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I didn’t know, either. The whole thing nagged at me. However, I also didn’t know what to do except try to keep digging in the hope that maybe the answer had been there in front of me the whole time.
“Do you have any contact information for the Phoenix lawyer who was representing the backup buyer?” I said. I didn’t know for sure where the impulse to ask that question had come from, but I generally tried to trust my instincts.
“Oh, I’m sure I have his card. Just a minute.”
She abandoned the open-house packets and opened one of her desk drawers. From there, she pulled out an index card holder, one she’d apparently put to use storing various business cards. After a bit of shuffling, she pulled out a buff-colored piece of card stock with a sound of triumph.
“Here it is,” she said, and handed it over to me.
It was a simple card — no logo, just the man’s name, address, and a phone number I assumed was in the Phoenix area. “Troy Latimer?”
“That’s him,” Josie replied. “Slick, big-city type. I have no idea how the trust found him or why they’d decided to buy property in an out-of-the-way place like Globe. I got the feeling they wanted the house for a bed-and-breakfast kind of setup, but Mr. Latimer was pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing.”
The man must have been a clam if even Josie Woodrow couldn’t winkle the relevant information out of him. I got out my phone wallet and slipped the business card in with the sad little twenty-dollar bill that floated around with me everywhere, since I rarely used cash and almost always whipped out my platinum debit card for purchases.
“Do you mind if I give him a call?” I asked. “I figure it couldn’t hurt to put out a feeler and see if his buyer would even still be interested in the Bigelow mansion. Then I could pass that information on to my mother and Tom.”
“Go ahead,” Josie told me. “Since you’re directly related to the home’s current owners, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you got in touch.”
I thanked her and then headed out, knowing I was going to be a few minutes late opening the store. As I went, my mind thrummed.
With any luck, Mr. Troy Latimer might give me some of the answers I was looking for.
12
Divine Intervention
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Troy Latimer said, his tone crisp and no-nonsense — and not leaving much room for maneuvering.
“Why not?” I replied. “I’m not talking about state secrets here. I’m just curious as to whether your client would be interested in a second chance at the Bigelow property.”
Since it had been a slow morning so far at Once in a Blue Moon, I’d gone ahead and called the number on the business card Josie had given me. To my relief, I’d actually gotten through to Mr. Latimer rather than shunted off to voicemail or an assistant, but, considering how he seemed determined to stonewall me, that relief clearly had been misplaced.
“I’m afraid that I can’t speak to my clients’ intentions,” he said. “Especially since you’re talking to me in an exploratory fashion and not via direct permission from your parents, the actual owners of the property.”
“Not even a little hint?” I asked, desperation clear in my tone.
“Have a good day, Ms. Marx,” he said. “If your parents truly decide to sell, feel free to have them reach out to me directly.”
And he hung up.
So much for that.
I muttered a curse under my breath and got up from the chair outside the fitting room where I’d sat down to make the call. Even though I loved my shop, with its serene deep blue walls and the gorgeous constellation mural Hazel had painted on the ceiling for me, right then I felt trapped. I wanted to get out, wanted to lock up the place and —
And what? I asked myself, trying to be logical. You don’t have any leads to go on. What you really should be doing is sitting tight and waiting for Tom and your mother to figure out what they want to do with the house.
Also, feeling trapped was just silly. Once in a Blue Moon was my shop, and I could close it up and sally forth whenever I felt like it. I’d certainly done so plenty of times in the recent past.
The main problem was that I didn’t even know what I’d do with that supposed freedom. Going back to the Bigelow house seemed like a waste of time. What was the point in hearing those screeching demons and smelling that awful stink all over again when I seemed completely unable to get rid of them?
Sasha had called to tell me she was leaving, Brant’s ashes in hand. The manager at the Best Western had told her she could leave his car there for as long as she needed, although she said she planned to be back in a few days.
“I just have to wait for one of my friends to have a day off so they can drive me back down here,” she said. “But I wanted to call and thank you for everything you’ve done.”
Guilt had washed over me once again. I still couldn’t quite stop blaming myself for calling Brant in the first place. If I hadn’t reached out to him for help, he’d still be alive.
Since I couldn’t change anything about what had happened, I accepted her thanks as best I could and told her to have a safe drive back to Sedona. When I hung up, I tried not to berate myself too much for not doing more. It sounded as though she had a pretty solid group of friends who would help her through this, and I hoped in time the raw edges of her grief would start to get worn down.
