Killer Transaction (Cindy York Mysteries Book 1)

by Catherine Bruns

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  KILLER TRANSACTION

  by

  CATHERINE BRUNS

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  Copyright © 2015 by Catherine Bruns

  Cover design by Yocla Designs

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  FREE BOOK OFFER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY CATHERINE BRUNS

  SNEAK PEEK

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are so many people who played a part in this book being published. First, a debt of gratitude to retired Troy, New York Police Captain Terrance Buchanan for sharing his wisdom and knowledge with me. Special recognition goes out to my former real estate manager, Mary Peyton, who always had the answers to my questions concerning the trade. Critique partner Diane Bator was a huge asset in shaping this story. Beta readers Constance Atwater, Krista Gardner, and Kathy Kennedy were nothing short of amazing with their support and great ideas. Thanks to my family, especially my husband, Frank, for his infinite patience and belief in my ability. Last but certainly not least, a profound thank you to my publisher, Gemma Halliday, and her talented staff of editors, especially Danielle Kuhns and Kristin Huston, for helping to make this book a reality for me.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  This was a new one for me. I'd never had a client fall asleep while signing a contract before. I blew out a sigh. Was I really that boring? "Mrs. Hunter?"

  There was no answer.

  "Mrs. Hunter, can you hear me?" I glanced anxiously at my watch while she dozed. It was after 11:30 on a brisk Tuesday morning near the end of April. I was hosting an open house in less than an hour and really needed to be on my way. The caterer would be arriving soon with the sandwiches and expected me to meet him at the front door.

  Again, there was no response, except for a faint whistling coming from the mouth of Agnes Hunter, a tiny and sweet, white-haired, eighty-year-old woman. In the two weeks since I had come to know Mrs. Hunter, she seemed to have shrunk more with age. She needed to sell her home at 6 Partridge Lane in order to pay for the upcoming expenses of going into assisted living. A friend of a friend had recommended my services, and Mrs. Hunter had finally decided to let me come over to tour the house and, after a week of running personal errands for her, agreed to sign a contract. She didn't even argue about the seven percent commission fee my agency charged since she needed the money desperately and was anxious to proceed.

  Fred Hunter had built the white, raised ranch-style house specifically for his wife about 60 years ago, complete with cute red shutters and a white picket fence. They'd lived there their entire adult lives, until Fred passed away two years ago. There was no way Mrs. Hunter could keep up with the repairs alone.

  The sun shone through the wood-framed windows adorned with handmade lace curtains. There was peeling wallpaper and worn carpeting in every room. The clapboard siding had seen better days and was cracked, splintered and faded. Cosmetic issues could have easily been corrected, if she'd had money for such repairs. However, with so much work for a potential buyer to do, Mrs. Hunter's profit would be affected considerably.

  I glanced at my watch again. Sheesh. I had been here over an hour already, and she still hadn't signed. Mrs. Hunter knew I had children, and I'd happily shown her pictures when she'd asked to see them. I'd smiled at the "My, how do you ever tell them apart" comment when I told her my boys were twins and accepted the tea she insisted on making while I tried to explain the more complex details of the contract.

  Although Mrs. Hunter was willing to sell her home, she was fast turning into what we real estate agents deemed "a tough sale." Whenever I visited, something managed to go awry. The first time, her toilet overflowed. Since money was an issue, I'd called upon my husband, Greg, to come fix it. He wasn't happy since I'd interrupted Sunday afternoon baseball but, realizing this was possible income for me, had immediately taken care of the issue.

  During my next visit, Mrs. Hunter's cat escaped when I opened the front door. I'd spent an entire hour outside yelling, "Here, Madame Puss," and gave up counting how many snickers and wise cracks I'd endured from neighbors—most of them children. When I'd finally found the temperamental kitty hiding behind some bushes and scooped her into my arms, she'd rewarded me by sinking her fang-like teeth into my thumb. Mrs. Hunter assured me that Madame Puss was up to date on all of her vaccinations. At least, she thought so. Days later, my thumb still smarted.

  "Mrs. Hunter?" I called again and touched her arm, hoping she'd wake up before I missed my open house and maybe the rest of the day as well.

  Her eyelids flickered, then widened with fear as she reached inside the deep pocket of her flowered housecoat. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my home?"

  Good grief. I'd heard from neighbors that she was in the early stages of dementia and hoped she wasn't packing a Smith & Wesson. "I'm Cindy York from Hospitable Homes. You asked me to sell your house for you."

  Recognition slowly replaced the dazed look on her face. She took her glasses out of her pocket, put them on, and peered at me. "Oh, Cindy, dear." She yawned. "I'm so sorry, I must have dozed off. Never fear. I'm back now."

