Killer Transaction (Cindy York Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  "Donna told me the day before yesterday. I'm sorry, with everything else going on, I forgot to mention it. I'm actually showing her husband some houses today. They're for his mother."

  He drew his finely arched eyebrows together. "No offense, Cin, but why in the name of God would Donna ask you to show houses to her new husband? By the way, I saw a picture of her new boy toy. The man is hot. I mean, he's to-die-for hot. I almost drooled on myself. And why would someone who looks like him marry someone who looks like her? Bet it's for her money. She's having a mighty good year. Have you seen the new Corvette she just bought?"

  I laughed. "Listen to you. That's pretty harsh. It's not always about people's looks, you know."

  "The hell it isn't. What a waste of a fine-looking man."

  "Okay, stop this. You're a married man too, remember?"

  He snorted. "Listen, honey, I love Ed to the moon and back, but I still stop and take a look around once in a while."

  I shook my head at him. "You're hopeless."

  "Yeah, a hopeless romantic." Jacques drained his cup. "You still didn't answer my question. Why are you showing him houses?"

  "Donna has an all-day sales meeting, and this is the only time he's available. Plus everyone else in the office was busy today, so I assume I was her last choice. She agreed to give me 25 percent of the deal if her mother-in-law buys one of the houses. I already got it in writing."

  "Well, that was smart of you," Jacques conceded. "Still, I have my doubts wherever Donna is concerned. Especially since she's not your biggest fan lately. Does Greg know that this guy could be George Clooney's double?"

  My face was growing warm. "No, he doesn't, and who cares anyway? That means nothing to me. Ken's a client. That's all."

  "No. He's Donna's husband. What if she's trying to make trouble for you? Get you fired?"

  Crap. I hadn't thought of that. "That's ridiculous." I examined my watch. "Time to get going. Thanks for the drink. I was dying for one of those."

  Jacques grinned. "The whipped cream or the macchiato?"

  "Both." I slid out of my seat. "I really have to run."

  "I'll have to get you a steady supply of Reddi-wip. So what's the rush? Don't want to keep Ken Doll waiting?"

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "Remember, I told you I've got to get to the kids' school. Today's Career Day, and they've never had a real estate agent before."

  "Wow, your day keeps getting better and better." He stood and held the door open for me. As we walked toward my car together, he looped his arm through mine. "Cin, please be careful."

  I tried to fight the panic starting to rise within me. "Nothing's going to happen."

  "I hope not," Jacques said soberly. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek. "I've got inspections for a house out in Millbrook, but call if you need me. You know you always come first." With that he turned and got into his car.

  My heart melted as he waved and zoomed off, his CD player blasting Lady Gaga's "Born This Way." I thanked my lucky stars for that man. I couldn't have asked for a better bestie.

  I pulled into the driveway and rushed to unload the two bags from my trunk. As I hurried toward the porch, a piece of paper taped to the front door caught my eye. Someone had typed out a message in bold letters on a piece of printer paper. Had Stephanie come back and left me a little note?

  The paper read: Turn yourself in. I know you did it, and I'll be coming after you.

  My arms grew numb, and I let the bags slide to the cement. I ripped the piece of paper from the front door and threw it into my purse. Hands trembling, I unlocked the front door and peered inside, but no one waited to pounce on me, except Rusty in the gated kitchen area. He was eager to show me the fresh puddle he'd left in my absence. Gee whiz, why did this pup refuse to be house-trained?

  I let Rusty outside into the backyard for a few minutes while I unpacked the groceries and cleaned up the puddle. I checked my watch, which read 10:20. Thank goodness the school was five minutes away. Once Rusty was back inside and I'd secured the kitchen gate, I grabbed my briefcase and purse. The note fluttered out of my purse and fell on the floor.

  My stomach churned. While I knew I should report the threat, I was afraid. What if the police thought I'd made up the story? I folded the note carefully and placed it back inside my purse so that I could show it to Greg later. I locked the front door and double checked that it was secured.

  As I pulled my seatbelt across me, the truth of the situation dawned on me. Someone had waited until I left the house to place the note there. That meant someone was watching me. Why? Was I in some type of danger? And what about my family? My head started spinning as I desperately tried to calm myself. No. It's only your imagination working overtime.

