by Nina Wright
I was relieved to find Mattimoe Realty open for business and my receptionist at her desk looking calm. In fact, she was doing her nails. Since part-time teenage hires came and went with the frequency of flicks at the nearest Cineplex, I rarely bothered to learn their names. That wasn’t a problem as long as they wore their nametags. But this one must have thought the red badge clashed with her naturally red hair. At any rate, she wasn’t wearing it.
“Hey,” I said, standing in front of her desk.
“Hey,” she said, concentrating on her nails.
“I just called the office and got our recorded message.”
“Cool!” she said.
“Cool?” I asked.
“Well, I wasn’t sure if I, like, knew how to turn it on, but I guess that, like, proves I do.” She was still painting her nails.
“I guess it, like, does,” I said. “But you’re, like, here, so why is it on?”
“It’s on because I can’t answer the phone and do my nails.” She held out her gleaming pearl-tinted digits for me to admire.
“I can see where that might be a problem. Why aren’t you wearing your nametag?”
“Please. Everybody in town knows my name. And, anyway, it looks totally lame with this shirt.”
“Of course,” I said pleasantly. “I understand why you’re not wearing the nametag or answering the phone. But I need you to explain the voicemail message you left me.”
She frowned.
“The hysterical one?” I prompted.
Her round brown eyes opened surprisingly wide considering the volume of mascara weighting her lashes. “This guy came by from the IRS, and left his card.”
After my insides had rolled over, I said, “Where is it?”
“It’s in the drawer next to my nametag, but my nails are, like, still wet.”
Obligingly she rolled her chair back so I could find it myself. I opened the drawer, which was a jumble of paperclips, rubber bands, and cosmetics. Mostly cosmetics. I did not see a business card from the IRS or any other organization.
“What’s your name?” I said.
From the way she blinked those amazing lashes, I knew nobody else had to ask. “Sari Decker.”
“Here’s the deal, Sari Decker: Find the business card and go home.”
“You mean, like, I get to go home early?”
“Not early. Permanently. You’re, like, fired. No, not like fired. You are fired. But first, find the card.”
At that point, Sari Decker moved so quickly and found the card so efficiently—wet nails or not—I almost wondered if I should keep her. But it didn’t seem fair to come between a girl and her beauty regimen.
In one smooth move, she yanked out the drawer, dumped its contents on the desk and plucked the lone business card from the pile. As she swept everything else into her purse, I read: Damon Kincaid, Federal Revenue Agent, Internal Revenue Service.
Then the phone rang. Since I had relieved Sari Decker of her duties, I leaned over to check Caller ID. The incoming number matched the cell phone number of Damon Kincaid.
My tax bills were paid. Of this I was sure because I hired a very good accountant. Ergo, I mastered my natural fear of the IRS and answered the phone. After identifying himself, the nasal-voiced agent politely informed me that he would appreciate my cooperation in a current investigation. I swear, it sounded like he was reading from a script.
“You’re investigating me?” I asked.
“I have a few questions, Ms. Mattimoe. And I would appreciate the opportunity to ask them in person.”
When I offered to call him back after setting up a date and time convenient for both my accountant and my lawyer, Damon Kincaid announced that he was just down the street and would be at my office in five minutes.
“I can’t get my accountant here on such short notice—let alone my lawyer.”
“I’m not auditing you, Ms. Mattimoe. At least not yet.”
Exactly five minutes later, Damon Kincaid was sitting across from me, his regulation brown vinyl briefcase open on his lap. And I was feeling better. Why? Because he really wasn’t auditing me. The Federal Revenue Agent had a few questions about local real estate because he was auditing my deceased former competitor, Gil Gruen.
Damon Kincaid wasn’t bad looking for a government hatchet-man. He was young—under thirty-five for sure—and fairly pleasant. If anything, he reminded me more of a Mormon missionary than an IRS agent except, as far as I knew, Mormon missionaries always traveled in pairs.
