04 - Shock and Awesome Page 5

  "You want to live near Maddox?"

  I didn't particularly want to live near my ex-boyfriend, but it was a great neighborhood. Not that it was a viable option. I told Lily the price and her jaw dropped. "That's insane!"

  "I know. And that's a nice one. I just circled a place in Chilton. It costs the same as here."

  Lily leaned over and looked to where I tapped the newspaper with my forefinger. "That's not so... Oh. It's a studio. Its kitchen is a closet! There must be somewhere better." She took the newspaper from me and I reclined against the couch's pink pillows while she scanned the columns. "Maybe not," she decided a few minutes later as she returned the gazette.

  "If it's affordable, it's a pit. If it's nice, it's not affordable," I told her.

  "Maybe we should look at some anyway. Make friends with the rental agents. They might tell you if something better comes up."

  "It's either that or the bench in Fairmount Park." I shrugged.

  "It'll never come to that, Lex. Besides, we all know those benches are taken. Jord patrolled there last night. He said it was like a hobo sleepover with a gin tea party."

  "Maybe I could house-sit in Chilton a little longer," I mused. "How long are rich people’s vacations?"

  "I bet proximity to Solomon has nothing to do with that little idea," Lily snorted. "Get calling those agents. I love house snooping. Even better when the chance of finding a corpse is zero."

  "Are you ever going to let me forget that?" I asked, recalling, with a shudder, the day we found my ex-boss's corpse. Except for me, it was the second time.

  "One day." She laughed, then pulled a face. "Unless we find anymore. Let's not, okay, Lexi? Promise me?"

  I hated to say it, but I thought the chances of us not finding more bodies were low, seeing as we seemed to attract them. On the plus side, no one had been murdered on this case. Yet. All the same, I refused to make any promises I couldn't keep.

  ~

  I declined Lily's offer of dinner with Jord and her, and retired to bed early. When I awoke, there was a thick envelope pushed under my door with a note from Solomon, simply saying “Read.” Over breakfast, I opened the envelope and spread its contents across the coffee table. I played Eeny-Meeny-Miny-Mo to decide which rich dating dude's case file or police report I should read about first. Of course, none of the suspects were a sure thing, but Helen Callery had already done some of our work by narrowing down the likeliest suspects. Aside from being millionaires - which they stated and Helen assured us they most definitely were - the one other thing each man had in common was dating each of the complainants. That made our pool of suspects much smaller, against a surprisingly long list of rich singles.

  My finger landed on the middle file, and with a sigh, I snapped it up, opening the manila cover to reveal a few loose sheets of paper and a sheaf of photographs. The top paper was obviously the application filled out prior to joining the agency.

  David Markham was thirty-nine, a self-made man of indeterminate software expertise. He owned a house in the exclusive hamlet of Bedford Hills, never married and didn't have kids. He claimed to enjoy tennis, fine wine, hiking, and art galleries. I decided not to write him off as a total bore, just yet. Besides, he wanted to get married and have two kids; and if he were hot, after seeing his bank account, I most definitely would consider dating him.

  I turned the application over and laid it face down on the empty side of the file. A bank statement confirmed his income to an eye-watering degree. Personal references attested how nice he was and what a catch he would be for the right woman. As I warmed to him, I turned the page and my stomach flopped. It didn't matter how nice this guy was on paper, he couldn’t float my ocean-going yacht. Paunchy around the middle with a shirt a size too small and slicked-back, oily hair, he had a nice smile on otherwise plain features. He did not look like a suave operator. Or, sadly, my future husband. Not that I was looking for one anyway, but it never hurt to keep one's eyes open.

  "C'est la vie," I muttered, closing the file.

  File number two revealed the jackpot of dating: an English man with a title.

  "Holy crap, my mother would love this," I squealed, scanning the application. Then I thought about English oppression, Independence Day, and Prince William's lack of availability. "Nope. She'll still love a lord," I decided.

  Lord Justin Camberwell hailed from somewhere in England with a name that probably wasn't pronounced anything like it looked. Apparently, he spent a fair portion of his youth in the States and decided to return last year to oversee some family business dealings before taking up management of the family estate back home. His bank statement was missing, but there was a printout of a Wikipedia page and a dozen shots of Lord Justin playing polo, in his graduation gown with the towering spires of Oxford as a backdrop, and as a guest at a couple of royal weddings. I'm pretty certain one of the couples was Wills and Kate. He had blonde hair, sparkling eyes and a terrific complexion with a toned physique, assuming the tennis snap was recent. I put down ten bucks on a mental bet that he was top of every single one of Million Matches' millionairess's dating list. After all, titles were cool. "Lady Lexi," I tried, then, "Lady Alexandra Camberwell. Lady Alexandra Camberwell Graves. It could work."

  His address was listed as "care of" a house in Chilton, just a few blocks from Solomon's house. It made sense that a visitor on foreign shores would stay with a friend, I guessed, and wouldn’t have his own place if he didn't plan to settle here. His future plans for heading home, however, did make me wonder what he was doing searching for a woman in Montgomery. Was he dating for keeps? Or playing for now? And did playboys make good thieves?

