by James Turner
Ella started to speak. Mark held up his hand to stop her. “I know how it is, a newly divorced woman of means threatens the married dowagers. So that left just little ol’ me.”
“Your self pity is impressive.” She looked around the market and spoke in a hushed voice. “But seeing Tiffany dead, it was horrible. I went straight home. All night long I had visions of her bloody blue eyes staring at me.”
“Maybe she was telling you to take over the Frackle listing.”
“Speaking of, get this,” she said, “next to Tiffany’s body I found a…”
“You got out of your car, you approached the body?”
“For god’s sake, so what? You sound like a cop. Nobody saw me. Anyway, it was a copy of the listing agreement between Giselle and Tiffany.”
“No shit?”
“You won’t believe it, swear you won’t breathe a word to anyone.”
Mark crossed his heart.
“Giselle is paying the commission on the sale of the mansion with stock options from the Frackle Business Machines IPO.”
“What??”
“FBM is going public, haven’t you heard?”
“Yeah, I did hear something about it, you know I don’t follow that kind of thing. But Tiffany accepted it?”
“The listing was signed by both of ‘em.”
“What do you supposed it’s worth, a lot I suppose?”
“Millions,” Ella silently mouthed. “It’d make six percent look like, well, six percent.” They turned a corner into the prepared foods aisle.
“Well Tiffany ain’t gonna see her commission, that’s for sure.”
“Seeing her all strung up like that, who would do that? First the kid in the hot tub, then Tiffany.”
“Aahh, the Italian porn star, what a waste,” Mark said wistfully. “You think the killings are related?”
“It seems like it, both had to do with real estate and….” Ella stopped mid sentence. “Wait, look over there!” she said, raising her chin.
At first glance the small group poking though the steam tables looked like a Fashion Council ad encouraging help for the elderly. Safada da Silva and Elton, Giselle Frackle’s handsome chauffer, sauntered ahead of a suave, swarthy looking man who pushed the ancient but lively Giselle in a wheelchair. Giselle’s blonde wig towered over her petite seated form, making her look even smaller than before.
Safada’s clothing choices once again consisted of very un-maid like attire. She wore a bust encasing, tight fitting mini dress, all colors and swirls that set off her long legs and beautiful tan. Elton sported Bermuda shorts and a tight t-shirt with flip flops. Tall and trim like a swimmer, his sculpted face drew looks from around the store. He no more resembled a chauffer than Safada a maid.
From her rolling perch Giselle picked food off the colorful serving tables as they passed.
“Sanjay, I want more of this,” she cackled, popping a piece of sushi in her mouth. “Get it for me, will you darling.”
“Why certainly, my sweet,” replied Sanjay.
Ella and Mark huddled unseen off to the side.
“So that’s the famous Sanjay,” Ella whispered. “I tried to do a search on him but didn’t know how to spell his name.”
In his early 40s, Sanjay Govindpuri looked like a Bollywood movie star, with dazzling teeth and slicked back hair.
“They’re fifty years apart in age,” Mark said, amazed.
Safada turned in their direction. “Mark,” she said with a huge, sexy smile. “What pleasure!”
Safada’s proclamation brought the whole Frackle assemblage to a halt. Mark and Ella exchanged quick glances and walked over.
Giselle immediately took control of the impromptu meeting, fixing her eyes on Mark. “Young man, when are you going to finish my house in Stinson?”
“We’re just waiting on some fabrics, Mrs. Frackle. It’s very nice to see you.”
“Maybe for you, but not for Tiffany Reynolds,” she barked. “Such an outrage, right at my front gate. The cameras, the police, everyone snooping all over the place, a horror I tell you, a horror.” She focused her gazed on Ella. “Who are you?”
Safada broke in. “That Mizz Barker, remember Giselle? You interview her sell your home.”
“Did I talk to you too?” Giselle asked, reaching over to snatch a dripping mini spare rib. “Napkin, napkin,” she called out to no one in particular.
The as-yet unintroduced Sanjay piped up. “But of course, my love.” He scurried down to the end of the counter.