“Of course, I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Gruen’s case, “ Damon Kincaid said. “However, there seems to be some discrepancy as to whether his firm or yours managed the following properties. So I was hoping you could clarify the matter.”
He presented a photocopy of what looked like an old computer printout made when spooled paper and dot-matrix printers were still widely used. It featured a long column of addresses. I recognized a few; they had belonged to Mattimoe Realty before I became a Mattimoe. Or a Realtor. I remembered Leo telling me about those properties when I married him and joined his business. That was six years ago. Leo had sold those properties to Gil Gruen a few years before that—back in the day when Gil was launching his real-estate business, and I was lead music groupie for Jeb Halloran.
I relayed that information to Damon Kincaid, who nodded as if he’d already heard the story.
“So, to the best of your knowledge, Mr. Gruen and Best West were still operating those properties at the time of his death?”
“That is correct, sir.”
His death. I was delighted to hear an official government employee use the correct term for Gil’s fate. As Damon Kincaid added a note to his legal pad, I couldn’t resist asking one question myself. Technically, it was more of a request.
“I know the IRS isn’t in the PR business . . . ” I began.
“Actually, we are. One of our missions in the twenty-first century is to improve our public image.”
Damon Kincaid smiled, revealing small, very straight teeth.
“Cool,” I said, quoting my former part-time receptionist. “So maybe, before you leave Magnet Springs, you wouldn’t mind spreading the word that Gil Gruen really is dead? It would help settle things down around here.”
The agent frowned. “You mean there’s some doubt that Mr. Gruen is dead?”
“Only among the crazies.” I laughed. As Damon Kincaid continued frowning, I added, “This is a tourist town. There’s a lot of New Age nonsense.”
With that, he grimly scribbled a few more lines in his legal pad and then slipped it, along with the computer printout, back into his briefcase.
“You’re still sure Gil’s dead, right?” I said, hoping against hope that my request hadn’t bollixed everything.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Damon Kincaid replied. “But if he’s not, I’m going to need some back-up.”
After the Federal Revenue Agent departed, I sat at my desk, holding my head in my hands. This being our busiest season, the office phone rang and rang. Fortunately, the answering machine was still turned on so I could keep on mentally kicking myself without interruption.
Odette appeared at my door. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just an IRS agent who’s investigating a ghost.”
Masochistically I confessed my chatty blunder. Odette, as usual, was unfazed. She reminded me that the IRS was auditing Gil, not me, and that we had our own issues.
“Fenton wants to see all of Druin tomorrow, but Felicia the Castle Nazi won’t cooperate.”
The chatelaine had informed Odette that she would be refused entrance at the gate because of “insufficient notice.”
“You know what you need to do,” my star agent told me.
I sighed. “Call Vivika Major.”
Odette handed me my own phone and helpfully dialed the internet magnate. When I asked if we were calling Vivika’s direct line, Odette replied that nobody had that number.
“What if the Castl
e Nazi answers?” I said.
“She won’t. A receptionist will. And you know how to get past receptionists.”
I knew how to get rid of receptionists, that much was true. I identified myself and my business to the young man who answered and then requested Ms. Major’s personal secretary. Bless the boy, he wanted to follow the organizational chart, box by box, but I impressed upon him that a matter of this magnitude required speed. Then I told Vivika’s personal secretary that her boss had insisted that I keep her confidentially informed in the event of a crisis. And we had us a crisis.
Within moments, I had the mogul herself on speaker phone. Odette beamed.
“Whiskey, what’s the problem?” Vivika began.
I envisioned the tycoon at her immense antique desk surrounded on three sides by bookcases filled with glowing computer screens.
“Here’s the short version: your chatelaine isn’t on the same page as the rest of us. Odette Mutombo has a qualified prospect for Druin, but Ms. Gould won’t work with us to arrange a showing.”
“Won’t work with you how?”
“She won’t comply with our requests to schedule a visit.”
