A killer app, p.8
A Killer App, page 8
As Bitsy’s right fist arcs toward my jaw, I’m ready. With a simple hip hike, I use the momentum of her own punch to fling her on her back. And, what do you know, I’m now straddling Bitsy.
Gotta say, the Amazon isn’t a quitter. But she isn’t too bright either. When she tries to throw another punch, I trap her right arm against her chest. She may outweigh me, but there’s no way she can bring that fist back into action.
When I see her balling her left fist, I sigh. Really? I grasp the meat of her thumb and twist her left hand away.
She flails for a moment before trying to bite me. Is she kidding? This woman needs Prozac. I torque her left wrist.
She whimpers and lays back. I back off her wrist until her creative insults turn to my mother. I torque the wrist again.
“You ladies having fun?” Ted’s standing above us.
“She hit me.”
“If she promises not to do it again, do you think you could get off her?”
Bitsy stares up at me but refuses to say a word.
I release her wrists and slide away. But I keep my feet between us as a barricade.
“You ugly, old interfering cow,” she hisses as she rolls to all fours to face me. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
I long to scream back, “Bring it on, bitch!” However, Ted’s calming influence prevails. Considering the circumstances, my response is remarkably demure. “I did no permanent damage. You’re fine.”
Bitsy stands and continues to glower at me. “I’m going to sue you!” she snarls.
“Better folks have tried,” I reply as I pull up my shirt collar to dab at the blood oozing down my cheek.
Honey, I may sue you if you’ve knocked any teeth loose.
“Lotsa luck claiming she attacked you, Bitsy,” drawls a bystander. “I’ll be one of her witnesses, and there are probably six videos. The lady was only trying to stop you from beating the stuffing out of Hilda.”
I’m on the floor on my butt, scooting clear of Bitsy, when Ted pulls me to my feet.
“Next time, maybe you should sit up front with me,” he says.
Ted apparently ended the meeting while I was otherwise engaged. Everyone not in our little fight club is exiting the building.
Looks like we might get to eat dinner earlier than expected, unless Ted feels the need to stop at Kay’s B&B first for a consult about a possible lawsuit. Good thing Kay Barrett, Esquire, a dear friend, has not forfeited her license to practice law.
Chapter Twenty
Kylee
Friday evening, June 30
An hour after the meeting broke up (literally), I’m parked on a couch in Ted’s living room with an icebag to my rapidly swelling cheek. Before arriving at Ted’s, I stopped by the River Rat, changed clothes, and cleaned and applied antiseptic to the scratches on my cheek. No telling what evil lurked under Bitsy’s nails. Unfortunately, I had a close-up view of them—neon green with little smiley faces. Give me a break!
My medical first-aid and cool-down layover let Ted beat me to his house. When I arrived, he put his hands on my shoulders and assessed the damage. Turning my head one way and then the other.
“Bet it hurts,” he said. “The scratches on your right cheek don’t look real deep. Should heal quickly. But you’re going to have bruises on the left side where Bitsy landed a punch. It’s already swollen and discolored.”
“Thanks,” I quipped. “You look ravishing and sexy as hell, too.”
Ted hugged me very gently. “Nothing broken, right? Jaw, ribs?”
“No,” I answered. “I worried she might have knocked a tooth loose, but it seems fine.”
Damage assessment complete, Ted ordered me to rest on the couch with the icepack until dinner was ready.
My eyes are closed when Ted comes in and gently kisses my eyelids. “May I escort you to the dining room?” he asks. His soft, warm breath tickles my ear.
At the dinner table, Ted pulls out my chair. He obviously did some planning ahead of the Marshview meeting to make our evening romantic. Don’t imagine he was counting on his lover having a shiner.
The table’s set with flickering candles, roses from his garden, and real china. A big change from the paper plates and plastic utensils that have become standard since his kitchen is in disarray (to put it mildly) and Ted doesn’t have a dishwasher.
Knowing I’m allergic to wine and champagne, Ted omitted the romance novel’s fine vintner component of the evening spread, substituting sparkling apple cider. A good thing since I probably shouldn’t mix alcohol with the painkillers I slugged down before my arrival.