Meanwhile Mark made gaga eyes at Elton, while the chauffer’s attention remained riveted on the ravishing Safada. Ella could only ponder the humiliating fact that Giselle didn’t remember their interview. How many brokers had she spoken to?
“It must have been horrible,” Ella said, attempting to ingratiate herself. For all she knew the listing was once again up for grabs.
“You’re out shopping after such a grisly event?” Mark asked.
“We must eat, must not we?” Safada responded in her special, stilted manner. She lowered her head and practically growled at Mark.
Sanjay returned with a handful of napkins, quickly handing a couple to Giselle.
“Sanjay,” Giselle said through a mouthful of sparerib. “Intwoduce yourself.”
The dapper Indian stepped forward. “I am Sanjay, very nice to meet you.”
Ella and Mark shook hands with Giselle’s putative lover, making polite introductions.
“How did you and Giselle meet?” Mark asked.
Sanjay glanced down at his beloved, who had finished her spare rib and was attempting to reach the sautéed snow peas with a scrawny arm. He rushed over to assist her, ignoring Mark’s question. “Excuse me, please sir.”
The fact that no store employee had intervened to put a stop to Giselle’s grazing led Ella to believe they all knew who she was, and had been told to let it go.
Giselle gulped down a snow pea and blurted out, “I met Sanjay when I called to inquire about one of my bank accounts. He answered the phone in India, can you imagine that? Such service, having the bank president pick up personally.”
Sanjay shifted nervously on his feet. Ella and Mark exchanged wide eyed looks.
Giselle was on a roll, wanting to spill all the secrets of her newfound love. “Next thing I knew, I sent him a plane ticket, I was so curious. I fell in love over the phone.” She turned to Sanjay. “Now as soon as you sell your palace you’re paying me back, is that right? After all, a lady shouldn’t pay for her man,” she added coquettishly.
Now Ella knew Giselle had lost her mind. Where was her son in all this?
Sanjay looked at the floor. “My love, I will always take care of you.” While not exactly answering her question, he still managed to pacify her. He stabbed a steaming pot sticker with a plastic fork and handed it to Giselle, most likely to shut her up, Ella suspected.
Giselle instead held the doughy treat poised near her wide mouth. “Elton, get the car, we’re going now. I’m satiated.” Then she bit in big time, clear juice from the dumpling spurting onto her Escada jacket.
Safada gave Ella another of her ravenous up-down appraisals. “See you soon again, I hope,” she purred. Elton looked hurt at this, but did as commanded and took off to get the car. Sanjay merely gave a little wave, before spinning Giselle around in her chair to leave.
Mark and Ella watched as the little entourage weaved off through the brightly lit gourmet aisles. “A call center in India, do you believe it?” asked Ella, astonished.
“And what’s with Safada, meat or fish?”
Ella looked at Mark with feigned distaste. “Oh she’s out for the full buffet, no doubt about it.”
*******
Exhausted, Ella plopped down on the couch when she got home and reached for the remote. She’d listened to several scorching, sensational radio reports in the car, and could only imagine what local television broadcasters had in store for their anxious viewers. Bright images of Giselle Frackle�
��s mansion leapt out from her 100” HD plasma TV, the Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12 logo emblazoned over the image.
Tonight, murder at the mansion. A renowned daughter of San Francisco lays in lonely cold storage at the city morgue - violently shot to death and left dangling like a ghoulish calling card for an expensive real estate deal.
Dramatic music swelled and the anchor Thad Leader assumed his position at an expansive glass desk. The full screen graphic behind him showed the Golden Gate Bridge with a generic real estate “For Sale” sign superimposed over the top. Blood dripped off the sign.
Good evening, another real estate murder rocks the city tonight – the latest killing even more bizarre and ritualistic than the first.
Who considered Salçicho Grosso’s hot tub murder ritualistic, Ella wondered?
Tiffany Reynolds, a rising star in the world of selling exclusive luxury homes, is found butchered early this morning in front of the spectacular Frackle mansion in Sea Cliff. Police are close mouthed, but clues are surfacing. We go now LIVE to Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12’s Chirley Wixon, who picks up the story from here.