  I added Lord Justin's file to that of David Markham's as I opened the third file and wondered who else might be in the same league as a self-made software millionaire and an English lord.

  Marty Tookey was a lottery winner. A big winner. Oodles of winnings. In fact, his bank account sniffed at most other winners, he had so much money. He was a local guy, born and raised in Montgomery, with a career in accounting until his big win. I recognized the firm as one with offices a couple blocks from the Solomon Agency. His application stated he wanted to be married with a family, and not see someone who wanted him for his money, which seemed like a no-brainer for me since this was a bags-of-money dating agency. I figured he thought it wouldn't hurt to state it. I wondered how much the winnings changed his life. Flicking past his references, I picked up a couple of photographs of an attractive man with sandy hair. He appeared in his early thirties. One shot showed him in tennis whites, and another on holiday, with a beach and palm trees in the background.

  Reaching for my cell phone, I called Lily. "Does everyone rich play tennis?" I asked.

  "Why are you asking me? What time is it?"

  "Eight. You're rich."

  "My parents are rich."

  "Do they play tennis?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you?"

  "Uh... yes," Lily admitted.

  "Damn. I don't know how to play tennis. All my suspects so far play tennis. What if they want to play?"

  "We were in the tennis club in school!" Lily reminded me.

  I forgot about that and struggled to remember. I vaguely recalled looking super cute in my whites. "I only joined to look at the boys' legs," I admitted. "And to show them mine."

  "Me too. I didn't learn much. My mother enrolled me in tennis camp one summer. Do you remember?"

  "Vaguely. Did you learn much?"

  "Only that the camp counselors at tennis camp are easy. And despite having a weak backhand, I can definitely grip a..."

  "Don't tell me! At least you learned something."

  "True. It's a lesson that served me well. Boom. Tennis joke!" Lily giggled.

  "Ha-ha. Do you have tennis whites?"

  "Somewhere."

  "Can I borrow them if I need to?"

  "Sure. Plus the skirt is incredibly short, so if you need to distract your opponent, you could just bend over a lot and play with the ba
lls."

  I grimaced, though, come to think of it, that would be distracting. "I'll make sure to wear my best underpants."

  "Or none at all."

  "I don't think they'll need that much distracting."

  "You never know. It'll be a fast way to find out where the jewels are hidden." Lily giggled and I sighed. Pregnancy brought out her filthy mind. Come to think of it, having a filthy mind probably helped her get pregnant in the first place. I preferred not to think of my brother having anything to do with it.

  "I'll call you later. I have apartments to see this afternoon and another file to read first. Hope the next one doesn't play tennis too."

  "Hope he's hot."

  Suspect number four wasn't just hot. Ben Rafferty was smokin' hot. He hailed from New York, a trust fund baby who had access to the best schools, homes in the Hamptons, Aspen, and a family duplex on the upper east side. His family also had roots in Boston, and while he was there recuperating after a skiing accident, he visited Montgomery and liked our town. He planned on staying, maybe investing in local business, while also volunteering at community aid organizations. His references portrayed him as funny, charming, but not without foibles. In short, his friends didn't say he was a saint, but one of life's good guys, which seemed like a reasonable description for someone who wanted an honest representation. There were two headshots, one looked posed, and a little formal in an old class tie, though I couldn't guess where from. The other was a relaxed, candid shot of him sitting in the park, a soft breeze ruffling his hair, smiling broadly as he petted a small dog. I bet if his family money wasn’t enough to sucker the women in, the image of the big guy being so sweet to a cute pup finished them off. It certainly worked for me. Best of all, he didn't mention tennis. Hurrah!

  "Hello, date number four," I cooed, giving his puppy photo a stroke. "Two hotties, two notties. This job officially does not suck. Yet," I added, just to err on the side of caution, because, well, you never know.

  There was one thing that bothered me about the case as I stacked the files and headed for the coffee pot and my second cup. Why would any one of these rich men be stealing? Surely they had enough money of their own? Even as I thought about it, the answer was clear. We assumed the motive for theft was the money, but what if it was theft for the sheer sake of thievery? Perhaps it was some rich man's game to stave off the boredom of a perfect life. A gentleman thief. We either had a penniless thief and a liar... or a real life Thomas Crown in our midst.

  ~

  I arrived at my first appointment five minutes early, and four coffees into the day. While parking, I took a good, long look around the neighborhood, which was pretty easy as I was five minutes from my house. The West Montgomery apartment was the best of a bad bunch I booked to see this morning. The realtor told me it only just came on the rental market after the homeowner decided to move to Hong Kong. I really couldn't see how someone could just decide to move to Hong Kong, but that wasn't the point. This was a Holy Grail apartment; it was designed for an owner to live in, not for a money-sucking landlord to abandon. That meant it was probably pretty nice. And cockroach-free. The bathroom was new. Even better, it was in my budget.

