by James Turner
Ella froze, she’d never told anyone about the incident with Safada.
“…attack in jail.”
She relaxed.
“And the arrest at the opera,” he continued, “that I will never forget as long as I live.”
“I don’t think we really need to relive some of these moments,” Ella said.
“Hold on just a second. After your public epiphany at Giselle’s open house, you’re going to give millions to charity, right? Hungry little children in Central America?
Ella smirked. “Smart ass. I don’t know yet what I’ll do.”
“How is the buyer’s agent reacting?” Jeff asked.
“Buyer’s broker gets three percent of the selling price, nearly one point seven million. I haven’t heard any complaints so far.”
Mark thrust his glass out for more. “When do you close?”
“In two weeks. The day of the Frackle Business Machines IPO.”
“And that’s when you get paid,” Mark said. “Here’s to a soaring IPO, I want my ‘round the world trip.”
Ella shifted in her chair, trying to get comfortable. “No one said anything about a world trip. One strange thing though, Safada called, saying Giselle doesn’t want anyone around the mansion now that it’s in escrow. She specifically mentioned me.”
“You’re not allowed in the house you’re selling?” Jeff asked.
“No. She said Giselle wants ‘peaceful last days in the mansion,’ or something to that effect.”
“Or maybe,” Mark said, “Giselle doesn’t want the killer coming after you on her property, maybe one body was enough. No offense.”
“What about your safety?” Jeff asked. “Somebody tried to kill you, and now that the mansion’s in escrow, they could be getting desperate.”
“I’ll have to hire a bodyguard, or maybe Rothschild’ll come back on the job,” Ella said.
“I volunteer,” Jeff said, slipping an arm around Ella’s tender shoulder.
“The mortgage broker body guard, how scary,” said Mark.
“Leave him alone,” Ella said. “I’ll find a way to handle it. One thing’s for sure, I intend to close this deal, alive and well. If the cops can’t find who’s behind the murders, we just might have to do it ourselves.”
“We?”
“What are you talking about?” Jeff said.
Ella squeezed Jeff’s hand “Mark,” she said, “did you ever get the information I asked for, the stuff your dad was checking out?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said, taking a business size manila envelope out of his leather tote bag. “It came in yesterday. I haven’t opened it yet though.”
Ella adjusted her skirt and put on her reading glasses. “In that case, let’s have a look.”
*******
The next morning marked another highly awaited occasion, the closing of the Littlefeather-Jones escrow. Relief swept over Ella when the email confirmation popped up her on her computer. Fifteen minutes later, Bootsie buzzed from the outer office.
“Um, Ella, there appears to be some sort of problem with…”
“Not the Littlefeather-Jones closing?”
“I’m not sure, but it does have to with them.”
What?”
“Their new home is on fire.”
Ella whipped the rental car around the last corner, finally coming into view of the roaring flames. If she hadn’t already known where the house stood, she could have just followed the billowing column of black smoke to the south side of Potrero Hill. Fire trucks and police cordoned off the immediate area, leaving Ella no choice but to look for parking in the surrounding blocks. She didn’t want to park the beige, down market vehicle too close anyway, just in case any media types with cameras in tow should see her approach.
She thought about pulling up on the sidewalk, but remembered the television images of her Mercedes rising on the tow hook after the opera. She ducked into a small street spot that never would have housed her elongated S600. As she struggled to get the key out of the sticky ignition, she thought she really should go and rent something nicer, even if she had to pay for it herself. After all, with the mansion sale going forward, the real estate gods would soon rain extravagant sums of money down upon her. But the body shop had promised the Mecedes within the next couple of days, so she’d hold tight until then.
She walked up to the police barricade, cell phone pinned to one ear.
“Bootsie, I need to know exactly what time the Littlefeather-Jones escrow closed this morning. To the minute. Yes, I’ll hold.”
“Excuse me officer, can you tell me what happened? I have an interest in the property.”
“The fire guys are saying it’s the hot water heater. Blew like a grenade about a half hour ago.”
