Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic

by Maria Grazia Swan

  The complex was well lit and looked rather nice but deserted. I had no idea where to go. The leasing office was obviously closed. How was I going to figure out which of the two three-story buildings was Kassandra’s?

  “He even remembered the building,” she said, out of the blue. “He said it makes sense. It’s Building A because I’m definitely an A. And he wasn’t talking about my cup size.”

  She laughed out loud. I veered right to Building A. Progress. Now I needed a floor and then an apartment number. I headed to a parking spot marked Guest when Kassandra said, “It’s better if you park on that other guest parking; it’s closer to my condo.” Bingo.

  Maybe the alcohol was wearing off because five minutes later she handed me her car keys with her condo key attached. Building A, second floor, apartment number 19. I offered to help her get into bed. She answered by rolling her eyes at me. Good. That was the real Kassandra. She wasn’t going to bed. She said her head felt funny, and she was allergic to hard liquor.

  When I left she was brewing herself tea in her spotless, white kitchen. I would be back in the morning around eight so we could get her Kia and she could still make it to the office by eighth-thirty.

  It was barely eight p.m. by the time I hit Shea Boulevard but it felt more like midnight. And to say that the evening had been fun would be like saying that the bulls volunteer their time in the arena. On the way home, my stomach kept rumbling and I kept remembering all that mumble-jumble Kassandra kept spewing about living and dying and the man saying Building A, but none of it made any sense. Better clear my mind and hope I could steal some food from Brenda. What if Officer Clarke was there? Well, better practice calling him Bob because I wasn’t about to keep on missing meals due to his frequent visits. How long was she going to drag out the ‘we are just friends’ charade?

  All the lights were on at Brenda’s place, and I mean all of them, porch lights, front lawn lights. You get the idea. What was going on? I knew what wasn’t going on... hanky panky or cooking. My stomach had been grumbling loudly for the last thirty minutes. I drove up the driveway. Brenda and I parked our cars in the same building, but a center wall divided the two parking stalls. We each had our own garage door with electric opener. From her side she could get to her house though her laundry room. On my side I had access to my smaller place through my kitchen. In general, it was a convenient solution, except for tonight. Her garage door was up and her Honda Pilot was parked half in the garage and half sticking out on the driveway. So it would be a little tight for me to get to my garage, but okay. Not the first time. And here in the back all the lights were also on.

  Dior must have heard my car. He was barking and pushing against the screen door. Where was Brenda? Would this night ever get back to normal? I squeezed my Fiat into my space, my eyes pausing on the spare tire as I got out. I hoped it would hold up until I got Kassandra back to El Chorro to get her Kia. How did I get myself into such idiotic situations? I clicked my garage closed and marched over to Brenda’s back door.

  “Okay, okay Dior, I love you too. Where is your mama?”

  “In here.” Brenda’s voice came from her to-die-for pantry. That’s where she usually retreated when planning a large catering event. Something that hadn’t happened since her hospital stay due to her near fatal overdose of sleeping pills. Maybe the night was about to get better. “What’s up?” I asked. “You got a new gig? Where? How big?”

  “Not yet little girl, but getting there.”

  I smiled, remembering the last time Brenda called me little girl. Aunt Brenda was back, or close to it and I didn’t see Officer Clarke, Bob to his friends, anywhere around. Maybe things were improving all around. “Any food I can borrow?”

  She turned to look at me. “It’s almost bedtime and you haven’t had supper? What happened?”

  “If I start telling you the whole story without first getting some food, I’ll probably drop dead before I get to the good part. I’m that hungry.” She moved away from the corkboard wall and frowned. “Okay then, let’s step into the kitchen and see what we can do?”

  Dior’s ears peaked at the word ‘kitchen’ and he beat us there.

  I didn’t even pretend to help. I sat at my favorite spot and waited. Within ten minutes a plate found its way in front of me. I don’t know how she managed it, but a mouthwatering heap of steaming beef, carrots, mushrooms and water chestnuts covered a bed of rice. And, of course, a glass of Pinot Grigio. I knew she had smartly recycled some of the old pot roast we’d never gotten around to eating together, but I didn’t care where all that goodness came from because I knew where it was headed. Ignoring Dior’s well-rehearsed pleading look, I dug in.

