Dying to Sell

by Maggie Sefton

  "I promise, Kate," Amanda said in a small voice. "Please don't get into trouble because of me." She clicked off.

  I shoved my phone back into my purse and rubbed my throbbing head. Too late for that, Amanda. Way too late. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head on my arm, trying to get comfortable. When the pharmacist finished with my prescription, he'd announce it. Maybe I could sleep for a few minutes, maybe...

  "Kate! Kate! My God, Kate, what happened?" a distraught man's voice jolted me out of my semi-peaceful state.

  I looked up to see Stanley Blackstone racing toward me. How in the world did he know I was here?

  He hurled himself into the chair beside me. "Kate, you have to tell me! What happened? Did you see Cheryl? Tell me, please," he begged.

  Distraught hardly described Stanley. The normally neat and tidily self-contained attorney was literally falling apart. Unkempt, hair falling in his face, sport shirt flapping open to reveal a white, never-seen-the-sun chest, a sneaker on one foot, a scuffed slipper on the other. And whereas Bill Levitz might not be neat on a daily basis, at least he could remember not to wear his pajamas out of the house. Not so, Stanley. Worn flannel pajama bottoms held together by a large safety pin completed his state of disarray. Poor Stanley was a mess.

  "Stanley, how did you know I was here?"

  "John Sheldrake... in our office... he lives across the street from Cheryl, and he called me when he saw the police," Stanley said breathlessly. "I raced over to his house. And I saw you come out and go with that policeman." He paused to suck in air and brushed stringy, brown hair from his eyes.

  "You followed me here?"

  He nodded. "I've been waiting to see you. That officer wouldn't let me talk to you. I kept watching to see if he'd leave."

  I pictured Stanley hiding behind the nurse's station, peering out at Officer Gonzalez, and sympathy tweaked. "Stanley, I wish I could tell you something, but the police have forbidden me from speaking to anyone. I saw the newspaper reporters talking with the detective in charge. Tomorrow they'll have the story, I'm sure."

  The expression on Stanley's face was almost enough to make me change my mind. Almost. His ashen face started to redden as tears welled in his eyes. They soon spilled down his cheeks. "You found her, didn't you?" he said, his voice trembling.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and debated with myself. Maybe non-verbal answers wouldn't be against orders. I nodded.

  Stanley caught a wet breath. "The next door neighbor said she overheard a policeman say Cheryl was shot. Is that true?"

  Closing my eyes again, I nodded. If I didn't see myself do it, maybe I could convince myself I didn't. Deciding not to push it, I said, "No more, Stanley. Don't ask any more."

  There was no worry about that. Stanley buried his head in his hands and sobbed. "Why?" he wailed. "Why would some fiend kill Cheryl? Why?"

  I reached out and patted his shoulder while I waved away an approaching nurse, drawn by his distress. "I don't know, Stanley," was all I could think of to say.

  Stanley continued to weep, his sobs slowly growing quieter. I waited until his shoulders stopped shaking and decided to ask some questions of my own. That wouldn't be against orders.

  "Stanley," I said gently. "Can you think of anyone who hated Cheryl enough to kill her?"

  "No one," he replied. "She was an angel."

  "How about a former client? Or someone who might have been angry because of her prosecution? Does anyone come to mind?"

  Stanley slowly raised his head from his hands. Apparently my line of questioning had re-awakened the lawyer within. He turned a blotched and streaked face to mine. "I don't think so. She handled corporate clients." He wiped his face against his shirt.

  I rummaged through my purse for some tissues and offered them. He accepted and blew his nose loudly. I debated my next line of questions. "Stanley, I went to Cheryl's to return the book she'd given Mark Schuster. You remember telling me about it at the open house, don't you?"

  He nodded, snuffling.

  "I found a key to the Schusters' house on the kitchen counter after the open house ended," I said in a quiet voice. "I was wondering if you left it there." I watched his face carefully.

  Stanley lowered his head and stared at the floor. After a full minute of silence, he whispered, "Yes. Cheryl gave it to me. So I could find the book."

