Free Death at a Fixer-Upper by Sarah T. Hobart Page A

going under anesthesia.
    “Think about it. I wouldn’t advise any new agent to start their careers at Home Sweet Home.”
    I remembered Gail’s juicy tidbit of gossip. “I guess you know Everett Sweet.”
    She made a hoarse sound in her throat I decided was a laugh. “You could say that. I was at Home Sweet Home a couple of years before working my way up to this palatial spread.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm, jostling a can of cola so that a few drops sloshed on her desk.
    I looked around. “You have a nice place here.”
    “Just finished last month. Acoustics are terrible and the Wi-Fi is spotty.”
    I gathered my courage. “Listen, uh, I’m wondering how things look in regards to the Harrington estate. For my clients, that is.”
    She gave me a look like I was a nincompoop. “You know I can’t tell you that. Violation of my fiduciary responsibility.”
    “Of course. Of course. I just wondered if I should advise my clients to strengthen their offers. To be competitive with the one that came in earlier. That would benefit your seller, right?”
    “Nice try,” she said, apparently enjoying herself in a humorless way.
    I heard the distant sound of a blender starting up; then the smoke detector on the ceiling above Lois’s desk began to beep frantically.
    “Goddamn margaritas,” she said. “I told Manuel not to run two blenders at once, but does he listen?” She jumped up and pounded on the wall, rattling the Monopoly prints. Nothing happened.
    “Be right back,” she said, and trotted out the front door.
    I leaned forward. My good angel told me to wait quietly and touch nothing. My bad angel offered me a Snickers bar to open the folder where she’d placed my offer and have a little look-see. It was no contest. I riffled through the papers, spotting the first offer I’d submitted, then a third, written by—well, well. Lois Hartshorne herself. Things were starting to make sense. Lois would double her commission if hers was the winning bid.
    Rapidly I scanned the first page of the contract. Full price offer, seller to carry first deed of trust with $200,000 down, interest rate—
    The blender noise stopped. I tapped the stack of papers on the desk to square the corners, then started to tuck the offer back in the folder. A thought occurred to me and I pulled it out again, scanning the tiny print for the name of the purchaser. A door opened and I heard the scuff of shoes against concrete. Almost humming with panic, I stuffed the papers back into the folder and dropped it on Lois’s desk just as she came huffing through the door. She pulled a chair from an empty desk and balanced on it precariously, reaching up to smack the beeping smoke detector. It gave a squawk, then was silent.
    Her eyes narrowed, sweeping over me before traveling to her desktop, then back to me. “Anything else I can do for you?”
    “Not unless you want to give me some advice on these offers.”
    “You want advice?” she said as she climbed down heavily. “Don’t get involved with someone you work with.”
    —
    I left Hartshorne & Associates in a hurry, fearful that Lois might notice something out of place on her desk and come after me, grinding me into pulp on the pavement. As I trotted through the parking lot, the aroma of corn tortillas sizzling in hot fat tickled my nostrils. I wondered if I had time for a basket of chips and one of those aforementioned margaritas before the next showing.
    Instead, I climbed into the VW and started the engine. It was time to check in on real estate matters a bit closer to home.
    A few minutes later, I pulled up opposite the pale blue Victorian that housed North Coast Podiatry and Arlinda Mortgage. Becky Daley’s office was located to the right of the big wooden foot and up a short flight of stairs. She was on the phone, talking with animation about the Federal Reserve. Today she was the consummate businesswoman, blond hair carefully styled, a touch of blusher on her cheeks,