Dying to Sell Read online

  Only Marilyn could find a way to get back to her favorite topic. "If you like the rugged outdoor type, I guess."

  "And you don't?"

  "On somebody else, yeah. But not this guy. He rubbed me the wrong way the moment I got there."

  "How?"

  "Oh, little annoying things. Needling comments. Plus, he tells me he's going to mark the house down because of the murder. Damn." Remembered aggravation made a brief appearance.

  "What kind of comments?"

  I sorted through my mail as I detailed Chekov's most endearing traits. "On top of everything else, he finds a leak in the attic! I don't have the heart to tell Amanda, but I'll have to."

  "I agree. He sounds very annoying. Being so thorough and all. Also, the jabs about the coffee were totally out of line. Sounds like a jerk."

  I heard Marilyn's teasing tone, and I was not in the mood to be ribbed twice in one afternoon. "C'mon, it's the only vice I have."

  "I know, that's the problem. I've been trying to get you to develop others, but you resist me at every turn. But, we'll talk more tomorrow night. You do remember you're joining Frank and me for dinner, don't you?"

  I didn't. I squeezed my eyes shut. "Marilyn, I'm really busy right now. Can we reschedule?"

  "No, we can't. Finley is really anxious to meet you. And I'm not going to let you weasel out of this. No way."

  I could picture Marilyn planting her feet even as we spoke. She was right. There was no way to get out of the dinner. Besides, it would be rude. "Finley, huh?" I replied. "Interesting."

  "Well, he is, in a quiet sort of way. He's very nice-looking and—"

  "Why is that the first thing you notice? What about his personality?"

  "That's nice too. And he's very clever. Frank says he's one of the sharpest estate lawyers in town."

  "Well, if I ever earn enough to have an estate, I'll call him."

  "Anyway, the poor dear lost his wife in January, and he's just started dating again."

  "Please don't use that word. I'll join you folks for dinner, but it is not a date, understand?"

  "Yes, yes, whatever you say. Just make sure you're at my house at six o'clock sharp. We can catch up first, before Frank and Finley arrive for drinks."

  I assured her I would be there so I could get off the phone. A headache was forming right between my eyes. Okay, that's it, I decided and shoved away from my desk. One thousand calories and one hundred grams of fat, who cares? I was going for a burger.

  Chapter 10

  Reaching up to adjust the small desk lamp, I suddenly noticed it was dark outside. I glanced at my watch. How could it be 11:30? I'd come straight from Jeannie's apartment and gotten to the Schuster home at 8:00. Had I been hunched over Mark's computer for three hours?

  Once I paid attention, my shoulder muscles testified to the time. When I arrived, I'd carried Mark's computer upstairs to Amanda's old study, assuring privacy for my search. Now, I leaned back in the chair and stared at the screen, fascinated by what I saw.

  Yosarian's software worked very well, indeed. After a few moments of whirring, beeping, and blinking, plus a strange grinding noise, Mark's nearly empty desktop popped out three more icons. I wasn't surprised.

  Nothing, however, prepared me for what I found. There were letters to various off-shore investment entities transferring funds, and emails to stockbrokers, analysts, tax lawyers. Jonathan Bassett would have a field day with this information, I thought.

  But my surprise turned to concern when I opened the last file. It consisted of accounting records involving the Schuster and Ackerman partnership and various fund transfers that had taken place over the last few years. I scanned them, thinking they were simply another form of the partnership's financial statements. Unfortunately, they were not. A cold spot developed in my stomach as I realized what they were.

  Mark Schuster had been transferring funds from the partnership and depositing them in an international brokerage account for years. There was only one name on that account—his. Part of me hoped there was a reasonable and honest explanation for all those transfers, disguised as business expenses to "Gerald Moss & Associates, Consulting." It might have been easier to convince myself had Mark not done such a meticulous job of matching up each consulting expense, duly deposited in a Fort Collins bank, with its accompanying withdrawal and re-deposit in the brokerage account.

  I stared at the screen, wondering who else might know of this subterfuge. Surely not Amanda. The other files contained letters that all-too-clearly revealed Mark's strategies for concealing assets from his wife. I also suspected Henry Ackerman didn't know about these transfers either. It made his early-morning garage search all the more understandable.

