Payton
resented anything French, probably only because she thought the French resented
anything American.
“Does 3 Skeletons mean anything?”
“Not in
the land of the living texting. Not that I know. Why?”
“Someone
sent me an email I don’t understand.”
“Ever
think of calling them up and just asking them?” Sukie grinned.
I turned
to her. Her voice came off as sarcastic, but I quickly realized she didn’t know
the them was dead. “What would a
seven, maybe nine inch lens do for a digital camera?”
“Hard to
say, but it’s a big boy’s tool. You might as well open up a planetarium.”
Geoff
laughed, “Oh, dear God, don’t use that on me when I have a zit coming on.”
“What’s
with all these questions?” Sukie asked.
I
shuffled papers around in front of me, opting to change the conversation rather
than think about the camera lens pointed my way. “Sukie, how many interviews do
you have lined up?”
She
raised her almond eyes, framed with thin brows beginning to gray. Her eyes
served as a constant reminder of what Sukie was. A private woman. Gifted behind
the camera, I knew little else about the mysterious photographer. The only
thing I really understood was that she was even-keeled and dependable. Since
most artists of her caliber were temperamental, eccentric, and erratic in their
performance, at best, I counted myself lucky.
Sukie
said, “I’ve lined up a baker’s dozen, all with ample studio time to shoot them
once you tell me where. They’re seasoned print models, and I have about fifty
more if I need them. This town’s flooded with hunk-of-the-month wannabes.”
“Hey,
Laurs,” Geoff interjected. “Just how much longer are we supposed to keep our
new project a secret? You know I don’t do good secret.”
“Not
much longer, Queen. I’m organizing a press party gala for our grand opening,
assuming we have a place to cut the ribbon. With a little luck, when we do come
out of our closet the whole country will know our secret overnight.”
Geoff
smiled.
I was
still thinking about the email I had received from Payton. The police told me
that typing the email and sending it to me was the last thing Payton did on
this earth. Before blowing her brains out.
What did
that last word mean? Import? Import what? And why didn’t she sign it like she
usually did? And why was it so cryptic?
I should
have mentioned it to the detective again. Payton always signed her emails to
me. Always. It was a programmed signature.
Chapter Nine
Riches,
Roses, & Robberies
GABRIELLA
CRISCIONE KNEW she was one extraordinary real estate agent. She did it all.
Residential, commercial, land and sand. As long as they were million dollar
deals, she was your woman.
Well
connected and a pro at client interviews over orgasmic pasta lunches, it didn’t
take her long to figure out Lauren Visconti wore deep pockets. She only had to
show the girl four homes on the beach, knowing exactly what she was doing when
she saved the best and by far the most expensive one, for last.
Four
must have been her lucky number, because that’s exactly how many showings it
took to sell Lauren Visconti her new corporate offices. Gabri probably didn’t
fool the girl when she threw in some real dog properties to solidify the buying
decision. Showing Lauren Visconti a couple not too-perfect alternatives only
proved that she needed to spend a couple million more than she had planned on
in order to get what she needed. Gabri considered herself Master Enabler in all
of it.
Gabri
worked hard. And smart. Maybe she was a little pushy, but she liked it that
way. And she always remembered her manners. She had to think of some way to
express gratitude to Sterling Falls for referring the Visconti girl to her.
I
DON’T THINK IT was buyer’s remorse eating at me, even though my purchase offer
on the twelve-story building was signed and off to the seller without much
blinking on my part. CoverBoy had a
home. That should have left me