the rest, plunked it in her best ceramic pie pan—the one with the top that looked like crisscrossed strips of dough with an apple slice for a handle—and marched down to Herb’s house. He was puttering with those plants of his, and she’d handed the whole thing right over to him, just because she didn’t want Ken to have even a single bite if he ever came home again.
Now her very best pie pan, given to her by her daughter—who was not usually the best shopper—was at Herb’s cottage. She sure hoped he hadn’t been struck dead from an overdose of Key lime pie.
She had to do something about this mess. That pie pan was hers, and she had to get it back. Wanda went inside to finish her breakfast and figure out just how to do it, and when.
Before she locked the house behind her, Tracy retried the key that Maribel Sessions, the Realtor, had given her for Herb’s cottage. She hadn’t simply imagined the key didn’t fit. It didn’t. She hadn’t found a similar one lying around the house, either, not on his dresser or bedside stand.
Although the one Herb had been holding when he died didn’t look anything like the one she’d been given, she tried it now. As she’d guessed, it had been made for a different kind of lock. Thin and spidery, it looked like something out of a Nancy Drew novel: The Secret of the Dead Man’s Key. If Tracy had a mysterious garret or a tower to unlock, she might be in business.
Once she got home, she called Maribel, who handled leasing the cottages, and Maribel promised to give her the originals if Tracy hurried over before she left for the day. With the promise of a key that actually fit, Tracy went back and locked Herb’s doors, and took off for town. If worse came to worse, she could slit a screen and climb through a window to get back in.
To Tracy, Palmetto Grove always seemed a few shades paler than it ought to. Everything deteriorated quickly on the Gulf Coast. Sun, wind-driven sand, salt in the air, all stole the pigment from the brightest paint and rusted even the most expensive cars. Patches of sand marred emerald-green St. Augustine grass, despite sprinklers continuously spewing a sulphur-tinged spray. This time of year, only the hardiest flowers still nodded their colorful heads.
She pulled up to the curb in front of Sessions Realtors: Homes of Distinction, and locked her car. In a chilly reception area, made chillier by white marble tile and Grecian pillars, she told the receptionist that Maribel was expecting her. The woman obviously knew her name and jumped up to get Maribel from somewhere in back.
Tracy hadn’t even settled down with a magazine before Maribel came marching out, a huge smile pasted on a face that was keeping some lucky plastic surgeon in custom golf clubs and resort vacations. She had Gwen Stefani hair, which she emphasized with a matching creamy-white business suit. Like the town she bought and sold, Maribel also looked three shades too pale.
“Mrs. Craimer,” she said, extending her hand. “So good to see you again. Have you decided to look for a house after all?”
“Maribel…” Tracy shook hands, then pulled hers away from Maribel’s slightly damp one. “Tracy Deloche now. Remember all that paperwork?”
Maribel looked charmingly chagrined. “I am so sorry. What am I thinking? It’s just that your husband was such a presence.”
“Ex-husband.” Right about now, CJ was probably a presence in the prison laundry, ironing shirts.
“I hope you’ve decided to have a good look at everything we have for sale.” Maribel lowered her voice, as if the empty room might be bugged. “The market is just the teeniest bit slow. You can pick up a bargain if you hurry.”
Tracy knew all about slow markets. In addition to the problems she was having with tree-hugger crazies who wanted Happiness Key to sit quietly and grow sandspurs for eternity, most developers were, at best, holding steady. Nobody with the resources to fight intrusive environmentalists wanted to take on Tracy’s problems. The economy. The hurricanes. The insurance. Tracy might look as if she were sitting on a gold mine, but like a lot of prospectors before her, if things didn’t improve quickly, she was going to be eating beans and sourdough biscuits for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
“I’m not planning to stay in Florida after I sell,” Tracy told Maribel, hoping that this time the message would sink in.