  Remembering Ackerman's cold glare when I'd prevented him from his search, I wondered if he'd become suspicious of Mark and the expenses to Gerald Moss Consulting. Had he learned of Mark's cheating and confronted him? Had Ackerman been so enraged he'd killed Mark?

  I reached into my purse for the disc I'd brought, and copied each of the incriminating files. Meanwhile, my imagination started spinning elaborate plots with Henry Ackerman cast as the villain. Suddenly a thump sounded from downstairs. My heart skipped a beat. Could that be the wind?

  I stared at a nearby tree outside the upstairs study window. Its leaves and branches were perfectly still, no sign of a breeze. Deciding I was just tired and imagining things, I slipped the disc into my purse, turned off the computer and the desk lamp.

  The room was pitch black. I'd forgotten to turn on any lights downstairs when I arrived. Fortunately, there was enough moonlight for me to see my way across the study to reach the hall light outside the door. My fingers had just touched the switch when I heard the thump downstairs again. It was definitely not my imagination. My heart almost leaped out of my chest this time.

  I stood, pulse racing, straining my ears to hear. Nothing. Maybe it really was my imagination, I thought after a couple minutes of quiet. I've been sitting up here conjuring crimes and wound up scaring myself to death. Nobody would try to sneak into this house. My car was in the driveway. Then again, the entire house was dark. It appeared empty, parked car or not.

  Okay, enough of this, I said to myself. The house is locked. Stop being ridiculous. I stepped into the upstairs hallway and was about to flip on the light, when suddenly something told me not to. Instead, I reached into my purse for my cell phone and punched in 911, ready to call. Then I approached the stairs and slowly went down each step.

  At the bottom of the stairs was a panel with all the great room light switches. Surely a sudden burst of light would frighten any trespasser away. I reached the landing and held my breath. Moonlight poured through skylights and windows, making the downstairs look eerily foreboding. I took a deep breath and fumbled for the wall switch.

  Light flooded the great room, so bright I had to squint my eyes for a second. Heart pounding in my chest, I looked around, praying I wouldn't see anyone lurking behind the sofas. I didn't. Part of me wanted to check the rest of the house to see if someone had tried a forced entry. The other part said, Get Out Now! I listened to the latter. Deciding to leave the lights on overnight as a deterrent, I headed past the dining room toward the entry.

  A heavy French door swung out and slammed right into me. I yelped as the force of it knocked me backwards. My purse and cell phone went flying. I fell against the wall and slid to the floor, just as all the lights went out. Terrified I was about to be heinously murdered like Mark, I screamed as loud as I could and scrambled to my feet.

  The sound of footsteps running away, getting fainter, then the slam of a door, was all I heard. I stumbled beside the wall, frantically sweeping my hands across the nubby wallpaper weave until I found another set of switches. Light flooded the room once more.

  My heart beat double-time. I leaned against the wall and tried to catch my breath. Clearly, someone had been lurking. Who else had a key? Maybe that thump had been the sound of the keyholder breaking in.

  Gulping
in several deep breaths, I decided against checking doors. This time I would follow my instinct to get out. I retrieved my purse and phone and raced for the front door, slamming it securely behind me. Let the lights stay on. I'd turn them off tomorrow, when I returned with the locksmith. These locks were being changed, and there would only be one key—mine.

  * * *

  "You're having the locks changed?" Ronnie spoke up from the doorway. "Not a bad idea. No telling who has a key."

  Startled, I wheeled my desk chair around. I hadn't known she was standing in the office doorway and listening to my phone call. Not wanting to reveal what happened last night, I replaced the phone and reached for some files. "Yeah, that's precisely what I thought. Better be safe than—"

  "Sorry," she added. "Good advice, Kate."

  I glanced up, but Ronnie was already down the hall. She was still reading my mind, which made me very uneasy, because there was a lot inside I didn't want her to see.

  Leaning back into my comfy chair, I tried to think of who else Mark might have given a key to over the years. Ackerman, certainly, but who else? I rocked a moment, running faces and names through my mind. Finally, one face came and stayed.

