Moving Day
Friday passed without incident. Nobody tried to run me over, stab me, or otherwise put an end to my life. I supposed I should be happy about that. But it was hard to be happy knowing that someone might be holed up somewhere, plotting to run me over, stab me, or otherwise put an end to my life at some later point. The uncertainty, the constantly looking over my shoulder, was eating away at me.
But in addition to those awful feelings, I felt something else as well. Curiosity. My visit to the prison and Booth’s subsequent question about Marissa Fischer’s involvement in the financial indiscretions at the Ark church had me wondering. Was Marissa staying on a straight-and-narrow path now? Had she learned from her experience that honesty was the best policy?
I typed her name into my search browser. While a multitude of articles detailing the downfall of Noah Fischer mentioned Marissa, all of that was old news to me. There were several articles from celebrity gossip sites detailing her marriage to Darryl Lundgren, the guy who ran the chain of tractor dealerships, as well as some photos of the two cheek to cheek, looking as happy as two people could be. But her fifteen minutes of fame had run out last year, and the gossip columnists seemed to have lost interest in her.
I logged into the social media sites to see if she had active accounts. Boy, did she ever. Her Facebook page contained numerous photos, mostly pictures of herself, either alone or with her new husband. Marissa was on the tall side, her brown hair, highlighted with copper and bronze streaks, hanging down to her chest. Her most recent pics featured the two standing on what appeared to be the deck of a cruise ship. According to her posts, she and Darryl had left over a week ago to embark on a four-week grand Mediterranean cruise. The ship would make stops at no less than twenty-six ports, among them Barcelona, Naples, Venice, Malta, Athens, and Monte Carlo. She’d posted the same pics on her Instagram, Twitter, and Pinterest accounts.
Though I’d searched the sites primarily out of curiosity, the pics also told me that I could cross Marissa off my list of suspects. She couldn’t very well come after me when she was halfway around the world having the time of her life, could she? But maybe Fischer’s pole-dancer girlfriend could.
I logged onto Leah Dodd’s Facebook page. Like Marissa and the parishioner Fischer had knocked up, Leah had long, reddish hair. Pastor Fischer certainly had a type. Both Leah’s last name and her chest sported double-Ds. Her lip bore a small mole, à la Cindy Crawford. While Leah had thousands of male “friends” when I’d checked her Facebook page last year, she had even more now. Heck, she’d even started her own fan page. She had over ten thousand likes. No wonder, given the suggestive pics she posted of herself on the page. One showed her riding her pole, her auburn hair tossed back. Another depicted her crawling toward the camera, her cleavage dangling below her. A third photo showed her on a beach wearing only a pair of bikini bottoms, her hands covering her breasts, her mouth spread in a playfully naughty smile.
The page noted the name of the club in Shreveport where she danced. It also noted that she was available to dance at “private parties” for “negotiable rates.”
I sat back in my chair and pondered things for a moment. Had losing Noah Fischer’s consistent patronage been an issue for her? The woman oozed sex and was surely a favorite at the club where she danced. But strippers had a short shelf life. Dancing topless was for the young and nubile. Maybe she’d hoped to get more money out of Fischer and get out of the game. Maybe I’d ruined her plans by throwing her benefactor in the klink. And maybe now she sought to ruin my plans, too. Then again, maybe this was too many maybes.
I logged out of the social media sites and finished looking over the records in Teacher’s Pet’s computer files. By matching the tutoring schedule to the payment records, I discerned that the owner had received at least twenty grand in unreported cash income each year she’d been in business. I calculated the taxes due, tacked on interest and penalties, and prepared a formal notice demanding payment. I phoned her to let her know the assessment was on its way. If she failed to comply, we’d seize her other assets and carry her cheating ass off to jail. Of course I worded that information much more professionally.
“We expect you to promptly arrange to make payment,” I said. “If you fail to do so, the next step is incarceration. Your personal and business assets would also be forfeited.”
