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WE ARRIVED AT the 8th Place house with time to spare. Brenda had insisted on driving her own Honda Pilot, and I ended up agreeing to be her passenger just to avoid arguing. The place looked as I remembered except maybe the weeds had grown a little taller. No sign of the inspector, but while I was crouched down to get the lockbox open, Greg Coste arrived and parked his own white Honda next to Brenda’s Pilot.
“Hey, Monica,” I heard, as I straightened myself up; the coveted keys dangling in my hand.
“Well, who do we have here? Let me guess, you’re Monica’s lovely aunt.” Huh?
By the time I had a clear visual of the unfolding scene, Greg Coste was kissing the back of Brenda’s hand. What the hell? My mind went blank. Talk about a movie scene from the past... and there was Brenda, acting like a silly high school airhead on her first date.
Neither paid any attention to me. Brenda was giggling—giggling! Dear God. Before I had a chance to tell the two fools to stop it, the inspector’s vehicle arrived, and I had a good excuse to avert my eyes, if not my mind, from the disturbing scene.
It went down the rabbit hole from there. They walked around exchanging glances and half-silly smiles, answering the inspector’s questions as if they were tiptoeing through a green meadow or something. Maybe the stale air from the house having been locked up had overpowered their brains. Mercy.
I decided to just ignore their shenanigans and do my job. I kept close to Mike, the inspector, and made notes even though I knew he would recap the whole inspection for the buyer once he was done.
“Newlyweds?” he asked me, pointing to the middle-aged couple.
I shook my head and wished I could claim not knowing either of them.
By the time the inspector stepped down from the roof where he also inspected the air conditioning unit, Brenda and Greg Coste seemed to have come to their senses. Okay, wrong choice of words. Anyway, they joined the inspector who had set up his laptop and mini-printer on the kitchen counter and patiently went through everything.
My buyer did ask intelligent questions, and Brenda had a few remarks of her own regarding the layout of the kitchen and the supporting walls. Supporting walls? Planning a kitchen expansion? That would explain why they measured the adjoining laundry room. And they were finally behaving like adults. What a relief. Every time I looked at them I was reminded of my meeting with Tristan. Calling it a meeting gave the whole planned encounter an air of generic formality I suppose.
After Coste paid for the inspection and Mike handed him the printed report it was past one o’clock, and I was getting antsy. The inspector would email me the complete report, and then I could have a phone discussion with Greg Coste and take it from there in regard to repairs and such. I explained all that and made a big deal of packing up my papers and dangling the property keys so as to announce it was time to lock up and go. That was when the lovebirds in training hit me with the lunch proposition.
Brenda had told Greg about Aunt Chiladas, the well-known Mexican restaurant just up Glendale Avenue and 16th Street. A fun, colorful place with a beautiful patio and a great fireplace. It’s been a joyful fixture for many years to us locals, but a total novelty to Greg Coste who was eager to try it and had invited us along.
The only thing I craved was Tristan’s lips on mine. Of course I couldn’t fathom saying that out loud. So I spoke of a last-minute meeting I had scheduled for two o’clock and made some rather elaborate apologies.
Brenda seemed to understand. “Well then,” she said, “you must go.”
Thank you, powers above.
“Why don’t you take your aunt’s vehicle, and I’ll be happy to drive her home after we have lunch and discuss these kitchen modifications she’s suggesting,” Greg Coste said with his most innocent/charming and steadfast smile.
I gulped. Waited.
“Would that work?” Brenda asked.
And those three words said more about her state of mind that anything else. She really liked this man. Why was I being such a jerk? I started it after all. I should be singing and dancing instead of fretting. And finally it made sense, and I could see that all my anxiety had nothing to do with the two of them. It was all about my needs and my wants, in one word—Tristan.
I locked up the property, wished them a wonderful lunch, and hopped in the Pilot. Well, I had to change the seat position, readjust the mirrors and all the boring stuff short people go through when using a vehicle driven by a taller person. All that with the two of them sitting in the sedan and looking at me and grinning.
Finally I backed the SUV out of the driveway and headed toward the 51 North. An abundance of perspiration trickled down my spine due to the stress of driving Brenda’s Honda. She wasn’t a big fan when it came to sharing her vehicle, but she hadn’t even asked what time I would be home or if I could walk Dior. Totally out of character.
In order to get to the mountain preserve by two there really wasn’t time to go home and change clothes and car. I looked at my shoes. Oh, yeah, that wasn’t going to attract any attention at all. I’ll be hiking on high heels. I ended up running by the house and trading my skirt for jeans and my high heels for walking flats. Then I was back in the Honda Pilot on my way to the Phoenix Mountain Preserve.
As I backed the SUV out of the driveway, Dior started barking. Poor baby. To top it all off, I nearly hit Tommy’s Harley at the end of the driveway. The look he gave me... priceless. Then I remembered I was driving his aunt Brenda’s Pilot. Ah!
I focused on the road, and it was only six minutes past two when I found the spot Tristan had suggested, a dirt lot across from some nice homes. The road came to a dead end on the loose fence separating the preserve from the street. I parked away from the other cars, not taking the chance of getting boxed in, and with the way I drive, especially not with Brenda’s Honda.
Checked my watch, should I call Tristan and see if he was anywhere nearby? I was too far from the preserve to actually see hikers on the trails. And just then a car came roaring in, raising a cloud of dust and backing in so that I was left to see the rear end of the older Jeep. It looked beat up. The rear window was cracked. Oh, well, to each its own.
