AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Thirty-Nine
Margo Angelhart
I’d told Jack last night that I didn’t need him today in my search for Jennifer White, aka Virginia Bonetti. He was dealing with the fallout from the fire at Desert West. Clearly, someone set the fire to prevent Tess and Luisa from figuring out what Jennifer had already downloaded. If Logan was right, someone was stealing from the company, and it wasn’t Jennifer.
The main reason I didn’t want Jack with me was because I planned to lie. A lot. Jack had many skills, but he couldn’t lie to save his life. When he was sixteen, Mom and Dad went away to one of Dad’s medical conferences in Seattle. It coincided with their anniversary, so they left a day early. Mom had sent Luisa, who was only six, to stay with family, but left Jack in charge of the rest of us. Jack loved being in charge, but he was also very responsible. Most of the time.
This weekend, however, our cousins Mateo and Grace—fifteen-year-old twins—convinced Jack to have a “small pool party.” Because our parents had said explicitly no parties, Jack bribed Tess, Nico, and me—he’d do Tess’s and Nico’s chores for a week and pick me up from softball practice for the next month. No more riding my bike a mile home in the heat.
The bash that was supposed to have “a dozen” people had more than sixty. There was alcohol—which made Tess super nervous. The party was fun for everyone but those of us who had to clean up and make the house immaculate for the return of our parents—and decide who would take the fall for the giant dent in the BBQ and the mailbox that had been knocked over.
Tess, Nico, and I kept our faces straight when Mom and Dad got home, but one look at Jack and Mom said, “What happened?”
He spilled everything.
Jack has no poker face.
Me? I had no problem with spinning tales. It made me a good detective.
I had considered just breaking into her condo, but there were too many security cameras and I didn’t know anything about her neighbors. So after Jack left, I created a brilliant cover as a real estate appraiser. Because Jack had given me the file on Jennifer from Desert West, I had her email address and could easily clone it. I sent a message from Jennifer to the manager, asking her to let me—Margo Angelhart, Appraiser—into the condo on this day and time because I (Jennifer) was out of town for work. “Jennifer” gave her a phone number (a burner I had for just such emergencies) if necessary.
One problem: Frank Sanchez. He followed me as soon as I left Miriam’s office. It took me longer than I expected to lose him, and I was ten minutes late.
The manager, Cora Mannigan, was distraught when I arrived.
“Is Ms. White selling? She didn’t tell me she wanted to sell. She said she loved her condo.”
Cora was in her fifties and impeccably dressed with real diamonds in her ears—probably—and no wedding ring. My guess: a divorcée living off her alimony but bored so took the job. Probably owned a condo in the complex and knew everyone and their business.
“She’s looking to refinance and wanted an appraisal,” I said. “I was told she did some remodeling when she first moved in.”
“Yes,” Cora said. “She updated the kitchen and it’s gorgeous, especially the subway tile she selected, plus replaced the awful carpets with beautiful tile and wood floors.”
“I need pictures for my files, so I can give her the best value on her condo.”
I handed her my business card. I’d made eight—that’s what the sheet feeder in my printer could handle—on nice linen paper. No color, but the paper was top-of-the-line. And in some businesses—like real estate appraisers—the simpler, the better. Classy block font, PO Box, phone number, license number (fake), and email.
“I used to work for Thompson Pierce,” I said, mentioning the largest real estate company in the valley with multiple offices that would be next to impossible for her to verify, “but started my own business a year ago. I need to make my own hours because I’m helping my mom take care of my grandmother.”
“That’s so wonderful you’re able to do that,” Cora said. She started walking toward the elevator and I refrained from a fist pump that I had sold her on my temporary identity.
We rode the elevator to the top floor—the sixth—with Cora chatting about the amenities of the condo complex.
I asked, “Do you know Jennifer well?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. I’ve met her, of course. I make a point to talk to all the owners, and we have a homeowners association meeting once a month that I run. It’s one of my main responsibilities. You should know, for your appraisal, that our HOA is on top of everything. The fees are reasonable for a complex this size. We have two pools—indoor and outdoor—and the dog park, the—oh, here we are,” she said when I stopped in front of Jennifer’s door. I knew her unit number and I was certain that Cora would have continued walking to the end of the hall if I hadn’t stopped.
Cora smiled and knocked. “Just to make sure she didn’t come back early.”
“Did she tell you about her trip?”
“No, I didn’t even know she was gone until she emailed. She works so hard.”
No one came to the door, so Cora opened it up. “Here you go. This kitchen is just amazing!”
It was, I concurred—bright and functional. A little too bright for me, but with lots of counter space and gorgeous green subway tiles. But it was the view that was truly stunning. The mountains east of Scottsdale were crisp and clear in the mid-morning light. A wide covered balcony that curved around the corner so she had a view to the north and east. Sunrises would be spectacular.
I sent the message to Theo, then took out my camera. I made a point to ask Cora to move a few feet with just enough frustration to still be polite, but a little annoyed.
