Top Producer

by Laura Wolfe

  I released my grip and froze, afraid to breathe. “The police? What did you tell them?”

  “A red SUV. Red SUV hit her and sped away. Saw it with my own eyes.” Tony winked.

  I nodded at him, relaxing my jaw. He wasn’t going to turn me in. The police were searching for a red SUV. I tipped my head back and stared at the clouds before closing my eyes and inhaling. Karma was real, after all. I reached into my purse and slipped Tony a hundred bucks.

  ◆◆◆

  I’d been fidgeting at my desk for close to two hours, pretending to stare at a spreadsheet when Maeve finally moped to the front of the office and called for everyone’s attention.

  “I’m afraid I have some horrible news,” she said, shaking her head. Her eyes were swollen and watery. “I can’t believe this is happening again.” She spoke more to herself than anyone else. “Jacqueline Hendersen was killed in a hit-and-run while jogging this morning. The police have not found the person responsible. If anyone has any information, you are urged to call the police.”

  I gasped and froze and did my best to pretend to be in shock. My head fell into my hands to hide my smile. Thank God she’s dead. Jacqueline is dead! It was hard to fake grief, but I did. People flocked to me, offering condolences, giving me hugs and telling me how sorry they were. A few of the Real Housewives immediately created a sign-up sheet for people to deliver meals to my condo.

  “You’ve got to take care of yourself, Mara,” Missy said.

  Missy’s crew surrounded my desk, earnest looks peeking through from behind their glittering eye shadow and black mascara.

  My gaze traveled toward Kevin’s old workstation, which was occupied by Greystone’s newest hire, a stodgy old guy with a military haircut named Rex. Kevin had already been replaced. My thoughts traveled to Peter, and how helpless he must have been as he idled in this very spot, trapped by Jacqueline’s schemes and with no one to believe him. I’d gotten some revenge for them, too. I hugged my arms to my chest, frowning and gulping for air as my eyelids flickered for the benefit of the Real Housewives. “Thanks. I’ll do my best.”

  While the others threw glances of pity my way and pretended to be sad that their competition was dead, my body had the sensation of floating weightless and free, my chest warm with hope. I would let Maeve know I was taking a day or two off to deal with the sudden shock of Jacqueline’s death. Tomorrow, I’d call Jacqueline’s mother and offer to help with a memorial service. Rather than flowers, perhaps we should suggest a donation to help the homeless? Today, though, I would find Damon and lie to him one last time. It wouldn’t be hard to act devastated by the hit-and-run. My mind and body were still reeling from this morning’s events. I’d hold him tight, tears pooling in my eyes, and promise him things were going to change. Our relationship was worth so much more than any real estate deal ever could be.

  Jacqueline didn’t control me anymore.

  46

  January 10th —Two Years and Six Weeks Later

  My shiny heels hugged my feet as I tapped my toe under the front table in the grand ballroom of Germania Place. The crystal chandeliers cast a soft light from above, but the lavish room had dulled since the last time I’d been here. Three years ago, I’d lingered in the shadows content to listen to others talk, hiding my cheap shoes and lowering my gaze while people with money and power strode past me. Tonight, the room was still beautiful. No one could deny that. But it no longer took my breath away. Maybe I knew too much about the price people paid for all this luxury. Or maybe I’d earned enough money and power of my own that the surroundings no longer intimidated me. I belonged here now. In fact, tonight, I owned this room.

  “The Chicago Board of Realtors is pleased to announce the winner of this year’s Top Producer Award,” a deep voice boomed over the microphone. “With $156 million in sales, congratulations go to Mara Butler of Greystone Realty!”

  Applause thundered through the auditorium as I climbed the steps to accept the award. Camera lights flashed. I squinted, my eyelashes thick with mascara. The president of CBR shook my hand and held out a trophy to me. Damon sharpened into focus, clapping next to my empty chair, and looking more handsome than ever in his new tuxedo. We’d had our ups and downs, but we’d worked through it.

  He’d forgiven me for ruining the trip to South Haven, but only after I’d apologized a hundred times and surprised him with a week-long, cell phone-free vacation to the Bahamas. He’d never discovered the photo of the man at Drumbar and me, and he never would. Sometimes honesty wasn’t the best policy. Men like Damon were rare. I’d never tell him the truth about Kevin’s death, or Peter’s—or Jacqueline’s.

  Mom sat to the right of Damon, her oversized gold jewelry gleaming under the light of the chandeliers. Dad was next to her, clapping and smiling. He wore his best suit and sported a fresh haircut. Beside him sat Emma, her thick hair falling in curled tendrils around her face, which was now round and rosy. She’d been cancer-free for a year-and-a-half. The second round of treatment prescribed by the world-renowned oncologist at Northwestern Hospital had saved her life. College had arrived a year late for my sister, but she dove in head-first, never looking back.

  I remembered the feeling of writing the last check to the hospital for $68,000, the lightness of not being indebted to anyone or anything. I’d done some questionable things to cover the costs of Emma’s treatment, but I’d paid the bills. My parents hadn’t lost their house. Dad’s meager retirement savings remained intact. Seeing Emma sitting in front of me now, vibrant and healthy, I didn’t regret any of it. She was lucky to be alive, and we all knew it.

