Triple Shot (2 page)

I had heard. In fact, my boy-toy Pavlik and his sheriff’s department were working both cases. One of the reasons I hadn’t seen him much of him recently. ‘I assumed they were independent incidents. Or, at worst, a local crazy.’

‘I wish,’ Sarah said. ‘Across this great country of ours more than twenty agents were killed on the job last year. The National Association of Realtors has survey results on its website. A quarter of the respondents said they’re now carrying guns to protect themselves while working.’

OK, upon reflection, meeting strangers at vacant homes or driving them around in my car weren’t tasks I’d feel particularly comfortable performing. Though, for me, toting a gun would be atop that list. I'd probably shoot myself, saving my attacker the trouble.

No, I’d much prefer taking my chances with some of the self-defense moves Pavlik had taught me one particularly memorable evening.

I’d nearly had my purse stolen the day before, so Pavlik was giving me his ‘be aware of your surroundings’ lecture for the nth time, as I made us dinner at my place.

‘What good does it do me to “be aware” of danger,’ I’d said, turning toward him with a carving knife in my hand, ‘if I can’t protect myself from it?’

After
he disarmed me, we decided that in lieu of dessert we’d retire to the bedroom for a game of strip ‘don’t-let-’em-poke-her’.

Pavlik would show me a self-defense tactic, and each time I executed it correctly, he’d take off a piece of his clothing.

I proved a fast learner.

‘
The sole of a flat shoe on your major foot, cocked at a forty-five degree angle to the attacker’s knee cap, then driven downward, dislocating the joint.’

Not exactly romantically put, but . . . gotcha. Off with the shirt, mister.

‘
Elbow, or pinky edge of your hand, smashing the attacker’s nose, followed by the heel of your palm thrust up into said broken beak.
’

Okey-dokey. Down go those jeans.

‘Maggy?’

‘
When choked from the front or behind, lifting your major leg – high heels now actually preferable – and stomping down with all your might on his instep, depressing and even fracturing the tiny, sub-surface bones in—
’

‘Maggy!’

I hadn’t realized my eyes were closed. Sarah was giving me the Cabbage Patch expression again. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Sure. Just day-dreaming.’ And rudely awakened, I might add, before I got to the nitty-gritty. Or tighty-whities, more accurately.

‘God. Could you please stay in the context of a real world conversation?’

Probably not, but I’d give it a try.

The subject, I thought, had been armed real estate agents. ‘You still have your pistol?’ I asked Sarah, who had saved my life with one in the not-so-distant past.

‘First of all, Maggy, I prefer revolvers. Pistols, also known as semi-automatics, have too many safeties. There's a risk the bullet won't fire when I pull the trigger.’

Risky safeties. Who was the oxy-moron now? ‘All right, then. Do you still have your
revolver
?’

‘Yes and no. The one you remember was a Charter Arms Bulldog, but the hammer kept getting snagged on the key rings of the houses I was showing. Though I’m not sure why, that seemed to queer a couple of deals for me, so I switched to a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard because it has a shrouded hammer.’

‘Shrouded?’

‘Yeah, so it doesn’t stick out from the frame. Then – wouldn’t you know it? – I found I liked wearing a holster better anyway.’ She smacked herself upside the head.

Wasn’t that always the way? You buy carpeting to match the drapes and somebody burns down the house.

Sarah glanced first toward the front of the shop and then back toward the restrooms. ‘Since we’re alone, hold these.’

I took the sheaf of papers and watched her right hand slip under the long, baggy jacket she always wore over belted trousers. When the hand came back out it was holding a mean-looking pistol – sorry, revolver.

Lovely. The perfect accessory for any woman’s wardrobe.

Sarah pointed the muzzle toward the floor and thumbed something on the side of her ‘Bodyguard’. The cylinder part rolled out and to the left of the weapon’s frame but still attached to it.

‘What are you doing now?’

‘Making sure it’s loaded.’

Better and better. ‘So, that little scored button on the top is the only part of the “hammer” that sticks out?’

‘Right.’ Sarah, again with the thumb, gently rolled the cylinder back into the frame and then wiggled it until I heard another click. ‘Now a chamber is centered for the firing pin.’

Eyeing the gun warily, I said, ‘This revolver looks bigger than your Bulldog. Is it?’

‘A little, but the main advantage of this beauty is that it holds five big-ass, .357 magnum rounds.’

