Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes by Maria Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📕

Two. A new construction in Gilbert—those girls get around. They were all over Maricopa County. It would be a long haul if I had to show the Gilbert house, except it wasn’t completed yet. Fingers crossed.

The third and last one was a condo, a pricey one... noooo. At The Nest. I was cursed. My phone chimed before I read the last part of the listing—Leeann, calling from Sky Harbor. By the time we were done talking it had become apparent the condo in the high rise was the deal of the day...according to the listing agent, of course. The out-of-state sellers had reduced the price ten hours after the drowning, and an open house ad purchased a week ago couldn’t be cancelled at this late hour. Could it get more f****d up than that? Yes, because the HOA did not allow Realtor lock boxes. But lucky for me, instead of a regular lock, the door was equipped with an electronic keypad, and it was my job to provide the code to Realtors and Realtors ONLY.

Leeann cut the call short when her flight was boarding. She promised a follow-up call upon landing. If possible. Great, all I ever dreamed of—an overzealous Realtor micromanaging from a distance. And a front door without a key. It couldn’t get better than that. And the bitching goes on.

What if I convinced someone else to do the open house? Sunny would probably hold my toes to the fire as they said around our office. Damn. I closed my laptop and found myself starring at the face in the newspaper. Her name was Ana Martin according to information gathered from some of the residents. But the reporter pointed out that the police didn’t think that was her real name. She was found in the pool, in her underwear. No clothes, shoes, or anything personal to be found. The death was being investigated. There was no visible sign of trauma. That was it—no age, no nationality. She looked Asian to me, but that didn’t mean a thing. This was America, the melting pot, and I spoke from experience having had my share of melting, both inside and out of the pot.

Those eyes—such sorrow, so young. Could she have been a mail-order bride? Stop it, Monica.

If the open house at The Nest was scheduled for Sunday, how would people get in and out of the building? I clearly remembered the doorman and his “trespassers” phobia.

With such a new terrific price, thousands below comparable properties, I pictured the onslaught of curious people up and down that elevator—if they made it through the lobby of course. Where would they park their vehicles? What if they got off on the wrong floor? Who would they call? Oops, if the ad went in before Leslie’s accident, whose phone number was on the ad? I needed to find out, none of this made sense. I needed answers. As soon as Leeann calls me.

Tomorrow I would drive over to The Nest and check out the condo and the situation, or... I could ask Kay how open houses worked there. Yes. Tomorrow I’d do that, and...I’d also deliver the present to Tristan.

Just thinking of him gave me hot flashes. No, not the women over forty kind of hot flashes, the kind that young women in desperate need of sex with their dream man experience. Or so I assumed...Could Brenda be approaching that cursed period of life known as menopause? And why, oh why was I thinking about that?

I heard barking and fast trotting outside my door. “Dior, stay away from Monica’s and get your butt back in the house.” Brenda. I bet Bob Clarke was there, and they were setting up some new inflatable they got at Walmart. Life was certainly more pleasant before officer Clarke became dear friend Bob. I missed spending time over at Brenda’s, missed our dinners together.  Lately it only happened when he was either working or he showed up long after we ate. Might as well watch television and pick out my clothes for tomorrow. I had to dress very professionally for the visit to The Nest. Oh, I also needed to bring proof that I was now officially in charge of the listing or the doorman from hell would probably sic the cops on me.

I could go late morning after talking to Leeann. I had no clue about the HOA rules and once that was taken care I could stop by the Dumont’s residence and leave Tristan’s present with Lois Thomas, Mrs. Dumont’s assistant.

I was counting on Tristan being down in Tucson at his new ranch. Just thinking about him made me nervous and excited, and I had to stop the nonsense and maybe go to bed? I missed the good old days when phone didn’t have caller ID and I could call a boy just to hear his voice and not get caught. Stop it, Monica. I could hear chatting and noises outside on the driveway between my place and Brenda’s back door. Why work on Christmas decorations so late at night?

I turned up the volume on the TV just as the reporter said the magic words, “Ana Martin.”

She’d gone on to say there was no sign of trauma and the coroner was working on foreign substance.

I guessed the absence of gory details and the non-celebrity status of the dead woman wasn’t much of a rating magnet, and the subject quickly switched to what else? Politics.

When I woke up I had two voice mails waiting. Both from Leeann Brown. Another early riser? Either that or Colorado was on a different time zone than Arizona. I hoped for the latter. Apparently Leeann just figured out that the phone number on the open house ad was her own cell, and since the Sunday Real Estate insert was printed days in advance, that was that.

I sensed panic in her voice. Panic. Wow. Her second message wasn’t much more uplifting. She had accessed the listing and posted that the open