Death at a Fixer-Upper Read Online Free PDF Page B

phone. “To, ah, build there. He’s a developer.”
    “Not gonna happen. There’s issues. Don’t waste your time or mine.”
    “What kind of issues?”
    “The kind that require you to do your homework. You remember ‘due diligence’ from whatever online real estate school you studied at? Or did you skip that chapter?”
    My mouth dropped open a little. In my limited experience, agents were gracious, even fawning, when contacted by other agents who might have a buyer for their listings. Lois Hartshorne bordered on the openly hostile. But maybe that was her style.
    She went on in her grating voice, “There’s a tenant in possession. She agreed to vacate the better part of the day tomorrow to allow showings. So I don’t have a slot to waste on some looky-loo.”
    “I met the tenant this morning. She seems nice.”
    “How’d you manage that? No showings until tomorrow. I can have you up for disciplinary action.”
    This was too much. “Just a minute. I was with Biddie from our office. She told me you okayed a preview.” My heart thumped in my chest at the thought of facing a disciplinary board.
    She made a noise in her throat. A chuckle? “Don’t get your undies in a twist. I guess you could see the place at noon tomorrow.”
    “My client requested eleven o’clock.”
    “Christ. Fine. You’re down for eleven. Don’t forget to leave me a signed, dated business card. And double-check all the doors.”
    I drew in my breath to tell her I wasn’t that much of a goddamned rookie, but she’d hung up. Sheesh. I waited for my pulse to slow down, then pushed myself off my perch and headed to the office.

Chapter 3
    Home Sweet Home Realty was a boxy ex-Laundromat on the corner of Fifth and Sunset. Its stucco exterior was painted a creamy yellow, diluted to a drab tan by the morning’s haze of fog. My broker, Everett Sweet, had purchased the building for a song about five years back and converted it to office space. It was positioned on a high-traffic corner—good visibility, as we say in the trade—and smelled as springtime fresh as Bounce fabric sheets.
    I used the rear entrance, jogging up a couple of wooden steps and crossing an expanse of redwood decking to reach the door. The deck was a pleasant little oasis for lunch and a quick and discreet way to exit the office should it become necessary. In fact, just recently—but that’s a story for another time.
    I passed the old computer-and-printer combo squatting on a long counter at the back of the building, next to a canister vacuum and a mop in a bucket. Everett didn’t believe in a lot of frills, but he’d grown on me over the months I’d worked for him. His real estate knowledge was extensive and his understanding of human nature instinctual. Plus he didn’t take any shit, something I’m known for as well. We got along all right.
    Small shifts in the air current inside the building told me I wasn’t alone. I walked past the kitchenette to my own little cubbyhole and found my colleague Gail Kelly at the desk we shared. Gail was another rookie, slowly finding her footing in the business. Today her hair was lavender, styled in a soft bird’s nest of curls on top of her head. She had a stack of marketing postcards in front of her and her cell phone in her hand. When she saw me, she put it down.
    “I was just about to call you,” she said. “There’s a woman waiting for you in the lobby.”
    “No kidding. What’s she want?”
    “I didn’t ask. To buy real estate, I suppose.”
    I picked up a trace of doubt in her voice, and it made me curious. Pointing to the cards, I said, “You know that’s a waste of time.”
    “Busywork.” She peeled an address label from a sheet of about five hundred and pasted it somewhat off-center on a card. Then she tossed the card on the desk, creating a new stack. Four hundred and ninety-nine to go.
    I took a few quick steps down the hall and ducked into the bathroom to scrub the grease off my hands and check my