Lust, Loathing And A Little Lip Gloss. Kyra Davis
of forgiveness. Remember, grudges always have a greater effect on the lives of those who carry them than on the lives of those they’re carried against.”
“Wow, that’s pretty deep, Scott,” I said solemnly. “So let me think about this. During the time that I’ve been holding this grudge, I’ve become an internationally published bestselling author. I have wonderful friends. My family is healthy and reasonably happy. I have a fantastic cat and a boyfriend whom I adore. I’d say this grudge is working pretty well for me. I think I’ll keep it.”
“Don’t you want to know why I’ve been calling you?”
After ten years of no contact, Scott had, as of five months ago, taken to calling me every few weeks and leaving messages on my answering machine. Of course I wanted to know why, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting to my curiosity. Instead I shrugged and retorted, “Don’t you want to know why I haven’t been returning those calls?”
He chuckled, apparently finding humor in my irritation. “I think the answer to your question is a lot more obvious than the answer to mine,” he said.
I hesitated a moment and studied the countenance of this new “grown-up Scott.” He had the beginnings of crow’s-feet, but other than that he looked exactly the same. He had the same blond wavy hair that was always a little mussed, and of course he still had one dimple in his left cheek and that golden skin tone that suggested he spent his days surfing off China Beach. Once upon a time I had thought that his looks were the perfect complement to my darker, more exotic appearance. My father was black and my mother has the fair complexion common to her Eastern European Jewish ancestry. People were always confused and delighted by my ethnicity. They usually don’t know exactly “what” I am yet they find my very existence to be a sign of hope for the improvement of race relations everywhere. However, the attention I get now is a pittance compared to the attention I got when I was with Scott. Together we were a walking Benetton ad. Of course I get a certain amount of attention when I go out with my current fair-skinned, Russian-born boyfriend, Anatoly Darinsky. But our differences are less visually dramatic thanks to Anatoly’s dark hair and brown eyes.
“I got your latest book, The Lighter Side of Death. It’s good.” He inched a little closer. “I’ve also been reading about you in the papers. Sounds like you’ve become quite the amateur sleuth. According to the Chronicle you apprehended your own stalker, you helped figure out who killed your brother-in-law, and you even had a hand in bringing down the guy who killed that political aide in Contra Costa County.” He gave me an approving once-over. “Sounds like you’ve turned into a real-life Charlie’s Angel. Of course, you’ve always been an angel in my eyes….”
“Ugh.” I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “I think I’ve just been slimed. I’m going now.”
I started to walk around him, but Scott quickly sidestepped in front of me. “What if I told you that I had a brand-new listing for a recently renovated Ashbury Heights three-bedroom Victorian.”
I hesitated. “How recently renovated?”
“Five years ago.”
Only five years ago? Not bad. “Floors?”
“Hardwood. The owner has a thing for Persian rugs so the floors have been covered and protected.”
“Seriously?” I was still focused on the door, but my feet didn’t follow my gaze. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s the owner, and why is he selling?”
“The owner’s name is Oscar Crammer, and he’s selling because he thinks the place is haunted.”
“Why’s that?” I asked. “Was anyone ever murdered in the house? Because if it’s a site of a recent homicide it should be selling for at least ten thousand below market.”
“Sophie, the owner’s only asking for $980,000.”
I broke out in a full laugh. “Yeah, right, a renovated, three-bedroom Ashbury Heights Victorian selling for under a million? Tell me, Scott, does it come with its own leprechaun, too?”
“I know it doesn’t sound possible, but it’s true.” He hesitated before adding, “I think the guy selling may have the beginnings of Alzheimer’s.”
“You want me to take advantage of some guy with Alzheimer’s?” I snapped.
“It has a two-car garage, Sophie.”
My heart skipped a beat, but my sense of morality would not allow me to be tempted by this alluringly wicked proposal. “I won’t scam a sick man, Scott. Not even for parking.”
“Oscar’s old money. He’s got at least ten to twenty million in the bank and his son, Kane, has made millions more in the stock market. He sold off his investments in 2007, before the Dow got squirrelly. Plus I know for a fact that Kane has been trying to get Oscar to sell the house and move into a retirement home ever since the old man became a widower. So by buying this place you’d be doing everybody a favor.”
I turned all of this info over in my mind. It still wasn’t ethical to take advantage of an old man with a possibly fatal illness but…it had a two-car garage!
The Japanese couple came down the stairs and headed into the kitchen just as an Armani-clad gentleman stepped into the entryway. Scott smiled at the latter and nodded at the former before leaning in a little closer and whispering, “I just got the listing this morning. If you want to be the first to see it we could meet there at eight-thirty tonight.”
“Eight-thirty?” I asked in a voice much louder than his. “What kind of real-estate agent shows houses at eight-thirty at night?”
“One who is trying to get his ex-wife to give up an outdated grudge,” Scott said. “Tomorrow I have to tell all my other clients about this, and at that price you know they’re going to descend upon it like a bunch of hungry hyenas. But since I do kinda owe you…”
“You kinda owe me?” I parroted. “While we were married you spent my entire inheritance on gambling, alcohol and the various sluts you were screwing. You more than kinda owe me.”
“I’ll show it to you before anyone else,” Scott continued, ignoring my brief tirade. “If you’re the first to make an offer the old man might take it before a bidding war has a chance to break out. The guy is motivated with a capital M.”
I chewed on my lower lip and glanced at the Armani guy who was now knocking on one of the walls—probably testing to see if it could withstand the impact. This is what $1.4 million could buy you in San Francisco. I had written six New York Times bestselling novels and yet I could barely afford to buy this moldy rat hole with a view. With that in mind how could I not take Scott up on this once-in-a-lifetime offer?
Another couple walked in and Scott flashed them one of his most charming smiles while whispering through his teeth, “So, we on for tonight or not?”
I squeezed my eyes closed and forced myself to make the only rational decision available to me. “We’re on. Give me the address and I’ll be there at eight-thirty.”
I drove my Audi through the residential streets of Ashbury Heights. Victorian after Victorian blurred into one another as I sped by. There were few pedestrians out although there were probably more than you could count several blocks over where the local shops and restaurants populate Cole Street. I was tempted to turn my car around and head that way now. I could play quarters with some bartender and laugh at the knowledge that my evil ex was standing around an empty house waiting for me. It would be petty, though perversely sweet entertainment. But as I brought the car to a halt at each stop sign, my mind came screeching back to the conversation Scott and I had earlier. I didn’t have a problem with being petty, but stupidity was not something I was comfortable with. I had to at least see the place.
It was 8:40 p.m. when I found the address Scott had given me. He’d told me to park in the driveway, but for a moment I found myself idling my car in the middle of the quiet street and staring at the building to my left.