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Shadowed Paradise

Page 4

by Blair Bancroft


  Her problem was that Jim had spoiled her . . . or, more likely, his tight grasp on the fabric of their lives was all part of his Big Secret. Mustn’t let Claire find out. Car problems, house problems, school problems—he had smoothed the rough edges of her life with a genuine flair for getting things done.

  He had, in the end, even killed himself with style.

  After Brad pronounced the Toyota fit to drive, Claire walked with him to the pickup, where he stood looking down at her, far too close for comfort. Her hormones waged war with her pride. Fate had dropped this incredible hunk in her lap, and he was about to drive away. Out of her life. Maybe she should just grab him by the lapels and—

  “Tell you what,” Brad drawled, “if it makes you feel better, you can buy me dinner. We can trade long stories. How about tomorrow night?”

  “Lord love a duck!” Jody burst out as she came charging back into the front office. “One of them even wanted to know if the unit had a steam iron? Can you imagine calling from Michigan for that? Ocean view maybe, but a steam iron? Who irons anyway? Do you?”

  Claire came back to the world with a rude thump. The little colorful icons glowed on the screen in front of her. It was morning. She was in the office. She was supposed to be working, not dreaming about some schizoid developer who would probably turn out to be cheating on his wife. She practically dented the mouse as she shut down Windows in order to boot the DOS-based access to the Multiple Listing Service.

  “Uh, no.” Claire gave Jody a belated answer to her question. “I almost never iron. It’s like there’s some law that says you’re a wimp if your all-cotton doesn’t have wrinkles.”

  She didn’t hear Jody’s appreciative laughter. The words on the screen caught her full attention. Claire was about to run the daily Hot Sheet, the list of all real estate activities in greater Golden Beach, an area that stretched twenty-five miles along the Gulf Coast but was only about eight miles wide, bounded on the west by the Gulf of Mexico and on the east by the Calusa River. Beyond the river, there was nothing but jungle and cow country.

  But today something was different. The first item on the MLS was always the list of messages. Usually innocuous, even boring—the next meeting of the Board of Realtors, the latest lecture in the on-going education series, but today . . .

  “Look at this,” Claire called to Jody. The teenager came up behind her to read the screen over her shoulder.

  WARNING. YESTERDAY’S UNFORTUNATE DEATH OF MANATEE REALTOR BETTY SIFFERT, THOUGH THOUGHT TO BE DUE TO NATURAL CAUSES, REMINDS US ONCE AGAIN OF THE BOARD’S SAFETY TIPS:

  1. DO NOT SIT AN OPEN HOUSE WITHOUT A PHONE. IF NECESSARY, BORROW A CELL PHONE!

  2. IF MAKING AN APPOINTMENT TO MEET A STRANGER AT A HOUSE, ASK ANOTHER AGENT TO GO WITH YOU.

  3. #2 ABOVE APPLIES TO LISTING APPOINTMENTS AS WELL AS SHOWING APPOINTMENTS.

  FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS FOR BETTY SIFFERT HAVE NOT YET BEEN COMPLETED. FURTHER DETAILS AS SOON AS WE GET THEM.

  “I guess I better print it and post it,” Claire said to Jody. “I didn’t have time to read the paper this morning. Did you hear what happened?”

  “It was pretty grim.” Jody’s customary ebullience shut down. “The house she was holding open on Sunday was vacant. No phone. When she didn’t come home to supper, her husband drove over and found her floating in the pool. They think she must have slipped and hit her head, but nobody really knows. They’re trying to locate anybody who might have seen her on Sunday, but with the weather so bad, it’s possible no one showed up at her Open House at all.”

  Or perhaps only one.

  Had it really been an accident? A shiver began in Claire’s toes and went straight up to the roots of her hair. The warning notice hadn’t been that scary, so why the bad feeling? Guilt? Because a woman died, while her own heart was singing for the first time in years.

  And all because she had a date with Brad Blue. She hadn’t had a date since—Claire winced as she counted back. Eleven years. No wonder she had butterflies.

