Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic by Maria Swan (best books to read for students TXT) 📕

crowd go by. You could tell the tourists by their short sleeves, shorts pants and some even in halter tops. Mercy. We locals wore sweaters, boots and even hoodies.

By one-thirty my phone let me know that R.E. Assist had sent a file to my work email. I could tell it was the file with the photos J.S. had taken. How exciting. Might as well run by the listing and find the best spot for the new towels. If all went as planned, I should post the home for sale by the next morning. Better hurry up. I wanted to give the sellers a chance to look over the photos before posting them. Oh yes, and show them to Kay, also, as promised. Plus she had to help me with the price. I already had the sellers’ input. Shoot, always so many last minute details. And don’t forget to check the tire. Seemed to hold up a lot better than me.

All I could think about was the best opening line for my call to Tristan. I started the engine and headed to the gated complex to place my new towels in the master bath.

TWELVE

I DRAPED A newly purchased towel over the walk-in door of the bathtub. The tub itself appeared to have jets. Hmmm, do old people use that for relaxation or foreplay? Either way, who knew? Should I ask Brenda? Better have my running shoes on if I did that.

The mental image of Brenda’s reaction made me smile. All that nonsense while being painfully aware of the day slipping away and the important real estate matters I had been neglecting. Time to step up my game, but first things first; use the bathroom. At that moment I sent mental thanks to Kay, who taught me to always leave a roll of toilet paper in your vacant listings. It brought good luck, she said.

Great advice.

I could swear I left a brand new roll in each bathroom when I was there for the photo shoot. But the one in the master had been used. And abused. How? I had the only key. Oh, wait. The sellers had keys. Oh, okay. They probably stopped by to make sure all was in fine order. Must call them, I promised to share the photos. I dried my hands on my jeans, locked everything up, and headed for my car. Something nagged at me, though I couldn’t explain what. Before getting into the Fiat, I turned around to look at the lovely listing I had the good fortune to land. Fresh white paint and cute, just-for-show shutters on all the windows. Better recheck the doors I had already locked I decided. Enough, Monica. It’s a gated community; their hired security do the rounds.

Ah, my tendency to see conspiracies everywhere. Brenda always blamed it on my bad habit of watching too many old Hitchcock movies.

Instead of using the main gate, I drove by the so-called country club and headed to the side gate. A quicker way to get back to Scottsdale Road. This entry gate only worked on remote, restricted to residents only. The exit, however, opened automatically. As I waited for the gate to open, someone was right on my tail. How annoying. Not my fault the darned gate moved slowly. Finally, I got out of the way and the small sports car zipped by me like its tail pipe was on fire. Probably someone’s grandson, as the most popular vehicles around seemed to be golf carts. I was still swearing under my breath, in Italian, when I caught sight of a beat-up truck coming behind me on the passenger side. It made a sharp turn just before the exit gate closed on its rusty rear bumper. A gate crasher? What to do? What to do? Not much, I concluded. Who was I going to call? And say what?

Something about the camper seemed familiar. I kept on driving but the thought lingered that it might be the same one that tailed me yesterday.

Thirty minutes later I arrived at the Desert Homes Office parking lot. And not a minute too soon. I went straight to my computer and pulled up the file with the photos from the staging. Perhaps I looked flustered because Kassandra came by to ask me if I was okay. “I’m good, but I think you should teach me how to read Tarot cards. I could sure use the morning pick-me-up trick, like you do.”

“It’s not working,” she said. “Wanna know why I drank too much the other evening? That ghost from the past I slept with keeps calling. Talks about leaving his wife and kids.”

She shook her head in a disapproving way and walked back to her desk, not looking keen on my Tarot cards or the ghost from the past’s brilliant ideas.

I have to say, J.S. did a great job considering all she had to work with was an empty house with outdated carpets and a few accent walls covered in wallpaper from way back before stainless steel appliances became so popular. As for the walk-in tub, there was no hiding that but maybe it would be a good selling point for the retired crowd. I immediately forwarded the complete package to Kay and the sellers. Playing catch-up had its advantage; it kept me focused, not letting my mind meander about Tristan’s whereabouts. At some point I would need to call him, to thank him, to acknowledge the — gift? Settlement? Not sure what to call it... except money of course.

Kay’s unmistakable laugh drifted up from her office. The doors must be open, meaning she was alone, a good time for me to go pick her brain, again.

She waved me in. I noticed the different outfit. So, she went home to change, like that was any of my business. My listing photos looked terrific on her computer screen. Kay agreed with me.

“Nice, the girl is a lousy reporter but a good photographer. I’ll ask to be switched to her list. And I