SEAL the Deal(14)
Lacey shut the closet door firmly and opened the French doors that led to the patio so people could hear the enchanting sound of water lapping against the rocks.
Turning on the lights upstairs, she noticed another closet door open. An uncomfortable chill raced down her spine. She never would have been careless enough to leave two closets open last night.
For that matter, she didn’t even remember having opened them.
Her eyes darted around. Nothing was missing, and it certainly didn’t look as though anyone had broken in.
She whipped out her cell and started dialing.
“Hey,” Maeve answered.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Uh, no. Don’t think so anyway.”
“Then explain this. When I came into the house, two of the closets were open. I know for a fact they weren’t open when I left last night.”
“Why are you still in the house? If you think someone’s broken in, get the hell out of there!”
“But that’s just it. Nothing’s missing.”
“Are you sure you didn’t leave those doors open?”
“Positive.”
“How about the old lady? Would she have stopped by last night?”
“Not unless someone drove her. She has bad eyes and can’t drive at night.”
“Well, somebody else must have the key. Didn’t you say she had kids?”
“Yeah, and the son lives in town. I guess that must be it,” Lacey decided with some relief. “But why would he stop by here? She doesn’t live here, and there’s nothing left here of hers.”
“Maybe he got sentimental about the place and wanted to see it again.”
“Believe me, this guy is not the sentimental type.”
“Are you sure you’re safe there? Keep me on the line while you check the place out, okay?”
Grateful for Maeve’s caution, Lacey checked all the closets, under the beds, and even climbed up the rickety ladder to the blistering hot attic.
She was definitely alone.
“Well, it had to be the son,” Maeve said with confidence. “Who knows? Maybe he just remembered a stash of Playboys he had hidden away when he was a kid.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I’ll stop by later to check on you. Anything you need at the store?”
Lacey rattled off a few items and hung up the phone in time to catch her breath before one o’clock. At that precise moment, she hoped she’d be welcoming hordes of eager potential buyers into the house, their checkbooks open.
It was a great dream, anyway.
***
Maeve clicked her phone shut.
“Is everything okay?” Bess asked.
“I think Lacey is crumbling under the pressure,” Maeve answered with a laugh, turning the corner into a parking lot. “I have to stop in and pick up some wine. Do you mind?”
“No, go ahead. I’ll just wait in the car.”
“It’s too hot. Come on in. You can pick out something you like. I’ve noticed you’re not into my choice of reds.”
“Actually, I, uh, I just don’t drink.”
“Oh,” Maeve said, at a surprising loss of words. “Okay. Well, if you really want to wait here, I’ll leave the car running so you can at least keep the AC on.”
“Thanks.”
Maeve slammed the door behind her and charged into the store on a mission. The selection of wine was a sacred act. One didn’t just grab the first thing they saw on the shelf, or God forbid, purchase a bottle simply because it had a pretty label.
Instead, Maeve religiously read about wine, sought out recommendations, attended tastings. As a rule, she didn’t drink much. But she made every glorious sip count.
Maeve shook her head as she explored the import aisles. What is this about Bess not drinking? she wondered uneasily as she lightly traced the wines lined up on the shelf with her discerning finger, the same way another person might scan books in a library.
Maeve had a hard time trusting people who didn’t drink. Her ex-husband had given up alcohol about halfway through her short-lived marriage. At first, she thought it was admirable. Unlike Maeve, he had trouble stopping after just one glass—or six or seven, for that matter. But Maeve had later learned that he only gave up drinking around her because he couldn’t afford a careless slip of the tongue while under the influence. It would be in poor taste to accidently call your wife the name of your co-worker in the middle of a moment of passion.
Not that there had been much passion in the end.
People who didn’t drink might be hiding something, Maeve’s experience had taught her. Not always. Maybe even rarely. But sometimes. So what was Bess hiding?
Not her business, Maeve reminded herself. Bess seemed like a good person, and she was the perfect renter. Always quiet, almost painfully so. Meticulously clean, too, which made Maeve think her housecleaning clients must be in seventh heaven.