Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis Read online

  I sighed. “Not much good news here either. Do you know anything about a merger?”

  “A what?”

  I felt horrible the minute I said it. “It’s nothing really. Sunny is getting together, I mean— merging our office with Dale Wolf Brokerage.”

  “Why does that name sound familiar? Wait, is Dale Wolf the handsome man who was holding you close during those televised interviews after that accident at The Nest? He’ll be your broker?” Did I sense some personal concern in Tristan’s answer? Ah!

  “Yes, that’s him...” I let my voice trail, but I just couldn’t fake it. “He’s a nice man, and he’s married,” I added, totally forgetting how touchy and unsettling the word married was between Tristan and me. Then I remembered the gray-haired woman. Shoot, I’d left the ripped business card in my car. I had to say something. “Tristan...” I hesitated.

  “Yes? What is it? Sweetie, if you don’t want to work for the new company, you don’t have to. Right?”

  “What? You sound just like Kassandra. No, it’s not that, it’s... I had to go to your house today.”

  “You did? Why? Is everything okay?” A pause. “Tache is at the ranch.” His first thought was for his horse? Sort of sweet. “Angelique asked me to go pick up the mail. She was concerned the mailbox was full. Anyway, I was only there maybe five minutes, and this woman comes ringing the doorbell and wants to talk to you.”

  “While you were there? What are the chances?” He laughed softly. “What did she look like?” Now I understood. He assumed I was jealous?

  “Huh, old. I mean, older, gray hair, a little taller than me. She didn’t tell me her name, and there was such a sense of sadness about her, coming from inside... like, sadness spilling over, yes, that way. She said she wanted to see Tristan Dumont. Then she asked if Angelique was home and if I was Angelique’s assistant.”

  “She’s probably an old friend of Angelique’s. Don’t worry about it. You can call her down at the ranch.”

  “The sad woman didn’t leave her name. She scribbled a phone number on the back of my business card, and—” I choked on my own words. What was wrong with me? “Tristan’s father.” There, I said it.

  “What about my father?” His voice a mix of curiosity and sadness.

  “I don’t know, that’s what she wrote. I forgot the card in the car. Should I go get it?”

  “No, it can’t be that important if she didn’t even tell you her name. Besides, she may be an old friend of dad’s. Who knows?”

  Then his voice morphed, smooth and sweet, like butterscotch frosting on red velvet cake. “Do you miss me as much as I miss you?” Something about his intimate, luscious tone sent shivers down my spine. If only we could touch. We had never really kissed like lovers do; still, I felt loved in a way I had never experienced before, not with any man. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “It’s already tomorrow here, but I hope to get things settled within the next twenty-four hours and catch a flight home. I miss you and the Arizona sunshine. And everything that’s part of you. I want to hold you and let the world know how much I love you.”

  I kept quiet, afraid to talk, afraid of my own emotions. My good night to the love of my life sounded more like a whimper than the deafening cry of overflowing desire I had been holding inside since we first met.

  Another wasted evening. After talking to Tristan I ended up thinking of all the things I hadn’t said to him. And now I brushed away the crumbs, all that remained of my miserable improvised grilled cheese dinner that had landed in the folds of my chenille robe. Brenda had no idea how much I missed her, and Dior, and of course, the food. But my glass of wine was the same as Brenda’s, chilled pinot grigio. What a combination, cold wine and burning tongue thanks to the melted cheese. Yeah, a gourmet meal it wasn’t. But I considered Tristan’s call the most delicious dessert. I stretched and yawned, waiting for sleep to come.

  In front of me, flashes of light and darkness cavorted in a silent dance on my television screen. I had muted the sound at the end of the local ten o’clock news. Now the shadows leaped from the screen to the framed pictures on my night table, the spot Tommy, my ex, had named the graveyard because back while we were still married, most of the framed photos had been of my dead relatives. All that had changed.