  "That's all right." I handed her a pen and placed the contract on the table in front of her. "Now that you're ready, I'll need you to sign and initial on page one. When you're done with that, you sign and date—"

  Mrs. Hunter studied me. "Did I ask if you wanted a cup of tea, dear?"

  I grinned and raised my cup in the air.

  "Oh, good." She smiled and smoothed the tablecloth in front of her, apparently relieved her good manners hadn't failed her.

  "Okay. I need you to sign and initial on the bottom of page one. Yes, right there." I flipped over the sheet. "Here, on the bottom of page two, I need a full signature. And on page three—"

  Mrs. Hunter paused and lifted her pen awa
y from the papers. She observed me cautiously over the rims of her glasses. "What am I signing?"

  Uh-oh. I closed my eyes and blew out a slow breath. Maybe she's worse off than I thought. "The contract for me to list your home, Mrs. Hunter. Remember?"

  Mrs. Hunter shook her head and took off her glasses, wiping them with a tissue that sent a puff of dust into the sunlight. "Oh, my dear, I can't sign that."

  Now I was confused. "I don't understand. What do you mean, you can't sign it?"

  "Well, I signed another contract yesterday."

  My heart skipped a beat. Okay, I must have heard her wrong. "Are you sure? Why would you sign with another agent when you were supposed to list with me?" Please let her be joking. I needed this listing. Bad.

  "Oh dear." She blinked several times. "Well, I know I'd planned to, but the other young lady was so sweet, and she said you wouldn't mind since you both work for the same agency anyway. She even brought flowers and my favorite candy."

  No, it can't be. I sucked in a sharp breath. "Would her name happen to be Tiffany Roberts?"

  "Why, yes, it was." Mrs. Hunter nodded. "Oh, good, so you are friends. Isn't it nice how this all worked out?"

  I bit my lip hard, afraid I might cry that second. "Tiffany and I both work for the same agency, but that doesn't mean anything. She's the one who will be selling your house now, not me."

  Mrs. Hunter frowned. "But you two could work together and split the money you earn. Isn't that the way it works?"

  "No, not if you've already signed the contract and only her name is on it." I shook my head in disbelief. "Mrs. Hunter, Tiffany will be stopping by to see you. She's going to void that contract. I'll be back tomorrow with a new one for you to sign."

  "Well, all right, dear. That is, as long as Tiffany doesn't mind." She folded her glasses and tucked them back into her pocket.

  A huge knot formed in the pit of my stomach. "I'll see to it personally that she doesn't mind." My heart softened as the old lady stared at me, obviously disoriented. It wasn't her fault that she'd been duped by the most dishonest agent alive.

  I clutched my briefcase tightly and stood. "I have to go now. I'm meeting some—some friends for lunch."

  "Well, now isn't that lovely." Mrs. Hunter smiled. "Please be sure and say hello to that nice lady Tiffany for me."

  Oh, I'd say something all right.

  A well-fed, black cat with a large spot of white on her enormous chest was stationed by the front door, blocking my escape. Madame Puss had six toes on each paw and bore more than a slight resemblance to Bigfoot.

  The last time I'd called to say I was coming over, Mrs. Hunter asked if I wouldn't mind stopping at the grocery store to pick up some canned salmon for her precious kitty. Madame Puss ate a can of it every day, and apparently, the cupboard was bare. When I'd dared to suggest Madame Puss should eat dry food like my cat, Mrs. Hunter gasped so loudly on the other end of the phone that I was afraid she'd been in acute pain.

  Madame Puss observed me eagerly, probably hoping to sneak out at my expense again. I tried to open the door around her, but she refused to budge. Already late and angered by Tiffany's audacity, I glowered at the robust cat. "Move."

  Madame Puss continued to sit there, staring at me as if I was the stupidest human on the face of the earth. She brought her paw to her mouth and started to clean it carefully, daring me to interrupt her.

  I scooped up the cat with both hands, fearing for my other nine fingers and ignoring her meows of protest. Once I handed Madame Puss to Mrs. Hunter, she continued to glare at me from her owner's arms.

  "I'll have Tiffany call you tonight after we sort things out." I straightened my blazer and brushed tiny, black Madame Puss hairs off of it.

  Mrs. Hunter nodded. "That would be nice, dear. Why don't both of you stop by for tea tomorrow? I could use a ride to the grocery store too."

  I opened my mouth to say something, thought better of it, and nodded. "I'll see what I can do." I managed a quick smile for Mrs. Hunter, disregarded the hiss Madame Puss directed at me, and quickly closed the front door.

  Why me? Why can't I ever have one sale go off without a hitch?

  Tears of frustration started to fall as I backed my car out of Mrs. Hunter's driveway. My contact lenses clouded over, and before I reached the end of the street, I started sobbing, almost hitting a large orange cat that looked like it could have been Garfield's brother.