“What about my computers?” she demanded.
“You can also come by our office any weekday between eight-thirty and five o’clock to pick them up.”
She scoffed and snapped, “You took them out of my office. You should bring them back.”
“And you should’ve paid your taxes,” I snapped right back. So much for trying to maintain my professionalism. This woman was getting on my last nerve. “If you don’t pick them up in thirty days, we’ll turn them over to impound. Your choice.” I hung up the phone before she could respond. Neener-neener.
Nick looked up from behind his desk across the hall, his brows drawn. I suppose I had sounded a little testy, hadn’t I? But I couldn’t help it. I had a death threat hanging over me, a rental-fraud case I couldn’t seem to solve, and no nookie to relieve my stress.
“Want to drive out to August Buchmeyer’s place with me?” I called to Nick. His court case had concluded. Luckily, the jury had come back with a quick conviction.
“Buchmeyer?” Nick said. “That kook?”
“Yeah. He’s my last suspect in the area.”
Nick stood from his desk. “I suppose we might as well. I have my doubts he’s behind the death threats, but you never know.”
I had my doubts, too. But I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. It wasn’t in my nature. Besides, the Buchmeyers lived out in the boonies. It would give me and Nick a chance to spend some time together.
We chatted and sang along to the radio as we maneuvered out of downtown, through the suburbs, and ventured into the countryside.
“Here it is,” I said as we approached the gate that led onto the Buchmeyers’ property.
Nick slowed again. A plywood sign lay in the shallow ditch next to the gravel drive. The sign, which had once proudly graced the barbed-wire fence, read PROPERTY OF THE LONE STAR NATION. TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED. A cockeyed, weather-beaten blue trailer rested in a thick patch of weeds inside the gate, an enormous, outdated satellite dish standing between it and a half-dead mesquite tree. Buchmeyer’s ancient two-tone brown pickup was parked on the packed-dirt driveway. The rusted tractors, horse trailer, and trampoline that had littered the yard when we came out before were now gone, as were the sounds of clucking chickens and the stench of bird poop from the long metal buildings farther back on the property. Looked like they’d shut down their chicken operation. The Burnet flag remained, though its azure-blue background and single gold star were faded now. The flag, the last one flown over Texas when it was still an independent country, hung limp and lifeless as if it had accepted its defeat, the breeze not even bothering to pick it up. The two coonhounds we’d seen here last year were still around, lounging in the shade under the pickup.
The cheap metal gate had a chain on it to keep it closed, but no lock this time. I hopped out and opened the gate, closing it again after Nick had driven through. I climbed back in the car and rode the short distance to the trailer.
Betty Buchmeyer, August’s wife, met us at the door. “What are you two doing back here? Didn’t you cause us enough problems last year?”
When we’d come out before, we’d found a stockpile of Spam, canned beans, toilet paper, and guns and ammo in one of the barns on-site. Tents and survival gear as well. The stash had been seized to cover taxes due on the couple’s chicken-ranching operations. Needless to say, the Buchmeyers had been none too happy to see the government take off with their supplies and weapons. But, heck. They’d left us no choice. They’d not only failed to file or pay their taxes for years on end, but they’d also refused to respond to the many notices they’d been sent. Had they been reasonable, they could have worked something out. Besides, there was no telling what they’d planned to do with all those guns. They’d stockpiled enough weaponry and ammunition to fight the Civil War all over again.
I looked up at the woman. “I got your card.”
She frowned. “What card?”
“The one you sent to my office.”
“Why on earth would I send you a card?”
I decided not to beat around the bush. “To threaten my life.”
She rolled her rheumy eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not worth the trouble.”
“Oh, yeah?” I went up the steps. “Your husband got anything to say about that?”
She snorted. “Why don’t you come in and ask him?” She opened the door wide and stepped back to allow us inside.
