Don't Be Afraid (14 page)

Bev looked up from
People
magazine and waved a slip of paper as Amy walked through the doors of Braxton Realty. “Poppy wants to see you. Immediately.”

Amy took it from her. “She’s in? On a Saturday?”

Bev nodded, her moon face solemn. She leaned across the desk to whisper, “She heard what happened to Meredith Chomsky.”

So had everyone. It was the front page on the local paper, top of the news on all the local stations and had even made it as a small item in the news roundup in the metro section of the
New York Times
.

She switched off the radio coverage on the drive in to the office, unwilling to hear any more speculation. Already, reporters were asking if the two murders were connected. How much longer would it take for them to find her?

She didn’t usually go to the office on Saturday, but knew that she needed to today. Chloe couldn’t babysit again, but Amy had been able to trade babysitting with Audrey, whose daughter was one of Emma’s friends. And Emma had been happy to go, just as soon as she’d extracted a promise from her mother that they’d go to Waldorf Park afterwards and feed the ducks.

Poppy Braxton’s office really
was
an office, as opposed to the cubicles the rest of the realtors had. It was in the back corner, glass enclosed, like some sort of hothouse with Poppy, the brightly colored flower, on display. Amy had to pass all the other cubicles as she walked back, trying not to notice the stares and the whispers that followed.

Poppy had the local paper spread open on her desk, Amy saw through the glass, and her perfectly coiffed blond head was moving with lightning speed as she followed its pages. She was wearing a magenta suit that hurt Amy’s eyes when she got close enough to knock.

“Come in, Amy, come in.” With practiced ease, Poppy was out of her seat and ushering Amy to a chair in front of the desk. The fact that she carefully closed the door wasn’t lost on Amy.

“What a shock,” Poppy said. “What a truly terrible shock. I know that Meredith could be a—” She paused, searching for the word.

“Bitch,” Amy supplied.

Poppy tittered. “Well, yes, but I was going to say a difficult client. I know she had her faults, but she was counting on Braxton, Amy, and I feel we’ve let her down.”

For a brief moment, Amy thought that Poppy had been talking to the police and was about to accuse her of killing Meredith.

“We’re still selling her house, aren’t we?” Amy said.

Poppy opened her mouth to speak and hesitated. The phone rang in that moment. The older woman looked at the caller ID and then up at Amy. “I’m so sorry, but I really must take this. One minute, promise!” She waggled a manicured finger at Amy and then spun around in her chair, carrying the phone with her.

Amy stared at the large painting that graced the wall above Poppy’s desk. It was a field of poppies in summer, a carpet of vibrant red flowers. In the office it was privately called “After the Bloodletting.”

Poppy spoke to the caller in English, then in French. Was that for her benefit? Amy wondered. She glanced at the photos on Poppy’s desk. A family photo. Poppy, her handsome husband, Chuck somebody-or-other, and two beautiful blond children posed on a beach. It looked like a Ralph Lauren commercial.

“Oh, that is too funny!” Poppy switched back to English, laughing heartily. “Yes, of course. Of course.
Au revoir
, darling.” She bussed the phone and swung back around. “Now, Amy, where were we?”

“Meredith’s house,” Amy said, trying to smile. She felt underdressed in her white blouse and navy blue skirt. The sparkly brooch on the lapel of Poppy’s suit seemed to mock her.

“Oh, yes. That is a very delicate matter. Meredith’s sister—that’s who inherits the property—does want the house sold. When people die unexpectedly in the middle of a sale, then usually it’s that realtor’s job to see that sale to the end.”

Amy had fixed on the word “usually.” She dug her toes into the soles of her shoes and tightened her grip on the chair.

“But in this case, which I’m sure you can see is not the usual case,” Poppy waited for Amy’s nod. “it’s going to take special handling. Expert handling.”

The raw feeling in Amy’s stomach was growing. “I think I can handle it,” she said, forcing a smile, trying to project assuredness, competence, readiness for any challenge.

Poppy returned her smile. “You are turning into a really fine realtor, Amy. Braxton is proud to have you on the team.”