Holy shit. Even
I’d
heard of those. ‘You carry a .357 magnum?’

‘I don’t
always
carry it, Maggy.’

Reassuring. ‘But a .357 magnum,’ I repeated. ‘Like in
Dirty Harry
?’

‘No, Clint Eastwood used a .44-caliber magnum, even more powerful still. C'mon, Maggy, what
do
you want me to protect myself with? A derringer? Or one of those puny .22-and .32-caliber Beretta Bobcats or Kel-Tecs? They’re popular with a lot of real estate agents because they don’t weigh much, but I ask you, what’s the point of packing if a slug won’t drop the bad guy in his tracks?’

I wasn't getting into this with her. ‘So if Polly was worried about safety on the job, why didn’t she just get a gun, too?’

‘I told her it was a good idea. Even offered to pay for the gun-safety course.’ Sarah sounded disgusted. ‘But, no.
She
preferred to run away and marry her coked-up boyfriend.’

Ahh, yes. Polly wants a crack head. Now
that
should reduce her exposure to firearms.

I tried to summarize: ‘OK, arsenal aside, let me get the personnel aspect straight. You fired your office’s supervising broker fearing a sexual harassment claim against him, and Polly quit in fear of her life. Which means you’ve been leaving your young apprentice Brigid sitting there alone with no training and nothing to do?’

‘Of course not. There’s plenty to keep her busy. Showings, open houses. But
always
, with somebody as shotgun guard.’

‘Sarah, you have no “
some
bodies” left, with or without shotguns.’

A dismissive wave. ‘Figure of speech. Besides Brigid knows a lot of people. I mean, how many employers tell you to invite your friends over while you're working?’

Only ones desperately in need of additional staff.

‘I’m a good boss.’ Sarah backing-and-filling. ‘You said yourself how capable and eager Brigid is. So I gave her free rein, let her write the occasional offer-to-purchase and balance our clients’ trust account. I was even going to let her do the Williams’ open house on Sunday, though now MaryAnne wants it late Friday afternoon.’

MaryAnne Williams was one of the Barbies enjoying our coffee out-front, but unlike the woman who’d peeked around the corner, she hadn’t homogenized her appearance to join the clique. In fact, MaryAnne was the high-resolution version of fading Elaine Riordan, right down to the Southern accent. Big and naturally blonde, ballsy and . . . well, imagine the volume punched up ten notches on Riordan’s wispy lilt and you’d pretty much have MaryAnne’s timbre. And she herself would tell you she didn’t care ‘a fig’ about fitting in, here or anywhere else.

Still, I shook my head. ‘An open house on Friday afternoon? Everybody’s at work.’

‘Apparently not the people who can afford that house. Besides, MaryAnne wants us to serve wine and cheese so people can stop by on their way home, even if they actually have a job.’

‘Not a bad idea,’ I said. ‘A one-time happy hour, like those clothing boutiques sometimes—’

‘I still can’t believe that little ingrate is ratting me out to the state. Here, trade. Just keep the muzzle pointed down.’ Sarah thrust the revolver at me and took back the papers. ‘See, Maggy? Look at this.’

I held the gun gingerly with both hands and tried to read the line next to where her index finger was tapping. ‘OK. Unlicensed real estate apprentices aren’t supposed to do what you—’

‘They’re not supposed to do
any
thing, at least for the first six months. But what good is that to me? Or any other broker’s business?’

‘I think you might be missing the point of mentoring.’

‘Yeah? Well, maybe Ms Brigid Ferndale is “missing the point” of being an apprentice.’

‘Apprentice or indentured servant?’

‘I’ve been paying her a perfectly fair salary, as detailed in –’ Sarah flipped to another page – ‘this.’

I looked at her second ‘this’. It was a contract, evidently filed with Wisconsin’s Department of Regulation and Licensing, in which Sarah promised to provide Brigid with a salary and also stipulated her hours, ‘course of study’ and a schedule of commissions she would be paid upon completion of the apprenticeship.

‘Comprehensive,’ I said. ‘Right down to what you were
supposed
to be teaching her.’

‘And then she goes behind my back and files a complaint? The Division of Enforcement is going to be on this like flies on horseshit. Who knows what irregularities an auditor might find, with me out of the office so much.’