  That confirmed my earlier suspicions. Stanley was the prowler. I didn't feel the need to question him further. Even though the prowler had frightened me, I couldn't feel animosity toward Stanley. He was too pathetic. So much so, I crossed him off my list of suspects entirely. No doubt he could kill Schuster, but not Cheryl. His grief wasn't feigned.

  Just then I heard my pharmacy number being called and used that as my signal to depart. "Stanley," I said as I rose from my chair, "my prescription is ready and I have to go home now. I just want to say I'm so, so sorry." I reached out and squeezed his hand.

  He squeezed back. "Thank you, Kate," he whispered.

  I turned and headed for the pharmacy window. This night had been long enough. All I wanted to do was go home and curl up in bed—and hide.

  Chapter 18

  The light morning breeze ruffled the newspaper as I stretched out on my back yard chaise. I could get used to this, I thought, as I lazily sipped my coffee and watched Sam snoozing in the sun. I'd forgotten how enjoyable it was to simply sit on the patio and relax. A frenetic work schedule robbed you of such simple pleasures. Actually, taking time to read the paper, rather than skimming lead paragraphs while grabbing a quick breakfast, was a luxury.

  The best thing about this morning's newspaper was that I wasn't in it. There was no mention of my name in the lead story of Cheryl Krane's murder. Bill had promised he'd do his best to keep me from being mentioned. I didn't think I could stand any more unwanted publicity. Walking in on one murder victim was horrible enough. But two? People would avoid me. I let out a huge sigh of relief, when I read that a business acquaintance found the body.

  I'd awakened headache-free this morning, for which I was profoundly grateful. However, my muscles were a little sore. From falling on Cheryl's concrete garage floor, no doubt. It wasn't hard to convince myself to follow the doctor's advice and take it easy. I informed my office I'd be in later that afternoon, then started relaxing.

  That lasted for two hours before the antsy feeling nibbled at me again. I should be doing something. Working. Calling clients. Asking questions. And, despite Bill's advice, meddling. There were too many unanswered questions swirling inside my head.

  Why would Mark's killer murder Cheryl Krane? What possible threat could she be? Had she seen something? Did the killer make a mistake that Cheryl discovered?

  A familiar voice startled me out of my puzzling. "Hey, Mom, how're you doing?" Jeannie asked as she slid open the screen door to the patio.

  "Hey, sweetie, I'm fine. A hard head comes in handy," I joked, and laid my paper aside.

  Jeannie frowned. "That's not funny, Mom. Uncle Bill told me what happened, then swore me to secrecy." She sank her tall, slender frame into a wrought iron chair. "Promise me you won't do any more crazy stuff like that again, Mom. Please."

  Her normally pretty face had screwed up in a fair imitation of a stern matriarch. It was so incongruous on her, I almost laughed, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings. She was scolding me, so I decided to let her. It would make her feel better and slide right off me. I was incorrigible.

  "I promise. No more late-night deliveries of books to potential murder victims. I swear." I held my hand high.

  "Mom!"

  "Okay, okay. I'll be careful. Believe me, I don't ever want to walk in a house and discover a dead body again. Twice in one month is enough for a lifetime." I didn't have to fake a shudder.

  "And no more working in houses late at night, either."

  I peered at her. "How did you hear about that?"

  She lifted her chin and fixed me with a gotcha-look. "I called Ronnie this morning. I was going to tell her what happened,
but Uncle Bill had already spoken with her. We're all worried about you, Mom."

  Well, damn. I was hoping to be the one to tell Ronnie, so I could edit the story. No doubt Bill gave her all the gory details. And I'm sure she told him about last week's midnight prowler. Great. Now everyone was mad at me.

  "You've got to stop poking around in police business, Mom. That's not your job," Jeannie said. She was on a roll now.

  "You're right, you're right," I agreed obediently.

  The only way to stop her was to distract her. I watched her launch into another list of don'ts, unable to ignore how thin and pale she'd gotten these last few months. Even Jeannie's once-lustrous dark hair appeared dull, pulled back into an austere bun. Her rigorous schedule accounted for the lack of sleep and fatigue, but her newly-adopted eating habits I feared were to blame for the thinness. It was hard for a committed carnivore to watch her child waste away on fruits, veggies, and vitamins.

