

San Francisco Value$

by

James Turner

PUBLISHED BY:

James Turner on Smashwords

San Francisco Values

Copyright © 2010 James Turner

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Chapter 1

Ella Barker pulled her black Mercedes S600 sedan up onto the sidewalk in front of the broker's open house. The V-12 purred as she inched up over the clean swept Nob Hill curb. San Francisco's notorious lack of parking didn't pose a problem for Ella. She considered parking tickets a cost of doing business as one of the city's top real estate brokers. Though she headed up the large brokerage house which bore her name, and could be running things from up on high, she still loved to get out of the office, hunt clients and listings, and handle deals herself for the thrill of the sale, the competition.

Ella deducted the fines from her income taxes, somewhat honestly in her mind, a justifiable business expense itemized as "parking fees." And besides she usually flew in and out of these broker opens before she could be ticketed. There was the one ugly incident with the tow truck and the resulting mention in Matier and Ross' column in the Chronicle, but generally 10 or 15 minutes in front of some complainer's driveway wasn't a big deal.

Ella strutted into the lobby of the 12 story condo building. Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she raced to catch the elevator.

"11th floor open house, Walter," she called back to the doorman.

"Sure thing Mrs. Barker, with you on the job it's as good as sold."

"Let's hope so," Ella replied as she knifed through the closing doors.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Ella."

The smile on Ella's oft-lifted face froze into a mask of restrained distaste. She'd unwittingly trapped herself inside the elevator with Gordon Elway, known to all in San Francisco's real estate biz as a gossipy, social climbing, know-it-all.

"I mean with everything that's happened and all..." he said with a slight smile.

"I believe Gordon, in letting bygones be bygones."

Gordon's arched his eyebrows and smiled enigmatically.

"Anyway," she said, anxious to change the subject, "who's this listing agent here, Tiffany Reynolds? I've never heard of her."

"She comes from the Bayview district. Started out with Red Carpet. Now she's with CB Prudential Union Zephyr."

"How on earth did she get this listing?"

"Her family's been in San Francisco forever. She's Latin-Irish, comes from a long line of city firefighters and is ambitious as hell."

"But still, Delicia Cardosa's apartment..." Ella hissed the name through clenched teeth. Despite her misgivings about the seller, she couldn't resist a quick peek owing to her experience selling in the building. Or maybe she'd fallen victim to her own morbid curiosity. Either way, a sale was still a sale, and if she could pull any commission out of Delicia it would be a sweet poke in the eye.

"How exactly did you find out...?" Gordon began.

The elevator doors slid open, thankfully cutting their conversation short.

Ella fled Gordon's clutches for her good friend Mark Allen, a professional home stager and consistent source of profitable tips and leaks. Mark, in his late 30's, looked great as usual. Trim and well groomed with a cleft in his chin, he took great pride in his appearance. But then again, he _was_ gay so this attention to personal detail fell within expected San Francisco norms.

"Thank god you're here," Ella said. "Gordon's asking too many questions."

"Sure he is, he's digging for fresh material."

Ella sighed. "Sometimes I can't stand the sight of that little shit."

While not wanting to admit it, the apartment made quite an impression and would sell quickly Ella felt sure, for considerably over asking. Framed by floor to ceiling living room windows, the view featured the usual flashy Bay Area landmarks. Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge and Marin County hills all gathered gloriously around sailboats bobbing on the blue waters of San Francisco Bay. Where many people saw a gorgeous view, Ella saw billions of dollars worth of residential real estate. All of it would be bought or sold at some point, and she was getting her not-so-small piece of it.

Maybe 20 or so brokers and agents milled through the elegant halls and current de rigueur furnishings and fixtures. A few stared at Ella, obviously wondering why she would step foot in Delicia's apartment. Ella ignored them. She and Mark headed toward the kitchen, Ella slyly eying the décor along the way, much of which she found ostentatious. In the kitchen, a sprawling affair with a center island, they quickly took in the black pearl granite counters (slab not tile), the Vikings, Sub-Zeros and Wolfs, cherry wood cabinets and stove mounted water faucet with folding extension.

"Don't you think all this stuff is getting to be too common?" a tinny female voice said to no one in particular. The woman's charm bracelet rattled as she flung her arm about. "I mean, every house looks like the other, where's the originality? Like, this kitchen stuff is going to date itself in a few years, and just like now when we see Formica cabinets with wood rails we know it's the 80's. And I mean these water faucets over the stoves, sure, it's convenient to fill a giant pot with water, but then what happens when the noodles are done? How do you carry this boiling monster over to the sink?"

Ella stopped in her tracks and glared. She found herself looking at a slender woman in her late 20's, wearing a short skirt and stilettos with blond hair flowing onto her shoulders. Her face was pretty, but with a certain wide oddness to it.

"Who in god's name is that?" Ella whispered to Mark.

"That's Tiffany Reynolds."

"She's the listing agent and she's knocking the place?" Ella asked incredulously, snapping her business card next to the gleaming commercial espresso maker.

"And who might you be?" Tiffany asked, looking straight at Ella as she crossed the kitchen, her bangled arm extending in an elongated pre-handshake.

"Ella Barker, President, Barker Brokers."

Tiffany stopped just as their hands joined together, the handshake frozen, a confused smile splayed across her face. "Ella Barker?" she replied, tilting her head. "Aren't you, and uh, Delicia...?? Do you really think you should be here?" Then she found her footing. "I mean, are you two friends?"

By now many of the other agents and brokers, Gordon Elway chief among them, had stopped talking and stared openly in a state of gossip fueled excitement.

"And you are?" Ella replied, ignoring the question.

"Oh, sorry, Tiffany Reynolds, CB Pru-U-Zee. This is my listing," she said pertly.

"Nice to meet you, Tiffany, how... unexpected." Ella motioned to Mark. "And this is my colleague Mark Allen."

"Nice to meet you," she said, winking at him.

"Likewise," Mark said. He squeezed Ella's wrist in a show of mutual disdain.

Ella turned her attention back to Tiffany. "Don't you think this apartment might be a little overpriced at 12 million for two bedrooms? It doesn't even have Retrax."

Retrax was real estate lingo for retractable walls and ceilings, the latest must-have accessory for buyers in the ten to twenty million dollar price range. Walls and ceilings would literally disappear with the touch of a button, essentially turning one's home into a giant _deck_. While admittedly a problem with the city's constant wind and fog, like so many other things in the high priced world of San Francisco trophy homes, it was more about being able to say you have the accessory rather than actually using it.

Tiffany smiled. "The plans are drawn up and city approved, not to mention the home is already equipped with high speed internet toilets and bidets." Tiffany tilted her head again. "All by Williams-Sonoma."

Chapter 2

Dear Sellers:

We are writing with heartfelt appreciation for you having allowed us to view your lovely home this morning. Actually, it was only 15 minutes ago but we feel the need to make an offer immediately as yours is the first house we've looked at since arriving from Anchorage last night, and well, we're stunned with the simplicity and beauty of your property and accompanying motor home. As buyers, we've studied the San Francisco real estate market intensely, and we realize that there are many other worthy purchasers competing for your "little piece of paradise." We are hoping that since your house just came on the market this morning we will be one of the first to be considered. We are offering fifty percent over your quite reasonable asking price, because we know as sellers you deserve the most advantageous return possible as you "strike out" in new directions.

What we want to show with this letter is our commitment to preserving all that you have built and left essentially unchanged during the past sixty years of successive family ownership. We promise not to put wheels on the motor home you so creatively constructed or try to move it from the driveway, and we are absolutely agreeable to your wish that this restriction be placed on the home's deed. We were utterly charmed to find out from your son Timmy that at least thirty household pets, mostly large breed dogs and various housecats have been laid to rest in the backyard over the years. How at home we'll feel knowing all the love that will surround us!

Then of course there's the charming architecture. The slanting floors really make your house a "home," and we understand and agree to your wish that no effort be made to change or otherwise make any kind of structural repair or upgrade, owing to the historical value of the 1989 earthquake "damage."

In closing, we ask you to please, please consider our attached written offer. You will not be sorry, your family home of so many years will be in trusted hands!

With humility and respect,

Roberta and Starka Littlefeather-Jones

Ella looked up from the letter at the two women sitting across from her.

"This is good," she said, "you followed my instructions practically to the letter. Though I'm going to take out the word 'house' here in first paragraph and change it to 'home.' It sounds more personal, don't you think?"

"Sure, whatever you say. But do we really have to keep the motor home?" asked Roberta, a kind looking woman despite her shaved head, lip piercings and morbid obesity.

"Oh god no," Ella replied. "Once escrow closes and you have possession, you can apply to have the deed restriction removed based on the Eyesore Statute."

"Actually I think the dead animals are really creepy," Starka Littlefeather-Jones said. "I'd wanna get rid of 'em right away."

Ella looked at Roberta's partner Starka, a petite, pixyish woman with fine boned hands. She wore small, round tortoise frame glasses, and dyed her bowl haircut a shocking shade of purple. Ella wondered how she kept from being completely crushed during the two women's amorous explorations. "You can call in a backhoe and dig up every last one of them once the place is yours."

Ella put the letter to one side and picked up the nearly completed written offer. They sat in her lavish office in the South of Market neighborhood, an elegant, all glass corner suite overlooking Yerba Buena Gardens, one of four Barker Brokers offices in the city. Just six months ago there'd been only this one office. Now she also had agents, secretaries and assistants working in Pacific Heights, Sea Cliff and St. Francis Wood. Her offices were located in actual homes in these prestigious and exclusive San Francisco neighborhoods, giving potential buyers a real feel for living there. She'd ironed out bothersome issues like residential-only zoning by charming and cajoling city officials at various cocktail parties around town.

"Let's go over the offer one more time before I fax it to the seller's agent," Ella continued. "He's waiting in his car for it now in front of the house." The sellers had also stayed in close range, knowing they had to be available to deal with the torrent of offers soon to fall into their hands.

Thankfully one of Ella's own agents represented the seller. With an in-house agent on the other side of the deal, Ella's personal cut would be much larger than if another real estate brokerage brought the buyer to the table. Should the Littlefeather-Jones offer be accepted, the sale price would a modest $1 million. She didn't usually take on such low priced listings personally, but knew how quickly it would sell and she needed new clothes.

"Let's see," Ella said, looking over the offer. "You do agree to the seller's demand of remaining in the house for one year after closing, rent free?"

"Oh yes," the two women said quickly.

"What about a loan contingency?" Starka asked.

Ella lowered her head, casting Starka a stern look over the top of her reading glasses. "There will be no contingencies."

"Termites, title report...?"

"Nothing, zip, nada. Unless you don't want the house, that is."

Roberta and Starka looked at each other and sat back in their seats like humiliated school children.

"What if we don't get the loan, I mean, we're putting a hundred grand deposit in with the offer," said Roberta.

"Which reminds me," Ella interrupted, "you do have the deposit with you now, in a cashier's check?"

"Yes, of course. You made that very clear."

Ella went on. "If you're unable to secure financing, you're still committed to buying the house."

Starka cast her eyes about, looking nervous. "But we don't have that much money," she said quietly.

"Look, I'm setting you up with my mortgage broker Jeff Arnold. He's very good, and will find the right loan for you. You'll be approved in a week, don't worry. Worst case scenario you kiss the $100,000 goodbye and start looking again." Ella took off her glasses and held them in one hand, elbow resting on the desk. "But of course that'll never happen."

The lesbian couple from Alaska looked frightened, but leaned forward pens in hand to sign the offer.

*******

Ella's cell phone rang while Roberta and Starka signed.

"Ella," Mark said breathlessly, "have you heard about the Frackle listing?"

Her ears perked up like an eager dachshund being offered a piece of steak.

"What are you talking about?" She knew nothing about any Frackle listing and Giselle Frackle was big news in San Francisco. Ella swiveled her leather chair around so that her back faced the women. Their piddling shack sat on the crappy south side of Potrero Hill, while Giselle Frackle owned the foremost mansion in Sea Cliff, an acre of ocean front property with a 14,000 square foot brick home. It luxuriated on a cliff top promontory with breathtaking views of the Golden Gate Bridge, Pacific Ocean and Marin Headlands. Surrounded by golf course quality lawns, the house hadn't been on the market since Giselle and her now deceased husband Edgar bought it back in the 60's for a quarter million. In Ella's quick estimation it would fetch somewhere in the neighborhood of $70 million today.

"It's not listed yet from what I've heard, but the old lady's in the market for a broker."

Ella's heart jumped. "How do you know this?"

"I've been working on Giselle's remodel in Stinson. Her slutty little Brazilian maid Safada told me, who by the way is doing her damndest to get me into bed. I've flat out told her I only sleep with men but that only seems to turn her on more." Mark tended to become distracted while talking, but he'd always eventually return to the subject at hand. At the moment however, Safada or Mark's sexual escapades didn't interest her in the least.

Roberta "uh-hummed," and fidgeted, giving Ella the opening she needed to move things along.

"Mark, why don't we just meet? I'm with clients right now. How about coffee in," she stopped to check her watch, "one hour, at Red Tin Coffee in the Ferry Building?"

*******

Ella spied Mark just inside the airy coffee house, holding a tray with two paper coffee cups in one hand and several shopping bags in the other. Red Tin served every stripe of luxury brew, with outposts scattered throughout the better Bay Area neighborhoods. Plate glass windows looked out at the Oakland-Bay Bridge and Yerba Buena Island.

The café made up but one of many upscale offerings in the gorgeously restored, century old Ferry Building, a long, hulking waterfront structure said to be modeled after a great Venetian piazza. Architecturally speaking, a graceful clock tower rising from the center saved it from mediocrity. The building now shined as one of San Francisco's crown jewels after hiding for decades in the grimy shadows of an ill advised and ugly elevated freeway. The city demolished the freeway after the 1989 earthquake, opening the Embarcadero up to redevelopment. A wide, palm lined boulevard now ran in the freeway's path, with street cars, tourists and runners plying the waterfront promenade.

Mark greeted Ella with a kiss on the cheek. "You're sure quick to set up a meeting with the right motivation."

"My curiosity has led to many a closed escrow," she replied with a smirk.

Mark handed Ella her coffee. "Ever since they fixed this place up, I'm a sucker to drop fifty bucks just walking in."

Ella could hardly contain herself, wanting to ask about Giselle Frackle, but before she could ask Mark handed her a small, chocolate candy. "Here, have a taste."

She popped the whole thing in her mouth. "Umm," she murmured, nodding.

"You might as well be eating an M&M for all the finesse and appreciation you put into it. That bite you just gulped cost fifteen bucks at Truffle Eiffel," Mark said.

"I thought it was an M&M," Ella said, peering into another of Mark's shopping bags. "What do we have here?"

He quickly pulled it out of reach. "Excuse me, these are free range mushrooms from Champignon Sonoma. They're grown by an old woman in the valley who's been into the organic thing for eons. She produces only three pounds a year, they just came in this morning. The line went on for miles, not nearly enough for everyone."

"And you got some?" Ella asked dubiously.

"Contacts. You of all people know how that works."

"What you're trying to say is then that you and the counter boy...."

Mark raised his eyebrows. "That's enough, Mrs. Barker."

"Let's sit," Ella said, getting down to business. They opened the double glass doors out to the bay front patio, taking seats at a café table. "Now, what's this about Giselle Frackle listing her mansion?"

"Who said it was the mansion?" Mark's said with teasing eyes. "I just said the 'Frackle Listing.' That could mean her Tahoe place, her Stinson beach house, her..."

"Come on, you wouldn't be talking about anything else other than Sea Cliff. Those vacation places are chicken feed."

"Ella, you've been in the business for twenty-five years. I'd have thought Giselle would be calling you herself, offering the listing to you on one of her many silver platters."

"Anyone who can say they've been doing anything for 25 years is getting old."

"You're not even 50 yet, you look great."

"That's kind of you but maybe we should thank my Beverly Hills doctor."

"I'll be 75 soon myself."

Ella looked up from her coffee. "You mean your 40th birthday?"

He fingered the dark hair near his forehead. "Do you think my hairline is receding?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"My dad is completely bald."

"It comes from your mother's side, so don't worry. She's not bald."

Mark came from a mixed African American-Jewish marriage. He'd acquired the most attractive physical traits from each of his parents, a spin of the hereditary lottery not so generous with his siblings, according to photos Ella had seen.

Mark's father loomed large in his life, and for this reason Ella suspected he'd worked especially hard to shine under the patriarchal shadow cast by Richard Allen, the California State Attorney General. The son oversaw an increasingly successful interior design business, seemingly the idealistic opposite from his macho, conservative father but recently an ironic and unexpected beneficiary.

In the previous election, Mark became known as Richard's "San Francisco homosexual decorator son," labeled as such by the liberal Democrat opponent during a debate. This comment, intended to alienate Richard's conservative Christian support, instead backfired, creating a boon for Mark. Richard trounced his opponent, and many of Mark's "debate clients" as he called them, hailed from the conservative reaches of the political spectrum.

But success in his professional life still didn't save Mark from obsessing about his fading youth.

"Forty should be illegal."

"You don't know how young you are," Ella said. "Anyway, I've met Giselle a couple of times. Just what did this maid have to say about her selling her house?"

"She said," he replied lowering his voice, glancing around in an overly dramatic fashion, "that Giselle is making some kind of big change in her life, God only knows what. And that the time had come to sell the old Sea Cliff place."

If Ella had been a younger woman, such thrilling talk would take her near the edge of sexual excitement. But sex had been off her radar since before the divorce, and she didn't even know if her body could or would respond given the opportunity. And her solitary efforts to find out had been singularly unsuccessful.

"I haven't heard a word about Giselle selling. It's certainly not listed formally or I'd know about it."

"That means it's up for grabs," Mark said.

Chapter 3

Before even glimpsing the Open House sign, they saw the line stretching half a block long down 23rd Street in Noe Valley. Ella's client, a Manhattan advertising executive, had flown out for the weekend in advance of a transfer to San Francisco. She needed to quickly find a home for herself and her two young children.

"Oh my god, look at that line, what's that for?"

"That, my dear, is where we're headed," Ella replied.

"The Open House? This is insane."

"Don't worry, we don't have to wait."

The real estate boom created a new breed of open house entirely, turning the long standing tradition on its head, requiring security, crowd control and other ancillary measures. Lazier realtors claimed open houses didn't result in sales, in order to avoid holding them, while more attentive agents insisted on any and all exposure.

As one of several innovations cementing Ella's leadership position in the real estate community, she had pioneered online ticket sales in an effort to control the pandemonium that surrounded open house culture. Only the most egregiously overpriced or truly appalling abodes escaped the hot breath of the desperate rabble, so some kind of calculated access became a matter of necessity. Her office also turned out a highly respected daily report sent via text and email announcing the latest day over day price increases in San Francisco.

A competing brokerage held the listing for the house they'd come to see, so like everyone else Ella ordered her tickets online. But as the owner of her company she and her client didn't have to pay, benefiting from professional courtesy. Most everybody else had to fork over ten dollars to gain entrance, the money going as a credit to the seller should the open house result in a signed sales contract that day, otherwise the income helped offset the listing broker's marketing costs.

Ella parked in her usual manner, pulling headfirst into a neighbor's driveway, the nose of her Mercedes blocking the sidewalk. A young couple pushing a baby carriage detoured out into the street to get around the S600. They glared as they passed but said nothing.

On open house days Ella always paid special attention to her appearance. Today she'd dressed in a knee length cashmere skirt and silk blouse that showed off her slender, trainer-toned figure to its greatest advantage. She'd pulled her expensively natural blonde hair back with a barrette, where it fell to just above her shoulders.

"Let's go," she said to her client.

The crush at open houses necessitated the controlled entry. Generally no more than 250 people were allowed in at any one time. Lesser brokers and agents than Ella had to endure the humiliation of standing in line, with wait times sometimes exceeding two hours. As Ella and her client crossed the street, an elderly man using a walker complained to the line monitor.

"Can't you do something young man, it's hot in this line, and I'm thirsty and feeling weak."

"Just stay in line, sir," he responded sternly. "No one skips ahead."

Except Ella and her client, who marched straight to the front of the line and presented their entry passes to the burly guards at the front door. Before they stepped across the threshold, Ella caught a glimpse of Tiffany Reynolds, the newbie agent representing Delicia Cardosa, waiting in line with a dashing, investment banker type and his obviously irritated, yet pampered looking wife. Probably 20 minutes or so still yawned between them and the front door. Tiffany shot Ella a straight on, confident look, a direct challenge if Ella didn't know better.

Ella smiled dismissively, turned and went in.

The open house was a restored Victorian three bedroom, two bath, and by the looks of things Ella expected more than a thousand people would go through before 4 p.m. Just inside the front door she picked up a glossy color flyer off a side table. It listed all the features and details of the house, though the price had changed since Ella looked at the Multiple Listing Service. A thick, black X slashed through the $2.6 million asking price, replaced with "$4.1 million" printed boldly to the side. Ella raised her eyebrows and passed the flyer to her client.

"Are we still in your league?

"I do need a place to live with my kids, don't I?" replied the client, a rather severe looking woman.

Ella smiled, and shrugged. "Let's take a look then." Ella herself had two open houses running the same day, but eager, lesser agents in her office handled the crush at those locations.

People pushed past them in both directions, making no effort whatsoever to walk on the clear plastic runners lining the hallways and rooms. Ella recognized her friend Mark's staging abilities right away. She understood the concept of staging well, but did not altogether agree with it. To get top dollar and generate the greatest amount of buyer hysteria, sellers had to erase all signs of personal existence from their homes, often moving out altogether during the sales process. No photographs of cute kids or smiling groups on ski trips. Diplomas were stripped from the walls and toaster ovens and coffee makers whisked off kitchen counters. Generally useless items replaced these everyday practicalities, usually artistic looking vases or tasteful, yet abstract wooden sculptures.

Everything ended up blandly attractive in the Pottery Barn mode. Dark woods and light pastels metastasized through every open house in the city, choking off creativity while creeping from one neighborhood to another like a predatory weed. An obligatory nursery turned up in every staged home, even in the gayest of neighborhoods. Ella found no originality in thought or practice.

For his part though, Mark accepted all this cheerfully and wholeheartedly. "Hey, I give 'em what they want. If today's buyer wants to pay more just so they can look like everyone else, I'm in."

Mark specialized in softly colored polished rock door stops and framed prints featuring watercolor landscapes of early California. The prints hung on double wires dropping down from chic little iron ceiling rails. Quite a few buyers would insist on keeping the rented furnishings and artwork that Mark utilized in his staged houses, to which he readily agreed, buying it himself from the rental outfit then marking it up four or five hundred percent. Staging a house could run from $1,000 for a simple one day clean up and reorganization to tens of thousands of dollars for a complete, temporary re-do.

Once Ella and her client fought their way to the kitchen area, they heard confused murmurings among the throngs of lookers.

"Are the owners at home, trying to live through this madness?" a young man asked his female companion.

He was referring to a very pretty woman, about 30 or so, working in the kitchen. She wore a cook's apron over stylish pants and sweater, while stirring a large 1940's reproduction mixing bowl with a wooden spoon. A little girl about five stood at her side watching. The sweet, unmistakable aroma of chocolate chip cookies wafted from the oversized, restaurant grade oven.

"I've heard talk of this, but haven't seen it yet," Ella said to her client.

"Who are they?"

The little girl's shrill voice interrupted their conversation. "Cheryl, I have to go pee."

The woman looked askance at the crowd watching and replied in a stage whisper. "I'm supposed to be your mother, remember, call me Mommy."

The little girl only repeated her demand even louder.

"Cheryl," she whined even louder, "I have to make pee pee."

Cheryl or Mommy, or whoever she was, abandoned the mixing bowl and took the little girl by the hand and led her out of the kitchen.

"They're model residents," Ella explained. "They're hired by the listing agent to give the home a feel of people actually living here. A developer in the East Bay tried it first about a year ago. They populated their model homes with all these actors," she said waving a hand at the mixing bowl and stove, "and buyers seemed to take to it."

"Amazing," replied Ella's client. "I should recommend it to my friend Meryl in New York. She's in real estate and very aggressive."

Ella didn't doubt this last remark. She'd met more than her share of New York City realtors at various conferences, and a little of the "aggressiveness" her client described went a very long way. Ella didn't care for her Gotham counterparts in the least. Most of them had strong accents and would tell outlandish stories about selling apartments in Manhattan. "I tawled the cloiyent 'The apahrtment gets so much siun I hiad to put moy sunglasses on when I wawlked in.' The cloiyent put in a full prwice offa, and puwrhcased the cawndo sight unseen, based just on my woird." Ella shuddered at the memory.

"She'd love this model idea, though one of her last open houses was a 300 square foot two bedroom off Madison in the sixties that drew hundreds in the first hour. I'm not sure there'd be enough room for the models."

"Hmmm, I'm not sure either," Ella said noncommittally.

"Still, it was a spacious and well laid out space."

Mommy and her "daughter" returned from the bathroom break, and the little girl smiled now. A nice looking man about 35 or so politely weaved his way through the crowd into the kitchen. He looked adoringly at the woman and child, and leaned in to give his wife-for-a-day a peck on the cheek. The woman smiled back, then removed the latest batch of freshly baked cookies from the oven. The tumult of lookers crushed any remaining opportunity for improvised, familial dialogue. Using a spatula, Mommy put the cookies on a ceramic platter, and placed them on the counter for the cattle to feed.

"Please, help yourselves," she said gracefully to the multitude. Greedy hands snatched the cookies up within 30 seconds.

Ella and client wound their way through the carefully staged two story house. In the second floor hallway a boy of about three scribbled with a black crayon on the freshly painted light peach wall, his arm making long, jagged movements. "Taylor," a woman's voice gently said, "that's not how we behave in other people's homes." She tried to pull Taylor away from the wall, but he tugged and screamed at the top of his lungs. Wanting to escape, Ella directed her client into the master bedroom. Large and luxurious, expansive plate glass windows afforded a forested view to the professionally landscaped backyard and hot tub.

"Where's the bathroom?" asked her client.

"It must be in here," Ella said. "I don't know why all the doors are closed."

The sound of a toilet flushing echoed from behind one of the freshly painted doors, and a moment later it opened, disgorging a very large, sloppily dressed overweight man, about 6'5". He closed a box of kitchen matches, and the smell of sulphur wafted in their direction. Ella looked at her client with a horrified expression and they fled the master bedroom.

Having reached the fresh air and relative space of the back yard, they both inhaled rather lustily. Ella's client surveyed the scene. "The hot tub looks nice, especially with that couple in it. More models?"

"It looks like it. Either that or we've got some prospective buyers here having a heck of a party."

A very attractive couple in their early 20's lounged in the hot tub. Holding champagne glasses, laughing giddily and toasting each other, they appeared to be having quite a good time. Too good of a time, Ella thought. The girl, a voluptuous tanned brunette wearing a bright yellow bikini, set her champagne flute down and leaned over closer to the young god pressed next to her in churning, steaming water. While the fascinated crowd in the garden watched, she languidly pulled her hair up on top of her head, pinning it back with a gold clip. Then she lowered her face to his sculpted bronze chest and ran her tongue up between his pecs, cleanly licking up a fine line of sweat that dripped slowly down his smooth flesh. He groaned lightly, with obvious pleasure. She looked up at him and smiled lasciviously.

Though admittedly riveting, Ella glanced around to gauge the crowd reaction. All eyes were on the couple, and Ella noticed that even some of the neighbors in adjoining yards also took in the show, peering through windows and gathering eagerly onto their decks.

"Think this'll sell the place?" a voice asked from behind.

Ella turned to see Gordon Elway, the listing agent on the property.

"Aren't the models getting a little out of hand?"

"Oh no," Gordon quickly answered. "They're just doing their job. They're porn actors."

Now Ella had heard it all. Fortunately her client had wandered away to inspect the landscaping.

"I got 'em for a discount on the weekend. I said, make it hot."

"They seem to take their work seriously."

Her client returned. "I think it's been long enough and I'd like to go back upstairs and get a look at the master bathroom now."

"Was there a problem?" Gordon asked.

"Nothing that a few minutes of fresh air won't take care of, Gordon, don't worry." Ella turned to her client. "Let's go back on up."

"That's OK, you stay here, I wanna look around on my own."

"Sure, of course," Ella said.

The black-clad Manhattanite wandered off through the clusters of people, looking out of place in the more brightly dressed San Francisco crowd.

"Do they still dress like that in New York?" Gordon asked. "It seems so 80s."

"I don't know, Gordon."

The hot tub couple toned things down for the time being and people started to mill around again.

"You think she likes the place?" Gordon asked.

"Maybe, it's a little early to tell."

"She better make up her mind quick."

"Gordon, what's with the four percent commission on this house?"

Gordon sighed dramatically. "The sellers wouldn't give me the standard six."

"We might not be in the same office and we're often competing for the same listings, but ultimately we all feed out of the same trough. We've got to fight this ugly trend."

"I know that Ella, but what was I supposed to do? For them it's all about how fast prices are rising. They came whining at me with the argument 'well my salary hasn't quadrupled in the past four years, I'm not going to pay you six percent.'"

"They must be in the wrong line of work then," she replied curtly. "Just because they work for peanuts doesn't mean I have to."

"Ella, if your buyer snaps this house up today for four point one, you'll clear a bundle, it's not bad."

"I don't think in terms of 'not bad' when it comes to commission. I think in terms of stunning. At six percent I'd make an even bigger bundle off my split. You too. Think about that the next time you give away you and your colleague's money."

"Give me a break, Ella," Gordon said with a pressed smile. "Excuse me, I've got clients to talk to."

She went back in the house. Jeff Arnold, the latest mortgage broker of choice, held forth at the slate topped dining room table. He had various brochures spread out and spoke earnestly to a very pregnant woman.

"You may think you can't afford to buy now," he said in a friendly manner, "but I might have just the loan product for you." He handed her a brochure while his eyes flickered down to her bulging belly. "It's easier than you think. This loan is called the Mega Double Zero. Zero down, zero payments for up to twenty-five years. Once your children reach working age or 21 years old, whichever comes first, they'll start making the house payments."

Chatting excitedly, the pregnant woman waddled off with a small pack of girlfriends.

Maybe a year or two younger than Ella, Jeff kept himself in great shape. She'd seen him running at Crissy Field and wondered what he was like in bed. Good and tasty, from the looks of him. He had graying hair and a strong jaw.

Jeff, from what she knew, was divorced with grown children. He'd only arrived on the San Francisco scene maybe three years ago from Maryland or somewhere back East, but quickly established himself as one of the mortgage brokers of choice. His quick success had to do with his reputation for getting results. Buyers sent to Jeff almost always were approved for _some_ type of loan.

"Hey there," Ella said with a welcoming smile. "How's business?"

Jeff turned to look at Ella, and if she wasn't mistaken, his eyes twinkled and he returned her greeting with a sexy, flirtatious smile. Ella's insecurities kicked in right away, thinking he just wanted to keep the mortgage referrals coming and what better way than to make the old girl feel sexy? Though relatively new to being single, an utter nightmare at her age, she knew from first hand experience she was about 20 years too old for any desirable middle aged man. Delicia Cardosa however, with her coffee fortune millions and Latin charms, seemed to be an exception. She was in her early 40's and had walked off with Ella's beloved Hank.

"It's not looking bad," replied Jeff, snapping Ella out of her spiraling self pity.

She started to speak when a loud, sharp crack stung her ears. A woman in the yard screamed in piercing, unrelenting tones. Gasps from the crowd outside followed, and people started pushing through the wide French doors to get out of the yard into the house. Jeff jumped up and strode around to a side door, with Ella following close behind. They walked quickly along the side of the house to the backyard. The female model/porn star sat frozen in the gurgling waters of the hot tub, shrieking hysterically, her hands pressed full force against her cheeks, not unlike Macaulay Culkin in "Home Alone." The object of her distress was the bronzed god she'd so delightedly licked a few moments earlier. Now he slumped down in the water, blood pouring from his neck, eyes wide open in a blank stare. As Ella and Jeff gaped, the hot tub transformed into a boiling, scarlet cauldron.

"He's been shot," said Jeff.

Ella looked around in shock, her eyes rapidly scanning the surrounding back yards and homes, wondering if the shooter had finished yet.

By now full fledged panic hit the crowd. "Let's get out of here," Jeff said. Ella nodded and they ran out through the side yard to the street, bypassing the door which led back into the house, avoiding the worst of the crush.

From the street they surveyed a surreal scene. The crowd rushed down the front steps, nearly stampeding. Very few lookers had discovered Jeff and Ella's side yard escape route, so the front door bore most of the fleeing, upper middle class masses. Ella didn't understand her thinking at the moment, but she wasn't absorbing the seriousness of the situation and thought to herself it was usually the other way around, people flooding into the homes, offers in hand. All these people running away contradicted currently accepted real estate logic.

Tiffany Reynolds ran up to Ella, excited and breathless. "What happened, did someone really get shot?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Oh shoot," she said, tilting her head and thrusting her fists down in front of her, "my clients were about to make an offer." She turned and raced off in another direction.

By now the majority of the crowd had escaped the open house, with people scurrying away in all directions. Cars roared to life and a traffic jam backed up in front of the impeccably renovated neighboring homes.

The meter maid ticketing Ella's Mercedes muttered urgently into his portable radio while the sound of approaching sirens wailed in the distance. Ella looked back at the front door. The beautiful model from the hot tub raced barefoot down the front steps, sobbing and dripping wet, wearing only her yellow bikini. The listing agent, a confused Gordon Elway, tried to take her in his arms and soothe her, but only succeeded in staining his light colored shirt. The dead boy's blood tainted the water running off the girl's nubile body. She pushed him away and ran blindly away up the block.

Ella and Jeff stood across the street, watching the last of the potential buyers flee Gordon's restored Victorian listing.

*******

The timing of the murder was fortuitous, in that pandemonium broke out before the meter maid could finish ticketing Ella's illegally parked Mercedes. Her client from Manhattan straggled out of the house right after the surviving model, looking none the worse for the wear.

"I stayed behind to get a better look at the place," she said. "You could finally see the rooms without mobs packing it to the rafters."

The police took down their names and contact information, saying they'd be in touch to get statements. Ella drove her client back to the ultra fashionable Le Garlandique, San Francisco's latest trendy boutique hotel. Neither said much along the way. When they pulled up in front of the hotel, her client turned to Ella before getting out of the car.

"Do you think they'll take a low ball offer of full price? I'd even spring for cleaning the hot tub."

Chapter 4

Ella herself lived in none of the exclusive neighborhoods where Barker Brokers maintained offices. As part of her divorce from Hank, she'd sold him her interest in their home, a Russian Hill penthouse in the Eichler-designed apartment building at 999 Green Street. After that she wanted to drop back and regroup. She found the perfect place, Edgehill Way in the Forest Hill Extension neighborhood. She'd always loved the area, a cozy retreat cut off by Dewey Boulevard from the more well known and traditionally-moneyed Forest Hill proper. Still a quite respectable address, Edgehill Way wound up to the top of a small, tree lined knoll southwest of Twin Peaks, off the beaten path yet fifteen minutes by car or subway from downtown. Not that Ella rode the subway.

Rustic, mountain lodge type re-models and older, meticulously maintained custom homes built in the 40's and 50's lined the street. Ella had swooped in on a 1959 one story, modernist, low slung A-frame clinging to the north side of the knoll. She paid nearly twenty-three commissions for it, as she liked to think of her income. Sheets of plate glass angled down from the peak of the vaulted ceiling, dropping to the floor, running the full breadth of the house. Sliding glass doors opened onto a spacious deck with views from the Pacific to the Golden Gate, all filtered through Monterey Cypress trees. Setting off the view, a freestanding double sided sandstone brick fireplace exquisitely separated the living and dining rooms.

In addition to her home, Ella had invested over the years, quite wisely as it turned out, in several rental houses scattered around San Francisco. This made her a small time landlord, but she left the day to day minutiae to the property management arm of Barker Brokers. Ella's To Do list did not include dealing personally with tenants, most of whom bore an unfailing sense of entitlement in the city's heavily controlled rental market.

She pulled into the carport of her home, turned off the engine and sat for a moment, her elegant hands still gripping the leather and wood trimmed steering wheel. Tonight couldn't have been a better evening to retreat into her quiet hillside getaway. The house huddled under the trees, protected by a cool blanket of fog.

The tranquility of the moment broke when her cell phone jumped to life, singing and vibrating in her purse. Mark Allen's name came up on the caller I.D.

She felt wary and distracted, not wanting to talk to anyone, but out of reflex she flipped open the phone.

"What the hell Ella, were you there?"

"I most certainly was."

"It's all over the news. I was just in that house this morning."

