "Okay," they promised and headed for the door.

  Glancing at my watch, I hoped I'd still catch Mark at home. He probably went out to eat each evening. His kitchen never looked used.

  * * *

  The sun hovered right above the mountaintop, blinding in its brilliance. Living a mile up in altitude made you more aware of the sun. You were closer. You tanned faster, and driving westward in the late afternoon could be hazardous. I shaded my eyes as I walked up the curving sidewalk to the Schusters' multi-level front porch.

  Amanda had used a local landscape architect to design all the plantings several years ago, when they built the house. Now, the bushes were lush and more vibrant, having passed through the adolescent growth stage.

  I rang the door chimes and waited. Nothing. I rang them again. Still no answer from inside. Strange, I thought, glancing toward Mark's black Mercedes parked in the driveway.

  Deciding Mark might still be upstairs going through closets, I dug into my briefcase for my electronic keypad. All the listed houses in Fort Collins were on electronic lock boxes. More expensive, but they provided the seller with better security than the old mechanical combination locks. I inserted the keypad into the gray, rectangular box dangling from the front door handle, punched in my code, then pressed a key-shaped button. A few seconds later, a familiar metallic rattle sounded. The key container dropped from inside the lock box. I retrieved the key, then opened the heavy door, its center a beautiful oval of etched and beveled glass.

  Stepping into the open foyer, I glanced about the sunken great room, which commanded one whole side of the house. The sun's last rays danced above in the vaulted ceilings, red and orange beams bouncing off glass and mirrors, then downward to warm, polished, oak floors that stretched forever.

  "Mark?" I called as I closed the door. "Mark, it's Kate. I've come to pick up the last of the paperwork."

  No response. I walked over to the stairway and called again. "Mark! It's Kate. Are you up there?"

  No answer. Maybe he was in the shower. If so, I wasn't about to go upstairs and surprise him. I would wait.

  On the far side of the great room, I saw the open door to Mark's library. Maybe he had left the papers on his desk. If so, then I could grab them and go home. No need to wait around for Mark to finish his shower—or whatever. The thought that Mark might be indulging in one last local dalliance had crossed my mind. I definitely didn't want to interrupt that.

  Heading for the library, I paused at the door and peered inside. To my surprise, there was Mark sitting behind the desk, his leather chair turned sideways, its back to the door.

  I laughed as I entered the room. "Mark, are you getting deaf in your old age? I've been calling you? Didn't you hear me?"

  He didn't respond. The chair stayed turned away from me. A prickle ran up my spine. "Mark? Is there something wrong?"

  No response. More than a prickle ran over me this time. Something was definitely wrong. I slowly edged around the desk, until I could see Mark seated in the chair; then I stopped—and stared.

  Mark had been stabbed. A slender, gold letter-opener jutted out of his throat. Blood soaked his clothes, the chair, and the expensive Oriental carpet beneath his feet.

  The briefcase dropped from my hand, and I backed away in horror.

  Chapter 3

  "Would you like some water, Ms. Doyle?" the earnest young police officer asked.

  I shook my head. I didn't feel like swallowing anything for quite a while. The sight in the Schusters' library was still with me. And the smell. The sickly-sweet smell of blood.

  "No, thanks, Officer Sanchez. I'll just sit here until Detective Levitz wants me."

  Sanchez nodded solicitously and backed away, giving me space which I appreciated. I glanced across the great room toward the library door. Investigators kept coming and going from the once elegantly appointed room. My brother-in-law, Detective Bill Levitz, was in charge of the investigation. Not because he was related—by marriage to my sister, who died two years ago—but because he was Chief of Detectives for the Fort Collins investigative unit. This was his show.

  I watched him directing his men, who were wearing surgical gloves. Another flash went off inside the library. So many pictures. How could people stare at pictures like that for a living? I shuddered. I just hoped I'd be able to forget the images.

  Reaching across the end table, I flipped on a table lamp. It was long past dusk, and the great room, where I sat alone, felt chill as well as dark. I needed light. Lots of it. Jumping up from the sofa, I proceeded to turn on every light in the entire room, even the spotlights for the artwork. Somehow I felt better. Bill approached just as I sat down again.

  "So, Kate," his deep voice rumbled, familiar and reassuring. "I've read Sanchez's notes, but what do you say we go over all this again. Start at the beginning." He sank into an adjoining sofa.

  I stared at my big, shambling brother-in-law, with unkempt, gray hair, suit always wrinkled, tie barely covering a protruding belly—despite my sister's years of trying to help him diet. Perhaps his new wife would be successful.

  I exhaled a sigh. "Whatever you say, Bill. I saw Mark this morning, when I brought him the listing contract to sign. He didn't have time to sign the rest of the documents then, because he had a conference call. So I left them and told him I'd stop by late this afternoon and pick them up."