  ELEVEN

  IT WAS ALL coming back to me now, the reason I didn’t like to drive anywhere before nine a.m. And yet, here I was, heading straight to the 32nd street entrance of the 51 South. All that because I couldn’t think of any other way to get to Northern and Kassandra’s condo. How crazy is that? Certainly there had to be another way. I blamed my directional brain fog on not getting enough sleep. It was pretty ironic that the loss of sleep was due not to the fear of what the future might bring but to the knowledge of what had already happened.

  Sitting in Brenda’s place, the evening before, eating her food and sharing a glass of wine had created the illusion of turning back time. To the way things were, better yet, the way we were. It only lasted the length of the meal. I would lie if I said that Brenda’s confession that she was the one who told Sunny about Celine’s stroll through the Psychic Fair didn’t throw me for a loop.

  How did Brenda know? Same way as Kassandra and the detectives, she told me. They all watched the same security camera footage. Sure enough, there was Celine buying something from the magic potions and lotions booth. Of course, after that reveal the elephant in the room was still Tristan’s marital status. All Brenda shared was that while they were legally husband and wife, it was a marriage necessary for legal reasons. That’s all she knew and, most important, all she felt free to share. She did stress that if it was so important to me I should ask Tristan directly. And on that sour note, I washed my plate, put it in the dishwasher and said good night. Ask Tristan directly! As if.

  It seemed like my brain fog had been hanging around for a while, as I had a long list of unanswered texts, emails and, more urgent, phone calls. Today was the day, though. The minute I dropped Kassandra off at El Chorro to retrieve her Kia, I planned to make a beeline to the office, grab some coffee and sit in my cubicle until all those past due duties had been satisfied.

  Oops, on the way to her condo I nearly bypassed the Northern exit. Apparently while the freeway was the busy place in the morning, traffic on Northern Avenue was flowing smoothly.

  I crossed the main entrance of the Northern Star apartment complex and came to a screeching halt. Kassandra was waiting and ready to go. Good girl. I wondered how much she remembered about last evening.

  “You may want to take Northern to Sixteenth Street and then south to Glendale Avenue,” she said.

  I bet she remembered everything.

  I nodded and follow her suggestion. For a while neither of us spoke. Awkward.

  “Now you know why,” she said as I made a left on Glendale Avenue.

  “Why what?”

  “I normally don’t drink hard stuff.”

  “Huh, that’s why you got sooo, sooo...”

  “So drunk? Yes, and you can say it. I don’t get offended. I should have known better.”

  Mercy. I had nothing to say and willed myself to keep my eyes on the now snail-paced traffic and not look at Kassandra. She obviously felt remorseful enough she didn’t need my two cents to top off the full glass of guilt.

  We crossed over to the Paradise Valley side of the road without speaking. I had a million questions. Okay maybe not a million but at least a dozen. I checked her out sideways and she had nicely creased pants and a darling sweater I hadn’t seen before. She had tamed her hair and exuded that nice, clean, fragrance
of a fresh shower. The happy hour disaster would be our secret. Period.

  That’s what I told her. She patted my arm and whispered, “Thanks. I’ll tell you what set me off when you’re not driving.” I sighed and kept my eyes on the road. We had just passed a Starbucks where cars lined up as if, instead of selling expensive, over-caffeinated brew, they were giving out free manna from the heavens. One of the most annoying American habits, in my opinion, was the rush to leave home early to get in line for some coffee. Seriously? For coffee? I once tried to explain the phenomenon to my mother who, by the way, never had a driver’s license. She thought I was pulling her leg. Pulling her leg. Americanism in its purest form. Loved it. Try to translate that into Italian.

