Thinking about home always made me feel sad because I missed my sister. But I didn’t miss the cold winters. I kept promising I would spend my next Christmas there, but Arizona really felt like home, especially now. Why was I thinking about Italy? Maybe it was the frozen pizza.
I parked in my garage. If Brenda was home, she'd parked in her garage, because I didn't see her car anywhere. If she wasn't home, I needed to walk Dior. He couldn't wait too long, the poor guy, having been in the house for hours. I needed to change clothes first, though. I couldn't walk him in high heels and a business suit.
Nor was I going to cook like that. Well, sort of cook. All I had to do was read the instructions for the oven temperature and remove the frozen pizza from the box. My grandmother would be shaking her finger at me and assuring me I would die young for eating such porcheria, her favorite word for what she considered nasty food, trash. Poor, sweet grandma, what would she have called ketchup? And chicken nuggets? Or tortilla chips, Dr. Pepper, turkey croissants, instant noodles, and a thousand other tasty and convenient things I'd discovered in America. Her passing was one of the reasons I hadn't minded taking the au pair job. I had needed change so badly and a jolt to get over the mourning. Well, I got change and then some.
With the oven warming up, and clean sweats on, I went over to see if Dior needed a walk. When I knocked at the back door nothing happened, not even the Dane's heavy breathing by the keyhole. Strange. I let myself in. No Brenda and apparently no Dior. I walked around, calling out. His leash was missing from the hook. Brenda had taken him to the park. Okay then. I went back home.
Ten minutes later I heard an engine huffing and puffing up the driveway. Considering that we lived on flat land, the car wheezing had nothing to do with incline, and everything to do with the age and state of Kassandra’s old Kia. Her parking spot at the office needed no tag because the large oil spot on the ground was label enough.
“Hey, glad you could make it. I’m not sure where Brenda is, so it’s you and me baby, like the song goes.”
“Us and a bottle of Merlot. I did a mass announcement so now everyone knows to pay you more respect, Miss Baker.”
At some level I knew it was just hogwash (god, I liked that expression.), but I still felt like thumping my chest a la Tarzan. I didn’t. I smiled politely and checked out the year of the grapes. 2014. It had to be a good year, or not. Kassandra slammed her car door. Without my high heels, she towered over me by a full head.
“What did I miss at the office?”
Her answer died on her lips because Dior came rushing up the driveway, apparently unleashed, and jumped on Kassandra.
“Dior, no! No! Get down.”
Where the hell was Brenda? A loud whistling stopped the show. Damn. Tommy. What was he doing here?
“Bad boy, Dior, you scared the lovely lady.”
Oh, brother, he was going to try his snake charm act on Kassandra.
“Sorry, big boy here got away from me. He has a hankering for red heads, and I can’t say I blame him.”
Kassandra had recently dyed her hair rusty brown. She smiled at Tommy. Was she falling for my jackass former spouse’s lines? I felt trapped into formally introducing them and judging by her lingering smile, it wasn’t hard to see that Tommy’s ploy was working on her. I'd have to warn her about him later.
“Where's Brenda?” I asked him while grabbing Kassandra’s arm and pulling her away from Tommy without much subtlety.
“On her way.” The mocking in his dark eyes was hard to miss, showing me he still held power over women.
“Our pizza should be ready,” I kept moving, pulling Kassandra along. “And no, Tommy, you’re not invited.” I got Kassandra inside my place and locked the door behind us. I was sorry I couldn't manage to rescue Dior too.
“Cute place you have here.”
Kassandra poured the wine while I plated up pizza slices.
“Did you used to live here with your — you know — with Tommy?”
“Oh, heavens, no. My father-in-law left me this cottage. He was the sweetest man, and certainly deserved a better son.”
“What’s wrong with him? He seems nice.”
This wasn’t going the way I'd planned. I was supposed to be the one asking the questions.
“Forget about Tommy, take my word for it. He’s trouble. The further you can get from him, the better. Trust me, Kassandra. Listen, I’m curious about the séance, you know, the one where somehow your bra disappeared?”