  I'd promised not to nag, but right now I needed a diversion that would work. Jeannie was getting her second wind, and I was anxious to leave and resume my wayward ways.

  "Jeannie, I promise to be careful. Honest," I vowed. Then I deliberately peered at her. "Honey, I'm sorry to say this, but you're looking really peaked. Pale and thin. Even your hair has lost its sheen. I know you like that vegan stuff, but really..."

  Jeannie clamped her mouth shut. Her frown deepened. "Mom, don't start."

  "Okay, okay, I won't. Sorry, I slipped." I rose from the chaise, ready to escape.

  "Promise me you'll be careful, Mom. Don't make me call Liz."

  At the mention of my older daughter—the global traveler, businesswoman, and all-around free spirit—I almost laughed. "Is that supposed to scare me?"

  I couldn't help myself. That's what happened when your kids grew older. They became overly protective. The only problem is, some of us didn't want protection. However, I'd discovered there was usually a way to give them the slip. Some of us got wilier as we got older. There was no fence that could hold us.

  Jeannie frowned. "Now, Mom. You know Liz would give you hell, if she found out."

  Knowing my older daughter, I figured she'd actually laugh out loud, but I kept that to myself. "Well, she'll just have to get in line." I grinned. Just then, my cell phone rang. I grabbed it as Jeannie rose to leave.

  "You're impossible, Mom, but I love you anyway. Be careful," she admonished before she slipped through the patio door.

  "Love you, too," I called before I answered the insistent ringing. "This is Kate."

  "And this is Ronnie."

  Uh, oh. I could tell from her tone of voice that I was in for it. Jeannie was nothing. Ronnie would really give it to me.

  "How're you feeling, Kate?"

  "Oh, I'm fine, just fine," I said. "In fact, I was just about to come in. Can't take too much of this lying about."

  There was a long pause. "This is no joking matter, Kate,"

  she finally said.

  "I'm not joking, Ronnie, honest. It's just that I've spent the last ten minutes being scolded by Jeannie. Bill gave it to me last night, and I'm sure you want to have at me as well. Go ahead. I deserve it." Contrition never hurt.

  Another pause. "No, Kate. I don't think it does any good, because you never pay attention to any of us. So I've decided to simply give you an ultimatum. If you want to continue working for me here at Shamrock, then you'll have to take a series of lessons I'm assigning you."

  That took me by surprise. "Lessons? What kind of lessons."

  "I know that as your managing broker I cannot order you to do anything, since legally you are not an employee. Brokers are independent contractors. However, I do have the authority to sever your relationship with the company. You understand that, don't you, Kate?"

  My stomach did an icy flip-flop. "Yes, I do," I said softly. "Are you firing me, Ronnie?"

  "No, Kate, I'm not firing you. You're a good broker. I'd like to keep you around. However, since you've adopted some reckless tendencies lately, I've decided to set several conditions for you to continue with Shamrock."

  My breath came a little easier. Conditions were something I could live with. There was no way I would let this murder investigation jeopardize my relationship with Ronnie or her company. I was happy there, and I wanted to remain there. I would gladly agree to any condition she set.

  "You got it, Ronnie. I'll do whatever you want. You know I don't want to leave Shamrock." I hoped my sincerity would come through.

  "I'll hold you to that, Kate."

  "What kind of lessons were you thinking of? Martial arts? I've already visited three schools."

  "Yes, I want you to enroll, and soon."

  I released a huge sigh. I'd dodged a bullet for sure. "I'll do it tomorrow."

  "Meanwhile, you'll start the other lessons this afternoon. The county firing range on South Taft Hill Road. Be there at three o'clock. Jake Chekov will be waiting."

  I flinched and watched the bullet turn around and head straight for me. "Ronnie..."

  "No argument, Kate. Those are my conditions. And Bill agrees with me. He's wanted you to protect yourself for years. So, there's no way you can wiggle out this time."

  Damn. She had me and she knew it. I braced myself for impact. The bullet was headed right between my eyes.

  * * *

  "My advice is we ask for the big three and ignore the little stuff," I said to the Kerchoffs as I slowly drove south of town.