We walked in to find August on the couch. He looked up at me and Nick. “Why, hello there!” he said happily. “Grab a beer and join me. Can you believe what they’re saying about Nixon? Think he’ll get the boot?”
It was clear that even though August Buchmeyer was still here, he was no longer all there. Heck, I was pretty sure he hadn’t been all there last year, either.
I turned to Betty. “We’ll go now. Sorry to have bothered you.”
Her face and voice softened. “Sure you can’t stay for a few minutes? Sometimes, when he’s talking to people, he…” She seemed to be searching for the right word. “He comes back.”
No matter how loony her husband had been, it was clear she missed the man he once was. While I couldn’t understand the life choices the Buchmeyers had made, I could understand that kind of love and devotion.
Nick and I grabbed chairs from the kitchen table and pulled them over. Nick turned to August. “My guess is that Nixon will resign before they impeach him. That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose so,” August said. “If it were me, though, I’d put up a fight.”
I fought a smile. “I have no doubt you would.”
August waved a gnarled hand and started to say something, but he eyed us again, his gaze narrowed. “Hold on. Ain’t you two from the government?”
“He’s back,” Betty said, a smile on her face. “You better get on out of here.”
Nick and I bade them good-bye and hightailed it out the door.
“You’re lucky I ain’t got my gun on me!” August shouted after us. “I’d put some buckshot in your ass!”
I had no doubt about that, either.
* * *
A little after four, the woman who owned the property Johnny Brewster had shown me finally called me back. She and her husband had been out of town visiting their grandchildren and had just received my message.
“Nothing to worry about,” I told her. “I’m investigating a rental scam but I was able to discern that your leasing agent isn’t involved.”
“Thank goodness!” she said. “When I got your message, I was worried.”
I could only hope that renters in the Dallas area had seen Will’s report on the news and knew to be wary of sign-now situations.
Detective Booth phoned me a few minutes later. “I heard from Amber. She says she’s innocent.”
No surprise there. “Were you able to verify her whereabouts the night the silver car followed me?”
“Not definitively. She works from home and claims she was home all day with her car in the garage.”
In other words, she may or may not be telling the truth. Still, I was inclined to believe her. She’d seemed far more upset at Noah Fischer for his betrayal than she’d been at law enforcement for taking him down.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I told the detective.
“Sure. Stay safe now.”
“I’ll try my damnedest.”
* * *
While Will and Eddie stood guard outside our town houses that evening, Nick and I hustled about, packing up the rest of our things for the garage sale and move the next day.
My nightstand drawer was full of miscellaneous chargers and plugs, but I had no idea what devices they belonged to. Keep or toss? I decided to keep them. We’d have more space in the new house and, with my luck, as soon as I tossed them, I’d come across the appliance or electronic gadget they paired with.
I stripped the bed and stuffed the sheets, pillows, and spread into a large box, secured it with strapping tape, and scribbled “bedroom #2” on the box. Nick’s bed was bigger and more comfortable, so we planned to use it in the master. I grabbed the clothes from the rack in my closet and carried them out to my car in the garage, draping them across the back seat and, once the seat was loaded, filling the trunk. My shoes tumbled into another box, my towels into another. I would’ve liked to take more time with the packing, but I simply didn’t have it. I’d have to spend more time on the back end, when we unpacked at the new place, but so be it.
Being less of a pack rat, Nick finished his place before I was through with mine, and he came down to help me. He bent down to clear the cabinet in my bathroom. He took one look inside, grunted, and turned to me. “There’s a dozen half-empty bottles of lotion in here.”
“I know.” I tended to tire of the same scent and often moved on to a new bottle before finishing an older one.
He took another look. “You’ve got three different types of lavender.”
“Yep.” It was my right as a woman.
“Should I throw them out?”
“No,” I said. “That would be wasteful.”
“Do you plan to use them all?” His voice and face were skeptical.
“Eventually.” I made a rotating motion with my finger. “I’ll circle back to them.”