Perky Chirley, as Ella called her, stood in front of the bloody For Sale sign where Ella had seen Tiffany’s strung-up body. Police experts worked behind her, combing the scene. Ella reached over to an end table and picked up the listing contract she found next to Tiffany’s corpse.
Thank you, Thad. Tiffany Reynolds had just scored the biggest deal of her budding career. She was the listing agent for the Frackle mansion, on the market for a whopping seventy million dollars. Known for its signature waterfall, it’s the hottest of hot properties in today’s radioactive real estate market. Any agent would kill to sell it, oh wait, sorry Thad, we have no idea who’s behind these murders and are not speculating here. Anyway, police say Tiffany was killed with a high powered rifle. You may remember the Italian model shot and killed at an open house in Noe Valley two weeks ago was also the victim of a powerful gunshot. Police are conducting tests to see if it’s the same gun.
Chirley’s live shot switched to video of police unstringing Tiffany’s body from the CB-Pru-U-Z For Sale sign. Ella couldn’t help but chuckle at the public relations nightmare befalling one of her stiffest competitors. Chirley’s voice provided excited commentary.
It was a gory scene this morning in Sea Cliff. Tiffany Reynolds was on her way up, dating Mayor Vende Vinho and selling some of San Francisco’s most socially desirable and profitable homes. But the good life for 28-year old Tiffany ended last night with a bullet between the eyes. Police aren’t saying if Tiffany Reynolds died here on the street in Sea Cliff… or whether she was knocked off elsewhere then brought to socialite Giselle Frackle’s mansion on swank El Camino Del Mar. However it happened, the killer tied Tiffany’s lifeless corpse to the For Sale sign in front of the mansion, a macabre and mysterious finale to one of the city’s brightest young lights.
Bright light, my ass, Ella thought, Tiffany was clawing and screwing her way to the top. The video switched to a shot of Giselle’s dark bicolor Maybach 62 sedan creeping out of the mansion gates.
Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12 tried to speak with mansion owner Giselle Frackle today.
The humungous $400,000 vehicle slowed near the reporters and police. Both the heavily tinted front and rear windows whirred open partway. From the rear seat, Giselle looked out with a startled expression. Chirley ran up to the car, shoving her microphone inside. Giselle waved her away with both arms.
Elton, roll up this window now! Sanjay, help me.
Giselle’s window quickly closed on Chirley, but it pinched Giselle’s enormous wig, leaving a blonde tuft sticking out. Chirley sprang to the front window, where the gorgeous chauffer smiled photogenically. Chirley popped a quick question, in a shamelessly flirtatious voice.
Hi, what’s your name?
Such an effective investigative technique, Ella thought. Before the chauffeur could respond, Giselle’s voice cackled and roared from deep within the paneled confines of the Maybach.
Get out of here, now!
The camera dipped lower to get a better look through the front window. Safada smiled radiantly and waved from the passenger seat. They must have been on their way to Brilliant Foods.
The video switched to a neighbor, an elderly man with white hair and florid, pink skin who spoke rapidly, hardly pausing to breathe.
I’ve known Giselle for years, it’s such a shame this happened on our street, and that poor girl. I did see something last night out my window though, maybe around midnight, I have such insomnia, and as I told the police, it was a black car, maybe a Mercedes, stopped outside Giselle’s gate. I thought, that’s strange, who would be visiting at this hour, though I must admit I’ve seen some odd comings and goings over there ever since she hired that new maid, an attractive young thing though.
The video cut the neighbor off, jumping back to Chirley Wixon. Ella sat paralyzed on her couch. She punched the remote, turned off the TV and looked down at the listing agreement she’d grabbed off Giselle’s lawn.
*******
Despite the stress of stumbling upon Tiffany’s body, Ella still had a date with Jeff, and she’d offered to cook dinner at her place. While not a big cook, she could whip up a select number of tasty dishes, mostly of the easy to prepare, pretty to look at variety so readily available at Brilliant Foods. But the meal was beside the point. She couldn’t wait to get back in bed with Jeff, and dinner would serve only as something of a polite diversion, an impatient holding pattern to be endured until she was cleared for landing.
