Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis Page 3

  “Ha-ha, very funny. A church, sure.” As if...

  “You think I’m joking? P.J. is one of the few agents I know who is licensed to sell churches, they are a totally different type of classification and...”

  “OMG! You’re serious. I’m sorry, Scott. I’m from Italy where churches are all owned by... the church? This sounds stupid, but yeah, I had no idea you can actually sell or buy churches. Wait. You mean like a building that was once a church? What?”

  “Nope, this church is active. The congregation is moving to a larger one, and they are selling the old one. Just like people do with houses, same story, moving up, expanding. Okay, you know P.J. He’s keeping it off the official site for a few days to see if he can land his own buyer. Cha-ching, double commission.” He turned to the back of the room and gave P.J. an enthusiastic hand wave. “Well, you’re the first one that knows about this. Got to go.” And he left.

  Americans could buy and sell churches. Wow. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother about it. I bet she won’t believe me.

  I started to gather up my stuff, putting all the info pertaining to the property off Glendale Avenue in one of our official folders that contained a map of Phoenix and a few adverts from businesses connected to real estate. I inserted my business card in the designated spot, took another look at my desk to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything, especially my mobile phone, and headed to the parking lot. Showtime.

  FOUR

  THE HOUSE WITH potential sat on a large weed-covered lot facing 8th Place. Surrounded by old, well-kept homes, possibly built by the same builder back in the 60s, the first impression wasn’t bad, in need of cosmetic mostly—paint, landscaping. I had arrived with ten minutes to spare, intending to open up windows and doors and turn on all the lights as they teach you at real estate school, except Gregory Coste had beaten me there.

  At least I assumed the white Honda with a Nevada license plate, parked at the curb right where the house number and a fading red cardinal logo had been painted during better times, belonged to Mr. Coste. My assumption was confirmed when a tall, extremely tanned, middle-aged man cleared the far corner of the house and headed my way—big smile, extended hand. He appeared to be a friendly soul and looked even friendlier up close.

  “Miss Monica, I presume.” My hand was squeezed between his two, like the cream filling in an Oreo cookie. At first glance, he matched the reaction I had to his voice over the phone. He could sure make some convincing television ads for the over-fifty-five generation of the female genre.

  “Hello, Mr. Coste,” I managed to say.

  “Call me Greg. Mr. Coste makes me feel old. And if it’s okay with you, I’ll call you Monica.” He let go of my hand and turned to look at the house while I scrambled to give him the organized folder, keeper of all information. He accepted it without even glancing at it, his eyes studying the place, his head nodding, disturbing the perfectly groomed silver mane. Awkward.

  “Are you looking to purchase the home for yourself?” Duh! I felt like a dumbbell.

  “Well, I’ll be the one paying for it, if that’s what you mean.” He chuckled. “Can we get in? Take a look?”

  “Oh, sure, of course.” I realized I had kept my mouth open the whole time, a sight to remember, for sure. I walked toward the red garage door, the paint job in an advanced state of peeling. The lockbox, according to the listing, could be found on the water spigot left side of the garage. It was. I squatted down next to it sending nasty subliminal messages to the agent who decided to install the lockbox so low. Luckily all went smoothly, and a few moments later I was unlocking the splintered front door. I worked at keeping the conversation alive to soften the blow if the inside was worse than the creaking door foreshadowed.

  “Apparently the last residents were renting the place, and although they moved out a week ago, the cleaning crew isn’t quite done. Normally we only list a property when it’s ready for showing, but calls were coming in even as the renters moved out. So the agent decided to go ahead and list right away. It went on the market twenty hours ago,” I added. Too much information?

  He understood. “I’m signed up with a site for new listings.”

  I appreciated that he probably had done his homework.

  Coming from the sunny outdoors, the inside seemed as dark and dreary as a mausoleum. I quickly walked to the large window in what appeared to be the living room and opened the mini- blinds. Wow, the main wall had flocked wallpaper. Red.