"Well none of your bland furniture rentals are stained with blood if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not worried, jeez, Ella..."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. That's the first time I've ever seen a dead body, much less someone who's been shot. It was really scary. For all we knew the killer was right there in the house, planning a Sunday afternoon massacre."

"They're saying on TV it was some kind of a distance shot from a high powered rifle."

Ella hadn't listened to the radio on the way home, but when she'd gunned the Mercedes away from the open house she'd seen TV news vans arriving on the scene.

"Whatever it was, somebody died, and it caused a full blown mass exodus." She hesitated, confused. "There were people with kids there, it was so dangerous. And the blood, it was brighter, more red, than I ever imagined..."

"Ella, do you want some company? I can be there in a few minutes."

"No, Mark, but thanks anyway, I just got home and haven't even gone into the house yet. Let me get settled and we'll talk later, alright? I'll give you a call," she said, ending the conversation.

She went into the house, set her purse on the kitchen counter and picked up the TV remote. The plasma screen in the refrigerator door blazed to life with the 6pm Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12, On The Scene and Ready To Report! Ellen turned up the volume as the anchor Thad Leader, preparing for the newscast, determinedly shuffled and organized papers until the intro music stopped. Ella had met Thad several times and had come away unimpressed.

_Good Evening, I'm Thad Leader. One man is dead and hundreds of others are thankful for their lives tonight after a dramatic escape in San Francisco's plush Noe Valley neighborhood. It all started on peaceful 23_ rd _Street, at a real estate open house. A place in fact, where people go to look for a new home and plan happy futures. But as Chirley Wixon tell us, a fugitive with a gun and a grudge had other plans. Chirley?_

Ella thought the introduction wild speculation, but still listened. She knew the reporter Chirley as well, they'd met at several Chamber of Commerce and charity for kids type affairs. She had a black sixties style schlacked hairdo, long and straight that curled up at the ends, a cute figure and exuberant energy. Chirley stood on the street in front of the open house. Seeing the home again reminded Ella of the Amityville Horror house of movie fame.

_Thank you, Thad. That's right, there were moments of stark terror here at this house behind me on 23_ rd _Street. Police say a gunman hid away in an adjoining backyard and at approximately 3:00 this afternoon opened fire on the excited crowd of prospective home buyers._

Ella knew this to be an exaggeration, there had been only one shot and one victim. But exaggerating and creating drama made life more exciting for TV news producers and reporters, at least according to the burned out broadcast journalists she'd recently hired.

Now the TV switched away to Chirley's pre-taped report. There were shots of the covered body being wheeled out, police milling around the back yard, the interior of the house, and a tray of half eaten chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter. The next images showed the hunky porn star in better days, pictured glamorously at some dubious looking awards show.

Action Eagle News Team 12 has learned that the man slaughtered in the hot tub was 23 year old Salchiço Grosso, a native of Italy. An aspiring film actor and sex worker, Grosso worked on the side as an open house model.

The camera switched back to the reporter, Chirley Wixon, showing a close-up of her face, without much visible background.

But today was Salchiço's last day on the job. While luxuriating in the hot tub of this multi million dollar Noe Valley home, a gunshot pierced the idyllic afternoon, instantly obliterating Grosso's spinal column. The bullet also shredded his jugular vein. In fact, the handsome young actor was very nearly decapitated.

Chirley wore a slight smile when she enunciated the last few words, while the camera began pulling back to show more of the scene. A curious bead of sweat ran down her forehead. As she continued her "stand up," the camera revealed she was wearing a bikini top. The sound of bubbling water grew louder.

In the tub with Salchiço Grosso was another stunning model, Gracie Eesee. The gunman's fatal shot just missed Ms. Eesee, before blasting into Salchiço's neck.

Now the camera pulled all the way back, revealing Chirley Wixon actually sitting the very hot tub where the porn actor had been shot. Still an obvious murder scene, roiling, crimson bubbles churned around her buxom figure just above the midriff, as she motioned to where the unfortunate Salchiço had been seated. In her other hand she held a large microphone bearing the Action 12 News flag. Yellow police tape tied with a festive bow wrapped the circumference of the hot tub. Then the report switched to a police interview.

Ms. Easee was very lucky here, unlike the victim. We know the shot was fired with a long range, high caliber professional weapon. What we don't know is who did it and why.

Then the man Ella had seen coming out of the master bathroom came on the screen. She felt repulsed seeing him again, and while he spoke he waved his hands around holding a roll of toilet paper.

I was upstairs and everyone just started screaming and running. So I did the same.

She'd had enough and switched channels. Much to her surprise, Tiffany Reynolds popped up on a competing newscast.

It was absolutely terrifying, I mean everyone was rushing out of there like charging bulls. All I could think about though, were my clients. I wanted to make sure they were safe and sound, out of harm's way as they search for the home of their dreams. I can help anyone with their real estate needs, just shoot an email to "Tiff at CB-Pru-U- Z dot com.

A man's voice interrupted Tiffany's speel

Thank you Ms. Reynolds.

The scene cut to the reporter, this one the quintessentially stereotyped blow dried male mannequin. He also stood in front of the 23rd Street house.

A tipster turned in this next video, shot live at the scene, of the female model who cheated death in the hot tub. News All Night 10 apologizes for the quality, the tipster was filming on his cell phone.

The grainy, splotchy video showed the busty, soaking wet, sobbing porn actress push herself away from Gordon Elway, then take off running barefoot up the street.

_The big question now in everyone's mind is, will this house_ _sell_ _?_

*******

Ella awoke somewhat refreshed, thanks to a 10 mg. Ambien. The murder loomed large in her mind but ultimately, thank god, it wasn't her problem. Not her listing, and she hadn't the vaguest idea as to why someone would want to kill the young man in such a dramatic fashion, whatever his shady profession.

Her Manhattan client sent an email early in the morning saying in the end she didn't want to make an offer on the Noe Valley place. She had to return to New York, and would get back to Ella when she felt ready to look again.

No, what gripped Ella's mind was Giselle Frackle, and how to get her hands on that Sea Cliff listing. Giselle Frackle claimed title to a legendary position in San Francisco society, as the city's reigning grande dame and philanthropic matriarch. A lively and active 91 years old, Giselle had known extreme wealth from the day she was born, thanks to her family lineage and marriage to Edgar Frackle. West coast royalty, her family's money came through railroads and silver, much of it earned on the backs of Chinese immigrants in the 19th century. To appease her guilt, Giselle donated millions over the years to various Chinatown charities. As if her family fortune were not enough, she'd married Edgar when she was 19. Edgar had gone on to found Frackle Business Machines in the 50's, which grew into one of the world's dominant computer manufacturers, from the dawn of the computer age to the present day. Always innovative and ahead of the curve, the family still held the multi-national concern privately.

The Frackle name adorned many of San Francisco's cultural institutions, from the Frackle Opera House to the restored Frackle Museum in Golden Gate Park. Giselle outbid the de Young heirs for re-naming rights.

Giselle Frackle's mansion in Sea Cliff made up but a small part of one the country's most immense personal fortunes. A miniscule part really, Ella thought, and she could see no reason why six percent of it shouldn't land directly in her bank account.

She hadn't gotten to her place in the world by sitting on the sidelines. Ella needed a plan to get close to Giselle Frackle.

Chapter 5

An hour later Ella got out of her car and walked up the driveway of Barker Brokers' St. Francis Wood office. From all outside appearances, the office was just another beautifully manicured home in the stately, well established neighborhood. Brightly colored impatiens lined the driveway next to the well clipped lawn, birds chirped and trees rustled lightly in the breeze. She smiled to herself when she glimpsed the stately double B logo positioned discreetly near the doorbell. When she opened the heavy oak front door however, everything changed, the neighborhood tranquility outside vanished. Office cubicles filled every square foot of the enormous living room, phones rang and people bustled about. Ella paid a visit to each office once or twice a week, more so if she had personal involvement in a deal based out of one particular branch. Joe Gold, the office manager, came running up to Ella, concern etched across his face.

"Ella, good morning, are you OK? That must have been horrible yesterday.""Really Joe, I'm fine, thank you."

"Everyone's been talking about it..."

"I'm sure they have, but we do have business to attend to. What I want to know now is if we've heard back from the seller on the Littlefeather-Jones offer."

'Yes, it was accepted, the fax came in a little while ago."

"Get me the buyers on the line, please, and bring me the offer papers."

Ella didn't have a formal desk in any of her satellite offices, she'd just take over an empty cubicle and log on to the computer. Joe brought her the faxed copies of the signed offer.

"Roberta Littlefeather-Jones is holding on line one," he said.

Ella picked up the phone. "Congratulations Roberta. You and Starka must be very happy."

"Uh, I guess so," Roberta responded uncertainly, "now that we're on our way to owning a million dollar pet cemetery and homemade motor home."

Ella laughed. "You'll make it your own in no time."

"You mean after the owners live there for a year rent free?"  
Ella grimaced. "That's the market these days..."

"Well at least we didn't get shot while we were lookin' at the place."

She sensed a distinct change of attitude in the kindly Roberta. She hoped it wasn't a case of buyer's remorse, which could sour the deal for everyone, even if it went ahead and closed. But the couple's $100,000 deposit would keep Roberta and Starka in line, of that Ella was sure. "You've got Jeff Arnold's number, right."

"The mortgage broker? Yeah, I'll call him this morning."

"Really Roberta, you'll be very happy in your new home."

But Roberta Littlefeather-Jones had already hung up.

*******

"You want me to do what?" Mark asked incredulously.

"Ask Giselle Frackle's maid to meet you, tell her you have something you'd like to talk to her about. Then once you're together you can set it up that you've invited a friend, and I'll make my appearance."

Ella cruised down Upper Market, on her way to the office at Yerba Buena Gardens. Her cell phone routed Mark Allen's voice through the car's stereo speakers while a built-in microphone picked up her voice, leaving both of Ella's hands free for other duties, from sipping coffee to applying mascara, even steering.

"In case you don't remember, she trying to get me into bed, she makes me nervous."

Ella turned down the volume on the car stereo. "You won't have to worry about that, she'll forget all about sex once I start talking money."

"You don't know Safada. Why don't you just call Giselle yourself and propose a meeting?"

"And say what? Your maid told your designer who told me you're planning to sell your house in Sea Cliff, and by god, I'd like a shot at the listing? Mark, you know it doesn't work that way, I'm surprised you'd even suggest it. I can't just call Giselle up like some ambulance chasing lawyer. She'd want to know how I found out, and where would that put you? Perhaps in the position of being indiscreet? Unprofessional maybe? You're working in her home and spreading inside knowledge? You're just getting into interior design, moving away from staging..."

"OK, OK," Mark said.

"You couldn't have a more prestigious client. Success with Giselle will land you jobs for years to come. You could mess it up if you're not careful."

"You don't seem to mind my indiscretion in telling you."

"Telling me was not indiscreet, it was smart. We're going to make this work for both of us. You know you stand to profit as well, if a successful deal comes out of this. I'll take very good care of you."

"Sounds agreeable. And I wouldn't want Safada to take any heat for having told me."

"Exactly. You say Giselle relies on her for pretty much everything?"

"Oh yeah. They're alone in that mansion for days on end together. Safada wields powerful influence, there's no question about it."

"I think we've got something to work with here. So what do you say?"

Mark held his thoughts for a moment. "I'll see what I can do."

"Work your magic, Mark. Let's make a killing on this one," Ella said softly

*******

The rest of the week went by more or less smoothly. The police interviewed Ella about what she'd seen and heard at the Noe Valley open house but it hadn't gone any further than that. The cops and the press appeared baffled. Breathless TV reporters gushed on about an untraceable bullet and possible ties between the dead man and the Italian mafia, but the latter appeared to be more baseless speculation.

As Friday rolled around Ella prepared for her meeting with Mark and Giselle Frackle's maid, who'd agreed to meet at the Skirbo Room, a live music club on Valencia Street in the Mission District. Ella didn't frequent the area, though her various offices occasionally sold the odd seven figure teardown in the neighborhood. Safada insisted on the location, telling Mark she had just one night a week off and wanted to hear a favorite band from her native Brazil. Ella had lobbied unsuccessfully for a more sedate setting, perhaps drinks at the Four Seasons. To make matters worse, Mark scheduled the liaison at 10:00 pm, telling Ella to drop by 20 minutes later. At this hour Ella was normally home in bed, going over papers or polishing off another chapter of a novel before dropping off to sleep.

After fretting for some time about what to wear, she finally decided on designer blue jeans and a black blouse with the top couple of buttons left open. She accessorized simply, with a gold chain around her neck and open-toed, low heeled sandals. Night driving glasses in hand, she climbed into the Mercedes, and began her descent down the hill to the Mission District.

Ella knew San Francisco practiced draconian parking enforcement in the area on weekends and didn't want to risk being towed. She had no intention of winding up the evening with a midnight trek to a grimy tow yard. Therefore finding a legal parking placed loomed as the only practical option. She turned off 17th Street onto Valencia, and spotted the Skirbo Room immediately, across the street on her left. It was 10:10 pm, just in time for her planned drop in. A rather long line at the door dragged down the block. Ella frowned as she drove past.

Valencia Street on a Friday night reigned as a 20-something restaurant goer's paradise. Trendy eating establishments and bars lined the street, all of them packed, most deafeningly loud. Stylish young people crowded the sidewalks, often in large groups, talking and laughing in piercing, excited voices. Even with all the nightlife advantages, the neighborhood, like much of San Francisco, faced a stark and yawning lack of parking. Few garages populated the area. This created a situation of supply and demand for on-street parking, with demand exceeding supply on weekend nights by roughly 1000 to one.

Ella circled the block. Right off the bat, she passed a couple of spaces where she could have squeezed in with a smaller car, but these spaces would barely contain half her S600 sedan. She continued along the side streets, in a series of unrelenting right turns from one block to the next. In front and behind her, other drivers competed in the same brutal contest, creeping along in their cars, slowing quickly at a suspected space, then moving on in dejected disappointment after spotting that perpetual parking hog, the fire hydrant. All she saw block after block, were parked cars lining the streets. Cars belonging to people who had _already found_ parking spaces.

Ella glanced at the dashboard clock. It was just past 10:30, and still she hunted for parking. She blocked out the line of people she'd seen at the door of the club. One thing at a time. She barked out Mark's name and the car dialed his number. It rang five times before banging loud music from the Skirbo Room jolted out of the 14 high fidelity speakers that comprised the Mercedes' stereo. Mark's voice could be heard somewhere within the racket.

"Ella?" he shouted.

"Yes, it's me. Mark, I've been here nearly a half hour, I'm looking for..."

"Ella?" he screamed again.

"Yes, I'm here," she responded, raising her voice.

"Ella?" His voice sounded strained and desperate. "If you can hear me, get the fuck in here." The line went dead.

By this time, she seethed with contempt for her fellow players in the parking game. She passed a man smoking a cigar and his pretty little trollop of a girlfriend. They clambered down out of a Hummer, theirs the most gigantic of the several gigantic Hummer models available. "How in the hell did they find a space?" Ella wondered angrily. She glared at them as she cruised past.

Suddenly she glimpsed it; an open parking space of the necessary magnitude to house her California King of a car. She accelerated quickly to head off any contenders but miraculously had it to herself. She came to a quick jolt of a stop just past the coveted space, preparing to parallel park, a skill some found difficult but a motoring art at which Ella had always excelled. She flipped the steering wheel mounted gear shift, and the reverse lights switched on, casting a bright glow behind. She threw an arm over the passenger seat and turned to look over her shoulder.

But she didn't back up. Two teenage girls, about 17 years old, stood squarely in the middle of the space, giggling loudly and chattering on cell phones. They wore low cut, extremely tight fitting jeans and tops with plunging necklines that left very little to the imagination when it came to their luscious and ripe young bosoms. For a fleeting moment, Ella looked enviously through her rear view mirror at their creamy, pre-operative bodies. Was she ever that young? In return they glowered at her car, tossing long, golden manes to one side. Their glittery lip gloss reflected in the glare of the reverse lights. Ella recovered, and began to back up, expecting them to move out of the way. Instead they pulled the cell phones away from their ears and shouted at her in tone deaf, adolescent voices.

"Hey," one of them said, "get outta here. We're saving this space."

"Yeah, move it, our boyfriends will be here like any minute," the other girl added, before dropping to the ground, landing cross legged on her butt.

"We've been here twenty minutes, no old lady in a Mercedes is gonna steal it now."

Ella winced at the girl's words and stepped on the brake, the rear end of her car about a quarter of the way into the parking space. The long hood now angled out into the middle of the narrow street, blocking passage in both directions. She lowered her window a crack to better hear their ridiculous babble. Looking back at their defiant expressions, she released the pressure on the brake slightly, allowing the car to inch backwards.

"Hey," the first girl screamed even louder. "Stop. Killer, hey people, anyone, this lady is trying to run us over."

The second girl apparently decided against her strategy of sitting on the ground behind a moving car. She sprang to her feet and ran forward, placed both hands on the trunk, legs stretched out behind. She dramatically pushed against the approaching vehicle, and in the rear view mirror Ella saw the girl's contorted face looming large in the fiery red cast of the brake lights. "This is our parking space," she screamed, sounding like an escaped lunatic.

Warning alarms beeped inside the Mercedes cabin, as the car's reverse direction sensors picked up the human obstructions. Ella stopped, put the car in Park and got out. She stood next to her open driver door, directly facing the two snorting, fanatical young women.

"Look," she said forcefully. "A parking space without a car in it is available. You have no right to be blocking it this way."

"Oh yeah?"

"This is a public space, and I fully intend to take advantage of that. No teenage monsters are going to stop me."

The second girl nodded slowly with her mouth open. "Ahh, hahh," she said sarcastically. The first girl had by now also placed her hands on the trunk of the car, positioning her body in a similar blocking position as her compatriot.

Ella reached inside the car and grabbed her cell phone off the center console. "If you like, I'll call the police right now. Let them sort it out. Or you can move out of the way, it's your choice."

The two girls exchanged glances. Ella sensed victory, and gave them her best, granite stare. Then she heard the overpowering, deep thumping bass of a car stereo on steroids. The two girls heard it too, and smiled at each other. They removed their hands from the trunk of Ella's car, and stood back with their arms crossed, cocky smiles splayed across their suburban faces.

The source of the racket, some kind of a large, dark colored SUV, approached from behind, stopping next to their little confrontation. The deafening bass thumped rhythmically and piercingly, deep into Ella's bone marrow. The girls smiled even more broadly. One of them motioned to the space, while the other one ran over to the SUV passenger window and stuck her head inside.

The driver door opened, and a very tall, thickly built young man of undetermined racial makeup got out. He carried some kind of a club, or perhaps a baseball bat from what Ella could discern.

"Get the FUCK out of here," he boomed at her.

"Yeah, get the fuck out outta here," one of the girls shrieked delightedly, while the other laughed in uncontrolled hysterics.

The boyfriend approached Ella's Mercedes, and raised his weapon high over the gleaming trunk. Her victorious moment more fleeting than expected, she jumped into her car and sped off, an unaccustomed casualty of the San Francisco parking wars.

Shaken but not defeated, she continued her search.

The next block was somewhat quieter, but still she saw little opportunity, with nothing but the inexorable rows of immobile automobiles lining every available inch on both sides of the street. All of a sudden a reflection caught her eye, a quick, unexpected flash of light, the second coming of the parking god. A set of car keys dangled from the hand of a young man walking down the sidewalk. Hallelujah, she thought as she slowed her huge car at his side, lowering the passenger side window.

"Are you leaving by any chance?" Ella asked as nicely as she could, considering her mood.

The young man turned. He was in his early 20's, wearing a knit cap and dressed in baggy pants and an oversized t-shirt. She could see him taking in the Mercedes in all its shiny, expensive glory.

"Yeah," he said slowly, raising his arm in a lazy, half hearted effort to point ahead. "Just up the block."

"Uh, thanks," she replied, praying the space would be big enough. "I'll just ride along next to you if you don't mind."

He continued walking, quite slowly, making absolutely no effort to quicken his pace. Ella felt like a chauffer in a mobster movie, trailing her boss at walking speed while he spoke to an acquaintance about the relative merits of life versus death.

The kid finally left the sidewalk and walked around to the driver's door of an ancient Ford pickup. Thankfully it was full sized and would leave enough room for Ella to park. The kid put the key in the lock, then hesitated, looking back toward Ella waiting in her Mercedes. He pulled the key back out of the door, and walked over, motioning for her to lower her window. She did, part way.

"You know, man, it's a busy night here, there's not much parking," he began in a lazy, stoner's drawl.

"No, there isn't. I applaud you on your observation."

"So like, I was wondering, like maybe I changed my mind and I'm gonna go back to my friend's place."

Ella understood right away where the punk was going with this but didn't say anything. She just looked back at him expectantly, with big eyes.

"Like what I'm saying is I might not move my truck, man."

Ella quickly glanced in the mirror, scanning the street again. No other spaces had miraculously appeared.

"Well gee, then," Ella responded, "like, if you don't move your car where will I park?"

"I don't know man, like I could move my truck, but..."

"Oh for god's sake," Ella said grabbing her purse, "how about a little gas money, that might help you move your truck." She thrust a twenty out the window. "Now."

He snatched the bill in half a second flat.

*******

Ella finally made it to the now much longer Skirbo Room entrance line at 10:55. Mark was most likely very unhappy with her by now. Instead of going to the end of the line, Ella went right to the front, straight to the burly bouncer who, naturally due to the nature of his job, sported a slithering nest of snakes tattooed across one of his massive biceps.

"Excuse me," Ella said, looking askance at the line of people half her age, "I was wondering if you could help me?"  
The bouncer looked back coldly. "Yes?"

"My daughter is inside, and you see, we have a family situation, it's an emergency really. I need to get a hold of her right away."

"Call her on her cell phone," he said turning to motion in the next few people waiting in line. "If you want to get in, go to the end of the line."

Her patience already next to gone after the parking ordeal, Ella quickly palmed several twenties out of her pocket and grabbed the bouncer's hand, sliding the notes between his stubby fingers. "She doesn't have her cell phone with her."

He looked down quickly, then motioned her inside. She'd just paid ten times the posted cover charge to get in but couldn't have cared less. She walked slowly into the darkened club. Dark reds and blues beamed out from subtly placed spotlights. A nonstop bartender rushed back and forth behind a long, polished wood bar, packed four deep with clamoring hipsters. Rock music blasted from speakers in every corner. Surprisingly, some of the cute young guys in the place checked her out, a most unexpected development. She patted her hair delicately, and made her way through the crowd to the staircase. Mark said he'd be upstairs with Safada listening to the band.

Ella found herself enjoying the live music as she scanned the second floor. A lively, melodic samba drifted through the crowd, and the dance floor teemed with energetic aficionados. A few dancers flailed around, their arms clumsily darting out in all directions, but most really seemed to know how to move. Ella admired quite a few well formed asses swishing back and forth, the intoxicating sensuality of youth hitting her deep inside, though in a considerably more positive manner than the teenaged parking guardians.

That's when she saw what she saw. Mark sat at a table with a sleek, sexy, dark haired woman straddled across his lap, running her fingernails down the side of his face, the other hand delicately toying with the buttons on his shirt. She'd never seen Giselle Frackle's maid before, but this was one knockout of a housekeeper. Mark's eyes flashed, then narrowed when he caught sight of Ella staring in fascination.

She quickly walked over and put her hand on his shoulder. "Mark, I'm so sorry for the delay." She extended her hand to Safada. "Hello, I'm Ella Barker. You must be Safada." Ella had to shout over the live music.

The exotic beauty lifted her long, elegant fingers from Mark's shirt and shook Ella's hand. Her eyes were deep green jewels set in a light olive complexion, her teeth straight and white. She smiled, giving Ella a quick up-down.

"Hi, my name Safada da Silva." She extricated herself from Mark's lap and stood up. She wore a light green, very tight, short skirt and a low cut, white top. Her heels matched the skirt, calling attention to her long, tan legs. Gold earrings dangled off each ear. "Mark says we have little talk. I love little talks."

Mark also stood, offering his seat to Ella. "You may want to take a seat Ella," he said sarcastically, "it's taken you so long to get here, you must be tired."

"Parking," she replied with an embarrassed shrug, smiling at Safada. "You know how it is in San Francisco."

"I don't not drive, taxi or Mrs. Giselle car bring everywhere."

"I'm going to the bathroom," Mark said, then promptly fled. The band announced a break, and the noise level dipped enough to permit reasonable conversation.

Ella sat down, setting her purse on the table. Safada looked straight at her, or more accurately, into her. Giselle's maid had an intensity in her eyes that made Ella a little uneasy. Safada smiled lazily, and leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of wine. If Ella didn't know better she'd swear this young woman was flirting with her. Maybe she should go out more often, she hadn't been hit on this much in one night in years. Though most definitely heterosexual, she smiled back.

"So Safada, did Mark tell you why I wanted to meet you?"

"I think I know. You're real estate person, I told Mark my boss want to sell her house, now you want talk me."

"Tell me, how long have you been in the United States?"

"What, you with immigrations?"

"Nothing of the sort. I'm just interested in what your dreams and plans for the future are."

Safada only held her unnerving gaze, saying nothing for a moment. "Why you care? You don't know me."

"I'm a curious person, Safada, and I think there may be a way we can work together and make some money. Perhaps a lot of money."

Safada leaned forward in her chair, just a little bit. "What you have in mind?"

"I'm looking for a little information, maybe a referral. You as they say, are on the inside. I'm prepared to reward you handsomely for your help."

Safada interrupted Ella. "Missus Giselle already have real estate person."

"What, who?"

"But she mad with him now."

Mark returned from the bathroom, put a round of drinks on the table and pulled up a chair. Each glass had lots of ice and lime slices.

"Who's mad with who?" he asked.

"Thank you for the drinks," Ella said.

"Yes, _obrigada_ ," Safada said.

Ella shot him a look, taking a sip of her sweet, citrusy drink. "Safada was just saying that Missus Giselle already has a real estate broker."

Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Ella turned back to Safada. "But why is she mad at him?" She had to know who it was.

Safada sighed dramatically. "She about to tell him sell house for her in Sea Cliff, but she not happy with news on TV."

"What news?" Mark asked.

"She say she don't want someone die while sell house."

Ella looked incredulously at Mark. "Gordon Elway," she said.

"Well that figures," responded Mark, "the little high society ass kisser was working on Giselle."

"It fits." Ella looked back at Safada, reaching into her purse.

"You know Safada, you've already been very helpful. I'd like you to know how much I appreciate this little conversation we're having." Under the table, Ella passed the envelope she'd taken from her purse. She intended to slip it into Safada's lap, but instead brushed the inside of her thigh, causing the young beauty to sit up straight and smile broadly.

"Excuse me, dear," Ella said trying to regain her composure. She pulled her hand back and gave the envelope to Safada directly across the table.

"That was discreet," said Mark.

"No comments from you," she replied, taking another sip from her drink. "What's this drink called anyway, I love it."

"It's from Brazil, a _caipirinha_ ," Safada said in a beautiful accent. When she spoke in her native Portuguese, her speech instantly turned lovely and lilting.

"I might just want another one of these."

" _Tenha cuidado_ , be careful." Safada once again turned her lascivious look on Ella. "They very strong."

Ella looked over at Mark as if to say "what's up with this chick?" Mark looked back, amused. Safada opened Ella's envelope, taking a long glance inside. She appeared satisfied, and quickly slipped it into a little purse.

"So Safada," Ella continued, "do you think Gordon Elway still has a chance to be your boss' real estate agent?"

"I didn't say name. But she is mad with him. I think he loose."

"Is there anyone else in the running?"

Safada obviously understood English better than she spoke it because nothing got by her. "No, Missus Giselle say she looking for other. Going to talk to Kearney, her son."

"Safada, I want to ask you something. And please keep in mind what's in that envelope I just gave you is only the beginning. If you're able to help out, there's quite a bit more where that came from." Ella was beginning to feel the drink. "Do you think you can recommend me? My agency will represent Giselle very fairly and get her the most possible money for her beautiful home."

"Why she listen to me?" Safada said coyly. "I just maid."

"Because you're with her every day, and she does listen to you. You can tell her you met me, and you liked me."

Safada leaned forward slightly. "I see what can do, Ella. And I don't lie about me like you."

Mark watched the exchange with obvious relish. Ella jumped when Safada's knee grazed slowly against hers under the table. She gulped down nearly a quarter of her drink. The band started to play again, and the music sounded great.

"Let's dance," said Safada. She grabbed Ella and Mark's hands and pulled them on to the dance floor.

Chapter 6

The prospective home of Roberta and Starka Littlefeather-Jones sat back from the street, giving passers-by an unstinting view of the cemented over front yard and unkempt landscaping. Ella waited for Jeff Arnold out in front on the sidewalk. They both planned to meet with the appraiser. Ella didn't usually attend to such mundane matters personally, but with her clients having second thoughts she wanted to make sure the deal went well, and Jeff had asked to check the property out on behalf of the lending bank. At $1 million, the purchase price stretched even the most generous comparison to recent sales of similar homes in the neighborhood, but then again so did nearly every other home sale in San Francisco, with prices on such a steep upswing.

A comparable house down the block, in the same shabby condition and an equal number of bedrooms, closed earlier in the week for $435,000. An agent in Ella's Pacific Heights office represented the seller.

A year earlier most properties in the neighborhood sold in the mid-200's, but things had really started skyrocketing during the past six months. If the Littlefeather-Jones deal were to close for $1 million, it would represent a month over month neighborhood appreciation rate of approximately 125%. Ella intended to mine this for the marketing gold that it was, proving that Barker Brokers could bring in top dollar faster than anybody else.

She didn't see Jeff pull up in his Jaguar XK, as she'd been distracted trying to find the front walkway of the Littlefeather-Jones house through all the brush and weed overgrowth. She'd just spotted some cracked cement visible through the fox tails when he broke her concentration.

"Hey beautiful," Jeff said with a big smile.

Ella turned and smiled back. "Hey, yourself."

"What a palace."

"I see potential, don't you?"

Jeff looked at Ella with twinkling eyes. "Yeah, there could be some potential."

She blushed. "Do you think the buyers will qualify?"

"Who couldn't qualify for one of these loans? I only suggested tagging along because I want to ask you out."

Straight and to the point, Ella liked that. She felt flattered but not completely surprised. She had a pretty good sense of mutual attraction just before the shot rang out at the Noe Valley open house. She opened her mouth to respond when a very large and menacing looking Roberta Littlefeather-Jones suddenly appeared behind Jeff.

"Sorry to interrupt your sweet, little pre-fuck moment. We're not so sure we want to qualify anymore," Roberta said. Her fine boned lover Starka skulked at her side, saying nothing.

The turn of events surprised Ella, and pissed her off. She had not invited the buyers along.

Roberta seemed to sense this. "We have every right to be here."  
Ella recovered quickly. "Of course you do, this is your new home." She didn't mean it. Remorseful buyers tagging along could do nothing but negatively affect the appraisal by pointing out every possible defect. Her job now was to close the deal at the agreed upon sales price. Roberta and Starka had signed on the dotted line, and they had a responsibility to perform, as the legal term would have it.

Jeff looked at Ella, eyebrows raised.

"You seemed so excited when we made the offer," Ella said.

"That was before."

"Before what?"

Quiet, delicate Starka shouted at the top of her lungs. "Before we realized we'd lost our fucking minds, OK?"

Ella flinched. For such a little thing, Starka possessed a bold and knifelike voice when angry.

"I mean, look at that piece of shit in the driveway," Starka added. "We're obligated to leave it there forever?"

They all turned to look at the plywood clad recreational vehicle which the sellers had so painstakingly constructed.

"This is nothing new from when you saw the house last week," Ella said.

Now it was Roberta's turn. "And the dogs buried in the yard, dozens of 'em. I believe in spirits and animal rights, and this is just plain wrong." Her look of anger changed to one of confusion, then sadness. "It was the first house we looked at." Now she almost cried.

"This ladies, is the San Francisco real estate market," replied Ella.

Roberta growled. "We want our money back. Every last penny, all one hundred thousand dollars of that deposit."

"Are the sellers home?" Jeff asked.

She shook her head, glancing to her left to see the appraiser Bill Reilly, arriving on foot.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully. "What's going on here?"

Ella held up her hand for Bill to wait a minute. She turned to the women. "You are welcome to accompany the appraisal, you're paying for it. However as your broker I must warn you that any effort to void the contract at this late date..."

"Late date?" Starka asked. "We just signed a few days ago."

"Any date is late after signing a contingency-free sales contract," Ella responded. "I'm only protecting you by telling you this. If you try and back out now, you'll lose your deposit. The sellers can and will sue you. After your attitude on the phone the other day Roberta, I took the liberty of inquiring, without saying why, to see if maybe, just maybe, they might release you from the contract." Of course Ella had done no such thing. "However the sellers are resolute about going through with the sale. You'll either lose your money or end up in court, and be forced to buy the house."

"We're already being forced," said a shaken looking Starka.

Ella smiled vibrantly. "Look at the bright side. This house," she said waving like Vanna White toward the overgrown, falling down wreck and homemade motor home, "is going up in value every day. You're going to make a lot of money."

*******

The appraisal went off without a hitch. Roberta and Starka were desultory company but kept quiet while the appraiser did his work. Bill Reilly had worked with Ella for years, and his appraisals always came in at the sales price, or very, very near. He knew how to price in an appreciating market. He'd questioned one or two things about the property, but as they'd walked out the front door he'd given Ella a quick, surreptitious nod, code for "don't worry." As part of his remuneration, Bill received a quite profitable holiday card from Ella every year.

To top it off, Ella accepted Jeff's dinner invitation for the coming Saturday night.

*******

When Ella returned to the office, her secretary Bootsie handed her a message from Giselle Frackle, provoking an electrifying jolt of adrenaline. The nocturnal meeting with Safada and subsequent hangover might just well be paying off.

"The caller had a very strong accent, I couldn't understand her all that well," Bootsie said.

"That would be Safada, Giselle's maid."

"Well, she called about a half hour ago. I think she said she wants you to come to the mansion at 4:00 tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you Bootsie, I'll call back and confirm myself." Ella would wait a couple of hours before confirming. She didn't want to appear too eager.

In the meantime, she had several open houses to attend that afternoon. Open houses used to be primarily on Sundays, or perhaps the occasional Tuesday. Now they blossomed all over the city every day of the week, in an effort to cope with the burgeoning crowds. Weekdays drew somewhat fewer people, with advance ticketing generally not necessary.

Her clients, the Sandersons, hailed from the outer Sunset neighborhood near Ocean Beach. A couple and their three-year old child, they wanted to live in a sunnier and more central location, away from the wind and fog that typified San Francisco's perpetually cool coastal environs.

Ella hadn't yet personally met the Sandersons. But when she saw the little family waiting in front of the townhouse complex in Corona Heights, she instantly recognized their rather unattractive child, the same little brat who'd been drawing on the pastel walls of the Noe Valley murder house.

Ella braced herself as she extended her hand. "You must be the Sandersons, I'm Ella Barker."

"Hi, I'm Paloma, this is my husband Servinko," said the perky 30-something wife, "and this is our son Taylor." A rather unusual combination of names, Ella thought, as she took in Servinko. He was in his chunky mid-50's with dark, unkempt hair falling onto his forehead. He sweated while he drew deep, rapid drags off a cigarette. Smoking in California these days had become a highly stigmatized, nearly illegal activity, and those who dared indulge often found themselves victims of righteous, liberal backlash. Servinko grunted in the way of greeting.

"Hi Taylor," said Ella, doing her best to smile at the child, who pulled his mother's hair and squirmed wildly as she tried to hold him.

"Down!!" he wailed.

Ella soldiered on. "Shall we go in? This is really a lovely home. Since it's the first one we've seen together, I'll be interested to see what you think."

They walked up to the front gate. It was a large and confusingly laid out complex, so the listing agent, in an effort at creative assistance, had wound a wide pink ribbon from the main gate up several twisting outdoor staircases, leading to the front door of the open house.

"What's this?" Servinko asked in a gravelly voice, fingering the femininely colored ribbon in his rough hewn hands.

Ella began carefully. "We are very close to the Castro district here, and the listing agent, I guess..." she shrugged with a half smile, "just wants... to fit in," she finished brightly.

"You mean they only want fags to buy the joint?"

Ella winced and looked around. Fortunately no one lingered within earshot. She'd been in the complex several times before, and gay men made up the vast majority of the residents, most with that tight t-shirt, trim, muscled look they seemed to so favor in one another. Not that she found the look unattractive, it was just that women were so obviously excluded from their predatory game.

Paloma saved the day. "I love diversity," she chirped. "Come on Serv, open up your mind."

