A Killer Location Read online

  A Killer Location is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Sarah T. Hobart

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399177859

  Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Sarah T. Hobart

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I suppose it’s a bit far-fetched to believe that a message wrapped in a crispy cookie shell could be a genuine omen, portent, or prognosticator.

  So I don’t believe it. I swear.

  That being said, when I read the words on a slip of paper from the Shanghai Palace, I felt something. Certainly not “Aha!” But something. I tossed the fortune and ate the cookie. Yet the phrase managed to stick, lodged in a corner of my brain I don’t dust very often: We fear the thing we want the most.

  Ridiculous, right? How does that even make sense? Certainly it doesn’t apply to me. Not really.

  Except…in a way, it does. For starters, I’ve been dating the chief of police for a couple of weeks now, ever since a glorious housewarming that, well, I’ll never forget, or ever want to. Fact is, I’m starting to get used to having him in my life. That doesn’t sit well with me. I’ve learned the hard way that it doesn’t pay to let your guard down with men, especially when the guy in question is your sister’s ex-husband.

  My name is Sam Turner and I’m a licensed real estate agent in Arlinda, California, a funky little burg of fifteen thousand nonconformists and kooks on the rugged North Coast. Here in Arlinda we have towering redwoods, record rainfall, and more marijuana per capita than perhaps any town in America. It’s not how the Chamber of Commerce describes our fair city, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

  Back to the fear thing. Maybe it’s the tenuous nature of my new profession that has me a little, well, terrified. For the past four months, I’ve played the part of a grown-up woman with an honest-to-God career. Working on commission isn’t exactly the poster child for financial stability, though for whatever reason—sheer dumb luck comes to mind—I’ve managed to close a few sales. Even dared to think I might not be too bad at this real estate gig.

  But all bets are off when your employer is arrested and hauled off to jail.

  For murder.

  —

  I woke up in a tangle of sheets Sunday morning, feeling about as great as a woman who’d recently added the word multiple to her vocabulary can feel. My son, Max, was camping in the Trinity Alps until Tuesday. We’d just moved from a derelict apartment into our own home. And Arlinda’s finest, Police Chief Bernie Aguilar, had spent the night—the entire night, until his pager called him away sometime in the sleepy hours of the morning. I remembered the warmth of his arms holding me close, his gentle touch that made me shiver, the rasp of his beard on my face. And I shivered again.

  I rolled off the bed and stood up, stretching luxuriously. Then I did a little dirty shimmy where I stood, working the kinks out. I felt a presence, and turned to find Harley, our gray and white cat, regarding me.

  “Friends don’t judge,” I told him.

  He gazed at me with unblinking orange eyes, then addressed a minute speck of dust on his coat, giving it his full attention. Fine. Be that way.

  I stumbled to the shower, where I spent more time than usual over my ablutions, scrubbing away the lack of sleep and combing my hair in a subdued coif that I hoped bespoke consummate professionalism. Once finished, I surveyed my image critically. Brown hair already reasserting its naturally spiky shape, a nose just left of center, and green eyes with a smudge of dark shadows beneath, suggesting, perhaps, that I hadn’t spent the entire night in REM mode. I shrugged. I’d done the best I could with the lot I’d been given.

  In the kitchen, I collected the remnants of our Chinese food feast from the refrigerator—we’d been too busy to do it justice—and helped myself to a cup of coffee from the freshly brewed pot. The morning sun poured through the big front window and splashed in a golden pool on the rough wood of the living-room floor. I settled into a big cushy armchair and ate my breakfast right from the cardboard containers while Harley napped in the sun, sprawled on his back with his paws outstretched.

  After I’d polished off the last grain of steamed rice, I leaned back into the soft depths of the armchair and considered following his example and catching a quick catnap while this unfamiliar languor made my limbs so pleasantly heavy. Before I could close my eyes, there was a knock at the door.

  I stumbled to my feet with a sigh, casting an eye on the wall clock above the couch. Half past ten. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Unless Bernie—

  I let my mind fast-forward through several delicious fantasies, some of which, I confess, involved his handcuffs. Before I reached the door, the knock came again, more insistent this time.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, and flung open the door.

  My sister, Stacy, stood there, her hand poised to dent the wood again.

  “About time,” she said. “Grab my bags, would you? They’re in the trunk.”

  My jaw was hanging open as if it had become unhinged. “Stacy?”

  “Who were you expecting?” she said. She looked over my outfit, a faded oversized tee and some ratty cutoff sweatpants. “Prince Charming?”

  She smiled at her own witticism, displaying even teeth that owed their gleaming whiteness to state-of-the-art dentistry. Her hair was much the same shade as mine but grown shoulder length, professionally cut, and highlighted with swatches of rich chestnut. She wore a pale yellow stretchy shirt that forcibly reminded me she had me beat by two cup sizes, along with formfitting turquoise capri pants. Almost belatedly, I noted the cast on her right ankle.