  Cheryl Krane. After all, she and Mark had the longest love affair of all. Perhaps he'd given her a key, so they could meet clandestinely when Amanda was out of town. I rocked rhythmically for another moment, then glanced at my watch. The locksmith wouldn't be at the house for another two hours. There was just enough time to stop by Cheryl Krane's law office in Old Town. I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the back door to the parking lot before I could talk myself out of the decision.

  All during the twenty-minute drive into the northern part of town, I practiced various excuses I could offer Cheryl Krane for prying into her private life. This woman was a stranger to me. She had no idea I knew so much about her personal history. I almost felt guilty, but not enough to change my mind. Last night had scared me into taking action. Someone had tried to prowl through the Schuster house. Perhaps the killer had left something, a clue to his or her identity. Perhaps Ackerman had come back to search the computer.

  If Cheryl Krane didn't have a key, then I would feel even more confident presenting the computer disc to Bill. Those incriminating financial records gave a strong case to take the spotlight off Amanda and shine it on Ackerman. I only hoped Detective Levitz saw it that way.

  Grabbing a parking spot beside Cheryl's office building, I hurried around the manicured walkway toward the front. As I rounded the corner, I nearly ran into someone. I jumped back with a startled, "Excuse me!" and stared straight at Sharon Bassett.

  Clearly surprised, Sharon asked, "Why, Kate, are you rushing to a closing?"

  I wish. "Ah, no. No, I'm not. I'm visiting a client," I lied. It was the best I could do. Then something pushed me to ask her a question. "Were you here to visit Jonathan? Has he moved his offices?" I knew he hadn't, but I needed an opening.

  Sharon fiddled with her sunglasses. "Actually, Kate, I was here on business myself. I met with Rick Boyer, the second-best divorce lawyer in town. Jonathan being the first, of course."

  I didn't even try to hide my surprise. Not at the news, of course, but at her blatant delivery of it. "Sharon, I... I don't know what to say."

  She eyed me skeptically. "Come now, Kate. You don't have to pretend you didn't already know. I told Marilyn two weeks ago, precisely because I knew she'd spread the word and I wouldn't have to."

  Might as well confess. "You're right, she did. And I was sorry to hear the news. Divorce is so traumatic. For everyone concerned." Remembering Jonathan's angry denial last week when I'd offered condolences, I probed Sharon. "How is Jonathan handling it?"

  She stared off toward the still-green foothills edging the western part of town. "He's making progress."

  "I imagine he's taking it rather hard. He's so devoted to you, Sharon. Hard to believe he could manage without you."

  "Well, he'll have to. We all have to do what's best. You know that, Kate. You did this yourself, so I'm sure you understand."

  Yes, I did, and I wanted to leave it at that. So I switched into real estate agent-mode. Always an effective defense. "Well, if you're wanting to look at other areas of town, I'll be glad to show you some of the properties I've shown to Amanda. Gorgeous patio homes by the lake. Or, there are some golf-course communities south of town that are fantastic."

  "Actually, Kate, I'm moving to Denver."

  "Really?" I said, genuinely surprised this time.

  "I need to make a fresh start. I've lived here for over twenty years, Kate. If I'm going to begin a whole new life, then I'm not going to do it halfway." She glanced away for a moment. "And, to be honest, this horrible episode with Mark's murder has made me rethink a lot of things."

  Genuine emotion radiated from normally aloof Sharon Bassett, and I was amazed. "I understand." Better than she knew. "When were you thinking of moving? I can call our offices in Denver and get a referral agent to help you there, if you'd like."

  "Thanks, Kate. I may take you up on that offer in a few weeks." She turned to walk away. "I'll talk to you later." She waved goodbye.

  As I continued on the walkway to the building's front entry, I couldn't get over the transformation I'd just witnessed. Divorce often brings out the worst in people. But Sharon Bassett seemed to visibly thaw before my eyes.

  As I reached to push open the glass entry door, who should come out but Cheryl Krane. She glanced at me briefly and continued down the walkway. I spun around. Obviously, I was meant to have important discussions outside today. I glanced up at the gorgeous shade of blue above me. Colorado blue, I called it.

  "Excuse me, Ms. Krane?" I called, hurrying after her.