Lush landscaping and tall trees surrounded the multi-level two bedroom townhouse, situated far back from the street in a quiet corner of the complex. It even came with two underground parking spaces, a religious inspiration on the part of the architect. But a plague of construction defects kept the overbidding and hysteria at a slightly lower level than the market in general.

Servinko scowled as they walked through the front door, which directly faced a stairway. Instantly a very thin man in his late 30's ran down to greet them. He had a finely trimmed beard and wore a name tag over his heart. Ella would _never_ require her agents to wear a name tag, they weren't slinging espresso behind a counter, after all.

"Hiiiiii," he practically sang, "I'm Joffrey Thatcher. Welcome, come on in." Ella wasn't sure how this was going to work. Paloma may have been pushing the diversity thing, but the agent exuded extravagant femininity. It may have been only ten minutes by car, but Serv had come a long way from the outer Sunset.

"Oh my god," Joffrey shrieked. "A cigarette!"

Little Taylor smiled and did a remarkably accurate imitation of Joffrey's worried cry. "O my god, a cigawette!!" he screeched in his shrill little voice.

Joffrey smacked his lips, and put his hands on his hips. "You can't smoke in here, I'm sorry but the owners, Gregory and Randall, just wouldn't stand for it."

Servinko looked around, then at the floor as if scouting for a place to put out the smoke. Joffrey shook his head adamantly. "Outside," the agent mouthed theatrically, pointing back out the door. Serv got rid of the cigarette.

"Now, how about we all go upstairs and I'll show you around," Joffrey said cheerily, his shoulders swinging slightly back and forth as he spoke.

"It can't be any worse than the last place we looked at, someone got blown away with a shotgun," said Serv.

The effect of the killing at the Noe Valley open house would reverberate for a while, Ella could tell.

"Were you there, Ella?" asked Paloma.

"On my way out, actually, when the ruckus started."

"We'd already left, the Lord be praised."

"You call someone getting their head blasted off a ruckus?" Serv asked gruffly.

Joffrey interrupted. "Let's talk of happier things, shall we?" He began his tour. "This is the fireplace, and over behind you is the kitchen with granite counters and GE Monogram appliances. And you'll notice the powder room down the hall..."

Ella hated it when an agent stated the obvious, and the Barker Brokers training program forbid it. Buyers really didn't need guided tours, as far as she was concerned. She liked to let clients look at a home without interruption, get a feel for the place themselves, and then ask questions as necessary. Apparently Serv felt the same way.

"Hey, can it, alright? We're just going to look around on our own. You two wait here," he commanded.

Joffrey looked wounded but shut up. The family headed upstairs up to the third floor, Taylor staggering along behind, liberated from the lock of his mother's arms, free to commit whatever atrocities he might see fit.

"So," Ella said once they were out of earshot, "what's with the pink ribbon?"

"This is a gay neighborhood, you know."

"And for that reason you're willing to alienate a large number of potential buyers? My client reacted poorly to it."

Joffrey adjusted his name tag. "I don't know if he'd be comfortable here in any case," he sniffed.

"You're asking $2.2 million for this townhouse and it's been on the market for three weeks. That's an eternity. It hasn't even been staged. The owner's belongings are still here."

"Tenants, actually. It's the lawsuit that's holding things up..."

"Every realtor who works this neighborhood knows about the lawsuit against the developer of this complex, the shoddy contruction, the waterfall in the garage when it rains, the possible million dollar assessment per unit."

"That's why the asking price is so low."

"Well then why are you turning off potential buyers with a pink ribbon? It smacks of exclusion. This is San Francisco, everyone should be welcome."

Servinko's low, angry voice interrupted Ella's dress down. "We're leaving. Now." A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Paloma stood behind, once again carrying the squirmy Taylor.

"No smoking!" wailed Joffrey.

"Let's move on to the next home, then?" Ella said.

"Not today, Ella, we've seen enough," Paloma added weakly. "I'll call you to set something else up." Her clients took off for the front door.

"You never should've shown us this place," Serv declared in parting.

Ella turned to look at Joffrey, who stood with his forefinger bent between his teeth, giving Ella a "who, me?" look.

She rushed upstairs to see what had so upset the Sandersons. In the master bathroom, lining the tub, stood an impressive collection of jumbo sized, multi-racial dildos, all pointing eagerly to the sky.

*******

The week's prevailing winds did not bode well, with the deteriorating Littlefeather-Jones situation and the Sandersons turning into runaway clients. But Ella didn't worry much about her income, money still poured in. After all she personally profited from every closing Barker Brokers Properties successfully negotiated. Of course she carried high expenses but there seemed to be no end to the price appreciation and clamor for properties. And on top of all that sat the tantalizing prospect of the Frackle listing.

On the stairs heading out of the condo complex she ran into Gordon Elway.

"Ella, just the person I want to talk to. Did you get my message?"

"No, you left one?"

"I did. Have you got a minute?" He edged her conspiratorially off to one side.

"Sure, why not? Though first I should warn you, you might want to take a look at the townhouse master bath before sending any clients through," she said.

"Thanks, I'll check it out, though I'm here on my own now, scouting for a prospective buyer. But anyway I wanted to ask you something."

"Of course." She knew Gordon well enough to know he was either fishing for information or looking to spread a malicious piece of gossip or two.

"The murder at the open house has been very hard on my business."

"Oh?" Ella responded noncommittally.

"Yes, I lost the listing, what did I have to do with the boy dying?

"I don't know, Gordon."

"Even while I still had it, I couldn't get anyone in to see it anyway. The police had that yellow tape all over the place."

"Crime scenes can be a barrier to multiple offers."

"New clients haven't exactly been flocking in my direction. So, the reason I wanted to talk to you," he said with a deep sigh, "I have a deal to propose."

"Go on."

"There's a hush-hush listing coming up, huge, I mean this one is huge. They don't come any bigger. I had it in my pocket and now the seller's running scared after that mess in Noe Valley."

"Really?" Ella responded, her antennae rapidly going up. If he intended to discuss the Frackle mansion, she had to put a stop to it quickly before treading in legal quicksand. Hearing it from Gordon before she signed with Giselle Frackle could very well put her in a position of being forced to share the commission with him. Should she be awarded the listing, that is.

"We both know we're not the closest of friends," he said, "but I do respect your position in the real estate community. There aren't many better than you, Ella." His naked flattery gave her a rolling, nauseous feeling.

"I was thinking, maybe if I passed the tip to you and you were able to sign the listing, you could cut me in after the fact."

"You mean Giselle Frackle's home in Sea Cliff, Gordon?" She watched him physically deflate.

"How... how did you know?"

"You know how word travels in this town."

"Giselle told me she wasn't interviewing any other brokers."

Ella didn't mention her upcoming appointment. "However it plays out, I'm already aware Giselle Frackle is talking about selling her home. Were I to somehow get the listing there would really be no reason to 'cut you in,' as you say."

"Who told you? Tiffany Reynolds?"

"Tiff...?" Ella caught herself. This one had thrown her. "So I'm not the first realtor you've tried to make a deal with?"

"Tiffany's been snooping around like an old hound dog, I didn't tell her but she's got a strong inkling. Says she knows Kearney, Giselle's son, that he mentioned my name."

Gordon spoke aptly when he mentioned an old hound dog. San Francisco's real estate breezes were rife with the sweet perfume of obscene profit, and soon every broker, agent and freelance know-nothing in town would lift their snouts toward the heavens, seeking to pick up the scent of Giselle Frackle's $70 million Sea Cliff mansion.

Chapter 7

At precisely 3:55 p.m. the next day, Ella waited patiently in the driveway between the massive stone pillars flanking the tall, bronzed gate at the Frackle mansion on El Camino Del Mar, one of two principal oceanfront drives in Sea Cliff. The Mercedes hummed in contentment at such luxurious surroundings, while Ella studied the materials she'd brought along for the meeting. She had photos, printouts and newspaper clippings with her, just about everything she could think of, from what few comparable properties might exist to a complete dossier on Barker Brokers, as well as her personal curriculum vitae. She would push the gate buzzer at exactly 4:00.

Early in Ella's career, she'd taken an MBA at UC Berkeley and it had been worth every penny of the huge student loans she'd used to finance the degree. Right from the beginning, the MBA had given her status and set her apart from the legions of housewives and out of work salesmen who dropped in and out of the real estate business with dependable regularity. Once most of them realized how much honest-to-god hard work selling homes required, coupled with the loss of weekend personal time, they simply disappeared.

She lowered the window to push the gate button, but someone had beaten her to it, and the opaque metal monster started to grind open on its own. The verdant grounds of the mansion came into view, as did a glimpse of the ocean beyond. In the foreground however, a car waited to exit. A servant or employee no doubt, had opened the gate to leave just as Ella reached to buzz for entry. A BMW waited on the other side, also black, maybe a couple of years old, 5 series. A lesser car undoubtedly than Ella's impressively crouched, very new S600, but still quite respectable transportation for someone involved in the care and feeding of Giselle Frackle.

But when the gate opened completely and Ella got a look at the driver, she froze. First the blonde hair, then the perky smile struck her. Tiffany Reynolds of CB-Pru-U-Zee Real Estate Experts held the wheel of the BMW, on her way out of the Frackle mansion grounds. How did the newbie little bitch worm her way into competing for this deal?

The women sat face to face, Mercedes to BMW, grill to grill, both cars idling. Tiffany tilted her head, smiled even bigger and held her hand up to wave, fingers wriggling back and forth individually. Ella smiled graciously and nodded her head in acknowledgement. Tiffany did not seem in the least surprised with Ella's arrival. Ella put her hands on the top of the steering wheel, waiting for Tiffany to back up and allow her entry. Tiffany did the same. Ella inched the Mercedes forward, an indication of her superior status in the real estate hierarchy. She stared in disbelief as Tiffany also advanced her BMW, only Tiffany rolled several feet closer all at once, then stopped abruptly, an obvious and aggressive challenge. All the while Tiffany kept the same idiotic smile plastered on her face. The two cars now idled about three feet apart, and Ella could clearly see Tiffany's siliconed boobs wrapped in a tight, red sweater. Ella flipped her car into Park, crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat.

She glanced at the clock. It was 4:02 and she couldn't be playing games for much longer. She felt a sudden, small jolt. She looked up to see that Tiffany had rolled forward again, bringing the two luxurious automobiles into physical contact. Even a small scratch on the Mercedes would cost an easy twenty-five hundred to repair, of that Ella was sure.

She threw open her door, and started to get out, one elegant, high heeled leg just about reaching the ground. But then she thought better of it, pulled herself back in and slammed the door shut. She put the transmission into Drive and accelerated directly against the BMW. Thank god the rolling hills of the mansion's grounds blocked a direct view of the gate.

For the first time Tiffany seemed fazed. The 36-valve V-12 Mercedes engine growled louder and the two cars began rattling as Ella's powerful car pushed against the BMW's front bumper. She accelerated a little more. But Tiffany held her ground, and her brake pedal. Ella figured Tiffany would back off quickly if it came down to real damage to her car. She was newer in the business and the BMW had to have been a big investment. Ella could go out tomorrow and pick up another Mercedes without a second thought. She accelerated even more and her rear wheels began to spin, smoke rising from the burning rubber. The Mercedes began to slowly push the BMW backward. Something cracked loudly, an alarming sound like snapping metal.

Tiffany held up her hands in surrender, a look of panic replacing the obnoxious smile. She reached down and put her car in reverse. Both cars lurched suddenly when the resistance broke. Tiffany raced backward away from the Mercedes, while the S600 jumped forward, Ella deftly swerving around to the right of the defeated Beemer.

As Ella roared past Tiffany, she glanced over to see that the young realtor, oddly enough, was grinning again.

*******

Ella wound her way up the drive, crossing over a one lane wooden bridge and small river which cut through the grounds, ending in a picturesque manmade waterfall. The falls cascaded off the high cliff in front of the house to the rocks and sea below. The river and waterfall had been added in the 1940's by a previous owner. An unusual addition in and of itself, the river was supplied with saltwater from the ocean in front of the house. Powerful pumps had been built into caverns at the base of the cliff, which ran 24 hours a day, their noise forever concealed by the incessant crashing of waves. Decried by present day activists as an environmental monstrosity, the falls had long since become a well known attraction and tourist guides crossing the Golden Gate Bridge never failed in pointing out "Frackle Falls" to wide eyed visitors.

Ella stopped in the circular drive and descended from the Mercedes, the sales materials gathered in her leather briefcase. She surveyed the front of her car, observing only a small scratch on the bumper and license plate. A small price to pay for asserting authority, she thought.

She looked up at the house, a grand Tudor Revival, reproduced on a massive scale. The front, appearing to run the approximate length of a full city block, was clad in ancient red brick and covered in ivy. While most certainly attractive, present day building codes no longer permitted such feeble construction in earthquake prone San Francisco. Ella felt sure unreinforced masonry held up the façade, and would be subject to terrible damage or even complete collapse in the event of a strong earthquake. In fact, seismic maps showed the ocean front area of Sea Cliff as prone to landslides in a violent earthquake. Ella did not bring up the subject of earthquakes in her conversations with clients, and surprisingly few asked, at least until they received that damned state mandated _Homeowner's Guide to_ _Earthquake Safety,_ which listed many frightening and potential problems.

The Frackle Mansion featured several roof peaks at varying locations, all steeply pitched. Timbering and leaded glass windows completed the Tudor effect. Ella strode to the imposing front door and could find no doorbell, so she banged the heavy lion's head door knocker. The door opened quickly, and she found herself once again face to face with Safada da Silva, Giselle's maid. Safada was dressed in an unusual manner, a curious mix of conservative business attire with stripper sleaziness. She wore a dark green, knee length skirt and matching blazer, Armani from the looks of it, though she had no shirt or bra on underneath. Ella couldn't help but notice Safada's perfect breasts, visible well into their ample cleavage, nearly to the nipples. Tinted panty hose covered her striking legs and stiletto heels sealed the deal. Her long brown hair hung voluptuously to one side of her neck. Ella wondered how she cleaned the house in such attire, or if she was in fact actually a maid.

Safada lowered her head and gave Ella a smoldering gaze. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Barker," she said in her distinctive accent. "Giselle are expecting you." She smiled as she beckoned Ella to enter. "I really like dance with you," she whispered. Ella looked at Safada aghast, she hadn't intended for their evening at the Skirbo Room to end up in the party it had. Ella attempted a smile but said nothing.

They walked down the wide entry hall with its highly burnished, deeply intricate parquet flooring and heavily paneled walls. Ahead Ella could see the ocean and Golden Gate Bridge through picture windows in the palatial size living room. Various groupings of French Provincial furniture dotted the interior landscape here and there. From a gilded frame above the giant fireplace, Edgar Frackle himself presided. Ella looked around but the living room appeared to be empty. Safada nodded to her right.

"Over here," a voice crackled from a far corner.

Ella looked again. In a wing back chair that nearly swallowed her sat Giselle Frackle. Giselle motioned enthusiastically for Ella to come over.

"Get yourself over here," she said pushing herself up from the chair. Ella had met Giselle several times before at various social gatherings, but she really hadn't gotten a sense of the woman in the crowded settings. Other than the wig, that is. Giselle was _tiny_ , under five feet. She had thick makeup plastered across her broad face and wore bright, red lipstick. Her blue eyes sparkled, and she smiled wide. Her small structure and delicate arms were broken up by an enormous belly, contained within a tight, tweed suit combo. Matchstick legs extended from her skirt to black, patent leather high heels, upon which she seemed to totter. She wore a thick string of pearls around her neck. But it was the wig which made her instantly identifiable. Blonde and beehive, it towered high, and Ella feared if Giselle tipped even slightly to one side, she'd plunge straight to the floor. Ella briefly thought of _Beach Blanket Babylon_ , the San Francisco theatre institution known for its extravagant, colossal hats. Giselle would be a natural for the cast. But Mrs. Frackle held her own, extending a hand in greeting. Her eyes held no sign whatsoever of recognizing Ella.

"Safada, bring us a toddy," Giselle cackled by way of introduction. "Here, have a seat," she added.

Ella took a seat opposite Giselle, a highly polished coffee table occupying the space between them. Giselle lowered herself back into her chair.

"So, I summoned you because as you know by now I want to sell my home."

Giselle's spoke in a low and gravelly voice, like someone who'd smoked for many years. Ella glanced around the living room, but didn't see any ashtrays. "Yes, that's what I understand," Ella replied.

"I'm moving in with my boyfriend," declared Giselle.

While a somewhat startling admission from a 91-year old woman, Ella had lived in San Francisco for a long time and at this point little of human behavior surprised her.

Ella cleared her throat. "Oh really?" she asked.

Those who ran in society circles knew that Giselle frequently drew from a stable of single men to squire her about San Francisco, from glamorous benefits to cultural events and openings. Gossip raged around one of her escorts, a dashing young man known for flinging cash around like water, a supposed gay cocaine dealer entertaining himself with the city's bold named crowd. But Ella hadn't heard anything about a serious relationship in Giselle's life.

"Yes, not many people know about our dalliance."

Not wanting to appear overly curious, Ella didn't ask who it was.

"That's very exciting, you must be thrilled." She didn't know what else to say regarding Giselle's romantic confession. "But first of all, let me thank you for the opportunity to meet with you today. As you know, you own one of San Francisco's most magnificent homes, and I'm confident we can assist you in finding a qualified buyer."

"His name is Sanjay Govindpuri." Giselle said, still focused on her love life. "You may have heard of him, he's related to a Maharaja in India, and he's big banker over in Mumbai."

"His name is familiar," Ella responded uncertainly.

The old woman rattled on. "He's buying a little place for us in Pacific Heights. But first we're going to camp out in his condo, in San Ramon."

This news did rattle Ella's heard-it-all-before attitude. Giselle Frackle planned on living in a middle class East Bay suburb? In a condo?

"I'm not getting any younger you know, gotta live for the moment," Giselle said.

Safada reappeared carrying a silver tray bearing two tumblers full of a yellowish-orange concoction, each glass dressed up with a pineapple spear and maraschino cherry. Giselle's toddy had arrived. Safada went around to Giselle's side and placed a coaster on the coffee table near her boss. She started to place one of the festive glasses in the coaster.

"I'll take that if you don't mind." Giselle stretched out a bony hand and accepted the cocktail. She looked up at Ella. "Edgar and I moved happy hour from 5 to 4:00 back in '72. Don't just stand there Safada, give our guest her drink."

Safada slunk around to Ella's side. She kneeled down, leaning forward. Her Armani blazer fell away from her bare, sumptuous busom, giving Ella a full shot of the Brazilian aureola. Safada looked deeply into Ella's eyes, one side of her glistening, upper lip slightly raised. She set the Mai-Tai or whatever it was on the coaster.

Ella snapped her head back in Giselle's direction, her eyes wide open. "Let's talk about this fabulous house."

"First take a sip of your drink, child." Giselle had already downed a third of her giant glass.

Ella raised the glass to her lips. She never drank during the day, much less at a meeting of such monumental importance. She only wet her lips with the cocktail, swallowing nothing. Even then the powerful mixture of light and dark rums puckered her mouth, provoking a quick, involuntary shudder.

She set the glass down. "Umm, good." Under social circumstances Ella would have enjoyed the drink.

Safada slid off to one side, about to take her leave. "More anything now, Giselle?" she queried.

"No, but go start mixing me up another drink."

"Yes, you're welcome," Safada responded mixing up her niceties.

Giselle turned to Ella."What do you think this old place is worth?"

"Well, Mrs. Frackle, I.."

"Call me Giselle, I like that better."

"OK, Giselle, I brought some materials for you to take a look at." Ella opened her briefcase.

"Safada, wait," Giselle shouted, her gravelly voice echoing across the vast chamber. "What's a sex worker?"

Giselle obviously had some form of Attention Deficit Disorder, Ella suspected. Were they ever going to get anywhere? And why this bizarre question, though Giselle was most likely asking the right person.

Safada turned. " _Sei lá_ , I don't know," she responded huskily.

Giselle focused back on Ella. "You know, I heard that on the TV after that boy died where Gordon was working."

"Gordon Elway?"

"Yes, he's a dear, dear friend, such a lovely escort to the opening of the Opera last year he was."

"You mean the terrible murder at the open house?"

"Yes, yes," Giselle said impatiently, waving her hand. "You girls are slow on the uptake."

Who were "you girls?" Then Ella remembered Tiffany Reynolds had also just met with Giselle. Or did she mean Safada?

"So they called Gordon's poor dead creature a sex worker, which is what?" Now Giselle had turned imperious.

Ella hesitated. She didn't anticipate explaining sexually charged politically correct vocabulary to Giselle Frackle. "Really," she said softly, "it means either a prostitute or an actor in pornographic films."

"At his place of work, Gordon had such a person?" Her question was not altogether unreasonable. "He told me it was an employee, was Gordon hiring boy prostitutes? I thought he liked girls."

Again the conversation drifted miles from the subject at hand, but Ella had to tread lightly.

"I'm sure Gordon's intentions..."

"I love Gordon, I do, but that's why I fired him. It's obvious he lacks judgment." The she bored her large eyes into Ella's. "Do you lack judgment, Mrs. Barker, what about that Delicia Cardosa woman stealing your husband? Research on you, I've done. My husband never strayed, I kept him happy."

Ella bristled with anger and hurt, but kept a straight face. She comforted herself with the thought of the commission on the mansion. "That's a private matter. Please."

Giselle continued looking straight at Ella. "OK," she declared with finality. "We don't talk about it any more. But you wouldn't hire any boy hookers, or girls for that matter, to come to my open house?"

"Of course not, but really an open house is not something I would recommend for a property of this caliber. I'd prefer to pre-qualify any potential buyers before allowing them to see the home."

"I want open houses. I love meeting people. Throw the doors open. You never know who has cash these days." Her insistent and stubborn tone echoed across the vast living room.

By now Ella had doubts about Giselle's mental stability. Still seated, "San Francisco's Grandma" began stomping one foot on the carpeted floor in front of her chair.

"Where is it?" She continued stomping around, lifting her wobbly right knee repeatedly. "I can never find the darn thing."

"What are you looking for," Ella inquired delicately.

"Ah, there it is," Now she stomped incessantly on the same spot. She looked at Ella. "Can you hear it? I can't, but who'd expect me to, I just want it to work."

Ella listened. She heard a far off buzzer ringing somewhere within the bowels of the mansion, each ring corresponding to Giselle's stomping foot. She hadn't seen one these servant bells in ages. Built into the floor at strategic locations around some of the older, grander homes, all it took was a discreet touch of the master's foot to call the help from distant servant's quarters. Only in Giselle's case discretion played no part, with the buzzer maddeningly hidden beneath the thick carpet, making it quite difficult for her to find.

"Safada, where is she? That scalliwag sometimes sneaks out for a cigarette."

Ella began laying out her sales materials on the coffee table.

"Be a doll, will you Mrs. Barker, and go fetch Safada from the kitchen?"

Ella looked up. "Sure, where is it?" Would she ever be able to talk to Giselle about selling the mansion?

"Just go through that door at the end of the living room, through the dining room and straight into it you'll run."

Ella took a deep breath and smiled. She did not relish the idea of seeing Safada in a private setting. "I'll be right back." She stood up to go in search of the maid.

"Tell her I want another drink. Now."

Ella walked to the end of the lengthy living room, through a paneled archway into the dining room. An antique, mahogany table with seating for twelve dominated the room, which also looked through plate glass windows at the bridge-saturated view. She went around the table and opened a swinging door, passing into the kitchen.

Unlike the modern rage of granite counters and cherry wood cabinets, this kitchen served as an unremodeled servant's affair. Though quite large with long stainless steel counters, two built-in dishwashers and an electric range, it projected a stark and utilitarian feel. Old style white wooden cabinets lined the walls with spotless, polished Mexican pavers covering the floor.

"Safada, are you here?" No response, though she heard a faint sound, some kind of a low moan. She walked to the far end of the kitchen, and opened another door. There in the laundry room, she found Safada in the arms of a very handsome young man, deep in the throes of a passionate, tongue twisting kiss. They stopped and looked at Ella. Safada smiled, panting slightly.

"Want join us?"

"No, I do not want to join you. Though from the looks of things you don't really care who you do it with."

"Careful, Ella Barker, be nice with me," Safada said with a slight warning in her eyes. "I help you, no forget."

Ella did not want to discuss anything in front of the young man. "Who's your paramour?"

"This are Elton, chauffer. He's just a friend."

And Giselle worried about Ella hiring hookers and porn stars. "Pleased to meet you," Ella said. "You're Giselle's driver?"

"Yes, I am," he responded with a dazzling smile and clear American accent. He could have posed in an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog.

"Elton, see you later," Safada said. He took the hint, tipped his head to Ella and slipped out a side door.

"Does he live here as well?"

"He have little bed over garage."

Ella didn't say anything but it was clear that Safada somehow managed to entertain herself during the cool, foggy Sea Cliff nights.

"Giselle would like another drink, that's why I came looking for you." Safada responded by walking languidly out of the laundry room and over to the kitchen counter, her designer skirt swishing expensively. She opened a cabinet and pulled out several varieties of rum.

"I like you more now. You know how fight."

"What do you mean?" Ella's eyes swept around the kitchen. Safada's purse sat on the counter, top flap open. Ella took a quick peek while Safada mixed Giselle's drink.

Safada motioned to a corner. A small television on the counter showed alternating views from the mansion security cameras. One view squarely pictured the front gate and driveway.

Ella tried not to show her displeasure. "You mean when Tiffany Reynolds tried to ram my car? Did Giselle see it?"

"No, only me in kitchen. Good entertainment."

"What was Tiffany doing here? I thought I was the next realtor to interview."

"I no miracles."

"What?"

"Giselle know Tiffany from her son. Kearney tell Giselle speak Tiffany also."

An unforeseen sense of urgency descended over Ella, what with Tiffany a confirmed competitor, and recommended by Giselle's son no less. She needed to get back out to the living room, and fast.

"Well Safada, you've been, uh, most helpful. I appreciate it. Oh, and don't forget Giselle's drink."

Safada crossed the kitchen, looking at Ella with a friendly smile. "I no forget, don't worry."

*******

Giselle fumbled with a cordless phone when Ella returned to the living room. Her efforts grew more frantic, and she punched randomly at the keypad before handing it to Ella. "Turn this darn thing off, will ya?"

Ella took the phone and pressed the "off" key.

"My son Kearney, always looking out for me."

Ella wondered what Kearney thought of Sanjay Govindpuri, his mother's prospective live-in lover.

"So," Ella began, "let's get back to the sale of your home. I'd like to continue with my presentation."

Gazing out the window, Giselle looked alarmingly bored while Ella spoke. "You know I'll miss watching the ships go by, but it all reminds me so much of my dear Edgar."

"It sounds like you have an exciting new life ahead of you," Ella responded, striking her as an odd thing to say to a nonagenarian.

Safada returned, bearing another tray of cocktails. She set one in front of Giselle, taking up her employer's previously drained glass. She set the second cocktail next to Ella's untouched first drink. Ella held up her hand. "That's alright, I don't need another one, thank you."

"Just in case," Safada said quietly.

"Safada, rub my shoulders," ordered Giselle.

Ella watched in amazement as Safada set the silver tray down on a small side table and walked behind Giselle's wing backed chair. Her anxiety heightened as she considered how to best continue her presentation. Safada dramatically raised her arms to stretch, then brought them down in wide arcs over the back of the chair, her hands landing softly on Giselle's tweed covered shoulders. She began to kneed Giselle's neck and shoulder area in a back and forth rolling motion.

"Ahhhh," Giselle moaned in a disturbing cry that mixed pleasure and pain, her eyes closed.

Ella plunged forward, despite the dysfunctional domesticity playing out before her. "So what I'd like to do first is tour the house in order to..."

"SSSHHHH," Giselle said harshly, her eyes flying open. "I need tranquility. I'm old, don't forget that little miss." She closed her eyes again.

Ella sat back in her chair, a certain grim resolve setting in. So far Giselle's moods had alternated between friendly, insulting, haughty and condescending. But she severely lacked focus. Ella still hoped to finish her pitch, so she organized her sales materials while Giselle moaned and Safada eyed Ella. This continued for about ten stilted minutes, until Giselle opened her eyes and called a halt to the proceedings.

"That's enough, Safada." The maid removed her hands from Giselle's shoulders and picked up the tray from the side table. Giselle turned to Ella. "Thank you so much for coming today. You're a very nice agent." She slurred slightly now.

Ella had been dismissed, and called an agent to boot. As an accomplished broker, she resented the reference. Brokers held a clear and defined position higher up the food chain than an agent. "We really haven't gotten started yet," she protested.

Giselle cut her off. "We got started all right. You're my number two. If Tiffany hires blue movie actors or someone dies on her watch, I'll call you."

Ella was flabbergasted. "With all due respect, Giselle, Tiffany Reynolds is very new to the real estate business. Barker Brokers has the expertise that comes with our lengthy experience in San Francisco. And I intend to personally handle this sale."

But Giselle had already drifted away, looking out the window at a passing ship, her nearly empty second cocktail about to fall out of her hand. Safada gently removed the tumbler from Giselle's tepid grip. The old gal seemed to be in another world entirely, her face blank. Ella looked up helplessly at Safada, who stared back with big eyes, giving her only a resigned shrug.

Chapter 8

Ella smoldered while getting ready for her dinner date with Jeff Arnold. Just the thought of Tiffany Reynolds' idiotically confident smile during their driveway duel left her enraged. Instead of a fair shot at the listing, she'd only gotten a scattered meeting with a confused Giselle Frackle. The whole mess constituted a humiliating loss to a virtually unknown agent in the hottest real estate market in history. Tiffany would surely let everyone who's anyone know about her besting of Ella Barker.

Ella could still sell the mansion, if she could manage to bring in a buyer. But that uncertain outcome in no way matched the prospect of being the listing broker, which guaranteed a sizable chunk of the enormous commission no matter who reeled in the buyer.

Sighing, Ella sat down at her computer and opened CB-Pru-U-Z's homepage. She nearly wretched when she saw Tiffany's obnoxiously happy face leering out at her, emblazoned next to an oversized photo of the Frackle Mansion in all its glory. Tiffany wasted no time in posting the listing. She'd gotten a hold of an aerial photo, with the massive Tudor residence, the sea, waterfalls and Golden Gate Bridge all spectacularly visible. While perusing the ad, the site played a quiet string version of Pachelbel's Canon. The copy read:

This oceanfront 1928 Tudor Revival manor house is one of San Francisco's most legendary homes. Famous for its dramatic waterfalls which plunge to the sea below, the 15 bedroom, 21 bath villa sits on an unheard of one acre in the heart of the coveted Sea Cliff neighborhood. With breathtaking views of the Golden Gate, Marin County and the Pacific Ocean beyond, the property offers the ultimate in seclusion and convenience. The extensive grounds are tended by landscapers from the world famous Pebble Beach golf course in Carmel. On the market for the first time in over 40 years, this extraordinary mansion presents an unparalleled opportunity to own a piece of California history. Why not say "you've arrived" to the envious masses using the most stunning of statements, 9900 El Camino Del Mar. Yours for only $70,000,000.

A blatant pitch to the dot com nouveau riche crowd, but Ella couldn't fault the approach. She quickly checked the commission, and saw only the word "Standard." Odd. She gathered up her purse and overcoat, and headed out the door to meet Jeff.

*******

The Tilted Window restaurant had valet parking, a blessed attribute after Ella's parking nightmare in the Mission district. The Saturday night multitude in the foyer grew and bubbled like a fermenting science experiment. The overwhelmed hostess sought protection behind her little podium, while clusters of people with 8:00 p.m. reservations bellowed for her contemptuous attention. The restaurant, open for two weeks and the must-have reservation of the moment, filled a cavernous space paneled in the latest slick and sound reflective materials, mostly textured cement, wood and glass. No fabric or curtains of any kind interfered with the transfer of sound. A deafening echo chamber, the noise level reverberated far beyond the little bomb symbol used by the Chronicle to denote an untenable racket. A bomb going off would be the least of distractions in this place, Ella thought, the din was so intense. But Peruvian-Chinese fusion ruled the foodie acolytes this month, and the Tilted Window didn't disappoint.

She felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned around to see Jeff Arnold, looking handsome and friendly, his prominent jaw making her want to kiss him on the spot. Instead she smiled in a flirty manner, or at least what she hoped was a flirty manner. 25 years had passed since she'd been on the dating scene.

"Let's get out of here," he shouted, jerking his thumb back toward the front door.

"Fine by me," Ella screamed awkwardly. They walked out into the cool night air.

"We could have been seated right away, I put in a call to the owner, recent client, but the noise is insane." Jeff said.

Ella nodded, smiling as the bedlam faded away.

"There's a little bar next door, it's a lot quieter. We can start there, maybe get a bite somewhere else..."

"Sounds great," Ella said as they passed a group of two dozen or so people speaking in sign language, on their way into the Tilted Window. "They've got the right idea."

Jeff laughed. "It'll be better over here, come on."

The bar was a dark and affable little place, and thankfully off the trendiness radar which rendered it quiet and relatively uncrowded. They settled back comfortably in a softly padded leather booth.

Ella took a deep breath and began to relax.

"You look tense," Jeff said.

"You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?"

"You're aware Giselle Frackle is selling her Sea Cliff mansion?"

"Yeah, I got wind of it a day or two ago. I'd love to fix up the buyer with Super Jumbotrix financing."

Ella hesitated, she hadn't heard of that particular mortgage. "I was in the running, but didn't get the listing. Tiffany Reynolds did. They're asking a cool seventy million."

Jeff whistled in amazement, then laughed slightly as the waitress walked up.

"What's so funny?" Ella asked.

"Let's order a drink, then we'll talk." The server offered the Mai-Tai special, which Ella quickly declined. She ordered Absolute and Amaretto on the rocks. Jeff ordered Chivas Regal 18-year old scotch straight up.

"So?" Ella continued. "Why the laughter?"

"Tiffany's popping up on everyone's radar these days. She closed on Delicia Cardosa's place yesterday."

"She did?" Ella felt another stab in her stomach. "I guess I was so involved in my interview with Giselle Frackle, I wasn't paying attention. Giselle and her maid are something else, let me tell you. But Tiffany slithered in before me."

"She sold the Cardoso apartment for fifty percent above asking, cash in thirty days."

Ella sighed. "Delicia is more than I can think about right now."

"Sorry I brought her up, I didn't mean to..."

"Don't worry about it." Apparently he knew the wretched details too. Who in San Francisco didn't for that matter?

The drinks arrived and Jeff lifted his glass. "To overcoming challenges."

"To the enemy at the gates," Ella said, beginning to cheer up.

"Even in today's market, who's going to be able to afford the Frackle Mansion, much less the property taxes?" Jeff asked.

"There's always somebody. If it sells for the asking price, the taxes will be close to six hundred and fifty thousand a year," Ella said.

"Almost enough to buy a rundown shack in Hunter's Point."

"Giselle Frackle only pays four grand a year now."

"No doubt she's one of the overburdened elderly who's been able to keep her home thanks to Prop. 13?" Jeff asked, with no small amount of sarcasm.

Heralded as a taxpayer revolt and passed by California voters in 1978, the law limited property taxes to one percent of a home's purchase price, with only small annual increases permitted. Consequently, a home bought years ago for a pre-bubble price carried vastly lower property taxes than a comparable nearby property, purchased after the run-up in values. After three decades, huge inequities in tax rates abounded, with long term owners paying a fraction for the same government services compared to neighbors who bought more recently.

"Well, "Ella said, "we know what the U.S. Supreme Court said, it's legal."

"It pays to hold on," Jeff said taking another swig of Chivas. "I heard some other interesting Frackle news as well."

"What now?"

"Frackle Business Machines is going public."

Ella set her drink down. "You mean an IPO, now? After all these years? Why?"

"Why else, money."

"You'd think they have enough."

"That's heresy, you could be banished from this town if anyone heard you say that." Jeff raised his hand to call the waitress, ordering a Chivas refill. Ella had barely started her cocktail. "Anyway, I read about it on Valleywag.com this afternoon, it's probably breaking all over the web and TV by now. It's speculated an FBM IPO could raise ten to twenty billion dollars the first day."

Ella swallowed hard. "Impressive. I'd love to get my hands on a few options." She'd unwittingly uttered a very prescient comment, albeit one that offered no hint of unexpected consequence or peril.

