Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic, Maria Swan [reading list TXT] 📗

“Well girl, this is your lucky day, debate no more. If you can wait until morning I’ll bring you one and you can satisfy your curiosity.”

“No, no, I don’t mean for you to go buy... oh, I could pay you back. But at the office? How?”

“I keep a half dozen in my fridge at home. It’s cheaper buying in bulk.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being funny to cheer me up or if... after all, this was Kassandra I was talking to.

“You just show up and I’ll walk you through it. Now go home and get drunk because if you are and... never mind. The phone is ringing. Do as I said.”

I was stunned. A car to my right honking urgently snapped me back to reality in a jiffy. My Fiat was half on the main street and half on the sidewalk. Way to go, Monica. I instinctively straightened out the car and headed home. Had to get myself together in case I ran into Brenda, or worse yet, Brenda and Bob. Brenda and Bob. B&B. Like the name of our catering company. How about that? She could easily kick me out and have Bob as a business partner and...

What was I thinking? Enough nonsense for one day! My cell chimed again and I was oh, so tempted to roll down the window and toss the phone. I didn’t.

“Hello, Monica, is this a good time to talk?” J.S. Smith.

“Huuuh? I — yes.” I swallowed hard, “Sure, I’m driving and I’m alone, go ahead. What’s up? Oh, by the way, very nice job with the pics.”

“You’re too kind. That’s sort of why I’m calling. My manager told me that one of the top high-end agents asked to use my services based on the photos I did for you.”

“You mean Kay. Yes, she’s in my office and yes, she sells high-priced properties. Maybe you don’t remember her, but she was at that open house where we met for the first time.”

She sighed. “Hope she doesn’t remember me. I was working for that gossip magazine and making a pest of myself. Anyway, I created some color fliers for your listing. They turned out pretty good, and I also put together a folder with all the photos for your sellers to keep. Can I come by your office first thing in the morning and show you?”

I’m not good at driving and talking; I tend to slow down to snail pace to the extreme annoyance of all the other drivers behind me. I was collecting a nice sample of hateful looks and a few finger signals. “I have to take my car in to get a new tire at 9:30 and will probably be sitting and waiting for an hour or so.”

“How about if I come and rescue you from the waiting room, we run over to your listing, set up the little display I made and I’ll drive you back. You won’t get bored and I’ll feel great for helping you out.”

I turned left, taking the back road that ran by Tristan’s house. Just how sick-minded was I?

“Sounds terrific, Jessie, as soon as I get home I’ll text you the address and phone number of my mechanic. Perfect timing, too, I’ll put on the lock box. We are releasing the listing Thursday morning.”

The Dumont home was dark except for the outdoor low-voltage lights, probably solar. I couldn’t call Tristan after business hours; it would be too personal. Plus it might annoy his wife if they were having dinner together. My mind went wondering about the kind of food they would eat. Who did the cooking? Lois Thomas, Angelique’s personal assistant? And how was that any of my business? I had more serious problems to tackle.

I finally left 36th street and started to relax, until I arrived in view of home. I noticed Bob Clarke’s car first. Blocking the driveway. My driveway. Okay, shared driveway, but still. Wait... was that Tommy’s Harley? What the hell was going on? My ex and Officer Clarke? Who else? Was this a family party minus me?

I parked my car on the street, as close as possible to the sidewalk, and caught a glimpse of the widow across the street peeking from behind her drapes. I had barely locked my car door when Dior came barreling down the driveway and nearly knocked me off my feet. If Dior was loose, something must have happened to Aunt Brenda. I grabbed the Great Dane’s collar and marched up to the house.

THIRTEEN

“SLOW DOWN,” MEANT nothing to Dior. We flew up the concrete driveway to the open back door of Brenda’s place. Wide open, same as the garage door. I recognized two of Brenda’s dining chairs sitting outside, by the garage. Her Honda Pilot parked as far in as possible and the rear door of the SUV also wide open. Voices could be heard inside the home. Well, voices, clatter, grinding noises, a cacophony of sounds I had a hard time identifying, except for Brenda’s raspy laugh, trademark of lifelong smokers. I had so missed that laugh.

What was happening? Was someone moving? Moving in or out? A sense of panic found its way down my chest where angst and fear had been doing the tango ever since I discovered that I was late with my period. I doubted anyone knew of my presence until Dior let out a rather assertive series of barks. The Great Dane had a knack for gathering an audience in a split second.

Tommy and his curly black hair materialized first. Peeking out from the open door.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Wait.” He called out, “Aunt Brenda, your dog is here in back, with Monica.”

“What? How did he get out?” Brenda called.

The automatic security lights came on as I stood there, mouth open, holding Dior’s collar until Brenda appeared.

“Oh, hi Monica, I didn’t hear your car. Where did you find that bad boy?”

Brenda was still talking when Bob appeared behind her. In jeans and a flannel