He threw back his head and laughed. The lizards on his bright tropical shirt wriggled in time with his chortles. I just waited.
Finally, he stopped. “You’re serious?”
“I’m serious.”
He shook his head. “You can do better than that, Sam. No agent from this office—”
“—has ever brought in an offer from an open house. I know. But maybe I’ll be the first.”
“I doubt it. Then again, it’s a kil—a helluva location. Okay, you got a deal.” He held out his hand and we shook on it.
“By the way, I’m going to want that in writing,” I said.
“I see I’ve taught you something, anyway.”
“And there’s, um, one other thing.” My eyes strayed to his filing cabinet.
He swiveled his chair around and pulled open the drawer marked closed transactions. From it he extracted an unopened bag of Toll House cookies. “How many?”
I smiled at him. “Just hand over the bag.”
—
So here I was, back in Campus Heights. I’d brought a portable radio from home, which I set on the counter, tuned to the Giants game. I opened some windows to air the place out, then ran the vacuum over the white shag. It didn’t make much difference. I’d picked up a tube of cinnamon roll dough from the dairy section of the grocery; they were in the oven, just beginning to send out tendrils of yummy perfume. I was ready. Or not.
At exactly one minute after twelve, I threw open the front door. I wasn’t particularly surprised to find Norm and Ethel from up the street on the welcome mat.
“I don’t see why these damn things can’t start on time,” Norm said fretfully. “I have to take my pill at twelve-fifteen sharp.” He stomped past me.
Ethel leaned in until her breath tickled my ear. “They drained a pint of fluid from his lower back Tuesday. The doctors said they’d never seen anything like it.”
“You coming, woman?” Norm barked.
She scurried off, leaving me to ponder the mysteries of marriage, and whether I should lock the bathroom door, just in case Norm had been indulging in more prune Danish.
Five minutes later, Norm shuffled down the stairs, Ethel trailing behind him. “Probably more bodies hidden under the floorboards,” he grumped. “This neighborhood’s going to hell in a handbasket.” He helped himself to a handful of chocolates and stuffed them into his pants pocket—no mean feat, since it was up near his armpit.
“Have a nice day,” I said.
After Norm and Ethel left, I waited in vain for the parade of eager buyers. An hour passed without a soul at the door, and I started to wish I’d taken Everett up on the corner office. Or a new copier-printer combo, at the very least.
I settled my butt on the front step and leaned back against the door. The fog had burned off, and warm rays bathed my face. Just as my eyes were beginning to close, the phone rang. It was Bernie.
“How’s business?” he said.
“Deader than dead.” I winced at my choice of words, apt though it was.
“It’ll pick up soon enough. People’s memories are short.”
“Not as short as all that.”
“You hear about Russell Wellburn?”
“That he’s back to work at Liberty Financial? I heard.”
There was a pause. “What are you doing for dinner?”
I considered. “Stacy’s putting together a farewell spread. Probably something with twigs and leaves.”
“She’s headed home to Marin?”
“For now. She said she’ll be back when things are a little less exciting.”
His voice dropped a little, deep and caressing. “What would you say to dinner at my place?”
“I’d say…maybe. What’s on the menu?”
“A little of this, a little of that.”
I started to feel a bit tingly in my southern real estate, which just wouldn’t do at all. “You put my boss in jail.”
“And let him out again. Let’s not confuse the job with the relationship.”
Relationship? “I don’t know. You might have to sweeten your offer.”
“Ice cream,” he said. “The good stuff.”
“Chocolate?”
“Of course.”
“One pint or two?”
“Two. We’ll share.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m in.”
“Good.” Bernie was quiet for a moment. “Sam.”
“Yeah?” A police car had turned the corner, and I watched it roll down the street, hoping it was headed somewhere else.
“I love you,” he said. “I have for a long time.”
Shit! I wasn’t prepared for this. Panic welled up in my chest. The barricade I’d built around my heart was betraying me, cracking and crumbling just enough to let dangerous feelings in. I made an effort to visualize it holding fast. My lips seemed to trip over themselves. “I—I—”
He waited.