Vivika Major was silent. In the background a phone bleated.
“Hello?” I said.
“I’m here,” Vivika replied.
When she didn’t continue, I assumed that someone or something had distracted her. Perhaps the chatelaine herself was in the room. I heard papers being shuffled and pictured Vivika’s large, masculine hands.
“My point, Ms. Major, is that we at Mattimoe Realty are doing everything possible to get you the offer you want within the timeframe you want, but your chatelaine seems to be working against us.”
Muffled voices on her end told me she wasn’t listening. Odette flashed the universal sign to be more aggressive: she bared her bright white teeth and clenched her neatly manicured hands.
“Ms. Major, can you hear me?” I said.
Through the speaker phone came an indistinct voice followed by what sounded like a closing door.
“I hear you, Whiskey,” Vivika said. “And I’ll speak to Felicia about your concerns. Call me back if there’s another problem. I’m counting on you to bring me a good offer soon.” Click.
Odette gave me her signature shrug, that eloquent gesture of detachment. “She’ll get it done.”
“How do you know?”
“Vivika Major is a deal-aholic. She lives for the orgasmic high of out-negotiating the competition.”
I had often thought the same about Odette. The difference was that Vivika Major appeared to work 24/7, no matter where she was. Druin was a fabulous corporate fortress, not a vacation retreat.
Odette checked her diamond-studded watch. “I’ll give Vivika twenty minutes to re-set Felicia’s attitude, and then I’ll call back. Fenton wants to see Druin tomorrow afternoon. That’s because he plans to sleep late tomorrow morning. With you.”
She timed that announcement to coincide with my swallowing the last of my bottled water.
“He told you that?” I choked.
“He didn’t have to,” Odette said. “I can read between the lines.”
“With your ‘telephone telepathy’?”
“Who needs telepathy? Everyone in town knows Fenton asked Noonan for a divorce. And tonight he’s taking you on a date to see Jeb. Fenton’s First Sun of Solace is to restore karmic balance. Before he has sex.”
Resistant though I was to New Age thinking, you couldn’t live in this town without learning a little about enlightenment. I knew that the First Sun of Solace was whatever you needed it to be.
I just hoped I had sufficient sexual karma. Recalling Rupert’s noisy anonymous lover at Cassina’s cottage, I wondered. If size matters—and I think it does—is it also true that volume matters? As in female vocal expressiveness? No one had ever complained about my being too quiet in bed, but then nobody had ever praised my sound level, either. Was I deficient in a potentially vital skill area?
Jeb and Leo were the only two lovers with whom I’d had long-term exclusive relationships. Neither husband had seemed disappointed that I didn’t make much noise. Nor had the local judge when he helped me graduate last spring from my post-Leo celibate funk.
I told myself that I was probably okay in the sack. Jeb was back and eager for action, so I must have left a good impression. I shrugged off my pre-coital anxiety. If Fenton felt destined to have sex with me, I was up for it. Especially if he didn’t make me call him “Dear.”
Chapter Eighteen
When sex is in the offing, I need time to get ready. Most days, I simply open my closet and randomly select a couple clean beige separates, plus a comfortable pair of shoes. Then a I run a brush through my hair and dash out the door. Make-up is something I save for weddings, funerals, and dinner dates that might end in the bedroom.
Tonight I wanted to make sure everything I wore looked like it belonged together. Fortunately, I had just purchased a lovely taupe linen pantsuit at Town ’n’ Gown, the best clothing store in Magnet Springs. I’d left it there for alterations, which were now complete. So I only needed to pick it up on my way home.
I had known Martha Glenn, the senile octogenarian proprietor of Town ‘n’ Gown, my whole life. Lately she tended to mistake me for other people—mostly people she intensely disliked. Tonight Martha thought I was her long-dead stepmother. Her pale blue eyes gave me a cold once-over.
“You must have put my father under a spell to make him marry you,” she snarled. “You’re as wicked as Cinderella’s stepmother. And twice as ugly.”
