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Amateur sleuth and advertising agency owner Sydney Teague, a thoroughly modern Southern woman and single mother, discovers the seedier side of the real-estate business when her friend Crystal meets her end in her house for sale. Original.
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L'autore:
Anne Underwood Grant owned a small advertising agency in Charlotte, North Carolina, for ten years before moving to a cabin in the mountains of western North Carolina, where she writes full-time.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:
Crystal Ball was a friend of mine. In fact, she was more than a friend: I felt responsible for her. That happens with your old drinking buddies when you quit drinking and they don't, or they can't, and you have to watch them continuing to mess up their lives; it happens particularly when you're the person responsible for turning your friend's very name into a joke, as I had done with Crystal when I introduced her to Fred Ball.
I was thinking about Crystal as I watched my client Jean Miller thread her way across the huge convention hall with drinks in both hands. I was wondering if Jean had made any progress selling Crystal's house. Of course, I'd introduced Crystal to Jean, too. Like I said, I have this habit of taking responsibility for things, and it was going to get a whole lot worse, only I didn't know that quite yet.
At the time, Jean and I were inside the Charlotte Civic Center at the annual Board of Realtors Roundup. Us and several thousand other overly animated, ambitious women. I felt like one of many cattle at auction.
The place was hot in spite of its lofty ceilings. The stench of battling perfumes mingled with work-a-day sweat; the boisterous hawk of vendors clashed with high-pitched anxiety. I retreated under a massive set of steps leading to the mezzanine.
I don't sell real estate. My thing's advertising. More precisely, marketing communications since it takes more than mere advertising to sell most things. I own a little agency called Allen Teague, Allen for my birth name and Teague for the man I was married to and divorced from ten years ago. Real estate, both commercial and residential, is a big part of our client mix since Charlotte, North Carolina, has lots of services but very few tangible products. The town is long on pretense, however. Like a newly rich southern woman eager to buy her way into social prominence. Charlotte is a New South city, full of herself with polite aggression, portending to the crown of shifting economic futures, hoping Atlanta will slip, pretending she has no past. An easy place to sell a service like mine if you talk nothing but vision.
"Oooh, Sydney, I'm sooo sorry. Here, I was bringing it to you. You looked as if you could use one." Jean Miller, my client, sloshed Scotch on my linen-clad shoulder and began wiping my shoulder pad with a Hardee's napkin.
"Don't worry about it, Jean," I said. The foam rubber had deflected the amber liquid down my arm. I slid the flax jacket off the shoulder, took her napkin and dragged it up my triceps.
This was the most excitement I had felt in the forty-five minutes I had been here. The Roundup may not be my idea of a fun afternoon, but it's a vendor's dream.
Three thousand consumers, ninety-five percent women, packed into two large rooms for four hours of eating, drinking, and buying from the hundred or so booths set up around the space. Mostly ad specialty guys, I noticed. Those guys who put anything and everything on a key chain or a refrigerator magnet.
"Ran into your favorite competitor at the bar." Jean's voice was light but taunting. Her eyes twinkled. I was being baited.
"Okay, let's see. Who is my favorite competitor? "
Jean laughed. "Mickey Sutton."
I couldn't suppress a groan. I disliked Mickey enough that even the mention of his name could sour my mood. Almost.
Her grin could not have been wider or more self-satisfied. "I thought that'd get a rise out of you."
I had lots of reasons for hating Mickey Sutton, not the least of which was, again, my good friend Crystal. I'd introduced Mickey to Crystal a long time ago. Before I knew either one of them very well. Before he'd screwed me in business and a legion of other women any way he could get to them. Before I'd learned how addictive he'd be to someone with an addictive personality like Crystal's. Of course, I hadn't known what a jerk Fred Ball would turn out to be either at the time I introduced him to Crystal. My own ignorance about the two guys didn't make me feel any better about my part in the mess that her life had become. In fact, I felt like the evil queen presenting Snow White with an entire basket of poisoned apples.
"Whatever his faults, he's the best-looking guy I've seen in a long time."
I looked at her as I imagine a doctor would who's warning a patient about the recreational use of arsenic. "Look, but don't touch, smell, feel, or talk to him. He's lethal."
As I was folding my jacket over my arm, Gus Georges of Put It On! hit me on the shoulder and knocked what remained of the Scotch on my skirt.
"Hey there, Sydney! Oh, hon, sorry. Didn't see the drink in your hand. Here, let me get it for you." He pulled out a large, rumpled handkerchief and was dabbing between my thighs before I could stop him. "Here"--he gestured from below my waist--"take mine. Looks like I just about finished yours off." He thrust into my one empty hand something darker than the Scotch Jean had brought me. His angle was such that one small wave of the dark stuff rolled out onto my skirt. Smelled like bourbon. Now I was doused in blend.