Out of the office so much?
That was putting it mildly and, besides, more argument for the prosecution than evidence for the defense. Sarah had essentially gone AWOL, preferring to sell coffee over property. And she’d left a kid in charge of her realty gig.

Even Brigid – eager as she might be to get ahead – knew that was a mistake.

Though I had to take some of the blame, too. Sarah had abdicated her office to become
my
business partner.

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ I said weakly as Sarah took back the gun.

‘Try to sound like at least
you’re
convinced of that,’ Sarah growled as she pushed aside her jacket and slipped the gun back into the holster attached to her belt.

Elaine Riordan hovered tentatively at the corner again. Apparently she’d left her tennis gear in the car, but slung over her shoulder was a strapped bag expansive enough to hold a frou-frou dog. And with enough buckles and hardware on the outside to convince any potential hairy Houdini not to make a break for it.

I cleared my throat. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m so sorry, but I need to use the restroom?’ Her tennis soles squeaked as she did a pitiful little potty dance.

I tugged Sarah to one side and Riordan hurried past us at a dead run.

I’m not sure my partner even noticed. She was still staring at her sheaf of papers, muttering.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.

The bells on the street side door jingled but Sarah didn’t look up.

Nor did she answer me.

I sighed and had started back toward the front of our shop when a familiar voice stopped me. ‘My God, what is that
stench
?’

I could retreat, but Sarah, still growling, wasn’t much of an alternative. The proverbial rock and a hard place, but in this case, it was more caught between the bitchy and the bitchier.

Told you Brookhills is rife with them.

Kate McNamara, editor and publisher of the
Brookhills Observer
and occasional on-air reporter for our regional cable news operation, stood inside the door, literally holding her nose. Next to her was a tall, dark-haired man gracefully graying at the temples, his camel sports jacket unbuttoned, Burberry scarf arranged just-so at his neck. Right behind him, as though she was drafting in his wake, came an angular young blonde wearing jeans and a parka. She didn’t register with me, but the man looked vaguely familiar.

Noticing the others also reacting to our air-quality index, I said, ‘Sewer problem.’ To tweak the journalist, I added, ‘Surely someone called a breaking story like this into your paper, Kate?’

Tien, her work done for the day, had departed, along with Jacque. Art had taken his coffee to the bar-top facing the window where he clacked away at his computer. Next to Elaine Riordan’s empty chair, a streaked-blonde Barbie sat texting, while MaryAnne and a fourth woman, a rare brunette in our town, had their heads together looking at a newspaper.

All, apparently, was right with the world. At least, Brookhills-style.

‘Art, you need anything?’ I asked as I circled behind him.

He shook his head without bothering to look up from the screen, so I turned to the newcomers. ‘Morning, Kate. What can I get you?’

I wanted to find out who the man accompanying her was, but I knew from previous experience with Kate that any question beyond the one I’d already posed would just result in an unadvancing litany of her new conquest’s credentials, both personal and professional.

However, as the Bible says: Don’t asketh and it shall be given unto you anyway. Or words to that effect.

‘Maggy, surely you know who this is,’ Kate practically purred.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest.’

‘No? How about Chicago?’

Mercifully, before I could burst into a song from the musical, the man stepped up to me. ‘Ward Chitown.’

He pronounced it ‘shy-town’. I stuck out my hand. ‘Maggy Thorsen.’

‘You’re kidding.’ Sarah had come up behind us.

Chitown bypassed my hand and extended his to her. ‘Ah, I see my reputation has preceded me.’

‘Reputation?’ Sarah shook hands, while managing to whisper – audibly – to me, ‘I just thought it was a stupid name – Ward “Chitown” from “Chicago”?’

‘Shit!’ Art Jenada’s head had swiveled around from his computer. ‘Ward, is that really you?’

Chitown, once-burned by Sarah’s attitude, was now twice . . . well, ‘chi’. ‘Umm, yes?’

Art hopped off his stool and, nudging past the young woman in the winter jacket, went to pump the other man’s hand. ‘Damned if it
isn’t
. How’ve you been? What brings you up here to the boonies?’

‘Chitown’ was a nickname for Chicago, though not as popular as ‘The Windy City’. Or even ‘Second City’, though some of its residents might bristle at the implication that Chicago was Avis to New York’s Hertz. Probably the same people who considered everything north of the Cubs’ Wrigley Field the ‘boonies’.