Dying to Sell Page 4

  "No one's word is unquestioned, Kate. You know that," she decreed with a smile. Always teaching.

  "Okay, okay. So, the very best of the best. I just want someone who's so good at appraisals that when he or she says a house is worth so and so, then there won't be any problem."

  Ronnie narrowed her gaze. "And which property are we talking about, pray tell?"

  "Amanda's."

  "Ah."

  I swallowed a large gulp of coffee. "The vultures are circling, Ronnie. I can tell. I've already had a couple of calls from real estate agents, feeling me out about the price. Everybody expects Amanda to dump the property, since Mark was killed there."

  "Not an unreasonable assumption. What does Amanda want?"

  I stared out over Ronnie's shoulder, into the mountains, wishing I could take an afternoon off and go hike. Forget all about murders and accused friends and circling vultures. "She hasn't said yet. But I'm afraid she'll panic and want to dump it."

  Ronnie shook her head. "That would be a shame."

  "I'm not going to let that happen, Ronnie. I'll be damned if I let those vultures steal that house."

  "What's your plan?" She arched a silvery brow.

  "Now that the police are finished, I can have the cleaning lady in. Once she's done, I'll pack up the entire library. But leave the rest of the house furnished and show it that way."

  "You're going to have an open house?" she asked, incredulous.

  "You bet," I said, defiant.

  "You're going to get a lot of ghouls."

  "Well, maybe there will be a few real buyers," I said, trying to convince myself as much as her. "And I'm going to work every web contact I have. If folks in town aren't interested, maybe someone moving in will be."

  Ronnie gave me an encouraging grin. "Go get 'em, Kate. I wish you luck. It would be a shame for that house to go for below value. And if you want support for that, then Jake Chekov is your man. He's been in business for as long as I've been in real estate. He's the best and the most respected. His appraisal will help you out. Ask Jennifer for his number."

  Sensing she needed to get back to the work I'd interrupted, I rose from the chair. "Thanks, Ronnie," I said as I headed out the door.

  Her wish of "good luck" floated down the hall after me. I snatched it and held it close. I would need all the luck I could get.

  Chapter 6

  Skirting a parked car, I checked oncoming traffic, then jaywalked across the street, heading for the sidewalk cafe ahead. I held my face to the noontime sun for a second, enjoying the glorious fall weather. No wonder people kept moving here in droves. As a real estate broker, I should be happy about the influx of new business. Instead I, like many other Fort Collins citizens, worried about losing all the things that made our small city special. The signs were already there—increase in traffic, congestion, sprawl. It was scary.

  I stood for one more precious second in the sun before approaching the cafe's wrought iron entrance, knowing that once I found my friend, Marilyn Renfrow, she'd be in the shade. Not a sunflower, Marilyn. More of a shade plant. An exotic shade plant.

  Marilyn and I had been friends for two decades. We'd met at our kids' school and became fast friends. We understood each other and had shared most of life's vicissitudes—marital and otherwise. She was also my opposite in many things. Where I was restrained, Marilyn was outgoing, often outrageous. She delighted in raising eyebrows. Flirtatious, outspoken, and the only woman my age who managed to be voluptuous while slightly plump. Men loved Marilyn. Old, young, and in-between. She was always surrounded at parties. The attraction was decidedly mutual. Whereas I had refrained from becoming involved with anyone after my divorce, Marilyn approached life differently. Twice divorced and with more past lovers than even she could remember, Marilyn was the definition of a free spirit. In fact, she may have been the original.

  She was also the best source of gossip in town. Marilyn had been in Fort Collins since dirt. Having grown up here when it was still a sleepy little undiscovered college town, she knew every prominent family—and their secrets. She also took delight in keeping track of who was sleeping with whom and why. I knew the best way to discover who was on Mark Schuster's scorecard was to probe my best friend and confidante.

  I spied Marilyn seated at a shady table. "Hey, there. How're you doing?" I asked as I sat. "Like your outfit."

  Marilyn patted the rainbow-colored silk print and smiled. "Don't you just? I loved it the moment I saw it." Her caramel brown hair was its usual tousle of curls that fell about her face and neck. All natural curls, too. She never had to stand over a curling iron. Last year I'd opted for a shaggy pixie. Goodbye hot rollers and curling iron. Just fluff, spray, and go.