Then she flicked her pink tongue. I wondered if she’d been coached by Avery.
“I don’t care how much money you have,” she hissed. “You can’t make me wear that to the Country Club dance.”
“I won’t make you wear it, Martha,” I said gently. “I’m going to wear it.”
She pointed a gnarled finger and told me to hold up the suit so she could see how it looked on me. When I did, she almost fell over laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
She cackled, “I just pictured you having sex!”
“I’ll take the suit off first,” I replied and threw my cash on the counter.
Before I could get out of town, my cell phone rang. Roy Vickers said, “Whiskey, I’m on Mrs. Brewster’s front porch. And I think she should speak to you directly.”
Yolanda began, “Miz Mattimoe, I seen something this afternoon you need to know about.”
“Twyla’s kids?” I asked hopefully. “Did somebody bring them back?”
What a pathetic, ridiculous notion. I had chased them away while Twyla was alive and able to care for them. Now she was dead. Guilt washed over me. Again.
“No, nothing about Twyla,” Yolanda said. “I seen our former mayor.”
I swerved the car. Fortunately, I swerved it toward the curb, where there was an available parking space. So I stopped.
“Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts,” I said.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. But this weren’t no ghost. I seen Gil Gruen. Our dead mayor’s come back.”
Fifteen minutes ago Yolanda had seen Gil poking around a property he’d owned on Amity Avenue—two doors down from Twyla’s rental. It was one of the addresses on Federal Revenue Agent Damon Kincaid’s printout. According to Yolanda, Gil was trying to pry open a basement window.
“When the family that live there come home, I told them what I seen. I called Chief Jenkins, too. She over there now, checking things out.”
I thanked Yolanda and asked her to put Roy back on the line.
“What does this have to do with Mattimoe Realty?” I said.
“Nothing, I hope. But it speaks to the general paranoia in town. Too bad you drove Noonan away,” Roy sighed.
I started to explain that I’d done nothing of the kind when another call beeped on my line. Recognizing Jenx’s number, I told Roy we’d talk later.
“Still think Gil’s dead?” Jenx began. “He w
as trying to break into his rental property on Amity Avenue. When the tenants came home, he ran. Yolanda saw him. So did two kids playing in the alley.”
“Yolanda believes in ghosts!” I moaned.
* * *
I turned off my phone and drove straight home. It was almost 5:30, which wouldn’t leave much time for the relaxing bubble bath I’d planned—not to mention a manicure and the application of full-face make-up.
There’s nothing like finding an ambulance in your driveway twice in one day. Even if it’s Dr. David’s Animal Ambulance. I’d turned off my phone just five minutes ago. What could have gone wrong in that time?
The front door opened and out stepped Deely Smarr, dressed like I’d never seen her. The Coast Guard nanny was all dolled up: Instead of her usual Doc Martens, khakis, and starched Oxford shirt, she was wearing espadrilles and a dress. A feminine-looking pastel cotton dress that fluttered in the early evening breeze. Moreover, she had curled her usually flat hair and added make-up. Dr. David was right behind her. He was spiffed up, too. For the first time since I’d known him, he had traded his yellow and white Fleggers-wear for a sports jacket.
These two were on a date. Wherever they were headed, they were going there by Animal Ambulance.
“Hewwo, Whiskey!” Dr. David called out as Deely waved.
“Hey, have fun tonight, whatever you’re up to.” I said. “Seeing your ambulance scared me. Thank god it was a false alarm.”
Deely looked somber. “Didn’t you get my message, ma’am? I called your cell phone five minutes ago.”
She explained that she had been unable to calm Avery following the peanut-butter-boot incident. After I left, my stepdaughter continued to rant and throw things, including my favorite Medici bronze table lamp and Sasaki vase. Avery considered the lamp and vase fair payback for her chewed boot, forgetting that the chewed boot was payback for my chewed loafer.