“I have to go.” The car had pulled to the curb in front of the house. I tried to punch a button to end the call, but the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “I love you, too. I guess. Whatever.”
And I hung up, feeling like the world’s biggest dope. But I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
A familiar figure climbed out of the car and came up the walk. My goofy grin disappeared in a hurry.
“Sergeant Decker,” I said. “How nice to see you again.”
Possibly my tone lacked sincerity, because he said, “I won’t take much of your time. I just have a few follow-up questions.” He was in uniform, his demeanor steely.
“Sure. No problem. Come on in.”
He wiped his feet on the mat and entered the living room, helping himself to a chocolate. “What’s the score?” he said.
“Huh?”
“The ball game. What’s the score?”
“Oh. Um, I think our guys just took the lead.” I followed his example and popped a chocolate into my mouth.
“You think they’ll go the distance this year?”
I held up a finger until I could swallow, then gave my teeth a quick polish with my tongue to make sure they weren’t covered in milk chocolate. “Not unless they deepen their bull pen. These are your follow-up questions?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Out of nowhere, two women tapped on the screen door. “May we come in?”
“I can wait,” Decker said. He moved off.
Over the next fifteen minutes, three more parties came through. They took chocolate and flyers, ignored my sign-in sheet, and left. Maybe Bernie was right, I thought. People’s memories were short.
I wondered where Decker had gone to. Maybe now was the time to deal with him without broadcasting to potential buyers that the house had been a crime scene twice over.
I’d just unwrapped a second candy when he suddenly appeared at my elbow, his face closed and official, one hand dropping to his cuffs. “Might as well get this over with,” he said.
Immediately I was incensed. “What now? You’re arresting me? On what grounds? For God’s sake, I’m just trying to do my job here. Which you haven’t made any easier, I’ll have you know. I—” I stopped to take a breath.
“I’m not arresting you,” Decker said. “I want to put in an offer.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?”
“You have a contract with you?”
I nodded mutely.
“Then we can take care of it right now.”
“You want to write an offer?”
I must have sounded half-witted, because he spoke slowly and clearly. “My family is in the process of relocating here from Chicago. My mother-in-law wants to spend the winters with us so she can see more of her grandkids. Plus, she’s fed up with the snow and the cold. My wife and I thought the downstairs would make a nice little apartment for her. And the neighborhood’s great.”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s a ki—a terrific location. But…two bodies. A crime scene and all that. That won’t bother yo
u? Or your wife?”
“Nope. Miranda thought we might ask for something off the price, under the circumstances.”
My conscience smote me. “You realize you’re not obligated to work with me, right? That you can choose any agent you like?”
“I like you. Loyalty is a quality that’s in short supply these days.”
It took me a second, but I rallied and reached for my bag. “Whatever you say, Sergeant.”
For the first time, he smiled. It transformed his whole face.
“Call me Mike,” he said.
For Bailey
Miss you forever
Acknowledgments
Grateful thanks to Stephany Joy, whose enthusiasm and sharp eye keep me going; to dedicated proofreader and mystery buff Christine Randall; to Courtney Blake of Blake’s Books, and Austin Dach of California Lifestyles Realty, for their continuing encouragement; to Irene Kraas, whose guidance has been invaluable; and as always, to B. A. Whitney, for his unflagging technical support.
BY SARAH T. HOBART
Death at a Fixer-Upper
A Killer Location
PHOTO: B. A. WHITNEY
SARAH T. HOBART is a writer and real estate agent on the rugged northern California coast. A former newspaper reporter, Ms. Hobart obtained her real estate license in 2007, and quickly distinguished herself as the only North Coast agent known to have closed a deal using a shovel, a wheelbarrow, and a Snickers bar. Her work in real estate provided the inspiration for the character of bumbling rookie agent Sam Turner. Writing as Muriel Wills, Ms. Hobart is the author of novels Good Bones and Like a House on Fire. Death at a Fixer-Upper was published by Alibi in May 2016. Ms. Hobart lives with her husband and two children in a majestic chalet with sweeping views of State Highway 101.
sarahthobart.com
Every great mystery needs an Alibi
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A Killer Location Page 21