  "Let's order now, so we can talk," Marilyn said, beckoning the waiter.

  I ordered a chicken Caesar salad with iced tea, while Marilyn chose a gooey lasagna. If I ate that, it would take weeks of workouts to remove. Marilyn didn't mind if it stayed or not.

  Watching the white-aproned young waiter leave with our orders, Marilyn leaned over the table. "How's Amanda today?"

  "As good as can be expected. She sounded exhausted over the phone. I told her to go to bed and sleep."

  Marilyn traced a pattern on the white tablecloth before speaking. "You know that everyone in town has the same unspoken thought, don't you?"

  I sighed loudly. "Yes, darn it, I do. Everyone thinks Amanda killed Mark. But you know she couldn't do that! At least you and I know. She still loved Mark. I don't care how angry she became, she still loved him."

  "All of Amanda's friends know that. But lots of people like to think the worst of someone, when they get the chance. And with Amanda, it's easy. She's thrown her money around and kind of got in people's faces."

  Tracing a pattern of my own now, I glumly agreed. Amanda had often flaunted her wealth over the years. That doesn't set well with Old Money. Of course, out here in the West, nothing was really old, including money. Not like Back East, as I still referred to it, where money went back centuries.

  "Listen," I said, changing the subject, "yesterday at the funeral I saw a woman who caught my attention. When I pointed her out to Amanda later, she mumbled the name Cheryl Krane. Then a funny expression crossed her face, and she didn't want to say more." I eyed Marilyn knowingly. "I figured if she was someone from Mark's past, you would know."

  Marilyn started to answer, then opted to lean out of the waiter's way so he could serve our lunch. Afterwards, she once again leaned forward. "Cheryl was Mark's longest affair. You know how he operated, right? He'd love 'em, then drop 'em. But he always came back to Cheryl. And Amanda, of course," she said wryly. "And Cheryl always kept herself available. She never married. Even though poor little Stanley Blackstone carries his heart on his sleeve for her. For years.Such devotion is amazing." She shook her curls. "Anyway, they're both workaholics over at Hoffman Associates. Personally, I think that Cheryl secretly harbored a fantasy Mark would one day divorce Amanda and marry her. That's why she's stayed single and at his beck and call." Marilyn gave a curt nod, her disapproval at curtailing one's options in life clearly evident.

  I stared off into the traffic flowing past, remembering Cheryl Krane's murderous look in church. "That makes sense, then. Yesterday at the funeral, I caught her staring daggers at Mark's almost-bride-to-be. Boy, if looks could kill, Weepy would be dead now."

  Marilyn chuckled. "Yeah, she was something, wasn't she? I got a kick out of her."

  "I figured you would. She annoyed the hell out of everyone else, though. I almost expected her to throw herself across the casket."

  Marilyn laughed. "That would give the gossip mavens fodder for months."

  I arched a brow. "Are you including yourself in that group?"

  Feigning offense, she drew herself up. "Don't be snide. I don't gossip. I volunteer useful information when asked, that's all. And be nice, or I won't tell you all I know about Cheryl."

  "Oh, many pardons, Most Gracious One," I said. "Do speak. Thusly."r />
  Marilyn shot me a wicked smile. "Before I grant your request, you have to grant mine. I have someone I want you to meet. How about dinner this Thursday night, just the four of us?"

  I groaned and sank my forehead in my hand. I sensed this conversation would cost me. "Not again, Marilyn. The last one kept putting his hand on my thigh all through dinner."

  She grinned. "What's wrong with that?"

  I scowled. "I didn't like him to begin with. He annoyed me with all his bragging. So the hand was more than I wanted to deal with."

  "Oh, I think you dealt with it pretty well, if somewhat vigorously." She leaned back and crossed her arms under her ample bosom. "Spilling hot coffee all over his lap was a bit much, some would say."

  I glanced around innocently. "I didn't try to spill it, honest. He just startled me, that's all. Reflex action, I guess."