Her cheeks suddenly gave her hair a run for red. She lowered her eyes and munched her pizza slowly.
“Promise you’re not going to repeat this to anyone. It’s sooo humiliating.”
“Promise, promise, now tell me.”
“The séance was set up by a group I met on Facebook.”
“Facebook?” Oh, dear.
She nodded, still avoiding looking at me. “About eight of us met at this man’s home. He was the one most centrally located. We all pitched in to pay for the medium who came up from some small place south of Tucson. Her bus was late, and while we waited we drank, a lot. When she arrived she got angry, saying the Angels who guided our way expected sober and clean souls… so we sat around and guzzled black coffee.”
This was sounding weirder by the minute, but I listened in silence.
“We finally had our séance and that was the best part of it. Get this, she had us sing, some old lullaby most of us knew. Look, I still get goosebumps.”
She pointed to her arm that did indeed have goosebumps on it. I was getting a sick feeling in my stomach as the story got stranger.
“I’m still processing some of the revelations. But it was also late, way past bedtime. The medium had to spend the night there, and she asked me, no, begged me, to stay over and drive her to the bus station in the morning.”
Kassandra didn't seem to register my growing look of disbelief in her gullibility. Why didn't she just drive the medium home with her, and drop her at the bus station in the morning, cutting out the risky sleeping at a strange man's place? She continued her story.
“She slept in the guest room and I took the couch. I can’t sleep with my bra on, it cuts my circulation. So I removed my bra in the downstairs bathroom and went to sleep with my clothes on and just an afghan over me. Is not like our host went out of his way to make us comfortable. At some point I woke up to find the host on top of me, trying to pull down my jeans.”
I could tell how much she hated to talk about it, and to tell the truth, it was upsetting me a lot to hear the story. “It’s okay Kassandra, you don’t need to tell me, I don’t want you ––”
“There isn’t much to tell. I was able to hit him hard with my knee, you know where.”
I nodded.
“He fell off the couch, screaming. I grabbed my shoes and my purse and ran out of the house and into my car. I stopped at the first coffee shop I found open to catch my breath and to drink some coffee. It was after four in the morning and I was a long way from home and exhausted. I figured out that it was a much shorter distance to the office, so I went directly from there to the office. You know the rest. I’m guessing the bra is still in the pervert's bathroom.”
Poor Kassandra. I hugged her. What else could I do? If she wanted to report the guy to the cops, that was up to her. We finished our pizza in silence (goodbye happy mood).
When she announced she needed to get home, I didn’t argue. I’m embarrassed to admit that it was sort of a relief to have my little house to myself again. I stacked the dishes in the dishwasher then went to collect my mail from the box in front of Brenda's house, after which I’d drop over at Brenda's to check on her.
I noticed that her car was parked by her garage. I walked back up the driveway with my mail under my arm. The moon cast an opalescent varnish over the lawn and the street exuded nocturnal peace, well, sort of. A muffled engine whining came from somewhere nearby. Glancing back, I saw Kassandra’s Kia idling, with Tommy leaning in the open driver's window. He was no doubt
spinning his particular line of bull for her. I'd warned her. Should I do more? Kassandra was a grown woman, I'd talk to her again in the morning. At the moment, I was more worried about Brenda.
TEN
I WATCHED BRENDA work her magic in her to-die-for pantry, which was where I'd found her; totally focused on planning the Dumont's fall party. There was little chance I would get an answer to any questions about her unusual behavior. What about Tommy’s unwelcome presence? And last but not least, about Tristan Dumont marital status?
She tended to go into a mental zone when planning a big catering event. Her five corkboards hung in the usual spots where she’d been nailed them since she created a pantry from a small den. Each board had an entertaining label, mementos from her years of study at Arizona State University.
When I got there, Brenda was concentrating on her I’m Bland not Blonde board. This particular name designated controlled carbohydrate diets, with no added sugar, minimum carbs, and salt restricted diets. In plain English, they were bland diets.
