Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes, Maria Swan [best short novels of all time .TXT] 📗

dinner would not change regardless of when I talked to Brenda about it. I locked my car in the garage and was heading to my own place when Brenda turned the corner and stomped up the driveway dragging the tattered reindeer behind her.

That explained the renewed chorus of barking.

Oh, wait...Officer Clarke followed in Brenda’s footsteps. He wore his uniform. Was this official business? Looking for whomever kidnapped the Christmas reindeer?

Brenda dropped the thing and started rummaging in her bag.

“Wait, I’ll let you in.” The keys were still in my hand, so I unlocked her door.

“Good evening, Monica,” said the eternally polite friend of the family. “We received a formal complaint.”

“Oh? Animal cruelty?” Both Officer Clarke and Brenda stared at me and then laughed. Well, Brenda did—he smiled. “I bet it was the widow from across the street.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I was the first one to get the call, and being the closest to the location...”

Yeah, sure...“Any idea who the drowning victim was at the condo complex? Brenda had to leave her car there.” I walked into the living room last. But firmly determined to go home before Brenda asked me to drive her back to get her Honda. Dior busied himself sniffing Officer Clarke, hoping for a treat no doubt.

“Oh, that’s too bad. How long ago was that?” Clarke asked.

“Maybe”—she checked her watch—“forty-five minutes ago?” She looked at me, waiting for confirmation?

“Yeah, more or less.” I went to pour myself some wine. Apparently Brenda had forgotten her manners. “I’m not offering you a drink. I assume you’re on the clock?” I said to Officer Bob.

“Yes, well. I’m off at 12:30 a.m. Seven minutes from now. And, Brenda, I’m pretty sure you can get your car back now. I’ll be happy to drive you there.”

What? Had I become invisible?

“Monica,” he turned to me, “regarding the victim...a young woman. That’s all I have. No name or any personal information has been released as far as I know.”

Why was I feeling disappointed? Had I hoped to hear that Double Wide had drowned? Seriously? I decided to pass on the wine.

“I’m going to bed.” I petted Dior’s head. “I’m letting myself out,” I said to no one in particular, since the only one who seemed to care was the dog.

The minute I got home, I turned on the television hoping to get more glimpses of the unfolding drama at The Nest high-rise. I wasn’t disappointed. The same reporter who had interviewed Leta was now talking to the doorman. The only reason I recognized him was because of the gold buttons on the otherwise nondescript uniform. He seemed younger than I had first assumed and also rather impressed with himself. His remarks were mostly about trespassers. What? Trespassers? Very unfortunate coincidence.

My short encounter with the doorman flashed through my mind. I turned off the screen as if that would keep the fool from sharing more info. Fingers crossed he didn’t talk about the trespasser in a pink Fiat. Not the kind of publicity Aunt Brenda would be thankful for.

I decided I might as well go to sleep as there was no sex to be had at this point. My cell phone blinked from the coffee table. I could always call someone if I got depressed. I picked up the phone, the time said 12:45 a.m. Well, Monica, unless you know Batman’s private number I suggest you go to sleep. It was the sensible part of my conscience speaking.

And so I did.

THREE

WHAT WAS IT about Friday? I was restless. Why? Because it was Friday? I tried to think of Friday as just another day, instead of jumping to the weekend.

The weekend—two days of no work or no school, no need to dress up, free to slouch around all day. Well, not if you were a real estate agent because most open houses were on weekends, and buyers who worked all week were free to look at houses on days off. But old habits died hard, and on this cloudy Friday morning I drove to the office because I had to. Brenda’s Honda Pilot was in the garage we shared when I left the house, and that was a good thing—no idea when she got her car back or if the presence of Officer Clarke helped.

So last evening a young woman had drowned in the rooftop pool of a swanky high-rise, and today life went on as usual. I didn’t even know her name. Something felt wrong, very wrong. By association I wondered if Kay would show up at the office today. She would probably know the details. Of course she didn’t have to come to work. Kay Lewis could do whatever she wanted, and I was pretty sure she wasn’t chasing her next commission as most of us beginners were. And then there was always D&W Brokerage who would have gladly offered her a large office with a view instead of the windowless, closet-size spot she occupied at Desert Homes Realty.

Going to work didn’t feel the same without Kassandra there to greet me. Sunny, my boss, had hired a temp, an older woman who acted like a well-programmed robot. She wasn’t too nice or too grouchy, always just right. With one exception. Scott, our signs installer and occasional all-around gofer.

When he was at the office, he hung around Kassandra ninety percent of the time. There was nothing romantic between them—of that I was sure. But they shared the same snarky sense of humor and colorful language. They liked each other, period.

None of that worked with the temp. And today, for reasons I couldn’t explain, aside from said temp, who was sitting up front, I was the only person in the office. Weird. I made a beeline to the kitchen and poured myself some coffee. There was nothing more depressing than an empty office, an office usually brimming with activity. I’d heard that with the new year looming, many of our more seasoned agents planned on ceasing to come in altogether and work from