Ella looked at her watch: 10:40 a.m. A half hour earlier would put the explosion at approximately 10:10. The exact timing of the fire carried great significance. If the fire started before escrow closed, her clients took off scott free, with no financial responsibility; the whole deal would cancel. Conversely if the fire started after escrow closed, the Littlefeather-Jones’ would already be the owners. The closing would hold, and Ella would receive her commission. The buyers could take the insurance money and rebuild something bigger and better.
She looked up at the house, now totally engulfed. The flames soared forty and fifty feet into the air. Firefighters shouted and water sprayed in strong jets from snaky hoses.
“One more thing officer, was anybody home?”
“We don’t think so, the neighbors say they moved out yesterday.”
Bootsie’s voice came back on the line. “Ella, the title company recorded at 9:30 this morning.”
Ella sighed with relief, but stopped when she saw Roberta Littlefeather-Jones sitting alone on the curb. She looked overwhelmed and defeated, with large teardrops running down her puffy face. She wore a baggy sweatshirt and hadn’t shaved her head recently, instead letting it grow out into the beginnings of a ragged, outdated K.D. Lang look.
Ella let the phone drop to her side and cautiously walked over to Roberta. Her shiny black heels and tinted stockings glistened in the smoky sunlight next to Roberta’s scuffed Docksiders and worn 501s. The other woman looked up into Ella’s eyes.
“We’re going to have to live in the homemade motor home, you know.”
Ella shot a glance over at the driveway. The plywood clad monstrosity sat untouched by the flames.
“We mortgaged out little baby’s future for a pile of charred ruins and a pet cemetery.”
“Insurance?”
“Nothing, for what do they call it, interim housing?”
“If I recall, you did buy a home warranty.”
“What kinda home warranty is gonna cover this? Isn’t that like to fix the icemaker, things like that? We’ll have to totally rebuild.”
Ella didn’t know what to say. “What about Starka, they can’t be holding her any longer, can they?”
“Just something about illegal weapons transport, they couldn’t prove anything else. After all, she is innocent. She’ll be out later today.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Easy for you to say. A half hour earlier, and the fire wouldn’t be our problem.” Roberta came out of her crying jag, and an angry glint replaced the falling tears. “It’s all your fault, you greedy bitch.”
“I didn’t cause the fire. Are you taking your medication?” Ella asked.
“None of your fucking business.” Roberta stood up and took a set of keys from her pocket. She dangled them in front of Ella’s face. “Would you like to walk us through our new home?” Her tone mocked with false, sarcastic brightness. “We just got the keys this morning.”
Ella stepped back, realizing she’d made a mistake in approaching Roberta. She turned and walked away.
“I hope you feel good about your job, Ella Barker, because you’re leaving a trail of bad karma. It’ll catch up to you one day, mark my words.”
&
nbsp; Ella shook her head in dismay as she crossed the street.
*******
Renting a Maybach automobile turned out to be much more difficult than Ella anticipated. The receptionist who answered the phone at the one nearby dealer snorted and laughed upon hearing her question.
“Why don’t you just go down to Hertz, maybe rent-a-wreck?” she’d added derisively. “They got ‘em in every color. Ask for the triple-A discount.”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, young woman, this is a serious inquiry.”
Ella did some web research before making her first call, so she knew that the $400,000 tank-like vehicles didn’t exactly roll off an assembly line. Each customer, some along with their interior decorators, chose just about every detail long before production, down to custom paint colors. But some of the dealers, she also found out, kept a demo car on hand so one could get a sense of the driving experience before laying out the cash.
The receptionist at the local dealer also recognized her name, so it took only a moment’s consideration before Ella transferred her inquiries further afield. She managed to get a hold of a Maybach salesperson, or Relationship Manager, in San Jose. He didn’t react one way or the other when he heard her name, which she took as a good sign.
“Maybach automobiles are not sold to rental fleets,” he announced ostentatiously.
“How about your demo, just for 24 hours,” Ella asked, “I’d pay whatever you ask, plus a nice finders fee just for you.” In the end, she’d gotten it for $1,500 plus a $500 cash commission for the Relationship Manager. She considered it money well spent.
