Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes by Maria Swan (top books of all time txt) 📗

elevator, my only visible escape route. Unless there were stairs? Stop it, Monica.

I had memorized the digits to unlock the door, more like touch screen than punching numbers, and I heard the click of the door unlocking itself. That noise in the quietness of the narrow hall hit me like a sucker punch. Why? What was it about this place? I blamed the lack of windows allowing natural light as well as the tired gold shades on the wall sconces. The whole place reminded me of creepy mausoleums in the Italian cemeteries, minus the flowers and the sepia-colored photos of the dear departed.

I counted to three and pushed the door open. A ribbon of light coming from an inside door was the only bright point. I ran my hand up and down the wall next to the front door until my fingers encountered what felt like a switch. Correct assumption. I stood in the nicely decorated living room—neutral colors and simple yet classic furniture, also heavy drapes keeping daylight from intruding. I pulled back the drapes. Now I could see a large kitchen to one side but found myself attracted to the door still spilling light into the living room. I anticipated it to be the master bedroom. Wrong. It was a den with a daybed, unmade. Clothing dotted the floor near the bed.

“Helloooo,” I called out to no one there. What to do? The den had another door. After I convinced myself to snap out of my fear/caution and do what I came to do, I went to explore where that door would take me. Not far enough since I found myself in what was obviously the adjoining master bedroom. Here too the décor was subdued and neutral. Maybe the owners bought the condo already furnished as I could see nothing personal—no photos or fun pillows or knick-knacks, etc.

The place only had one very large bathroom, how odd. It was probably the most luxurious part of this condo, but still odd. The bath opened into the master bedroom and also into the den. It appeared that whoever left the clothes on the floor also left belongings in the bathroom. I barely glanced at the small plastic pouch with basic makeup items showing through and decided it was time to make a phone call. The uneasiness that had started once I stepped into the downstairs lobby had now reached the paranoia level, and as I stood in the center of the living room calling Leeann Brown, I avoided touching a single item surrounding me. I needed to get the hell out of there. I felt sure someone was watching me. Dear God, maybe the weird doorman had a camera installed in all the vacant units.

My throat closed on me. I could barely speak. “Leeann, someone has been here since you left, or maybe before—”

“Monica? What are you talking about? I can hardly hear you. Are you over at The Nest?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “Is Walter the doorman giving you a hard time? Let me talk to him.”

“No, not him.” I told her about the daybed and the clothing. What I didn’t tell her was the image of the dead girl that kept flashing through my head. What if.

“Oh, I see. I don’t know what to say. I haven’t set foot in that condo in weeks. Leslie takes care of all that. I’ll ask her as soon as she’s coherent. She’s overmedicated. Meantime, can you be a doll and stash the stuff in a closet and make the bed? I know it’s not part of your duties, but it would help in case we get a showing before this gets sorted out. I’ll call you back as soon as I have answers and thank you so much. We’ll make it up to you. Okay?”

If all her talking was meant to make me feel better, she’d failed. I did what she asked—picked up the few generic pieces of clothing and stuffed them in the closet. Then I collected my own stuff and got out of there as if I were being chased by a hoard of blood-sucking vampires. And not the sparkly kind. The corridor was as empty as before, same with the elevator. I put my finger on L for lobby and hesitated. One bright button showed POOL. And before my common sense kicked in, my finger made contact, and up we went.

By the time I reached the last stop, my heart had taken permanent residence in the deepest recess of my throat. The doors swished open into a large, empty room with signs pointing to the rooftop and pool access. To go there a special key would be needed to unlock a solid double door. A key I didn’t have. Score one for The Nest. As a realtor with hours of classes and rules regarding pools and barriers, I should have expected that.

What I had visualized instead were yards and yards of yellow tape, like you see in the police and crime shows, the Do Not Cross kind. Nothing. Either there never was any warning tape or maybe they had decided all the clues had been collected. Or maybe I watched too many cop shows. I found myself tiptoeing around. No carpeting on this floor. All tile.

The other arrow pointed to a rounding wall showing the map of the top floor where I stood. Apparently most of that space was dedicated to administration aka conference room and a gym. I spotted three security cameras, but no Walter. Time to get back to the elevator and descend to the safety of earthy grounds.

That was when I heard it—voices.

People talking, not angry, more like—animated. Yes, that. Such a good American word. Somehow I knew that if I turned the corner where the map hung I would have a good view of the talking people, but whatever good sense still functioned in my head told me to change direction and head as quietly and as quickly as I could toward