Ted gets big brownie points for the festive setting. And I’m hoping he’ll earn more bonus points post-meal. While his boudoir’s antique wallpaper may be peeling, his king bed suits me just fine. Not too firm, not too soft, perfect for lovemaking.
Around clients, it’s sometimes hard to act like we’re simply professional colleagues or PG-rated friends. While we don’t pretend around Mom, Frank, and Grant, it’s still a little awkward for me.
Ted has no problems broadcasting we’re lovers. I’ll get there, but the relationship is still young. Before we shout our new status from the rafters, I want to make doubly certain it’s long-term and not just two middle-agers knocking a little rust off their latent lust.
I love Ted. Don’t doubt that for a minute. That will never change. But I’m still nervous about upsetting our family dynamic.
“The table looks lovely,” I comment. “But since you don’t have a working stove, I’m curious what’s on the menu?”
“Ordered chef salads from Luther’s plus an entire key lime pie.” Ted grins. “Perfect for a warm summer evening.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I think it’s a little beyond warm in here. I’d call it sweaty. What do you suppose folks who lived in these historic Lowcountry homes did back when? It’s not like there’s a scarcity of muggy mid-summer evenings like this one—not a stir of breeze.”
Ted smiles. “A lot of plantation owners traveled to the South Carolina Upcountry for a little mountain relief. Don’t worry, though. Air-conditioning is high on my agenda. While the Historic Foundation doesn’t want folks messing with exteriors, interior updates are fine.”
Ted retrieves our salads from the mini fridge that’s temporarily stashed in the dining room, and I raise my sparkling apple cider in a toast.
“Here’s to the Historic Foundation’s wisdom and to you keeping enough HOA clients to afford the exorbitant HVAC fee a mechanic will charge to cool this crumbling gem. I hope my wrestling match tonight won’t harm your reputation with the Marshview board.”
“No, all five directors were glad you broke up the fight before it got any more out of hand. And how about leaving off with the decrepit-house insults? Your sailboat’s bathroom is so tiny I have to back my butt in. At least my house doesn’t require people to be contortionists to sit on the throne.”
We pause the shop talk while we eat.
“This chef’s salad’s terrific,” I say. “Love the sweetness of the grapes and the crunch of the candied pecans, and the chicken’s so tender.”
Once we finish our salads, Ted clears the dishes, opens the mini-fridge, and retrieves a gorgeous key lime pie. “How big?” he asks.
I debate a minute before moving my fingers a little wider. I do need sustenance to heal, right?
As he slides a wedge of pie onto my plate, he asks. “Did you have a good day prior to the ladies’ World-Wide Wrestling event?”
I tilt my head and waggle my hand in a see-saw, maybe yes, maybe no gesture. “Well…guess I should give you a Rand Creek update.”
I describe his son’s brainstorm and my afternoon.
“We discreetly identified three of the people most unlikely to weep over Andy Fyke’s tumble and resulting injuries,” I sum up as I finish the last bite of pie.
Despite my injuries, I hope a romp in the boudoir will consume a few of the extra calories I inhaled.
“Jocelyn won’t be happy,” I add. “The bridge players Mimi photographed are all septuagenarian cronies,” I add. “Of course, Rand Creek’s president would be even more peeved to hear the residents bandied her name about as Fyke’s most likely attacker. Just guessing here, but doubt she considers an orange jumpsuit to be haute couture.”
Ted chuckles. “I’m trying to picture her in prison garb. Nonetheless, I doubt Jocelyn had anything to do with Fyke’s fall. Not her style. She’s slick. Far more likely to game the system to sideline Fyke. Find some reason to justify depositing his covenant change petition in a circular filing cabinet.”
Ted pauses. “Tell me again who else Fyke’s friends suspect?”
“Xander Pringle and Amanda Holder. Haven’t had a chance to look up information on either of them. Not sure if they live in Rand Creek or are absentee owners. Only know both own rental property and are furious with Fyke.”
