Mark of the Loon (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 1)

by Molly Greene

  He looked at Madison across the cab.

  She ducked her head to the paperwork in her lap.

  “The listing information says it’s a two bedroom with an extra room for an office.” She slid her eyes to him, then back. “It’s twelve hundred square feet, built in 1989. The kitchen has been remodeled. Half acre lot, which is great if you’re a gardener, and just a lot of maintenance if you’re not.”

  She looked at him again and this time managed to hold his gaze. “How do you feel about that?”

  “I see vine-ripened tomatoes in my future, and fresh basil, and homemade marinara. Mmmmmm.” He closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the seat, lost in the vision.

  Madison stole a look at his face. His jaw was freshly shaved. There were laugh lines around his eyes, and an old scar ran along the edge of his left brow. She felt the urge to trace it with a fingertip.

  Cole looked at the house across the street. “I have a good imagination.”

  “You’re funny, too. Which is helpful, because if you decide to buy the place you will need that sense of humor to get you through all the paperwork.”

  She shoved on her sunglasses. “Ready to have a look?”

  He shook his head yes and smiled a head-spinning grin. The warmth and curiosity in his eyes was unmistakable.

  Madison opened the car door. “Let’s go in.”

  * * *

  “I liked it,” Cole said. “But what I was drawn to was the yard. The house didn’t quite live up to what I’d imagined. I didn’t feel like I had to live there.”

  Madison nodded and looked beyond him out the window. “I always know the next place I’m going to call home when I see it.”

  Cole had invited Madison to join him for an iced coffee after viewing the property, and the air-conditioned Starbucks was refreshing as a walk-in cooler.

  She was glad he’d asked.

  “How many times has that happened?” he asked. “Finding the right one?”

  “Oh, five. Soon to be six. I just finished remodeling my latest. It’s on the market. Tax policy changed in the late 1990’s, and owners could sell every two years without paying capital gains taxes. I’ve bought and renovated and sold every few years since. People call it flipping now.”

  “You must have a knack,” he said. “But I bet the moving part is a challenge. Don’t you ever want to just stay put for a while, enjoy?”

  “You sound like my friends, so I’ll tell you what I told them. This is what I do. It pads my bank account. It’s part of the plan.” A noticeable silence descended. Madison fiddled with her straw, then tilted her head and spoke in a lighter voice. “I bet you’re writing furiously in your mental notebook right now.”

  His smile, which had lingered during the exchange, deepened. “I apologize if I gave the impression I was judging you. I was really just projecting how I would feel onto you. You are clearly capable of making good decisions. I, on the other hand, am suspect.”

  “Hunh,” she said. “I doubt it.”

  “I’m not ready to share a montage of my poor choices, so I’ll change the subject. You mentioned your parents were scholars. Will you tell me about them?”

  She dropped her eyes to her cup and took a drag on the straw. “My father was a professor of creative writing at UCLA. My mother was a successful novelist. They believed I had the gift, too, so they sent me off to study at Berkeley. They were so proud when we packed up Gen’s Volvo and drove away.”

  Her voice trailed off. “Um, unfortunately, Mom and Dad died in a car accident the summer after my sophomore year. I couldn’t find a reason to keep studying.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “My friends got me through it. They’re my family now. But you asked about my parents, didn’t you? And I made it about me.” She pantomimed a pen scribbling rapidly on her napkin.

  Cole laughed. “That’s quite a group. Anna is bright and intuitive. And Gen, an attorney. And a successful actress.”

  “I thought you didn’t recognize Gabi.”

  “I figured it out. Elle Delacourt. She was on the cover of a tabloid at the grocery store, something about a capricious husband. That’s got to be rough.”

  He fidgeted in his chair. “But back up for a minute. I have to ask. Did you also think you had the gift?”

  Madison was quiet for two beats. “I have a gift for turning an ugly house into a beauty. I have a gift for making good property investments.”

  “Maybe you have a gift for writing about it, too.”