“Thank you,” Amy said automatically, sure there was another “but” coming.

“However, we really feel that a sale this delicate needs to be handled by one of the senior members of our team.”

Who was the “we” Amy wondered, or was that the royal “we”? There was no team in real estate. Individual commissions were what counted and a big commission was being taken away from her. Her mind raced, thinking of having to sell the house because she couldn’t afford to pay the mortgage, of having to move away from the place that Emma loved, the little stability she’d been able to offer her daughter.

“I can handle this sale, Poppy,” Amy said. “I can handle it, just like I’m handling the first house—where Sheila was . . .” —she struggled but couldn’t bring the word
murder
past her lips—“was found.”

“But that’s just it, Amy.” Poppy leaned forward, her brow furrowing. “This is the second house of yours that’s become the scene of a police investigation. That makes clients nervous.” She brushed a strand of straight blond hair back into place in its perfect bob and sighed. “I know how you feel, Amy, believe me, I do.”

No, she didn’t. She’d been spoon-fed her entire life and inherited the company from her father. She wasn’t a single mother. Her husband was in banking. They lived in an enormous home in the best part of town. The differences between them couldn’t be much more stark and the ridiculousness of Poppy’s statement gave Amy strength.

“Forgive me, Poppy, but you don’t,” she said and stood up. Poppy gaped at her for a second, then quickly stood. “I need this commission and I’m going to sell this house. That’s the way Sheila wanted it and that’s what I intend to do. Thanks for your offer of help, but when I need it, I’ll ask for it.”

She headed for the door, trying not to scuttle, more than a little nervous about turning her back on Poppy. It was easy to picture Poppy Braxton packing. Was there a little pearl-handled snub nose hidden in that desk?

“Two weeks.” Poppy’s voice rang out like a shot, crisp with warning. “I’ll give you two weeks to get an offer. If you haven’t gotten it by then, that property is being turned over to someone else.”

Amy sat down behind her own desk feeling as if she’d won the battle but at a great personal cost. Poppy didn’t like being crossed. From now on, Amy wouldn’t be able to count on any support from the powers-that-be at Braxton.

There was a short stack of messages on her desk and something else. A small box of European chocolates wrapped in gold foil and cellophane. Amy buzzed the front desk, and when Bev answered, asked who had delivered them.

“A delivery service—FedEx or UPS? I don’t remember.”

“But who’s it from?”

“No clue. But there was a card with it, wasn’t there?”

Amy found a small card underneath the bow. It contained one line, “A token of my affection.”

They had to be from Chris. Only he knew that she liked this brand of chocolate.

She was tempted to call and thank him, but she paused with her hand on the phone. Why make it so easy? He could send her a present, but what she really wanted from him was the assurance that he’d never, ever cheat on her again. She’d wait for his call, but she could still enjoy the gift.

It was the one bright spot in an otherwise hectic morning. She kept looking at the chocolates while she fielded phone calls from anxious sellers who wanted to know if there was something wrong with Braxton’s security and whether they should take their homes off the market. In between reassuring them, she was also going through the trickier task of trying to reschedule a closing date for the property where Sheila was killed.

The banker’s wife was hedging. “I just don’t think I can be comfortable there,” she said. “It’s bad karma.”

The sellers were furious with Amy, as if she was somehow personally responsible for the sale stalling. “Have you made it clear that we’re keeping the hand money?” the man said. “Losing money is pretty bad karma—tell her that.”

Some of the realtors, including Douglas, tried to ask her questions about Meredith’s death, but she remained tightlipped about it. It was not simply because she didn’t want to talk to him, but also because she wasn’t sure just how much it was prudent to say.

The initial shock of finding Meredith had passed and Amy could look at the murder with some degree of objectivity. If Trevor had an alibi for Sheila’s death, and the same person had done both killings, then who was that person? And why? Who hated both Meredith and Sheila enough to kill them?

 

 

“What can I get for you?” The young man at the ice cream counter smiled expectantly at Penelope, metal scoop held aloft. She was torn, seriously tempted to have a double cone so she could try both the Chocolate Toffee Crunch and the Banana Road Rage, but the sight of the woman next to her virtuously eating a kiddie scoop of sherbet reined her in.