  “What’s all this?” I said.

  “Stress fracture. If you’re gonna make me stand here all day, at least pour me a cup of coffee.”

  Almost against my will, I moved back from the door. “Sorry. Come in. Sit down.” Leave my house. Don’t come back.

  Stacy grabbed a pair of crutches from where she’d leaned them next to the door, maneuvered them under her arms, and swung herself inside. I cleared a few obstacles out of the way and settled her on the couch.

  “Still have this old love s
eat from Mom and Dad’s, do you?” she said, tracing a dark stain from a wayward splash of cocoa with her finger.

  “Yeah. Cream, no sugar, right?”

  “Just black. I’m off dairy. Wheat, too. You should try it. Might help your complexion.”

  I was stung. “What’s wrong with my complexion?”

  “Oh,” she said. “Nothing. Maybe you’re just tired. Getting enough rest?”

  A vision of some of the previous night’s activities popped into my head, throwing X-rated images at me like an out-of-control peep show. My face felt hot.

  Stacy caught the blush. “What’s that look?”

  I turned away and filled a mug with coffee from the pot. “No look. I guess I don’t sleep well when Max is away. He’s camping with friends till Tuesday.”

  “Leaving you all by your lonesome, eh?” She accepted the mug and brought it to her lips, watching me.

  I busied myself filling a second cup, my face averted. “Sure. I mean, that’s right. Except for this little guy.” I prodded Harley with the tip of my toe. He waved a paw halfheartedly.

  “Hey,” Stacy said. “Here, kitty kitty kitty.” She stretched a hand toward him.

  Harley rose stiffly to his feet. The fur along his spine fluffed up as he watched my sister. His tail twitched.

  My sister frowned. “Funny. Cats usually love me. Well, much as I’d like to sit here and shoot the breeze, we have some moving in to do. Where’s my key?”

  I rummaged through a drawer and came up with the key to the studio out back.

  “Lead the way,” she said. “The trunk’s unlocked if you wanna grab some bags. I’d help, but as you can see I’m a damn cripple.”

  I dropped the key in my pocket and held the door open for her, breathing a sigh of relief as she vacated my personal space. “Did you trip or something?” I asked as we crunched down the driveway to her Honda.

  “I wish,” she said. “No, this is Lars’s fault. He told me yoga would unfurl my inner flower and illuminate the path to my true self.”

  “Did it?”

  “Until I went ass over teakettle attempting Bird of Paradise.”

  I grabbed a heavy suitcase out of the trunk. “I don’t know much about yoga. Is that a pretty advanced pose?”

  She shrugged. “Sure it is. But I’m a fast learner. Of course, Lars and I were doing it at the time.”

  “Too much information,” I said.

  I led the way to the former garage, converted to a studio apartment years ago. The suitcase bumped painfully against my shins. Inwardly I cursed the exigencies that had forced me to make this deal with the devil. I’d needed some last-minute cash to close the sale of our home, and Stacy had offered to rent the studio, paying me six months’ rent in advance. I’d assumed—or hoped—it would be for the occasional weekend, when the free-spirited climate of Marin County became too onerous for her to bear. Now she was here.

  But why shouldn’t she be? True, we’d never been all that close. But underneath it all we were fond of each other, I was almost certain. I swallowed hard. It was Bernie, of course. They’d been married for four years, divorced for two. Water under the bridge, right? All I had to do was tell Stacy I was, well, whatever I was doing with her ex-husband, and this crushing weight of guilt would be off my back.

  I steeled my resolve, then mounted the front step to the studio and turned to Stacy, waiting for the confession to fall from my lips. Nothing happened.

  “What?” she said. “Are the drains backed up?”

  “It’s, um, these steps. Are you sure you’re going to be able to manage them? I could put in a ramp or something.”

  She snorted. “If you’re worried I’m going to file an ADA complaint, don’t be. God, you’re so uptight. Maybe you’re the one who should be doing yoga.”

  I didn’t respond. Unlocking the front door, I stood back so Stacy could hobble in ahead of me. The studio was a plain box about fifteen feet square, with a tar-and-gravel roof set at a slant. Inside, the kitchen, living room, and bedroom all shared the same space, with a closet in the far corner modified to accommodate a tiny bathroom and a shower stall. The walls were unfinished pine, and dust motes swirled in the light let in by a couple of single-pane windows. The scent of emptiness overlaid with mildew tickled my nostrils.

  Stacy gave the room a slow scan. In my heart of hearts, I wanted her to tell me the place just didn’t suit.

  “Rustic,” she said. “Primitive. Yes, this’ll do. Already I can feel my creative juices flowing.”

  “You can?”

  “Sure. How’s the electricity? Will my wheel blow a fuse?” Stacy was a potter with a growing reputation among certain artsy circles for her pieces: bowls and ewers that to my pedestrian eye appeared to be suffering from some sort of degenerative disease.