  I took a left at the end of the street and then an immediate right to get on the highway, heading toward my open house. My face burned as I grabbed a tissue from my purse to blow my nose and wipe my eyes. Good old Tiffany had tried to put one over on me again. Damn her. How could she do this to me?

  Yet I knew very well how.

  Tiffany Roberts was arguably one of the most successful real estate agents in New York State. A gorgeous blonde with a perfect size-four figure, she was commonly referred to as a "dirty agent" by her fellow colleagues, which meant she lied to potential buyers about the homes they were going to purchase. If the buyer called six months later, crying because water was leaking into their basement, she'd claim she knew nothing about it and blame the inspector, other agent, or anyone else easy for her to manipulate. Somehow she always managed to win, charming client after client while she let them think their happiness was her first priority. What a crock.

  If another agent had already secured a listing on a home, that didn't stop Tiffany from trying to pry it away from them. Although the practice was deemed unethical, she'd find a way to worm her way into the house or conveniently run into the sellers at the supermarket or just happen to stop by while they were having a garage sale and convince them to tell their current agent they'd had a sudden change of heart. A couple of weeks later, the previous agent would see their former listing reappear under the sales category in the MLS (Multiple Listing Service) with Tiffany's name as the broker.

  I'd been the victim of Tiffany's underhanded dealings before. I'd thought about taking her to court but couldn't prove anything. A client had called me one day and claimed he'd changed his mind about selling, so I'd released him from the contract. A week later, Tiffany happened to be going door to door in the neighborhood and re-convinced him to sell. At least, that was her explanation. Considering it was a very rural neighborhood and the middle of winter, it made perfect sense that she'd be taking a stroll through the countryside on a day that hit minus fifteen degrees. But the seller stuck to his story, and I had been the one left out in the cold.

  She's not going to get away with it this time. I blew out a sharp breath, pushed aside my long, dark hair, and inserted the Bluetooth into my right ear. When I reached a red light, I searched my contacts section and angrily clicked on Tiffany's number.

  After one ring, it went directly to her voice mail. "Hi, this is Tiffany Roberts with Hospitable Homes. I'm sorry I can't take your call right now as I'm in the middle of a real estate transaction. Please leave your name and number at the tone, and I'll call you back as soon as I can. Remember, make it a great day."

  There was a huge lump in my throat, and I choked back tears, my voice hoarse and tight, barely above a whisper. "Tiffany, it's Cindy. I'd like to talk to you about Six Partridge Lane. You know, the Hunter house. Call me back soon. Unless you want to die young."

  With that, I disconnected, never dreaming that my message would come back to haunt me later.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As it turned out, ironically enough, the open house I'd agreed to host was for one of Tiffany's listings. When she'd discovered she had a closing scheduled at the same time, she'd asked me—ever so sweetly—if I could fill in for her. In return, she'd promised to give me any leads that might develop. So here I was, setting myself up for disappointment again. What the heck is wrong with me?

  Astor Lane was one of the area's nicer suburbs. The house I parked in front of was a pristine, white Colonial with an immaculately landscaped yard, even at this time of year. I sighed. My lawn was still soft with mud from the rain showe
rs yesterday. There was also a huge hole in my backyard where Stevie and Seth, my 8-year-old, energetic twins, had recently decided to dig to China—or perhaps the nearest GameStop.

  The house was in excellent condition and probably wouldn't take long to sell, even in this year's dismal market. Unlike me, Tiffany didn't get leftovers. As Greg affectionately once put it to me, "No one can sell a dump like you can, Cin."

  By the time I reached the driveway, the catering truck had already pulled in ahead of me. To my dismay, another car sat parked across the street with four or five people sitting inside. The open house didn't start for another fifteen minutes. I was guessing these weren't prospective buyers. More than likely this was a family who had seen the advertisement in the paper and were looking for a free lunch.

  I grabbed my eKEY from the glove compartment. Real estate agents only had to punch their pin numbers into this handy device and then sync it with the electronic lockbox located on the front door. I gathered together Tiffany's flyers, an Open House sign, and the gift card to Macy's that she was giving away as a door prize. I hurried to unlock the door for the caterer, who had his hands full with a plate of tempting-looking sandwiches.

  Tiffany could well afford to pay for the luncheon herself, but the meal had been donated by one of the mortgage brokers she worked with. They were only too happy to provide food as long as Tiffany kept recommending their services to potential buyers. Sadly enough, tar paper shacks didn't qualify for catered affairs, otherwise they probably would have been delighted to donate a lunch to my listings too.

  In addition to the sandwiches, there was also an assortment of single-serving potato chip bags, bottled water and soda, plus another platter that held a delectable array of sugar and chocolate chip cookies for dessert. This must have cost the company at least a couple of hundred dollars. Yes, anything for Tiffany.