  “There was another one,” Jody was saying. “Last year. A Realtor was found dead in her car out east of I-75. She’d been strangled. All they could ever discover was that she’d had a call from a man asking her to meet him at one of her listings out on Needle Key. No one ever saw her alive again.”

  “Jody, are you sure about that?”

  “May my hard drive crash if I’m making it up,” Jody vowed, holding up her right hand, palm out. “I’m a native. Fourth generation ranch family. The body was found on my uncle’s land. That was just before he decided to sell out for that new development east of I-75.”

  “That wouldn’t be Brad Blue’s development, would it?”

  Jody’s lively brown eyes opened wide. “No way. Brad’s building closer to town. My uncle’s land’s ten miles north of here. Where’d you meet Brad?”

  So Claire told her.

  As Jody drank in the story in installments between the ringing of the phone, they were joined by Vicky DelVecchio, who eavesdropped with shameless intensity. Vicky was T & T’s most successful agent, although there were those who alleged the size of her commissions was exceeded only by the size of her mouth. Her jet black hair was cut in an artful cap; her red and purple silk jacket hung with graceful abandon over her short red silk skirt. Her makeup was flawless. Vicky assisted Phil Tierney in managing the daily working of the office and, as a team, the two long-time Realtors were formidable. They reminded Claire of better days when she might have been able to compete. Days whose frivolous pleasure had been forever erased by nightmare memories that refused to be exorcized.

  “O-o-oh,” Jody moaned, “I can’t believe your luck! Of all the men in town, it had to be Brad Blue. Do you know what I’d give to be rescued by his cousin Slade? They’re both such hunks. Only Slade’s seventeen, Brad’s uncle Garrett’s son. He’s a year ahead of me in school, and I could just die for him. I mean, Claire, how did you stand it? Wasn’t it just about the most romantic thing that ever happened to you?”

  “Jody!” Vicky’s reprimand brought the teenager’s enthusiasm to a crashing halt.

  “Claire, I’m sorry,” Jody cried. “That was so stupid. I never thought about you being widowed and all. I’m an idiot. Forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Claire assured her. “Jim’s been gone two years now, and I didn’t even live here then. How could you possibly remember?”

  Besides, Jody had been right. It was just about the most romantic thing that ever happened to her.

  “I’d go a little easy on telling the story,” Vicky advised, with a nod toward Phil Tierney’s unoccupied office. “Brad Blue is Phil’s ex.” A not-quite-hidden gleam revealed her satisfaction in dropping this little bombshell.

  Grimly, Claire congratulated herself on her hard-won ability to keep a straight face while taking a blow to the gut.

  “Ancient history,” Jody asserted. “About the time I was born, wasn’t it?”

  “They were both right out of college,” Vicky said. “Did the expected childhood sweetheart thing . . .and it just didn’t work. Nobody was ever sure why. They’d known each other forever.”

  Very deliberately, Claire turned to her screen, hit Print. She would not think about Brad and Phil. Her hunky hero and her boss.

  Claire glided across the room with what she hoped was a good show of cool indifference and posted the Realtor Warning, as well as the daily Hot Sheet, to the office bulletin board.

  Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!

  Brad Blue had once loved a strong, dynamic woman who was far more outgoing, competent and spectacular in every way than Claire Langdon could ever be. If Phil Tierney was the kind of woman he preferred . . .

  Warning. There were all kinds of warnings. Her personal one was as clear as the one from the Board of Realtors.

  Claire stared at the bulletin board, frowning. Time to bite the bullet. She had a job to do. Removing the push-pins she’d just shoved in, she slapped the warning notice onto the copier, making a cop
y for each Realtor at T & T. With a grim sense of satisfaction, Claire stuck one in each mail slot. See, she was doing her job, even if her dreams had taken yet another mortal blow.

  Twenty minutes later, Maggie McKinnon, T & T’s newest Realtor, let out a wail as she clutched the warning notice, her face a picture of frustration. “What am I supposed to do?” she demanded. “A man just called who wants to list his house for sale. It’s my first listing call. And I’m supposed to take another agent with me? I can’t, I just can’t! I’ve never done a listing presentation. I know I’ll make a hash of it. I can’t have someone watching me do it!”