*******

After cocktails, they left the bar to have dinner at a nearby sushi restaurant. On their way out, they fought through the crowds still pouring into the Tilted Window next door. A murmur trickled through the multitude, and Ella immediately could see why. San Francisco's tall, handsome boyish mayor, Vende Vinho, made his way into the restaurant, surrounded by a small entourage. Recently divorced, Mayor Vinho inevitably courted one striking, long legged blonde or another. Tonight appeared to be no exception. But when Ella got a better look at the mayor's companion, she stood stock still. She put her hand on Jeff's arm, stopping him as well. Tiffany Reynolds strutted with her hand hooked through the mayor's elbow, laughing merrily at some municipal utterance. Before Ella could escape, Tiffany's eyes locked on Ella's. She smiled hugely, and Ella could see smug victory in her expression. Ella started to turn away when Tiffany held up her hand to wait. At the same time she tapped the mayor on his shoulder, and steered him their way. Ella was trapped.

"Ella," Tiffany trilled, "how good to see you. You have met Mayor Vinho before? Vende, this is Ella Barker, one of the city's most successful real estate brokers." Insincerity and mockery poured out of every one of Tiffany's pores.

Ella had met the mayor several times. She extended her hand. "How good to see you again, Mayor."

The mayor, by nature gracious and diplomatic, responded in kind. "Ella, how are you? How's business in Pacific Heights these days?" he said with a wink. Ella's Pacific Heights office was down the block from the Getty Mansion, close friends of the mayor.

"Very good, thank you." She turned to Jeff. "Please meet my friend Jeff Arnold."

The two men shook hands and exchanged quick pleasantries until Tiffany interrupted.

"Vende, aren't you thinking of holding the Formula One on Russian Hill?" She put her hands on the mayor's shoulder to emphasize their intimacy, charm bracelet jangling. "Ella is the most amazing driver, you really should see her in action." Tiffany looked at Ella and once again tilted her head in the most irritating of fashions.

"Oh?" the mayor asked. "You never know what talents people are hiding."

"No, you don't," Tiffany said, looking straight at Ella. "Like who has the talent to rise to the top, take over and make this great city her own."

An aide to the mayor urged them to move on. When the group walked away, Tiffany turned around. "Ella, please do bring your qualified buyers to see the Frackle Mansion."

*******

Jeff insisted on driving Ella home. She left her car at the Tilted Window valet parking, somewhat unsure of what she was doing but three Absolute and Amarettos surely assisted her decision making process. When they stopped in Ella's driveway on Edgehill Way, Jeff reached over and put his arm around the back of her seat.

"I really had a great time, you're fun, and interesting."

Ella smiled a little too broadly, slightly embarrassed. She really liked this man. "I had a good time too, with the exception of our friend Tiffany."

"Forget about her now, she's nothing."

"We'll see about that," Ella replied.

"Can I walk you to the door?" Jeff asked with a Safada-like stare in his eyes. Rather than provoking annoyance however, Jeff's stare gave flight to a thousand butterflies in Ella's stomach.

She looked at him. They both knew where "can I walk you to the door" would lead. She nodded and got out of the car.

When they stopped at the front door, Ella inserted her key into the lock. Jeff slipped his arms around her waist from behind. She froze as the nearly forgotten pleasure of human contact raced through her body. He nuzzled the back of her neck with his lips. She didn't turn around. Her head fell to one side, involuntarily, she couldn't stop it. She closed her eyes and relinquished herself to his soft kisses.

He whipped her around and pushed her back up against the wood siding next to the front door. She heard the doorbell ring incessantly somewhere in her consciousness. He kissed her full on the mouth. She opened wide, their boozy breaths mixing in a lustful frenzy. He grinded up against her, his rock hard penis straining through his khakis.

Too much too quick, she thought, but did nothing to stop it. Instead she rejoiced at the tingling in her neck, the steamy feeling all over, her rising body heat. She felt powerless against the first sexual excitement to overwhelm her since before the divorce. She reached behind and opened the front door. They slipped inside, and their date really began.

*******

Ella floated through the next couple of days, decidedly more relaxed, attending to business as usual at her various offices. After so long without sex, she felt tingly and alive again. And despite the setbacks in obtaining the Frackle listing, Barker Brokers still had dozens of solid deals in the works, the great majority proceeding smoothly. Even the Littlefeather-Jones deal was quiet for the moment while going through the motions of loan approval.

Jeff still seemed attentive since their encounter, and they'd agreed to get together the following weekend.

"So he didn't run off after getting his candy then?" Mark asked slyly.

"Unlike you," Ella retorted, "with your puppy dog attention span."

Ultimately however, the Frackle Mansion loomed over everything in her mind, she couldn't stop thinking about it. Selling such a house would crown her career gloriously. 9900 El Camino Del Mar was simply the most expensive home ever offered for sale in San Francisco, with nothing close to it in size, prestige or location. If it sold for anywhere near the asking price the record would stand for some time, along with the names, reputations and sales commissions of those who sold it. The failed meeting with Giselle Frackle represented a major disappointment for Ella, with Tiffany Reynold's obnoxious and unprofessional gloating only making it that much worse.

As far as Ella operating from the other side of the deal and finding a buyer, that opportunity did exist. In that vein, she put out feelers to her most wealthy clients and high level business connections. But other than some mild curiosity in wanting to see the mansion, no one expressed serious interest. At least not yet, she hoped.

*******

Ella suffered from occasional insomnia. Like most of country she had a sleeping pill prescription, but didn't like the feeling of dependence that crept up after several nights' use. She'd cut herself off and deal with it, even if it meant getting to sleep at three in the morning. On these nights she'd either read or lie there and listen to the silence.

Nocturnal tranquility played a big part in Ella's passion for living in San Francisco. Sure, the city boiled over with urban attractions; great restaurants, foreign movies and museums were never more than a few minutes away. But unless one happened to live near a freeway or major artery, a lovely and peaceful calm swept over most neighborhoods after dark, providing a fine escape from a busy life.

Ella also relied on one additional cure for sleeplessness. She'd climb into the Mercedes and go for a late night cruise. One night the week after her delicious date with Jeff, a racing mind kept her awake past midnight. Avoiding the pill bottle, she wrapped up, got in the car and headed out to the ocean.

Within five minutes she turned onto the Great Highway, a broad four lane stretch of road running parallel to the Pacific shore. She drove along in dark solitude, her mind wandering and relaxing, with only the velvety V-12 soundtrack to accompany her. The moon shone brightly, but owing to dunes alongside the road she couldn't see much of the beach. When she approached the Cliff House, the dunes receded and the ocean burst into shimmery view.

The Cliff House, magnificently renovated and hanging off a rocky outcropping over the sea, offered stunning views and decent food. Its two restaurants attracted both locals and tourists, but so early in the week everything was already sealed up tight. The dashboard clock glowed 12:30. Only a few cars littered the beach parking lot. A bonfire or two roared away on the sand with small groups of people huddled about, seeking warmth against the ocean's chill.

Ella drove on, continuing her nighttime observation. She stuck close to the coast and shortly found herself entering Sea Cliff. Maybe she'd meant to come here all along, though she hadn't consciously planned it. The meticulous streets and large, mostly Mediterranean-style homes emerged elegantly under the subtle blush of the streetlights. The odd window here and there glimmered with life, while tasteful landscape lights illuminated the exotic and expensive residential flora. Not a soul wandered the streets at this hour and the neighborhood exuded quiet.

She rounded another corner and came slowly up on Giselle Frackle's gate. The peaked roofline of the Tudor mansion loomed in the dark behind the high walls. She pondered the whole situation again, when she spotted the CB-Pru-U-Z "For Sale" sign staked into the lush lawn next to the gate. Her stomach knotted in near physical pain. The sign was the typical hangman's style thick, wooden post, with a metal placard suspended from a short crossbeam bearing the company logo, website and phone number. But when Ella got closer she saw something terribly amiss with the CB-Pru-U-Z sign. She switched her Bi-Xenon High Intensity Discharge headlamps from low to high beam, and under the white hot glare found herself looking straight into Tiffany Reynold's startlingly wide, clearly lifeless, blue eyes.

Tiffany had been strung to the crossbeam of the For Sale sign, tied so that the top half of her body laid horizontally, her head resting on its cheekbone next to the little sign affixed to the top that read "Ask for Tiffany Reynolds☺." Her body creased at the waist, with her legs hanging down along the spine of the post. She wore a black skirt, pink top and heels. Blood ran down across her smug features, with her matted blonde hair pulled back off her face. She'd been shot in the forehead. Long rivulets of blood flowed down her hanging arms, dripping off her charm bracelet onto the deep rich green of the lawn.

Ella didn't know what to do. Fear and fascination paralyzed her for long seconds. Shaking her head as if to wake herself up, she tried to think clearly. She put the Mercedes in reverse and backed up. About three feet away she spotted a sheet of paper in the moonlight, lying on the grass. Ella's night vision could compete with any eighteen year old, thanks to her driving glasses. She recognized the California Association of Realtors logo. Before she could comprehend her own actions, she jumped out, grabbed the paper and ran back to her car. She threw the Mercedes into gear, and for the second time within a week, raced off from an upsetting encounter with Tiffany Reynolds at the vaunted gates of the Frackle Mansion.

Chapter 9

"Did you call the police?" Mark Allen asked anxiously.

"Sshhh, keep your voice down." Ella stopped her shopping cart and looked at Mark. "I did, but not from my phone. I used a pay phone on Geary. I had nothing to do with that poor little bitch's death, there's no reason for me to get involved."

Ella and Mark strolled down one of the pristine, sparkling produce aisles at Brilliant Foods, a sleek South of Market emporium which specialized in only the highest quality and most expensive meats, produce and specialty items. Even the parking lot gleamed, with highly buffed luxury cars skirmishing for too few spaces.

Mark picked up a high gloss $6.00 apple from Japan, rolling it around in his hand. "It was all over the news this morning."

"I saw."

"And you're just now telling your best friend? You could have called me last night."

"You really are my best friend." She felt a little embarrassed saying it out loud.

"You're just now realizing it? I guess it took a cold shoulder from the Russian Hill lunch crowd for it to sink in."

Ella started to speak. Mark held up his hand to stop her. "I know how it is, a newly divorced woman of means threatens the married dowagers. So that left just little ol' me."

"Your self pity is impressive." She looked around the market and spoke in a hushed voice. "But seeing Tiffany dead, it was horrible. I went straight home. All night long I had visions of her bloody blue eyes staring at me."

"Maybe she was telling you to take over the Frackle listing."

"Speaking of, get this," she said, "next to Tiffany's body I found a..."

"You got out of your car, you approached the body?"

"For god's sake, so what? You sound like a cop. Nobody saw me. Anyway, it was a copy of the listing agreement between Giselle and Tiffany."

"No shit?"

"You won't believe it, swear you won't breathe a word to anyone."

Mark crossed his heart.

"Giselle is paying the commission on the sale of the mansion with stock options from the Frackle Business Machines IPO."

"What??"

"FBM is going public, haven't you heard?"

"Yeah, I did hear something about it, you know I don't follow that kind of thing. But Tiffany accepted it?"

"The listing was signed by both of 'em."

"What do you supposed it's worth, a lot I suppose?"

"Millions," Ella silently mouthed. "It'd make six percent look like, well, six percent." They turned a corner into the prepared foods aisle.

"Well Tiffany ain't gonna see her commission, that's for sure."

"Seeing her all strung up like that, who would do that? First the kid in the hot tub, then Tiffany."

"Aahh, the Italian porn star, what a waste," Mark said wistfully. "You think the killings are related?"

"It seems like it, both had to do with real estate and...." Ella stopped mid sentence. "Wait, look over there!" she said, raising her chin.

At first glance the small group poking though the steam tables looked like a Fashion Council ad encouraging help for the elderly. Safada da Silva and Elton, Giselle Frackle's handsome chauffer, sauntered ahead of a suave, swarthy looking man who pushed the ancient but lively Giselle in a wheelchair. Giselle's blonde wig towered over her petite seated form, making her look even smaller than before.

Safada's clothing choices once again consisted of very un-maid like attire. She wore a bust encasing, tight fitting mini dress, all colors and swirls that set off her long legs and beautiful tan. Elton sported Bermuda shorts and a tight t-shirt with flip flops. Tall and trim like a swimmer, his sculpted face drew looks from around the store. He no more resembled a chauffer than Safada a maid.

From her rolling perch Giselle picked food off the colorful serving tables as they passed.

"Sanjay, I want more of this," she cackled, popping a piece of sushi in her mouth. "Get it for me, will you darling."

"Why certainly, my sweet," replied Sanjay.

Ella and Mark huddled unseen off to the side.

"So that's the famous Sanjay," Ella whispered. "I tried to do a search on him but didn't know how to spell his name."

In his early 40s, Sanjay Govindpuri looked like a Bollywood movie star, with dazzling teeth and slicked back hair.

"They're fifty years apart in age," Mark said, amazed.

Safada turned in their direction. "Mark," she said with a huge, sexy smile. "What pleasure!"

Safada's proclamation brought the whole Frackle assemblage to a halt. Mark and Ella exchanged quick glances and walked over.

Giselle immediately took control of the impromptu meeting, fixing her eyes on Mark. "Young man, when are you going to finish my house in Stinson?"

"We're just waiting on some fabrics, Mrs. Frackle. It's very nice to see you."

"Maybe for you, but not for Tiffany Reynolds," she barked. "Such an outrage, right at my front gate. The cameras, the police, everyone snooping all over the place, a horror I tell you, a horror." She focused her gazed on Ella. "Who are you?"

Safada broke in. "That Mizz Barker, remember Giselle? You interview her sell your home."

"Did I talk to you too?" Giselle asked, reaching over to snatch a dripping mini spare rib. "Napkin, napkin," she called out to no one in particular.

The as-yet unintroduced Sanjay piped up. "But of course, my love." He scurried down to the end of the counter.

Meanwhile Mark made gaga eyes at Elton, while the chauffer's attention remained riveted on the ravishing Safada. Ella could only ponder the humiliating fact that Giselle didn't remember their interview. How many brokers had she spoken to?

"It must have been horrible," Ella said, attempting to ingratiate herself. For all she knew the listing was once again up for grabs.

"You're out shopping after such a grisly event?" Mark asked.

"We must eat, must not we?" Safada responded in her special, stilted manner. She lowered her head and practically growled at Mark.

Sanjay returned with a handful of napkins, quickly handing a couple to Giselle.

"Sanjay," Giselle said through a mouthful of sparerib. "Intwoduce yourself."

The dapper Indian stepped forward. "I am Sanjay, very nice to meet you."

Ella and Mark shook hands with Giselle's putative lover, making polite introductions.

"How did you and Giselle meet?" Mark asked.

Sanjay glanced down at his beloved, who had finished her spare rib and was attempting to reach the sautéed snow peas with a scrawny arm. He rushed over to assist her, ignoring Mark's question. "Excuse me, please sir."

The fact that no store employee had intervened to put a stop to Giselle's grazing led Ella to believe they all knew who she was, and had been told to let it go.

Giselle gulped down a snow pea and blurted out, "I met Sanjay when I called to inquire about one of my bank accounts. He answered the phone in India, can you imagine that? Such service, having the bank president pick up personally."

Sanjay shifted nervously on his feet. Ella and Mark exchanged wide eyed looks.

Giselle was on a roll, wanting to spill all the secrets of her newfound love. "Next thing I knew, I sent him a plane ticket, I was so curious. I fell in love over the phone." She turned to Sanjay. "Now as soon as you sell your palace you're paying me back, is that right? After all, a lady shouldn't pay for her man," she added coquettishly.

Now Ella knew Giselle had lost her mind. Where was her son in all this?

Sanjay looked at the floor. "My love, I will always take care of you." While not exactly answering her question, he still managed to pacify her. He stabbed a steaming pot sticker with a plastic fork and handed it to Giselle, most likely to shut her up, Ella suspected.

Giselle instead held the doughy treat poised near her wide mouth. "Elton, get the car, we're going now. I'm satiated." Then she bit in big time, clear juice from the dumpling spurting onto her Escada jacket.

Safada gave Ella another of her ravenous up-down appraisals. "See you soon again, I hope," she purred. Elton looked hurt at this, but did as commanded and took off to get the car. Sanjay merely gave a little wave, before spinning Giselle around in her chair to leave.

Mark and Ella watched as the little entourage weaved off through the brightly lit gourmet aisles. "A call center in India, do you believe it?" asked Ella, astonished.

"And what's with Safada, meat or fish?"

Ella looked at Mark with feigned distaste. "Oh she's out for the full buffet, no doubt about it."

*******

Exhausted, Ella plopped down on the couch when she got home and reached for the remote. She'd listened to several scorching, sensational radio reports in the car, and could only imagine what local television broadcasters had in store for their anxious viewers. Bright images of Giselle Frackle's mansion leapt out from her 100" HD plasma TV, the Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12 logo emblazoned over the image.

Tonight, murder at the mansion. A renowned daughter of San Francisco lays in lonely cold storage at the city morgue - violently shot to death and left dangling like a ghoulish calling card for an expensive real estate deal.

Dramatic music swelled and the anchor Thad Leader assumed his position at an expansive glass desk. The full screen graphic behind him showed the Golden Gate Bridge with a generic real estate "For Sale" sign superimposed over the top. Blood dripped off the sign.

Good evening, another real estate murder rocks the city tonight – the latest killing even more bizarre and ritualistic than the first.

Who considered Salçicho Grosso's hot tub murder ritualistic, Ella wondered?

Tiffany Reynolds, a rising star in the world of selling exclusive luxury homes, is found butchered early this morning in front of the spectacular Frackle mansion in Sea Cliff. Police are close mouthed, but clues are surfacing. We go now LIVE to Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12's Chirley Wixon, who picks up the story from here.

Perky Chirley, as Ella called her, stood in front of the bloody For Sale sign where Ella had seen Tiffany's strung-up body. Police experts worked behind her, combing the scene. Ella reached over to an end table and picked up the listing contract she found next to Tiffany's corpse.

Thank you, Thad. Tiffany Reynolds had just scored the biggest deal of her budding career. She was the listing agent for the Frackle mansion, on the market for a whopping seventy million dollars. Known for its signature waterfall, it's the hottest of hot properties in today's radioactive real estate market. Any agent would kill to sell it, oh wait, sorry Thad, we have no idea who's behind these murders and are not speculating here. Anyway, police say Tiffany was killed with a high powered rifle. You may remember the Italian model shot and killed at an open house in Noe Valley two weeks ago was also the victim of a powerful gunshot. Police are conducting tests to see if it's the same gun.

Chirley's live shot switched to video of police unstringing Tiffany's body from the CB-Pru-U-Z For Sale sign. Ella couldn't help but chuckle at the public relations nightmare befalling one of her stiffest competitors. Chirley's voice provided excited commentary.

It was a gory scene this morning in Sea Cliff. Tiffany Reynolds was on her way up, dating Mayor Vende Vinho and selling some of San Francisco's most socially desirable and profitable homes. But the good life for 28-year old Tiffany ended last night with a bullet between the eyes. Police aren't saying if Tiffany Reynolds died here on the street in Sea Cliff... or whether she was knocked off elsewhere then brought to socialite Giselle Frackle's mansion on swank El Camino Del Mar. However it happened, the killer tied Tiffany's lifeless corpse to the For Sale sign in front of the mansion, a macabre and mysterious finale to one of the city's brightest young lights.

Bright light, my ass, Ella thought, Tiffany was clawing and screwing her way to the top. The video switched to a shot of Giselle's dark bicolor Maybach 62 sedan creeping out of the mansion gates.

Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12 tried to speak with mansion owner Giselle Frackle today.

The humungous $400,000 vehicle slowed near the reporters and police. Both the heavily tinted front and rear windows whirred open partway. From the rear seat, Giselle looked out with a startled expression. Chirley ran up to the car, shoving her microphone inside. Giselle waved her away with both arms.

Elton, roll up this window now! Sanjay, help me.

Giselle's window quickly closed on Chirley, but it pinched Giselle's enormous wig, leaving a blonde tuft sticking out. Chirley sprang to the front window, where the gorgeous chauffer smiled photogenically. Chirley popped a quick question, in a shamelessly flirtatious voice.

Hi, what's your name?

Such an effective investigative technique, Ella thought. Before the chauffeur could respond, Giselle's voice cackled and roared from deep within the paneled confines of the Maybach.

Get out of here, now!

The camera dipped lower to get a better look through the front window. Safada smiled radiantly and waved from the passenger seat. They must have been on their way to Brilliant Foods.

The video switched to a neighbor, an elderly man with white hair and florid, pink skin who spoke rapidly, hardly pausing to breathe.

I've known Giselle for years, it's such a shame this happened on our street, and that poor girl. I did see something last night out my window though, maybe around midnight, I have such insomnia, and as I told the police, it was a black car, maybe a Mercedes, stopped outside Giselle's gate. I thought, that's strange, who would be visiting at this hour, though I must admit I've seen some odd comings and goings over there ever since she hired that new maid, an attractive young thing though.

The video cut the neighbor off, jumping back to Chirley Wixon. Ella sat paralyzed on her couch. She punched the remote, turned off the TV and looked down at the listing agreement she'd grabbed off Giselle's lawn.

*******

Despite the stress of stumbling upon Tiffany's body, Ella still had a date with Jeff, and she'd offered to cook dinner at her place. While not a big cook, she could whip up a select number of tasty dishes, mostly of the easy to prepare, pretty to look at variety so readily available at Brilliant Foods. But the meal was beside the point. She couldn't wait to get back in bed with Jeff, and dinner would serve only as something of a polite diversion, an impatient holding pattern to be endured until she was cleared for landing.

Ella's fears had eased somewhat with regard to a Mercedes being seen outside the Frackle Mansion. She lived in the Bay Area, for god's sake, where Mercedes-Benzes clogged the streets by the thousand, as common as a Camry in St. Louis. She filed her procured copy of the Frackle/Reynolds listing agreement away with other papers from the day she so forgettably interviewed with Giselle, and went about preparing dinner.

She planned on serving fresh fettuccini with imported pesto sauce and thinly sliced sautéed chicken breasts. Prewashed gourmet three leaf lettuce made up the salad, to which she'd add a couple of chopped vine ripened, yellow tomatoes. She set the dining room table casually, then dressed in a pair of black jeans and a red paisley shirt. She looked damned good, she thought, complementing herself in front of the mirror. The yoga and occasional trainer workouts really kept her in shape, and she generally watched what she ate, but the metabolism gods had been her lifelong friends and she really didn't have to struggle all that much.

By the time the doorbell rang, she'd pulled her hair back into a pony tail and thrown on a pair of snake-embossed pumps.

Jeff didn't look so bad himself. A man in his mid-40's with a decent head of hair and no overhanging belly and was something of a rarity but Jeff somehow managed it. He too wore jeans, a tucked-in long sleeve shirt and a day's growth of beard.

Ella swept her arm back. "Please come in," she said smiling.

"Hi, how are ya?" Jeff stepped in and took Ella into his arms. She expected maybe a moment's shyness or hesitation, perhaps some coy talk but this was definitely better. He put his hand on the back of her neck, and softly kissed her full on the mouth, his tongue gently parting her lips. She responded warmly, leaning into him, the beginnings of passion sending a light heat through her body. Their first night had been blissful and europhic, awakening inside her long dormant feelings, the thrilling joy and pure life giving power of great sex. She felt incapable of holding back, playing games or in any way pretending she didn't want more.

Jeff clawed tenderly at Ella's pony tail, expertly taking out the simple band holding it in place. Her hair fell free upon her shoulders. He opened his strong hand, pushing it up along the back of her head. He closed his fingers tightly on thick tufts of hair, pulling her head back more forcefully than she would have expected, straining the scalp, a slightly painful pressure. She felt his power, and her longing easily overpowered any hesitation she may have felt. She pulled her head forward to increase the resistance, the mellow pain growing sharper, an exciting and unfamiliar aphrodisiac.

He pulled her head back so she looked up at him. She made a high pitched sound, part scream, part sigh. Then she extricated herself from his arms.

"Maybe we should think about dinner?"

Jeff panted slightly. "Sure, though dessert might be a good first course."

Ella laughed, thrown off by her reaction to his hair pulling. She loved it and wished he'd grab her and wrestle her to the floor. So different from Hank, who'd always been a very vanilla lover, the gentle, caring missionary position type of man. Boring.

They chatted while Ella boiled the pasta and sautéed the chicken, Tiffany's murder taking center stage. While Ella had had quite enough of that subject for the time being, she didn't want to let on to her familiarity with the situation.

"So," Jeff began, digging into his pasta, "are you going to the opening of the opera next Friday?" The annual opening of the San Francisco Opera crowned the city's social season. A gilded and spectacular affair, San Francisco's richest and best connected, be they politicians, Nob Hill old money or dot.com new money, all rushed to go, along with the posers, the curious, the social climbing wannabes and hangers-on. No matter what their provenance, everyone strutted their stuff wearing the finest of finery, gossiping, gawking, networking, slandering, ass kissing, eating, drinking and maybe even for a few purists, enjoying the opera. A very expensive evening, it was also great fun, outrageously pretentious and a fashion free for all.

"Yes, Barker Brokers did buy a table," Ella replied. "I make an appearance. You never know who you might meet, where a listing could come from."

"It's the right crowd for it, that's for sure." Jeff set his fork down and took a sip of wine. "I've got a ticket too. Why don't we go together? I'd love escort you."

The doorbell rang, and Ella frowned. No pedestrians frequented Edgehill Way, it wound too far off the beaten path. With the exception of the odd dog walker or runner, few people other than residents found themselves on the narrow, hilly lane. She didn't even get Jehovah's Witnesses.

"Expecting anyone?" Jeff asked.

"Not now," she smiled, "he's already here. Could you get that?"

"Sure." He pushed his chair back and went to the front door, Ella tagging along a few feet back.

Jeff opened the door, only to be met by the dour, intimidating, Eskimo-like countenance of Roberta Littlefeather-Jones. Her tiny lover Starka stood off to the side.

"Why hello," he said in a wary tone. "It's the Littlefeather-Jones'. What an unexpected surprise."

"Liquifying soils," bellowed Roberta in a deafening basso profundo, her hands set powerfully on her ample hips.

Ella flinched noticeably at this unexpected development. Starka swooped in next to Roberta and started to walk through the front door. When Jeff put up his arm to block her, she deftly ducked under and scooted into the entry hall. There she stood, facing Ella, like a determined kewpie doll, her purple hair hanging in front of her glasses.

"It's because of you," she said in a strident tone, "that our life savings are going down the drain in that hellhole."

Ella looked over at Jeff, still blocking the door. Roberta's expression had switched from angry to sad, and she made no effort to blast past Jeff from her position on the doormat. She'd been so kind when they'd met, but since then had frequently jumped between threatening and forlorn states of mind. Classic passive-aggressive, Ella determined in a flash of amateur psychological diagnosis. She motioned for Jeff to let Roberta in.

Jeff lowered his arm and Roberta walked over to Starka, taking the little woman's hand. Ella didn't like clients coming to her home, much less unannounced, but the real estate business was very emotional by nature, especially now with the amounts of money involved and the lack of power accorded to buyers. She didn't even know how they got her unlisted address.

"OK, let's calm down. Tell me what's going on," Ella began, thinking about the rapidly cooling dinner on the table.

"Even though we couldn't put any contingencies in our offer, we went ahead and hired a geology expert to take a look at the place," Starka said.

Roberta cut in. "He basically just went and stood around outside and showed us some maps."

"He said he didn't need to go inside, thank you, he could see quite enough from the street," Starka continued.

Ella knew where this one led. Jeff shut the door against the cool night air and followed the exchange closely.

Roberta nearly shouted. "In the event of a catastrophic earthquake, the ground beneath our home slash pet cemetery could turn into liquid!" Her forlorn expression contorted again toward the aggressive side.

Starka took another turn. "He said the house would sway like a swooning drunk before falling down in a thousand pieces."

Roberta: "That it was amazing it'd survived the '89 earthquake."

Ella made a mental note to find out who the inspector was and blacklist him.

"That's obviously a worst case scenario," Jeff said.

"Of course it is, it's been nearly twenty years since we had a good shaker," Ella added in her most comforting voice.

"You mean since the Marina district went up in flames, which also happens to be in a liquefaction zone?" Starka asked.

Ella had to diffuse the situation, even though she wasn't really worried about the sale since the women remained locked into an airtight contract.

Roberta already had a solution in mind. "We want you to buy the house," she said, in a somewhat more kindly tone.

"What?" Ella replied incredulously.

"We think since you got us into this, you should buy the place and accept responsibility for the shitty contract that came along with it."

Ella's back went up. "I'm not the one who signed the contract."

Starka whipped fiercely around to face Jeff. "And since you so conveniently happen to be here, god how incestuous, the real estate agent is fucking the mortgage broker, we need to talk about the loan. We are not mortgaging our child's future."

"I'm actually a real estate broker, not an agent," Ella interjected.

"Yeah whatever," said Roberta.

"You have a child?" Ella asked, truly bewildered.

"Haven't you heard?" said Starka with a sneer. She hooked her thumb back toward Jeff. "Mr. 'get-a-mortgage at all costs' says we qualify for the I-V loan."

Ella looked quizzically at Jeff.

"It's one of the latest and most innovative products," Jeff said comfortably.

"I-V as in In Vitro," Roberta said.

"The In Vitro 20-50, to be more specific," Starka said sarcastically. "If you can prove you have a fertilized egg in storage and a confirmed appointment to implant, the mortgage goes on the embryo's social security number."

"Since when can an embryo get a social?" Ella asked.

Roberta explained further. "Starka's brother came down to Anchorage from Prudhoe, and well you know," she leered, "took care of things in a little room at the clinic. Anyway, it took with my egg. I head in for the implant in a couple of weeks."

Ella looked to Jeff for clarification. "The embryo repays the loan," he said, "post partum of course, starting anytime between 20 and 50 years of age. We apply for what's called a provisional SSN," he explained.

The bankers were getting more clever every day, Ella reflected.

"That otta make the right-to-life crowd happy as hell," said Starka. "No better way to prove you're alive than take out a mortgage before you're born."

"But the fact is, your income as agitators for a free Tibet just doesn't cut it," Jeff said. "This way you get the house, and your child gets a secure home in which to grow up."

"Fuck it!" Roberta screamed, now fully reverting to her aggressive side. "So how about it, you buy our house, complete with motorhome and earthquake damage? Do it, and we leave you alone," she added ominously.

Starka motioned to Ella's impressive living room and glittering nighttime view. "If you can afford this crib, you sure as hell can afford the dump we're buying."

"No," Ella said forcefully, "that's absolutely ridiculous. If I had to step in every time one of my clients got the jitters, I'd have been broke a long time ago. If you insist on taking this outrageous and intimidating approach to buying _your_ home, then you leave me no choice but to engage our firm's legal counsel first thing in the morning. They will work in tandem with the seller to enforce the sales contract. As is."

Roberta started to advance. "You think threats are going to work?"  
"I'm not the one who came bursting uninvited into your home, ranting and raving. And I have a witness," she said, looking at Jeff.

Roberta's face suddenly switched gears and she looked as if she were about to cry. "But you're supposed to be on our side," she mewled weepily.

"Oh honey, I am," Ella said more softly to the burly skinhead. "I admit it, this is a cruel market we're in right now. But it'll work out, you'll see."

"Oh my god, Roberta, how could you fall for the oppressor's shit? Let's get out of here." Starka Littlefeather-Jones took her unbalanced girlfriend by the hand and the two women left without another word.

*******

The pasta gummed up considerably after undergoing reheating in the microwave, but Ella and Jeff nonetheless managed to enjoy the rest of the meal. After a glass or two of wine, they laughed about the Littlefeather-Jones home invasion, as they took to calling it.

"Laughing's probably the best way for me to deal with problem clients like them," Ella said as they cleared the table. "There's not a lot I can do to help right now."

"Like you said, they signed on the dotted line," Jeff said.

"They seemed so happy the day we made the offer. But now I've gone from friendly realtor to oppressor."

Ella stood in front of the double sink scraping the plates into the garbage disposal. Jeff caught her completely unaware when he slid his hand down her ass and deep into the nether zone between her legs. She jumped, dropping the plates into the sink with a clatter. He pushed himself against her, grabbing the kitchen counter on either side of her waist. He'd pinned her against the sink, she couldn't turn around if she tried.

"Slap me," he said quietly into her ear. "That's the only way I'll let you go."

"My hands are wet."

"I don't care. Do it."

He backed off slightly so she could turn. Something inside told her "this is not good." But she couldn't help herself. She spun around and slapped him hard across the face. Her hand stung from the force of his sharp whiskers against her palm.

He jerked slightly but only stared at her, his dark eyes boring unflinching holes into hers. They breathed softly, urgently into each other's faces, just inches apart. She didn't move, her right arm still raised. Jeff lifted his right hand slowly, palm open. Ella followed it closely with her eyes. He brought the hand to her cheek, and softly slapped her back, a little tap only. She stared directly at him. He waited for her to stop him, and when she didn't he slapped her cheek again, this time a little harder. She stared even more deeply, feeling the heat rise rapidly within her body. She raised her hand in return, and gave him another hard smack on the cheek.

This is wrong, she thought, what was she doing? He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her forcefully. Her back arched and a chill ran down her spine. She reached down between his legs and took a probing feel. She wasn't disappointed.

Jeff picked Ella up, literally sweeping her off her feet, and carried her out of the kitchen into the best night of her life.

Chapter 10

Late Wednesday morning the phone chimed on Ella's mahogany and glass desk at her Yerba Buena Gardens office. She'd been occupied looking over the latest QuickPrice report, a respected industry bulletin out of San Diego. It reflected yet another month of stunning residential property price appreciation. To buy the average house in San Francisco, a typical buyer now needed an income of at least $500,000 in order to qualify for a conventional 100 year, fixed rate mortgage. This allowed for the industry standard of 75 percent of income going toward housing. On top of such traditional financing, eager and ever-creative lenders continued to dream up an increasingly imaginative mix of less conventional borrowing options, the type of which the Littlefeather-Jones deal depended.

Ella punched the speaker phone. Her secretary Bootsie sweetly intoned that Ella had a visitor.

"I don't have any appointments right now, who is it?"

Bootsie whispered. "It's a police detective, Lieutenant Rothschild. He wants to talk to you and won't tell me what it's about."

She should have expected this. Of course the police were going to talk to everyone who knew Tiffany Reynolds. Ella Barker was just another on the list of professional acquaintances. She took a deep breath. "Send him in, please."

She stood up, smoothed her skirt and patted her hair quickly into place. Despite her self-assurances, Ella's heart pounded and she felt scared. Should she tell the truth about seeing Tiffany's body? Before she could think or strategize any further, the office door opened and in walked Lt. Rothschild of the SFPD.

The detective was a short, compact man, probably in his early 50's, but without the dignified comportment his name suggested. A giant belly hung over his belt and he wore steel rimmed glasses, though Ella immediately spotted quick, vigilant eyes darting back and forth behind the thick lenses. His hairline receded to the crown of his head, leaving a floppy mix of graying hair falling down the backside of his skull. He had sharp, pointy features which contrasted with his jowly lower face. His grey suit fit poorly. Central casting couldn't have come up with anyone more appropriate for the quintessential messy detective.

Ella greeted the cop with her most gracious smile. "Please come in, Lt. Rothschild. I'm Ella Barker, owner and proprieter of Barker Brokers Real Estate Group."

The cop extended his hand, and she couldn't help but compare his limp, sweaty grasp to Jeff's masculine, intoxicating grip. "Guy Rothschild, SFPD." He flashed his badge and slapped a business card onto her desk.

Bootsie stood near the open door, watching with a curious smile. "That's all, Bootsie, thank you," Ella said.

"Certainly Mrs. Barker," she said, shutting the heavy office door behind her.

"Please, have a seat," Ella said.

"Looks like a successful operation, you have here," the detective said, sitting down in one of the client chairs opposite Ella's desk.

"Yes, we are doing well, after all, the market is soaring."

"I've been looking for a place myself, but on a cop's salary, there's not much out there."

Ella briefly considered mentioning some of the creative financing options but thought better of it. "Just keep looking, something always comes up. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

"As I'm sure you're aware, two people associated with the real estate industry in San Francisco have been murdered recently. We're trying to gather as much information as possible to find out who did this and bring them to justice."

"Of course, it's scary for all of us in the business."

"Your colleague, Tiffany Reynolds, is the most recently deceased. Did you know her?"

"Yes, we met on several occasions."

Lt. Rothschild smiled vaguely, saying nothing. Ella nervously nattered on. "She was relatively new to the business but doing quite well, from what I understand. I wouldn't exactly call her my colleague though, she worked for a competing firm."

"Colleagues in the sense that you worked in the same field, then."

"Oh sure, yes."

"Can you think of any reason someone might want to cause her harm, or harm the young man killed two weeks ago at the open house?"