  As anticipated, I beat Kassandra to the office. The front door was unlocked and I could smell coffee. I walked straight to the kitchen where I found Kay munching on some muffins. Blueberry I hoped. She had today’s paper open in front of her but managed to slide the box with two more muffins my way. I went to get my mug and couldn’t help notice that she was wearing the exact same clothes she had on yesterday. Interesting.

  “Did you get my message?” Her voice spooked me, busy as I was mentally judging her assumed clothing faux pas.

  “N-n-noo.” Fingers crossed she wasn’t a mind reader. I entertained myself removing the paper from the muffin. “That girl, the redhead. Her boss said she’s good. She’s covering for Al, that’s why you ended up with her. You’re one of Al’s regulars. Anyway, the boss likes her. He plans to keep her on even after Al is back from his honeymoon. Let me see the photos when she sends them. You should be getting them today. I want to see just how good she is. Maybe I’ll switch to her, too.”

  I mumbled okay, assembled my coffee and muffin, and headed to my cubicle. Hoped someone didn’t take me for a trespasser, as I wasn’t a familiar face around here before nine. But apparently Kay and I were the only early risers, or in her case, well, maybe she had yet to hit the sack. Oh, I should rephrase that. Later.

  Kassandra arrived five minutes after I sat myself down at my desk. I waved at her from the cubicle. She headed to the kitchen and I could hear her talking and laughing, then the phones started to ring. I had four voicemails from Max. The last one must have come in just as I got into my Fiat. I checked the phone and sure enough, the ringer was off. Cool, Monica, really cool.

  That’s what professional realtors do, ignore their phones. I didn’t recognize the number of the other two messages so, of course, I clicked on those first. Oh no, it was the assistant to the Esquire. I totally forgot about returning that call. Maybe it no longer mattered and they already settled without me. That would be a good thing, I told myself. Regardless, I had to call them. So that was the first message I returned, plus it counted for two.

  The person at the other end sounded rather young and perky, for it being barely nine a.m., I mean.

  “Oh, yes, Miss Baker, thank you for calling back. We would appreciate it if you could come by as soon as possible as everything must be signed and delivered by eleven o’clock.” Eleven o’clock? It was after nine-thirty and I had no idea what she or her boss wanted me to sign.

  So I asked her. There was a long pause before she answered. “Perhaps you would like to come in and review the documents? Should I let Mr. Dumont know you’ll be stopping by so he can meet with you and go over everything?”

  Just the mention of his name sent my blood scurrying all the way to my scalp. Great. I looked around. I was all alone. What a relief.

  “Huh, no, no, that won’t be necessary. If Mr. Dumont approved, it’s all good. I’ll be there within an hour, thanks.”

  I jotted down the address she gave me, same as on the fancy business card. It was in Scottsdale, not too far from my new listing. Perfect, I could swing by the Fashion Square Mall and pick up a few towels for the master bath. Within twenty minutes I was ready to hit the road, and had already explained to Kassandra and Kay. Two Ks, what a coincidence. The television jingle about every kiss begins with K stuck in my head like clumpy mascara on fake eyelashes for the rest of the morning.

  The law firm office occupied the second floor of a building on the opposite side of the mall. The young lady in the lobby was the same one who answered my phone call. It all happened quickly. A beverage was offered, I declined. The documents were laid out on a huge, marble table in what could have been the conference room. A much older woman, a lawyer, greeted me and went over page after page of legalese. It all boiled down to the fact that I was about to get a $10,000 check as soon as everything was finalized. And that was for pain, suffering, stress and I didn’t know what else. The lawyer assured me everything had Tristan Dumont’s seal of approval and there was a strange gleam in her eyes when she pronounced his name. Almost like mentally letting me know she knew all about the two of us.

  Stop it Monica. Yes, the same gleam the front desk girl had while walking me into the conference room. What? Did they think I was his mistress? Suddenly, I needed to get the hell out of there, go breathe some fresh air. I scribbled my name where the little yellow arrow pointed, no questions, no hesitation. I wanted to be done, wanted not to be there.