“Maybe we should just get rid of them.”
I cut him a look. “And maybe we should get rid of those fishing lures you haven’t used in a while.”
Without another word he swept the bottles up in his arm and scooped them into a box.
When we finished upstairs, we moved on to the kitchen. He picked up my toaster, cleared it of crumbs, and put it in one of the boxes on the counter. He pulled out my pasta maker, which I’d bought on a whim one day when I’d been feeling uncharacteristically domestic. Of course the machine was still in the box, the urge to make noodles from scratch having passed on my drive home from the store when I remembered I had no talent for cooking but great skill at ordering takeout.
“Should I put this with the stuff for the garage sale?” Nick asked, holding up the box.
“No. I want to keep it.”
“You’re never going to use it.”
This again? “You’re never going to use that home beer-brewing system you bought, either.”
He raised a shoulder in a one-sided shrug. “Can’t argue with that logic.”
We finally finished around eleven and sent Will and Eddie home with sincere expressions of gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“That’s right,” Eddie agreed, sliding me a sly smile. “But you can babysit for me and Sandra once this whole ordeal is over.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Me, too!” Will insisted.
“You got it.” It was the least I could do.
* * *
On Saturday, Nick, Bonnie, and I rose before the sun and drove to my town house to get ready for the garage sale and move. Both Hana and Josh had agreed to be lookouts for us this morning so that Eddie and Will could spend time with their families.
Hana positioned herself at one end of the block, while Josh parked at the other. Both had their guns at the ready. They had radios, too, so that they could give us a quick warning if need be. Chances were whoever was after me would see the G-rides and realize we had protection, but you never knew what someone might do, especially someone crazy and violent enough to want to kill a person. Bonnie sat sentry at my town house, positioning herself in a lawn chair on my porch, my shotgun discreetly hidden behind the bush but within easy reach. With this many eyes on the area, the event should be safe.
After we arranged the items in the driveway, we put a sign out on the main thoroughfare just outside the neighborhood, next to the new mailbox that had been installed to replace the one in which I’d deposited our wedding invitations, the one that had been damaged by the pickup. The sun had barely begun to light the morning sky when a car pulled to the curb. It was the first of many, the diehard yard-sale pros who knew you had to arrive early to have the best selection.
Nick was dickering with a man over the price of a lawnmower when Hana came over the radio. “Two rough-looking women just passed in a Subaru Forester. They slowed when they saw me and seemed to be checking out my car. They’re on their way. I’ll come down, too.”
“I’ll be in the garage.”
I used the remote to open the garage door and scurried inside, closing it after me. When the door lacked only a couple of inches from the concrete, I pushed the button again to halt its descent. I crouched down and peered under the door. Close to me were several pairs of feet milling around, but farther back I saw the Subaru. The driver pulled to the curb across the street and two women climbed out. One was tall, thin, and dark-headed. The other was thin, but short, about my height. She had white-blond hair styled in a buzz cut with bangs. They both wore ripped jeans, ankle boots, and tight black T-shirts.
I pushed the talk button on my radio to get in touch with Hana and Josh. “I see the women. I don’t recognize them. But if they’ve been hired to kill me, I wouldn’t, anyway.”
Hiring a female hit man would be a smart thing to do. People tended to be much less suspicious of women. In fact, was there even a term “hit woman?” I’d never heard it used. In this day and age of feminism, it seemed like there should be, though. Now that’s an odd thought to have, isn’t it?
“I’ll hang around until they go,” Hana replied.
Through the gap, I saw Hana approach on foot. Her Glock was hidden under her loose cotton shirt. She stopped at the edge of the drive and feigned interest in a clock radio.
The dark-haired woman examined a nightstand that had been passed down from my brother Trace to me years ago when he married and he and his wife bought a new bedroom set. She pulled the drawers in and out to test them. Satisfied that they didn’t stick too badly, she called out to Nick. “Will you take five bucks for this?”