"No, not at all. I mean the young man, while he may have had an unusual occupation, I can't think for the life of me why someone would make such a public spectacle out of murdering him. I was there that day, as you probably know."

"Umm hmm. What do you mean, unusual occupation?"

"Well, the listing broker Gordon Elway told me, and it's been all over the news, what was the boy's name, Grosso? That he was an actor in pornographic films. Maybe that had something to do with it."

"We are aware of Mr. Grosso's occupation," he replied with a wry smile. "What about Miss Reynolds, any ideas?"

"I don't know what to say, I hardly knew her," Ella lied, too frightened to say anything more.

"One last question, Mrs. Barker."

"Fire away," Ella said, immediately regretting her choice of words.

"What kind of car do you drive?"

*******

Ella whipped the Mercedes into a handicapped space a block from the Opera House, a very rushed fifteen minutes late, not wanting to keep Jeff waiting. She looked forward to the evening too much for things to start off awkwardly. Aside from the performance itself, most of the Opening Night festivities, including cocktail reception and dinner-dance took place at a resplendent City Hall, across Van Ness Avenue from the War Memorial Opera House. This year's performance, a highly anticipated, though controversial Germanic adaptation of the 1963 cinematic comedy "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World," was said to fuse tragedy into the original wacky movie theme.

The film, starring Ethel Merman, Spencer Tracy and Milton Berle, told a rip roaring comic tale that veered wildly in many directions, none of them tragic. Early word of the four hour operatic version hinted of dark robed, chanting choralists. Ella did not anticipate enjoying the performance. She'd always found opera supremely boring, but put up with it once a year, considering it a professional obligation.

She'd arranged to meet Jeff on the Polk Street steps of City Hall, already a scene out of a Hollywood premiere, only with socialites and politicians replacing the more familiar screen stars. Rotating Klieg lights shot into the sky, and hundreds of people ascended the grand outdoor staircase, heading for the pre-performance cocktail reception under City Hall's mighty rotunda.

Ella stopped for a moment to take it all in, standing near the red carpet leading up the stairs. A string quartet played pop classical near the entrance. She felt proud to fit in with such an august setting. She wore a rather flashy dress, a step away from her normally more conservative style, but she'd been feeling pretty jazzed up and confident with all the sexual energy percolating lately so she'd taken the plunge on a ball gown designed by one the city's hottest young fashion designers. The dress even had a name, the Anthurium. All bright red satin, the garment was an open shoulder full length affair, which clung tightly to Ella's top half before blossoming out at the hips to descend groundward in a brilliant, twirling cascade. A ruby colored hibiscus-like bolt of material burst out from between her breasts. Matching satin and rhinestone ankle strap sandals added three inches to her height. She'd piled her hair on top of her head in a formal, swept up manner.

"You look smashing, what are you doing standing here all by yourself?"

She turned to see Jeff, who'd appeared out of the crowd looking magnificent in a beautifully cut, traditional tuxedo.

"Just observing," Ella replied, looking at Jeff with a delighted wariness. He put an arm around her waist, and they started up the stairs.

"There's Giselle Frackle," he said, nodding toward drop off area at the base of the red carpet.

"She hasn't missed this night in fifty years." Giselle's little entourage once again accompanied her, though with a new addition, her son Kearney.

No one would call Kearney Frackle young, having been born when his fossilized mother was just twenty years old. Now in his early 70's and a geriatric as well, neither had he ever been considered handsome. His general appearance fell under the description of bald and round. But his positive attributes included extreme wealth and a reasonable intelligence, still an unbeatable two out of three combination when it came to scoring beautiful women one-third his age. Kearney took full advantage of this ability, having married and divorced six times in his life, each wife successively younger than the last. Currently single, he hoisted himself out of his mother's imposing sedan bearing a twig of a young woman in a scanty silver dress, whose luxurious red hair and porcelain skin gave her a delicate, elfin appearance.

Ella laughed. "Like mother, like son. Both of 'em are dating kids fifty years their junior."

Elton the chauffer, looking superb in his own tuxedo, raced to assist Kearney in helping the young woman out of the car. Kearney shoo'd him away, taking his datelet by the arm and stepping to the side. This cleared the way for the grand matriarch's debut. Giselle's blonde wig emerged first, towering higher than ever, while the eager crowd of gossip photographers hovered impatiently. Her lover Sanjay, in black tie and cumber bund with a colorful air brushed snake charmer theme, offered an elegant hand to his cherished Juliet. She grabbed it somewhat too forcefully and he faltered for an instant, then rallied, pulling her out of the car onto her feet.

The crowd of society onlookers gasped, and Ella grabbed Jeff's arm in surprise. "Would you look at that," she said.

"Looks like Marie Antoinette at her retirement party, if she'd made it that far."

Jeff's reference to the beheaded French queen did indeed make sense. While the soaring blonde wig already lent Giselle a pre-French revolutionary flair, she'd compounded the effect with a nearly full length, heavy pink dress, all ruffles and bodice, which boldly bowed out at the waist and fell to just above her ankles. She'd pancaked her face with extremely heavy makeup and signature bright red lipstick, and wore several strands of heavy pearls around her sagging neck. Probably the only nod to her age and semi-infirm state was her shoes, a curiously unfashionable pair of black flats. Tonight she forsook the wheelchair, and bravely grasped Sanjay's arm to begin the procession up the red carpet.

Safada, looking radiant in a shimmering, gold strapless gown, sidled up gracefully to Giselle, gently taking her free elbow. The gossip photogs flashed and clucked, while Giselle smiled, her gaudy, overdone teeth glistening next to aged and ever darkening gums.

"Mrs. Frackle," one of the reporters shouted, "who do think wacked Tiffany Reynolds at your front gate?"

Giselle winced and turned her head, ignoring the question. Everyone else accompanying her made snotty faces of disgust. Kearney could be heard to harrumph.

Safada reprimanded the impertinent society journalist. "No now questions, you is _ofensivo,"_ she called out above the hubbub.

The photographers turned and snapped close-ups of Safada, whose angry look only enhanced her beauty. Sensing the increased attention, she lost the long face and beamed for the cameras.

"I swear, that woman is not a maid, why does Giselle refer to her as one?" Ella asked.

"Who knows, people have all kinds of hidden expertise," Jeff replied, reaching up to give Ella's neck a light pinch.

"Ouch, that hurt," she said, not completely serious. "Be careful of my hair."

That Ella and Jeff made an attractive couple left no doubt, and many in the throng craned their necks as the couple climbed the steps. Amid whispers and polite greetings they swept into City Hall's grand rotunda, with its broad staircases and highly polished marble floor. The chattering society crowd instantly locked onto any new and hopefully scandalous information, and as a result the couple's first public appearance generated welcome speculation.

Party planners for the rich traditionally compete to see who can create the most ethereal and glamorous atmosphere for their free spending clients, and the Opening of the Opera provided one of the most splashy and well publicized opportunities each year. Amid the spaghetti straps, counterfeit smiles and greatcoats of the glittering crowd, some of the most bizarre canapé servers Ella had ever seen leapt through the crowd like fleeing deer. Dressed in caricature masks and costumes from the film upon which the opera was based, Milton Berle, Ethel Merman, Mickey Rooney and Spencer Tracy, among others, bounced around the floor on what appeared to be pogo sticks, though with a much more powerful boost than Ella had ever seen. They moved among the political and social elite with alarming alacrity, sometimes leaping twenty feet into the air upon takeoff. Each thick, brightly colored metal pole had a silver serving tray affixed, complete with cup holders to prevent spills during transport. Tremendous athletic ability and gracefulness were obvious job requirements for the serving staff and Ella wondered how the catering company found so many agile servers.

"They're on Extreme Pogo Sticks," a man's voice cracked behind Ella and Jeff. "It's the latest rage."

They turned to see Gordon Elway, the agent of Noe Valley open house murder fame. Wearing the evening standard black tie, he raised a finger to summon a waiter. Seconds later 60's comedian Buddy Hackett whooshed to a stop next to them, bearing a tray full of salmon finger sandwiches. Ella started at the ferocity and speed with which the pudgy actor landed on the nearby floor.

"Looks like an accident waiting to happen," she replied.

"I tried it out, it's fun," Jeff said. "But I wouldn't have thought of tonight as a good occasion for it."

Ella looked at her date. "You have been on an extreme pogo stick?"

"Extremes are my specialty," he whispered.

Ella turned to Gordon, and waved around at the preponderance of aged attendees. "Who knows, might wake up some of the dead."

"Speaking of the dead," Gordon said. "Tiffany's unfortunate passing has created, oh how shall I say this delicately, an opportunity?"

"The mansion listing, you mean." Jeff answered. "Maybe another agent with CB-Pru-U-Z will pick it up."

"Oh no, you show your small town naivety, my friend. No way would the Frackle listing be passed to the next agent up on the floor. It'll go to the most qualified, and best connected." He swiped another glass of champagne from a passing Don Knotts, swigging it down in one gulp. "Right, Ella?"

Ella didn't know where she stood. Giselle told Ella she was her number two choice but so far she'd heard nothing. Gordon's jaunty, loose lipped manner counteracted any confident feelings. Ella wanted to talk to Giselle, but planned on waiting at least another day or so before calling. Despite the competitive nature of the situation, it didn't feel right to jump in so quickly after such a tragic event.

"Are you in the running again, Gordon?" she asked.

"If you're asking, I take it you haven't locked it up," he said.

Ella kicked herself for the dumb question. "In any case, it's always such a pleasure to see you. You seem to be feeling much better than the last time we spoke."

"Indeed I do," he said with a cryptic smile. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

"How about some champagne," Jeff said, squeezing Ella's side a little too hard. She squirmed out of reach. "Hey, now that hurt."

"Isn't that the point?"

Ella turned to scan for a passing cocktail. None of the wait staff pogoed in the immediate vicinity. "Where's Ethel Merman when I need a drink?"

Instead of a long dead movie star, they ran smack into an elegantly dressed Mark Allen and his date for the evening, a handsome, younger Latino man who looked vaguely familiar.

"Mark," Ella gushed, finding no small comfort in running into her close friend. "you know Jeff, don't you?"

Mark gave Jeff a subtle but approving once over. "Sure, I think we've met once or twice. Let me introduce Marcos."

They all shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. While Jeff and Marcos struck up a conversation, Ella pulled Mark off to one side.

"Mark and Marcos?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Don't you remember him? He's the little hottie who works at Champignon Sonoma in the Ferry Building."

"Ahh yes, I should have known you'd jump on that one, so to speak." She gave Marcos the once over. "A little short, but cute. I can see the attraction."

Mark leaned in and whispered. "Still in the clear? No one saw you at Giselle's gate?"  
"Sshhh," she commanded. "God I hope not, a detective came to see me and asked what kind of car I drive. I was terrified."

"Really? The intrigue grows."

"Intrigue? I love intrigue." Mark's young date stepped between them, speaking rapidly. He seemed a little jumpy, Ella thought.

Before anyone could respond, another voice piped in. "And we are how tonight?"

Ella didn't need to see Safada to recognize her unique grammar and accent. The maid had broken free from her employer, who tottered over near the ice sculpture, a massive W carved in the form of four intersecting palm trees. Giselle held court with a bewildered looking Sanjay and an assortment of blue haired matrons.

"We are fine, how about you?" answered Jeff. Ella felt a twinge of jealousy, even though Safada was just as likely to flirt with her as any man.

Safada drew open stares from even the most jaded fashion hawks. Her iridescent honey colored gown fit as if made by hand, and like Ella, she'd pinned her thick, dark hair aristocratically on top of her head, with delicate gold earrings dangling from each ear. Her bright, orthodontically perfect smile and deep green eyes sealed the deal.

"Me very fine, _obrigada_ , thank you," she answered raising her 1960's style champagne glass in a toast.

"I'm still looking for a glass of champagne myself," Ella said.

With that, the air filled with a deep, operatic trill, sung by the Ethel Merman waitress character. She dramatically pogoed into the center of their little group, plopping her feet to the ground once stopped. She gracefully served brimming glasses of bubbly to those in need, before hurdling off with a deep vacuum whoosh.

"So Safada, what's Giselle going to do now?" Ella asked, throwing caution to the wind.

"What you try say?" she answered, blinking at Ella like a housecat being thrown outdoors after a three day nap.

"With all that's happened..."

"You mean with Tiffany _assassinada_?"

"Well I wouldn't put it that way, but yes."  
Mark broke in. "Let me help, we're among friends here. Please do tell us, Safada, who gets to sell the famous mansion now, or die trying?"

"Mark!" Ella said. "We don't know any such thing."

"You think someone offed Tiffany because they didn't like her hair color?"

"She had other, qualities, that may have provoked someone. I can't imagine it had anything at all to do with Giselle Frackle's listing."

"I disagree. Some sort of connection seems likely," Jeff said. "Two high profile real estate murders, big, big, bucks all around..."

Marcos put his arm around Mark and cooed. "Let's talk about something, a little less bloody, maybe?"

Safada didn't seem much interested in the conversation about the killings. She whirled to face Mark, her eyes taking in the handsome Marcos as well. "So you me betray with this _moreno baixinho,_ this little dark man?"

Marcos looked at Mark with a confused expression. "You mean you and her are, were...?

"No," Mark answered forcefully. "Of course not." He put his hand on Marcos' shoulder, taking a slow squeeze. Marcos smiled, appearing pacified, though his eyes twitched.

"Perhaps you're not at liberty to talk about it, Safada," Jeff said, "but the whole town is very curious to know what's going to happen now with Mrs. Frackle's home."

Safada didn't immediately respond. She seemed to be in a state of mild confusion, her eyes darting from one person to the other. Ella figured maybe she was going into bi-sexual overload, surrounded as she was by attractive people of both sexes.

Safada collected herself. "I don't know, but," she said giving Ella a sexy smile, "you stay close, go again us visit."

The familiar thrill of new business tingled Ella's earning bone when an unexpected, flying movement caught her eye. She drew in her breath sharply. "Look!" she cried. Everyone spun. Unsurprisingly, one of the waiters had lost control mid-vault. The Jerry Lewis character careered through the bounteous air of the City Hall rotunda in an arcing, wobbly catapult, heading straight for the ice sculpture. And Giselle Frackle.

In the final instant, he let go of the power pogo, freeing the stick, champagne glasses and organic appetizers to take flight independently.

"Olha chefona, tenha cuidado," screamed Safada, in less than helpful Portuguese.

Giselle and Sanjay chatted obliviously with their backs to the human missile.

"Sanjay!" Ella shouted powerfully at the top of her lungs. Sanjay whipped around, spotted the soaring Jerry and pulled Giselle out of range, just as she reached for an iced jumbo shrimp under the palm themed ice sculpture.

"Ahhrrrr," Giselle gargled, not liking to be forcefully separated from her food. Jerry Lewis landed with a jarring crash, disintegrating the ice sculpture and collapsing the linen covered serving table. Glasses, jumbo shrimp, finger sandwiches and tableware flew in all directions. The pogo stick landed with a clatter on the marble floor behind the table, as the string quartet and excited hubbub of the cocktail reception came to a quick, discordant halt.

"I think that's the last time we'll ever see Extreme Pogoing at the Opera," Mark said

Everyone rushed over to the scene. Splayed out like an avant-garde hors d'oeuvre among the shrimp and spilled champagne, the dazed young waiter took off his mask. He looked around sheepishly before Mark and Marcos rushed to his aid. Safada fussed noisily over Giselle, as did Kearney Frackle and his young, raven haired companion. The society photographers flashed away.

"What happened, what happened, oh Safada, where are you?" cried Giselle, obviously confused and frightened.

"I here, I here, no worry, Giselle," Safada replied, looking flushed and concerned. She tried to take Giselle's bony hand from Sanjay, who held it with all the warmth he might reserve for a cereal box. He resisted slightly but Safada's eyes flashed, sending a warning look he quickly obeyed.

Ella found it interesting that Giselle called for Safada before either her son or new found lover, both within arm's reach.

"What happened?" Giselle repeated.

"Mother, the waiter took a fall next you," Kearney said.

"A fall, is that what it was? I thought it was the big one, 1906 all over again," she said, looking up at the still intact City Hall rotunda. The sycophantic crowd tittered at her weak joke. Kearney Frackle's date with the porcelain complexion laughed the loudest.

"But ma'am, I must tell you," Sanjay said in his lilting Indian accent, "this nice lady here, she warned us." He took Ella by the arm and gently pulled her front and center. "This allowed me to save you." Ella marveled at the clever way he put himself first.

Giselle, in all her Gallic glory, turned to cast her eyes on Ella. "What's that on your bosom, young lady?" she asked, wagging a finger at the hibiscus like attachment affixed to Ella's bright red dress. Everyone within earshot immediately locked eyes on Ella's breasts. She self consciously covered the floral accessory with one hand.

Kearney stepped in to the rescue. "I think we should thank this woman for helping you, don't you agree, Mother?"

Nearby the wait staff began cleaning up the mess and resetting the serving table, sans ice sculpture. The string quartet struck up Vivaldi's Four Seasons and the crowd drifted away, interest on the wane with no one seriously hurt.

"Actually, we've met before," Ella said, recognizing an opportunity when she saw one. Even if Giselle didn't remember her. "I met with your mother recently."  
"She real estate person like Tiffany," Safada helpfully added.

"Not exactly like Tiffany. Anyway I've been working..."  
"Don't mention that name again, I won't hear of it," exclaimed Giselle. Sanjay had taken up Giselle's other hand now.

"This lady Ella, she our house come."

Ella had to stop the language slaughter. "Ella Barker, Mrs. Frackle, of Barker Brokers Real Estate." She extended her hand, but Giselle's hands were occupied with her caretakers, so Ella turned to Kearney.

"Your mother kindly met with me when she interviewed brokers for her home in Sea Cliff."

"Oh yes, I recognize your name from the list," Kearney said.

The list? Ella thought.

"Your name is known in many of the right circles," he went on, speaking with the unconscious snobbery of the born rich. She glanced over to see Jeff, Mark and Marcos hanging back a short distance away, watching with keen interest. Jeff winked at Ella, flashing a quick smile.

"By the way, that's very exciting about Frackle Business Machine's IPO," Ella said, trying to keep the conversation going.

"Thank you, we're anticipating great interest." He addressed Giselle. "Mother, meeting this woman brings up an important matter. If you're going to sell your home, someone's got to do it. It seems that you are out one real estate agent at the present time. I think we have a good replacement candidate right here." He looked at Ella regally, as if perusing a race horse.

Although Ella found his choice of words somewhat degrading, she was ecstatic about his pronouncement. Giselle merely looked at Ella and said in her gravelly voice, "sure, why the hell not? Sanjay, bring me more champagne."

While not exactly the vote of confidence Ella would have preferred, it was a "yes" nonetheless. She had the Frackle listing!

Safada wet her lips, and smiled with great warmth. "Congratulations. Come over tour house tomorrow." The she lowered her voice. "Many bedrooms I have show you."

"Wait just a minute," Kearney said, handing Ella his business card. "Let's not put the cart before the horse."

Safada snapped her head toward Giselle's son. "What? What mean that?"

Kearney ignored his mother's glamorous maid. "Call me tomorrow and we'll go over the details," he said, before leaning in close to Ella. "This isn't your typical contract arrangement. It's a good deal more exciting, and as I'm sure you'll agree, more lucrative as well."

Ella smiled warmly. "I look forward to speaking with you tomorrow, Kearney."

*******

After the pogo disaster, the reception picked up for another hour, though the Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World servers assumed more traditional roles, passing through the crowd on foot.

Thrilled with the turn of events, while at the same time bracing herself for the Opera performance, Ella joined the pack drifting out of City Hall across Van Ness Avenue to the Opera House. The crossing was no easy undertaking, and quite a lengthy process as well taking into consideration the average age of the attendees. But what with winning the Frackle listing, and one arm hooked in the elbow of her dashing date, Ella couldn't have been happier. She was approaching the nexus of her career, and felt confident she'd sell the Frackle Mansion soon. But something niggled the edge of her conscience.

"Jeff, you know the old saying 'over my dead body?'" The light changed and they started across the broad avenue.

"Yeah, why?"

"I don't know how I feel about this, sure it's huge, but what does it mean, do you think, that I got this listing literally over someone's dead body, Tiffany Reynolds' to be precise?"

"It means you deserve it. Look, Tiffany's death had nothing to do with you, and someone's got to sell that mansion, so why shouldn't it be you?"

Ella thought for a moment. "It's...I don't know...messy. Like bad Karma or something."

"Bad Karma? Give me a break, it's business."

"You're right."

The buzz of the crowd overwhelmed their conversation when they entered the War Memorial Opera House, a grand French Renaissance style structure built in the early 1930s, the façade freely decorated with Doric columns, balustrades and high arched windows. The vaulted and coffered lobby echoed with jabbering excitement as the opening night throng crowded its way forward. The more exalted audience members followed signs to the Box and Orchestra seats, while lesser beings ascended to the balconies. Jeff and Ella had switched tickets with colleagues in order to sit together, sixth row center in the Orchestra. Not that Ella cared about the performance, but the seats rated a definite plus on the status scale.

A vivid blue dress caught Ella's eye in the foyer, and before she could turn the other way, she and Jeff stood face to face with the amazonic Delicia Cardosa and Hank Barker, Ella's ex-husband. The blue in Delicia's dress practically vibrated, rich and deep like the waters off Hawaii. It covered only one shoulder, before sloping down across her graceful clavicle and cosmetically enhanced bust to disappear under a slender arm. The dress hugged her voluptuous body nearly to the floor, where it flared out at the ankles, mermaid-like. She wore an oversized, angled white hat more appropriate for promenading down Fifth Avenue on Easter Sunday than an autumn evening in San Francisco. White stilettos rounded out the package. A very light skinned Latina in her early 40's, Delicia had big red glossy lips which contrasted with her long, luxurious once-dark hair, now dyed blonde. Ella could see the roots.

Delicia fixed her black, Colombian eyes on Ella and smiled, a look of victorious contempt raining down from above, the look of a woman for whom everything had always come easy, one who had never been denied. She exuded personal power, and in her vicinity one could almost pick up the rich aroma of coffee, the heady scent of her endless fortune, descended from the plantations of Medellin.

"Why Ella," she said in accent free English, "what a surprise. I expected you would be sitting higher up. Hank and I are entertaining the Finnish royal family in our private box."

Ella looked at Hank, who smiled in a non-committal way. Hank had just turned 50, a date not unnoticed by Ella the previous week. She refrained from congratulating him. He was athletic and tall, a slender, light skinned investment banker with a thin, handsome face. A senior partner in his firm, with the eye popping earning power to match, he had a full head of white hair and the requisite tuxedo. Ella still found him attractive.

"How nice for you," Ella answered. "I'd like you both to meet Jeff Arnold."

The men shook hands while Delicia looked down on Jeff. "And what business are you in, Mr. Arnold?" she inquired.

"I'm a mortgage broker."

"Not a bad business to be in these days," Hank said amiably.

"I suppose there are those who need mortgages," Delicia sniffed.

Ella just wanted to escape. Despite her exciting new sex life with Jeff, even hearing about Hank could bring on painful pangs, much less running into him with the very woman who had made such a determined and successful effort to steal him away.

"By the way, I do imagine you've heard we're expecting."

Ella froze at Delicia's pronouncement, a stabbing pain shooting through her chest and stomach. She looked searchingly at Hank, who avoided her gaze. Hank convinced Ella in the early years of their marriage that children would only get in the way of their freedom and careers. He'd driven home the supposed fact that they would always have each other and could seek comfort, companionship and fulfillment through their lasting and committed marriage. So much for that. With her own career looming large and bountiful, Ella had reluctantly agreed. Only much later did she seriously regret not having a child, but by that time the hour had passed.

Jeff took his cue from Ella's expression. "Congratulations, you must be very excited. But we've got to get to our seats." He took Ella's hand securely in his, and led her quickly away from Delicia and Hank.

*******

During the opera, Ella's mind raced in a tangle of jumbled emotions, what with the joy of securing the Frackle listing on the one hand, and the pain of Delicia and Hank's pregnancy on the other. In the end, distraction helped her make it through the Weimarian performance, despite the avant-garde thinking involved in adapting a zany 20th century American comedy with an Italian art form invented in the 17th. Chasing a fortune across the southern California landscape just didn't mix with the dour chants and yodels drawn from the German creator's musical imagination.

Nevertheless wild applause, cheering and "Bravos!" filled the theatre after the more than welcome finale. As Ella and Jeff inched their way their way back out to the lobby, she began to feel better about the encounter with Hank. It could still hurt momentarily, but how he must have changed to put up with that pretentious phony Delicia, no matter what the size of her fortune.

Once back in City Hall, Ella and her tablemates took their seats for dinner in the North Light Court. As a Gold Level sponsor, the second highest level available, Barker Brokers' table commanded a position slightly off to one side for the all important game of see and be seen. Along with Ella, Jeff, Mark, Marcos, and Ella's loyal secretary Bootsie, Ella bestowed coveted invitations upon several of her top agents and loyal office managers.

Giselle Frackle reigned on high from a more prestigious, centrally located table, as she was naturally a top Platinum Level sponsor. Ditto Delicia and Hank, but all sat within a generally close view of one another.

"My feet hurt," Ella said quietly to Mark, who sat to her left. "These shoes are killing me."

"Take 'em off, no one'll see under the tablecloth."

Ella discreetly leaned down to unfasten the ankle straps of her sandals. Using one foot, then the other, she slipped the appealing but torturous shoes off, a wave of relief flooding over her sore feet.

"What's going on?" Bootsie asked. She turned around toward the entrance of the North Light Court, where some sort of commotion had broken out, with people speaking in loud, undignified voices.

Ella craned her neck. "I can't see anything. Can you?" she asked Jeff.

Before he could answer, a small group of uniformed police officers and Lt. Guy Rothschild of the SFPD appeared in the midst of the crowded room. They stopped at the Barker Brokers table. Ella expected them to keep moving, but the Lieutenant looked straight into her eyes. She gripped Jeff's arm.

"Ella Barker?" the lieutenant asked in a booming voice, his tone entirely too serious for Ella's taste.

"Yes?" she responded dubiously.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Tiffany Reynolds."

Gasps and shocked murmurs undulated noisily through the socially prominent opera crowd.

"What?" Ella asked. "There must be some kind of mistake." Beyond the cops she could see Giselle Frackle, fork frozen in mid-flight on the way to her gaping mouth. Safada's emerald eyes were riveted on Ella.

"We're going to have to ask you to come with us."

"But.."

"You have the right to remain silent..."

"Honey," Mark said urgently, "don't worry, we're behind you, I know you're innocent."

"Innocent? All this talk of crime, I..."

Jeff kissed her on the cheek. "Sshhh, something's obviously very wrong, don't say anything else."

Bootsie, Marcos and Ella's other guests only stared. By now the entire dinner crowd had gone completely silent, utterly captivated.

One of the uniformed cops came around behind Ella's chair holding a pair of handcuffs. "Please stand up, Mrs. Barker."

Ella felt sick to her stomach. Cameras flashed, and several bystanders pointed cell phones in her direction. But she managed to somehow stand, her bare stocking'd feet flat on the cold marble floor. The officer pulled one arm then the other behind her back, locking her wrists into the uncomfortable vice-like grip of the metal restraints.

"Please come with us," Lt. Rothschild said.

"Ella, your purse," Mark said. One of the cops took the small clutch from Mark's outstretched arm.

The arresting officer pulled Ella away from her Gold Level sponsor table, and began to weave through the packed tables toward the door.

Jeff threw his chair back from the table. "I'm going with you."

"Me too," said Mark.

"Gentlemen," Lt. Rothschild said sternly, "you can go down to the station, but you cannot accompany Mrs. Barker."

Ella looked around frantically for signs of comfort, her gaze instead landing on Delicia Cardosa, who sat back in her chair, arms crossed, a look of sheer amazement on her face. Hank looked at Ella helplessly, and shrugged. She glanced down at her shoeless feet, then swept her panicked gaze around the room again. This time she saw Kearney Frackle and his pixie-ish date. Kearney slowly shook his head, waving his jowls at her.

Safada however, realized Ella's shoes were missing.

" _Espera aí_ ," she yelled. "Wait moment now." She jumped up from her table and ran to Ella's, swooping in under the tablecloth to grab Ella's elegant, lonely sandals.

Ella neared the entrance of the North Light Court. The blinding light of a TV camera awaited. Then another, and another. Safada ran up, handing off the shoes to one of the cops.

"Here, your feets remain warm." The flimsy, heeled sandals were hardly intended to provide warmth, but Ella looked at Safada gratefully. Safada smiled wanly, then drifted back.

"Why did you do it? Why did you kill Tiffany Reynolds?" asked a sharp female voice. Ella looked around to see Chirley Wixon, the reporter from Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12. "Did you want the Frackle listing that bad?"

Chapter 11

The next flash Ella saw blazed forth from the mug shot camera in the San Francisco jail. Actually she'd been taken to the architecturally significant County Jail number 9 on Seventh Street, which handles intake duties. After the photo and fingerprinting they moved her to a holding cell.

Ella's extravagant, brilliant red opera gown fell into the general scheme of some of the other wardrobe choices made by incoming prisoners. Mostly prostitutes, she noted however. This being her first ever incarceration, Ella quickly became aware that in jail one sees, and hears, extremes of human behavior. Screams, shrieks, accusations and pleas echoed through the county jail's 19 holding tanks. Ella had been subdued and scared since her ordeal began, and as a result of her tranquil behavior was spared a so-called safety cell, in essence solitary confinement. Later she wished maybe she'd acted up more.

Ten or so women occupied the holding cell when Ella made her entrance. Some sat on bunks, staring blankly forward, one or two laid with their faces to the wall. Another yammered away on the prisoner phone in the corner. One woman in her late 30's, face and teeth scarred by the obvious and excessive use of methamphetamine, turned her skanky visage and ratty, dull hair toward the tank's latest arrival.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," she drawled. "You been workin' the Nob Hill hotels?"

Ella looked at the woman in disgust, ignoring her. She wanted only to use the phone, but judging by the ongoing, rambling conversation this would not happen anytime soon.

The meth woman's hot, stinky breath suddenly steamed up the back of her neck. She'd leapt to her feet and rushed up behind Ella. "What's the matter, honey, you takin' a big fall from your high falutin' fancy schmancy soc-i-ety life? You think you're too good fur us here?"

Ella looked quickly around toward the cell door. No jailer patrolled the corridor and she didn't have it in her to scream, nor did she actually feel that threatened. More repulsed than anything. To think an hour or so ago she'd been sitting in the War Memorial Opera House enduring a Teutonic adaptation of "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World" with a Who's Who crowd of San Francisco's most elegant, connected and moneyed. And what a mad world it was, she considered, that someone in her exalted financial and social position could plummet so far, so fast. The Who's Who of County Jail number 9 had a very different and more complex makeup than that of the North Light Court in City Hall.

She walked away from the meth hag over to the phone, where the caller wore a halter top, hot pants and steep heels. Did people really still dress like this? She tapped the anorexic looking woman on the back.

Whirling instantly, the woman hissed, "What?"

"I was just wondering, how much longer will you be? I'd like to make a call."

The woman looked at Ella and laughed cruelly. "I bet you would." She turned her back and continued chattering dramatically.

A voice from a nearby bunk pierced the holding tank's fetid atmosphere. "Hey shut up, will ya?"

The voice reverberated with a disturbing familiarity. Ella looked over just as the brawny woman rolled away from the wall.

She locked eyes with Roberta Littlefeather-Jones.

*******

Roberta's thick upper lip trembled in a kind of happy sneer when her gaze fell upon Ella, all decked out in her frilly ensemble.

"Oh my god, Roberta, what happened?" Ella asked a little too quickly.

Roberta slowly pulled herself to her feet and hiked up her 501s. "This has just got to be the coincidence of the year," she said, approaching Ella with a swagger. "But I think the real question is, what the hell did you do?"

"Ahh, nothing..."

"Everyone in jail is innocent, ain't that the truth?"

"I am innocent."

"Of what?"

Ella did not want to answer this question. She found the accusation simply too horrible, too unbelievable, to even mention out loud. "It's a big mistake," was all she said.

Roberta gave Ella the up-down, eyeing the flamboyant dress. "It sure looks like a mistake." She stepped closer, then without any warning raised her arm and slapped Ella across the face. "That's what I'm in for, slappin' Starka around. She asked for it."

Roberta's slap hit her with cold, blunt force, nothing like the newfound thrill of the sexy, highly charged smacks she'd recently exchanged with Jeff.

"Why you little..."

"Little what, Miss Real Estate perfect, dyke?"

"Oh god, you've really got me wrong," Ella said, holding one hand to her stinging cheek. "That's the last thing I care about, who sleeps with who. No, what I was saying is you've got a freakin' multiple personality. You were so nice when I met you, and now you've turned."

Roberta flinched. "You made us write that sickening, ass-kissing letter to the sellers. You called that trashy neighborhood the 'new Pacific Heights.'"

Ella admitted to herself Roberta's claims were true. But she said nothing, only looking the other woman in the eye.

Roberta's angry expression transformed into one of profound sadness. "Tell them I didn't mean to hurt Starka. Tell them I love her." A tear streamed out of one bulging eye.

"I'm not sure how much pull I've got around here." She peered over and saw the phone was free. She fled the blubbering Roberta to call Mark Allen. She needed him now for his connections, principally his Attorney General dad.

When she reached for the phone, she heard the tap, tap, tap of running footsteps on the cold floor. She turned to see the wasted looking meth hag flying across the holding tank. "You made Roberta cry," she wailed, landing on Ella's back like a clinging monkey.

"Yeah, you made me cry," said Roberta. Ella heard one additional comment before Roberta's fist slammed into the side of her head. "This one's for the creative financing."

*******

"Not more TV lights," Ella murmured. Her eyes fluttered open to see Lt. Rothschild and another man staring down at her.

"Those are hospital lights. You're in the prison ward at SF General," said the Lieutenant.

"Wha? How?" She looked around the room, the cold, hard reality of her situation hitting home. Bland colored walls, thick unbreakable windows, a uniformed officer standing guard at the door. At least she had a private room, better than the holding tank.

"Mrs. Barker, this is my colleague, Detective Jemiah Gunner."

Through her sharpening vision, Ella could see that Det. Gunner was a block of a man, but better dressed than Lt. Rothschild. He was in his later 20's and must have been a football player in earlier times, in that he lacked a neck and had a college stud's square face.

"How do you do, ma'am," he said. He held up a small machine in his hand. "Please be aware this conversation is being recorded." He murmured something into the recorder. Ella heard her name and the date.

"You just can't seem to stay out of trouble, can you, Mrs. Barker?" Lt. Rothschild asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Not even an hour behind bars and already you're involved in a prison brawl?"

"It wasn't my fault."

"Of course not, it never is."

Ella woke up more now. Her head pounded, and her shoulders hurt from the meth hag's claws. The chafing of a paper hospital dress replaced the soft fabric of her gown. "This is abuse. I have done nothing wrong, you publicly humiliated me and have grievously injured me professionally. Not to mention I was attacked in jail."

"The victims say you provoked them," said Rothschild.

"Victims? I was the victim."

"However the two women have elected not to press charges."

Ella was stunned. "Why am I here? I did not kill Tiffany Reynolds. Or that Italian man-whore."

"You had me fooled that day in your office. All cool and professional-like. But then we starting doing some checking."

"You will find absolutely no evidence. I'm innocent."

"We believe you with regard to Mr. Grosso's death in the hot tub," Det. Gunner said quietly.

"I should hope so, I was right there, I could have been hit as well."

"We have witnesses who back that up, don't worry."

"Well I am worried, you're accusing me of a murder I didn't commit."

"Are there any others you did commit?" Rothschild asked.

Ella glared at the detective.

Gunner continued. "Maybe there was a good reason for what happened to Miss Reynolds. We're hoping you can help us out with that."

Ella liked Gunner better than Rothschild, he seemed more reasonable. "There's no way I can help, I mean, I don't know who did it."

"We have in our possession evidence that strongly implicates you," Rothschild said. "Otherwise the District Attorney wouldn't be charging you with first degree murder, Ella."

Such a loaded statement naturally frightened her, but still she didn't like the Lieutenant's condescending use of her first name. "I don't even know how to fire a gun."

"How do you know it was a gun?"  
"Come on, it's all over the news."

"Oh, that's right," he said. He opened his briefcase and took out a piece of paper encased in a clear, plastic slip cover. "How do you explain this?"

"What is it?" Ella asked.

"We found it in your residence."

"You've been in my home?"

"We obtained a search warrant and went through your home and offices."

"Unfortunately we had to," Gunner added.

