Dying to Sell Page 3

  "No, not yet. She's probably still in shock."

  "You will. Especially since you were the one to find Mark. She's going to want you to tell her all about it. I don't care if they were divorcing, she's his wife."

  "I know. I'm dreading her call." Meeting Ronnie's direct, blue gaze, I said, "She still loves him... or loved him. You know that, don't you? Despite everything, Amanda never stopped loving Mark. That's why she stayed all those years."

  Ronnie pursed her lips and tapped a sculptured nail against the chair arm. "That may be, Kate. But the message she left on your voice-mail was damning. The police don't have the benefit of years of friendship to color their perception of Amanda's behavior. You said yourself that Bill was acting suspicious, even before he knew about the message."

  I sank my elbows on the desk and rubbed my temples. "I know, I know. I can't believe she left that message. It's one thing to say in private, but—"

  "But that's Amanda. Tempestuous, headstrong, and willful. She's always been that way, Kate. Like it or not, she's going to be Murder Suspect Number One."

  "I don't even want to think—"

  "Well, well, well! If it isn't Nancy Drew," an unwelcome voice sounded at the doorway.

  I shut my eyes, not wanting to look. The most obnoxious real estate agent in all of Northern Colorado had suddenly appeared in my doorway. I recognized the voice from his annoying television commercials. At least his bus stop signs were silent. Just Larry Banks' blinding capped-tooth smile grinning out at you. And I thought the day had started off badly.

  "What brings you over to our shop, Larry?" Ronnie asked, slanting a smile at the tall, impeccably-tailored man leaning against the doorframe. "What deal are you working?"

  "I've got a buyer for Diane's Sunstone listing," he said, flashing his expensive smile. "And since I was here, I thought I'd drop by and see Kate. I didn't know she moonlighted for the cops."

  Surprised that Fort Collins' mega-real estate agent even knew my name, I made an effort to smile. "You've got me confused with someone else, Larry. I'm just a hardworking broker who had the bad luck to walk into something awful."

  Larry crossed his arms and slouched into a more relaxed position, as if he planned to stay a while. "Who was it, Kate? Any idea?"

  I didn't have to feign amazement. "How would I know? That's for the police to find out."

  "Aw, c'mon, your brother-in-law's the chief detective. You can't tell me he didn't give you a hint."

  "The only thing Bill told me was to go home. That's all."

  Larry's smile turned sly. "I bet Amanda did it. They've been fighting for years, and now he's divorcing her for some Denver chick."

  The cold spot returned to my stomach. Ronnie was right. People were speculating already, and Amanda was Suspect Number One. Fortunately, I didn't have to respond.

  Ronnie rose from her chair and observed, "Oh, that's like saying the butler did it, Larry." She took his arm, nudging him away from the doorway. "Can't you be more creative than that? Mark had been involved in a lot of deals over the years. Some of them went sour. You and I both know he'd made enemies."

  "More than a few," Larry said, no longer smiling. Since Ronnie was directing him down the hall, he gave me a parting wave. "See you around, Kate."

  Not if I see you first, I vowed. Relieved to be able to return to my computer search, I bent over the keyboard once more.

  "Hey, Kate," another voice cut in. "I just heard. Man, that must have been gross! I mean, really."

  "Yeah, it sure was, Ben." I nodded solemnly to our newest associate. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Ben Babbitt was fresh out of college and full of energy. He cut a broad swath on campus. Students loved him, and so did parents. He had made a killing in kiddie condos last year.

  He raked his shaggy blond hair from his eyes. "Geez, was there blood everywhere or what? Did you touch the knife? Who do you think finished him?"

  That was it. I was out of there. I sprang from my chair. "Yes, no, and I don't know. And don't ask anything else, Ben. I'm trying to forget." Snatching the Kerchoffs' offer from my desk, I shoved all four copies into my briefcase and headed for the door. The back door.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon before I'd obtained both Kerchoff signatures on the offer and delivered it to the listing broker's office. Once again, the sun was fast approaching the mountaintops as I drove to Amanda's. I involuntarily shivered. Just like yesterday. This was the same time I drove to the Schusters' house and found Mark.

  My cell phone jangled its musical little sound. Amanda. It had to be. I hadn't heard from her all day. My daughter's voice sounded, instead.