  “Someone liked red,” Greg Coste said, and we both laughed. I followed him around, not sure how to keep the conversation alive. And he certainly wasn’t much of a talker. I had to say something. Ask questions was the mantra taught to us newbies. If I could do that, I might get a better feeling about his degree of interest.

  “Are you from Las Vegas?” I asked.

  He blinked. “Vegas?”

  “Uh, yes, you know, your license plate... it’s from Nevada.”

  “Oh, that.” A smirk. “No, no. I picked up the car at the airport. I’m from California.” We were now in the kitchen, and in spite of the black, outdated appliances and a mild mildew smell, it was a pleasantly bright room. He walked around, opening and closing every door—to the garage, to the laundry room, to a closet.

  “Mr... I mean, Greg, you have ten days to get a truly detailed inspection, if you decided to proceed with the purchase.” I put it out there and waited, aware that it was a bit premature.

  I followed him to the master bedroom. “Monica, I’m looking for a home in a decent centrally located area for my stepmother and her sister. They live in a condo I own in the older part of downtown, and I think they both would be happier in a house with some grass and trees and singing birds.” His voice dropped an octave, and somehow I felt like he was describing a forever resting place rather than a happy home. But hey, I only sell houses. I don’t predict their future. So I kept quiet and followed him to the screened porch.

  He pulled a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his hands. “What do you know about adult care homes?” Did he know Brenda? Was this a trick question? Stop it, Monica.

  “Adult care homes? Can you be more specific?” I had to clear my throat. What was wrong with me?

  “Monica, are you okay? Is it the smell of ammonia?” We now stood in the hall bath and if there was an odor of ammonia, I completely missed it. Too busy thinking of a conspiracy. Was I being tested? Maybe it was the ammonia thing, or maybe I was hallucinating. We went back to the living room with the flocked wallpaper. I had to take charge if I wanted to sell something. Had to.

  “Oh, no ammonia. You’re going to think this is funny. Maybe not funny. Anyway, Brenda Baker, my uh aunt... she was... uh is a Registered Dietitian Nutrition Consultant and has spent most of her life planning menus for high-end adult living centers.” I stopped to come up for air.

  And the way Greg Coste stared at me wasn’t a reflection of his admiration. More like concern about my state of mind? Then he relaxed. “I see. My question had more to do with zoning than food.”

  Here is your chance to shine, Monica. Say something.

  “Oh, I get it, you want to know if this house could be zoned for adult care, correct?”

  “Something like that, yes. Of course, I can call the proper department and find out, but I’d like you to know what I’m looking for.”

  Music to my ears, as Americans like to say. And my mind immediately thought of Dale Wolf. His brokerage specialized in office space and other commercial stuff. He had to know.

  “Well, I’ll be happy to check on it and let you know. I believe the zoning has to do with the number of residents you are planning on welcoming. Any idea? Anyway, I will call you within twenty-four hours with whatever information I can gather.”

  I locked up and decided to wait until after he went back to his car before returning the key to the lockbox. Better spend face time with my prospect. Still couldn’t work up the nerve to ask if he was planning on paying cash or if he needed a lender. Maybe
I could do that when I called to share the zoning information.

  All in all I drove away from the property on 8th Place with a feeling of accomplishment even if Mr. Coste hadn’t really committed to working with me... yet. Something nagged at me. He mentioned a house for his stepmother and her sister. Shouldn’t he have said my mother and my aunt? I would have. The listing was smack halfway between home and the office. It was just past noon, and I was hungry. I decided to take the 51 North.

  By the time I reached Shea Boulevard, my mind had switched from Greg Coste to Tristan Dumont. Not that the two had much in common, even if I found both very interesting. One thing they shared was great hair, better than mine. At that point, the thought of Tristan and his unsettling amber eyes wiped away anything interesting about Greg.