  I grinned down at the beaming faces circling the front table. Mom’s eyes watered with pride. Emma gave me a thumbs-up.

  Grace occupied the last spot next to my sister, clapping and smiling, my position behind the podium only confirming her delusional belief that I lived a charmed life. Grace. My very first client. If only she’d known that I’d lied to her, too. I trained my eyes away from my friend, worried my betrayal would show itself if our eyes locked for more than a beat. Someday, I’d figure out a way to make it up to her.

  Greystone representatives filled the table next to my family. Oscar stretched tall in his chair. He was my assistant now, and no longer had time to attend seminars. The Real Housewives made up half of the table, their diamond rings reflecting on their fingers. Maeve and George filled out the Greystone crew, bouncing up and down in their seats like ten-year-olds at a Taylor Swift concert. Beyond them sat tables of real estate agents from other companies, stiff smiles carved into their faces. A handful of developers and several of my recent clients rounded out the room. Roger Burton caught my eye and gave me a slight nod. He sat next to his wife and some other big wigs from the CCC.

  I lifted the trophy in front of me, my bicep twitching. It was heavier than I’d expected. Something about the sheer weight of it made it seem real and important. The crowd of faces peered up at me, expectant. They looked proud as if they’d done something to help me win this award. As if they’d always backed me and believed in me. Except for my family and Damon and Grace, they were all fakes. They would have been just as happy to see me fail, to ridicule me the way they’d done to Peter, to steal my deals if they’d had the opportunity. My heart thumped, a sudden wave of rage surging through me.

  Screw you! I wanted to scream into the microphone. I wanted to scream it at Jacqueline for turning into me into a liar and a murderer. I wondered if she was floating above me, watching. I wondered if Kevin and Peter were there, too. I wanted to scream for them because they’d tried to warn me and because no one except for me knew that Jacqueline had murdered them. Screw you! I wanted to yell it so loud that my former boss, Leonard Hisson, would recoil in his corner office at Averly Consulting; that Nate and his responsible girlfriend would cower in their crappy apartment; and that my traitor-friend, Chloe, would blink back tears in the condo she’d bought from the realtor in her networking group. I’d done what needed to be done, and I’d proven them all
wrong. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I gripped the microphone. I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath, organizing my thoughts, remembering the speech I had prepared.

  “Thank you,” I spoke into the microphone. “It’s truly an honor.”

  Applause echoed through the room. Natalia caught my eye as she clapped mechanically from the second row. Her lips pinched together, cold eyes staring up at the stage. Her assistant sat next to her. Not the skinny guy who used to do her grunt work. Word on the street was Natalia had fired him for trying to steal one of her listings. Now a twenty-something woman with wavy brown hair and bright red lipstick accompanied Natalia and shadowed her every move. They sat at a table near the front of the room with the other runners-up—The Tornado of Real Estate and Michelle Sentry—all clapping with forced smiles on their faces.

  Natalia shouldn’t have been disappointed. She had taken home the Top Producer Award last year and the year before. She had gotten to keep her smiling face on the CBR billboard, even though Jacqueline had sold millions more than her two years ago. Natalia owed those awards to me.

  Jacqueline’s stormy eyes flashed through my mind, causing every muscle in my body to tense. I hated her. I hated what she’d made me become, but I’d gotten the last laugh. I’d finally outsmarted her.

  Not long after her death, the rumors swirled. People didn’t want to believe someone had accidentally plowed down Chicago’s next Top Producer in a hit-and-run.

  “It must have been Natalia,” people whispered. “She has mob connections.”

  “Yes. That makes sense,” someone else would respond. “Natalia needed to get Jacqueline out of the picture so that she could win Top Producer again.”

  In the end, they were only rumors. The police investigated and cleared Natalia, but the scandal was enough to make her lose her reality show. HGTV didn’t want to be associated with someone who might be a murder suspect, not to mention someone who could have ties to the Russian mob.

  The police questioned and cleared me, too. I had never driven a red SUV, and, thankfully, no traffic cameras had caught sight of the rusty Buick. But it was my lack of motive that had ultimately convinced the police of my innocence. Jacqueline had taken me under her wing, brought me in on her upscale development, and fed me new business. She’d organized a charity run for my sister. She’d paid me enough in referral fees for me to pay my mortgage, drive a BMW, and cover Emma’s medical bills. I’d lasted much longer than any of her previous assistants. We were friends who’d enjoyed daily trips to Starbucks together. I had no reason to harm her.

  After Jacqueline’s death, I contacted her clients to let them know. Most of them were already familiar with me. I was the one who had driven them to showings, met them at inspections, and attended their closings. It had been natural for them to gravitate toward me once Jacqueline was gone. They all said the same thing in one form or another. “If Jacqueline trusted you to be her business partner, then I trust you to be my realtor.” Even Don signed up with me.