  "Some reflexes. A guy will have to have a black belt to date you."

  I exhaled in exasperation. How long were we going to have this conversation? "I've told you. I'm not ready to 'get back into circulation,' as you so charmingly phrase it. Dating is something I did in college. I can't even imagine it now." I forced a scowl, before I sipped my iced tea.

  Marilyn was undaunted. "This one will be different. He's a lawyer with—"

  "Oh, God, another lawyer," I whined, hoping to be as difficult as possible. "Please, no. How about a nice teacher? Got any of those in your queue?"

  A decidedly evil grin danced across her face. "There's still that professor of civil engineering. He's asked about you several times."

  A wince of remembered pain shot through me. "You are heartless, truly heartless. I'll take the lawyer," I said dejectedly. Marilyn just laughed.

  "You won't regret it. He's nice, actually."

  "A nice lawyer? Isn't that an oxymoron?"

  She gave me a warning look. "Promise to be good, all right? No coffee spills, okay?"

  "Depends on how he behaves. No promises."

  Marilyn glanced upward, for heavenly guidance, no doubt. "Why do I try with you? Oh, well. I guess it's the challenge. I love challenges."

  She finished off the rest of the lasagna, while I moped through my salad. Shoving her plate aside, she leaned over the table once more. "Anyway, back to Cheryl and Mark. My humble take on her reaction at the funeral was simple. She felt betrayed. She'd always been there for Mark to go to between girlfriends. And, as I said, I think she actually believed he'd marry her one day. And yet he never did. Over ten years, she was there if he snapped his fingers. And what happens? After all those years of service and devotion?" Marilyn made a face as she said the words. "Mark finally leaves Amanda. But does he turn to Cheryl? Hell, no. He runs off with Little Miss Weepy in Denver. And to add more injury, he plans to move to Denver. She may never see him again. Assuming, of course, she wants to."

  I forked my way through the rest of my salad as I listened. In light of what Marilyn was saying, Cheryl Krane's intense look of hatred was understandable. But could her hate have turned murderous? Truly, she must have felt betrayed. Did that drive her to take revenge upon her former lover?

  Another memory returned to tease. Stanley Blackstone's glare while Mark was being eulogized. "What do you know about Stanley? I've only seen him at Chorale. What's he like?"

  Marilyn arched a brow. "Quiet, nondescript, totally devoted to Cheryl and always has been, ever since I can remember."

  "I guess that accounts for his glare of undisguised hatred yesterday, when Mark was being praised to the heavens. I caught one of his looks and, frankly, it took my breath away."

  "My read is that he resents everything Mark has stolen from him over the years," Marilyn said, pouring a heavy dollop of cream into her coffee.

  "Stolen from him?"

  "Sure. Stanley wanted to marry Cheryl. He asked her over and over. She always refused, even though she was fond of him. She didn't really love him, or so she once admitted to me. But, to Stanley's way of thinking, if it weren't for Mark Schuster, he and Cheryl could be sharing a life of wedded bliss. If such a thing exists," she added with a sly wink.

  I considered that explanation. It made sense. But did Stanley hate Mark enough to kill him? And why now, when Mark would be moving to Denver? Cheryl would still be in Fort Collins. Stanley would have the inside track at last. Unless he had already broached the possibility to Cheryl, and she'd refused him yet again. Perhaps poor Stanley believed Mark was the cause of his lack of a life partner, when in reality, Cheryl simply didn't want him. Had Stanley become so deluded that his frustration turned to revenge?

  "Hmmmmmm," I pondered aloud. "Do you think—"

  Marilyn shushed me quiet, waving a warning finger as she glanced over her shoulder to the cafe's interior. I peered through the plate glass and saw Cheryl Krane being seated at a table with a luncheon companion of her own. None other than Sharon Bassett, wife of Amanda's divorce attorney.

  "Now, there's an odd pairing," Marilyn said.

  "What could those two be sharing?"

  "It does make one wonder," Marilyn said quietly.

  I tried not to stare, but the look of discomfort on Cheryl's face was visible all the way through the glass. Sharon, however, seemed oblivious. She was steadily talking, while Cheryl sat mute.

