has been packing up his briefcase. ‘Kelli Shapiro, eh?’ he says, trying and failing to quell his excitement. ‘Suicide? Drugs?’
Coldly, I escort him the few steps to the front door and seize the advantage. ‘Who told you to come here today?’
‘Can’t tell you that. Client confidentiality. You know how it is.’ Gareth hesitates, then adds, ‘Tell you what. Get me an introduction to sell Kelli’s house, and I’ll cut you in on my commission.’
I shut the door in his face.
Kelli Shapiro’s home is only a few minutes away. I force myself to walk slowly, although my mind is racing and my heart is hammering. Kelli’s next-of-kin must have seen my advert in the local paper, so it turns out I wasn’t squandering my start-up funds, after all.
Kelli Shapiro! Growing up, Mum was always teasing my dad about Kelli Shapiro. He had an enormous crush on her. ‘It’s just that she’s got magnificent comic timing,’ he’d protest. ‘Britain’s answer to Meg Ryan.’
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