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

house had to be cancelled. Some good that would do... only realtors could see the posting.

She also left me a code to access the listing feedback from other Realtors. Seriously? All I could do was forward the messages to her. So much for my expectations of easy peasy referral money. And all this in less than the twenty-four hours since I’d accepted what I viewed now as my “mission impossible.”

I made myself a cup of coffee, a slice of toast with Nutella, and then went on an exploratory tour of my closet, something I should have done days ago. Sigh. Flipping through tops and bottoms, I felt like Scarlett O’Hara, except I had no green velvet drapes to sacrifice. So I settled for my most grown-up outfit—a little dark blue suit, a gift from Brenda, labeled a suit for all seasons. I called it my weddings and funerals ensemble. And this morning, more than ever, I felt like dressing for a funeral.

The only liberty I allowed myself were my knee-high boots instead of the patent-leather mid-heel pumps Aunt Brenda had me buy. Aunt Brenda? Wearing her gifted designer suit the softer side of me felt like calling her that even if since my divorce from Tommy we weren’t really related.

Once I opened the garage door, the first thing I noticed was the stack of discarded boxes piled outside Brenda’s back door. Either she had an early home delivery or a late discarding of empty boxes. Either way, I couldn’t care less. My attention was focused on one thing only—I HAD to drive to The Nest and take a look at the condo.

I dreaded everything about the task. The doorman, the fact that I didn’t know where to park my rather hard to miss hot pink Fiat 500 in need of at least a good wash, and then the elevator. I had barely made it to the 51 South and was already hyperventilating at the thought of getting into the elevator. My ever-present fear or anything not solidly grounded and with large windows bobbed up to my brain totally unsolicited.

I wanted so badly to talk to someone who understood me, someone who would soothe my fears, my doubts. My three candidates—my mother, Kassandra, and Tristan—were all discarded for obvious reasons. The most important being that I couldn’t phone and drive, and I couldn’t possibly stop on the busy 51 without causing some damage, starting with my own car. And just then the cell chimed.

“Good morning, Monica. Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“Hi, Sunny, I’m in my car alone, headed to The Nest to take a look at the condo and see if I can work out something with the doorman regarding the state of tomorrow’s open house.”

“Oh, yes, that open house. I wish the Brown girls had discussed that with me. It’s nearly impossible to do an open house in a high-rise, and this one is even more complicated. The HOA rules are fierce. You may want to see if Kay has any suggestions? Anyway, I called regarding the Dumont Ranch. I can’t remember if we ever turned over all the keys and garage openers to the Dumonts.”

“We did. I remember labeling the various keys and putting them all in one of the title company envelopes. Why? Are there keys missing?”

“Oh, no, no. Tristan called and was mentioning a weekend trip to the ranch to make notes of what’s there to keep or be donated...just making sure we don’t get a call from Tucson because some keys are missing. Go ahead, do your thing, and if you can, talk to Kay. She may be able to help.”

And just like that my elevator fears disappeared replaced by waves of lust and wants the name Tristan revamped.

The sidewalk and cobblestone circular driveway by The Nest main entrance appeared freshly hosed down, all glistening and wet. My hands shook, gripping the steering wheel like a life buoy. Not a soul in sight. The car clock said 10:30 a.m. I must do this.

With pretended nonchalance I parked my Fiat as far away from the front lobby as possible, gathered a copy of the listing showing my name as co-lister, all the keys and information pertaining to the condo, and walked to the large glass door. After a pause for a long breath of courage, I stepped in. The lobby was as deserted as the driveway. It was also as elegant and sophisticated as the circulating descriptions I’d heard—walls the color of our desert, peachy sand, light turquoise, many enticing cushy seating areas. Still, the four elevators lining the north wall taunted me.

No sight of the gold buttons man, I quickened my pace and pushed the up arrow of the first elevator within reach. I could see there was one lift on the way down, but this was my lucky day, and one door opened on an empty cabin. The condo was on the thirteenth floor. I assumed people who bought on that floor weren’t superstitious like most Italians are. Either that or that whole floor had sold at a big discount. I checked for the button to the maligned floor. There wasn’t any. From twelve it skipped to fourteen. I sighed, crossed my fingers. Perhaps the builder was Italian.

SIX

THE ELEVATOR STOPPED on the 14th floor—13th floor in disguise—and I got out.

Cautiously.

A quick glance confirmed my suspicions. In spite of all the hoopla-la, the interior of the celebrated Nest resembled more a common hotel than a fancy chichi condo place. And with that thought, I nominated myself a pricey high-rise condo expert. Mercy. All that while I could count on two fingers how many times I had to use an elevator to show a property. The numbers on the doors clearly told that this was the 13th floor. Cheap trick and dull decor.

My shoes made soft squeaks against the thick beige runner covering the center of the long corridor. The sisters’ listing was at the end, of course. Far away from the