  “All the wiring was redone when they built the studio. Used to be a garage until about ten years ago, the neighbors tell me.” I dropped the heavy suitcase and the floor shook.

  “Hey, careful with that,” she said. “I might need help bathing, by the way. This the john?” She swung a crutch in an arc toward the back door and took out the 60-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  “My bad,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I grabbed a dustpan and broom from the kitchen and began to sweep up glass shards. “Bathroom’s in the corner. That’s actually the door to the backyard. There’s a little deck out there.”

  Stacy stepped out on the deck and surveyed the view with approval. “Now I know where I’ll be spending my evenings,” she said. “When I’m not hanging out with you.”

  My left eye twitched, and she laughed. “God, Sam, lighten up. I’m not serious. Believe me, I have plans. I guess you could say, a plan.”

  “I’ll get the rest of your stuff,” I said, and took off at a jog. I didn’t need to hear her big plan to know it had something to do with Bernie. She’d already hinted as much over the phone. Well, I’d set her straight. Soon.

  After I finished unloading the car, I excused myself. “I’m hosting an open house at noon, so I’ll, uh, give you a chance to get settled.”

  “Ta-ta,” she said with a little finger wave.

  Back in my own space, I peeled out of my sweats and pulled on my real estate uniform of jeans, a black tee, and a caramel-colored linen jacket. I thrust a stack of business cards into my pocket and made sure I had my freshly printed brochures in my bag. Harley watched me, eyes narrowed.

  “She’s family,” I said. “We’ll get used to her.” I tried for sincerity, but Harley wasn’t buying it.

  Before I left, I dropped a few kibbles into Harley’s bowl and refilled his water. Then I locked the front door, twisting the key in the deadbolt for good measure. I didn’t want any surprises when I got home.

  My elderly neighbor, Mr. Bradshaw, was in his front yard zapping dandelions with Weed B Gon as I trotted down the walk. We hadn’t exchanged two words since Max and I moved in, and I knew his name only because it was painted on his mailbox. He was wearing a navy blue bathrobe with white piping, loosely sashed at the waist, and was sucking on a cigar with one hand while spraying herbicide with the other. I called out a greeting, but he didn’t respond.

  A hippyish young couple, Fred and Sunshine something or other, lived on the other side in a pale yellow bungalow they rented. Unlike Mr. Bradshaw, they were effusively friendly, telling me all about organic gardening and gushing over my “classic” VW, a 1974 Camp Mobile. I had to admit it was looking pretty spiffy after some recent bodywork at Ernst’s Foreign Car Care: freshly touched-up pea-green paint, some old and some new dents knocked out, a salvage-yard engine lid in back. Plus, I’d overpaid the prorated taxes on our new house and used the refund check to buy four new radials. I figured I was caught up on automotive maintenance for at least the next ten years.

  The bus fired up on the second try, always a good omen. The engine ran a little rough at first—less of a purr and more like chunks of scrap metal being turned in a concrete mixer—bu
t settled down to a cranky idle after the carburetors warmed up. I eased my foot onto the gas and inched forward, fingers crossed. But my luck didn’t hold: an explosive backfire shook the block and a cloud of dark exhaust filled the rearview mirror. Well, shucky darn. Maybe it was time for that tune-up Ernst kept pushing, before my new neighbors served me with a cease and desist order. I filed that thought in my mental to-do list, shoved the gearshift into first, and hit the gas for real.

  Chapter 2

  Two days earlier, my boss, Everett Sweet, had called me into his office. “How’d you like to host an open house in Campus Heights Sunday?”

  My heart skipped a few beats. “Campus Heights? Really?” Arlinda’s most exclusive location, a neighborhood of big, woodsy properties bordering the magnificent Community Forest.

  “You bet. Noon to two. Place looks great. It’s vacant, but the owner left behind some furniture and a few quality art gizmos. Looks professionally staged. Could maybe use a little updating, but it’s a killer location.” My boss leaned back into his chair, his head resting in the cradle of his meaty hands. He was dressed, as usual, in an untucked Hawaiian print shirt—pale yellow covered with scarlet-and-blue macaws—that lay like a hospital gown over his expansive middle. Faded Levi’s, red cross-trainers, and a soft cloth fishing hat completed his professional uniform. He looked more like a beach bum than the head of a flourishing real estate firm, but he had the Voice: deep, rich, compelling. He could sell a time-share to a Pelican Bay inmate doing three consecutive life terms.

  For a moment I pictured myself shepherding potential buyers through the house, fueling their enthusiasm with a few low-key but stimulating comments until the only question left was whether Granny Mae’s antique piano would fit in the niche by the window. No one would ever characterize me as a born saleswoman, with all the accompanying warmth and effusiveness—in fact, I’d heard the word prickly used to describe my personality—but by God I’d show Everett I could sell. “I’d love to.”