Here I stood, bourbon in one hand, Scotch in the other, my formerly crisp linen suit soggy with liquor in two shades of beige. In the old days that would have meant the evening was off to a good start, but I don't drink at all anymore. Not even a beer with pizza. Not even champagne at toasts. Not even wine at communion, for Christ's sake! Some people don't see the harm in a sip of communion wine, but as far as I'm concerned, it's not the intent of the sip that leads you back to a life of debauchery. It's the alcohol itself. My friend Crystal knew that too, although she kept on drinking, proof that knowledge and action have little in common. I slipped in the early years because I failed to cook the wine out of a stir-fry dish. That was more than ten years ago. I keep turning it over one day at a time, and, through the grace of my higher power--certainly not my fellow man--have not had a drink inside my body since.
"Got a hot new coffee cup, Sydney. Know how ya' love that coffee. The expensive kind, right? Foreign brand, right?" Gus was doing what the best of these guys do: letting his target know that she's a person worth listening to; that he, good ol' Gus Georges, is more than a pitchman to her. In this impersonal, rough 'n' tumble world, he's her friend. "From France, right?"
I nodded as I played right into his pitch. "French roast," I said. Jean was softly chuckling beside me, although I noticed she was surveying the room rather than giving Gus her attention.
He patted me on the back while removing his glass of bourbon from my hand. "Ah ha," he guffawed. Every ad specialty guy I've ever met guffaws, a professional trait I find mildly interesting. Gus could see that he had sparked something in me, so he continued. "These are French cups, Sydney gal." He held his hand to his mouth in the mock stifling of a giggle, with his cheeks all puffed out like a stuffed rodent and his head lurching forward down in his neck like an attacking goose. He shifted the drink to his other hand and slapped Jean on the shoulder just as he'd slapped me on the back. She posed obligingly, eyebrows raised in feigned interest. "Not the French cups us men like so much." He giggled outright. "Little muglike cups with saucers." He was rummaging through his bag o' wares when he put down his drink and pulled out a demitasse cup and saucer.
"Demitasse," I said.
"Yeah. French, like I told ya'." He turned toward Jean. "It's hard to find something real classy like this in adware." He thrust his hand out. "I'm Gus Georges. President of Put It On! Ad Specialties."
"I'm sorry, Gus. This is Jean Miller of Miller and Associates."
Gus's eyes took on a shine the way only salesmen's eyes can shine when they find themselves in the presence of great opportunity. "You're new," he said with true delight.
"Not really, Gus," I jumped in. "Jean's been one of Charlotte's top producers, both listings and sales, for more than ten years. Used to be with Bishop Cates. Miller and Associates is new."
"Well, well, well," Gus said. "Bishop Cates, huh? You work with Barbara Cates or her old man before he died?"
Jean glared at poor Gus as if he'd asked her if she'd slept with the devil. "Both," she finally said. "But the wrong one died if you ask me."
Gus shuffled his feet, feigned a cough, then hung his head as if he'd dropped something at this feet. What else could he do with a comment like that?
The moment Jean saw my shocked expression she slapped her hip and winced. "Damn, I didn't mean that." She looked at me with an awkward combination of...
I was thinking about Crystal as I watched my client Jean Miller thread her way across the huge convention hall with drinks in both hands. I was wondering if Jean had made any progress selling Crystal's house. Of course, I'd introduced Crystal to Jean, too. Like I said, I have this habit of taking responsibility for things, and it was going to get a whole lot worse, only I didn't know that quite yet.
At the time, Jean and I were inside the Charlotte Civic Center at the annual Board of Realtors Roundup. Us and several thousand other overly animated, ambitious women. I felt like one of many cattle at auction.
The place was hot in spite of its lofty ceilings. The stench of battling perfumes mingled with work-a-day sweat; the boisterous hawk of vendors clashed with high-pitched anxiety. I retreated under a massive set of steps leading to the mezzanine.
I don't sell real estate. My thing's advertising. More precisely, marketing communications since it takes more than mere advertising to sell most things. I own a little agency called Allen Teague, Allen for my birth name and Teague for the man I was married to and divorced from ten years ago. Real estate, both commercial and residential, is a big part of our client mix since Charlotte, North Carolina, has lots of services but very few tangible products. The town is long on pretense, however. Like a newly rich southern woman eager to buy her way into social prominence. Charlotte is a New South city, full of herself with polite aggression, portending to the crown of shifting economic futures, hoping Atlanta will slip, pretending she has no past. An easy place to sell a service like mine if you talk nothing but vision.
"Oooh, Sydney, I'm sooo sorry. Here, I was bringing it to you. You looked as if you could use one." Jean Miller, my client, sloshed Scotch on my linen-clad shoulder and began wiping my shoulder pad with a Hardee's napkin.
"Don't worry about it, Jean," I said. The foam rubber had deflected the amber liquid down my arm. I slid the flax jacket off the shoulder, took her napkin and dragged it up my triceps.
This was the most excitement I had felt in the forty-five minutes I had been here. The Roundup may not be my idea of a fun afternoon, but it's a vendor's dream.
Three thousand consumers, ninety-five percent women, packed into two large rooms for four hours of eating, drinking, and buying from the hundred or so booths set up around the space. Mostly ad specialty guys, I noticed. Those guys who put anything and everything on a key chain or a refrigerator magnet.
"Ran into your favorite competitor at the bar." Jean's voice was light but taunting. Her eyes twinkled. I was being baited.
