Chapter 45
Well, at least she wasn't dead.
I'd already left most of the details in a long voicemail. But for some reason, I felt compelled to repeat them, trying hard to keep my tone neutral and use inoffensive words like "bank snafu" and "technical glitch" as opposed to more interesting words like "deadbeat," and "where's my damn money?"
I even told her about the cable guy and yesterday's disconnection.
When I finished, Mrs. Parker made a noise of sympathy and said, "Chloe, I am so sorry. I can only imagine what you must think of us."
Me? She should've heard what Grandma thought of them.
"Well," I said in a carefully neutral tone, "I didn't know what was going on, so I figured I should call and see if you knew anything."
"Oh yeah," she said with a little laugh. "Do I ever."
I waited.
"Okay, she said, "the good news is this. I just got off the phone with our financial manager, and he knows exactly what happened."
"What?" I asked.
"Long story, but if you think I'm embarrassed, you should talk to him. He's got this new assistant, wife's brother, if you can believe it. Anyway, this brother-in-law of his missed a whole series of bank transfers, including ours."
"What do you mean missed them?"
"He didn't make them. He went out to lunch or something, who knows?"
"Oh wow."
"Wow is right. But don't worry," she said. "The money should be there the day after tomorrow, or the day after that at the latest. I'm glad you called. Otherwise, it might've been days before we figured it out."
"Oh. That's good."
"And listen," she said. "I know this must've been a major inconvenience for you. And I feel just terrible. So does my husband. Tell you what. I'm going to send you a little bonus, not just for the bank fees, but to buy yourself something nice – like a day at the spa. And don't you dare say 'no.' "
I wasn't planning on it.
But I did thank her, trying hard to banish the lingering worry. In a couple days, this would all be over, right? And the way it sounded, I might actually come out ahead in the long run.
But somehow, until the money was actually there, it felt like a burden more than anything.
It wasn't until later that night that something struck me as kind of odd. During our whole conversation, she hadn't asked me one thing about Chucky.
At eight o'clock the next morning, the doorbell rang, sending Chucky into his usual spaz attack, barking and running up and down the stairs.
Since I worked nights, I almost never woke up before ten, mostly because it tended to majorly screw up my sleep schedule the next time I worked. But when I peeked out the guest room window and saw a sleek red sports car idling in the driveway, I felt myself smile.
I didn't recognize the vehicle, but considering Lawton's travel schedule, I had a pretty good guess who it belonged to. I dashed to the bathroom and gargled some mouthwash while I ran a quick brush through my hair.
Eager to catch him before he drove off, I snapped on Chucky's leash and answered the door in what I'd slept in – a thin yellow tank top and black silky shorts.
Except it wasn't Lawton.
It was some slick-looking guy in his mid-forties. He wore dark sunglasses, expensive looking slacks, and a designer sports coat.
His eyebrows furrowed. "Mrs. Parker?" he said.
My smile faded. I was getting a little tired of people calling me that.
Plus, I felt like a major dumb-ass. Whenever I thought it was Lawton at the door, it turned out to be someone else. And whenever I expected it to be someone else, it turned out to be Lawton.
If this kept up, I was going to develop a serious door-opening phobia.
Near my feet, Chucky had his tongue hanging out and his head cocked to the side. It was almost like he was also trying to figure out what some stranger was doing on our doorstep, particularly a stranger without doggie treats or bacon.
The man's gaze dipped to my attire, making me feel all the more stupid for answering without looking. But in my defense, my brain was still asleep, even if my body wasn't. The guy was lucky I hadn't answered the door in a ratty bathrobe.
"Did I come at a bad time?" he said.
Hell yes, it was a bad time. What kind of person showed up on someone's doorstep unannounced at eight o'clock in the morning?
I pulled out my best upper-crust voice. "May I ask what this is about?"
"Well, quite honestly," he said, "I'm a little surprised you're still here."
I raised my eyebrows. "Pardon?"
"I was under the impression," he said, "that the house would be vacant."
"I'm sorry," I said in a distinctly unapologetic tone. "But why on Earth would you think that?"
"Because according to our agency, the lease ends tomorrow." He craned his neck as if trying to peer into the house.
Lease? So the Parkers didn't own the house? This had to be some kind of mistake. But all these so-called mistakes were adding up. And in spite of Mrs. Parker's assurances, I'd be incredibly na?ve to believe this was all some weird coincidence.
Looking at the man, I had no idea what to say. So I said nothing.
"Did you decide to renew?" he asked.
Oh, screw it. "I wouldn't know," I said, "because I'm not Mrs. Parker."
"Oh." His brow wrinkled. "Is she home?"
"Not at the moment."
"How about Mr. Parker?"
"Nope."
He reached into the lapel of his coat and handed me a business card. I gave it a quick glance. It identified him as Chad Flemming of Executive Properties.
"Will you please have one of them call me the moment they return?" he said.
"Oh, it'll be before that," I assured him with a smile that felt stiff enough to crack my face.
When that shiny red sports car disappeared down the road a couple minutes later, I tried to call Mrs. Parker again. Somehow, I was incredibly unsurprised when it went straight to voicemail.