would be able to sell her house. And it had almost sold in the first week. Sheila had a buyer in from Texas and he’d been to see the house twice, even bringing his wife in to approve his choice. But then they’d brought in a home inspector. Five thousand dollars for French drains later, the buyers had found someplace else they liked better and Meredith still had to pay a small fortune for a landscape crew to come and prettify the mud piles left behind.
Sheila called it a “small setback,” but that was before the neighbor next door decided to contest the survey she’d done to sell the house. Another couple of thou to have the survey redone, plus the lawyer’s fees for battling the neighbor. It just went on and on. This house was sucking her dry and wasn’t it just her luck to have her realtor get murdered? Nobody believed her when she told them.
Of course, the powers-that-be at Braxton had been apologetic and assured her that this would not slow down the sale and that Sheila’s close friend and fellow realtor would make it her highest priority. They kept reminding her how “shocking” Sheila’s death was and how “devastated” everybody was at the office. As if they needed to remind her that Sheila had been killed. Like she wasn’t well aware of that. She didn’t lack sympathy, but for God’s sake, this was business.
Well, she knew how to make them pay attention. It hadn’t been just a threat to take her business elsewhere, either. Meredith was just about convinced that it was the realty office itself that was bringing her all this bad luck. Probably bad feng shui.
She dialed Amy Moran’s number. Again. It was easily the fourth time today that she’d gotten the woman’s voice mail. Was this woman ever working?
She heard the faint ring of the doorbell as she fought her way into a blush-pink lycra-and-spandex ensemble that made her look ten pounds thinner. She had the shirt over her head when a sudden voice made her jump.
“Amy Moran is here, ma’am.”
“Jesus, Gloria!”
The woman didn’t hear her. She was already making the bed, moving with the same slow efficiency with which she did everything else.
Amy Moran stood in the foyer examining a framed black-and-white photo of mountains, looking far more cool and collected than she had a right to with an unhappy client.
“Is this an Ansel Adams?” she said, looking up when she heard Meredith’s footsteps on the stairs.
“I have no idea,” Meredith said crisply. “Is the sign up in my yard?”
“It’ll be up later today. Four at the latest.”
“I want it up now.”
The realtor nodded. “I know, I’m sorry, but it’s been a very bad week—”
“Ms. Moran, I’m not interested in hearing another sob story—I want the FOR SALE sign in my yard and I want it now.”
“I’m afraid I can’t put it in for you. You need a hole digger to sink the wooden pole. I don’t carry a hole digger around in my trunk.”
Meredith thought she might truly choke with rage. “Is that what you came here to tell me?”
“No, I came to tell you that I’ve got two more showings arranged.”
“It’s about damn time. Who are they?”
“Um, I’m not sure . . .” the woman faltered, struggling to open her leather purse as if the answer was somehow mysteriously contained inside. Meredith didn’t bother to hide her annoyance.
“You’re not sure? Look, I don’t want my time wasted with people who aren’t serious buyers. Don’t you vet any of these people before showing them better properties? Why on earth should I put myself through so much for people who can’t even afford my house?”
Amy extracted a notebook and flipped through its pages. “One’s a neurosurgeon. He’s relocating with his family from Atlanta. Does he meet your criteria?”
The sarcasm was hidden. Just. Meredith longed to yank out the chignon, rip the wool suit and reduce this woman to tears. She had to settle for looking unimpressed.
“And the other
Sheila called it a “small setback,” but that was before the neighbor next door decided to contest the survey she’d done to sell the house. Another couple of thou to have the survey redone, plus the lawyer’s fees for battling the neighbor. It just went on and on. This house was sucking her dry and wasn’t it just her luck to have her realtor get murdered? Nobody believed her when she told them.
Of course, the powers-that-be at Braxton had been apologetic and assured her that this would not slow down the sale and that Sheila’s close friend and fellow realtor would make it her highest priority. They kept reminding her how “shocking” Sheila’s death was and how “devastated” everybody was at the office. As if they needed to remind her that Sheila had been killed. Like she wasn’t well aware of that. She didn’t lack sympathy, but for God’s sake, this was business.
Well, she knew how to make them pay attention. It hadn’t been just a threat to take her business elsewhere, either. Meredith was just about convinced that it was the realty office itself that was bringing her all this bad luck. Probably bad feng shui.
She dialed Amy Moran’s number. Again. It was easily the fourth time today that she’d gotten the woman’s voice mail. Was this woman ever working?
She heard the faint ring of the doorbell as she fought her way into a blush-pink lycra-and-spandex ensemble that made her look ten pounds thinner. She had the shirt over her head when a sudden voice made her jump.
“Amy Moran is here, ma’am.”
“Jesus, Gloria!”
The woman didn’t hear her. She was already making the bed, moving with the same slow efficiency with which she did everything else.
Amy Moran stood in the foyer examining a framed black-and-white photo of mountains, looking far more cool and collected than she had a right to with an unhappy client.
“Is this an Ansel Adams?” she said, looking up when she heard Meredith’s footsteps on the stairs.
“I have no idea,” Meredith said crisply. “Is the sign up in my yard?”
“It’ll be up later today. Four at the latest.”
“I want it up now.”
The realtor nodded. “I know, I’m sorry, but it’s been a very bad week—”
“Ms. Moran, I’m not interested in hearing another sob story—I want the FOR SALE sign in my yard and I want it now.”
“I’m afraid I can’t put it in for you. You need a hole digger to sink the wooden pole. I don’t carry a hole digger around in my trunk.”
Meredith thought she might truly choke with rage. “Is that what you came here to tell me?”
“No, I came to tell you that I’ve got two more showings arranged.”
“It’s about damn time. Who are they?”
“Um, I’m not sure . . .” the woman faltered, struggling to open her leather purse as if the answer was somehow mysteriously contained inside. Meredith didn’t bother to hide her annoyance.
“You’re not sure? Look, I don’t want my time wasted with people who aren’t serious buyers. Don’t you vet any of these people before showing them better properties? Why on earth should I put myself through so much for people who can’t even afford my house?”
Amy extracted a notebook and flipped through its pages. “One’s a neurosurgeon. He’s relocating with his family from Atlanta. Does he meet your criteria?”
The sarcasm was hidden. Just. Meredith longed to yank out the chignon, rip the wool suit and reduce this woman to tears. She had to settle for looking unimpressed.
“And the other
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