“How about ten?” Nick said as he stepped over.
She came back with, “Seven.”
He replied with, “Sold.”
He took her cash, tucked it into his pocket, and carried the nightstand to the back of the Subaru, stashing it in the cargo bay for her.
The other woman negotiated with Bonnie over a couple of DVDs. One minute and three dollars later, she returned to the Subaru, too.
Once they drove off, I came back out of hiding. Looked like it had been a false alarm. Then again, maybe they realized I wasn’t accessible and simply improvised. I made a mental note to keep an eye out for the two.
We’d gotten rid of nearly everything by the time my brothers arrived at noon. My parents were with them.
My mother hopped out of my father’s truck the instant it stopped moving and stormed over to me. “Tara!” she scolded. “Why didn’t you tell me someone’s been trying to kill you?”
I cut my eyes to Trace, who was climbing out of his truck. “You weren’t supposed to tell her.”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I told my wife and she told Mom.”
“Thank goodness she did!” Mom put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you ever keep something like this from me and your father again! I have half a mind to put you in time out.”
“I’m a little too old for time out, Mom.”
“Maybe so,” my mom retorted. “But if you ever want to taste another one of my pecan pralines you will not keep secrets from me.”
The mere thought of being deprived of the yummy treats for the rest of my life made my heart sink. “But that would be cruel and unusual punishment!”
Still scowling, she nonetheless gave me a kiss on the cheek and a tight, warm hug. She gestured around at the few remaining items. A chipped souvenir coffee mug from a long-ago trip to Port Aransas for spring break during college. A pole lamp that refused to stand up straight. A pair of striped kitchen curtains that had faded in the relentless Texas sun. All of which would go into the trash. “How’d y’all do?”
As Bonnie came over, Nick pulled the wad of cash and coins from his pocket and counted them out. “One hundred thirty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents.”
“Not bad,” Bonnie said before giving both my mother and father a hug.
My dad pointed to the house. “We best get busy if we’re going to get everything moved today. It won’t all fit on the trailer at once.”
While Hana and Josh stayed on lookout duty, the rest of us went inside. While the men took out the large pieces of furniture, we women packed boxes with kitchenware, books, clothing, shoes, and framed pictures, as well as various and sundry knickknacks, tchotchkes, gewgaws, and bric-a-brac. In other words, miscellaneous junk I’d managed to collect over the years.
We spent the rest of the day moving everything from Nick’s place down the street and my town house to our new home next to Bonnie’s, carefully watching for a tail. Fortunately, we saw none. Whoever was after me appeared to have taken the day off. Or perhaps they were holed up somewhere, planning some particularly heinous and painful way of dispatching me once they had the opportunity. Ugh. There’s a happy thought, huh?
The house Nick and I would soon own was a one-story Tudor-style model with a two-car, front-entry garage. Mature Bradford pear trees flanked the drive. A row of yellow rosebushes ran along the front and sides, their blooms not only providing a nice splash of color but a pleasant scent as well.
Before we brought anything in, Nick and I took my family on the grand tour. The cleaning crew had left everything spotless and gleaming, the freshly shampooed carpets looking as good as new.
I led my parents and brothers into the living room.
“This is good-sized,” Mom said, stepping over to the windows along the rear wall that looked out onto the covered back patio and shady yard. She took a peek outside. “That yard will be great for the dog and kids, too, once you have ’em.”
We went to the kitchen next. My mother, who loved to cook, inspected the pantry, dishwasher, and oven. “Self-cleaning,” she noted. “That’ll come in handy.”
We proceeded to the dining room. “We’re planning to replace the wallpaper,” I told them. The current paper was out of date.
My mother glanced around. “You know what else would look nice in here? A big, wide mirror in a gold frame. It would make the room look even bigger and reflect the light from the windows.”
“Good idea.”
Mom had always had a knack for decorating.
We headed down the hallway.