  "Mom? How are you? Uncle Bill just told me what happened. How awful for you. I'm so sorry you had to see that." Jeannie's voice radiated concern.

  "I am too, Jeannie. I'm trying to forget I ever saw it."

  She paused. "Who do you think killed Mark, Mom? He was so... well, so respected by everybody. Who do you think?"

  Suppressing my annoyance that everyone seemed to think I had an inside track on the investigation, I sighed loudly. "I have no idea. Everybody's asked me that today, like I know something. I'm just as clueless as everyone else."

  "You don't think Amanda did it, do you?"

  Appalled that my own flesh and blood could so easily suspect my old friend, I snapped, "Of course not! That's crazy. She loved Mark. She really did. Divorce or no divorce. She couldn't have done it. I know everybody suspects her. Damn, that's so unfair!"

  "Okay, Mom, okay. It was just a question. Don't get mad."

  I exhaled a loud and purposeful breath. "I'm not mad. It's just that everybody's been asking, and I'm worried the police will think that, too." I deliberately refrained from mentioning the voice-mail message. That was privileged information and Bill had warned me not to tell anyone. I'd already slipped with Ronnie, but I knew I could trust her.

  "Well, I just wanted to know how you were doing. Do you want to come over and have dinner with me tonight?"

  I pictured my daughter, the graduate student, living on a tight budget and student loans. Her idea of dinner would be tofu. Yummy. Oh, the sacrifices of motherhood.

  "Gee, sweetie, that would be great. I'll be over a little later, though. I've got to go see Amanda first. She's still in shock, I think. She hasn't called."

  "Okay, see you later. Love you."

  "Love you too, Jeannie. Bye."

  Somehow, the few moments of hearing her voice had chased away the chilly apprehension that had crept up all afternoon. What was I scared of, I wondered? That Amanda would appear dry-eyed and elated that her cheating husband would humiliate her no more? Had a whole day of other people's suspicions caused me to create my own?

  * * *

  A brilliant orange sunbeam reflected off the townhouse door knocker. I had to step aside or be blinded. Amanda opened the door. Unable to stop myself, I scrutinized her face for signs of grief. No makeup could disguise her eyes, bloodshot and deeply-shadowed beneath. Lack of sleep, probably. But no red puffiness which would indicate crying.

  "Amanda, I'm so, so sorry," I offered. It was the only thing that came to mind at the moment. I reached out and hugged her. She hugged me back tightly for a long moment before breaking away.

  "Come in, Kate," she said in a weary voice, stepping inside. "I was hoping you'd come. I called last night after Bill came, but your phone just rang, so I couldn't leave a message."

  Feeling guilty, I said, "I'm sorry, Amanda. I just couldn't deal with anything more last night. And today I've been busy with clients until now. Otherwise, you know I'd have been here sooner. You haven't been alone, have you?"

  She waved her hand as she sank heavily into the living room sofa. "Friends have been coming over all morning, nonstop. Marilyn brought me lunch, but I couldn't eat it." Amanda closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, as if trying to remember. Lines that I'd never noticed before seemed to have sprouted overnight. "Some of Mark's friends from the club were here till three. And then Jonathan
and Sharon. They just left a little while ago."

  Suddenly I felt enormous pity for Amanda, who had no children to come to her side at such a heartbreaking time. She and Mark had never had the time or the desire to have kids. Or so she'd said. I often wondered if it was really a shared decision or mostly Mark's. He had a certain lifestyle established. Kids definitely slowed you down.

  I sat beside her on the sofa, sinking into the leather's embrace. Placing my hand over hers, I whispered, "Amanda, I can't believe this happened. Who would want to kill Mark?"

  "You'd be surprised, Kate," she said in a husky voice, her eyes still closed. "Mark's done a lot of things over the years. A lot of deals. Not everyone in Fort Collins was in his fan club." A shudder seemed to run over her, and she sat up quickly. Fixing me with a piercing stare, her voice gained an edge. "I need to know what happened, Kate. What did you see? Was there a sign of anyone else over there?"

  "No, Amanda, no one. But I did hear the officers talking about finding clothes spread all over the bedroom upstairs."

  She peered at me. "Women's clothes?"

  "I don't know, Amanda. Honest. I just overheard a comment Bill obviously wished I hadn't."