  "Cheryl doesn't look too happy," I observed.

  "Yes, you're right, and there's more."

  I glanced toward Marilyn, whose face had the open, impassive look that came over her whenever she "sensed" something. Over the years, I'd learned to respect Marilyn's special abilities. She was a little bit psychic and could see more than the rest of us.

  "What do you sense?" I probed.

  "Sharon's baring her soul, so to speak. She's sharing secrets with Cheryl. I can't tell what, though. But they're disturbing Cheryl greatly. Look, see how tense she is." Sure enough, Cheryl Krane sat rigid as a fence pole.

  "Sharon share secrets? You've got to be kidding. The only thing I've ever heard that woman share is the name of her personal trainer."

  Marilyn closed her eyes, and I waited, hoping for more. "I can't tell what it is, except that it's very disturbing news to Cheryl."

  I watched Cheryl and Sharon for another moment, until the waiter brought our check. Digging out my credit card, I glanced at Marilyn. She'd returned to normal and was finishing her coffee. "What do you think?" I probed again.

  "I don't know for sure." She paused. "But let's think about it. What could Cheryl Krane and Sharon Bassett possibly have in common? They don't share the same social affiliations, the same church group, the same tastes even. What else is left but..." She left the sentence hanging.

  I pondered for a moment, then suddenly understood what she'd left unsaid. "Oh, my word," I whispered, incredulous. "Not Mark!"

  Marilyn nodded knowingly. "It's possible. And now her news makes more sense."

  "What news?"

  "Sharon told me last week that she plans to divorce Jonathan." She glanced once more through the window before she grabbed her purse and rose to leave.

  I picked my chin up off the table and followed her from the restaurant.

  * * *

  Switching on the blinker, I guided my elderly Explorer into another lane. Meanwhile my mind was clicking faster than the blinker. The image of arrogant, elegant, and wealthy Sharon Bassett joining the list of Mark Schuster's too-numerous-to-count conquests tried to come into focus. It took some doing. I searched my memory for some hint in the past: a gesture, a subtle glance, something that would have drawn my attention. Nothing. Sharon had never paid Mark much attention at any of the gatherings I could recall. Not like some women who delighted in his practiced flattery. Cool and aloof, Sharon always hid behind her inscrutable mask and stayed above it all. Apparently she was too inscrutable for even the best divorce lawyer in town—her own husband—to fathom. I remembered the fond, worshipful looks Jonathan always cast his stunning wife's way. How was he handling this? He'd looked his usual adoring self at the funeral.

  My cell phone
jingled and I reached for it while I eased around a corner, pleased that I hadn't taken my eyes from the road. I'd promised my daughters I would be "good" and not use it while driving. I'd lied through my teeth. But I had vowed to myself to stop the death-wish bad habits real estate agents are prone to—like steering with their elbows while talking on the phone and digging through their briefcases at the same time. Being good was relative.

  "This is Kate."

  "Kate, this is Mary Baxter. I thought you'd like to tell your young couple the good news. My sellers just accepted their offer."

  A surge of much-needed elation shot right through me—a mixture of happiness for the young couple and for me. They get a house and I get paid. Cool. I don't know if the "money surge" is akin to this Kundalini energy my Yoga-teacher neighbor keeps telling me about, but it must be close.

  "Hey, that's great!" I said. "They'll be so excited. I'll call them right away and get them started with the inspector."

  "Thanks, Kate. My folks are pretty anxious to move things along. Keep me posted. Uh, oh. Gotta go. Another call coming in. Talk to ya later." She clicked off.

  I tossed the little phone back onto the seat. Cell phones had become indispensable. We'd only been using them a few years, yet they'd become another appendage. Had it really only been a few years ago when we'd walked around without these things stuck in our ears? However had we managed? And how come we were so dependent now?

  Suddenly I remembered why. I had to call the appraiser and schedule him for Amanda's house. I could be good—change direction and go all the way back to my office to use the phone there. But I'd promised to join Amanda for dinner, and I was already two blocks from her condo. My office was halfway across town. Of course, I could always use a public pay phone—with half the world eavesdropping. No contest. Being good was just too inconvenient.