Nearly everyone in the combo Mercedes-Maybach dealership, all the way down to the guy washing cars, looked askance when she pulled into the lot driving the little beige insurance rental. Once the details were out of the way however, and she’d handed over the certificate of insurance, Ella took off cruising up the 101 in her very own Maybach 62 sedan, if only for 24 hours. She hadn’t really looked too closely at the twin model belonging to Giselle Frackle, only noticing its size and grandeur. Upon closer inspection, the car reminded her of an oversized, preening panther, paws outstretched in elegant repose, oozing attitude, elegance and raw power. Every finely burnished corner and surface area gleamed with fastidious attention to detail. Once behind the wheel, fine wood finishes and plush expanses of rich leather surrounded her, creating a radiant, intoxicating atmosphere of extreme wealth.
The 62 model, at 20 feet long and intended to be chauffeur driven, presided over the northbound lanes of the freeway. Her fellow motorists stared at the high gloss, two toned behemoth, but not with the same admiring glances her Mercedes generated. These entranced gazes and goggle-eyed gapes indicated a more brazen type of lascivious curiosity, of the paparazzi sort, as if on the lookout for a nubile heiress or drug addled rock star wantonly throwing $100 bills out the window after a lustful, juicy romp in the expansive rear cabin. Slouching lower in the driver’s seat, Ella hoped no one mistook her for a professional servant, at least not yet.
*******
As the sun went down that evening, the Maybach floated along outer Geary Blvd. past the myriad Asian restaurants and Russian markets, a tall blonde wig clearly visible through the rear passenger window.
“I still can’t believe you talked me into this,” Mark said.
Ella glanced up from the wheel. The wig loomed high in the rear view mirror. “You sound so incensed.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I am a male, and generally considered African American, thank you dad. And my mother is a swarthy Jewess. Giselle Frackle is an old, very white, Wasp woman. I’m not even into drag.”
“There’s a first time for everything…” Separated by a glass panel, they spoke via the automobile’s interphone. Ella checked out her own costume, pushing her hair back up underneath the black chauffeur’s cap.
“Well you think I’m going to pass for Elton, in my navy sport coat and cap?”
“What if this gets out?” he ranted. “My father’s the California Attorney General for crissakes. This wig, it’s ridiculous. I feel like Lucy and Ethel.”
Mark did make a rather distinct impression in the tall, blonde wig, frilly white blouse and blue jeans. He kept his face turned inward. The plan called for Mark to remain in the car the entire time, and he made it clear he had no intention whatsoever of opening the door or getting out while disguised as the elderly matron.
“I think you look rather fetching,” Ella said with a little smile.
“I look like a painted up whore in a Merchant and Ivory film.”
Ella laughed to mask her nervousness.
“It’s breaking and entering,” Mark said.
“As the listing broker, I have all the necessary codes and keys.”
“In case you forgot, you were banned from the mansion.”
“No one will know we’ve been there.”
“You’re sure they’re not home?”
“I told you, Giselle, Sanjay and Safada are all down at the Concours d’Elegance in Hillsborough. Jeff followed them to be sure. He said Elton drove as usual. Safada said they won’t be back until late this evening, after dinner.”
The grand sedan rolled quietly into Sea Cliff.
“We should be down there instead of trying to pull this off, it’s a ripe client base,” Mark said.
“We’re just about there.”
An approaching car tooted and the driver waved for Ella to slow down.
“Oh no, it’s Sea Cliff security,” Ella said, braking slightly.
“Do not stop this car,” Mark commanded.
The security guard motioned for her to lower her window. Ella pulled her driver’s cap lower, and cruised by without stopping. She tooted back in return and waved, keeping her face averted.
She looked in the mirror after passing. The security guard remained stopped for a moment, then slowly drove on in the opposite direction.
“We’re in the clear, he probably just wanted to say hi to Elton,” Ella said.
“At least he didn’t want to say hi to Giselle. Anyway, did you talk to the cops about your theory?”
“Lt.Rothschild said my suspicion has no basis in fact. But I don’t happen to like the idea that somebody wants me dead.
“I’m with ya on that one.”