  “I haven’t even written a journal entry for years. I got sick and tired of introspection.” She flashed a smile and scrawled in the air. “Your turn. How’d you end up in Sonoma?”

  “Moved from San Francisco. Marriage ended, old scenery too painful, desperately needed a change, was offered a great job, moved, made new friends and replaced my sad former existence with something much more fulfilling. In fact, my life is so very good now, I think I’ll keep it. That’s why I decided to look at the house.”

  “Who fired who?”

  “My ex-wife fired me.”

  “Why?”

  “A litany of sins. Mostly, I was, well, boring. Domesticity is sweet at first, but tiresome when it’s not important to you. Over time, differences are amplified. I like to stay in and cook, read, listen to music, work in the yard. My ex-wife, not so much.”

  “Ah. Not a party animal.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I can be pried out of the house, but hitting the clubs at every opportunity – or not – became the issue. After a while, she went out with her friends and the inevitable happened. She met someone who wanted to go clubbing every weekend.”

  “And now it’s just you and your clarinet?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I’m a one-man band. But the music is much better now.”

  Madison’s cell vibrated. “Excuse me, I need to see who’s looking for me.” She pulled out the phone. Five messages were waiting. “This is rude, but I’ve got to make a call. Do you mind? Looks like the agent who showed my house this afternoon is rattling my cage.”

  “Not at all. I’ll give you some privacy.” He stood. “Can I get you a refill?” She shook her head. He returned to the counter.

  Madison dialed Tyler’s number. “What?”

  “You won’t believe it, Madison. She loved the house and the yard and all your stuff and she wants to buy it. We’re in the office writing an offer and she and Christopher are in the conference room. She’s got cash and she’s staying in a hotel in Santa Rosa and she wants it to close in two weeks! She wants your furniture and she even loved Jack. She said if you can’t take him with you she’ll keep him. And she wants you to sign the offer today. So you won’t change your mind.”

  “Tyler.”

  “Madison? Are you there? Can you be out that soon?”

  “Whoa, Tyler. That was a lot of sharing in one breath.”

  “I know, but I’ve never been so excited in my whole life. This business is wonderful. Aren’t you psyched? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  Madison rolled her eyes and felt an overwhelming urge to throttle the kid. Lucky for both of them he wasn’t in the room. “Clearly you have never tried to pack up a house in two weeks and close an escrow while you’re looking for someplace else to live. Put Chris on the line.”

  “Please don’t screw this up for me, Madison.”

  “I’ll do my best to make it work out. Just remember it’s not actually about you, it’s about your buyer and your seller striking a deal that satisfies them both. Put Mr. Sloan on.”

  She heard the click of the hold button. Christopher picked up the line. “Madison, don’t squash his enthusiasm. It’s all he’s got going for him.”

  “All right, here’s your answer. Full price, thirty day escrow. Buyer pays for the home inspection, and I will not be nitpicked to death to repair every little finding. I want proof of the purchase funds within three days. I’ll gouge her for every piece of furniture I agree to sell. And Jack stays with
me.”

  “Done,” Christopher said. “Pack your bags, hire the moving truck. She really wants it.”

  “And where shall I tell the movers to go?”

  Madison thumbed off the phone and sighed as Cole returned.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Everything okay?”

  “Only in the movies,” she said. “A woman with a bucket of cash is making an offer on my house as we speak. She wants to keep my dog and my antiques. And she wants me out in two weeks.”

  “Good news, right? Except maybe the dog part?”

  “I guess. I’ll feel better once I decide where to land. No forwarding address is the gaping hole in my plan, so I guess I better go figure it out.” Madison stood. She tossed her empty cup in the trash while Cole held the door.

  Outside, the late afternoon sun blazed a warning.

  “Gosh,” she said, and put on her sunglasses. “I hope this heat breaks soon. We could all use a hint of fall.” She turned to Cole and stuck out her palm. “Thanks for the coffee. Would you like to keep looking? I gather you’re not in a hurry, but I’d love to help you find the right place.”