  "What time was that?"

  "About nine or so. I wasn't here long. I was gone before ten and drove straight to Amanda's."

  "Amanda Schuster, his wife. Who's divorcing him, right?" Bill didn't look up, just kept scribbling in his little spiral notepad. It was small, the size that would fit in a shirt pocket. For years, I remember seeing that notepad in Bill's shirt pocket. He always put it carefully on his desk every night when he'd come home. A poignant memory of happier times
when my sister was alive flashed through my mind, and I forced it away. Had to stay focused on what Bill was asking.

  "Yes, that's right. Amanda lives in the west part of town now. I went there, got her to sign the contract, then left to go home. I had some work on the computer."

  "Did she sign the contract willingly?"

  "Of course. She wants the house to sell. They're dividing up the assets..." I paused. "Were dividing up the assets."

  Bill glanced at me then around the room, taking in all the tasteful display. "Lots of assets, from what I can see," he observed, a shaggy, gray eyebrow arching.

  "This is only what you can see. There were lots of assets squirreled away. Cash, stocks. You name it."

  "Where'd you learn that, Kate? You been talking to their lawyer?" That eyebrow arched again, in what I recognized as his skeptical observation. One raise, curiosity. Two raises, skepticism.

  I hesitated for a moment. "From Amanda. She's been giving me daily updates. This divorce has really hit her hard, Bill."

  "I can imagine," he said, surveying the room again. "Giving all this up would be hard."

  A prickle ran up my neck. Something in Bill's tone concerned me.

  He scribbled, then eyed me again. "Okay. Tell me what you did when you left your home and came here."

  "Well, I didn't come directly here. I showed a young couple several houses. That occupied the entire afternoon. It was after four-thirty when I got here."

  "So tell me everything you did. Don't leave out any detail. It might be important."

  I took a deep breath. "I parked my car out front and walked up to the house. I noticed Mark's Mercedes in the driveway, so I knew he was home. That's why I was surprised when I rang the chimes and there was no answer."

  "What'd you do?"

  "I let myself in with the keypad and lock box."

  "Then what?"

  "I called out his name several times as I walked around the foyer. I even called up the stairs. I... I didn't want to go upstairs, in case he was showering. So, I went to the library, thinking he might have left the papers there, and I could just take them and not disturb him. In case he was... uh, showering. You know." I glanced away.

  "Or otherwise involved, right?" Bill shot me a knowing look. "It's no secret, Kate. He's been tomcatting around town for years. For all you knew, he might have had someone upstairs."

  "The thought did cross my mind."

  "So, you went to the library and what?"

  "I glanced inside first, and saw him sitting in his chair behind the desk. Well, at least I assumed it was him. The chair was turned away from the door. But I saw the back of his head."

  "And?"

  I took another deep breath. I really didn't want to picture this again. "I called out his name and asked him why he didn't answer. And when he didn't answer again, I got scared."

  "Scared?"

  "I don't know, Bill. I felt a chill go over me, or something. I can't remember. But I knew I had to find out why he wasn't answering me. So, I walked around the desk... and..." I closed my eyes. "That's when I saw him. Sitting there in his chair with... with that knife-thing sticking out of his throat." I shuddered involuntarily. "Good Lord, Bill. It was awful. I've never seen anything like that before. And I hope I never do again."

  "That's okay, Kate. It's a normal response to seeing a murder victim. Not a pretty sight. I wish you hadn't been the one to find him."

  "So do I."

  Bill tapped the end of his pen against the notepad. "That's when you called nine-one-one?"

  "Yes. I flew out of that room. Then I sat here and waited for you."

  He sank a little lower into the soft sofa cushions. "So, this has been a pretty bitter divorce, hasn't it?"

  I hesitated, feeling disloyal somehow to Amanda. "Yes, it has been."

  The tapping began again. "Amanda Schuster was pretty angry, you think?"

  Narrowing my gaze, I peered at my brother-in-law. "What are you getting at, Bill? You can't seriously suspect Amanda of committing murder, can you?"

  "I can't rule out any possibility, Kate. You know that." He flipped the notepad shut with one movement, then shoved it in his shirt pocket. "We have to notify her. Do you think she'll be home now?"

  I glanced at my watch: 7:00 p.m. "Probably. Should I go over there with you?"

  "Naw. That's not necessary. Besides, I want you to go to your office with Sanchez and give him copies of all the contracts Mark and Amanda Schuster signed with you. And any other documents you may have relating to this sale. Everything. Okay?" Slowly, he pulled himself out of the soft sofa.

  I nodded, then rose and grabbed my briefcase, eager to be allowed to leave this scene of death.

