Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic by Maria Swan (read a book .TXT) 📗

She handed me a business card. I opened my mouth a few times, and squinted, too, pretending to seriously study the computer-generated business card.

“I got canned, again. So I figured I’ll take this job. After all, I’m good at taking photos, had a lot of practice while working under cover for the We Dig Deeper magazine.”

She shook her red mane and I sort of felt sorry for her, but it didn’t last long. I went to unlock the front door while Jessie began to unload her equipment from the back of the van. I have to admit, it all looked legit.

“What happened to the regular guy? What’s his name? Al?”

“Alan got married; he’s on his honeymoon?”

She carried one of those things into the entrance. A tripod?

“Huh? Married? He must be seventy at least. Not that it matters of course. Now don’t go out there screaming age discrimination.”

“What age discrimination? He probably is seventy, but last time I checked there is no law against getting married at seventy.”

“No, there isn’t it.” I sighed, and flashes of paler, thinner skin and Angelique’s aging face raced through my mind. I doubted Mrs. Dumont was that old. I looked at J.S. who was looking at me. Couldn’t help wondering if we shared the same brief insight but I’ll never know for sure. While she walked around to familiarize herself with the floorplan I explored the closets and the pantry.

The home had that smell of shut-off, old places. It didn’t matter that the house had been thoroughly cleaned and, thanks to our dry climate, no mold or mildew to be concerned about. But unless you used plug-in air fresheners overloaded with chemically-induced, icky odor cover-ups, you got old folks smell. Personally, I would take the stale smell over flowery air fresheners any day, for sure. But right this moment I went from room to room and opened the windows wide. In the pantry, I found some silk plants and a few old baskets that could be used as props. Nothing of great monetary or sentimental value because, as Kay always reminded me, you can’t trust everyone. Since I was the key holder, it was my responsibility to keep the place safe.

“Before it hits the market, I want to come back and place some nice fluffy towels in the master bath,” I said.

“Oh, any particular thing I should be aware of before shooting it?”

“Nah, it’s just the walk-in bath tub. I’ve never seen one before, it looks odd.”

“Let me see.” J.S. followed me through the master bedroom and looked inside the empty tub.

“I see what you mean,” she mused. “What happens if after you’re in there, surrounded by water and bubbles, you need to go?”

I gave her a look.

“No, not to pee,” she said quickly. “That’s a no brainer. I’m thinking — number 2?”

We stared at each other. “Whoa, that could get messy quick,” she snickered. “Gross.”

I nodded. “It sucks to get old.”

“You should talk, I’m probably five, six years older than you are.” She turned, adjusted her camera and clicked a pic of me, standing by the walk in tub, with my mouth open as usual.

Two hours later she was done and packed, ready to go. I gave her all my info for R.E. Assist Company. Part of their service was to post the photos to the Internet, but I had to approve them first. When Jessica left she had my phone number, email, and, nagging thought, my realtor member number and password. I kept my fingers crossed behind my back while sharing the info. Although it was all very legit, the uncomfortable feeling wouldn’t go away. I locked up the house and took the long way to the main gate. I wanted to see the community pool and the crafts room. To my surprise, I realized there was also a tennis court and a nine-hole golf course. Very nice, perfect for a retired couple, I assumed.

On the way back to the office, I stopped to top off the Kia’s tank and the concern about sharing info with J.S. came nagging at me with renewed vigor. She had to have had my info before we met at the listing. I maintained an account with the company that employed her and she was waiting there for me. Certainly, she’d been briefed and supplied the necessary data. Why did she ask for it again?

What if Al wasn’t on his honeymoon and J.S. being assigned to my account wasn’t a coincidence? And what if I stopped making myself sick over that? Why would she care? Why? The name Tristan came to mind. Crystal clear. Mercy me, between the camper dude and the former reporter chick this was definitely an Excedrin kind of afternoon.

The minute I locked the Kia, my eyes went to the installed spare tire on my pink beauty. Yes. Thanks AAA. How could I ever give up my little Fiat? We had been through so much together. My high heels clicked toward the office entrance, the listing file proudly tucked under my arm and the Kia’s keys jingling in my hand.

Slam! The hefty office door was pushed open so fast it hit me hard, and I found myself falling backward. I dropped the keys trying to grab the decorative metal handle. That was close. As I worked at catching my breath and my balance, a pissed off Celine hissed, “You. Get the hell out of my way.”

And she stomped out in such a rage she even forgot to sashay her hips. What was going on? How did I miss her powder blue Sebring? Too busy looking at my pink chariot?

Kassandra was at my side, Sunny trailing by seconds, “I’m sorry Monica, are you okay?”

I was still too shaken up and frankly — stunned —even to spell out a few choice adjectives befitting that spoiled brat Celine. A little voice in my head told me she must have had a fight with her mother, and by her explosive exit, she