  As I slid out of my VW and approached the building, another couple strolled to the entrance. They looked young and smart. She wore ankle-length pants and a chic mac in lipstick red. He wore chinos and a navy blazer. They were holding hands. Perhaps they were my neighbors-to-be? My hopes of making friends with the happy-looking couple diminished as we both waited for the other to approach the keypad entrance.

  We didn't move.

  That meant one thing: they weren't my new buddies. They wanted my apartment.

  I hated them. And her perfect mac.

  "Cute mac," I said as we eyed each other suspiciously.

  "Banana Republic," she replied, even though I didn't ask, while scanning my jeans and hip-length, mustard yellow, wool coat. I thought I looked awesome when I left my apartment, but felt a bunch less awesome under her stylish scrutiny. I hated when women managed to do that. It was a weird skill.

  "Sale?"

  "I don't shop sale," she shot back. That said it. On the plus side, she didn't know what she was missing when it came to sales shopping.

  "Don't I know you?" Chic's husband looked me up and down with a little frown that half-turned into a smile as he tried to decide whether he recognized me from somewhere. I was pretty sure he didn't, but before I could answer, he nudged his wife. "Honey, here's the realtor." Mr. Chic, as I dubbed him, raised a hand to wave and I checked over my shoulder. Yup. Same realtor... and he double-booked us. What an ass! Even as I mentally added donkey ears to his white-blonde head, I saw an eager-looking third couple trotting along behind him. What were the odds of being triple-booked? Apparently, pretty good as the realtor beamed over his assembled crowd of apartment-seeking desperadoes.

  "Great day for apartment hunting, huh? I'm Rick Taylor, and I'm your realtor today," he said with all the enthusiasm of a game show host. Grinning as he clapped his hands together, he might as well have just announced we were going to save lives! Today! "You can call me Rick. It's my name!"

  Jerk, I thought.

  "Awesome," said Mr Chic. Inexplicably, he and Rick high-fived.

  "Let's head inside and see this place. You're going to love it," Rick promised to no one in particular. He gave his tie a quick adjustment, and punched a number into the keypad. As he held the door open and the Chics shot ahead, I caught him giving me an odd once-over before wrinkling his eyebrows. Perhaps he'd never seen a single woman before, I decided, while chastising him under my breath for being so judgmental.

  The apartment was one of a rare breed and exactly as advertised. Light. Spacious. The furniture was modern, but comfortable, and showed off the great original features like the crown molding and fireplace. The galley kitchen was compact, but cleverly designed with plenty of storage, while the bathroom was neat and orderly with an equally surprising amount of storage. The bedroom was, in a word, dreamy. The whole place was a little smaller than my current home, and the view just as dull. It was also slightly more expensive, but I was used to the give-Lily's-friend-a-discount rate.

  "We'll take it," said the Chics.

  The third couple and I looked at each other. "I want it," I said at the same time the other husband blurted, "We'll sign the lease today."

  "Way to go on the bargaining power," I muttered as the first couple rolled their eyes at each other. With all three of us wanting the apartment, it would surely come down to one thing now: money. Just the thing I wasn't exactly rolling in on my single income.

  "It's just the right size for one," I murmured, loud enough for the couples to hear as I walked around. Perhaps a little reverse psychology would work? "I'd hate to share such a little apartment." I crossed to the window overlooking the street. "Oh my! Is that man breaking into that car?" I exclaimed in a shocked voice. "Is he taking the stereo?"

  The realtor was beside me in a second, his worried eyes searching the street for the phantom thief. "I don't think so," he said, unconvincingly. "Probably just fixing it."

  "Riiiight," I agreed, nudging him in the ribs and giving him a big wink that the second couple saw. "Definitely fixing it. Sure. Absolutely. Did you say it's unsecured street parking?"

  "Uh... yes."

  "So, uh, we have some other places to see." The door shut behind the second couple, cutting off their excuses as they exited. One down, one to go.

  "I know what you're doing," hissed Mrs. Chic. "I use reverse psychology on my kindergartners. You aren't going to get rid of us that easily. We want this apartment."

  "I want it too."

  "So... when are you all looking to move?" asked Rick, nervously looking from the Chics to me, his commission suddenly uncertain.

  "Straightaway," the three of us chimed in unison. Except, obviously, none of us wanted to move in with each other. Well, Mr. Chic might have liked sharing with his wife and an extra, but I was pretty sure Mrs. Chic wouldn
't want to share her closet with me. Also: no way.

  "Okay, great." Rick beamed. "Let me get some details from both of you and, um, you," he nodded at me, like I was an afterthought, adding "and we'll proceed."

  "So... what happens next?" I asked as he extracted clipboards from his leather shoulder bag and handed us one each.

  "Well, we'll run your credit history and then the landlord will make a decision as to who gets the place. You can submit your offers at the end of the form."

  Huh? What? Offers?

  "We're clearly the best bet," said Mrs. Chic, grabbing the pen and squinting her eyes at the small type.

  "Says who?" I gave her my best “Are you kidding me?” frown. After all, it wasn't a fair observation after knowing me for oh, five minutes.