“This is the home office,” I said, leading them through the French doors. “Don’t you just love the built-in bookshelves and cabinets?”
Mom dipped her head in agreement. “Sure is nice.”
In the master bedroom, I threw open the doors to the enormous walk-in closet.
“Holy cow!” Mom said. “That closet’s nearly as big as a bedroom itself.”
Finally, my clothes wouldn’t be crammed up against each other anymore. They’d have room to breathe. The built-in shoe racks would also be a plus.
She glanced into the bathroom. “Is that a whirlpool bathtub?”
“It is.” The bubbling tub had been one of my favorite features. I couldn’t wait to relax in it with a good book after a hard day at work.
“You’ll enjoy that,” Mom said.
“I sure will.” Maybe Nick and I would enjoy it together. Hee-hee!
After showing them the other two bedrooms and the second bath, I turned to my parents. “What do you think?”
My mother took one of my hands and one of Nick’s in hers. “I think you two are going to make a lovely home here.” She gave our hands an affectionate squeeze before releasing them.
As the men unloaded the furniture and boxes from the truck, my mother, Bonnie, and I directed them where to deposit the boxes and place the furniture. We had a hard time deciding on the arrangement in the living room.
“Should the TV go on this wall?” I asked, pointing to one of the walls. “Or should we put it on an angle in the corner and put the couch over there?” I pointed to another spot.
Naturally, we forced the men to try every possible way of arranging the furniture before deciding we liked it best the very first way they’d placed it.
The men exchanged glances and shook their heads. “Women,” Trace muttered.
Soon, they had the trailer emptied and were ready to go back for a second load.
I checked the time on my phone. It was a quarter to four. Shane should have e-mailed me the address of the rental property by now.
I pulled up my e-mails. Sure enough, there it was. I quickly checked the location on my maps app to see how long it would take me to get there. The two-bedroom condo was located right outside the 635 loop near Richland College, part of the Dallas Community College system. I could be there in half an hour. Of course I might not need to go to the appointment if I could speak with the owner first and determine whether Shane was authorized to rent the place on his or her behalf.
I searched the appraisal district listings. The condo was owned by a real estate investment partnership called Prairieland Rental Properties, Ltd. Though I found a phone number for the partnership online, my call to the number went instantly to voice mail, the outgoing message telling me I had reached them outside of normal business hours and to leave my name and number if I would like a call back. I didn’t bother leaving the information. I’d soon know for myself whether Shane was the man Detective Booth and I were hoping to take down.
I explained to Bonnie and my family that I’d need to beg off for just a bit to go to the appointment. “I should be back in a couple of hours at the latest,” I told them.
“Be careful, hon,” Dad said, his eyes dark with concern.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Josh will be going with me.”
“I will?” Josh called from the open window of his car nearby.
“Yep.” I walked over and climbed into his passenger seat.
Josh and I headed north on Central Expressway and arrived at the condominium development with ten minutes to spare. The parking lot of the complex was half full with cars. We took a spot in the visitor section, climbed out, and strolled around until we found the unit. We stood on the porch, waiting and watching.
We continued waiting and watching until 4:35. Then 4:40. Then 4:45.
Without Shane’s phone number, I had no way to call him to determine if he were merely running late or if he didn’t plan to show up at all. Maybe he was the con artist, had gotten an inkling that I was in law enforcement, and decided not to come. Or maybe he was the con artist but had been visited by the ghosts of leases past, present, and future last night and decided to change his ways, go straight. Or maybe he’d simply gotten stuck in Dallas’s unpredictable traffic.
As it turned out, it was the latter.
When Shane careened into the lot at 4:50 in a sporty red Nissan 370Z, he raised a hand to let us know it was him. But that raised hand, along with the sandy blond hair and beard, told me he wasn’t our guy.
“It’s not him,” I told Josh with a sigh.
Shane hopped out of his car and strode rapidly in our direction. “Sorry I’m late. There was a wreck on the tollway.”
