Jacques chattered on. "I know you're disappointed, dear. I'm sure it'll come back to us at some point." A buzzing noise came from the phone. "Oh, that's Tricia Hudson calling back with another counteroffer. Too bad for her that my client's not lowering their price. God, I love making that chick's life rough. I'll call you right back."
He clicked off, and I sighed. Same old story. The big sale had slipped through my fingers once again.
"Baby, what's wrong?" Greg frowned.
"Tiffany's house has to come off the market. Something to do with the estate."
Greg took my face between his hands. "Hey, you still have me."
"Yeah, and you're better than any old house." As I gazed at my adorable husband, I knew I was the luckiest woman alive. Our money problems were still there, but we'd make it, with or without Tiffany's house. I sensed that working for Jacques would be the best thing to ever happen to my career as well.
Greg chuckled and helped me out of bed. "Let's get you home. The kids will be happy to see you."
"I can't wait to see them too." I scanned the room. "Where are my clothes?"
"I hung them in the closet last night." Greg brought the hanger over that held my jeans and blouse. "Do you need any help?"
I shook my head. "No, I should be able to get them on okay."
"Good. Because my area of expertise is taking clothes off, not putting them on." He swatted my behind.
"Gregory!"
He laughed. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here."
"Oh." I hesitated for a second. "Jacques said he and Ed would like to stop by later. Is that all right?"
"You don't even need to ask me that."
My heart swelled as Greg dug the car keys out of his jacket. "I'll go pull the car around and be right back." He kissed the top of my head and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
I removed the hospital gown and sat on the bed to pull my shirt on. That part was easy. In slow motion and with great care, I started on the jeans, wincing the entire time I pulled them around my stomach. I left them unbuttoned, which helped a little. I felt as if I'd just come from an all-you-can-eat buffet, but I'd manage until we got home and I could change into a pair of comfortable sweats.
My phone buzzed again. I looked down and smiled when I saw who it was. "Yes, my hero?"
"Hi, darling." Jacques sighed. "Sorry to leave you hanging before."
"No problem. You almost missed us. We're on our way out." I had to sit down again. I couldn't believe how unsteady on my feet I still was.
"That's what I wanted to hear." He paused. "I'm glad I caught you before you left. I know you're still under the weather, but I'm wondering if you could do me a small favor today."
I snorted in disbelief. "Gee, I happen to owe you my life, so I think I can manage one small favor."
"Well, do this for me, and we're even. I've got this woman who's really anxious to sell her house and needs an agent right away. Could you and Greg stop by on your way home from the hospital?"
I blinked, not sure I'd heard him correct. "That's terrific, but I don't have any paperwork with me. Not even a business card."
"That's okay. She's got a contract already there waiting."
"I'm also having a lot of trouble walking."
"Ah, you and Greg had some fun today, huh?" Jacques teased.
"Stop being such a smart aleck." My curiosity piqued. "Who is this woman? Can't she wait until tomorrow?"
Jacques sounded horrified. "Oh, no. It's today or nothing. She's moving this week and needs to put the place on the market before she goes. I promise it'll only take ten minutes."
A sale is a sale. I sighed, longing to get home to the kids. "Nothing like waiting till the last minute. All right, what's the address?"
"Well, since you obviously haven't figured it out," Jacques said in a smooth tone. "I'll give you a little hint."
"That would be so wonderful of you."
"Please do not address your new boss with sarcasm," he admonished. "For starters, she lives on Partridge Lane, and she's eighty years old."
I burst out laughing. "Mrs. Hunter? And you say she has a contract ready to go?"
"I dropped a new one off to her yesterday. It's waiting on your signature."
"Tell her I'm on my way."
"Thanks, Cin, I knew you'd come through for me." Jacques sounded pleased with himself. "Oh, and there's one more thing."
"Now what?"
"Can you swing by the market and pick up a can of salmon first?"
I grinned. "Sure, I'll take care of it."
* * * * *
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Catherine lives in Upstate New York with a male dominated household that consists of her very patient husband, three sons, two cats and dogs. She has wanted to be a writer since the age of eight when she wrote her own version of Cinderella (and fortunately Disney never sued). Catherine holds a B.A. and dual major in English and Performing Arts. She has worn several different hats over the years, including that of secretary, press release writer, newspaper reporter, real estate agent, and most recently auditor. In her spare time she enjoys traveling, shopping, and of course, a good book.
To learn more about Catherine, visit her online at: http://www.catherinebruns.net
* * * * *
BOOKS BY CATHERINE BRUNS
Cindy York Mysteries:
Killer Transaction
Priced to Kill (coming soon!)
Cookies & Chance Mysteries:
Tastes Like Murder
Baked to Death
A Spot of Murder (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this Cindy York Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from Gemma Halliday Publishing:
SECRET OF THE PAINTED LADY
A DANGER COVE
RENOVATION MYSTERY
by
CHRISTINA A. BURKE
&
ELIZABETH ASHBY
CHAPTER ONE
"Sold!" yelled the auctioneer. "To the little lady in the ball cap. Hold up your number, please."
I groaned inwardly. I'd just paid a small fortune for a Victorian over a century old. Would a little respect be too much to ask?