  “Did he give you a reference, mention some reason he called T & T?” Claire asked.

  “No-o.” Maggie’s lip quivered. A childless divorcée, she had recently moved to Golden Beach from Ohio, feeling a responsibility to be near her aging parents.

  “What’s the address?” Vicky demanded.

  When Maggie told her, the older agent gave a derisive snort. “Jake!” she bawled across the room.

  Jake Spanos liked to call himself a “street kid.” Eschewing the gulffront condos and bayfront mansions, he specialized in low-cost housing for Golden Beach’s service community. He supported a wife and two small children on sales commissions less than half the size of those earned by agents selling the upper middle class and luxury housing prevalent in Golden Beach.

  Claire watched, fascinated, as Vicky deftly arranged for Jake to accompany Maggie on her listing appointment. Maggie might not be thrilled, but no one was less threatening than Jake Spanos.

  Claire began the computer research for Maggie’s appointment. Plat map, square footage, comparable sales, current listings. By the time Maggie left with high hopes of listing a mobile home in Trailer City, Claire had provided her with an eight-page market evaluation complete with a personalized cover sheet. A grateful Maggie even confided to Claire that she didn’t mind Jake tagging along. It was a bit scary to be going off alone to meet some strange man in his home.

  Claire sighed as she watched the two agents go out into the summer heat. The situation inside had heated up as well. Only the agents who had been out showing property all day had not heard some version of Claire’s adventure. Although she had carefully avoided telling anyone about her dinner date, in an office full of outgoing personalities whose stock in trade was persistence and asking the right questions, Claire hadn’t stood a chance of keeping it a secret.

  “You’re having supper with Brad Blue? Tonight?” Vicky hissed, leaning over Claire’s desk on her way back from lunch. “Are you out of your mind, girl? Diane will slit your throat.”

  Claire gulped. “Who’s Diane?” She longed to be blasé, but she had to ask.

  “Do you watch Channel 50?” Vicky inquired sweetly. “The evening news with Diane Lake, anchorwoman extraordinaire?”

  “That Diane?” Claire winced.

  “That Diane,” Vicky affirmed. She leaned closer, eyes alight with gossip. Jody Stevens and two agents who had desks nearby scooted closer, unabashedly eavesdropping. “You’ll never guess how they met,” Vicky said in a husky stage whisper. “She bought him at a charity fundraiser!”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “On my sainted mother,” said Vicky, placing her hand over her heart. “Golden Beach doesn’t go in for that kind of thing, but Brad was asked to be part of the bachelor auction at some big fundraiser in Manatee Bay. Diane Lake was the MC, but when Brad went on the block she joined in the bidding. Cost her a mint ‘cause Brad sure isn’t the least well endowed bachelor in the county.

  “Anyway,” said Vicky, stopping only long enough to draw a deep breath, “the way I heard it, Brad figured that was it—one night of dinner, dancing and God knows what else with a celebrity. Hi, thank-you-ma’am, and goodbye.” Vicky paused dramatically. “It didn’t work out that way.”

  Several other agents, sensing the tale must be a good one, joined the huddle of figures around Claire. “My husband is friends with Brad’s foreman,” Vicky continued. “Incidentally, that’s probably what he was doing in your part of town last night. The foreman lives on Heron Creek. Anyway, that’s how I heard all this. It seems Diane sent him flowers, boxes of candy, tins of nuts. Just like some old-time Romeo courting a girl. Picture it! A bunch of men working out of a trailer on a construction site, and these gifts keep getting delivered. Daily. Can’t you just see a dozen long-stemmed red roses on an old pine desk in a beat-up trailer?” Vicky rolled her eyes, savoring her moment in the spotlight. “Believe me, Brad took the greatest ribbing of his life.”

  Vicky raised her eyes to the circle of avid listeners around her. She shrugged. “Well, you didn’t actually expect him to tell her to get lost, did you?” She turned back to Claire. “They’ve been an item for about three months now.”

  “She didn’t get where she is by being Miss Nice,” warned Don Anderson, T & T’s top listing agent. “Diane’s a bitch. Possessive as hell. If you’re smart, Claire, you’ll buy the man dinner and wave goodbye.”