“Three,” she mumbled. Then she pinned one of her three-by-five recipe index cards on the board labeled Allergy Alley. That was short for dishes without the most common allergens such as gluten, nuts, and shellfish.
“Three what?” I asked.
“Boards. I’ll need three boards because Angelique Dumont insists on finger food only. I picture three serving stations, clearly marked so we don’t end up with anyone at the emergency room, like after that Fourth of July party in Paradise Valley.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember. The kid ate the decorations made of colorful marzipan and got a terrible rash.”
“This time I’m going to put real people behind each table, no more hand written notes. Wanna be one of the real people?”
“Standing at a table? No. I like to walk around, talk to guests, while making sure everyone is doing what you hired them to do. You know, my usual supervisor job.”
“And now that you've graduated to full-fledged realtor it may be a good way for you to network, pick up some clients.”
“Hey, I didn't tell you that yet. How do you know?”
“Sunny told me when we spoke earlier. Congratulations. We'll have to celebrate, but not right now. Sorry.”
“That's okay. Are there going to be lots of realtors at the party?”
“I know for a fact that you and Sunny are the only two. Well, Sunny is there as a cherished guest, you’re there as my helper. Regardless, if you get a client and you make a sale, Sunny gets a percentage, it’s a win-win situation.”
I nodded and wondered if I could slip in a few questions about the Dumonts. Before I could manage that, Brenda volunteered some information as she sorted through recipe cards.
“The Dumonts are going all out, valet parking, open bar, the whole shebang. I have to bring the list of foods to be approved no later than tomorrow afternoon. I tell you, if she wasn’t so sick, that Angelique would probably be doing all this herself.”
“Why? They had lots of parties before she got sick?”
Brenda shrugged, only half listening to me, and pinned another recipe card on the Anything Goes board. “I have no idea. They’ve only been married six months. She was already sick then. I meant that working so many years for those wealthy politicians, she had to have a good handle on how to throw a party. After all, her former employers were entertaining foreign officials all the time.”
All that was news to me. “You think Tristan, I mean Mr. Dumont, met her while she was working for the politicians? Are you saying she was sick when they got married?”
But Brenda wasn’t paying any attention to me now. She flipped through her stack of index cards, pinning, unpinning and so on, working on the whole menu now in her mind. I was in the way. I knew the signs. I could sing the Italian National anthem standing on my head and she wouldn’t notice me. Might as well go home.
If only I could be half as committed to my career as she was to hers. On my way out, I patted Dior on the head. He was curled up on a big cushion in the corner. He opened an eye then went back to sleep. We both knew we had become temporarily invisible to Brenda.
We remained invisible the whole weekend. I had Saturday off, so I walked Dior on our favorite trail on Saturday and Sunday (no Tristan encounters). Brenda was either planning or sourcing every time I dropped by, so there was no further chance for conversations about the Dumonts. Her mood seemed improved, so I was pleased, if a bit lonely.
Monday morning came, and we still hadn't celebrated my passing the exam. I drove into the office parking lot at about nine o’clock and was amazed to see so many cars. Even my space was occupied. Too bad. I parked in the spot reserved for the Agent of the Month. We didn’t have an agent of the month at Desert Homes Realty.
The sign was left behind by the previous owner, and although it was now faded and dirty, it had become sort of a joke. Whomever had his or her spot taken by a client, was allowed to use that reserved parking spot. I was the lucky one today.
I arrived later than usual because I'd made a detour to pick up Sunny's new business cards. I glanced at the sample attached to the top of the box of cards. I noticed that she'd reused her picture from fifteen years ago, probably because that was the image on all her signs, including the ones on bus benches. Sitting behind her elevated reception desk, Kassandra looked rested and well-groomed. Good.
“There she is our newest and brightest addition,” Kassandra announced.
A few people stretch their necks and nodded at me from their cubicles in the bullpen. The bullpen was the shared space our agents used to make calls or search the computer for listings. But like Sunny always reminded us, “You don’t sell homes sitting at your computer.” So no one was concerned about making the bullpen comfy.