I reached for my cell at the bottom of my purse but couldn’t feel it. Where was it? Did I leave it at the 8th Place house? No, no... not today. I dumped the contents on the passenger seat. Nothing. Searched through my real estate folders. What now? I checked around and under my seat. This wasn’t even my car, so I had no idea where something could end up if it fell off the seat. Damn. I heard voices coming from the car next to me. If everything failed maybe I could ask to use their cell phone? Better hurry, they may be heading for the trails. A car door slammed, so I rolled down my window and peeked out. The Pilot was somehow higher, and I only had a good view of the empty rear seats of the Jeep.
I stretched my neck a little and noticed a woman standing by the open passenger door. I couldn’t see her head as she was bent down, talking to someone inside the car. Wait... something looked familiar about her. What?
On instinct I pulled back, and my elbow bumped my now-empty purse. It flew off the passenger seat and landed on the floor. Great, just great. Frustrated I bent over and reached to grab it and... my fingers felt the hard surface of my cell phone. I wanted to sing and dance and... I clicked on the back to make sure it was working. I mean, the way my afternoon had unfolded...
I scanned the messages. Nothing from Tristan. Maybe I should call him. Loud laughing came from the jeep, it sounded like a man’s voice. I couldn’t resist and looked again. Finding the phone had improved my mood, until I recognized one of the laughing heads.
Jessie Smith sat in the Jeep, her legs dangling out of the open car door, her animated voice coming from inside the vehicle. I couldn’t see the man she was talking to nor did I know if she had arrived in the Jeep or walked there. I sat stunned. What now? I slid low in the seat and closed the window hoping she wouldn’t look up and see me. My instincts told me not to make my presence known.
I called Tristan’s cell.
“Hi, Fiat, you had me a bit concerned. Where are you?” His voice joyful and worry free.
“Huh, I’m where you told me to park,” I whispered.
“Are you whispering? Is something wrong?” Just like that he sounded very concerned. I managed to ruin the mood even from a distance. Good job Monica.
“Well, I don’t know. Right after I parked, a Jeep drove in, and backed up next to me, and, uh, I don’t know if she was already with the people in the Jeep or if she got here afterward. But it’s her.”
“Angelique?” he asked. And my heart sank. Why did I always spoil everything?
“No. Jessie.”
“Jessie? Fiat, are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Jessie knows your car well, she would have recognized you and perhaps driven away or come over and said hi, depending on the reason. Who brought her there now?”
“I’m not driving my car.”
Pause. “Fiat, whose car are you in?” His voice cautious as a sapper navigating a mine field.
“I have Brenda’s Pilot. Long story. Anyway, Jessie doesn’t know I’m parked next to her. But the minute I step out of the car, she will.”
“Can you see the license plate?”
“Wait.” I stretched over the passenger seat, but because the license plate was encased, I couldn’t see it. I would have needed to get out of the car and walk behind the Jeep. I explained all that to Tristan.
“Fiat, wait. Don’t do anything, Detective Ross is calling me. I need to take this. I’m so sorry. Please be patient, and don’t move. Sweetie, give me two minutes.”
And he was gone, and I wanted to die. All the romantic expectations of us walking the old trail, holding hands? Why must everything always go wrong? Was I jinxing everyone I cared for?
Tristan was on the cell again. “Fiat, I called Alexander. He’s picking me up same place as where he dropped me off. I must meet with the detective. He wouldn’t discuss whatever it is over the phone. I’m so sorry. Alexander placed a call to Jessie. If indeed she’s parked next to you just be a little patient. We are getting her out of there, and then you can drive away and—and I will get in touch with you. I promise. I’m walking back to where I started. Don’t be sad, it’s just a small bump on the road like they say. Fiat, it will get better; it will.” He must have been walking as we spoke because I could tell his breathing had changed. “Okay, I can see the parking lot. Is the Jeep moving yet?”
“No. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I may go to the office and work on paperwork. I don’t feel like going back to my empty house. Be safe and—”
“I will call you and tell you what’s happening as soon as I know. I promise. Oh, I think I see Alexander’s car...”
His goodbye, if there was one, was muffled by the roaring of the Jeep engine firing up. Even I could tell it needed a tune-up badly. Sounded like fireworks on the 4th of July. Maybe it was because the spewing back pipe was so close. And then, just like that, the Jeep moved, slowly at first and then it took off. I got a glance at the license plate. California.
I counted to fifty, backed up, and headed toward the office.
The office. Tristan said he was staying at Alexander’s place, and he assumed I knew where the house was since our office had a big party planned. Who the hell was Alexander and how was he connected with Desert Homes Real Estate office?
I drove slowly, having problems concentrating. Going to the office was the best bet. I would be with people I trusted, and I would get my paperwork ready for the inspection recap. When I hit the end of 36th Street where it crossed Mountain View, I decided to take a short cut to the 51 and was quite surprised to see cars crowding the usually quiet road. My left-turn signal was on, and the idling vehicles moved over to allow me to turn. That lane of the road seemed fine. I lingered to see what the problem was, and chills ran down my spine.
I recognized the Jeep, it was almost toppled over on the side of the road, where the ditch ran parallel to Mountain View. Was there another car involved? I couldn’t tell. I prayed Jessie would be okay. Sirens wailed in the distance. The driver who had moved over to let me pass honked his horn. There was nothing I could do, and I certainly didn’t want to get caught in the middle and block traffic. So I waved a thanks to the man, made a sharp left, and headed toward the 51 and the office.
