Dirty Little Murder (25 page)

“It’s not listed yet.” Sabrina scanned the multiple-listing service for the address.

“No, but it’s vacant. Let’s get to it before the no trespassing signs go up. Who knows what condition it’s in after all this time?”

“
Baltimore Street
needs a bed and breakfast. This house would be perfect for it,” Sabrina said.

“It would be, but I don’t want to be the one who sets that precedent on
Baltimore
. Imagine instead, what it would be like if one of Aerin and Brett’s foundation friends moved in. They’d keep an immaculate garden. They’d keep the house painted. It could be a showpiece to the right family.”

Mitzy hadn’t quite broken into her sister-in-law’s grant giving set yet. One big sale like this would open up a world of future sellers and buyers. The granting-grants set lived in a different part of town and tended to handle real estate through their lawyers, but Mitzy was confident that, if she had the right property, she could gain their confidence. Old money called her name. She would love to sell to old money.

“It would be a coup, Mitzy, but really, would it be that much better than scones and biscuits and gravy and hash browns? And fresh fruit? And gourmet coffee? And fluffy, soft, satin comforters and gas fireplaces in every room? And newspapers at your door…and cable TV? Cable is always better when you are staying somewhere else.” Sabrina gazed into the far distant future as she described her dream getaway.

“And a handsome young Jorge to do turn-down service?” Mitzy beeped her Miata open. It was red. She often thought of having it repainted purple, but that could wait until it showed its age a little more. They kept talking as they slipped in and zipped away.

“That wouldn’t hurt.” It had been a couple of years since Sabrina had been out, handsome Jorge or not.

“It is a great idea. And if I didn’t already own a
Baltimore
property, I’d consider it. I know the neighborhood pretty well. The neighbors keep it up. They haven’t aged out yet. Most aren’t even baby boomers. They have kids in school and seem to want to stay put. I’d hate to be the first person that put a business on their street. Find yourself a different dream vacation, please. Let’s rescue this mansion and sell it to some lovely snobby couple who will never let it run to ruin.”

“Maybe, if they can be lovely, not snobby people.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Mitzy had her mind on the upcoming Dinner with Degas event at the museum. She had been invited to the annual fundraiser, as usual. And, as usual, was expected to politely decline. In fact, she was usually offered two tickets to whatever event was up and coming and was always expected to give them to her parents. She was trying to remember why this had become the expectation. She supposed it was because she didn’t have anyone to bring. She drove less carefully than Sabrina liked, as she tried to remember the slip of conversation about this year’s event…what had it been…?

Oh, yes. Perfect.

They pulled into the driveway of Mitzy’s
Baltimore
rental. The Victorian was set back from the road with a tree lined drive that had a turn around. The home had sat alone on the road once, with acres around it. At some point the land had been parceled out and sold for ranch homes to accommodate young, not so rich, families.

There was some work that needed doing on the outside. The landscaping, forget about it. It was a wreck. She’d call Martin and his crew for a bid. The exterior needed painting, and probably needed shingles replaced. The house could do with new cedar shakes on the roof as well. Not so bad, she was sure, compared to what it needed inside. Considering the worn down exterior, she imagined it had been a few decades since the interior had been redone.

The girls slipped out of the car and waved to Deb, who was watching them from her picture window. Sabrina had an easier time on the mud and gravel driveway in her Birkenstocks than Mitzy, in her heels, did. Mitzy didn’t mind running back and forth to work in her heels, but the sticking mud wasn’t her idea of fun. She scraped them off on the edge of the concrete steps.

“Stamped concrete or pavers?” she asked Sabrina.

“Pavers. It’s more true to the original.” 

“You’re right. I just like my concrete supplier too much to admit it.” She put her shoes back on and joined Sabrina in window peeping. She did like her concrete supplier. Too bad he was married. Johnny at the radio station wasn’t married. Was he really as obnoxious as he seemed? Was he really interested in her?

“Ooh! Look at the parquet entry! It’s so shiny!” It was hard to see beyond the entry. The entry itself, however, was well lit from the foyer windows. The shine on the floor made her think it had been restored and maintained. They snuck around to the side windows next.

“The kitchen must be on this side,” Mitzy said.

“Sure is. My lands!” Sabrina was on her tiptoes trying to get a good view into the house.

Mitzy peeked in the same window. “Is that a professional, stainless steel range?” 