  Bill motioned Sanchez over and spoke, while I drifted toward the front door, anxious. Men were still milling around inside the library. What more could they find?

  "Okay, Kate, go on. Sanchez will follow you there." Bill ran his hand through his already-mussed hair. "Afterwards, he'll escort you home, if you want."

  "That won't be necessary, but thanks anyway."

  Sanchez held the door open and I headed for it, then paused. Turning back to Bill I called, "Go easy on Amanda, Bill. She's been through a lot already, and this will hit her pretty hard."

  Both brows shot up this time. "Not as hard as Schuster," he said dryly.

  * * *

  Luckily there were others still working, so I didn't have to unlock a darkened office. Shamrock Realty's modest building was located in a central area of Fort Collins, right on the main north-south thoroughfare, College Avenue, the same street that ran past the university a few blocks north.

  Waving at an associate who was bent over his computer, I hastened to my office. Sanchez followed right behind. I closed the door; otherwise someone might stroll by and notice a uniformed officer. I did not feel like making explanations tonight. I simply wanted to go home and unwind, Sam at my feet.

  "Sit down, Officer Sanchez; it'll only take a minute to make copies of those files for you." I tossed my purse and briefcase on the paper-strewn desk. As I plopped in my chair, I noticed the blinking red light on my phone. Messages. Out of habit, I punched the button and pushed speakerphone, so I could listen while I searched the files. "Mind if I check my messages while I'm getting this?" I glanced up at Sanchez.

  "No, ma'am. Not at all," he said as he lowered himself to a nearby cushioned chair.

  The messages whirred backwards and began to recite. First, the young couple from that afternoon. They'd already thought about it enough. Please come over tomorrow and write the offer on the last house they saw. I felt a little flutter of pleasure waking up inside. Life's routines were a salvation.

  Another message was a cancellation of a broker's appointment, and a change of time for another. I made notes in my Day-Timer, then retrieved the Schuster file from my desk drawer. I was about to head for the copier, when Amanda Schuster's voice came on the phone—tight and full of fury. The sound of it stopped me cold.

  "Kate? This is Amanda. You'll never believe what the bastard has done now. He's sold the house in Rist Canyon. He waited until we closed it up, then he put it on the market without telling me. Damn his soul to hell! He knew how much I loved that place. It was my sanctuary." Her voice sank to a harsh whisper. "He's stolen everything from me, Kate. I can't take any more of it. I didn't think I could get any angrier, but I'm so mad now I could kill the son-of-a-bitch!"

  The abrupt sound of the phone being slammed down ended the message. I stood frozen on the spot.

  Officer Sanchez slowly rose from the chair and drew closer. "Ma'am, was that message from Mrs. Schuster? Mrs. Amanda Schuster?" He peered at me expectantly.

  I swallowed to make sure I could speak. "Yes," I whispered. "Yes, it was." And I sank back into my chair. Now I really felt sick to my stomach.

  Chapter 4

  Hiding in my littered little office, I leaned over the computer keyboard and pretended to be engrossed in what appeared on the screen. The truth was,
I had stared at the same property description for ten minutes. I'd even resorted to turning off the continual-motion screensaver—a breathtaking view of sparkling glaciers and mountain lakes—otherwise, anyone who passed my office door would know I was watching test patterns. I wanted to appear busy. Perhaps that would dissuade more sympathetic comments and the myriad questions.

  My associates and fellow real estate agents at Shamrock Realty had been shocked that I'd walked in on a murder scene. Suicides were one thing, but murder? They all offered their sympathies, along with their questions. People couldn't help it. They were curious..Murder was not a common occurrence in Fort Collins. Sixty miles north of Denver, we had a gorgeous climate that spoiled us rotten, recreational opportunities for the rugged or the retired, more cultural amenities than we could ever take advantage of, and few of the big city problems. Folks just didn't go around stabbing each other in the throat.

  I rubbed between my eyes, trying to make the memory go away. A woman's voice interrupted. "Why don't you go home, Kate. You look tired."

  Spinning my chair around, I watched Veronica Kelly settle into the comfy client chair before my desk. Slender, sixtyish, and silver-haired, Ronnie started Shamrock Realty twenty-five years ago, right before the recession hit Colorado. Somehow, she had survived while other agencies, far larger and richer, had gone under. She was my mentor and could be counted on for calm, considered advice, no matter what the problem. And in real estate, there always seemed to be a problem. We regularly put out fires. Ronnie, as owner and managing broker, was the voice of experience. She'd seen everything, and she was tough as nails.

  I leaned back in my chair and exhaled a deep breath. "I can't, Ronnie. I have to write an offer for the Kerchoffs, then take it over to the other agent. After that, I had planned to go to Amanda's."

  Ronnie peered at me. "Have you heard from Amanda yet?"