  I whispered a short prayer asking for strength to help me get through this day, then drove off toward the twins' school.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I found myself standing in front of twenty third graders and their teacher. I had met Mrs. White several times before. A pleasant, elderly woman with thick-rimmed glasses and an outdated beehive hairdo, her thin face was tired and drawn. I suspected she had a hidden calendar that she used to count down the days to her retirement.

  The children whispered amongst themselves and pointed fingers at me. I should have begged Greg to come. Brake pads can be interesting. I hoped they weren't wondering if I'd brought the murder weapon with me.

  Mrs. White clapped her hands together, and the talking stopped abruptly. "Stevie and Seth, would you like to introduce your mother to the class?"

  Stevie jumped to his feet while Seth remained sitting. "My mom's name is Cindy, but you can call her Mrs. York. She's a real estate agent."

  "Can anyone tell me what a real estate agent does?" Mrs. White asked.

  In the front row, a little girl with bright-red hair and freckles raised her hand. "They buy houses and make lots of money."

  I laughed. "Well, we don't actually buy them. We help people—our clients—sell them to other people. And we don't always make a lot of money. Our salary, known as commission, is based upon the price of the house."

  The little girl appeared nonplussed. "You mean, if it's a mansion you'll get a lot of money, but if it's a dump, you don't see much dough?"

  The room was getting warm. "Well, that's one way of looking at it. But our main goal is to help people."

  "Yeah, right." A chubby, blonde girl in the back row scowled at me. "My daddy says you guys are nothing but crooks."

  I was startled by the sarcasm coming from an eight-year-old's mouth and forced a sweet smile in her direction. "What does your daddy do for a living, dear?"

  "He sells cars."

  Mrs. White stared at me as if daring me to respond. Before I could manage to say anything, another hand shot up.

  Tyler, one of the twins' best friends, got to his feet. He lived in our neighborhood and had been to our home on several occasions. "My aunt just bought a house. It's on Livingston Avenue."

  My smile faded. "Oh, that's nice."

  I found this especially interesting since Tyler's mother, Anne, was a friend of mine. I'd shown her sister, Leslie, several houses earlier this year, but she'd told me she wanted to wait until the market got better. Was there no loyalty anymore? "Well, you be sure to give Aunt Leslie my best."

  "Yeah, the lady who died sold her the place. Aunt Leslie said real estate agents will tell people anything to make a sale. Is that true?" Tyler asked.

  The heat rose through my face. I hadn't been prepared to answer questions like this.

  Fortunately, Mrs. White interrupted before I could muster a response. "Now, Tyler, real estate agents have to tell people the truth about the homes they sell. Remember, honesty is the best policy."

  "Well, the dead lady wasn't honest with her, and the house is a big mess. Aunt Leslie said she should've stuck with Mrs. York. She told my mom she's glad that lady's dead."

  A murmur ran through the classroom. Mrs. White clapped her hands again in clear frustration. "Children,
please."

  A knock sounded on the door, and the school secretary poked her head in. "Mrs. White, there's a phone call for you in the office."

  When Mrs. White glanced at me, I gave her my best reassuring smile. "Don't worry. We'll be fine until you get back."

  She grimaced but nonetheless hurried out of the classroom. I was glad for a chance to be alone with the kids. I leaned back against the desk and smiled at Tyler. "So why didn't Aunt Leslie like Miss Roberts?"

  "Is that the lady who got shot?"

  "Yes."

  "She was a bad lady. She lied to Aunt Leslie about the house and said the fur nest was like new."

  "The what?"

  "You know, the heater thing," Tyler explained.

  "The furnace?"

  "Yeah, that's it. The first day Aunt Leslie moved in the house, she called my mom crying. The furnace was already busted. She said the agent lady knew but didn't care. She wished her dead over and over. My mom got angry too, but when we heard she got killed, my dad thought you did it."

  A chill went down my spine. "Why would he think that?"

  "I don't know. He said he hoped not because he thinks you're kind of cute. My mom got real mad when he said that."

