to be a man who suffers from necrophobia.”
“What?”
“I have a fear of dead things. I’m working on overcoming it. Still, this,” he waved toward the bed without looking at it, “is a bit much for me to deal with.”
“You weren’t necrophobic when we were married.”
“Yes, I was, we just didn’t talk about it. Remember how upset I got when we went to that restaurant and they served us the fish with its head still on? That was a traumatic moment for me, Sophie.”
“Wow, Scott. I didn’t realize. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Now suck it up and call the police.” I stared at the floor. The urine was getting to me. The smell had been bad when we first entered the room, but now that I knew what it was and why it was there, it had become unbearable. I had to get out of the room.
Scott swallowed hard and then pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. “I’ll call from this.” He walked over to the bedroom door and motioned for me to exit with him, which I gladly did. I left the pictures where I had found them.
As we walked down the stairs Scott dialed 911 and I used my cell phone to dial Anatoly’s number.
“Hey there.” The lightness of Anatoly’s tone was jarring considering my circumstances. “I was just thinking about you. A minute ago I accepted another case and it turns out my new client is a huge fan of your books.” Anatoly was a P.I. and lately it seemed that everybody in San Francisco wanted his services. Businesses wanted to prove that their employees were stealing, wives wanted to prove that their husbands were cheating and so on and so forth. But right now all of those problems seemed paltry and inconsequential.
“Anatoly, I’m in Ashbury Heights.” It was amazing how I could keep my voice smooth even as my hands shook. “A Realtor was just giving me a tour of this Victorian he’s representing and—”
“Now? It’s almost nine o’clock.”
“Yeah, I know it’s unusual, but that’s not why I’m calling. Listen, the owner’s here and he’s sort of…dead.”
There was a moment of silence followed by a Russian curse. “You found another dead body.”
“It would seem that way, yes.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yeah, I’m here with the real-estate agent and he’s calling 911.” Scott and I had now reached the bottom of the stairs and he was standing by the bay windows answering some dispatcher’s questions. “The owner was old so he probably died of natural causes. Still, could you come over? I mean, it’s not like I’ve never been through something like this, you know that and…well, you’d think it would get easier, but…”
“Tell me how to get there and I’ll come over immediately.”
I looked up at Scott. He was describing the state of the body to someone on the phone and gagging between sentences. Thank God for Anatoly because I was pretty sure Scott wasn’t going to be that big of a comfort to me.
2
Smart Agoraphobics Invest in Real Estate.
—The Lighter Side of Death
LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES LATER, A POLICE CAR AND AN AMBULANCE arrived. The paramedics and one of the two officers immediately went upstairs to check out the body while the other officer, a sergeant with salt-and-pepper hair and a face like Paul McCartney, lingered in the living room to ask Scott and me a few questions. He introduced himself as Sergeant Poplar, but in my head he was Sergeant Pepper. After giving him a quick rundown of why we were there and what we had found, his partner (a cute blond woman who looked more cheerleader than cop) appeared at the top of the stairs and said something about it looking like “natural causes,” at which point Sergeant Pepper asked us to stick around while he took a look for himself. Once both officers were out of sight, Scott and I simultaneously collapsed on the couch and stared up at the vaulted ceiling.
“Well,” Scott said dully, “I’ve never had a house showing like this before.”
“Did you know Oscar well?” I asked. The cushions on the couch were overstuffed to the point of discomfort, but neither Scott nor I moved to find a better seat.
He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “He’s more Venus’s friend.”
“Who’s Venus?”
But before he could answer Anatoly burst through the door. His hands were still encased in the thick black gloves he so frequently wore while riding his Harley, and he creased his forehead in concern. Without a second thought I went to him and he received me with a tight embrace. “You seem to have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he scolded, but his tone was gentle and comforting.
“I just wanted to see the house,” I said, my words muffled by his shirt.
Anatoly pulled back slightly and took in his surroundings. “Nice,” he noted before his eyes landed on Scott. “I take it you’re the Realtor?”
Scott nodded and wiped his palm sweat on his designer jeans before extending his hand to Anatoly. “Scott Colvin, Sophie’s Realtor, friend and ex-husband.”
Anatoly’s smile of greeting froze midhandshake.
“He’s lying,” I said quickly. “At least about being my Realtor, or my friend for that matter.”
“And the ex-husband part?” Anatoly asked, keeping his eyes on Scott. He hadn’t let go of his hand yet, and judging from Scott’s expression, Anatoly’s grip had gotten a little tighter than necessary.
“That part’s true.”
Anatoly released Scott and turned to me. “You came to this house in the middle of the night with your ex-husband?”
“Eight-thirty’s the middle of the night?” Scott asked. “Guess you must be an early-to-bed guy. Sophie and I have always been night owls.”
“We haven’t seen each other in ten years, Scott,” I hissed. “You have no idea what my sleeping habits are like now.” The cool damp breeze coming in from the open door was beginning to get to me and I rubbed the back of my arms in an attempt to increase my circulation.
Scott cocked his head to the side, and shot me the first real grin since we had discovered Oscar. “There’s no way you’ve turned into an early bird. Not my Soapy.”
“Soapy?” Anatoly raised his eyebrows.
“You didn’t tell him about that nickname?” Scott chuckled and refocused on Anatoly. “Man, you’re going to love how she got it. We were washing her car and she was wearing these Daisy Duke shorts and this sheer white tank top—”
“They were regular denim shorts and the tank was not sheer,” I snapped. “I can’t believe you’re trying to play juvenile head games while the paramedics upstairs are trying to determine the cause of death of one of your friends.”
“Whose friend is dead?” a Kathleen Turner–type voice demanded.
We
