Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis by Maria Swan (cheapest way to read ebooks txt) 📗

for sure. First, it was early afternoon. Second, Brenda was in Tucson, and I didn’t know how to cook. Cooking, oh, forgot about that part. A mental picture of my bare refrigerator flashed in my mind. Well, I was here, might as well go home and see what I could find to munch on. I was driving slowly, debating with myself, when an obnoxiously loud motorcycle zoomed by me.

Tommy? What the hell was my ex-husband doing here? So, Brenda was his aunt. Maybe she had given him the keys? For what? And how come he passed me and didn’t even wave? The rental SUV, duh. He didn’t know I drove this thing. By the time I approached the end of the street Tommy had turned up the driveway and couldn’t see the main road. I made a quick U-turn and headed east on Shea to the Paradise Valley Mall where I was bound to find something to eat.

What could Tommy be doing over at Brenda’s? Did he know I was home alone? Damn. I didn’t trust him. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation.

I ended up at the Panda Express and picked up a bowl of chicken and green beans on brown rice to go. The fortune cookie would be my dessert. That and a soda made for a perfect lunch, and then on impulse I got back in my car and headed toward 40th Street and the trailhead at the end of the road.

I could park and sit on one of the benches. Hikers would be mostly gone at this time of

the day. Plus, that was the trail where Dior and I crossed paths with Tristan and his horse, Tache, for the first time. The memory got me all choked up. I decided to take the long detour and drive by his house after eating my lunch. Even knowing that he wouldn’t be there, it felt sweet.

Very few cars were in the parking lot. I sat at one of the shaded tables and ate slowly, enjoying the welcome peace and the view the Phoenix Mountain Preserve offers no matter what trail you are on. It was only after I dropped my empties in the trash bin that I remembered my phone was still on mute. I turned on the do-not-disturb while showing properties, especially with new prospects. To me it was simply being polite.

I changed the mode and checked for missed calls. Hmm, a 520 area, no message. Wait, wait, yes, that was the phone number the gray-haired woman scribbled on my ripped business card. What do you know, she did return my call? Well, she tried. I would call her again later.

Now I should go back to the office and talk to Sunny before asking Dale Wolf about the assisted living information. After all, the merger had been more a whisper than a matter of fact unless something happened in the few hours I had been gone. Still, I took the long way to drive by Tristan’s house.

I drove with the window down; it was such a lovely day. It was raining back home in Italy. I routinely checked the webcams set up around town, especially when I felt lonely. I came up to Tristan’s house from the south and noticed the gate stood wide open. I could have sworn I locked it when I left.

My heart somersaulted in my chest. Tristan? How was that possible? He was talking to me from France less than twenty-four hours ago. At least that’s what he said. I didn’t know what to do.

Well, I had to move from the middle of the road. A Jeep I had noticed in the parking lot while I ate was coming my way. I pulled over to the right side of the street and on sheer impulse headed toward the Dumonts’ open gate, feeling totally foolish. I parked by the curb, as I often did, and started to get out of the car to walk up the driveway.

Why was I feeling like a trespasser? Angelique knew about Tristan’s feelings. We weren’t hiding anything from her, and then I noticed a glimpse of metal shining in the sun. I recognized Angelique’s silver Escalade. Seriously?

I’d spoken to her before my showing. She was using Brenda’s cell phone, and they were both down at the ranch. How? I counted. If we spoke before my eleven-a.m. showing, and it was now—I checked my phone—one forty-five... okay. It made sense. The ranch was an easy two or two-and-a-half leisurely hours’ drive away. Strange that she didn’t mention coming home, and I had picked up her mail—what—only twenty-four hours earlier? Weird. Anyway, none of my business.

Feeling a little deflated I closed the driver’s door, buckled up, and headed back to the office.

FIVE

I COULDN’T GET Angelique and her Escalade off my mind. Why the rush to get to Phoenix? Could she somehow be mad at me for the strange woman having come to the house or for my talking to her? How was I supposed to have known who was at the door? It could have been the mailman with a very important delivery. Was she upset because Tristan had shared their big secret with me? Why would she be? Their marriage arrangement was reaching the end anyhow. I had nothing to do with it. Tristan had been quite clear about that.

The two of them had a legally binding pre-nuptial contract. She would be his wife, on paper and in name only, for three years or however long it took to get her permanent green card making her a legal resident of the United States. Then they would get an amicable divorce, and she would receive a share of his father’s estate. Tristan said it was a matter of honor, honoring the memory of his adoptive dad by fulfilling the commitment Mr. Dumont had made to his bride-to-be before his sudden death.

I approached the point in the road where I either turned right and went home or kept going to the