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

got to the part about “Tristan’s father.” And even over the phone I sensed her mood change. BAM. I swear, I could hear her breathing rhythm jump from normal to rapid and shallow in the blink of an eye. Mercy me. What was that all about?

“Monica.” A gasp. “Monica, what did she look like? Are you sure she didn’t leave a name?”

“Huh, no. She asked me if I was your assistant. I told her I was a real estate agent. So she wrote the number and the thing about the father and left. I’m sorry. She showed up totally out of the blue and—”

“It’s all right, Monica.” A sigh. “Don’t think about it. Probably one of Tristan’s old girlfriends. I’ll ask him when he gets back. Thanks.” She was gone and hadn’t even asked me if I needed to talk to Brenda. After all it was Brenda’s phone.

Tristan’s old girlfriend. Right. And Tristan suggested maybe it was one of Angelique’s old girlfriends. How about that?

“What’s the matter? You look like you’re in la-la land.” Kassandra had sneaked up on me. “Did you get an appointment with that guy with the sexy voice?”

I nodded. “You too? I thought I was sort of talking myself into liking the way he spoke just because I really, really want to land a buyer.”

“Did you Google his name?”

“Kassandra, of course not. Why would I do that?”

“Why? To see if the face matches the voice. That’s why.” She laughed and tapped my shoulder.

“I don’t care what he looks like as long as he can afford to buy whatever I’ll find that works for him.”

“Hey, listen to you. All business. You’re no fun.” She pretended to pout. “Need to get back to the front desk.”

“Do you have someone to cover the phones while I’m gone?” I asked.

She nodded and walked away.

Scott came by two minutes after Kassandra left. “Hey, Monica, if you have a buyer for a church, P.J. back there just listed a good one. I’m on my way to install the post.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. A church, sure.” As if...

“You think I’m joking? P.J. is one of the few agents I know who is licensed to sell churches, they are a totally different type of classification and...”

“OMG! You’re serious. I’m sorry, Scott. I’m from Italy where churches are all owned by... the church? This sounds stupid, but yeah, I had no idea you can actually sell or buy churches. Wait. You mean like a building that was once a church? What?”

“Nope, this church is active. The congregation is moving to a larger one, and they are selling the old one. Just like people do with houses, same story, moving up, expanding. Okay, you know P.J. He’s keeping it off the official site for a few days to see if he can land his own buyer. Cha-ching, double commission.” He turned to the back of the room and gave P.J. an enthusiastic hand wave. “Well, you’re the first one that knows about this. Got to go.” And he left.

Americans could buy and sell churches. Wow. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother about it. I bet she won’t believe me.

I started to gather up my stuff, putting all the info pertaining to the property off Glendale Avenue in one of our official folders that contained a map of Phoenix and a few adverts from businesses connected to real estate. I inserted my business card in the designated spot, took another look at my desk to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything, especially my mobile phone, and headed to the parking lot. Showtime.

FOUR

THE HOUSE WITH potential sat on a large weed-covered lot facing 8th Place. Surrounded by old, well-kept homes, possibly built by the same builder back in the 60s, the first impression wasn’t bad, in need of cosmetic mostly—paint, landscaping. I had arrived with ten minutes to spare, intending to open up windows and doors and turn on all the lights as they teach you at real estate school, except Gregory Coste had beaten me there.

At least I assumed the white Honda with a Nevada license plate, parked at the curb right where the house number and a fading red cardinal logo had been painted during better times, belonged to Mr. Coste. My assumption was confirmed when a tall, extremely tanned, middle-aged man cleared the far corner of the house and headed my way—big smile, extended hand. He appeared to be a friendly soul and looked even friendlier up close.

“Miss Monica, I presume.” My hand was squeezed between his two, like the cream filling in an Oreo cookie. At first glance, he matched the reaction I had to his voice over the phone. He could sure make some convincing television ads for the over-fifty-five generation of the female genre.

“Hello, Mr. Coste,” I managed to say.

“Call me Greg. Mr. Coste makes me feel old. And if it’s okay with you, I’ll call you Monica.” He let go of my hand and turned to look at the house while I scrambled to give him the organized folder, keeper of all information. He accepted it without even glancing at it, his eyes studying the place, his head nodding, disturbing the perfectly groomed silver mane. Awkward.

“Are you looking to purchase the home for yourself?” Duh! I felt like a dumbbell.

“Well, I’ll be the one paying for it, if that’s what you mean.” He chuckled. “Can we get in? Take a look?”

“Oh, sure, of course.” I realized I had kept my mouth open the whole time, a sight to remember, for sure. I walked toward the red garage door, the paint job in an advanced state of peeling. The lockbox, according to the listing, could be found on the water spigot left side of the garage. It was. I squatted down next to it sending nasty subliminal messages to the agent who decided to install the lockbox so low. Luckily all went smoothly, and a few moments later I was unlocking the splintered front door. I worked at keeping the conversation alive