  I became the sole realtor in charge of Arlington on the Park. Oscar helped me out with open houses, but I convinced Maeve to hire a secretary at the sales center, so I didn’t have to waste all my time fielding calls. Rumors circled about the cursed development, possibly built on top of a Native American burial ground. Realtors in the office made constant jabs, saying things like, “Are you sure you want to be the next realtor on that project? The first two ended up dead.” I made a habit of smiling and shaking my head, aware of the tinge of jealousy in their voices. Any of them would have killed for that development, had it been offered to them. The project sold out in less than six months, and commissions flooded my bank account.

  When Jacqueline’s parents needed someone to list her townhome, I was the obvious choice, already schooled on the meticulous updates. Jacqueline would have risen from the dead and scratched my eyes out had she known the people who bought her property at 1934 N. Lincoln planned to renovate every square inch of the structure to give it a “modern and airy” feel. Last I heard, they were waiting on permits from the city to dig out the basement so they could add a movie theater with tiered seating. A sweet surge of revenge had filled my chest when the new owners promised to have Damon and me over for dinner and a movie once they completed the renovations.

  I’d sold enough real estate in downtown Chicago in the past year to claim the title of Top Producer. Now I postured in front of hundreds of people, a silky, powder-blue gown skimming my smooth curves, and my favorite pair of Spanx hidden underneath. My hair was pulled back into the kind of sleek French twist Jacqueline used to wear. The massive trophy balanced in my hand as I stared into flashing lights.

  “I entered this business about three years ago with absolutely no knowledge of real estate.” I paused, smiling into the crowd. The audience chuckled. “People have been asking me how I was able to become so successful in real estate in such a short amount of time. The answer is simple. I received help and guidance from those who came before me.” I clutched the edge of the podium. My eyes scanned the audience, pausing for a moment on a few of the self-important people. “When you drive by the CBR billboard downtown and see my gorgeous face smiling down at you . . .” I raised my eyebrows and hesitated, welcoming the wave of chuckles that followed. “Remember that I didn’t win this award on my own. First, I’d like to thank my sister, Emma, who’s here with us tonight.”

  Emma smiled up at me, shifting in her chair.

  “Emma is a cancer survivor who taught me the true meaning of perseverance and determination.” I motioned toward her as her eyes welled with tears. Applause rippled across the room. “Without her example, I wouldn’t be standing where I am today.” I shifted my feet, my heart pounding in my chest as I prepared to deliver the words that came next. “I’d also like to give credit to my mentor, Jacqueline Hendersen, who died in a tragic accident about two years ago.” My fingernails dug into the podium. I looked down, pretending to offer a moment of respect. “She taught me to work hard and work smart. She taught me to be creative and to think outside the box. She taught me never to accept defeat. She taught me everything I know about how to become Chicago’s Top Producer.”

  CITY OF CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT

  Case Report

  CR No: 580000029-362

  Written by: Harley, S. - Detective

  Update to Report dated April 9th.

  Skeletal remains discovered at 1934 N. Lincoln Avenue matched dental records of Jeffery Wentworth, a citizen of the United Kingdom who resided in Chicago.

  Haley Johnson, an acquaintance of Wentworth, stated she last saw Wentworth approximately four years ago at a going-away party hosted by Hendersen at 1934 N. Lincoln. According to Johnson, Hendersen and Wentworth were romantically involved. Wentworth was scheduled to leave the country two days after the party to serve in the Peace Corps.

  Peace Corps records indicate Wentworth never arrived for his scheduled service in Africa. Investigation will continue into the authenticity of emails sent from Wentworth’s account after the suspected date of death.

  Work orders obtained from Windy City Contractors confirm the company performed concrete work on the subfloor at 1934 N. Lincoln on March 23rd, three days after the party. In-person interviews are pending.

  Hendersen was a prominent Chicago realtor who was killed in an unsolved hit-and-run over two years ago. She was the last known person seen with the victim.

  No further information at this time.

  Acknowledgments

  It took me over four years (on and off), three significant rewrites, and hundreds of rounds of revisions to get Top Producer into its final form. So many people supported and assisted me in various ways along this journey. First, I’d like to thank those who read the early versions and provided valuable feedback: Karina Board, Torrey Lewis, Mark Malatesta, David Peterson, and the members of my mystery writers’ critique group, especially Stephanie Bucklin. Thank you to Helen Zimmermann for seeing the book’s potential, even it’
s early form. Thank you to my parents for instilling a love of books in me from a young age. Thank you to Lisa Richey, for her ongoing emotional support. I’d like to thank my kids, Brian and Kate, for always cheering for me. Most of all, I am grateful for my husband, JP, whose evil idea sparked the premise for this story. He read every version of this novel over the years, and I wouldn’t have made it to the end without his encouragement.

  About the Author

  Laura Wolfe spent five years selling real estate in downtown Chicago, where she became one of her company’s “top producers,” but never by the means utilized by the characters in her novel. She writes mysteries and psychological suspense for adults and young adults. Laura is an active member of multiple writing groups, including Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, and Mystery Writers of America. She enjoys living in Ann Arbor, Michigan, with her husband, two kids, and one spoiled rescue dog. For more information on her upcoming novels, please visit: www.LauraWolfeBooks.com or follow her on Amazon and Goodreads.

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