  “I’d like that, too.” He shook her hand. “Very much.”

  “I’ll call you next week.” She withdrew her palm and reached for another business card, then held it out with a grin. “I know the price range and your urge to grow tomatoes.”

  “Yes, definitely a garden. Shall we look again Saturday afternoon? And afterward, how about we discuss what we saw over dinner? I assume you won’t be homeless that soon.”

  The invitation took her by surprise. “Uh, I’m not sure what I’ll be up to, I’m afraid.”

  “No reason to be afraid, I’m actually a great cook. And you’d get to meet the clarinet, after all the chatter about it.”

  She smiled. “When you put it that way, how could I say no?”

  “Good, I’ll call you mid-week. I hope the woman with a bucket of cash works out, minus the dog snatching, of course. That has evil undertones. Do you want me to interview your buyer and give her a psychological pass or fail?”

  “Now there’s an idea. Your assessment could come in very handy. It would be an odd thing to write into a counteroffer, though. ‘Buyer to submit to a complete psych test within three working days.’ Think she’d consent?”

  “Probably not. Unless you knocked your price down enough to make it interesting. Or let her have the dog. Maybe that would sway her.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Then you’ll have to depend on your own instincts. They seem to have served you well so far.” He grinned. “Thanks for today, Madison. It was fun. I feel like I’m about to start a new chapter. It’s a coincidence, isn’t it? Both of us looking for a permanent place.”

  She pushed her sunglasses against the bridge of her nose. “I’m not sure I know the meaning of permanent anymore.”

  She focused on her straw-colored wedges and kicked halfheartedly at a pebble. “I haven’t felt much like putting down roots since I lost my parents. Someday, maybe.” She looked up with a bright smile and a wave, then turned on her heel and headed for the car.

  As she drove through the parking lot, she saw Cole pluck his shades off the collar of his shirt and put them on. He sat at an empty table under the awning.

  She waved again as she passed, glad her expression was hidden by the dark lenses. She knew her eyes were bright with interest, and she could barely keep a grin off her face.

  Chapter Seven

  “Good morning,” the receptionist drawled. “Velasco, Epstein, and Barr. How may I direct your call?”

  “Levi Velasco, please,” Genevieve said.

  “May I ask the nature of your business?”

  “Tell him Genevieve Delacourt is calling. Ward, Scott, Walker, and Delacourt, San Francisco. I’ll hold.”

  Levi Velasco came on the line a scant fifteen seconds later. In an over-the-top effort to sound cool, he said, “Genevieve. What a wonderful way to start the week. It’s been too long.”

  “Lee, you darling.” Genevieve giggled. “Last I remember we were both wet behind the ears, debating our first case in front of Judge Thackeray. Now here we are, all grown up and still living in the same city. I’m deeply disappointed that in all these years you have not called to chat. I finally decided I had to make the first move. I just couldn’t wait one more minute.”

  Velasco’s voice took on an excited edge. “Really?” He dropped the phone and scrambled to retrieve it. Genny covered her mouth and laughed silently as he attempted to reconnect with his fake suave.

  “I’m filled with anticipation,” he continued. “Why don’t we catch up over a drink?”

  Men can be so predictable. Genevieve made the exaggerated motion of sticking her finger down her throat. “Perfect,” she replied. “Tonight? Six o’clock? Jeremy’s in Sausalito?”

  “I can’t wait.” He made no attempt to disguise his delight.

  * * *

  Gen was thirty minutes late. She knew he’d be tardy by at least fifteen and wanted to give the knucklehead a chance to guzzle a confidence-inducing cocktail or two before her arrival. She parked at the far end of the lot, got out, shook out her hair, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse. Then she fluffed volume into her lush tresses and boosted up her breasts in their fortress of a bra, well aware that the resulting cleavage was breathtaking.

  Short, dark Levi Velasco was at the bar when she entered. Her Botticelli figure clad in a tight suit, stilettos, fishnets, and revealing blouse made the impression she was going for.

  His chin nearly hit the floor.