I smiled and bowed for my audience then walked straight to the kitchen to get myself and my boss some coffee. Sunny’s favorite mug was missing. Kassandra was right on my tail.
“Sunny got her own coffee. Actually, she made the coffee. She was the first one here. I think she has an important client coming in, since she already had a few listings on the printer when I got here. I hate it when I don’t know what’s going on. And how are you my friend? Ready to start your new career?”
The door chimed announcing someone had entered the lobby. Kassandra rushed back to her desk, cutting short my planned warning about Tommy. I got my coffee while I chided myself for not coming in earlier. I'd spent most of Sunday sorting through my closet putting outfits together, professional looking outfits, so if I had to rush out to show a listing or meet a client I wouldn't have to waste hours panicking about what to wear. I could be ready to go in twenty minutes. And yet, I was late to the office.
Briefcase tucked under my arm and steaming cup of coffee in my hand I headed for my desk. Coming around the corner, I caught a glimpse of someone, a man, entering Sunny’s glass office. Ah, must be the important client. Was that Tristan Dumont?
Get a grip Monica. Not every fit man was Tristan Dumont. This one was wearing a tailored linen shirt and dress pants. There was no ponytail, and his hair wasn't even long enough for one, so the case was closed.
Sunny spotted me standing there staring. She smiled and gave me a little wave hello. The man turned his head and nodded his greeting. Mercy me, it was Tristan. He looked different with his hair shorter and parted in the middle and layered. Whoa.
“Hot, don’t you think?”
I hadn’t noticed Kassandra until she whispered in my ear and elbowed me, creating a mini tidal wave inside my coffee mug. Without missing a step, she walked into Sunny’s office and set some papers on her desk. Tristan Dumont slid a chair closer to Sunny’s desk, sat down and bent a little to look at the papers. The back of his shirt stretched and I could see the flexing of his muscles. I found myself gulping for air.
Kassandra returned and gave me a knowing devious smile. My crush was way too obvious. I smiled back in surrender. It was hard to concentrate though, when a simple glass wall separated me from the obje
ct of my latest sexual fantasies. It was the equivalent of window shopping without buying power.
For a long time, all I did was sit at my desk and doodle, looking now and again at the box holding Sunny’s business cards. The one card pasted to the top of the box had that photo of Sunny on it. Her hair was much darker when the professional photo was taken, probably because now she had highlights, to hide the early gray strands. But all in all she still looked pretty much the same and her smile was just as friendly. It was probably the original photo from when she opened Desert Home Realty. Celine would have been what, eight? Younger maybe? Must have been tough, being a single mom and setting up a business.
I'm not sure how long I sat there daydreaming. I wondered about Sunny and Celine. And about what Tristan and Sunny were talking about. Celine maybe? Her future as Tristan Dumont’s concubine? It was like an epidemic, all of us women, unmarried yet not emotionally free. Brenda and her married Senator, Sunny and whoever fathered Celine, Celine and her crush on married Mr. Dumont, Kassandra who was probably falling for my loser cheater felon ex. In all that list of silly women I was probably the biggest fool since I'd been married once. I wasn’t about to fall for a married man.
I glanced at the glass room and sighed. Tristan Dumont was on the move. He pushed back his chair. Sunny was already walking around the desk, a folder in her hands, a smile on her face. They came out of the office and stopped by my spot.
“Hey, Fiat,” was his greeting.
“Monica, you shouldn’t have, but thanks.” Sunny picked up the box of business cards from my desk. “I’m driving Tristan to see the Becker property. Our Monica did all the paper work on it, but now she is a realtor in her own right, so she’ll be collecting her own listings.”
“Congratulations. Maybe I should address you as Miss Fiat then.” A devilish smile danced in Tristan’s amber eyes.
I opened and closed my mouth a few times but no sound escaped. Awkward. As usual, Kassandra sneaked up on us. For a young woman her size she sure was light on her feet.
Cooks, Crooks and a Corpse (Baker Girls Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 6