Ted’s forehead creases. “The names sound familiar. Xander’s such an unusual name. I should remember the connection. Oh, I know. Xander’s a real estate attorney, handles tons of closings. While I’ve never met him, his office often asks us to provide documentation to verify that sellers of HOA properties don’t owe association fees, fines, or assessments.”
“How about the woman? Think she might be a real estate professional, too?”
“Holder…Holder,” Ted mutters. “I’ve got it. Amanda Holder was one of Ernie Baker’s supporters. A widow who lived in a big, gothic-looking monstrosity in Lighthouse Cove. She lived down the street from Ed Hiller. But she died of a heart attack over a year ago.”
“Well, this Amanda Holder is definitely alive and kicking. One of her Rand Creek rentals is located two doors from Fyke. He’s filed formal complaints about her renters, and he asked the board to hold the woman responsible for damage the renters inflicted on common property.
“Fyke also contended not a single person in Holder’s last group of renters met the HOA’s age fifty-five requirement. He claimed they were all in their early twenties. According to Fyke’s friends, the Holder woman denied everything. She called Fyke senile and insinuated he might have damaged the property himself. Since Fyke had no video to prove renters were to blame, his complaint went nowhere. That incident prompted him to start his campaign to eliminate rentals.”
Ted pauses with his fork in mid-air. He’s more disciplined about dining etiquette than me and has yet to finish his pie. I blame the Coast Guard and my time aboard ship—chew fast while you can.
“The two Amandas could be a mother and daughter,” Ted says. “That’s not a thing in the Midwest, but Southerners sometimes name baby girls after their moms and add the mother’s maiden name as a middle name. That way, the daughter honors the mother’s heritage. We can check the Lighthouse Cove owner list after supper.”
“Well, if you’d hurry up and finish that pie, I have a different activity in mind. How about a race to see who can shuck their clothes the fastest? The door to your bedroom will serve as the starting line.”
“You’re on.” He grins as his hand bobs up to his shirt’s top button.
“No cheating,” I warn. “Remember, the bedroom door is the starting line.”
“But you can just yank your top over your head,” he complains.
“Not my wardrobe problem.”
Needless to say, I win the dump-the-clothes-the-fastest contest. But Ted’s speed is impressive.
And he does win many bonus points over the next two hours.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kylee
Saturday morning, July 1
Sun pours through holes in the oilcloth shades covering Ted’s bedroom windows. Hard to imagine any moths hard up enough to dine on the vintage oilcloth. Don’t want to think about what other bugs might be inclined to chomp on the window coverings. Termites?
A side sleeper, I perform a one-eighty in the king bed to check if Ted’s awake. His side’s empty.
How late is it? Can’t check the clock. Around midnight, I shoved the bedside alarm face down to keep its glowing digits from painting my pillow an eerie green. I fumble to right it.
Ugh. Seven-thirty. I slide from under the sheets naked as a jaybird and pick Ted’s borrowed robe off the floor. The fuzzy loaner is secured solely by a soft belt. One tug, and I’m buck naked. Could be that’s why Ted always loans it to me. No objection here.
I follow my nose to the dining room. The aroma of coffee. Smells like Blueberry Cobbler, my favorite roast. Unfortunately, my route takes me past a gold-leafed mirror. The image looking back at me isn’t exactly gilded. My bruised left cheek’s painted in unfortunate shades of green and bluish-black. A vivid red line down my right cheek is hopefully a short-term gift from Bitsy’s painted claws.
Ted looks up from his seat at the dining table, coffee mug in hand. “Morning, sleepyhead. How does your face feel?”
“It looks worse than it feels,” I assure him.
Hmm. He’s fully clothed. Work duds. No going back to bed. Darn.
I wave a greeting, opting for coffee to lubricate my tongue before I engage in any more conversation. I notice Ted did a little rearranging in the dining room while I slept. Gone are last night’s candlesticks and the room’s make-shift kitchenette has expanded to include two TV trays. One holds a coffee pot, the other a microwave. Sort of looks like a student has jerry-rigged his dorm room for fast access to hot coffee and ramen noodles. Wonder how long it’ll be before the remodel allows Ted to use his kitchen.