  Cheryl whirled around, as if startled. Her jet black hair was a striking contrast against her porcelain skin. As I drew nearer, I was struck by her huge blue eyes, which seemed owlish behind her oversized glasses.

  "Yes? Do we know each other? If you're looking for Hoffman and Associates, our offices are—"

  "No, it's you I came to see, Ms. Krane. Let me introduce myself. I'm Kate Doyle with Shamrock Realty here in town, and I'm representing the Schuster home now that it's on the market."

  Cheryl Krane's surprised expression changed to general wariness. "You're a real estate agent? Well, I'm not interested in buying another home. I already have one."

  I deliberately assumed a friendly, chatty manner, designed to disarm even the most suspicious souls. "Oh, no, Ms. Krane. I'm not trying to sell you a house. Heavens, no. I, well, I just need to ask you some questions. You see, I'm handling the Schuster property and something, well, something happened at the house the other night, and it concerned me."

  Curiosity flashed across her face, even though she didn't say a word. "I was upstairs arranging the rooms for this weekend's open house," I continued, "when I heard noises downstairs. It was late at night, so I admit I was frightened. But I forced myself downstairs to check." I deliberately chose a dramatic tone to relate this story, meanwhile watching Cheryl's reaction. Her wary expression hadn't changed, but I did spy a flush creeping up her slender neck and tingeing her cheek.

  I let my voice move up the scale. "Well, I flipped on all the light switches and flooded the house with light. Then I heard footsteps running through the kitchen... and then a door slammed! Someone had gotten inside. But there was no sign of break-in. I figured they must have had a key. That house is securely locked every day, believe me."

  The slight flush had reached Cheryl Krane's exquisite cheekbones by now. But her voice was anything but warm. "Ms. Doyle, this is all quite dramatic, and it's obvious you are very upset, but I cannot think why you are telling me all this. Are you looking for legal counsel?"

  Okay, now came the hard part. I paused and searched for words. I was venturing into dangerous waters here and I knew it. "Well, to be perfectly honest, Ms. Krane. I'd been told you had a long-standing, uh, relationship with Mark Schuster. And quite frankly, I wondered if he had ever
given you a key, and perhaps you'd mislaid it or given a copy to someone else." Better give her an out.

  Cheryl Krane's flushed face paled in an instant. "Are you accusing me of being this... this intruder?" she snapped.

  "No, no, of course not," I replied, trying to look contrite. "I was not suggesting you entered the home. Perhaps someone else used the key, or made a copy."

  Fury radiated from Cheryl now, and she swayed on her feet. I could almost see the sparks. "Ms. Doyle," she enunciated the name in a menacing tone. "I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you are an overwrought, overzealous woman with an overactive imagination. But mention my name again to anyone in this town, and I promise you, I will charge you with slander." With that, she stalked off, heading toward the parking lot.

  I was up to my neck now and treading water fast. Only one thing to do. She'd given me an out, and I took it. Playing overwrought was easy. I raced after her.

  "Ms. Krane! Ms. Krane, I'm so sorry!" I cried as I caught up with her. She ignored me and headed toward the front row of parked cars. "I never meant to upset you. I was just so worried about the house! I'm responsible, you see, and.. and..." The rest of my apologia died away when I saw the car Cheryl Krane was unlocking. A vintage white Rabbit. I stood there with my mouth hanging open.

  "You probably surprised a would-be burglar, Ms. Doyle, that's all," she said before she revved up the loud engine. Apparently my look of abject stupidity had helped. Cheryl Krane's menacing tone was gone. I stood and watched as she drove away, my mind racing a mile a minute.

  White Rabbit. Obvious embarrassment at the mention of her relationship with Mark. And an angry, threatening response, instead of answering my question about the key. That was enough to move Cheryl Krane to the top of my list, where she was neck-and-neck with Henry Ackerman.

  She must have visited Mark that afternoon. But did she kill him? Could Cheryl Krane's fury at being rejected lead her to kill her ex-lover? Was she the "funny, fat jogger" the boy remembered? Clearly, there wasn't an ounce of fat on Cheryl Krane's body. Maybe she'd stuffed clothes inside the jogging suit to disguise herself. What about the men's shoes? Had she actually worn Mark's shoes to complete the disguise?