  "Ew, gross." Stevie made a face.

  "I'm telling my dad," Seth chimed in.

  "Okay, enough, guys." I focused on Tyler again. "So what did Aunt Leslie say when she found out Miss Roberts had been killed?"

  "I heard my mom tell Dad that Aunt Leslie was acting weird, and she was worried about her. She said Aunt Leslie did something really bad. She went to see Miss Roberts and—"

  "Well, now how are we doing in here?" Mrs. White stood next to me, glaring.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. I hadn't even heard her come back into the room.

  Tyler addressed his teacher, wide eyed. "Mrs. York was asking me about Aunt Leslie. She bought a house from the dead lady."

  Mrs. White shook her head at me in such a disapproving way that I wondered if I should volunteer to go stand in the corner. "Okay, who would like to ask Mrs. York how she figures out what a house will sell for?"

  Tyler raised his hand again. "Did you kill Miss Roberts?"

  I gazed at him, shocked. "No, of course not. I can't believe you'd ask me such a thing."

  "Well, I guess Aunt Leslie might have done it, but I think it was you. My mom said the bad lady cheated you out of a sale." Tyler wiped his runny nose with his sleeve.

  Mrs. White's mouth fell open. "Tyler, that will be enough. And for goodness sake, grab a tissue."

  I stared at the twins, hoping to gauge their reactions. Much to my surprise, they seemed unperturbed by their friend's accusation. They met my gaze and grinned. Perhaps it was all surreal to them.

  I decided this would be a good time to hand out my little care packages. They had been fun to make last night with the boys and Rusty helping. Seth and Stevie were beaming at me now, and I smiled at the class. "If Mrs. White agrees, I have presents for each one of you to take home."

  "Of course. What a lovely gesture, Mrs. York."

  I reached into my briefcase and brought out the packages of candy with my real estate card attached. I began to hand them out to the children.

  Tyler observed his package with care. "My mom and dad aren't buying another house, Mrs. York."

  This kid was priceless. "Yes, I'm aware of that. Why don't you tell them to hang on to the card, okay? They might know someone who wants to buy a house later on."

  "Well, there was only Aunt Leslie, and I don't think she likes real estate agents anymore."

  I chose to ignore his last comment and kept distributing the packages while glancing at the classroom clock. It's almost over, hang in there.

  "I can't take this." A little girl with solemn, brown eyes and matching braids that hung over her shoulders waved her hand at me.

  I raised my eyebrows. "Is there something wrong with the candy?"

  "No, it's not that. My mother doesn't allow me to take candy from strangers—or killers."

  "Elizabeth!" Mrs. White gasped. "You apologize to Mrs. York right now."

  Elizabeth wore a pained expression on her face. "I'm really sorry you're a killer, Mrs. York."

  Mrs. White groaned. "That isn't what I meant."

  Lisa frowned at her package. "How come there's no good candy in here? I don't like the cheap stuff."

  Mrs. White watched me with hesitation. I nodded to let her know I was okay. I could handle anything now or so I thought.

  "Why do they call jail cells a slammer?" Elizabeth wanted to know. "Is that because people get slammed around a lot? Do they beat you up in there?"

  "I'm not sure. I've never been in prison."

  "Not yet," Elizabeth reminded me.

  I wiped at my perspiring forehead and glanced hopefully at the clock—again. It was 11:15. Thank goodness—time to go.

  Another hand shot through the air, and the chubby blonde met my gaze. "Mrs. York, you should watch out. My mom said people can catch all kinds of diseases from those jail cells."

  I had never been so relieved to leave the twins' classroom before. I'd finally been paroled but nonetheless, managed a wide grin for the children. "Time for me to go now, kids. I have an appointment to show someone a few houses this afternoon."

  "If they won't buy, will you threaten them with a gun?" Tyler nearly bounced out of his seat with excitement.

  "That will be quite enough." Mrs. White mopped at her forehead with a handkerchief. She'd probably have to go on stress leave for a week after my visit.

  Elizabeth raised her hand but didn't wait for either Mrs. White or me to acknowledge her. "Why do people still want you to show them houses? I mean, aren't you going to be locked up soon?"