"Name?" asked the auctioneer.
"Alex Jordan, Finials and Facades Renovation and Restoration Services," I replied with a glance around. The courthouse steps had cleared out, and only a few die-hard flippers were there for the last sale of the day. Aging Victorians (I preferred to think of them as Painted Ladies) registered with the exacting Washington State Historic Society were not sought-after properties with this crowd. Most of these guys were looking to make a quick buck.
Not that I wasn't in need of a payday, but I wasn't your run-of-the-mill flipper. Over the past two years, I had purchased three dilapidated Painted Ladies in my home town of Danger Cove, Washington, and painstakingly restored them to their former glory. I'd also sold them for a tidy profit. Two were now B&Bs, and one was owned by a wealthy antique dealer. Not too shabby for a little lady.
Danger Cove was the perfect place to find bargains in the Victorian market. It was a quaint little coastal town just enough off the beaten path to make it interesting but close enough to Seattle to keep the tourists coming. Main Street, lined with shops and restaurants, fairly hummed with shoppers during the fall and spring. The town had its roots in the fishing industry, and many a fortune had been made at the turn of the last century, spawning the large estates of the wealthy families. Over time, ups and downs in the town's economy had eroded much of the old money, leaving the estates in disrepair. Opportunities abounded as long as there was money to invest.
A black Cadillac roared up to the steps of the court
house. The remaining buyers and the auctioneer gave a collective groan. Local real estate developer and Texas transplant, Jack Condor, liked big talk and big hats. He was wearing a glaring white ten-gallon number today.
Jack stepped out of his car and waved a beefy arm at the auctioneer. "Current bid plus ten percent, Phil."
Phil didn't seem to appreciate the familiar use of his name. "Bidding's closed, Mr. Condor."
"Why, I say, Phil, that just can't be." Jack made a big show of looking at the time on his Rolex.
"Oh, it be," replied Phil stubbornly. This wasn't his first run-in with Jack Condor. "And Miss Jordan's the new owner."
Jack's face went red above his loud, checkered sport jacket.
The man beside me tipped his I Brake for Brunettes trucker hat to one side and said to his partner, "Don't he remind you of someone? A cartoon character?"
His partner cocked his head. "Nope, just looks like a big blowhard to me. Got his feathers all in a bunch."
The man snapped his fingers. "That's it! He's like that big chicken from the Looney Tunes. What's his name?"
I giggled and looked over at them. "Foghorn Leghorn?"
"That's it! Big stupid rooster crowin' around the henhouse." Both men guffawed.
Jack Condor scowled in our direction. I was able to remain straight faced, until the guy in the hat said loudly, "Bawk, bawk."
I laughed out loud and sucked in air with a snort.
Condor walked up the steps, saying, "I don't see what's so funny, Miss Jordan, about being party to an illegal sale. The auction was supposed to be conducted from four to five p.m. My watch shows 4:55."
"I've been runnin' these auctions since long before you came to town," Phil cut in angrily. "I follow the letter of the law. Auction begins at four and continues until all properties are disposed of or five o'clock. Whichever comes first. Period." Phil gathered up his papers and stalked back into the courthouse.
Condor turned to me, changing tactics with a sweep of his white hat. "Forgive me, Miss Jordan. I have a client who expressed a sudden interest in the property. A very wealthy client. I'm sure we can come to some agreement." He smiled winningly. He had the sparkling white teeth of a TV star.
I tamped down another giggle. I just couldn't get that big rooster out of my head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Condor, but I've been waiting to buy Marlton House for months. It'll be my biggest restoration to date, and frankly, I stand to make a lot more than ten percent. Bring your client by when it's finished, and I'll consider an offer then."
His smile faltered a little. "Twenty percent. Final offer." He stuck out his hand for me to shake.
I shook my head.
Condor withdrew his hand and pointed a long finger at me. "You've gotten lucky on a few junked-up old houses. That's not going to keep the wolf away from Grandma's door for long, missy. The whole town knows you're just one flop away from the poorhouse. This game's for the big boys."
I could feel steam coming from my ears. "That so? Well, I'd put any one of my restored Vics against all your two-bit cardboard condos. This is what actual work looks like." I wiggled my calloused hands in his face. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Too busy strutting around town, crowing about yourself, and suckering people into houses they can't afford."
The two guys behind me stepped up. The guy with the hat said, "You heard the lady. Now quit squawkin' and get walkin'. Make it quick, 'cause I'm getting a taste for fried chicken all of a sudden."
Condor puffed himself up and turned on his heel. As he opened the car door, he spun toward me. "You'll regret this, Miss Jordan. I promise you."
His threat hung heavy as the Cadillac roared away. The man in the hat patted my shoulder, saying, "Don't you worry about that fella, sweetie. Those outta-towners are all the same. Come in here actin' like big shots for a couple of years, and then the cove takes the wind out of their sails. We'll send that one packin' one day—mark my word." He nodded sagely.
His partner added, "Yep. An' if not, my wife makes a mean chicken pot pie."