  Then I rushed back to my car as if someone was chasing me. And I remembered I had, h-a-d, to get the car to the tire shop. So instead, I crossed the road and went shopping, hoping, praying, the hurt in my chest would subside. I picked up two large bath towels and two smaller ones, all white so I could use them for my own bath once the house sold. By then it was lunchtime so I stopped by the food court, something I hadn’t done in a long time. Maybe by the time I was done with lunch I would no longer feel like calling Tristan. After all, thanks were in order.

  I loved to eat and watch the crowd go by. You could tell the tourists by their short sleeves, shorts pants and some even in halter tops. Mercy. We locals wore sweaters, boots and even hoodies.

  By one-thirty my phone let me know that R.E. Assist had sent a file to my work email. I could tell it was the file with the photos J.S. had taken. How exciting. Might as well run by the listing and find the best spot for the new towels. If all went as planned, I should post the home for sale by the next morning. Better hurry up. I wanted to give the sellers a chance to look over the photos before posting them. Oh yes, and show them to Kay, also, as promised. Plus she had to help me with the price. I already had the sellers’ input. Shoot, always so many last minute details. And don’t forget to check the tire. Seemed to hold up a lot better than me.

  All I could think about was the best opening line for my call to Tristan. I started the engine and headed to the gated complex to place my new towels in the master bath.

  TWELVE

  I DRAPED A newly purchased towel over the walk-in door of the bathtub. The tub itself appeared to have jets. Hmmm, do old people use that for relaxation or foreplay? Either way, who knew? Should I ask Brenda? Better have my running shoes on if I did that.

  The mental image of Brenda’s reaction made me smile. All that nonsense while being painfully aware of the day slipping away and the important real estate matters I had been neglecting. Time to step up my game, but first things first; use the bathroom. At that moment I sent mental thanks to Kay, who taught me to always leave a roll of toilet paper in your vacant listings. It brought good luck, she said.

  Great advice.

  I could swear I left a brand new roll in each bathroom when I was there for the photo shoot. But the one in the master had been used. And abused. How? I had the only key. Oh, wait. The sellers had keys. Oh, okay. They probably stopped by to make sure all was in fine order. Must call them, I promised to share the photos. I dried my hands on my jeans, locked everything up, and headed for my car. Something nagged at me, though I couldn’t explain what. Before getting into the Fiat, I turned around to look at the lovely listing I had the good fortune to land. Fresh white paint and cute, just-for-show shutters on all the windows. Better recheck the doors I had already locked I decided. Enough, Monica. It’s a gated community; their hired security do the rou
nds.

  Ah, my tendency to see conspiracies everywhere. Brenda always blamed it on my bad habit of watching too many old Hitchcock movies.

  Instead of using the main gate, I drove by the so-called country club and headed to the side gate. A quicker way to get back to Scottsdale Road. This entry gate only worked on remote, restricted to residents only. The exit, however, opened automatically. As I waited for the gate to open, someone was right on my tail. How annoying. Not my fault the darned gate moved slowly. Finally, I got out of the way and the small sports car zipped by me like its tail pipe was on fire. Probably someone’s grandson, as the most popular vehicles around seemed to be golf carts. I was still swearing under my breath, in Italian, when I caught sight of a beat-up truck coming behind me on the passenger side. It made a sharp turn just before the exit gate closed on its rusty rear bumper. A gate crasher? What to do? What to do? Not much, I concluded. Who was I going to call? And say what?

  Something about the camper seemed familiar. I kept on driving but the thought lingered that it might be the same one that tailed me yesterday.

  Thirty minutes later I arrived at the Desert Homes Office parking lot. And not a minute too soon. I went straight to my computer and pulled up the file with the photos from the staging. Perhaps I looked flustered because Kassandra came by to ask me if I was okay. “I’m good, but I think you should teach me how to read Tarot cards. I could sure use the morning pick-me-up trick, like you do.”

  “It’s not working,” she said. “Wanna know why I drank too much the other evening? That ghost from the past I slept with keeps calling. Talks about leaving his wife and kids.”

  She shook her head in a disapproving way and walked back to her desk, not looking keen on my Tarot cards or the ghost from the past’s brilliant ideas.