  "My mom's not going to prison," Seth insisted. "She never hurt anyone."

  Stevie nodded. "Yeah. And even if she does go to jail, the guards will let her come home at night to make dinner for us."

  My headache was back. I picked up my purse and briefcase and started for the door. "Well, guys, thanks. This was, um, interesting."

  Mrs. White smiled, obviously relieved to be rid of me. "Let's all say thank you to Mrs. York for coming in today."

  I received a chorus of "thank you" and "I want to go to your house" as I nodded good-bye to Stevie and Seth, who both gave me thumbs up.

  "Good luck in prison," Elizabeth said. "Maybe we can come visit you."

  I sighed. "I'm not going to prison, Elizabeth."

  "Will you get your picture on TV and in the paper?" Lisa asked.

  "Maybe they'll put you in one of those reality shows," the chubby blonde volunteered.

  "Miss Roberts wasn't a nice lady," Tyler said thoughtfully, "but my dad told me she was smoking. Does that mean she liked cigarettes?"

  "If you say one more word, you're going down to see the principal," Mrs. White threatened.

  He looked at her, puzzled. "But if she was bad, maybe it's okay someone killed her?"

  "Killing someone is never okay."

  "Somebody took out the trash." Seth exclaimed in an exaggerated Italian accent.

  Some of the kids giggled while the color drained from Mrs. White's face. I stood there clutching the doorknob, speechless. Last month, while I was out showing a house one Saturday afternoon, Greg had discovered the twins watching a rerun of The Sopranos. Apparently, it hadn't been the first time either. He'd changed the station immediately, but it appeared the damage had already been done.

  Mrs. White hurried over and took my hand in both of hers. "You were great to put up with all of this. Thanks, and good luck to you."

  I chuckled. "Good luck to you too. You've certainly got your hands full with this bunch."

  "Only 398 calendar days until I'm out of my prison for good," Mrs. White said wearily. "But who's counting?"

  I knew it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The clock in my car alerted me to the fact that the noon hour had officially arrived. By some miracle, I'd been early to meet Ken.
I arrived at the house first and took a little time to go through my emails until a man zoomed up next to me in a bright-red BMW. He got out of the car, and my jaw dropped.

  Ken Sorenson did bear a striking resemblance to George Clooney—square jaw, rugged handsome face, and exuding an air of confidence. He had thick, dark hair, which showed no signs of receding, and was tanned and powerfully built in a dark-blue, Calvin Klein suit and matching silk tie. His enormous, dark eyes focused on my face as he approached my car. I remained frozen in the seat, still staring.

  His perfect white teeth gleamed in a grin, and he opened my car door before I had a chance to react. He extended his hand to help me out of my seat. "Hi, Cindy. I'd recognize you anywhere. It's great to meet you."

  "Likewise," I said.

  His eyes scanned me up and down and lingered on my chest a bit too long. "You look terrific in that suit."

  "Shall we see the house?" I asked, ignoring his compliment. Despite his good looks, something about the man and the way he looked at me made me uneasy. I walked toward the front door, and Ken followed. Holy cow. Dowdy Donna, as Jacques called her, had hit the jackpot with this guy. So if he was such a catch, why was being around him making me nauseous?

  I presented Ken with a copy of the listing, and he leaned against the railing while I took my eKEY out of my purse, entered the code, and slid the electronic lockbox open. I inserted the key into the door and stepped back to let Ken enter first.

  Ken did a quick circle around the kitchen, stopped to look at the bathrooms, and peeked into the family room. He then took the stairs two at a time to inspect the bedrooms and other rooms. I followed behind at a respectable distance.

  "Nice, but the rooms are too small for my mother's elaborate taste." He walked out the front door without a backward glance. I followed, after leaving my business card on the table in the foyer. We'd barely been inside for five minutes.

  I marveled at how sure Ken was of himself and seemed to know exactly what he wanted. I still couldn't believe he was Donna's husband, but what did I know? Maybe he really loved her. Something about their whole whirlwind relationship and sudden marriage bothered me, but hey, it wasn't any of my business.