  Aside from his thinning hair, he hadn’t changed much. His heavy beard had recently been shaved, but was still a shadow covering his sallow, greedy face. His lids drooped, a transparent attempt to keep his eyes from popping out.

  “Genevieve Delacourt.” He glanced at her bosom. “You are a vision.”

  Dumbass.

  She smiled sweetly, gave him a full-breast hug, and bent to kiss him on both cheeks. “Levi, you look fabulous yourself.”

  Genny slid onto the adjacent stool. When she crossed her legs, the slit in her skirt revealed a healthy expanse of thigh. Buttons strained across her bosom as she removed her jacket and draped it across a chair. She turned back and inclined suggestively.

  Velasco was treated to more than a quick peek at her black lace bra. His hand trembled as he pulled a handkerchief from an inside jacket pocket. He mopped perspiration from his forehead, then stuffed the damp silk square into his classic Italian suit.

  What a waste of pricey material.

  Her eyes slid to an open bottle of BV Cabernet. “What are we drinking?”

  The troll signaled the bartender to bring more wine.

  “No, no, no,” she purred. “Let me buy a round for old time’s sake. This occasion calls for something hard.” She giggled and flipped her hair. “I feel like cutting loose. My mouth is all set for whiskey.” She licked her lips. “Let’s have a real drink while you tell me all about yourself.”

  He could barely contain his excitement. She could tell he was arrogant enough to think he was going to get lucky tonight. She felt the urge to smother him, squash him under her ample butt, stab him with her ice pick of a high heel.

  Instead, she took a deep breath and propped an elbow on the bar. Her blouse fell open. Her chest swelled as air filled her lungs. More cleavage, more bra. He was momentarily speechless.

  “Gen, you’ve never been this friendly.”

  “One has to repress one’s feelings when one is working. It’s not that I didn’t imagine things. But I’ve had an awakening. A girl’s got to go out and have fun after spending such long, serious days in court.”

  She winked and called to the barkeep. “How about a couple of Maker’s Marks over here when you get a chance, hon? Make them doubles, and keep them coming, and coming, and coming.”

  Velasco almost swooned.

  When the glass was set before him, the gullible idiot gulped the whiske
y in one swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. Then the cretin swung his face closer and smiled a wide, gummy smile.

  Gen got a good look at a double row of expensive caps and a whiff of the chronic halitosis she remembered. She nearly gagged at the little sleazeball’s attempt at foreplay. She motioned to the bartender for a refill, then sipped her own drink.

  “Tell me all about your practice.” Her voice was low and throaty.

  Twenty minutes later, Levi Velasco had shared every wearisome detail of the last decade of his life. The minutiae was about to drive her nuts. When he stopped his endless droning and leered at her, Gen decided the time was right.

  “Hon, last week I was stuck on the train and picked up a newspaper.” Gen sounded breezy and casual. “I saw a probate sale ad and something about it struck me. I did a little investigating. Turns out it was from your office. That notice was a sign. I thought about you and thought about you and finally had to call.”

  She ran her fingers down his arm. “But it just occurred to me, why would you advertise a Sonoma probate in a Richmond paper, sweetie? You need to hire better help. You won’t get the right inquiries.” She drew a hand to her mouth in feigned surprise. “Oh my gosh, I just realized. You haven’t said anything about managing estates.”

  A tipsy sneer passed across his face and morphed into a self-satisfied grin. She tried not to flinch as he caressed her knee.

  “That is the coup of the century, my pretty,” he said. “I fell into a sweet arrangement. Not at liberty to share details, but I inherited the client when old Barr went toes up last May.” He shook his head. His voice was thick with alcohol.

  “Barr. What a pain. Guy was all about integrity. See, he was executor of this couple’s estate. The husband died years ago and left his crazy old Irish broad of a wife alone. She was off her rocker, kicked and willed the house and her money to–” He took a swig of the costly liquor. “Well, let’s just say her wishes couldn’t be overruled until I intervened. So now with no heirs, it’ll be sold.