Not complaining. Ted’s coffee pot holds ten cups. I pour a mug, take a welcome sip, then wander over to plant a kiss on Ted’s cheek. He tugs on my belt, prompting the oversized robe to fall open.
“Hey, don’t start anything you can’t finish. You’re already dressed. Got an early morning meeting on the docket? Hope Jocelyn hasn’t summoned you to complain about your staff.”
Ted folds the Beaufort Gazette he’s reading. “No, but I might prefer that. Have a special ten o’clock membership meeting at Sea Bay to explain the extensive work needed to fix the aging complex’s structural defects. Frank and I will be joined by a partner from the engineering firm we hope to engage to do the work. He’s driving over from Atlanta. I’m due to pick both of them up in thirty minutes.”
“Doesn’t sound like I’ll see much of you today.”
“Afraid not. After the HOA hears the firm’s proposal, I get to explain financing options. Don’t expect to see many smiling faces. Two costly choices. Cough up one humongous special assessment or fork over a smaller assessment for a down payment and commit to a ten-year bank loan to fund the remainder. The loan would require membership approval to collect an additional annual HOA fee pledged to the bank.”
“Good luck,” I sympathize. “Nobody likes the bearers of bad news.”
“What about you?”
“A little more sleuthing on Mr. Fyke’s behalf,” I answer. “Kay Barrett must have dealt with Xander Pringle on real estate transactions. I’ll see if she has a few minutes to give her take on the possibility Xander attacked Fyke. I’ll also call Ed Hiller, my favorite Lighthouse Cove chef, for the skinny on suspect number three, since the Lighthouse Cove directory says a living-breathing Amanda Holder resides on Ed’s street.”
Ted’s phone buzzes, interrupting our back-and-forth. I take a chair and slide the newspaper over to scan the headlines while I wait for the call to end. Ted’s “Oh, no” and hangdog expression tell me the news is bad. Ted’s end of the conversation consists mostly of questions: “When did it happen? … Is he dead? … Who’s investigating—the Sheriff’s Office or the Coast Guard?”
Finally, Ted tells the caller he’s sorry he can’t change his morning commitments. Then, he adds, “Kylee’s right here. I’ll give her the phone.”
He presses the phone against his chest as he whispers, “It’s Donna Dahl. Steph Cloyd was killed early this morning while he was out rowing his scull. A motorboat hit him broadside, and a propeller finished the job. Deputy Nick Ibsen was first on the scene. He doesn’t seem willing to entertain the notion that the fatality might be a murder. Ibsen says it looks like an accidental collision, and the motorboat driver panicked and left the scene. Donna vehemently disagrees.”
An uncontrolled shudder follows Ted’s mention of my nemesis, Nick Ibsen. Briefly a lover, he now goes out of his way to paint me and Ted as incompetent at best, slime buckets at worst.
After sucking in a big, calming breath, I reach for the phone.
“Donna, I’m so sorry about Steph. I know you were really fond of him. He was a terrific addition to your HOA board.”
“Steph was such a good guy,” she says. The catch in her voice signals she’s still close to tears.
“I left a voice message on your phone,” she continues. “Wanted to talk to both you and Ted. I need help. I can’t seem to make Ibsen seriously consider that Steph’s death was planned. That it’s no accident—”
“Donna,” I interrupt. “You know my history with Nick. Any sign I’m sticking my nose in will send him into orbit and harden whatever asinine stance he’s taking.”
“I know.” Donna sighs. “But when I told Ibsen I felt sure Bubba Quarles rammed Steph on purpose, he shrugged. Said people always want to try and make someone responsible for accidents. Told me I needed to accept Steph’s death was probably just that—an unfortunate accident.”
“What makes you so sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“Steph reported this Bubba Quarles to the authorities a month ago for recklessly driving his motorboat. Since there was only Steph’s word—no other witnesses—Bubba only got a warning. But the warning angered the guy enough to threaten Steph. Said he couldn’t wait to meet Steph on the water again when it was just the two of them.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can find out. Maybe the Coast Guard can help. But I can’t make any promises. Tell me the motorboat guy’s name again.”
“Bubba Quarles,” she answers. “And I bet he has a criminal record, given Steph’s encounters with him.”