  I turned onto our street, and the first thing I noticed even from far away was Officer Bob Clarke’s patrol car parked in front of the house belonging to the over-perfumed widow who lived across the street from us. Not sure why he was there, although I had a pretty good idea. He wasn’t waiting for Brenda’s dinner; that was for sure. First, it was early afternoon. Second, Brenda was in Tucson, and I didn’t know how to cook. Cooking, oh, forgot about that part. A mental picture of my bare refrigerator flashed in my mind. Well, I was here, might as well go home and see what I could find to munch on. I was driving slowly, debating with myself, when an obnoxiously loud motorcycle zoomed by me.

  Tommy? What the hell was my ex-husband doing here? So, Brenda was his aunt. Maybe she had given him the keys? For what? And how come he passed me and didn’t even wave? The rental SUV, duh. He didn’t know I drove this thing. By the time I approached the end of the street Tommy had turned up the driveway and couldn’t see the main road. I made a quick U-turn and headed east on Shea to the Paradise Valley Mall where I was bound to find something to eat.

  What could Tommy be doing over at Brenda’s? Did he know I was home alone? Damn. I didn’t trust him. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation.

  I ended up at the Panda Express and picked up a bowl of chicken and green beans on brown rice to go. The fortune cookie would be my dessert. That and a soda made for a perfect lunch, and then on impulse I got back in my car and headed toward 40th Street and the trailhead at the end of the road.

  I could park and sit on one of the benches. Hikers would be mostly gone at this time of

  the day. Plus, that was the trail where Dior and I crossed paths with Tristan and his horse, Tache, for the first time. The memory got me all choked up. I decided to take the long detour and drive by his house after eating my lunch. Even knowing that he wouldn’t be there, it felt sweet.

  Very few cars were in the parking lot. I sat at one of the shaded tables and ate slowly, enjoying the welcome peace and the view the Phoenix Mountain Preserve offers no matter what trail you are on. It was only after I dropped my empties in the trash bin that I remembered my phone was still on mute. I turned on the do-not-disturb while showing properties, especially with new prospects. To me it was simply being polite.

  I changed the mode and checked for missed calls. Hmm, a 520 area, no message. Wait, wait, yes, that was the phone number the gray-haired woman scribbled on my ripped business card. What do you know, she did return my call? Well, she tried. I would call her again later.

  Now I should go back to the office and talk to Sunny before asking Dale Wolf about the assisted living information. After all, the merger had been more a whisper than a matter of fact unless something happened in the few hours I had been gone. Still, I took the long way to drive by Tristan’s house.

  I drove with the window down; it was such a lovely day. It was raining back home in Italy. I routinely checked the webcams set up around town, especially when I felt lonely. I came up to Tristan’s house from the south and noticed the gate stood wide open. I could have sworn I locked it when I left.

  My heart somersaulted in my chest. Tristan? How was that possible? He was talking to me from France less than twenty-four hours ago. At least that’s what he said. I didn’t know what to do.

  Well, I had to move from the middle of the road. A Jeep I had noticed in the parking lot while I ate was coming my way. I pulled over to the right side of the street and on sheer impulse headed toward the Dumonts’ open gate, feeling totally foolish. I parked by the curb, as I often did, and started to get out of the car to walk up the driveway.

  Why was I feeling like a trespasser? Angelique knew about Tristan’s feelings. We weren’t hiding anything from her, and then I noticed a glimpse of metal shining in the sun. I recognized Angelique’s silver Escalade. Seriously?

  I’d spoken to her before my showing. She was using Brenda’s cell phone, and they were both down at the ranch. How? I counted. If we spoke before my eleven-a.m. showing, and it was now—I checked my phone—one forty-five... okay. It made sense. The ranch was an easy two or two-and-a-half leisurely hours’ drive away. Strange that she didn’t mention coming home, and I had picked up her mail—what—only twenty-four hours earlier? Weird. Anyway, none of my business.

  Feeling a little deflated I closed the driver’s door, buckled up, and headed back to the office.

  FIVE

  I COULDN’T GET Angelique and her Escalade off my mind. Why the rush to get to Phoenix? Could she somehow be mad at me for the strange woman having come to the house or for my talking to her? How was I supposed to have known who was at the door? It could have been the mailman with a very important delivery. Was she upset because Tristan had shared their big secret with me? Why would she be? Their marriage arrangement was reaching the end anyhow. I had nothing to do with it. Tristan had been quite clear about that.