“I’ll have a single scoop of the Chocolate Toffee Crunch on a sugar cone,” she said, opening her change purse to count out how much money she needed. Someone bumped into her and change spilled onto the floor.

“Oh, excuse me,” said a young girl’s voice, giggling an apology as Penelope slowly bent over, feeling her knees protest as she shifted her weight forward. She fumbled for the change, catching a glimpse of skinny legs in red stockings, the sort of fashion that made her own legs look like sides of beef.

She handed the guy the money and took her cone, trying not to notice the two girls whispering about her as she slowly made her way through the crowd to a seat in the rear.

A woman at the next table was sharing an ice cream cone with a toddler and she kept giving Penelope disapproving looks. The fat weren’t allowed to eat ice cream. She should be eating carrots or hiding in her house until she was skinny. Penelope took a consoling lick of the Chocolate Toffee Crunch, letting the smooth cream swirl around her entire mouth and melt on her tongue.

At one point she’d managed to get herself down to a size twelve, mainly by eating nothing but carrot sticks and grapefruit and religiously walking two miles a day. She’d looked good. She’d even felt good, enjoying shopping for the first time in her life, but that was before she found out the truth about Dave.

He’d always been so supportive of her—fat or skinny. “You look great!” he’d say, giving her a squeeze that made her jiggle. “I love your love handles!”

Sometimes he indulged with her, bringing home pints of her favorite flavors or one of those cheesecakes from the Italian bakery in Bayonne that she loved so much. But he was so good looking, with that frosted hair and toned body. She needed to be pretty for him and she’d done it, stopping the ice cream, stopping the cheesecake, throwing away the kids’ leftovers and ending the Sunday stop at Dunkin’ Donuts and the midnight runs to the 7-Eleven because she was craving a Slurpee.

She joined Slim Down and attended all the meetings religiously, enduring the public weigh-ins and the boring testimonials because she knew, she just knew that one day she was going to be the wife that Dave deserved.

The day she reached her goal weight, she went out shopping and bought the most beautiful red dress she’d ever seen. She looked so good in that dress that when she came out of the dressing room, the girl who’d helped her actually clapped her hands with delight.

“That’s the one for you!” she declared and then she’d helped Penelope find shoes that went with it, and a purse. It was the most fun—the only fun—Penelope had ever had shopping.

She confided in the young woman, told her how she was going to surprise her husband, how she’d arranged a babysitter for the kids and how she lost all that weight. The girl was so supportive, so eager to help her reach the dream that she’d worked so hard to achieve.

Her plan was to take Dave out for dinner, but when she called his office and found out he’d already left for the day, she decided to start the festivities early. She arranged for Owen and Amanda to get picked up after school and she wore the red dress home, tottering a little in black heels much higher than she usually wore. His car was in the drive and usually she’d honk or do something to catch his attention because she was always so excited to see him. But this time she wanted him to be the excited one, so she parked on the street and quietly entered through the back door.

The shoes were hard to walk in and they clicked loudly on the kitchen floor so she slipped them off, carrying them in one hand as she floated through the kitchen, pausing to peek in the living room, but no Dave, and then up the stairs. Maybe he was lying down. He’d complained lately of migraines that made him come home at lunchtime.

She could hear him moaning in the bedroom as she approached and thought she’d better plan on staying in tonight after all because he did not sound good. Then she pushed open the door and—

And there stood that detective who’d come to talk to them at the single parents’ group. He was so good looking with that dark hair and toned body. He hadn’t spotted her yet. All his attention was on the ice cream he was getting, but she’d never be able to slip past without his noticing and there was no place for her to hide.

He turned at that moment and spotted her. “Penelope?” he said in a cheerful voice and he moved fluidly between the small tables until he was standing in front of her own. “I met you at the single parents’ group. Detective Mark Juarez.” He stuck out his hand, but it was holding a mint chocolate-chip cone. He laughed and transferred it to the other hand.