  Amanda sank back into the sofa. "Start at the beginning, Kate. And don't leave anything out. No matter how awful. I want to hear everything."

  I swallowed down the uncomfortable feeling that rose in my throat, took a deep breath, and did as my friend requested.

  Chapter 5

  Saint Luke's Episcopal Church sat nestled in the midst of its comfortable neighborhood embrace. Like the houses surrounding it, Saint Luke's was established, tree-shaded, and gracious. I always liked driving through older neighborhoods. They were reassuring, somehow.

  This morning, however, I didn't feel reassured at all as I pulled into a parking space behind Saint Luke's. It had been five days since Mark's murder, and the coroner had finally released Mark's body for the funeral. Amanda's numbness had also worn off. Yesterday she'd locked herself in her bedroom and sobbed all day and into the evening. She didn't eat. She didn't sleep. She just waved away anyone who offered sympathy. Those of us who came to comfort her wound up clustered in her living room, worrying.

  How would she hold up under the strain of a funeral, and with such a crowd, I wondered? Especially since the young Denver lawyer who'd been Mark's bride-to-be had announced she was planning to attend. In fact, several of the attorneys from her firm, the same one Mark planned to join, also would be coming. Judging from the stream of mourners arriving, Saint Luke's would have to put chairs in the vestibule.

  I slowly walked around to the front of the church, enjoying the early scent of fall in the air. Crisp and clean. Leaves hadn't fallen yet, but still, the aroma was detectable. The sky was overcast instead of its usual brilliant Colorado blue, another hint of the season to come. I'd used the weather's change as an excuse to wear a black knit skirt and long sweater. Suitably somber, but since I usually wear bright colors, I added a white silk scarf at my throat, so I wouldn't scare myself when I passed a mirror.

  Just as I reached the canopied front entrance, a black limousine pulled up in front. I hesitated, thinking it might be Amanda. Jonathan Bassett stepped out, followed by his always-stunning wife, Sharon. Sharon glanced about the entrance, spotted me, and nodded. Next, Jonathan helped Amanda from the car. I sighed in relief to see that she had shrouded herself in black. Long-sleeved elegant black dress and a shoulder-length black veil concealed all but a hint of her features. Whether it was vanity or self-protection, I was glad. Amanda did not deserve to be stared at mercilessly for two hours, while her husband was eulogized.

  Jonathan guided Amanda by the elbow toward the church door, until she turned my way and gestured for me to join her. I obliged, although reluctant to be sharing the spotlight during this service.

  Amanda grasped my hand and held it tightly as we entered the church. The tension in her grasp startled me. The ushers settled us into the front pew, Amanda seated between Jonathan and me. I heard the slight rise in the hum of voices, indicating everyone knew the widow had arrived. I tried to peer across the aisle as discreetly as possible, to see if I could spot the Denver entourage, but spied no one who fit the description. However, the other front pew was conspicuously vacant so far.

  Suddenly, Amanda leaned over. "Kate," she said, her voice low and still hoarse from all the tears. "Kate, I'm so scared! A detective came over last night and asked me all sorts of questions about Mark and me and our divorce. Then he told me not to plan any trips anytime soon. That I shouldn't leave town. They may want to ask me more questions. My Lord, Kate, do you think they suspect me of killing Mark?"

  This close, I could see the panicked look in her big brown eyes. "I don't know, Amanda. They're just doing their job," I whispered beside her veil, then glanced away.

  Almost as if she read my mind, Amanda's voice quavered as she said, "Kate... did the police hear that message I left on your voice-mail?"

  I met her horrified gaze and nodded. Amanda's mouth dropped open. "Oh my God, Kate. They do think I killed Mark! What am I going to do?" I reached over and took both her hands in mine as I bent beside her, hunching my shoulders so no one could observe our conversation. Jonathan kept glancing our way but said nothing.

  "Let's not jump to conclusions, Amanda." I tried to reassure her as the strains of subdued organ music began to float through the sanctuary.

  "Kate, I swear I didn't kill Mark. Please tell me you don't think I did!" Her bottom lip trembled.

  I held her frightened gaze. "Of course not. Everyone who knows you knows you couldn't kill Mark. You loved him." I squeezed her hand beneath mine.