“I’m sure it is,” Sabrina said. “But what on earth is it doing in this house?”

“Apparently being a matched set with the rest of the stainless appliances and—it cannot be.” Mitzy stopped short, amazed at what she saw.

“I think it is.” Sabrina’s voice was reverently quiet.

The sun was shining just right to glance off the countertops with an appealing sparkle.

“That is a quartz countertop,” Sabrina said.

“Acres and acres of quartz countertop. Well, we know why they were foreclosed now, I guess. Just plain ran out of money. Let’s get back to the office. You get the tax records on the house and I’ll call James at the stoneworks and see what he knows.” 

They risked a ticket as they sped back to the office. They were out of sight before you could read MIT-Z on the
Miata’s
vanity plates.

Alonzo paced back and forth in his office. His stride was long, which frustrated his pacing in the small room. He bumped his secretary’s desk every time he passed it.

His secretary cursed him under her breath. Every bump of the desk tipped her coffee cup. Cleaning the mess was a bother, but at this rate she’d have to make another pot before she could really wake up for the day.

“How is the
Steinfeld’s
project?”

“Finished, sir.” 

“I know that. But how do they feel about it? What kind of message are they sending future clients? What do you think we can make out of it?” His thick black eyebrows were drawn in concentration. His hands moved nervously through his black hair, making it stand on end.

“It was months ago, sir. I think if we were going to get any residual business from the pickle job, we would have heard by now.”

“Nonsense. This is a slow economy, all the processes slow down. Put some feelers out, will you?”

Marge made a note on the pad next to her phone and nodded vigorously as though she intended to do just that with her feelers.

Alonzo had given most of his staff a lengthy vacation the week before, so all of his pent up energies were being spent on poor Marge, who wanted nothing more than to drink her coffee and read
celeb
gossip online.

“Al, why don’t you move forward with your plans for the office? You have the time and the men now.” Marge cradled her coffee cup under her nose as she spoke. She didn’t want to ruin everything on her desk just because her boss was restless.

“Harrumph,” was all Alonzo offered in reply.

“Haven’t you been talking to those Neuhaus people? I bet you could snap that office suite up in a second. We could be renovated and moved in by mid-summer.”

“I wouldn’t share space with that
Realtor
if it was the last building in town.” He abandoned his secretary and his office, and slammed the door behind him.

Marge sighed with satisfaction. She settled down in her chair with her mug and opened
Firefox
. “Men,” she muttered.

He jumped into his Hummer and hit the road—action being preferable to inaction.

He pulled his Hummer out into traffic and swung into the far lane.

He made a wide left turn.

Horns blared as he weaved into the far lane again.

He was seeing red—seeing nothing else but the unendurable frustration of stupid people and women who wouldn’t be reasonable. His head slammed into the windshield— “What the?” The world went black.

Two blocks back, two women in a red Miata sat, tapping their toes anxiously, thinking up alternate routes back to work. Sabrina pulled her Blackberry out of her knapsack and started typing.

“I don’t know why I always forget about this thing.” 

“We’re getting old,
Brinsie
. We don’t think of using a telephone to pull up tax records. You do that and I’ll call James while we wait. I suppose we could have done this at the property. We might have even gotten inside if we had stayed there.” Mitzy shook her head. Slow business made her careless.

No one answered at the stoneworks place. As soon as she had inched forward far enough, Mitzy turned right into an alley. She didn’t care to know what the accident ahead was about. It seemed to her that a stop off at Annie’s Donuts was in order. Guys that work with stones like to eat donuts, And, she bet, they would be happy to answer questions about recent jobs over a friendly cup of coffee and those same donuts.

“Here it is, Mitzy. It says here that the house is owned by a guy called Laurence Mills. He must have wanted to be a flipper. He bought it earlier this year from someone called Maxim Mikhaylichenko. I wonder why Maxim sold without remodeling it first.”

“Sabrina, really. Not all Russians are builders.”

“I’m not being rude, Mitzy, I swear. I know not all Russians are builders. But all Russians know Russian builders. It just seems odd that someone with connections would sell a property in bad condition.”

“Sabrina! Connections? Listen to yourself,” Mitzy said.

“For Heaven’s sake, I didn’t mean like the Godfather.” Sabrina tapped the screen of her Blackberry, looking for more information.