"Okay, let's see. Who is my favorite competitor? "
Jean laughed. "Mickey Sutton."
I couldn't suppress a groan. I disliked Mickey enough that even the mention of his name could sour my mood. Almost.
Her grin could not have been wider or more self-satisfied. "I thought that'd get a rise out of you."
I had lots of reasons for hating Mickey Sutton, not the least of which was, again, my good friend Crystal. I'd introduced Mickey to Crystal a long time ago. Before I knew either one of them very well. Before he'd screwed me in business and a legion of other women any way he could get to them. Before I'd learned how addictive he'd be to someone with an addictive personality like Crystal's. Of course, I hadn't known what a jerk Fred Ball would turn out to be either at the time I introduced him to Crystal. My own ignorance about the two guys didn't make me feel any better about my part in the mess that her life had become. In fact, I felt like the evil queen presenting Snow White with an entire basket of poisoned apples.
"Whatever his faults, he's the best-looking guy I've seen in a long time."
I looked at her as I imagine a doctor would who's warning a patient about the recreational use of arsenic. "Look, but don't touch, smell, feel, or talk to him. He's lethal."
As I was folding my jacket over my arm, Gus Georges of Put It On! hit me on the shoulder and knocked what remained of the Scotch on my skirt.
"Hey there, Sydney! Oh, hon, sorry. Didn't see the drink in your hand. Here, let me get it for you." He pulled out a large, rumpled handkerchief and was dabbing between my thighs before I could stop him. "Here"--he gestured from below my waist--"take mine. Looks like I just about finished yours off." He thrust into my one empty hand something darker than the Scotch Jean had brought me. His angle was such that one small wave of the dark stuff rolled out onto my skirt. Smelled like bourbon. Now I was doused in blend.
Here I stood, bourbon in one hand, Scotch in the other, my formerly crisp linen suit soggy with liquor in two shades of beige. In the old days that would have meant the evening was off to a good start, but I don't drink at all anymore. Not even a beer with pizza. Not even champagne at toasts. Not even wine at communion, for Christ's sake! Some people don't see the harm in a sip of communion wine, but as far as I'm concerned, it's not the intent of the sip that leads you back to a life of debauchery. It's the alcohol itself. My friend Crystal knew that too, although she kept on drinking, proof that knowledge and action have little in common. I slipped in the early years because I failed to cook the wine out of a stir-fry dish. That was more than ten years ago. I keep turning it over one day at a time, and, through the grace of my higher power--certainly not my fellow man--have not had a drink inside my body since.
"Got a hot new coffee cup, Sydney. Know how ya' love that coffee. The expensive kind, right? Foreign brand, right?" Gus was doing what the best of these guys do: letting his target know that she's a person worth listening to; that he, good ol' Gus Georges, is more than a pitchman to her. In this impersonal, rough 'n' tumble world, he's her friend. "From France, right?"
I nodded as I played right into his pitch. "French roast," I said. Jean was softly chuckling beside me, although I noticed she was surveying the room rather than giving Gus her attention.
He patted me on the back while removing his glass of bourbon from my hand. "Ah ha," he guffawed. Every ad specialty guy I've ever met guffaws, a professional trait I find mildly interesting. Gus could see that he had sparked something in me, so he continued. "These are French cups, Sydney gal." He held his hand to his mouth in the mock stifling of a giggle, with his cheeks all puffed out like a stuffed rodent and his head lurching forward down in his neck like an attacking goose. He shifted the drink to his other hand and slapped Jean on the shoulder just as he'd slapped me on the back. She posed obligingly, eyebrows raised in feigned interest. "Not the French cups us men like so much." He giggled outright. "Little muglike cups with saucers." He was rummaging through his bag o' wares when he put down his drink and pulled out a demitasse cup and saucer.
"Demitasse," I said.
"Yeah. French, like I told ya'." He turned toward Jean. "It's hard to find something real classy like this in adware." He thrust his hand out. "I'm Gus Georges. President of Put It On! Ad Specialties."
"I'm sorry, Gus. This is Jean Miller of Miller and Associates."
Gus's eyes took on a shine the way only salesmen's eyes can shine when they find themselves in the presence of great opportunity. "You're new," he said with true delight.
"Not really, Gus," I jumped in. "Jean's been one of Charlotte's top producers, both listings and sales, for more than ten years. Used to be with Bishop Cates. Miller and Associates is new."
"Well, well, well," Gus said. "Bishop Cates, huh? You work with Barbara Cates or her old man before he died?"
Jean glared at poor Gus as if he'd asked her if she'd slept with the devil. "Both," she finally said. "But the wrong one died if you ask me."
Gus shuffled his feet, feigned a cough, then hung his head as if he'd dropped something at this feet. What else could he do with a comment like that?
The moment Jean saw my shocked expression she slapped her hip and winced. "Damn, I didn't mean that." She looked at me with an awkward combination of...
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- EditoreDell Pub Co
- Data di pubblicazione1998
- ISBN 10 0440225515
- ISBN 13 9780440225515
- RilegaturaCopertina flessibile
- Numero di pagine336
- Valutazione libreria
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