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“You’re starting to piss me off,” he remarked.
“Yeah, well, sorry,” she said, clearly unrepentant.
“What’s your story?” he asked, the question out before he could even ask himself why he was asking when he had so little time.
“My story?”
“You’re going to play coy?” he asked, seeing her tense up.
“It’s a long story. I can tell it to you while you’re watching whoever you’re watching.”
“No.” They were finally outside the back door and he tested the handle and made sure it was locked.
“Oh, come on. How are you watching these people? Standing outside? Sitting in your car?”
“I’m in my car. For hours sometimes.” He added dampeningly, “And nothing happens.”
“You’re just some guy in a car? What? With a pair of binoculars? If I’m with you, it’ll be less weird.”
She wasn’t wrong, but he was kind of surprised she understood it so well. “It’s a stakeout. It could last hours. If you have to go to the bathroom . . .” He spread his hands even while he was asking himself why he was still talking to her.
“I can take care of myself.”
In that, he believed her. She had a barbed-wire tough attitude that was in direct juxtaposition to her small frame, wide eyes, and full lips. He had no designs on her; he was pretty sure she was young enough to be his daughter, and he wasn’t interested in her romantically, anyway. But she intrigued him and that was a rare thing these days because he was jaded, tired, and pretty well convinced the human race wasn’t worth a goddamn. He was, in fact, a cliché of all the old-time world-weary PI’s.
“I must be out of my mind,” he muttered as he turned toward the rental Sonata and yanked the keys from his pocket. He hit the remote to unlock the doors.
Ravinia climbed in the passenger seat without being invited and buckled herself in.
Chapter 8
Spending the day with Marg and Buddy Sorenson had been pure torture. Buddy was full of bonhomie and jokes and tales of deep-sea fishing with his pals, while Marg wanted the most lavish home for the least amount of money, and she wanted Elizabeth to find it for her toute de suite. Marg believed, somehow, that it was Elizabeth’s fault that she’d lost that first house when in fact Marg had simply dallied too long in making an offer. Part of the problem was Buddy. He had almost less interest in what home caught his wife’s fancy than he did in the ballet, which they’d apparently gone to once in their long marriage and which he brought up from time to time as the dullest experience of his life.
“Please tell me again how hard it is to dance that damn dance,” he would remind his wife every time she would complain about how she’d tried to introduce him to culture outside his world of fishing, boating, and general good old boy backslapping.
“Ballet is hard,” she would snap.
After the spiral into that conversation, Buddy confided to Elizabeth, “I worked on an oil rig when I was younger. Now that’s hard.”
“No one’s disputing that, Buddy,” Marg clipped. “All I want is for you to keep an open mind about the house.”
“How many millions is it?” he asked.
“We can afford it,” she assured him. “Elizabeth is going to work her magic and get them to come down to a reasonable price.”
“We?” Buddy asked, raising his brows at his wife who gave him a chilly glare.
“Don’t put too much faith in my magic,” Elizabeth told her. Unless it’s dark magic, she thought.
As Marg and Buddy haggled and sparred, Elizabeth drove them to the four grand homes Marg had winnowed down on her list. She kept whining about the house that had been stolen out from under them, but Elizabeth didn’t respond to her, knowing Marg hadn’t really liked that one until it was out of reach. Then, of course, it had become “perfect,” as Marg seemed to have forgotten that she’d said it needed a major remodel of the kitchen, three baths, and master suite.
Elizabeth wondered if Marg would ever pick a place. The woman liked looking, not buying, and Buddy certainly didn’t want to make the leap from the mansion they already lived in. Though Elizabeth had a headache from all their bickering, and sometimes she wanted to commit hari-kari rather than listen to them one more second, staying at home and listening to her own thoughts wasn’t that much better of an option.
As Marg and Buddy wandered up one side of the entry’s double stairway with its ornate leaf and branch wrought-iron design, she felt her fears and doubts creeping back in. As had become her habit, she went through her affirmations again. She was just like all the other moms in her Moms Group. She was going to join the PTA this fall when Chloe started kindergarten at Willow Park Elementary. She was a Realtor at Suncrest Realty, not just an assistant anymore, and, courtesy of Mazie Ferguson, she had an impressive client list. She went to a yoga class most Tuesday and Thursday mornings with friends from the Moms Group and they all drank Jamba Juice smoothies together after Tuesday’s class. She was married to a corporate attorney who was strikingly good-looking and on a fast track to make partner in his law firm.
Was married . . . she reminded herself with a jolt, surprised she’d let that last one slip through. Swallowing, she revised that last thought. She was a single mother, making a good living for her well-adjusted daughter.
Who has strange fainting spells with no root cause.