“And I want to close the Frackle deal… alive. Two others before me have been unsuccessful. I’ll be damned if I’m just going to sit around waiting for that… that caped killer to come after me again.”
Ella pulled the car into the mansion entrance. She lacked the automatic opener, so she had to lower the window to input the code on the keypad. As the gates began to swing open, someone knocked sharply on the tinted glass next to Mark. He jumped. “Jesus Christ, who’s that?”
Through the passenger side mirror, Ella recognized the neighbor from across the street, the man with the florid face who’d been on the news.
“Giselle,” he said in a trembling voice. At his side, a yippy Schnauzer jumped around. The dog desperately sought a greeting, making Ella wince when the little shit’s paws frantically scratched the side of the rented Maybach.
“Don’t answer, Mark, don’t say anything, the gate’s just about open.”
Mark took a handkerchief and feigned a coughing fit, the giant wig nearly falling off. He put a dark hand up to steady it. The neighbor frowned when he saw this.
“Giselle, are you OK?”
Mark nodded, still keeping his face averted. His fake cough turned into a loud hack.
The gate opened completely and Ella accelerated smoothly up the driveway.
“I hope you’re feeling better soon,” the bewildered neighbor called out from behind.
*******
Inside the eerily quiet Frackle Mansion, Ella crept up the massive curved stairway. She knew the house well now since taking over the sales listing and besides, the way to Safada’s lair would remain forever etched in her memory. She quietly opened the door, her mind reeling with powerful recall. A
roll top desk sat near the bathroom door, cover open to reveal a laptop with a Rio de Janeiro screensaver. Immediately targeting the desk, Ella tiptoed across the polished wood floor. The top drawers contained nothing unusual, just paper, pens and various office supplies. She rifled through the others but found nothing of interest, save for a brochure from the Swats and Paddles Sex Club.
She crossed over to an enormous pine bureau. Kneeling down, she opened the bottom drawer first. Rummaging underneath stacks of expensive sweaters, her hand ran across a book of some kind. She pushed the sweaters aside, and pulled out a photo album. Settling back on her haunches, she opened the heavy cover and leafed through. Of course Safada had been attractive her whole life. The book began somewhere in adolescence and showed small groups of beautiful young people posing for the camera, always smiling, always tanned, toasting with cocktails or kissing and flirting. The settings varied, whether a sunny beach or some formal event. She closed the album and carefully placed it back under the sweaters.
Ella stood up, her legs feeling tingly from squatting. Her gaze fell on a framed photo on top of the bureau, nestled among scattered tubes of lipstick and other makeup accessories. She picked up the artisan style, rough hewn wood frame, examining the eight by ten of Giselle and Safada snapped at some charity function or another, both beaming like schoolgirls. She casually turned it over, her mind wandering to where she would look next. While fingering the frame, she felt a couple of tiny, thick paper corners sticking out from underneath the back cover. She slid the cover off, and removed two more photos tucked out of view behind the first.
Her eyes opened wide. Pictured next to Safada, in an entangled, loving pose of glaring and obvious physical intimacy, was Salchiço Grosso, the handsome Italian sex worker shot and killed in the open house hot tub. Ella gasped. The second hidden photo showed Safada dressed in a tight fitting camouflage outfit, securely gripping a rifle at her side. So, the little sicko did have more on her mind than seduction. She folded the photos in half and slipped them into her pants pocket. Replacing the frame on the bureau, she stole out of Safada’s bedroom.
Crouching in a corner of the hallway, Ella whipped out her cell phone and punched in the speed dial for Mark. She wanted a few more minutes to snoop around, but he didn’t answer. What the hell was he doing, she wondered impatiently, gabbing on the phone with one of his little boyfriends? She ran back into Safada’s bedroom and looked out the window. Shock and fear raced down her spine when she saw the rear door of the decoy Maybach flung open, and Mark lying there, half in, half out, one blue-jeaned leg still resting on the back seat. The upper half of his body lay on the ground, giant blonde wig askew with the frilly white blouse scuffed and torn. He didn’t move a muscle, and a thin streak of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth.