Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis by Maria Swan (feel good novels TXT) 📕

to seeing what was happening at the Dumonts’ place through Scott’s tablet. The not knowing was eating me up inside. To clear my mind, I checked for real estate related messages. I had a text from Greg Coste. How did I miss it? It had come in around seven a.m.; he was an early riser. Monica, have a meeting with my banker late morning. As soon as I have all the numbers will contact you, and we can move forward.

The man was right to the point, all business. I liked that. Not having to guess made my job so much easier.

It didn’t matter how much I faked it, all I could think about was Tristan and the poor dead woman on the floor. How long had she been there? What a terrible way to die, all alone in a strange house. How had she died—instantly or did she bleed to death? And every time I thought about it, the silver Escalade entered the mental picture.

I looked up from my phone. Kassandra stood close to my chair. She rested my coffee mug on my desk. “Peace offering, just as you like it. And you were right. Don’t worry, I didn’t inhale.” She winked at me, turned around, and walked back to her desk on her platform. I found myself smiling.

The agent who specialized in churches walked by me on the way to his desk. He waved. “Morning.” He pinched his nose with two fingers and winked.

I smiled, nodded knowingly, and waved back. He always looked and acted professional. Voices could be heard up front by Kassandra’s throne as we jokingly called her desk. It sounded like our mailman. In the back room the printer clicked away. To the world it was business as usual.

I couldn’t stand it. I grabbed my mug and moseyed on up to the front where the action was. The mailman was stacking the legit mail on Kassandra’s desk, magazines and junk mail next to it.

“Wow,” I said. “That’s a lot of wasted postage.”

“That wasted postage, as you call it, young lady, is what keeps the USPS in business. With emailing and texting and all that nonsense, no one buys stamps anymore.”

I nodded. “You know, I never thought about it that way, but you’re right. I agree; I hardly ever get mail anymore, except from my family in Italy. My mom, she’s old fashioned, no email or even a cell phone. Then again, I had no idea agents received mail here at the office.”

“Of course they do. That’s why each agent has his/her little mail slot,” Kassandra said.

“I’ve got to get on the road. See you tomorrow, my gorgeous Amazon.” That was the mailman’s nickname for Kassandra who was almost twice his size. He nodded at me and left.

“I didn’t know about the mail slots, probably because I never get mail and...” Kassandra wasn’t paying attention to me. Her eyes stared above my head, at the front door where the mailman had just left.

I turned around and found myself face-to-face with half of the Adam and Eve team, as we called them around here, Detective Liz Reid. “Hi, Monica, just the person I wanted to see. Where can we talk?”

“It depends, talk about what?” I joked, hoping my voice didn’t betray the sudden unexplained fear that came over me.

“Silvia De Aguilar,” the detective said.

I could see Kassandra giving me the look. What was she trying to tell me?

“Silvia who?” I asked.

Detective Reid didn’t seem fazed. “That’s my question. Can we sit somewhere and talk? Or you can come down to the station. Your call.”

“How about the kitchen?” I suggested. “How is your partner, Detective Ross, doing?”

“He’s over at the Dumonts’ residence, working with the forensic squad.” She kept her eyes on me as she spoke, and I knew that she knew. I pointed the way to the kitchen.

NINE

WE SAT FACING each other. I was so freaked out about what she might or might not ask, I felt sick. “Can I get you some coffee? Water?” Anything to get out of my chair.

She shook her head, no smile. I was determined to be calm and pleasant—okay, make that to pretend to be calm.

The detective shuffled some folders she had brought with her. “You say you don’t know who Silvia De Aguilar is, correct?”

“No clue, why?”

Without a word, she plucked a clear plastic envelope from one of her folders, slid it toward me, while keeping her fingers on it. “She knew you.” Ah, that gotcha tone.

I reached for the envelope. She pulled it back. “Evidence,” said the b***h.

“What is it? I can’t tell with your hand over it.”

She lifted her hand then slid the envelope a little closer.

Nooo. A ripped business card, my business card. The one I had given to the gray-haired woman I met at the Dumont house.

“Oh, that.” My relief must have been obvious because even in my stressed-to-the-limit state I noticed the disappointment in Liz Reid’s eyes. Her performance wasn’t up to par. Apparently, she did better with a partner. Too bad. I readjusted myself on the chair and waited.

“Monica, this card is evidence in a murder investigation. Care to explain?” She tapped her fingers on top of the envelope.

I shrugged. “Some woman showed up at the Dumonts’ house the day I was picking up the mail for Angelique Dumont. She didn’t tell me her name, just insisted on speaking to Mr. Dumont. I handed her my business card and explained I was a Realtor, not related to the Dumonts. The woman ripped my card in two right in front of me and scribbled on the half she handed back. Then she turned around and was walking down the driveway before I could say boo. The end. I had no clue about her name. So, is she the Silvia De Aguilar you asked me about?”

“Was.” She had a little frown above her nose, right between her eyes as she spoke. Reminded me of a large owl I once saw sitting on the roof of a porch