Ella squinted but couldn't clearly see the paper without her glasses. However she did recognize the California Association of Realtors logo in the upper left hand corner. Her stomach dropped. Lt. Rothschild obligingly brought the document closer so she could get a better look.

"I think we all know what this is. How do you happen to have Tiffany Reynolds' original listing agreement with Giselle Frackle?"

Ella swallowed hard but said nothing.

"Complete with traces of Tiffany's blood and grass stains matched to the scene?"

Ella remained silent. Her mind spun. She needed a lawyer, she had to talk to Mark.

"It'll be a lot easier if you just tell us what happened," Det. Gunner said softly. "We can help you, make sure everyone knows your side of the story."

Ella looked Gunner straight in the eyes.

"It probably wasn't even your fault," he said. "Did Tiffany do something to bring this on herself?"

She pursed her lips tight.

"So, you're clamming up?" Rothschild said. "It's not just this piece of paper that incriminates you. We also found Tiffany's blood and bits of Giselle Frackle's lawn and soil on your shoes, and in your car."

Ella was surprised they'd found anything in the Mercedes. She'd taken it to the most expensive boutique car wash in the city, where a beehive of Mexican immigrants meticulously vacuumed, washed and polished each vehicle that rolled through. But then she hadn't expected DNA hunters, either.

"We want to believe you didn't do it, Mrs. Barker," Gunner said. "But as Lieutenant Rothschild says, the evidence is very strong. Maybe you have an alibi, and we've made a mistake. Can you tell us where you were that night, around midnight?"

She'd only make it worse if she tried to explain now.

Lt. Rothschild spoke first. "In addition to the listing agreement and the physical evidence, a neighbor witnessed a vehicle on the scene that matches the description of your black Mercedes." This Ella saw on the news.

"Shall I go on?" he asked rhetorically. "Then there's the subject of motive. Last night at the opera, with Tiffany Reynolds dead and gone, you were awarded the listing to sell the Frackle mansion. That's what we detectives would call a very good example of cause and effect. It's not lookin' so good, Ella."

By now she disliked Lt. Rothschild very much, horrified by his accusatory tone and general lack of respect.

"We're all struggling to survive, Mrs. Barker," Gunner said. "In a way I can understand why someone might do it, that's a massive commission at stake, especially with all those stock options."

Ella looked straight ahead, focusing on the wall opposite her prison ward hospital bed. "I'm not saying another word until I speak to my lawyer."

*******

Later, after a worried conversation with Mark where he assured her his father would promptly recommend a top notch criminal defense lawyer, Ella warily switched on the TV hanging from the wall in front of her bed. While not at all sure she wanted to watch the hysteria which most assuredly surrounded her arrest, she couldn't resist. She'd been allowed no visitors in the hospital prison ward, so television at least allowed a tenuous, though most likely disturbing, connection to the outside world.

Her assumption immediately proved correct. A double punch of profound distress and embarrassment swept over her even before the Action News 12 anchor spoke. He stood on a shiny black stage next to a looming, colorful life size image of Ella. The station's graphics department had procured a smiling "before" photo snapped the previous night at the opera. Although flattering and she looked gorgeous in her red gown, the artsy folks at the station had superimposed the Frackle Mansion in the background and a blood drenched hunting rifle into her hands. The oversize caption read "Barker Broker Bloodbath."

Good Evening, I'm Thad Leader. Her name is Ella Barker, and she's one of San Francisco's most successful real estate agents – and according to police, a vicious, cold blooded murderess.

Thad turned to face the second camera.

It's an old story – a young rival, professional jealousy and a pot of gold, or in this case millions of dollars in high end sales commission. That's what cops say led to the spectacular and bizarre murder of brilliant young land trader and mayoral love interest Tiffany Reynolds.

Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12's Chirley Wixon has been following this story from the beginning. We go to her LIVE right now this very minute at San Francisco General Hospital. Chirley?

That's right, Thad, I'm at San Francisco General where accused Sea Cliff killer Ella Barker is locked up, after coming to blows with fellow prisoners in the county jail last night. She remains under heavy guard as we speak.

Ella sat up in bed, frozen in position, eyes wide open in horror. Her temples throbbed not only from Roberta Littlefeather-Jones' jail house pounding but from pure, unadulterated shock. Up until now she hadn't really accepted what was happening, she'd expected everyone would quickly figure out the mistake. But that gilded hope seemed to fade as fast as her once sterling reputation.

The video rolled, and the first images showed Ella being led off barefoot from the post-opera dinner gala, all trussed up in her gown but obviously handcuffed. She saw Safada run quickly into the frame and hand off the red heeled sandals to one of the cops.

Ella Barker is the owner of Barker Brokers Properties, one of the leading real estate companies in the Bay Area. Police arrested her last night at the annual opening of the San Francisco Opera, charging her with first degree murder.

The video changed to a favorite rerun of Tiffany's body being removed from the For Sale sign in front of the Frackle Mansion.

The victim, Tiffany Reynolds, had the bad luck to win an informal but high stakes contest among San Francisco's top realtors. She obtained the listing to sell philanthropist Giselle Frackle's seventy million dollar mansion in the Sea Cliff neighborhood. No one knew just how competitive that struggle had become. Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12 has obtained this exclusive video of accused murderess Ella Barker. Watch as she uses her powerful, five hundred horsepower Mercedes automobile to push the much younger and more fragile Tiffany Reynolds out of her way.

Chirley Wixon's excited commentary faded into the background when Ella saw the exclusive video. The camera setup at the Frackle Mansion front gate had recording capability, Ella immediately realized, something Safada had failed to mention.

The images began out of context, and showed nothing of Tiffany's initial aggression in her BMW. Instead the video showed a rather angry and determined looking Ella behind the wheel of her car, clouds of burning rubber rising as her rear wheels spun. She hadn't realized there'd been so much smoke. Tiffany looked frightened. The rest of the scene played out for everyone to feast on, including Ella's triumphant roar past her vanquished opponent.

Safada popped up next. The descriptive bar on the screen said "Safada da Silva, Giselle Frackle's Personal Asst." She'd apparently been notified in advance of the interview, judging from her careful makeup, jewelry and fine clothing.

Me get scared when Miss Ella arrested. Tell police with fight with car. I hope she no kill Missus Frackle.

Ella gasped. Then came her assistant Bootsie, who stood alongside Mark outside the Barker Brokers office at Yerba Buena Gardens.

Chirley Wixon: _Why do you think Ella Barker killed Tiffany Reynolds?_

Bootsie: _She didn't. This is all a horrible mistake. Ella would never hurt a fly, she's a fine woman, a woman of integrity._

Chirley: _Umm hummm, right. Mr. Allen, what do you think? Isn't Ella Barker already wealthy enough, is it financial blood lust?_

Mark: _You're just hell bent on convicting her, aren't you? What did she ever do to you? Ella is my best friend, she's innocent._

Ella choked up hearing her friends' loyal comments. Dear Bootsie and Mark, she thought tearfully. The report switched to images of Salchiço Grosso, pumping away in one of his porn film roles.

So far police haven't charged Ella Barker in the murder of the young model and pornographic film star Salchiço Grosso, shot and killed two weeks ago at an open house in San Francisco's Noe Valley.

Chirley Wixon sounded disappointed.

Police say the bullets don't match the same gun - and Ella Barker was physically present at that open house and could not have fired the long distance shot.

The next soundbite came from Lt. Rothschild.

With the Tiffany Reynolds murder, we're not discounting the idea that it could be a copy cat killing, that Mrs. Barker tried to pin it on whoever took out the porno kid. But if that's the case it didn't work. Blood and other forensic evidence clearly place Ella Barker at the Reynolds death scene.

Ella stiffened with indignation.

What about the security cameras at the mansion gate, Lieutenant? What do they show?

Unfortunately nothing, the area where Miss Reynolds was found is just out of range of the camera's vision.

The report cut to Starka Littlefeather-Jones, standing in front of the ramshackle home she and Roberta were buying. "Oh no," Ella said out loud.

Ella Barker is an opportunist. She has my wife and I, not to mention our unborn baby, in debt up to our ears and she doesn't care. She talked us into a bad deal on this hideous, overpriced shack. She's threatened us with lawyers if we try and back out. We're locked in, we have to buy it now and we don't even want it. All Ella Barker cares about is making money.

The video switched back to Ella's glamorous, humiliating arrest at the Opera, with a police officer's hand pushing her head down into the back seat of a patrol car.

A bit of poetic justice as well tonight. With Tiffany Reynolds dead, Giselle Frackle did in fact award Ella Barker the right to sell her Sea Cliff mansion. But that happened before Barker's arrest.

Now Kearney Frackle's jowled countenance filled the screen.

Obviously we will not be contracting the services of an accused murderer. Speaking for my mother, I can say Ella Barker's right to sell our beloved family home is unequivocally, one hundred percent, revoked.

Reporter Chirley Wixon came back live on camera, looking victorious.

One other thing, Thad. Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12 has discovered that Ella Barker is also a notorious parking scofflaw. Do we have that video? Can you roll it please?

Ella was alarmed to see pictures of her Mercedes, the front end rising slowly on a tow truck's hook and winch. The police had clamped a bright yellow metal "boot" onto the front wheel, the infamous tool used for immobilizing vehicles with an excess of violations.

Yes folks, this is Ella Barker's $140,000 Mercedes. Police towed it last night from a handicapped parking space on Van Ness Avenue one block from the Opera House. The accused murderess...

"Stop calling me that!" Ella called out in vain from her prison hospital bed.

... _has more than six thousand dollars in unpaid parking fines in the city of San Francisco alone. That's in excess of two hundred parking tickets ignored._

Was it really that much, Ella wondered? She thought she'd paid them all.

All this, from one of San Francisco's most wealthy, privileged and successful citizens. Back to you, Thad.

*******

Mark dramatically pushed his hand against the thick glass separating him from Ella in her orange jail issue jumpsuit. "I feel like we're in a Lifetime movie, the persecuted woman torn away from everything dear to her heart."

Ella gripped the telephone handset even more tightly. "This is no time to joke. I've got to get out of here, it's been three days. And since they brought me back from the hospital I'm in a room with two other... creatures. It's awful, Mark, I can't even begin to tell you."

"Hey, I know you're innocent, you know you're innocent. How's the lawyer Dad set you up with?"

"He's not sure he can get me out on bail. The arraignment is the day after tomorrow. He said in such a high profile case, the prosecutor will argue bail would make it look like, how did he put it, the better off, receive special treatment. They may want to make an example out of me."

"They're gonna leave you here to rot in the Glamour Slammer?"

"What're you talking about?"

"Glamour Slammer, that's what they call this jail building, with all its curvy modern architecture."

"Mark, please. I'm very worried. About my business, my future, myself. I'm scared as hell."

"What's there to be scared of? You're a TV star now."

"I'm serious. And I don't need to be reminded about the TV circus. I've seen enough."

"Ever since you made your..." Mark hesitated, "...public debut, the Frackle listing is huge talk around town. I suppose you've heard the latest?"

Ella shook her head in knowing acceptance. "Yes, Bootsie told me about Gordon Elway. That doesn't surprise me. Giselle went back to someone she's known for a while.

Mark changed the subject. "You know Ella, Jeff called me. He said he tried to visit and you wouldn't see him."

She looked Mark in the eyes. "I've been dating this man for three weeks. I mean, yeah, the sex is great, but my head is too overloaded right now. I'm doing my best to deal with my business, thank god for Bootsie. But Jeff, he's... " she trailed off.

Mark looked at his watch. "I think our twenty minutes are about up."

"Wait, Mark," Ella said, "there's something I'd like you to do for me."

Chapter 12

"How do you plead?"

Ella held her head high. "Not guilty." She could see the riveted courtroom out of the corner of her eye. Thank god the judge had banned cameras.

"Excuse me, your honor." A man's voice interrupted from the back of the cavernous, richly paneled room. Ella turned to see Lt. Rothschild's partner, Detective Gunner coming in through the double doors. "My name is Jemiah Gunner, SFPD. I apologize for interrupting, but it's of great importance to the case at hand."

The packed courtroom erupted in murmurs and speculation. "Order, order," the judge commanded, pounding her wooden gavel. The sharp crack of the judicial mallet and a stern eye quieted the uproar without delay.

"This can't wait?" asked the judge, a strict, grey haired woman in her late 50's. Known as a no-nonsense jurist who presided over a rigorous courtroom, she exhibited little tolerance for legal shenanigans. "We're in the middle of an arraignment, if you hadn't noticed."

"I am aware of that, your honor, but I respectfully request a moment of the court's time."

"As you wish, but it better be good," the judge said, gaveling again. "The court will recess for five minutes."

Ella looked at her $1,500 per hour Los Angeles attorney, who shrugged.

"Beats me," he said quietly. His appearance screamed mafia lawyer, with silver hair slicked back and suit all shiny. Expensive, gaudy jewelry decorated oversized hands and wrists. Despite, or perhaps because of, these Little Italy accoutrements, he had an unfailing reputation for getting his clients off the hook.

She watched intently as Detective Gunner approached the bench, the despicable Lt. Rothschild joining him. The three conferred in serious whispers. Ella scrutinized the judge's face for clues, but picked up nothing. Detective Gunner finished talking and the judge addressed the courtroom.

"Would counsel for the defense and prosecution please approach the bench?"

*******

Ella burst forth from the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street, unexpectedly triumphant. The sun shone gloriously, casting a brilliant sheen upon the press gaggle waiting on the courthouse steps. At the sight of the pack, she seized up with hostility.

"Ella, how do you feel?" shouted one reporter, notebook in hand.

A second cut off the first. "When did you find out Gordon Elway'd been shot and killed?"

Television cameras pointed at her. "Do you still want to sell the Frackle mansion?"

Ella ignored the questions and pushed forward, grasping Mark's hand. Bootsie pressed in close on her other side. She could have used her lawyer's advice out here, she hadn't expected such a grilling, but she'd released him the moment the judge dropped the charges. At his hourly rate she figured she'd go it alone. One thing did work out very well though, sending Bootsie and Mark to her home to pick out a well considered outfit for the arraignment.

"If they're gonna make an example out of me because I'm quote, better off, meaning I've worked hard all my life, and made a few bucks, I might as well look the part." Her ensemble projected a low key, unpretentious style albeit one that didn't come cheap. The lack of a jailhouse hair salon necessitated a simple wash and dry.

Ella took a deep breath, pulling in the sweet, fresh outdoor air. She stopped to face the cameras.

"How do I feel, one of you asked? I feel vindicated, though it's going to take some time to recover from the vicious attacks upon my reputation, mainly by you people, the press. And I mourn the death of my colleague Gordon Elway."

"Thatta a girl," Bootsie said.

Unfazed, the reporters fired more questions. "What about your injuries? We heard you got into a fight in jail."

"Physically, I'm on the mend after being set upon and beaten while unjustly imprisoned."

Now that she'd spoken, the reporters pushed in even closer, like a herd of cattle rushing into the chute. Several TV cameras came to within inches of her face, giving her an unblinking, claustrophobic taste of scorching fame. How did well known people, movie stars and the like, live with this, she wondered? Everyone shouted questions, but reporter Chirley Wixon's voice rose above the din.

"Ella Barker, still, how do you explain the blood in your car? Did you have anything to do with Gordon Elway's murder? Do you feel bad that you're free because he's dead?"

Ella stopped in her tracks, looking Chirley in the eye. "How dare you even speak to me."

Mark protectively cut in front of Ella. "I'll second that. You're a sorry excuse for a reporter, destroying lives, making wild accusations, running around all chipper while using your camera to hack away at people..."

Ella laid a hand on Mark's arm. "Mark, it's OK, let's just get going."

"Kill the messenger, huh?" Chirley replied with a self satisfied smile.

"If I was your mother, I'd slap you to Timbuktu," interjected Bootsie, probably saying the most cruel thing she could think of.

Then Chirley jammed the microphone in Mark's face. "Did your father's connections get Ella Barker off the hook?"

Mark just shook his head. Ella took off through the crowd of reporters and cameras, putting forth a calm and impassive front in the face the repeatedly shouted questions. She went straight to Mark's blue Acura parked at a nearby meter. He beeped open the locks and she practically dove into the back seat, Bootsie following close behind. Just before they slammed the doors, Lt. Rothschild poked his head inside.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

"You!" Ella said accusingly.

"Calm down," he said.

This only irritated Ella more. "I don't need to calm down, I'm the one you threw in prison, remember, the innocent one? You bullied me, and badly scared me."

"I was just doing my job, you know the 'good cop-bad cop' routine. Gunner and I do it all the time."

"Why? In order to intimidate people into making false confessions?"

"No, to get to the truth, and solve crimes. Look, I'm sorry if I was hard on you, but you have to admit the evidence pointed in your direction."

"Sorry is a cheap out."

The disheveled detective looked Ella straight in the eyes. "I mean it."

Ella sighed. "Well I would like to know what happened in there just now." She looked at Mark.

"Fine by me," he said.

"OK Lieutenant, get in."

Rothschild climbed into the front passenger seat. He turned to face the three curious faces. Mark started the car and they took off, leaving the insatiable press ruckus behind.

"Fill me in," Ella said. "All I know is one minute I was facing a first degree murder charge, and the next the judge sets me free, saying new evidence cleared me of any wrongdoing. And poor Gordon Elway is dead. What happened?"

"Mr. Elway was leaving the O'Farrell Theatre last night."

"You mean the Mitchell Brothers, the live porn place?" Ella asked.

"Correction," Mark said. "Mitchell Brother, singular. One of 'em wasted the other back in the 90's, remember?"

"Erotic nude female dancers, in the parlance of the industry," Lt. Rothschild said. "Mr. Elway was standing on the corner of Polk and O'Farrell at 1am, attempting to hail a cab, when he was shot between the eyes."

Ella and Bootsie drew in their breath. "Just like Tiffany," Ella said.

"At least he died happy," Mark said.

"Mark, really," Bootsie said. "Have a little respect."

"And like the previous killings, including the porn kid in Noe Valley," Rothschild said, "the bullet was fired from a long distance. We know as well the same gun was used to kill both Elway and Tiffany Reynolds."

"But not Salchiço Grosso? God how I love that name," Mark said.

"No, he was shot with a different weapon. We haven't been able to locate either one."

"You thought I had 'em stashed away," Ella said. "So in other words, because Gordon was killed while I was in prison, with the same gun used on Tiffany..."

"Since you were in the Big House, you couldn't have shot Gordon," Mark said. "That about says it," replied the Lieutenant.

They stopped at a traffic light, and a news van pulled up alongside, camera pointed out at the window at Ella.

"Will they ever leave me alone?" Ella asked.

The light changed and Mark roared away, executing a quick turn to the right, leaving the news van stuck in traffic and unable to follow.

"Good move," said Rothschild.

"Well I know one thing," Bootsie said, "whoever gets that Frackle listing next better hire a good body guard."

"Not to mention update their will," said Mark.

"We do have a situation here," Lt. Rothschild said.

Then he looked at Ella. "We're not completely done with you yet."

"Haven't you ruined her life enough?" Mark asked.

The cop ignored him. "We're going to want more clarification of what you were doing at the Frackle Mansion the night Tiffany Reynolds was found dead. And how you came to possess a copy of the listing contract between Giselle Frackle and Tiffany..."

"I told you," Ella interrupted, "it was sheer curiousity, with a big dose of stupidity, I admit. I never should have gotten out of my car that night. Speaking of my car, where is it?"

"I still can't believe that judge made you pay those parking tickets," Bootsie said. "After all the trouble you've been through, that's the least they could have done."

"The Benz has been with forensics all week, but they've released it," said Rothschild. "You can pick it up anytime at the city tow yard."

"Ohh, this Blackberry thing keeps going off," Bootsie said, holding the electronic device awkwardly in her lap. "I keep getting messages from the offices."

"What's going on now?" Ella asked.

Bootsie interrupted herself. "Oh wait, did I tell you about your listing, that cottage on Telegraph Hill, the bidding war? Well, I guess not, it was yesterday morning and you were... out of touch. Anyway, two couples bid it up from two million to nine point five, finally one party blinked. But the wife in the losing couple didn't take it too well. She stole a backhoe from a construction site across the street, and tore through the garage door of the house. She was just getting to the kitchen when the police arrived."

"Then what happened?" Ella asked.

"The winners backed out of the deal. The attacker ended up getting the place."

"And Ella gets the commission on a nine million dollar sale," Mark added with a laugh.

"And I thought police work was brutal," said Lt. Rothschild.

"Bootsie," Ella said, pointing to the device in her secretary's hands, "what are those messages you're getting?"

They waited for the light to change at the giant intersection of Mission and South Van Ness. Ella scouted around, but saw no journalistic pursuers.

"It seems a lot of people are calling since the news got out that you've been sprung."

"I have not been sprung, I have been cleared of all charges and released."

"A lot of the callers want to list houses with you personally. And the 24 hour cable stations want interviews."

"Ella," Mark said, "you're famous now, don't you realize that? Everyone wants to be able to say their broker is none other than glam jailbird Ella Barker." Mark turned to the cop. "Speaking for Ella, let me thank you, Lieutenant."

Lt. Rothschild looked confused. "What for?"

"Ella's arrest was pure PR gold. Ella, we've got a lot of houses to sell. Let's get to work."

Ella felt a little giddy, the first tingle of happiness since the arrest nightmare began. "Mark, Bootsie, let's stop by the next open house we see, I don't care if it's a three million dollar teardown. It's been nearly a week, I need a real estate fix. Lieutenant, where can we drop you?"

*******

Of all the pressing messages awaiting Ella upon her return to work, Giselle or Kearney Frackle were noticeably absent from the list. She hadn't expected any word from Kearney after his emphatic statement on television, but somewhere in the back of her mind she thought maybe Giselle would approach her again. Of course, Giselle's scatterbrained personality guaranteed nothing, and she'd plainly forgotten who Ella was on at least two occasions. But still Ella couldn't get over the mansion, despite the striking danger so obviously attached to selling it. Giselle pulled the listing after Gordon's death and as far as Ella knew hadn't signed with another realtor yet.

She could go ahead and call Safada, but instead decided to leave the whole thing for a few days, and see what the police might come up with. Hopefully they'd catch the killer, and Ella could jump back into the game without having to worry about losing her life. She had no intention of ending up as some clownish, bloody prop in the killer's gruesome anti-marketing campaign.

*******

A couple days later, a much more relaxed Ella showed Mark around a vacant, dilapidated two bedroom condo in Cole Valley she wanted him to stage.

"Ella, will somebody really buy this place for six million?"

Footsteps stomping around above cut into their conversation. "That's what I mean," he said, "who wants to pay all that money to hear your neighbor's footsteps and TV?"

"In the bad old days when buyers had leverage, places like this would sit on the market. This one doesn't even have a garage, and you know what it's like trying to park in this neighborhood."

"But it'll sell?"

"In an instant, especially once you've worked your magic."

Mark looked around the drab, unremodeled 1950's era kitchen. "It's gonna take a lot of magic, let me tell you. Hey look, the owner left some booze under the sink."

"Actually," Ella said as she strolled into the kitchen, spotting the five or six filthy jugs of cheap vodka, "that's part of why this place is on the market. The owner is institutionalized. Paranoid alcoholic."

"What?"

"His family had him hauled away..."

"Sort of like you at the opera?"

Ella raised her eyebrows and flashed Mark a look.

"Anyway, he'd been a source of irritation in the neighborhood for years, blaring loud music at all hours. He'd put video cameras in the living room windows, pointing to the street. He'd parade around outside roaring drunk, screaming at anyone who passed by."

"No shit?" Mark asked, as he wiped the vodka bottles clean and stashed them in a box to take home.

"And he'd turn blinding lights into any neighbor's window who complained."

"I think I read about it in the paper."

"You might've, it made headlines when he was taken away." They tracked across the fraying carpet to the living room window.

"What a rat trap," he said, tearing up a corner of the mildewed carpet, exposing the wood floor underneath. "It'll take me a week to get it ready." Ella watched him use a screwdriver to dig out a small section of the rotting, waterlogged planks.

"What it really needs is a completely new floor," he said.

"Just make it look good for an open house. That's all. The buyer won't be allowed an inspection contingency."

"By the way, have you spoken to Jeff yet?"

A voice from outside interrupted their conversation. "Yoo hoo, yoo hoo," a man called out.

"What now?" Ella asked, looking out onto the sidewalk one floor below. The voice emanated from a man in his early 30's, waving up excitedly toward the condo. She slid open one of the rickety metal framed windows. "Yes, can I help you?"

"Is this place coming on the market, do you know by any chance? I know the owner moved out, I'm renting up the block, and I really want to buy in this neighborhood."

"Why yes," Ella responded smoothly. "It just so happens it will be offered for sale, quite soon in fact. I'm the listing broker."

"What luck," the man said. "Any chance I can get in now to take a look?"

She glanced down at the rotting floor. "Unfortunately I'm short on time right now, but I'd be happy to make an appointment to show it to you in a few days. If we work fast, you know, you could even beat the open house and put in a pre-emptive offer. The place is immaculate."

Mark cleared his throat sarcastically. She shot him a furtive "shut up" smile.

"Here," she said, digging into her large purse. "My name is Ella Barker, owner Barker Brokers Properties."

"Wow," the man said, "I knew you looked familiar. It's you."

"Uh hum, yes," Ella said awkwardly, not wanting to touch on the subject of her recent brush with the law.

"See I told you," Mark whispered.

"Here, catch," she said to the man on the street. He opened his hands to field Ella's "business card," a small self-charging cell phone. She always had five or six of these promotional gadgets on hand at any given time. In addition to displaying the ubiquitous Double B logo, each phone came shellacked in the yellow, green and navy stripes of her firm's familiar yard signs. The phones were technically altered to call only a special Barker Brokers sales extension. A caller could enter any combination of numbers, domestic or international, but would always end up speaking with a pleasant Barker Brokers associate offering real estate assistance and appointments with Ella or one of her agents.

"Call me to schedule an appointment."

"Thanks, really. It's a pleasure to meet you, my wife will be thrilled."

"I look forward to speaking with you both," she said in way of goodbye. She turned to Mark. "It looks like you're right. I'm getting more and more business as a result of the jail mess."

"Of course I'm right. Anyway, I was asking you about Jeff.

"I'll call him back tonight. It's taken me a few days to get over all this. The last time I saw him I was being dragged away by the police."

"You mean you're ready to get slapped around again?"

"Mark," Ella said quickly. "Don't you ever breathe a word of what I told you."

"You're secret's safe with me," he said. "But I don't know about a couple of dykes in the county jail. They might have an idea of your new... preferences."

"You think you're very funny. It just so happens I was beaten without provocation or just cause."

"And Jeff has just cause?" he asked with a wink.

She opened a built-in leaded glass cabinet next to the fireplace and took out a stack of magazines. "Eeww, creepy. What are these, mercenary magazines?"

"Hey, let me see," Mark said with a leer, trying to grab the stack from her hands.

She pulled them out of reach. "Hold on a second. I want to ask you something first. How's my jailhouse request coming along?"

"Give me the goods first, then I'll answer."

"OK, take 'em, I don't want 'em."

Mark thumbed through the violent, beefcakey periodicals. "Well, I did make a call or two, inquiries are under way."

"It's not so urgent now that I'm out. I was afraid I'd have to turn into some kind of a private detective in order to 'get sprung,' as Bootsie so nicely put it. If anything does turn up from the search, we'll pass it on to the police."

"They still haven't caught the killer, you may be on the right track."

"I doubt it, I was desperate."

Ella's own cell phone rang from deep inside her purse. "Hang on, I'm coming." She dug around and pulled the phone out, squinting at the caller ID. "Unknown caller." She flipped open the phone. "Hello?" She looked at Mark with astonished eyes. "Why Safada, what a surprise."

Chapter 13

Giselle wanted to talk, once again, about listing the mansion. Ella didn't know quite what to expect from such a meeting, considering her previous encounters had zipped all over the charts with regard to logic and organized thought. So she prepared herself for just about anything, or so she hoped, failing to anticipate the full extent of surprise which awaited her. One thing for sure, she'd hire a body guard, and a good one, if she signed a listing agreement.

Her Mercedes, somewhat worse for the wear, had been retrieved from the city tow yard by an office minion. A fine coat of white dust covered the car, which now sported a long, garish scrape down the left side. Ella certainly had not done it, and placed the blame on a careless city tow truck driver having his way with her S600 in the vast pool of impounded and otherwise criminally associated vehicles. Though the unsightly gash would undoubtedly cost a small fortune to repair, she would not pursue corrective remedy from the city of San Francisco.

She hadn't gotten around to washing it yet, and reflected upon this uncharacteristic behavior as she steered the massive hood along the Frackle Mansion driveway. She was arriving at a potential $70 million listing in a filthy, dented car.

Safada opened the front door. "Ella Barker, you are appearing very good since last you I see."

It took a moment to adjust to the maid's jumbled word order. "Why, thank you, I'm sure, Safada."

Ella did in fact look great in a black suit and heels. Once again though, Safada stunned. Maybe because of the jailhouse monsters Ella'd been cooped up with, Safada hit her with a gust of sheer beauty and refreshing vigor. Nonetheless, the maid wore a curious outfit, a rather unusual looking nurse's uniform. Ella had no knowledge of any medical training in Safada's background.

The nurse's outfit, a pure silk, very short, white dress, sinuously hugged Safada's midriff. The silk shined like a geisha's kimono. Buttons ran up the front from hem to collar, with a number at the north end left open, exposing significantly greater cleavage than more traditional hospital uniforms. Conventional nurse's shoes and a white cotton tiara splashed with a Red Cross logo rounded out the ensemble. A stethoscope hung around her neck. She'd pinned her hair up, leaving delicate wisps to fall along the sides of her forehead. Mostly however, the outfit showed off her striking legs.

Maybe Safada entertained herself during the long, lonely mansion days playing dress up, or perhaps she was preparing for a starring role in an adult film. It didn't matter to Ella, as long as Barker Brokers got the Frackle listing. This time.

Safada guided Ella up the sweeping staircase. "Missus Giselle rest now, but talk with her in chamber of hers."

Ella smiled in return. "Thank you, Safada, for bringing me my shoes that night at the opera."

Safada called back over her shoulder as they ascended. "Sometimes little things help big things do."

Ella ignored this puzzling response. At the top of the stairs, Safada stopped next to the first of several closed mahogany paneled doors. They were still near the street side of the house, which Ella found strange. Surely Giselle's bedroom faced the ocean and fabulous view.

As if reading Ella's mind, Safada pointed towards the far end of the wide hallway, where a picture window framed the Golden Gate Bridge. "Giselle room there, but the people goes in here," she said indicating the nearest door. "Sorry," she said putting her hands on her cheeks, "my English suffer. We are the people, us go in here." At that, Safada lowered her hands and gave Ella one of her famous smoldering gazes.

Ella didn't at all like the direction this was going, so she changed the subject. "Are you providing nursing assistance to your employer? What sort of medical care is Mrs. Frackle in need of?"

"I use for you this dress," Safada replied, deftly slipping her hand up to unbutton more of the silk uniform, instantly deepening the valley view. "This my room, enter please." She turned the knob, letting the door swing open.

Ella began to back up, Safada's intentions now crystal clear. "Now Safada, I don't know what you have in mind, but I'd prefer to go straight to Mrs. Frackle's room down the hall, where..."

Safada stepped forward and reached out, laying her soft, warm hand on Ella's cheek. Ella felt the other woman's exquisitely painted fingernails gently stroke her face. "I want you since night in bar," Safada said softly, looking Ella deeply in the eyes.

"I, I, thought you wanted Mark that night," Ella stammered.

"Him too."

"Listen dear," she said, taking the motherly approach. "I'm flattered, really I am, but I..."

"You what, querida?"

"I like men, Safada, I really do."

"I also."

"Not like that. I only like men."

"You try woman already?"

"Well, not exactly..."

"Then waits for you pleasure you don't know."

Ella stepped back again. She took Safada's hand off her cheek, gently lowering it. "I mean it, Safada, I am not interested in this."

Safada folded her arms across her bountiful chest. "You want speak to Missus Giselle?"

"Of course, I'll forget all about this little incident. I won't say a word to Mrs. Frackle, I promise."

"You no understand."

"What do you mean?"

Safada stepped into her bedroom, at the same time opening the next button on her dress. One ample breast nearly swung free from the taut uniform. She pointed to the enormous, frilly bed. "That the only way speak to Missus Giselle. She have long list agents. I you called first. You no cooperation, I call next in list."

"You conniving little bitch."

Safada grinned. Ella looked at the bed then back at Safada undoing her dress. "What if I scream for her now?"

"Never she you believe. You no sell house if scream."

Ella stood still for a moment, considering the entire, outrageous situation. She lifted her head proudly, and strode into Safada's bedroom.

*******

"Are you crazy?" Jeff asked. "Your life is in danger." He looked down again at the contract. "25,000 Frackle Business Machines pre-IPO stock options in lieu of commission?"

"The stock is predicted to hit $1000 after the IPO. That's a cool $25 million, baby. I'd stake my life on it," Ella responded, with a slightly maniacal laugh. "Even if I don't sell it myself, it'd be an enormous payoff."

She felt carefree, excited and a little wild. The afternoon had ended up going splendidly. The experience with Safada, while not the same electrifying charge she got from Jeff, had gone better than expected. And Giselle had been remarkably composed and clear headed, commenting only that Ella looked flushed.

Ella lounged on the sofa in Jeff's 70th floor condo at the new Treasure View Tower on Rincon Hill near the Bay Bridge. Floor to ceiling glass soared two full stories across the massive living room, with pin spots hanging from tiny, rigidly curved cables that snaked through the open air. The evening sky poured into the condo, the whole Bay Area an illuminated carpet at their feet, the glittering Transamerica Pyramid rising nearby like an urban pharaoh's tomb.

Jeff pulled Ella closer. "What about Kearney? I thought he was dead set against you getting that listing," he said.

"Giselle said not to worry about him, that she's got the power to sell her own home. I checked and it's her name on the deed."

"Well I'd say you deserve to sell it. You paid your dues," he said.

"If you only knew."

"Huh?"

"I know I've got to be careful."

"Very careful, what about a body guard? You shouldn't be walking around on your own."

"I've put in a call to Lt. Rothschild, after all he's put me through maybe he can be of some help. And I'll stay away from public places..."

Jeff leaned down and softly bit Ella's shoulder. "I missed you."

Chills raced through her body. Despite the earlier marathon with Safada, she felt herself responding. "I'm sorry I didn't call back right away."

"You'll have to answer for that now," he said, taking another sip of his scotch. He pulled down the collar of her sweatshirt, exposing more shoulder. He gently bit the soft flesh again, this time on the back of her neck.

As a familiar excitement spread throughout her body, her eyes wandered down to the newspaper scattered on the coffee table. Her gaze fixed on Lona Gishaw's gossip column, and even without reading glasses Ella could clearly read the headline.

"Wait a second, what's that say?" she asked, calling a quick halt to the carnal proceedings.

FRACKLE PAYOFF BIGGER THAN BIG FOR TIFF REYNOLDS

The tragic murder of real estate maven Tiffany Reynolds takes on another dimension. It seems the gigantic sums surrounding the sale of Giselle Frackle's gabled mansion in Sea Cliff are mucho more grande than your typical six percent. Spies tell us Tiff's agreement with Madame Frackle spilled over with FBM stock options, worth a potential 20 to 30 mil. When asked, Kearney Frackle was mum on his mom. "What she does is her business," he quipped. One can only assume realtor Gordon Elway had the same lucrative deal, before he too was murdered. Cops are closed mouth but it's clear to one and all that someone out there REALLY wants to stop the sale of that mansion. Much to our relief, real estate Queen Bee Ella Barker is off the hook. After her very public arrest at the SF Opera, Ella's been keeping her head low (who wouldn't?) but word has it she's next in line to pick up the Frackle listing. Buy a bullet proof vest, dear friend. Oh, and Ella, a confidential aside: beware, loose lips as they say, someone's talking. Maybe those bruises you're sporting didn't all come from jailhouse meanies...we hear you're a little sweet on "rough trade."

Ella threw the paper down in disgust. "Oh god, it's already out that I've got the listing, the pay details, and what's this about rough trade?" She turned to Jeff. "What have you been saying?"

"Nothing, I swear. Ella... I wouldn't do anything to embarrass you, or hurt us..." He narrowed his eyes. "Who've you told?"

She raced over to the kitchen and swiped her purse off the counter. Whipping her phone out, she pressed speed dial.

"Mark," she practically screamed when he picked up. "What the hell did you say to Lona Gishaw? And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." She listened for a moment. "You're choosing your words carefully my dear. If you didn't say anything to _her_ , who did you say something to? Tell the truth," she commanded. After another moment's silence she snapped her phone shut and looked at Jeff in disbelief. "He told his personal trainer."