  The two of them had a legally binding pre-nuptial contract. She would be his wife, on paper and in name only, for three years or however long it took to get her permanent green card making her a legal resident of the United States. Then they would get an amicable divorce, and she would receive a share of his father’s estate. Tristan said it was a matter of honor, honoring the memory of his adoptive dad by fulfilling the commitment Mr. Dumont had made to his bride-to-be before his sudden death.

  I approached the point in the road where I either turned right and went home or kept going to the 51 and the office. With the way the day had been unfolding I was willing to bet that Tommy, my ex from hell, was still hanging around the Baker compound. I hit the gas and headed for the 51.

  Desert Homes Realty looked busy, all the marked parking spaces occupied. If I had been driving my Fiat 500, I could have squeezed into the very end of the lot without blocking someone. But not with this—this hearse. Where would the new group of Realtors park if the merger moved ahead? After my second parking space scouting excursion, I ended up across the street. My cell chimed as I turned off the engine. Brenda. This ought to be interesting.

  “Hi, Brenda, let me guess. You are calling because of Tommy.” Pause.

  “Tommy? Why? What happened to him?” A sharp, alarmed cough.

  “Oh, no. I don’t—I didn’t mean it that way. But I saw him driving to your place.” The last thing I wanted to do was upset Brenda.

  “He’s probably raiding my pantry. He asked me for cash to buy food, and I told him all I could offer was what he could find. No money, just food. Anyhow, what did you say to Angelique?”

  “Huh, Angelique? When?” I was still seated in the car with the engine off.

  “What do you mean when? When she spoke to you earlier. She seemed pretty upset.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I had to tell her about this woman who came to her house while I was picking up the mail. Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Angelique.” What was wrong with me? I knew where she was, in Phoenix.

  “I don’t know, probably having lunch with the latest arrival.”

  “The latest what?”

  “A skilled farrier. You know, those people who work on horseshoes or whatever it’s called. He needed an exception to the rules to be allowed to move in here, because he’s a
little younger than the rest. He’s really good with dogs too. Dior has taken a liking to the fellow. And Angelique decided Leo, that’s his name, would be a great addition to the ranch. Hey, why are we even talking about this?”

  “Hey, nothing, you started it. Accused me of upsetting Angelique.”

  “Accused? Is everyone sniffing glue around here?” A loud noise, like something heavy crashing on concrete interrupted the conversation.

  “Damn, Monica, got to go,” she mumbled and coughed again. Was she back to smoking? “That idiot dropped the pots we just washed.”

  And poof, Brenda was gone. I locked the car and headed across the street, to the office.

  “How did it go?” Was Kassandra’s welcome. Made me smile, she acted more like a big sister than the receptionist and mighty ruler of the office.

  “Pretty good actually,” I said and meant it. “He needs more info about the property, but he seems serious about buying, and we had good chemistry.”

  “How good is good?” Mercy, what was up with Kassandra? Then I remembered she was the one who took Greg Coste’s call and obviously remembered his voice. Plus, we didn’t get many calls. Most people did their searching through the internet.

  “Let’s just say that he looks as good as he sounds on the phone.” I watched Kassandra’s eyes light up. This was going to be fun.

  “Well, tell me more—tell me more. Better yet, let’s chat over a cup of coffee.” She headed for the kitchen. At what point should I tell her he was old enough to be my father?

  Later, maybe.

  Sunny waved at me from the back of the room, motioning me over. “Sorry, Kassandra, our chat needs postponing. The boss is calling.”

  I followed Sunny to her private office with the glass walls, the room where my career as a Realtor had first begun.

  “What’s this I hear about a casino night to introduce our people to Dale’s?” she asked.

  “What? Sunny, he said something about it while we were in the kitchen, and by we I mean Kassandra and me. Two days ago? He mentioned hiring Brenda’s B&B to cater the event and have Kassandra do her tarot readings and donate the casino money to a charity. We thought he was joking.”