  Okay, the dead were still dead, but my favorite silver frame showcased a lovely picture of a young Tristan with his first horse on a grassy field with tall trees in the background. And next to it, I placed the miniature pink Fiat 500 all shiny and pretty, the last Christmas tree ornament waiting to be stored away. It made me happy to look at it.

  With the real Fiat now sitting in a dark, cold repair shop waiting for the heartless insurance company to decide its fate, this unique miniature replica would have to do. Especially since the car and photo with the horse were gifts to me from Tristan, the married man with the velvety voice who at the moment was probably watching the sun rise in the south of France.

  I sighed, remembering our first and last dinner together—okay, our only dinner together, the same evening of the accident that sent my Fiat to a junkyard in South Phoenix where apparently cars go to die. The automobile wasn’t the only casualty. I, too, had been pretty banged up. Half my face looked like a cantaloupe wearing makeup. But I had a date with Tristan, it would be our first time being together for more than ten minutes without talking about real estate.

  And no dogs or horses or cars were discussed for that matter. No. The whole evening had been dedicated to Tristan Dumont’s determined explanation as to why three years ago he’d married Angelique, a much older woman from Martinique, who, in Tristan’s own words, had her whole life been madly in love with Tristan’s father. I don’t remember what we ate. I know we sat in a corner booth possibly in the restaurant’s darkest spot. And Tristan scooted close to me to show me the family photos he had brought along in a large manila envelope. The highlights of his life in Technicolor. Unreal.

  That had been just the first of the evening’s many shockers.

  I did know about Angelique being from Martinique, although my awareness of the island had been a lucky coincidence—thanks in part to my history teacher and to my infatuation with Napoleon Bonaparte, whose wife Josephine was also from Martinique. Angelique didn’t look anything like Josephine. God, could I be any more judgmental? Comparing Tristan’s wife to the portrait of a woman from the eighteenth century. Okay, not just any woman, Josephine de Beauharnais the first Empress of France. Why was I thinking about that poor soul who died alone when she was barely fifty? Younger than Angelique? Maybe. All those thoughts, crowding my mind.

  Anyway, Tristan’s large envelope contained a mini story of his dad and Angelique, from when they met as teenagers to when they reconnected after Tristan’s mom’s sudden death. Heartbroken and alone, his dad had gone back to France where he was from, while Tristan, in a rebellious act he would soon come to regret, dove into a year or so of craziness aimed at keeping his mind from remembering and his heart from aching.

  I guessed most of the emotional part. Tristan had kept it simple, mentioning only the actual unfortunate sequences. By the time family friends tracked him down in Colorado, his father was already in a coma in a private clinic in Mexico, he died without regaining consciousness the same day Tristan finally made it to the hospital. Apparently, his dad had suffered a heart attack while driving a rented car down the Baja peninsula coast on the way to the famous El Arco, the arch of Cabo San Lucas. He lost control of the car that went down a low cliff, and his bride-to be was thrown from the passenger seat of the convertible two-seater. She ended up in the same private clinic with extensive non-life-threatening injuries.

  “Your dad’s bride-to-be?” I blurted out.

  He nodded. “That’s how I met Angelique Chervais for the first time.”

  Flickers from the flameless candle on our table painted weird shadows on Tristan’s face. I had watched him grow old and sad in the blink of an eye. My hand found his before my brain could stop me, and his sorrow faded when
I laced my fingers through his. Without letting go, I nudged the photos, manila envelope and all, to the side, hoping to will his hurtful memories away, if only for a while.

  THREE

  I FLIPPED THROUGH the tops hanging on the lower rack of my closet. What to wear, what to wear? Today was Wednesday, or as Americans like to joke, Hump Day. I had enough trouble spelling Wednesday correctly (kudos to the inventor of autocorrect) I wasn’t about to start saying Hump Day. It sounded like a sexual innuendo. This particular Wednesday was also my assigned monthly day at the office.