  Amanda's eyes began to glisten behind the veil, and she bit her lip. "Help me, Kate, please," she begged, then sank back into the cushioned pew, her hand clutching mine.

  Jonathan glanced over, patted her other hand, and whispered something in Amanda's ear. She slowly turned in the pew and discreetly scanned the packed church. Settling back, she leaned over once more and rasped, "Jonathan just said that this large turnout was a fitting tribute to Mark. All I see is a church filled with women, most of whom have bedded my husband."

  Her comment startled me, but when I searched for a familiar expression of anger, I saw nothing. She simply gazed back sadly. I squeezed her hand, not knowing what to say. Grief must have quenched the last of Amanda's anger.

  Just then, a rustle stirred through the sanctuary, audible even over the Bach cantata. I didn't have to turn. I sensed the Denver group had arrived. Anxiously peeking at Amanda, I worried how she would handle this added tension of seeing the woman her husband left her for.

  I shouldn't have worried. Amanda didn't even stir as a tall, thin young woman, suitably adorned in stylish black silk, led a procession of four dour-looking gentlemen to the other front pew and noisily sat. Amanda continued to stare ahead as if transfixed. She didn't even turn her head. I wondered if she'd even noticed.

  The other mourners noticed and commented accordingly, the swell and fall of subdued conversation competing with the organist's considerable skills. I concentrated on the music, recognizing it as a piece we had sung in Chorale several years ago. Finally the minister began the service, and I occupied the following hour alternately peering at Amanda and trying to stifle my annoyance at the young woman lawyer's noticeable crying. Her sobs rose and fell, dependent upon the eloquence of the individual eulogy. Several acquaintances had volunteered to speak their remembrances of Mark. Oftentimes, the memories brought a lump to my own throat. Then I would hear Weepy across the aisle and my tears dried up. If only she would.

  Somehow, her audible grief seemed intrusive in this setting. She had only known Mark for a year. The rest of us assembled in this lovely sanctuary had known him a lifetime. She and her consorts were intruders, and I sensed I wasn't the only one in church who felt it.

  Suddenly, I felt something else. A prickle along the back of my neck. A sense of something disturbing passed over me. Unable to stop mysel
f, I glanced over my shoulder and scanned the mourners. My gaze quickly honed in on the source. An icy brunette seated only three rows behind me was staring daggers at the conspicuously-grieving young woman lawyer. The brunette's hate-filled gaze was a laser beam, and the red light danced on the back of Weepy's head.

  As if she sensed my attention, the brunette swiftly glanced my way, then down to her lap. Just then, I noticed the man seated to her right. He was a tenor from my singing group, the Larimer Chorale. He sent a concerned glance toward the brunette, then fixed his attention back to the speaker, who was waxing eloquent.

  Thankfully, the people behind me were watching the speaker as well. I would have turned away, except I suddenly saw a transformation before my eyes. As the speaker effusively praised Mark Schuster's virtues, a purple-faced rage seemed to consume the normally mild-mannered tenor. It was palpable. The intensity of that anger made me catch my breath.

  Why have these people brought so much enmity here today? I didn't recognize the woman seated next to the tenor, but observed she was lovely in a delicate porcelain-featured way. Her jet black hair was razor-cut at the jaw line, thick and luxuriant. Her suit, conservatively tailored. Perhaps another lawyer, I mused, as I settled back into the cushions.

  Amanda still stared ahead, seemingly oblivious to the proceedings. Maybe that was better. There would be the graveside service later, and then friends would be dropping in the rest of the afternoon.

  I took a deep breath while the speaker droned and let myself drift away—watching the stained glass windows catch an occasional sunbeam and send it dancing in shards of colored light across the floor.

  * * *

  Grabbing a clean mug from our tiny office kitchen tucked behind the copy room, I poured it full of black coffee, then headed toward Ronnie's corner office. "Hey, got a minute?" I leaned inside.

  Ronnie peered over the rims of her glasses and looked up from the file on her desk. "Sure, what's on your mind?"

  I chose my favorite stuffed chair, pulled it to just the right spot, so I could enjoy the gorgeous view of the foothills while I talked. "I need the name of the very best appraiser in town. I've only had to work with a couple and they're okay, but not for this job. I want the most reputable, the most experienced one in town. The one whose word is unquestioned," I said as I leaned back.