Jeff jumped up from the couch and ran to Ella.

"This implicates you too," she said. "We've been seen together."

He kissed her on the mouth. "Don't worry, I don't care what people say."

"Well I do. It's like a nightmare that won't end. I thought now that the jail episode is over I'd be OK. Then this comes up. Lona's readers are my client base."

"Maybe it'll lead to a whole new client base. San Francisco's crawling with rough trade."

Ella tried to keep a straight face but couldn't help smiling. "Stop it, I'm serious."

"Uh huh." He pushed closer. "Maybe since you're being accused of such nefarious behavior, you should at least be guilty of it." He maneuvered her down the hallway toward the bedroom.

Ella feigned innocence. "I don't know what that gossip monger is talking about."

Jeff moved his hand lightly up the side of Ella's waist, barely touching as he brushed her bosom. "Sure you don't." His mouth was less than an inch from hers. The hair stood up on her arms and neck.

She gulped in his sweet breath, consciously pulling in long, lung filling sweeps. Without warning he grabbed her around the waist with both hands and carried her towards the bed. She didn't say anything. He threw her onto the mattress. She bounced to a stop, hair flailed out behind on the bedspread.

He stood watching her, then walked over to the dresser.

"You game for something a little different?" he asked.

"Being with you has already been a little different."

He smiled. "Can I tie you up?" he asked quietly. "Just your wrists, it won't hurt..."

Ella looked out the huge plate glass window, making sure no other buildings loomed close enough to view the proceedings. No peeping Toms or gossip columnists threatened, that she could see.

Jeff held up a couple of short lengths of rope. "You game?"

Ella looked at his bulging jeans. She writhed on the bed, turning in his direction. He needed no further approval.

*******

At Giselle's insistence, Ella scheduled and dutifully publicized an open house. Common sense dictated against throwing the doors of such an expensive property open to the masses, however she had no choice but to follow orders. The media carnival surrounding the murders and her own newfound notoriety left her especially apprehensive.

The day of the open house dawned clear and warm, an autumn Sunday gloriously showcasing San Francisco's stunning Indian summer weather. The sea sparkled and the homes glistened when Ella and Lt. Rothschild drove into Sea Cliff, with nary a leaf out of place to mar the immaculate neighborhood. She considered the favorable weather conditions an ominous sign, for surely the greatest numbers of open house attendees and lookie loos would show up clamoring for admittance. Crushing online sales had jammed Barker Brokers' servers for ten hours. She rounded the corner onto El Camino del Mar and drew in her breath.

"Whew, look at those people," Rothschild said from the passenger seat of Ella's washed but still gashed Mercedes. He'd shadowed her constantly for ten days, and had posted a twenty four hour police guard outside her home and offices. The mayor himself approved the expense. She found herself halfway liking Rothschild, after all he was atoning for past sins and she welcomed the personal protection. He didn't say much about the investigation, allowing only that they hoped to be moving in on a suspect soon. So far only Ella had burned under the hot glare of suspected guilt.

"It's about what I expected," she said. An hour before opening, the line outside the mansion gates already stretched down the block. More people arrived on foot and many others cruised slowly by hunting for parking on the usually deserted street. The group of potential "buyers" Ella thought laughingly, looked more like summer tourists off to a picnic in the park. Whole families, from grandmas to babies, lined the high walls of the estate, bearing strollers, yapping dogs and bucket sized paper cups of gourmet coffee. People pointed and gawked at the spot where Tiffany Reynolds met her final real estate challenge.

Much to Ella's amazement, she saw Elton, the gorgeous chauffer, perched atop one of the entrance pillars affixing several brightly colored helium balloons. He'd taken advantage of the warm morning to remove his shirt while performing this arduous chore, exposing a tanned torso worthy of an entire photo spread. From his elevated workplace he laughed and flirted with several blonde, busty teenage girls.

"Do you usually go to this much trouble, balloons and all?" the lieutenant asked.

Ella brought the car to a gentle halt at the gate. "No, this is not my doing. Giselle has been excited about an open house since our first meeting, even though I advised against it. I'd say she's taken it upon herself to spice things up." She looked up at Elton and waved. For a second she imagined him completely naked and fully erect, holding a black leather riding crop. Shuddering from an involuntarily chill, she quickly banished the thought.

Elton flashed an enticing grin and removed a small remote control from the pocket of his shorts. He punched the button and the gates swung open. As Ella pulled through, he leapt gazelle-like to the ground, politely keeping the waiting crowds at bay until the gates once again sealed off the magnificent cliff top property. "One hour to go," she heard him call out cheerfully.

"I guess you meant it when you said 'spice things up,'" Lt. Rothschild said.

Ella scanned ahead. "Oh god, this is too much. Is the county fair in town?"

Giselle Frackle must have contracted some sort of amusement company to set up a mini-Ferris wheel, a carousel and even a little go-kart race track on the vast lawn surrounding the mansion. This horrified Ella. Barker Brokers had placed all the ads and invited the general public. "This looks like an insurance nightmare. I've got to get her to sign something, some kind of a release."

"I'd do it quick, if I were you," said the lieutenant.

Over near the creek a catering crew busied itself setting up tables, chairs and buffet tables. A couple of cooks in white chef hats tended two entire pigs roasting slowly on oversized rotisserie spits.

A stage filled the parking area in front the nine car garage. Musicians readied themselves, fine tuning the instruments and sound system. Ella noticed quite a few drums, as well as the green and yellow Brazilian national flag. Music selection obviously fell to Safada.

She navigated around the stage and parked in the garage, choosing the space to the far left, hiding the dented side of the Mercedes against the wall. That way the inspecting throngs would see only a clean, undamaged version of the car, just another shiny bauble accessorizing the open house.

"I'll just stay with you, and keep my eyes open," Lt. Rothschild said. "Don't mind me."

"It's kinda hard to ignore someone who follows my every step, Lieutenant. You really think the killer would try anything at this circus?"

"With all the people here, it's be easy to work unnoticed. Don't forget the Italian kid."

"How could I?"

The front door stood wide open. Safada came rushing out, and lit up noticeably when she saw Ella. "Almost ready we are," she said excitedly, casting an approving eye on Ella's sleek skirt and silk blouse. "So my friend Ella Barker, more to learn about you all the days."

"Whatever are you talking about, Safada?"

Safada had stashed the nurse's uniform in favor of an extremely short red skirt and black halter shirt. Ella noticed Lt. Rothschild's surprisingly ravenous look, surely nothing unusual for Safada.

"I talk about newspaper," Safada said, with a knowing smile. "Gossip story."

"Oh look," Ella said, "Mark Allen is here, just the person I have to see. Excuse me, Safada." She turned to walk away but stopped short. "By the way, Mrs. Frackle is planning to spend the day out, as I discussed with her?" She looked at the Lieutenant, who stood guard several feet away. "It's never a good idea for the owner to be around during an open house. People say things, feelings get hurt..."

"Missus Giselle go nowhere," Safada declared. "She say she hostess today. She come downstairs after dressed."

Ella groaned. "May I go up and speak to her before we open the gates?"

"She no one see now, you her see when descend."

"OK then, whatever you say."

By now both the carousel and Ferris wheel operated in full swing, and Ella could hear excited whoops from outside the gate. She met up with Mark at the tropical themed bar. They'd hardly spoken since Lona Gishaw's gossip column, with Ella rebuffing all efforts at contact. But now she'd begun to miss him.

"Isn't it a little early to imbibe, or does one need to fortify oneself to spread confidential gossip."

He set his cocktail down on the bar. "I told you how sorry I..."

"Your personal trainer, my god, Mark, you know they can be indiscreet. Candell Jorrison told her trainer she was screwing her gardener, and look where that got her."

"I know, divorced and broke. Ironclad pre-nup."

"And frozen out of Pacific Heights forever."

"I ran into her though, at a supermarket in Pacifica. She's a checker there."

Ella laughed derisively.

"Anyway, Candell chatted and seemed happy, totally unembarrassed. If I didn't know any better I'd say she was happier scanning canned peas."

"Happier as a checkout clerk, I doubt," said Ella.

"How bored must she have been to hop into bed with the lawn mower guy?"

"We're getting off the subject," Ella said. "You blabbed, and embarrassed me."

He took a sip of his Bloody Mary. "I'm so, so, sorry, I fucked up. What can I do to make it up to you?"

"Be a friend when I need one."

Mark looked stung. "You're right. Can I have one more chance? Please, please?"

Ella sighed. "I need you, you know."

"You can trust me, I swear, it'll never happen again."

Not wanting to reward Mark's indiscretion, Ella failed to mention getting a call from the Swats and Paddles Sex Club as a result of the gossip column. A large heterosexual concern, the club was moving to larger quarters and hired Ella to list their current South of Market "torture chamber," potentially a $10 million sale. They also offered her a complimentary lifetime membership, which she politely declined.

"How's Marcos?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Your date at the opera that fateful night."

"Oh him. History. He had a little crystal meth problem."

A clanging bell grabbed their attention. They looked toward the house, and Ella whistled under her breath. "Oh boy, here we go."

Giselle Frackle stood outside the front door, ringing an ornate, hand held bell. Her wrist wobbled dangerously, and she nearly dropped it before her youthful lover Sanjay reached in to assist. They continued ringing in tandem. Ella admired Sanjay's subtle, handsomely cut dark suit and bright red tie. Giselle's outfit on the other hand, could suitably clothe a most startling and effective scarecrow. She had forced herself into a long sleeved, blood red jumpsuit. It clung to her enormous belly and dropped down in enormous bell bottoms to cover her tiny feet. Flat red shoes matched the ribbons in the higher altitudes of her blonde wig. As always, her lipstick glowed a brilliant shade of crimson, and she'd topped it all off with a gigantic pair of sun glasses, trimmed in cherry. The overall effect created a sharp contrast against her deeply etched white skin.

"Jesus Christ," Mark said. Ella exchanged glances with Lt. Rothschild, as if to confirm the reality of such an apparition.

"Attention, everyone, now is the time," Giselle said, looking straight at Ella. "Let the buyers in." Ella turned around and waved the OK to Elton at the gate, who had donned a red polo shirt. The scarlet theme struck Ella as strange, considering all the blood spilled in the name of selling the mansion, but she made no attempt to second guess the odd little clan inhabiting the Frackle home.

The band strummed softly to life just as the first open house attendees arrived at the top of the driveway. The crowd bottlenecked at the little bridge over the creek, and several people waded across to beat rush. "The Girl from Ipanema" emanated from the stage, sung in its original, stirring Portuguese by a young man in dreadlocks.

Ella bristled when she spied the Action News 12 van parked just inside the gate, where venomous reporter Chirley Wixon busied herself setting up for a live shot.

"Just a minute, I'll be right back." She took off quickly with the lieutenant in hot pursuit.

"Wait, I'm going with you," Mark said.

"You, what are you doing here?" Ella asked imperiously when she got to the van.

Chirley whirled around, her heavily sprayed hairdo not flexing by even a strand. She smiled deliciously, as if looking at buffet table full of rich desserts. "Why, if it isn't Ella Barker, in the flesh."

"You are not welcome here, this is private property. If you have to do your dirty work, make it outside the gate. Now."

"What're ya gonna do, beat me up, rough trader?"

Ella nearly did just that, coming within a hair's breadth of hauling off and smacking smug Chirley across the face. "Wouldn't you just love that? It'd give you another sleazy headline."

"We've got permission to be here," Chirley said, opening her reporter's notebook. "Let me see, here it is, yes, a Miss Safada da Silva OK'd our entry."

Ella sighed, feeling beaten back at every turn in her efforts to hold a dignified and productive open house.

"There she is now," Chirley continued, "She's an easy one to remember."

Safada stood about 50 yards away, jumping up and down like a little girl, waving at the news van excitedly.

Mark tapped Ella on the shoulder. "Just let it go," he whispered. "Call as little attention to yourself as possible and take advantage of the free publicity." She backed off, turning to leave.

"Whatever he said, I'd follow his advice," Chirley said. "You real estate agents think you own the world, you hype the values, make it where no one can afford a home, for instance someone who comes from a small town in Oklahoma for an exciting, new job. You encourage people to get into debt they can't afford. It's gonna stop, you'll see. Wait 'til our exposé next month during ratings sweeps."

The idea of a ratings week exposé didn't bother Ella so much as once again being called an agent. She was a broker, why couldn't people get that through their thick heads?

"That explains her vindictiveness in reporting about you," Mark said, once out of earshot.

"She's just another poor, little priced-out crybaby."

By now a line formed at the front door of the mansion, and the amusement park rides spun and twirled in full swing. Children screamed and dogs barked, the whole celebratory scene filtered with the band's tropical South American tunes. Safada and Elton samba'd away in the driveway, cutting a racy, elegant vision.

Just outside the front entrance to the house, Giselle and Sanjay greeted the masses as if heading up a royal procession line. Standing side by side, they shook hands with each and every adult, welcoming and thanking them for coming. Some of the younger children however, broke into tears at the sight of the overly made-up Giselle.

"No, it's not a scary clown," Ella overheard heard one anxious parent stage-whisper. But Giselle appeared unfazed. In fact she glowed radiantly, at least as radiant as a 91-year old could glow.

Inside, Giselle's only concession to Ella's demands was the posting of security guards. Much like in a museum, men and women in dark, ill-fitting suits sat vigil in every room, walkie-talkie in hand. The lieutenant faithfully trailed Ella as she took up her post in the living room, where she chatted and handed out color brochures to the more presentable passers-by. People ooohed and aaahed at the view and furnishings, and many groups stopped to pose for photos. The vast majority made no pretense whatsoever of having any actual interest in buying the property. But at least no violence or gunshots shattered the festive atmosphere either.

"So far, so good," she said, giving Rothschild a wink, "I'm still here." The lieutenant nodded and returned a curt smile, his eyes busy scanning the room.

"Ella dahling, how are you?"

Ella turned to see an unpleasant sight. Delicia Cardosa oozed across the living room, her broad shoulders swinging a path through the crowd. Ella swallowed the bile in her throat, attempting a lame smile. Delicia showed now, the little bump in her belly a dagger in Ella's healing heart.

"Delicia, what a surprise."

She had on a shimmery, tight fitting skirt and white shirt with heels. Even with the pregnancy, her buxom figure stood out. Her full lips glistened a dark, ruby color, while her dyed blonde hair fell sumptuously down past her shoulders.

"I had nothing better to do today, so I thought, why not go see the famous mansion. Of course I've been here before on social occasions. But it is Sunday, a fine day get out and take some air," she said, literally looking down her nose. "I guess that doesn't apply to those who must work."

Ella smiled, Mona Lisa-like.

"Hank couldn't be here, he's off at the polo fields," Delicia added.

Polo fields?? Hank had never expressed any interest whatsoever in polo. Ella had had about enough of this pretentious hooey. "How nice for him," she said. "I didn't even know he knew how to ride a horse."

"People tend to blossom under the right circumstances."

"Delicia, your outfit's beautiful, so formal though, for this time of day. It reminds me of one of your country's famous TV soap operas."

Delicia glowered at Ella, catching the inference to the melodramatic, tacky by American standards, soap opera art form. Delicia had obviously run from that culture, but still something in the way she dressed and comported herself recalled the small screen close-up of a suffering Latin beauty. She tossed her hair aside. "Colombia's _novelas_ are pure genius," she said with great flair. "You should be so lucky as to even understand the language of romance in which they are written."

Across the living room, Mark attempted conversation with a cute security guard. Ella sensed his extreme distraction however, knowing he couldn't keep his eyes off her and Delicia. She waited for Delicia to leave, but the other woman didn't move.

"How's your, what was he, mortgage maker?" Delicia asked disdainfully.

Ella ignored the question. "Well since you're here, do you have a real estate broker? Are you and Hank in the market for a new home?"

Delicia lifted her chin high. "I am not yet working with anyone. If we should be interested in this mansion, which by the way needs a _lot_ of work, I would most certainly contract my own representation. There's no reason for you alone to get all those IPO dollars."

"Suit yourself."

Finally Delicia started to walk away, but Ella stopped her. "Tell me, Delicia, why do you feel the need to treat me this way? What's in it for you? You've got my husband, and for god's sake, you're even going to have the baby I never had with him."

Delicia turned to face Ella. "Because one is never kind to one's rivals. And you, Ella, will always be a rival. I don't underestimate you."

*******

Later on, Ella wandered back out to the front lawn, curious as to the state of the entrance lines. From what she could see, people still poured through the gates at a constant rate, but the ticket takers kept the flow to the agreed upon 200 per hour. So far as she knew, not one serious buyer had taken advantage of the open house. Naturally anyone with the sort of stratospheric sums necessary to buy the mansion would request a private viewing, so Ella chalked the day up to an old woman's folly.

She looked around, taking the whole scene in; the lines, the band, the children playing, the rides. A glance at the Ferris wheel jolted her though, when one of the riders caught her attention. She dug into her purse and pulled out her distance glasses. It was none other than Starka Littlefeather-Jones, her purple pixie haircut cut adding to the colorful diorama of the day. The unbalanced Roberta protectively hugged the tiny Starka as the two women went round and round in one of the flimsy, yellow Ferris wheel carriages. A cold shudder raced through Ella's body when she recalled the hard smack of Roberta's fist on that awful night in jail.

Whatever argument and violence between the two that led to Roberta's arrest seemed to have passed, as the couple looked happier than ever spinning around above the mega-million dollar Sea Cliff estate. Ella hoped that happiness now extended to their own upcoming real estate purchase. She had assigned another agent in her office to deal with the couple since the jail incident, and hadn't had any updates in a week or so.

"Isn't that a cute domestic picture?" Mark asked, slinking up next to Ella holding an icy cocktail. Safada hung off his shoulder like an oversexed leech, repeatedly kissing him on the neck, each sexy smooch moving a little closer to his jaw line. He tilted his head to the side, giving the Brazilian beauty better access. He looked at Ella, and raised his drink. "When in Rome," he said with a slight slur.

Ella didn't know whether to feel embarrassed for Mark or jealous because Safada ignored her. Before she could figure that one out, the Ferris wheel groaned to a stop and the Littlefeather-Jones' bounded over. Ella stepped back warily from Roberta before making the introductions.

"You don't have to worry about Roberta anymore, she's taking her medication again," Starka said, eyeing Safada.

Ella looked dubiously at Roberta. "I'm glad to hear you're feeling better then."

Roberta grinned back, her eyes large and glassy. "You know, maybe I overreacted, kinda, in the slammer, uh." She looked at Starka, who nodded encouragement. "So I guess I'm sorry for beltin' ya." Then she brightened up considerably. "But ever since we made friends with Sal and Tawona, I'm feeling a lot better, we're getting a few things worked out. What're you lookin' at, Starka?"

"Mark," Safada interrupted, "me you come with now. You ask see room of Elton chauffer over garage, we go. It very privacy."

Mark winked at Ella. So that explained his tipsy cooperation with Safada. They sauntered off, arm in arm, chatting like old friends.

Ella returned her attention to Roberta and Starka. "Excuse me, Sal and Tawona? I'm afraid I don't know who you're talking about."

"The sellers, man, the sellers of our new house," Starka explained.

"What? How did you meet them? What sort of things are you working out?" This was a major breach. Real estate gospel dictated that the buyer and seller never have any sort of personal contact. Brokers and agents worked diligently to make sure all offers, counter offers, acceptances, messages, questions and changes worked their way through the accepted lines of communication. If the buyer had an inquiry, buyer asked buyer's agent who in turn asked seller's agent who in turn asked seller. And vice-versa. The buyer and seller were only referred to as such, never by real names. True names existed only as intangible concepts written on the various contracts and deeds. Emotions could become heated if the principals entered personally into contact or negotiations. More important, without the realtors, people might realize they could make their own deals and this had to be avoided at all costs. This threat rang especially true in the Internet age, which made property exposure, research and communication so damned easy.

"They may not need the whole year rent free, maybe not at all," Starka said. "Roberta offered to do some of the construction work on their houseboat, if it'll speed things along."

"But how did you meet them?"

"Duh, we knocked on the door. They're pretty cool actually."

"Oh and their dogs, how sweet," Roberta said, "though one or two don't look so good."

"We'll just be digging up a couple more if they croak before we're moved in," Starka said.

Ella blanched. "Really, it's better if either myself or someone from my office communicate with the seller, these things can be very complicated."

Roberta, momentarily distracted by an elegant woman passing by, whipped around. "You just wanna to protect your commission."

Ella jumped back in fear.

"Roberta, remember, deep breaths," Starka said. "By the way Ella, I'm sure your boyfriend already told you, but we're approved for the loan. As soon as Roberta's pregnant, the bank'll fund it. We implant tomorrow."

Ella didn't know whether or not to offer congratulations. Before she could answer, a disturbed cry cut through the air.

"Please someone, help us," Sanjay cried.

Ella, the Littlefeather-Jones' and hundreds of others turned to see Sanjay trying to help Giselle up off the lawn, where she'd fallen onto all fours. One of her bright red, wide wale corduroy bell bottoms resisted, fighting against some kind of snag.

"It's a sprinkler head," Roberta said.  
"What?" Ella asked.

"Her Santa pants are caught on a sprinkler head."

Giselle bellowed while several onlookers worked to free the trapped hem. But the old woman's howls didn't hide another, more ominous sound. A loud clap, some sort of a clipped boom, thundered through the giddy, carnival-like atmosphere. Before Ella could even think, Lt. Rothschild appeared out of nowhere and knocked her to the plush lawn. He covered her body with his own, pushing the side of her face into the grass. She moaned uncomfortably. People gasped and murmured, until Starka Littlefeather-Jones started laughing.

"No one's trying to off you, Ella Barker. "Look over there."

From her prone vantage point Ella saw a small boy twenty or thirty feet away holding a small pop gun. He wore a mask and cape, most likely honoring some video game hero. Ella and the lieutenant clambered to their feet, dusting themselves off.

"Sorry about the false alarm, Mrs. Barker," Rothschild said.

"That's quite alright," she replied, removing blades of grass from her hair. "Though why someone would allow a child to bring any sort of weapon to a murder scene is beyond me."

Not everyone recovered so rapidly from the pop gunshot however, in particular a white Pekinese dog brought in by a large Asian family. The dog strenuously pulled back from his owner, straining against the leash in a trembling, whining panic, before managing to completely wriggle free of the collar.

"Stop, my little one," the 30ish woman holding the leash cried out.

But the Pekinese, heady with liberation and determined to escape the vicinity of the loud bang, took off running at full speed. Only the creek separated the mop haired creature from the open gates and the freedom of the street beyond. The indomitable little fellow made a valiant effort to leap across, but alas, Ella noted with unusual concern, the creek proved an insurmountable obstacle.

"My little one," screamed the owner. "Noooo."

My Little One plunged into the manmade tributary. While not deep by any description, the creek moved along rather swiftly for a purely decorative body of water. The dog's human family, along with numerous other open house attendees, rushed to the banks to attempt a rescue. Only the diminutive canine's head floated above the water, while its tiny paws scrambled and floundered for purchase.

Roberta picked a tuft of grass off of Ella's shoulder. "He's a goner, too close to the cliff." Ella shrunk away from her client cum husky prison attacker.

Roberta's prediction proved more accurate with each passing second. The dog approached a grate built across the creek, a few feet short of the plunging falls, put in place for just such an emergency. A wayward soul could grab onto this last minute metal savior and return from the brink. But lacking opposable thumbs or the reasoning ability to take advantage of such an opportunity, the little dog passed smoothly under this last vestige of safety.

The pursuing mobs stopped short at the grate, unwilling to go any further in their vain attempts at rescue. The Pekinese slid over the cliff with a quiet whoosh. As My Little One plunged downward, an eerie, high pitched, howl rose up and echoed through the crowd of shocked spectators. The howl ended abruptly as the noise sensitive creature found eternal rest upon the jagged rocks at the base of Frackle Falls.

*******

Something in Ella snapped when the dog went over the cliff, and if asked at the moment she would have been at a loss to explain it. She didn't consider herself an animal lover, but the innocent little dog's death stunned and upset her.

"I'm a sinner," she said.

"Huh?" said Starka and Roberta in unison.

She looked around at all the people at the open house, her eyes falling on Giselle and Sanjay, before lifting up to see Safada, Mark and Elton peering out from the windows above the garage.

"I'm a sinner," she said more loudly. She'd never been particularly religious yet the words felt cathartic.

People standing around began to pay attention. Chirley Wixon motioned for her cameraman to start rolling. A jumble of images bounced across Ella's mind; Tiffany dead and bloody, Gordon, Jeff blindfolding her, Safada, lying to the man about the Cole Valley condo, Roberta and Starka and the shitty deal she'd gotten them into. But everything paled next to the little Pekinese falling to his death. Aching with a yawning sense of loss and hurt, she walked to the edge of the cliff and raised her arms towards the heavens, hands splayed open. The setting sun over the Pacific profiled her majestic stance.

"I'm a sinner," she screamed at the top of her lungs. "I'm a sinner. I'm a sinner. I'm a sinner. I'm a sinner." She screamed and screamed until she fell to her knees in exhaustion.

Chapter 14

"Starka Littlefeather-Jones? Are you serious?"

Lt. Rothschild stood looking out the window in Ella's office. "You won't be needing our services any longer, it appears."

"But how?" Ella asked in wonder.

"We've been following up on everyone who's worked with you and the other two."

"You mean Gordon Elway and Tiffany Reynolds?"

"That's right. A few interesting facts turned up. I can't tell you everything now, but let's just say Starka Littlefeather-Jones is an expert hunter, great with a rifle. The two had a deal go sour with Gordon Elway a couple of months ago."

"What? I didn't know that."

"Then maybe you better get better spies. Also Tiffany Reynolds wouldn't take 'em on as clients."

This sort of information rarely escaped Ella's radar, either via gossip or reports from other realtors. Often the clients would come clean on their own.

The lieutenant continued. "And you've had trouble with them, from the incident in jail to their unhappiness with the house they're buying."

"I felt a little threatened when they came to my home unannounced, and Roberta did knock me good in the head, but I wouldn't have pegged Starka as a killer."

"We're only holding her for questioning. She had several hunting rifles among her possessions in storage at a moving company here in town. These have to be checked out, and we're also waiting for more information from our colleagues in Alaska."

"Well, Lieutenant, I trust you've got it right this time."

Rothschild smiled grimly. "Me too."

"You're sure it's OK for me to walk the city on my own? How ever will I get around without a police escort?"

"Good day, Mrs. Barker."

Right after Lt. Rothschild took his leave, Bootsie popped her head in. "You're going to like this..."

"What is it? I could use some good news."

"There's an offer on the Frackle mansion coming in tomorrow morning."

*******

Ella had a stop to make on her way home that evening. She just signed a new listing, a half completed house at the top of Twin Peaks. While unusual in this day and age for a lack of funds to hinder any type of real estate fantasy, a nasty divorce had stopped construction on the 10,000 square foot, four level monster home on St. Germain Avenue.

She pulled up in the loaner car paid for by her insurance company. It would take several days to repair the lengthy dent running up the side of the Mercedes, and in the meantime she had to settle for an economy-level Ford, something one might find populating the nation's airport rental lots. Indescript and bland, the car disappeared into the crowd, not something Ella was accustomed to or liked.

The lumbering construction site stood tall against the darkening sky. Well on its way to becoming an overgrown Spanish style hacienda before work halted, deterioration now trumped pretension. Cracks streaked through many of the front windows that weren't already shattered, while a large sheet of fading plywood plugged up the front door. Weeds, trash and gravel cluttered the earthen front yard, and messy stacks of curved, red roof tiles lay about the gaping, doorless three car garage. The grey, cement exterior walls had been sprayed with a see-through whitewash protectant, lending the house a splotchy, haunted effect.

The neighbors had to hate this paralyzed eyesore. Every meticulously maintained home on the lush, tranquil block only heightened the shock of drooping decay, calling lurid attention to the rueful structure's gradual death, much like the once happy marriage of its feuding owners.

Ella had come to take a look around in order to suggest an asking price. She grabbed a flashlight out of the car as well as the key to open the one door not nailed shut. She slowly picked her way across the front yard, heels sinking into the dirt at various points. Making her way through the garage she climbed the three steps up to the interior access door. Maybe she should have put this off until tomorrow but she had a busy morning on tap, with the mansion offer due in at 9:00 a.m. Such a monumental deal could easily take up the whole day and she wanted to get this bit of business out of the way beforehand. Despite the gathering nightfall, she could see well enough to get a good sense of the home with regard to pricing.

She slipped the key into the lock, and her cell phone rang. She jumped, feeling a little edgy in the deserted, half built house.

"I've missed you," Jeff said.

Ella smiled as she stepped inside the house. "That's good to hear."

"So when can I see you again? Now that you're not being stalked anymore, I'll have you all to myself."

She walked further into the gloomy interior, and switched on the flashlight. "Can I call you back? I'm doing a quick walkthrough and I've got to get done here before it gets completely dark."

"Sure, call me. Soon."

She slipped the phone back into her purse. Gingerly stepping across the debris strewn kitchen, she walked through the formal dining room into the great room, as living rooms were now known, with its dusty marble floor and arching three story windows. Her heels echoed through the vaulted acreage, and the city lights twinkled in the distance through filthy panes of glass.

A sharp, cracking sound, like a falling board, tore through the house, reverberating down from one of the upper floors. Ella froze in her tracks. Goosebumps raced up her arms and the back of her neck, and a healthy fear gripped her entire being. She listened attentively. Silence.

Shaking the fright off as nonsense, Ella continued the inspection. In a place like this, left so haphazard and half-ass, something would always be falling down or blowing around. She comforted herself with the lightly blowing trees outside the windows. Certainly it was only the wind, and she had work to do. She glanced up to the loft like second floor, which ran across the great room forming a balcony. Climbing the stairs, she came to a landing. Her flashlight illuminated a series of bedrooms to the right, with the balcony dropping off to her left. She arced the light up toward the third floor, which boasted a similar, though smaller loft-like balcony. The strong beam of her flashlight caught the tail end of a shadow jumping across a wall. Her heart lurched and she stopped breathing. She held the light on the spot, and swallowed hard. Unlike in the movies, she didn't make a wisecrack, nor did she think or act quickly with great aplomb, a distinct advantage movie actors have over their real life counterparts, mere mortals who don't have the benefit of re-writes and hindsight. Ella simply turned and ran back down the stairs.

When she was halfway down, someone jumped from the balcony, blurring past her before landing securely in the middle of the great room just below. The figure wore a black kung-fu like outfit, tied at the waist with a sash. A hood covered the head and a black ski mask hid the face. Only the whites the eyes flashed up at her. She stopped on the stairs, her heart pounding. The figure raised a handgun. She very nearly started crying from raw fear.

"Who are you?" Ella cried. "What did I do?"

The gun only rose higher. Ella gripped her only defense at hand, the flashlight. She flung the red, foot long metal tube, which was quite heavy, straight toward the shooter. The hooded figure saw it coming and tried to jump out of the way. He fired the gun, but the shot went wild, missing by several feet. Her fright multiplied ten fold when she heard the muffled report of a silencer. The flashlight belted her attacker in the stomach, before clattering off to one side. He doubled over in pain, grunting and dropping the gun, wrapping both arms across his midsection. Ella looked around in panic for the quickest way out. Her assailant blocked the way she'd come in, and if she ran the other way she'd only end up at the boarded up front door.

With only a few seconds time advantage, she tore back up the stairs. She'd walked in heels for many years and had long ago developed the coordination and control necessary to move quickly. She threw open a door at the top of the stairs. No way, an elevator shaft. Scuffling sounds rose from the living room as the shooter scrambled in pursuit. Ella saw a window inside a hall bathroom. Hoping for any avenue of escape, she ran inside and closed the door as quietly as she could, punching in the lock on the knob. She tried to open the window, but the crank handle was jammed. She jiggled it as hard as she could, getting nowhere. Muffled footsteps scampered up the stairway. Outside the roof sloped down for about six feet before dropping to the ground one story below.

In the back of her mind, Ella glimpsed Jack Nicholson's manic and terrifying performance in "The Shining," where he murderously pursued his wife into a locked bathroom. Shoving this image aside, she returned to the window crank. The window began to wriggle back and forth, opening an inch or so as she wrenched the handle. A loud splintering sound pounded through her head. Looking behind, she screamed when she saw the area around the bathroom door knob had disintegrated. Only a bullet could do such damage. With more force than she ever knew she could muster, she pushed the window frame mightily and it flew open, the crank handle spinning wildly five or six times. She started to climb up on the sill, but stopped when she realized she had to take her shoes off. No way could she navigate the sloping roof in heels.

The bathroom door slammed open, hitting the wall behind with a great bang. She looked back and saw the hooded ninja. She threw a heeled shoe at the masked face as hard as she could, then jumped out. Her body landed with thud, and she rolled toward the edge, unable to stop the force of gravity. She clawed desperately at the smooth, tar papered surface but couldn't get a hold of anything.

Ella plunged off the edge of the roof in a ruthless freefall.

*******

She hit hard, but not with the jolt she expected, something broke her fall before she landed. Powdery dreck from the construction site caked her eyes and nose, and she sucked in a filthy mixture of dirt clods and soil as she gasped and choked for air. Coughing and completely panicked, she dug frantically at the dirt, scrambling to escape the masked attacker.

"Sshhh, sshhh, it's OK, calm down."

Ella struggled to see through the dusty haze, and when her vision cleared she saw Jeff's clear blue eyes looking down at her.

"You're with me now, whoever it was is gone, don't worry, you're gonna be OK."

Jeff rocked her slowly back and forth in his arms in the shadow of the abandoned, divorce torn hacienda.

"I love you, you know," he said.

He hugged her to his strong chest, and she cried in long, heartfelt sobs.

Chapter 15

"OK, so I'm here. And I'm dying to know, who made the offer? How much?" Mark sank onto Ella's living room sofa, holding a glass of champagne.

"I'll tell you this much," Ella said, savoring the suspense, "the buyer's agent is with CB-Pru-U-Z."

"Tiffany Reynold's Alma Mater."

Ella rubbed her sore shoulder, then delicately picked at the bandage on her elbow. "One and the same."

"Wait just a second, first things first. How did Jeff happen to be waiting with open arms when you fell off that roof? Did the cops catch anyone? Talk about a knight in shining armor, jeez."

"So many questions, dear boy, all in good time."

Jeff came out of the kitchen carrying the champagne bottle. "Thank Bootsie. After I talked to Ella, I decided to her surprise her with dinner out."

"Where can I find a man like you?" Mark asked.

"Anyway, I called the office and Bootsie gave me the address on Twin Peaks so I shot on up."

"Watch your choice of words there," Ella said.

Jeff set the bottle down and guided Ella to an overstuffed chair, gently helping her sit. He plunked himself down on the thick arm rest.

"Bootsie deserves a bonus," Mark said, holding his glass up for a refill. "For saving your life."

"She's well taken care of," Ella said.

"Then what happened?"

"When I got out my car," Jeff said, "I heard a shot, I couldn't believe it. I looked up and there was Ella jumping out of a window."

"So you ran over and caught her, just like that?"

"Not quite just like that," Ella said, pointing to her bandages, "we both ended up on the ground."

"Did you see anyone else, Jeff?"

"No, whoever it was got away, but the cops found the spent bullets."

Mark drained his glass for the second time. "Don't talk like that, you're getting me excited."

"It doesn't take much, does it?" Ella asked. "By the time I looked back up there, whoever it was, was long gone."

"You said a Ninja in black robes?" Mark asked. "What drugs are you on?"

"I was nearly killed," Ella said seriously.

Jeff joined Mark in draining his champagne glass. "Well, it couldn't have been Starka Littlefeather-Jones. She was with the cops."

"I'll tell you another thing," Ella said, "it wasn't Roberta who came after me. This guy was way too small."

"Yeah, no one'll ever look at Roberta and think bulimia," Mark said.

Ella took her turn asking for a refill, which Jeff quickly obliged. "So spill it," he said, "who's making the offer?"

Ella sat back in her chair and sighed. "I wish it were that easy. It's my ex-husband."

Mark drew in his breath. "And Delicia Cardosa?"

Ella nodded. "They're putting $56 million on the table. Cash."

"It's sweet in a way, you're making a bundle off her."

"That's twenty percent less than asking," Jeff said. "Where's the bidding war?"

"Giselle said she never expected more than fifty."

"She was just playing, then, at seventy."

"I think Kearney put the price on it, to see if they could get it. I was not allowed to contribute my opinion with regard to pricing."

Mark's eyes bored into Ella's. "Did Giselle accept the offer?"