  “You know her?” Claire asked, surprised. The cable television channel that served Calusa County was situated in the neighboring city of Manatee Bay. Golden Beach was barely large enough to sustain a mini radio station.

  “For one thing,” said Don, “I know the Realtor who sold Diane her condo. And what he said about her is definitely not repeatable with children present.” He rolled his eyes toward Jody Stevens. “And, if you’ll pardon my mentioning anything so politically incorrect,” Don Andersen continued, “there’s an Old Boy Network among those of us who grew up here. Brad’s one of us. We like to keep track of each other.”

  Vicky heaved an elaborate sigh. “I suppose you like him,” she said to Claire. “Who wouldn’t? But don’t say we didn’t warn you,” she added as the crowd began to melt away, reluctantly returning to the day-to-day routine of real estate in Golden Beach.

  Chapter Four

  He’d been a bad boy. His mother would be angry. If he still had a mother.

  She was always mad at him for something. Which was one of the reasons he’d killed her. Only nobody knew. He was much too clever. He told them she’d gone up north to take care of her father who was ill. And, finally, that she’d decided to stay. Beyond a casual question or two, nobody cared.

  That was the nice thing about Florida. People came and went so much, nobody gave a damn.

  The first one had been an accident. He hadn’t meant to kill her. He’d had a fight with his mother, after telling her he was thinking of getting a place of his own. Hell, he’d stayed at home only because she begged him to. Swore she needed his help around the house.

  Wanted to keep an eye on him was more like it.

  Mothers were smart. There’d been that time he’d hung the row of frogs across his window. Of course he’d had to flatten them so they wouldn’t jump around, but the design was much better than some old poster, or so he’d thought at age twelve. She’d grounded him for a week. No TV. Then there was the cat . . . and the Barclay’s dumb mutt . . .

  God, how she’d screamed at him. And whaled him good with the fly swatter. Until he took it away from her.

  A long time since the fly swatter—he’d definitely lived at home too long. He was entitled to a life of his own, wasn’t he? So he’d made an appointment to see this house after work. Nice house. Nice neighborhood. Vacant. Ready for him.

  As Kim Willis was. Young and ripe, she was there just for him, he knew it. Why’d a Barbie doll like that agree to meet a strange man in a vacant house if she wasn’t looking for a little something extra?

  When he put his hand on her hip, she jumped away like she’d been shot. Nice come-on. Women were always faking. The ball-teasing bitches.

  He smiled at her, and she’d looked so damned relieved. As she caught her breath and tried to smile back, her boobs bounced. She told him it was time to leave and started for the door.

  He grabbed her from behind, one hand over her tits and the other over her mouth. The bitch bit him. She sq
uirmed and kicked and fought. There were neighbors. He couldn’t let her scream, now could he?

  Fortunately, it was January and dark within the hour. He’d pulled his car into the garage, dumped her into the trunk and headed for the woods east of the Interstate. But he wasn’t stupid. No way. He’d wiped every surface he touched, including the button for the automatic garage door and the key to the house. He even locked the front door and returned the key to the Realtor lockbox. There were lights on in the neighboring houses, but they must have been eating or watching TV. There wasn’t a sign of life.

  There wasn’t a sign of life in Kim Willis either. Too bad, he’d thought at the time. He’d never done it with a dead woman before.

  Later . . . later he rather thought he liked it.

  Heads rose in T & T’s Realtor bullpen as Maggie McKinnon and Jake Spanos burst through the office door. One look at Maggie’s face, and they all sensed a story. Jake lounged back against Jody Steven’s desk and gave Maggie the floor.

  “You won’t believe it!” she exclaimed. A shuffling of chairs as everyone gathered around. “It was a single-wide up on cement blocks with nothing but weeds for a yard. No air conditioning of course. We could see the owner through the screen door, just sitting there in this big old chair with the stuffing hanging out.”

  “So was his stomach,” said Jake.

  “He didn’t even get up, just told us to come in.” Maggie sucked in a breath, making them wait. “He had this huge salt and pepper beard--”

  “And a Harley out back,” Jake deadpanned.

 

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