  Some of us at Desert Realty rotated sitting at our desks all day once a month and answering calls pertaining to properties listed by our office or any other specific real estate questions. Of course, all incoming calls went through Kassandra, but since she wasn’t a licensed Realtor, she would forward the call to the agent on duty.

  And today, that would be me. It wasn’t a mandatory task, but highly recommended to newer agents because often the callers didn’t have a Realtor, and if they liked our telephone exchange, we might get to work with them. Since not all days were alike, it was a little like spinning the wheel of fortune at one of the local casinos; luck had a lot to do with the end results. A lot, but not everything.

  And on that thought I picked my light blue acrylic sweater, black denim jeans, my mid-heel black boots that zipped on the side, and a black imitation leather jacket with silver studs around the collar. There, not too dressy, not too casual, just right. To the outside world I may have appeared calm and self-assured. I wasn’t. The fact that I hadn’t had my cup of coffee, didn’t help my mood much. Today, I’d be counting on Kassandra for some coffee once I got to the office. Fingers crossed.

  With my purse and my briefcase, a Christmas gift from Brenda, safely resting on the passenger seat, I buckled up and slowly backed out of the garage. Still couldn’t get used to not seeing Brenda chasing after me with a mug of steaming java or goofy Dior barking and wagging his powerful tail while circling my idling car. Yeah, I missed them, but I missed Tristan most.

  I hit the 51 southbound and remembered why I despised morning drives. All those cars on the road. Where was everyone headed at nine a.m.? I stayed in the slow lane all the way to my exit, never forgetting this was not my car, and even a little scratch would be added to the bill at the end of the brief lease. What a drag.

  I parked next to Scott’s truck. Finally something positive, Scott always brought edible offerings to munch on. The bell chimed when the hefty front door closed behind me.

  “I’m here.” I called out. If Kassandra wasn’t at her desk she must be in the kitchen, trading coffee and sarcasm with Scott, our hunky posts and signs installer. The two of them had one of those funky relationships that puzzled people not familiar with our office’s relaxed atmosphere. He was younger than Kassandra, but older than I. We often congregated in the kitchen, and today Scott had brought orange and cranberry scones, perfect. I went to get my coffee mug and joined the conversation. The two of them were always up to date with the latest gossip or, as Kassandra often corrected me, the daily happenings.

  Of course, I was mostly interested in finding out the status of The Merger. Kassandra shrugged. “The only thing I know for sure is that both Sunny and Kay aren’t going to be sitting around here much. They seem to be running around with stacks of legal papers every time they come by. I’ll be glad when this is over.”

  “This?” was my intelligent contribution to the morning conversation.

  “The Wolfman already told me I’ll be in charge of his office installations too, and they’ll increase my salary to reflect that. Works out great for me,” Scott said between mouthfuls of crumbling scone in his mouth.

  I sort of expected Kassandra to talk about projected changes to her job, but she didn’t. Instead she lectured me about my task of the day. Boring.

  By the time the last crumb had met its fate, a few agents had trickled in. That was my cue to go to my desk and psyche myself up for some good calls leading to new clients. Those of us without a private office, had an assigned desk in the area we called the bullpen. I wondered what the agents at Dale Wolf’s office called their shared working area.

  I set up my small desk and cell phone, next to the office landline and the page with “suggestions and questions to engage prospects,” courtesy of Sunny, my wonderful broker.

  Pen and notepad, check. When I opened my folder the ripped business card stared back at me. Damn, I had to put it in my purse so I could share the phone number with Tristan the next time he called. And then I looked, really looked at the number, it had a 520-area code. Huh, not Phoenix, not even Maricopa county. 520 was south of Phoenix, yes, Tucson and maybe even farther south. To Mexico?

  And just like that, before by brain said no, my fingers punched in the number on my cell. I glanced around to see if anyone one had seen me. Seen me doing what? I could hear the rings—loud, but not as loud as my heartbeat. I counted them. On the fourth one, a click. My whole body stiffened, but it was only a recorded message. “You have reached blah, blah.” No name. And the voice didn’t sound like the gray-haired woman. Pre-recorded? I hung up without saying a word.