  We were having a mini-conference call this afternoon—both husband, John, and wife, Susan, in their respective offices, and me on my cell phone in my office on wheels. They'd had a chance to think carefully about the inspection report and come to a decision. We had one day left before the Inspection Objection Deadline. If they wanted repairs, now was the time to ask.

  "Just three?" Susan's voice piped up. "But that isn't fair!"

  "I'm afraid fair has nothing to do with it," I said. "The seller has three options. He can agree to your repair request. He can pick and choose which repairs he'll make. Or he can refuse to make any at all."

  It was always hard to explain the fairness issue to young buyers. As long as the furnace worked, it was legal, even if it was ancient. In this case, however, our inspection showed a crack in the heat exchanger. That was a biggie.

  "Let's go with what Kate says, honey," John said. "I agree. Let's ask for the furnace, roof repair, and the leaky pipes downstairs. We can do the little stuff ourselves."

  I held my breath and waited for his wife's reaction to this eminently practical suggestion, and one which had a far better chance of being accepted than a laundry list of every single flaw. The major items tended to get lost that way. Plus, that was a technique guaranteed to annoy most sellers.

  "Okay. I guess so," she said, reluctance dripping from every word.

  I spied the firing range up ahead and felt some strong reluctance of my own. "I'll draw up the notice and bring it over tonight," I said before they could change their minds. "Will you be in after dinner?"

  "Yeah, that'll be fine, Kate. See you then," John said, and they both clicked off.

  I tossed the phone into my briefcase as I pulled onto the dirt road leading to the firing range. Choosing the closest spot to the road and farthest from the action, I parked and got out.

  Talk about open space. I saw nothing but a natural stretch of the foothills in all directions. Someone unfamiliar with the West would call it barren, but I knew it teemed with wildlife and the hardy vegetation that can thrive in a semi-desert landscape.

  There was other wildlife there as well, I noticed. A man stood under a simple open-roofed structure in the distance. The sound of shots echoed through the air, and I flinched. Reluctance didn't even begin to describe what I felt right now. But Ronnie had given me no choice, so I was going to follow through, no matter what.

  I was secretly hoping Chekov would get so disgusted with me, he'd throw up his hands and quit. That way, I'd be off the hook with Ronnie. She'd never find anyone else cr
azy enough to teach me. What fool would want to be around me when I had a gun in my hand?

  I headed toward Chekov's big, black pickup. As my heels sank into the sandy soil, I realized I should have brought some sneakers. Too late. Business suit, silk blouse, and heels would just have to do. After all, I imagine criminals don't wait for you to change to comfy clothes before you confront them.

  Chekov turned and started on me before I even opened my mouth. "Three o'clock, real estate agent time. I figured."

  I glanced at my watch as I approached: 3:05. "You know, Chekov, this whole ordeal will go a lot smoother, if you just ease up on the smart-ass comments."

  He eyed me with a hint of a smile. "Ordeal? Not if you relax. Just listen to my instructions—"

  "Relax! Are you kidding? You have enough munitions here to invade a small Caribbean island." My hand swept out to indicate the variety of firearms spread out on the table next to me. A rifle, some other long-barreled weapon which might be a shotgun, and four handguns. Four! What did he think I was going to do? Try them on for size?

  Instead of rising to the bait, Chekov peered at me carefully. "How's your head?" he asked in what sounded amazingly like a solicitous tone.

  I considered ignoring his clever change of tactics and continue my course of deliberate aggravation, then decided against it. "Much better. I haven't had a headache all afternoon. Not yet, anyway. That could change any second now. So, don't push it, Chekov."

  He grinned. "You'll be fine. Trust me." When I arched a skeptical brow, he added, "I've instructed several people in your business. If they can do it, Doyle, so can you."

  Ouch. That hit home, and I sensed he knew it. There was nothing I loved more than a challenge, especially if it meant proving myself. "And now these real estate agents are walking around Fort Collins, armed to the teeth. Is that what you're saying?"

  "No, that's not what I'm saying at all. I simply instructed them in marksmanship and weapons-handling. Then I sent them to the Police Department to get their licenses. I don't keep tabs on them afterwards. But I'm not here to talk about them. I'm here to teach you. Stay on task, Doyle."