Ella’s fears had eased somewhat with regard to a Mercedes being seen outside the Frackle Mansion. She lived in the Bay Area, for god’s sake, where Mercedes-Benzes clogged the streets by the thousand, as common as a Camry in St. Louis. She filed her procured copy of the Frackle/Reynolds listing agreement away with other papers from the day she so forgettably interviewed with Giselle, and went about preparing dinner.
She planned on serving fresh fettuccini with imported pesto sauce and thinly sliced sautéed chicken breasts. Prewashed gourmet three leaf lettuce made up the salad, to which she’d add a couple of chopped vine ripened, yellow tomatoes. She set the dining room table casually, then dressed in a pair of black jeans and a red paisley shirt. She looked damned good, she thought, complementing herself in front of the mirror. The yoga and occasional trainer workouts really kept her in shape, and she generally watched what she ate, but the metabolism gods had been her lifelong friends and she really didn’t have to struggle all that much.
By the time the doorbell rang, she’d pulled her hair back into a pony tail and thrown on a pair of snake-embossed pumps.
Jeff didn’t look so bad himself. A man in his mid-40’s with a decent head of hair and no overhanging belly and was something of a rarity but Jeff somehow managed it. He too wore jeans, a tucked-in long sleeve shirt and a day’s growth of beard.
Ella swept her arm back. “Please come in,” she said smiling.
“Hi, how are ya?” Jeff stepped in and took Ella into his arms. She expected maybe a moment’s shyness or hesitation, perhaps some coy talk but this was definitely better. He put his hand on the back of her neck, and softly kissed her full on the mouth, his tongue gently parting her lips. She responded warmly, leaning into him, the beginnings of passion sending a light heat through her body. Their first night had been blissful and europhic, awakening inside her long dormant feelings, the thrilling joy and pure life giving power of great sex. She felt incapable of holding back, playing games or in any way pretending she didn’t want more.
Jeff clawed tenderly at Ella’s pony tail, expertly taking out the simple band holding it in place. Her hair fell free upon her shoulders. He opened his strong hand, pushing it up along the back of her head. He closed his fingers tightly on thick tufts of hair, pulling her head back more forcefully than she would have expected, straining the scalp, a slightly painful pressure. She felt his power, and her longing easily
overpowered any hesitation she may have felt. She pulled her head forward to increase the resistance, the mellow pain growing sharper, an exciting and unfamiliar aphrodisiac.
He pulled her head back so she looked up at him. She made a high pitched sound, part scream, part sigh. Then she extricated herself from his arms.
“Maybe we should think about dinner?”
Jeff panted slightly. “Sure, though dessert might be a good first course.”
Ella laughed, thrown off by her reaction to his hair pulling. She loved it and wished he’d grab her and wrestle her to the floor. So different from Hank, who’d always been a very vanilla lover, the gentle, caring missionary position type of man. Boring.
They chatted while Ella boiled the pasta and sautéed the chicken, Tiffany’s murder taking center stage. While Ella had had quite enough of that subject for the time being, she didn’t want to let on to her familiarity with the situation.
“So,” Jeff began, digging into his pasta, “are you going to the opening of the opera next Friday?” The annual opening of the San Francisco Opera crowned the city’s social season. A gilded and spectacular affair, San Francisco’s richest and best connected, be they politicians, Nob Hill old money or dot.com new money, all rushed to go, along with the posers, the curious, the social climbing wannabes and hangers-on. No matter what their provenance, everyone strutted their stuff wearing the finest of finery, gossiping, gawking, networking, slandering, ass kissing, eating, drinking and maybe even for a few purists, enjoying the opera. A very expensive evening, it was also great fun, outrageously pretentious and a fashion free for all.
“Yes, Barker Brokers did buy a table,” Ella replied. “I make an appearance. You never know who you might meet, where a listing could come from.”
“It’s the right crowd for it, that’s for sure.” Jeff set his fork down and took a sip of wine. “I’ve got a ticket too. Why don’t we go together? I’d love escort you.”
The doorbell rang, and Ella frowned. No pedestrians frequented Edgehill Way, it wound too far off the beaten path. With the exception of the odd dog walker or runner, few people other than residents found themselves on the narrow, hilly lane. She didn’t even get Jehovah’s Witnesses.