  Scott walked by my desk, ignored me, and went to talk to a male agent way in the back of the room, probably discussing a sign installation? Lucky guy, a sign meant a new listing. With Phoenix’s hot sellers’ market, a listing was like money in the bank. As the old mantra in my head repeated out loud, “If you don’t list, you don’t last,” the office phone on my desk rang.

  “Good morning, Monica Baker speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Good morning, Miss Baker, as I was telling your associate, I drove by a property on 8thth Place and Glendale Avenue and would like to take a look to see if it’s something I may consider for a current project.” Well, that was a mouthful. In his defense, the man had such a charming voice, he should do commercials.

  I followed Sunny’s guidelines, and pretty soon we agreed to meet at the property at eleven o’clock. His name was Gregory Coste, or so he said. One of Sunny’s workshops for the new agents warned about people providing phony information. Regardless, I would meet the man at eleven.

  The property was a rather old four-bedroom, two-bath home on a large lot only a few houses away from busy Glendale Avenue. “A lot of potential,” proclaimed the listing description. In real estate jargon it meant the place was neglected and needed work. The listing agent had been notified and my showing time confirmed. I printed out all the info pertaining to the property and also anything of interest in the same neighborhood. If after meeting my prospect I felt like it was a workable lead, I would expand my efforts, following all of Sunny and Kay’s gems of wisdom to a T. Okay, I didn’t know what to a T meant, but it sounded like a befitting cliché.

  With time to kill, how do you kill time? I called the ranch down in Tucson to see how Brenda was doing and if she was planning on coming back soon. She was busy, cooking or something, so she handed her phone to Angelique, and we chatted a bit.

  I kept wondering how much Mrs. Dumont knew about my date with Tristan AKA her husband. Told her about picking up the mail as she requested and about the strange woman who stopped by while I was at the house. Angelique asked me the phone number to see if it sounded familiar. I repeated it twice. And I didn’t mention my calling the number. Angelique seemed hardly interested until I got to the part about “Tristan’s father.” And even over the phone I sensed her mood change. BAM. I swear, I could hear her breathing rhythm jump from normal to rapid and shallow in the blink of an eye. Mercy me. What was that all about?

  “Monica.” A gasp. “Monica, what did she look like? Are you sure she didn’t leave a name?”

  “Huh, no. She asked me if I was your assistant. I told her I was a real estate agent. So she wrote the number and the thing about the father and left. I’m sorry. She showed up totally out of the blue and—”

  “It’s all right, Monica.” A sigh. “Don’t think about it. Probably one of Tristan’s old
girlfriends. I’ll ask him when he gets back. Thanks.” She was gone and hadn’t even asked me if I needed to talk to Brenda. After all it was Brenda’s phone.

  Tristan’s old girlfriend. Right. And Tristan suggested maybe it was one of Angelique’s old girlfriends. How about that?

  “What’s the matter? You look like you’re in la-la land.” Kassandra had sneaked up on me. “Did you get an appointment with that guy with the sexy voice?”

  I nodded. “You too? I thought I was sort of talking myself into liking the way he spoke just because I really, really want to land a buyer.”

  “Did you Google his name?”

  “Kassandra, of course not. Why would I do that?”

  “Why? To see if the face matches the voice. That’s why.” She laughed and tapped my shoulder.

  “I don’t care what he looks like as long as he can afford to buy whatever I’ll find that works for him.”

  “Hey, listen to you. All business. You’re no fun.” She pretended to pout. “Need to get back to the front desk.”

  “Do you have someone to cover the phones while I’m gone?” I asked.

  She nodded and walked away.

  Scott came by two minutes after Kassandra left. “Hey, Monica, if you have a buyer for a church, P.J. back there just listed a good one. I’m on my way to install the post.”