They laughed all the way back to their pickup trucks. I mounted the steps of the courthouse and wondered if I'd bitten off more than I could chew.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, after what seemed like reams of paperwork, I had the keys to Marlton House in hand. The weather was still cool despite spring's official arrival last week. I was glad I'd worn a thermal shirt under my heavy corduroy jacket. So I wasn't a fashion plate. Not even close. My standard uniform consisted of a ponytail under a baseball cap, work shirt, jeans, and steel-toed boots. I'd been accused by my more mod friends of hiding behind my work clothes.
They didn't understand that I was already working handicapped by my small stature in the good ole boy world of construction. No need to draw more attention to myself. And my generous curves had a way of attracting trouble all on their own. The few times I'd ventured around town in anything but my work clothes had been a disaster. Case in point: the tube-top incident.
To be fair to myself, my understanding of tube-top design had been limited to pictures of waif-like models in magazines. I now had an up-close-and-personal understanding of the less than supportive nature of the garment. Unfortunately, so did the checkout clerk at the grocery store.
My phone vibrated. A glance at the screen confirmed it was my grandmother, reminding me to pick up the flowers. Despite being ninety-two, Janiece Jordan (don't ever call her Janice) had embraced technology. Gram hadn't married until she was almost thirty, and said she'd relented and married my grandfather because he could beat her at gin rummy and knew how to hold his liquor and his tongue. My father had been a late-in-life baby. But sadly, my grandfather had died of a heart attack before my father was out of diapers, and Gram had been left to raise him alone. Gram kept with the old ways, as in back when there was plenty of money and there were servants at the family estate of Rockgrove. She didn't feel our deteriorating financial situation should change her high standards, and she continued to run the household with the clockwork accuracy and attention to detail of a first-class hotel. Fresh flowers on Friday were a must. And not just any old flowers would do. They had to be from a specific local florist. Sigh.
I didn't mind picking up flowers for Gram. In fact when Millie Mason was the owner of Some Enchanted Florist, I looked forward to it. Millie had been the town gossip, always having a little nugget of interesting information for her clients. I'd bought two of my houses because of tips from Millie. The new owner, however, was no Millie.
I rounded the corner and nodded to two elderly women from Gram's quilting group. I crossed the street and glanced up at the sign for Some Enchanted Florist. I had to admit, grudgingly, that the lighted, professionally designed sign was an improvement on Millie's old hand-painted one. I also liked the display of grab-and-go bouquets on the sidewalk and the hanging plants beside the glass door. It made you feel like you were walking through a garden as you entered the store.
No, there was nothing wrong with the shop. It was the new owner, George Fontaine, who grated on my nerves. His foreign mannerisms bordered on affectation. His glossy, perfectly coifed black hair. His ridiculous wardrobe. The man wore tailored suits to work in a flower shop! And he called me Alexandra. Nobody called me Alexandra except Gram. Yep, the man was a kook with a capital K.
His mysterious appearance a year ago as the new owner of the shop had been a source of town gossip for months. Anyone new to Danger Cove drew notice, but George's cultured personality and upscale wardrobe had townspeople calling him "highfalutin." Not to mention, he didn't seem to know a whole lot about being a florist. Millie had agreed to stay on and help with the transition for a couple of months. And while Millie complimented his design ideas, she shook her head at his technique. He clearly had not been a florist by trade but offered no hints about his life before Danger Cove. Eventually, Millie's stamp of approval and his unfailing good manners and hospitality had been enough to win over the town. Unfortunately for me, once George had passed the tow
n sniff-test, he was Bachelor Number One on Gram's list of eligible men. Gram's matchmaking was reaching epic proportions with the passing of each year. She just couldn't understand why I'd prefer digging around old houses to having a husband and a family.
The tinkling of bells sounded as I opened the door. I was in olfactory overload as the scent of dozens of varieties of flowers hit my nose. George looked up. A beaming smile lit his face as he came out from behind the old-fashioned glass case with a wide Formica countertop.
"I have something special for Janiece this week," he said without preamble. He walked over to the cooler and pulled out a large bundle of flowers. "Velvet pink dendrobium orchids mixed with all the usual suspects, of course."
The flowers were beautiful as always, but I couldn't tell the difference between orchids and okra. Instead, I took the opportunity to look for flaws in his perfectly groomed figure. No dandruff on his wide shoulders. No gray hairs in his ebony locks. No smudge of yellow on his starched white collar. Not even a crease at the back of the knee on his linen slacks. How was that even possible? Unless maybe he kept his pants on a hanger and stood around in his underwear when there weren't any customers.
I smiled at that. He turned around and caught me grinning. "She can smile," he said with just a hint of sarcasm.
"Of course I can," I replied.
"Just not around me," he said with a raised brow. Was that a shadow under his eyes?
I glared at him. "I don't usually have a lot to smile about when I come in here." It came out a little defensively, so I added, "But today I do. I just settled on Marlton House."
"My congratulations. Where is the house located?" he asked politely, but there was a weary note in his voice. Maybe business wasn't quite measuring up to his expectations. He didn't seem quite so lively today. "Forty-Two South Main Street. Just around the corner from here."
Killer Transaction (Cindy York Mysteries Book 1) Page 21