“No problem,” I said, though frankly, I was pissed. If the guy had given me his damn phone number, I would’ve been able to figure out that he wasn’t the target I was looking for. I wouldn’t have wasted both his time and my own.
He took us inside, where we glanced around, pretending to be evaluating the place.
I pointed to the ceiling in the kitchen. “Am I the only one who sees the Virgin Mary in that water stain?”
Before either of the men could respond, an earsplitting sound came from the unit next door. SKREEEEEEEE! BUH-BUH-BUH-BUH-BUH! The wall between the units vibrated, the cabinet doors quivering on their hinges.
I covered my ears and hollered, “What the heck is that?”
Josh, who’d also covered his ears, shouted, “Air in the water pipes!”
Clearly, this place had some major plumbing issues.
When the sound quieted down to a soft sputter, I removed my hands from my ears, quickly paced the condominium, and declared it “not what we’re looking for.”
“What are you looking for?” Shane asked. “Maybe one of the other properties I manage would work for you.”
“That’s okay,” I told Shane before turning to Josh. “I think we should go with the duplex we saw this morning, don’t you?”
Josh played along. “I agree, sugar pie.”
Sugar pie? He didn’t have to play along that well.
We thanked Shane for his time and returned to my town house. The men were able to fit the rest of the stuff from my house on the flatbed and in the bed of my brothers’ pickups. They drove down the street and loaded the remaining space on the trailer with Nick’s furniture, putting his smaller items and boxes in the back of his and Dad’s trucks.
As we started off down the street, I saw my Realtor pull up to my place with a potential buyer. I hopped out of the car to speak with her.
“Quick question,” I said, taking her aside as the middle-aged woman who’d come to see my place headed on to the porch. “Do you know if there are any special financing programs for first-time homeowners that wouldn’t require a big down payment?”
“There sure are,” she replied. “I’ve got mortgage people who can finagle all kinds of financing. You might have to cover more of the closing costs, but the details can be worked out so that the overall deal is fair to everyone.” She cocked her head. “Why? You know someone who might be interested in the place?”
My mind went back to Cory, the assistant manager of the office-supply store, the one who’d lost several thousand dollars in the rental scam, the one who’d planned to adopt the border collie and call him Chaplin. The address of the place he’d thought he was leasing wasn’t too far from my town house. My place was affordable and had a small backyard that could comfortably accommodate a dog. The neighborhood was nice for walking a dog, too. Lots of trees shading the sidewalks. “I might know someone,” I told my Realtor. “I’ll give him your number.”
“Great.”
As soon as we returned to my and Nick’s new place, I took a brief moment to call Cory. “Any chance you might be interested in buying a place in Uptown?” I told him about my town house and pointed out that buying a place provided tax benefits that renting did not. “And besides the tax benefits, you’d be building equity.”
“Your place sounds exactly like what I’d be looking for,” he said. “But I don’t know if I can afford it.”
“Talk to my Realtor,” I told him. “She said there’s financing programs for first-time homeowners who don’t have a lot of savings. I think you’d like the place. I have. And you could adopt Chaplin if he’s still available.”
“He is,” Cory said. “He’s big and hyper and that turns a lot of people off. But I’m a runner. He’d love putting in three or four miles with me every day.”
“No pressure, of course,” I said. “If you’re interested in the place, that’s great. But if not, that’s fine, too.” I gave him the phone number for my Realtor’s office.
“I’ll give her a call,” he said.
When we ended the call, I resumed lugging boxes inside.
By the end of the day, all of us were pooped, but the house was beginning to take shape. I could almost visualize the life Nick and I would have there—assuming I survived to move into the place. Ugh.
We had enough beds for my brothers and parents to sleep in the new house, while Nick and I returned to Bonnie’s. Tomorrow we’d all attend the Cowboys’ preseason game together. With all of the overtime I’d been putting in lately, I was looking forward to taking a day off and just having some fun.