Ella looked at both the men in her life. "Yes. She said she's anxious to move on to her new life with Sanjay."

Mark shrieked. "You're rich, rich, rich, richer than you already are, than your wildest dreams. Take me around the world, first class, it'll be pennies for you."

Ella laughed, and Jeff raised his glass in a toast to Ella. "To our survivor," he said. They all clinked their glasses and drank.

"My god," Mark said, "what you've been through, the lesbian ..."

Ella froze, she'd never told anyone about the incident with Safada.

"...attack in jail."

She relaxed.

"And the arrest at the opera," he continued, "that I will never forget as long as I live."

"I don't think we really need to relive some of these moments," Ella said.

"Hold on just a second. After your public epiphany at Giselle's open house, you're going to give millions to charity, right? Hungry little children in Central America?

Ella smirked. "Smart ass. I don't know yet what I'll do."

"How is the buyer's agent reacting?" Jeff asked.

"Buyer's broker gets three percent of the selling price, nearly one point seven million. I haven't heard any complaints so far."

Mark thrust his glass out for more. "When do you close?"

"In two weeks. The day of the Frackle Business Machines IPO."

"And that's when you get paid," Mark said. "Here's to a soaring IPO, I want my 'round the world trip."

Ella shifted in her chair, trying to get comfortable. "No one said anything about a world trip. One strange thing though, Safada called, saying Giselle doesn't want anyone around the mansion now that it's in escrow. She specifically mentioned me."

"You're not allowed in the house you're selling?" Jeff asked.

"No. She said Giselle wants 'peaceful last days in the mansion,' or something to that effect."

"Or maybe," Mark said, "Giselle doesn't want the killer coming after you on her property, maybe one body was enough. No offense."

"What about your safety?" Jeff asked. "Somebody tried to kill you, and now that the mansion's in escrow, they could be getting desperate."

"I'll have to hire a bodyguard, or maybe Rothschild'll come back on the job," Ella said.

"I volunteer," Jeff said, slipping an arm around Ella's tender shoulder.

"The mortgage broker body guard, how scary," said Mark.

"Leave him alone," Ella said. "I'll find a way to handle it. One thing's for sure, I intend to close this deal, alive and well. If the cops can't find who's behind the murders, we just might have to do it ourselves."

"We?"

"What are you talking about?" Jeff said.

Ella squeezed Jeff's hand "Mark," she said, "did you ever get the information I asked for, the stuff your dad was checking out?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," he said, taking a business size manila envelope out of his leather tote bag. "It came in yesterday. I haven't opened it yet though."

Ella adjusted her skirt and put on her reading glasses. "In that case, let's have a look."

*******

The next morning marked another highly awaited occasion, the closing of the Littlefeather-Jones escrow. Relief swept over Ella when the email confirmation popped up her on her computer. Fifteen minutes later, Bootsie buzzed from the outer office.

"Um, Ella, there appears to be some sort of problem with..."

"Not the Littlefeather-Jones closing?"

"I'm not sure, but it does have to with them."

What?"

"Their new home is on fire."

Ella whipped the rental car around the last corner, finally coming into view of the roaring flames. If she hadn't already known where the house stood, she could have just followed the billowing column of black smoke to the south side of Potrero Hill. Fire trucks and police cordoned off the immediate area, leaving Ella no choice but to look for parking in the surrounding blocks. She didn't want to park the beige, down market vehicle too close anyway, just in case any media types with cameras in tow should see her approach.

She thought about pulling up on the sidewalk, but remembered the television images of her Mercedes rising on the tow hook after the opera. She ducked into a small street spot that never would have housed her elongated S600. As she struggled to get the key out of the sticky ignition, she thought she really should go and rent something nicer, even if she had to pay for it herself. After all, with the mansion sale going forward, the real estate gods would soon rain extravagant sums of money down upon her. But the body shop had promised the Mecedes within the next couple of days, so she'd hold tight until then.

She walked up to the police barricade, cell phone pinned to one ear.

"Bootsie, I need to know exactly what time the Littlefeather-Jones escrow closed this morning. To the minute. Yes, I'll hold."

"Excuse me officer, can you tell me what happened? I have an interest in the property."

"The fire guys are saying it's the hot water heater. Blew like a grenade about a half hour ago."

Ella looked at her watch: 10:40 a.m. A half hour earlier would put the explosion at approximately 10:10. The exact timing of the fire carried great significance. If the fire started before escrow closed, her clients took off scott free, with no financial responsibility; the whole deal would cancel. Conversely if the fire started after escrow closed, the Littlefeather-Jones' would already be the owners. The closing would hold, and Ella would receive her commission. The buyers could take the insurance money and rebuild something bigger and better.

She looked up at the house, now totally engulfed. The flames soared forty and fifty feet into the air. Firefighters shouted and water sprayed in strong jets from snaky hoses.

"One more thing officer, was anybody home?"

"We don't think so, the neighbors say they moved out yesterday."

Bootsie's voice came back on the line. "Ella, the title company recorded at 9:30 this morning."

Ella sighed with relief, but stopped when she saw Roberta Littlefeather-Jones sitting alone on the curb. She looked overwhelmed and defeated, with large teardrops running down her puffy face. She wore a baggy sweatshirt and hadn't shaved her head recently, instead letting it grow out into the beginnings of a ragged, outdated K.D. Lang look.

Ella let the phone drop to her side and cautiously walked over to Roberta. Her shiny black heels and tinted stockings glistened in the smoky sunlight next to Roberta's scuffed Docksiders and worn 501s. The other woman looked up into Ella's eyes.

"We're going to have to live in the homemade motor home, you know."

Ella shot a glance over at the driveway. The plywood clad monstrosity sat untouched by the flames.

"We mortgaged out little baby's future for a pile of charred ruins and a pet cemetery."

"Insurance?"

"Nothing, for what do they call it, interim housing?"

"If I recall, you did buy a home warranty."

"What kinda home warranty is gonna cover this? Isn't that like to fix the icemaker, things like that? We'll have to totally rebuild."

Ella didn't know what to say. "What about Starka, they can't be holding her any longer, can they?"

"Just something about illegal weapons transport, they couldn't prove anything else. After all, she is innocent. She'll be out later today."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Easy for you to say. A half hour earlier, and the fire wouldn't be our problem." Roberta came out of her crying jag, and an angry glint replaced the falling tears. "It's all your fault, you greedy bitch."

"I didn't cause the fire. Are you taking your medication?" Ella asked.

"None of your fucking business." Roberta stood up and took a set of keys from her pocket. She dangled them in front of Ella's face. "Would you like to walk us through our new home?" Her tone mocked with false, sarcastic brightness. "We just got the keys this morning."

Ella stepped back, realizing she'd made a mistake in approaching Roberta. She turned and walked away.

"I hope you feel good about your job, Ella Barker, because you're leaving a trail of bad karma. It'll catch up to you one day, mark my words."

Ella shook her head in dismay as she crossed the street.

*******

Renting a Maybach automobile turned out to be much more difficult than Ella anticipated. The receptionist who answered the phone at the one nearby dealer snorted and laughed upon hearing her question.

"Why don't you just go down to Hertz, maybe rent-a-wreck?" she'd added derisively. "They got 'em in every color. Ask for the triple-A discount."

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm, young woman, this is a serious inquiry."

Ella did some web research before making her first call, so she knew that the $400,000 tank-like vehicles didn't exactly roll off an assembly line. Each customer, some along with their interior decorators, chose just about every detail long before production, down to custom paint colors. But some of the dealers, she also found out, kept a demo car on hand so one could get a sense of the driving experience before laying out the cash.

The receptionist at the local dealer also recognized her name, so it took only a moment's consideration before Ella transferred her inquiries further afield. She managed to get a hold of a Maybach salesperson, or Relationship Manager, in San Jose. He didn't react one way or the other when he heard her name, which she took as a good sign.

"Maybach automobiles are not sold to rental fleets," he announced ostentatiously.

"How about your demo, just for 24 hours," Ella asked, "I'd pay whatever you ask, plus a nice finders fee just for you." In the end, she'd gotten it for $1,500 plus a $500 cash commission for the Relationship Manager. She considered it money well spent.

Nearly everyone in the combo Mercedes-Maybach dealership, all the way down to the guy washing cars, looked askance when she pulled into the lot driving the little beige insurance rental. Once the details were out of the way however, and she'd handed over the certificate of insurance, Ella took off cruising up the 101 in her very own Maybach 62 sedan, if only for 24 hours. She hadn't really looked too closely at the twin model belonging to Giselle Frackle, only noticing its size and grandeur. Upon closer inspection, the car reminded her of an oversized, preening panther, paws outstretched in elegant repose, oozing attitude, elegance and raw power. Every finely burnished corner and surface area gleamed with fastidious attention to detail. Once behind the wheel, fine wood finishes and plush expanses of rich leather surrounded her, creating a radiant, intoxicating atmosphere of extreme wealth.

The 62 model, at 20 feet long and intended to be chauffeur driven, presided over the northbound lanes of the freeway. Her fellow motorists stared at the high gloss, two toned behemoth, but not with the same admiring glances her Mercedes generated. These entranced gazes and goggle-eyed gapes indicated a more brazen type of lascivious curiosity, of the paparazzi sort, as if on the lookout for a nubile heiress or drug addled rock star wantonly throwing $100 bills out the window after a lustful, juicy romp in the expansive rear cabin. Slouching lower in the driver's seat, Ella hoped no one mistook her for a professional servant, at least not yet.

*******

As the sun went down that evening, the Maybach floated along outer Geary Blvd. past the myriad Asian restaurants and Russian markets, a tall blonde wig clearly visible through the rear passenger window.

"I still can't believe you talked me into this," Mark said.

Ella glanced up from the wheel. The wig loomed high in the rear view mirror. "You sound so incensed."

"In case you haven't noticed, I am a male, and generally considered African American, thank you dad. And my mother is a swarthy Jewess. Giselle Frackle is an old, very white, Wasp woman. I'm not even into drag."

"There's a first time for everything..." Separated by a glass panel, they spoke via the automobile's interphone. Ella checked out her own costume, pushing her hair back up underneath the black chauffeur's cap.

"Well you think I'm going to pass for Elton, in my navy sport coat and cap?"

"What if this gets out?" he ranted. "My father's the California Attorney General for crissakes. This wig, it's ridiculous. I feel like Lucy and Ethel."

Mark did make a rather distinct impression in the tall, blonde wig, frilly white blouse and blue jeans. He kept his face turned inward. The plan called for Mark to remain in the car the entire time, and he made it clear he had no intention whatsoever of opening the door or getting out while disguised as the elderly matron.

"I think you look rather fetching," Ella said with a little smile.

"I look like a painted up whore in a Merchant and Ivory film."

Ella laughed to mask her nervousness.

"It's breaking and entering," Mark said.

"As the listing broker, I have all the necessary codes and keys."

"In case you forgot, you were banned from the mansion."

"No one will know we've been there."

"You're sure they're not home?"

"I told you, Giselle, Sanjay and Safada are all down at the Concours d'Elegance in Hillsborough. Jeff followed them to be sure. He said Elton drove as usual. Safada said they won't be back until late this evening, after dinner."

The grand sedan rolled quietly into Sea Cliff.

"We should be down there instead of trying to pull this off, it's a ripe client base," Mark said.

"We're just about there."

An approaching car tooted and the driver waved for Ella to slow down.

"Oh no, it's Sea Cliff security," Ella said, braking slightly.

"Do not stop this car," Mark commanded.

The security guard motioned for her to lower her window. Ella pulled her driver's cap lower, and cruised by without stopping. She tooted back in return and waved, keeping her face averted.

She looked in the mirror after passing. The security guard remained stopped for a moment, then slowly drove on in the opposite direction.

"We're in the clear, he probably just wanted to say hi to Elton," Ella said.

"At least he didn't want to say hi to Giselle. Anyway, did you talk to the cops about your theory?"

"Lt.Rothschild said my suspicion has no basis in fact. But I don't happen to like the idea that somebody wants me dead.

"I'm with ya on that one."

"And I want to close the Frackle deal... alive. Two others before me have been unsuccessful. I'll be damned if I'm just going to sit around waiting for that... that caped killer to come after me again."

Ella pulled the car into the mansion entrance. She lacked the automatic opener, so she had to lower the window to input the code on the keypad. As the gates began to swing open, someone knocked sharply on the tinted glass next to Mark. He jumped. "Jesus Christ, who's that?"

Through the passenger side mirror, Ella recognized the neighbor from across the street, the man with the florid face who'd been on the news.

"Giselle," he said in a trembling voice. At his side, a yippy Schnauzer jumped around. The dog desperately sought a greeting, making Ella wince when the little shit's paws frantically scratched the side of the rented Maybach.

"Don't answer, Mark, don't say anything, the gate's just about open."

Mark took a handkerchief and feigned a coughing fit, the giant wig nearly falling off. He put a dark hand up to steady it. The neighbor frowned when he saw this.

"Giselle, are you OK?"

Mark nodded, still keeping his face averted. His fake cough turned into a loud hack.

The gate opened completely and Ella accelerated smoothly up the driveway.

"I hope you're feeling better soon," the bewildered neighbor called out from behind.

*******

Inside the eerily quiet Frackle Mansion, Ella crept up the massive curved stairway. She knew the house well now since taking over the sales listing and besides, the way to Safada's lair would remain forever etched in her memory. She quietly opened the door, her mind reeling with powerful recall. A roll top desk sat near the bathroom door, cover open to reveal a laptop with a Rio de Janeiro screensaver. Immediately targeting the desk, Ella tiptoed across the polished wood floor. The top drawers contained nothing unusual, just paper, pens and various office supplies. She rifled through the others but found nothing of interest, save for a brochure from the Swats and Paddles Sex Club.

She crossed over to an enormous pine bureau. Kneeling down, she opened the bottom drawer first. Rummaging underneath stacks of expensive sweaters, her hand ran across a book of some kind. She pushed the sweaters aside, and pulled out a photo album. Settling back on her haunches, she opened the heavy cover and leafed through. Of course Safada had been attractive her whole life. The book began somewhere in adolescence and showed small groups of beautiful young people posing for the camera, always smiling, always tanned, toasting with cocktails or kissing and flirting. The settings varied, whether a sunny beach or some formal event. She closed the album and carefully placed it back under the sweaters.

Ella stood up, her legs feeling tingly from squatting. Her gaze fell on a framed photo on top of the bureau, nestled among scattered tubes of lipstick and other makeup accessories. She picked up the artisan style, rough hewn wood frame, examining the eight by ten of Giselle and Safada snapped at some charity function or another, both beaming like schoolgirls. She casually turned it over, her mind wandering to where she would look next. While fingering the frame, she felt a couple of tiny, thick paper corners sticking out from underneath the back cover. She slid the cover off, and removed two more photos tucked out of view behind the first.

Her eyes opened wide. Pictured next to Safada, in an entangled, loving pose of glaring and obvious physical intimacy, was Salchiço Grosso, the handsome Italian sex worker shot and killed in the open house hot tub. Ella gasped. The second hidden photo showed Safada dressed in a tight fitting camouflage outfit, securely gripping a rifle at her side. So, the little sicko did have more on her mind than seduction. She folded the photos in half and slipped them into her pants pocket. Replacing the frame on the bureau, she stole out of Safada's bedroom.

Crouching in a corner of the hallway, Ella whipped out her cell phone and punched in the speed dial for Mark. She wanted a few more minutes to snoop around, but he didn't answer. What the hell was he doing, she wondered impatiently, gabbing on the phone with one of his little boyfriends? She ran back into Safada's bedroom and looked out the window. Shock and fear raced down her spine when she saw the rear door of the decoy Maybach flung open, and Mark lying there, half in, half out, one blue-jeaned leg still resting on the back seat. The upper half of his body lay on the ground, giant blonde wig askew with the frilly white blouse scuffed and torn. He didn't move a muscle, and a thin streak of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth.

Ella dashed into the hallway and down the stairs. She skidded and practically fell at the base of the staircase, before scrambling towards the front door. She grabbed the massive door with both hands and pulled the handle.

The door didn't budge. She looked for a deadbolt, but the lock required a key from the inside as well. She certainly hadn't locked herself in. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the keys. Before she could even begin fumbling for the right one, a stern voice pierced the fusty mansion air.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Ella turned around. Safada stood at the other end of the hallway, the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge framed up behind her. Just like in the purloined photo stashed in Ella's pocket, Safada held a rifle with a telescopic site mounted on the barrel, pointed straight at Ella.

"Stay where you are," she commanded. No foreign accent whatsoever, no mangled syntax, no grammatical comedy. She looked like a dinner party assassin, wearing an emerald green designer dress.

"You're supposed to be at the Concours d'Elegance." Ella asked.

"Is that the best thing you can think of to say?"

Ella turned back to the door. "Mark," she called.

"Stop, now! Or I'll fire."

Ella stopped. "Your accent, what...?"

"Mean you this, amiginha, little friend?" said Safada, reverting to her stilted, heavily accented speech.

Ella looked at her quizzically. "You're a real fraud, huh?"

"I wouldn't use the word fraud. Creative, maybe. Resourceful."

Ella turned towards the front door again.

"Don't move." Safada's tone could have chilled a class of first graders on their way to a petting zoo. "Don't worry about him, it's not as bad as it looks. And what's with the wig? Who do think you're fooling?"

"What happened to the innocent little Brazilian?"

She bristled. "I am Brazilian, and very proud of it."

"Where did the perfect English come from?"

"Private schools, American-run."

"So you came from money and you work as a maid?"

"It's not that simple, and besides, have you seen me clean anything?"

Ella moved a step closer. "You've got a point."

"I said, stay right there." She steadied the rifle on her arm.

"And you spent time in the military as well?"

"Sharp shooter. How'd you know?"

Ella toyed with the photo in her back pocket. "I made a few inquiries."

"Did it turn you on to go through my private things?" She looked down the barrel straight into Ella's eyes.

"I found it, how shall I say, informative. Did Salchiço Grosso hurt you, Safada?"

She flinched. "I was engaged to the bastard. He lived in Rio, I met him while I was in the army. Then he started his so-called acting career and moved to the U.S. All those women, what sluts..."

Ella thought Safada was one to talk, but withheld comment.

"That's why you went AWOL? You came after him?"

"How'd you know I went AWOL?"

She gestured with her head toward the front door. "My friend's father is the state Attorney General. That's called access, my dear. His office contacted the Brazilian authorities, and we found out a few things."

"You wouldn't have found anything under the name Safada da Silva."

"What about Maria Castro Alves?

Safada shifted the gun, a look of surprise on her face. "So you're smarter than I thought."

"Actually, it was you who was careless. But you're right, Safada's name came up clean with the cops."

"That name belongs to a dead nun. How was I careless?"

Ella smiled nervously. "The day I came for my first interview with Giselle, the day you made those strong drinks and flashed your tits?"

Safada nodded, a faint smile rising on her face.

"When I walked in on you and Elton, your purse was on the counter. I took the liberty of a quick peek, and saw an ID card with your picture and this Maria Castro name. From there we made the inquiries, but until now, finding out about Salchiço in your life, I still wasn't sure."

"He deserved it, sitting in the hot tub with that whore."

"So you faked this whole illiterate immigrant act just to get back at him?"

Safada laughed, shifting the rifle to her other arm. "Not exactly. I learned before I met Giselle that she likes to hire innocents new to the U.S. And I needed a comfortable place to stow away."

Ella slid forward another yard. "You wouldn't shoot me here in Giselle's hallway."

Safada fixed her fierce green eyes on Ella. "Maybe not, but outside I would, or maybe you'll fall off the cliff into the ocean. 'I mean officer, I came home and found someone sneaking around, I was scared for my life.'"

"Why are you home early anyway?"

"It was time to take care of you once and for all. Conveniently you just happened to be here, though I admit I was thrown by the look alike car with drag boy in back."

Ella came even closer. "So is it men or women, Safada? I'm curious. Why be so jealous of your man if you like the ladies as well? You seemed quite enthusiastic when we were..." Ella trailed off. The two women now stood separated by little more than the length of the gun barrel.

"Like I said before, I'm happy either way."

"Why'd you kill Tiffany and Gordon?"

Safada stood very still.

"It was you who tried to kill me up on Twin Peaks. Even with a mask, I'd know your eyes anywhere."

Safada sighed.

"Go ahead, I'm listening."

"Giselle promised to leave me the mansion in her will, then she meets this idiot Sanjay, and it all changes."

"You could never afford to keep it, even if she left it to you." Ella stepped just past the barrel of the gun, never taking her eyes from Safada.

"Keep it? Who wants to keep it? I'd get a stepped up basis, and could sell it tax free. I'd get the hell back to Rio and show those snotty bitches a thing or two."

"You'd be jailed if you went back."

Safada laughed. "You obviously no nothing of Brazil, our little ways of getting things done, the _jeitinho_. With this kind of money," she briefly took her hand away from the trigger, waving toward the richly paneled living room, "I wouldn't have to worry about any legal problems whatsoever."

"Safada," Ella said quietly.

"What?"

"Being so close to you, it's distracting..., uh, you may not believe this, but I enjoyed our little... our little interlude."

Safada held Ella's stare. "You're lying."

But something in Safada's eyes told her she'd stuck a chord. "I never expected to like it so much," Ella said. She raised one hand in a lazy, unthreatening manner, and placed it softly on Safada's cheek.

"I'm pretty damn good, aren't I?" Safada whispered, pushing her face against Ella's palm.

Ella leaned forward to kiss Safada.

Safada closed her eyes in anticipation. Ella whipped her hand off Safada's exquisite face and lunged for the rifle. "Not that good," she wailed.

Ella grabbed the gun barrel with both hands but Safada still had a strong grip. The two women struggled, both desperately clinging to the gun. Ella grunted and nearly fell down as Safada tried to wrench the weapon back.

"You lying little...." Safada hissed. The gun went off. The report scared the hell out of Ella, and she saw Edgar Frackle explode out from his gilded frame over the fireplace.

Ella pushed back on the gun, throwing Safada off balance. With that split second advantage she managed to get the rifle away. Safada regained her stance and leapt forward. Ella hurled the rifle as hard as she could toward the giant plate glass window facing the Golden Gate Bridge. The rifle twirled across the living room and smashed through the glass in a deafening shatter that destroyed the entire window. The rifle flew on, sailing out beyond the edge of the cliff. Ella felt the cold air rush in. Safada stopped in her tracks, breathing hard.

"Ahhhh," she screamed, and rushed toward Ella.

Ella ran. She jumped through the newly open window, landing on the soft ground outside. Dancing around the most dangerous looking shards of glass, she took off along the cliff side of the mansion. She heard Safada's quick breath racing along behind her as she ducked past giant juniper bushes and cypress trees.

She cleared the house and shot out onto the open lawn. Within a hundred feet she came to the little creek of Pekinese fame, and stopped cold in her tracks.

She heard a man yelling. "Ella..." She looked over toward the driveway and saw Mark standing there in the deepening twilight, not fifty feet away, the Giselle wig hanging upside down in his left hand. He still wore the frilly white blouse.

"Mark," she yelled back. Safada ran up and stopped, looking first at Ella, then Mark. Her heels had come off at some point and she stood barefoot on the lawn in her elegant green dress.

"It's all over now Safada, Giselle's home," Mark said.

A honking horn interrupted the tense scene. They all turned to see the massive gates swing open, followed by the powerful sweep of headlights emanating from Giselle's own Maybach sedan. The colossal vehicle flew up the driveway and over the little bridge at a brisk clip. The wail of police sirens grew in the distance.

Safada looked at Ella. "Why did you have to sell this house?" she said plaintively. "She almost took it off the market after Tiffany Reynolds died."

"What would you have done if it hadn't sold, murdered Giselle?"

Safada shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows.

Giselle's crackly voice shot across the lawn. "Safada, what's going on? Why did you run off, you missed the Concours d'Elegance. And why did that mortgage broker call? He said you're involved with all those murders." Sanjay stood at Giselle's side, supporting her elbow.

Elton got out of the car, looking sexy and relaxed as usual. "Safada?"

Safada looked at her employer off in the distance. Shrieking sirens approached the mansion gate in a psychedelic swirl of red and blue lights.

"The gig's up, bitch. Next stop, San Quentin," Mark said. "Oh god, I can't breathe, the gas..."

Safada looked around like a cornered raccoon. She backed up toward the cliff.

"Safada, no," Ella said.

"Wait, I didn't mean..." Mark said.

"I'll never go to jail." She looked deeply into Ella's eyes, a haunting, dazzling, sad gaze. She turned and ran pell mell into the shallow creek, swooping headlong over the falls into the murky darkness, arms outstretched like a suicidal Olympic diver. One of the powerful spotlights illuminating Frackle Falls caught the flash of her green dress as she descended into rocky eternity.

Chapter 16

For our exclusive Live interview, we now go Live to Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12's Chirley Wixon, who's Live in our studio with Ella Barker...Live!

Thank you, Thad, and welcome to Speak Out! Where newsmakers tell it in their own words, NO filter. We're here this evening with Ella Barker, the owner and founder of San Francisco's Barker Brokers Properties. At first, the police thought Ella was the Sea Cliff killer, even throwing her in jail. Ironically it turns out that Mrs. Barker is the force behind single-handedly solving the gruesome murders that shocked San Francisco's close-knit real estate community.

Ella watched Chirley's breathless introduction from a comfortable arm chair a few feet away. When Chirley mentioned Ella solving the crimes, her perky face contorted as if she'd swallowed a rancid oyster. Ella crossed her legs and put her hands in her lap.

Chirley finished her introduction and turned to Ella. In the glare of the bright television lights, the younger woman's pert breasts stood out like metal cooking funnels under a tight yellow turtleneck.

It must have been so frightening, Ella, to be chased by a maniac killer through that seaside mansion, I can only imagine.

With that, Chirley leaned forward and placed her hand on Ella's knee. Ella lifted Chirley's hand by the wrist, putting it back in her lap.

Well Chirley, to start with, not everyone thought I was responsible for the murders, only a few certain...

Ella, we're getting off track. What everyone wants to hear about now is how you were nearly murdered by Giselle Frackle's foreign maid. Why didn't you have a body guard? You had to be next in line to die, it seems so obvious.

I meant to get one, it was being arranged, but I couldn't just stop living life, could I?

I think that's exactly what could have happened, Ella. Tell us about your suspicions. How did you beat the cops to the punch?

Well, the day I...

Chirley changed position and she listened with great intensity, eyes wide open. Suddenly she looked up and put her hands on her hips.

I'm sorry to interrupt you, Ella, but hold that thought for just a minute. We have someone here to help you tell the story. Mark Allen, come on out.

Ella looked around to see Mark coming out from the wings. While not pleased with the element of surprise, she smiled upon seeing her friend stride confidently onto the set. He sat down in a chair next to the beaming Chirley. The beginnings of a goatee covered his chin and Ella thought he looked very handsome.

Thad, we have with us Mark Allen, Ella Barker's close friend and decorator to the stars.

Mark looked at Ella in mock surprise.

Mark, tell us, how did you happen to call the police when Ella was sleuthing around inside Giselle Frackle's mansion? And what in the world were you doing wearing a big, blonde wig?

Actually Chirley, I'm an interior designer, not a decorator.

Uh huh, Mark, we understand that, now did Safada da Silva knock you over the head, is that why were you covered with blood when the cops arrived?

I wasn't exactly covered with blood. I saw Safada coming at me, and she did knock me on the side of my head, with I don't know what. I bit my tongue, which caused a little bleeding.

Chirley looked disappointed with this response.

So you called the police when you came to?

That's right, Chirley.

Unbelievable, you two are SO brave, disguising yourselves and breaking into someone's home.

Chirley turned back to Ella.

Ella...

Chirley, we did not break into the Frackle mansion. I had reason to believe, now fully justified, that my life was at stake. I was trying to prove who the killer...

I think we all know that by now. What I want to ask you next is to explain the video we're about to see.

The monitors positioned around the studio came to life. They showed Ella standing at the edge of the cliff the day of the Frackle mansion open house, arms raised in the air, yelling "I am a sinner," over and over. The screen went black after 15 interminable seconds.

What is that all about, Ella?

Mark chimed in. _Yes, Ella, I'm curious myself._

Well Chirley, Mark, I had a kind of realization when that poor little dog was swept over the falls...

Did you have anything to do with the dog's death?

Ella responded through clenched teeth.

No Chirley, I did not. It just caused me to start thinking about my priorities, and what...

But Ella, tell me, speaking of priorities, you do stand to make a lot of money from the sale of the Frackle mansion, isn't that so?

Ella stared at Chirley, nearly speechless.

I don't talk about my income to anyone Chirley...

When's the big day, Ella? You might want to open an account at a new bank, your present one might not have enough room, ha, ha ha...Seriously, were you having an affair with Safada da Silva?

No! I'm here tonight because this news broadcast unfairly maligned my good name...

Hold your horses, Ella.

Chirley put a hand up to one ear, staring ahead with blank eyes.

My producers are telling me we're out of time. Thank you both so much for coming on Speak Out! and clueing our viewers in on this exciting story.

*******

A light, evening mist covered the road when Ella swung the Mercedes onto Roberta and Starka's street. She'd picked up the S600 from the body shop earlier that afternoon, and it sparkled in unblemished splendor once again. She pulled down the visor as she shifted into Park, the light from the vanity mirror illuminating her tired face. Brushing a strand or two of hair out from in front of her eyes, she looked at the file lying on the passenger seat. She took a deep breath, grabbed it and got out of the car.

The early evening darkness did little to hide the fire's mess once she got closer. Roberta and Starka Littlefeather-Jones' new home lay in charred ruins, with mounds of blackened wreckage piled up in the driveway. A cracked toilet here, a messy stack of burned two-by-fours there. What remained of the house reminded Ella of news images that flashed annually across television screens in wildfire prone California. Just a few burned remnants still stood, and the brick chimney pointed all alone to the sky, the single element of the home steadfast enough to resist the searing temperatures and fatal lick of flame.

Inside the "handyman" motor home parked permanently in the driveway, a couple of dim lights glowed. Ella heard loud arguing coming from behind the plywood façade, and recognized Roberta's belligerent tone. Ella climbed the portable metal steps. She stood for a moment clutching the file, then reached up and knocked on the flimsy door. A diamond ring she'd bought on impulse the week before flashed in the soft spread of the streetlights. She pulled it off her finger and slipped it into a pocket.

The door creaked open. Starka stood there wearing a heavy parka. Her eyebrows arched in surprise.

"Roberta, you're not gonna believe this. Get out here." A kerosene camping lantern burned on the tiny kitchen counter behind Starka, and Ella could hear the hiss of the propane stove.

"Who is it?" Roberta roared.

Starka turned her attention back to Ella. "So the hero of the day turns up on our doorstep, if you could call it that. You're all over the TV."

Roberta shuffled up to Starka's side wearing a colorful Mexican serape over a baggy, grey sweat suit. She put her arm around the woman she'd been yelling at only seconds before. She peered out into the darkness. "What the hell? It's you. Now they're saying Old Lady Frackle's hot little maid killed them people. First you, then Starka and now her." Is it true?

Ella self consciously closed her cashmere overcoat. "Yes, it's true. But I came to see you about another matter."

Starka sneered. "What now, you want to sell us another house?"

"Here, take this," Ella said. She thrust the file toward the couple. "It's uh... a gesture."

Roberta and Starka looked at each other dubiously, then opened the file.

Ella held out a pen. "I know you probably don't trust me when it comes to signing anything, but the heat works. It's an agreement for one of my rentals, a cute little two bedroom one bath in Golden Gate Heights. Tunnel entrance, fabulous ocean view..." She stopped, realizing she wasn't selling anything.

The two women stared at her. "I don't understand, we could never afford to rent a house now," Starka said.

"Wait honey," Roberta said, examining the document more closely. "It says here the rent is zero."

"You can stay there as long as you need to while you settle things with the insurance company and rebuild," Ella said. "Well, a year anyway. I thought with a child on the way, it might help..."

The shaken Littlefeather-Jones' looked at Ella in stunned silence.

*******

Ella and Jeff left the car with the valet and walked up to the wide glass front door of the Le Garlandique hotel, located downtown on the renovated Embarcadero. After verifying their reservation via headset, the matinee idol doorman granted access and swung a gauzy white curtain out of the way, revealing the inner sanctum of the über hip hostelry. Le Garlandique sizzled and spat trendiness. Guests had to _apply_ in order to stay at the hotel, or receive an invitation to pay the extraordinarily high room rates. Should their social and financial qualifications, as well as press and internet buzz add up to the requisite hipness quotient, an email would arrive confirming the coveted reservation.

Many wanna-be Le Garlandique guests remained stranded in the wasteland of less stylish and discerning locales, often risking repeated humiliation by applying over and over. Le Garlandique publicly released its list of acceptances and denials, followed slavishly by several fashion and entertainment blogs. The recipe for acceptance remained mysterious, but according to rumors a Manhattan address couldn't hurt. Since her splashy Opera Night spin in jail, Ella had received multiple offers from hotel management offering complementary stays. She and Jeff decided to take advantage of a free night and slip away before escrow closed on the Frackle Mansion.

They entered the lobby.

"Where's the front desk?" Jeff asked the doorman.

They stood in a cavernous square, double height chamber. More white, billowy curtains covered the walls. No artwork, no furniture, no baggage spoiled the sterile effect. Just the occasional high fashion person entered or exited the area through invisible slits in the hanging walls, and loud chill music echoed through the vast, empty space.

"The Welcome Lounge is across the Atrium. I will accompany you."

They walked over to a blank curtain. The doorman took a silver whistle from his pocket, and placed it between his perfectly formed lips. He blew mightily and a high pitched, almost painful tone filled their ears. Ella expected the hounds to come running.

He listened to his headset, and pulled back the curtain. "You may enter the Welcome Lounge, Blonde Esmeree will assist you."

Clad in the extreme fashion of a Paris catwalk, Blonde Esmeree glowered with the puckered, strangely blank expression one sees strutting the runway. Tall, pale and deeply gaunt, she lowered her chin, affixed a bony hand to her jutting hip and looked them straight in the eyes.

"I am Blonde Esmeree and you will speak with me before ascending to your shelter," she ordered.

"Good afternoon to you too," Jeff said goodnaturedly.

She shifted her gaze to the computer screen buried deeply within the counter. "Most unusual."

"Is something wrong?" Ella asked.

"We see very few complementary rooms at Le Garlandique. I must check."

The fashionista desk clerk pecked at the keyboard with a pair of diamond encrusted chopsticks. She was quite adept and clicked rapidly.

"You are approved," Blonde Esmeree said.

"Good," Ella said. "By the way, are you hungry? I have a candy bar in my purse."

Blonde Esmeree stared back, expressionless. "Greloguevaus will take you to your shelter."

Ella and Jeff exchanged glances. The curtain behind them parted and the bellman waited. An unlit cigarette hung out of his pouty mouth, accentuating angular, effete looks.

"This way," he said, indicating the opposite curtain.

"Where's our luggage?" Jeff asked.

"No luggage ever enters Le Garlandique's Atrium. Everything is pre-delivered to your shelter."

"That should make your job fairly easy then," Jeff said.

The elevators resided behind another gauzy barrier. A chime announced the arrival of the next car, but before the doors opened Ella heard the echo of a familiar and irritating voice. The elevator opened to reveal Chirley Wixon, glued to Giselle Frackle's chauffeur Elton.

Chirley looked at Ella, and smiled brightly. "And I thought San Francisco was the big city before I came here. You never know who you'll run into."

Was the woman ever caught off guard? "I'd say surprise runs both ways in this case," Ella said, shooting Elton a look.

He didn't look the least bit chastened. "After what happened, Giselle gave me a couple days to rest up."

"To recover, no doubt, from the shock."

Chirley and Elton stepped out of the elevator. She lifted her hand to Ella's cheek, giving her a quick, mock slap, not quite touching the skin. "Have fun," she whispered.

The elevator décor included aquarium lined walls. While they ascended brightly colored tropical fish swam about, casting scant shadows inside the glassy cabin.

"When the doors open, you will see the Wondrous Black Curtain," Greloguevaus said.

"The what?" Jeff asked.

"It's part of the psychic cleansing experience of Le Garlandique. We ask that you grasp the handrails upon exiting the elevator."

The doors whooshed open to reveal a pitch black landing. Only the dim light from the elevator aquarium lit anything at all, and Ella saw the lazy shadow of an Angel fish drift across the floor.

The bellman steered the couple to the nearest handrail, an essential part of his job she assumed.

Once the elevator doors shut she found herself in complete darkness, save for faint, muted blue lights spaced every so often on the hallway floor. They gave off no helpful illumination to speak of. As she moved down the hall, one hand securely sliding along the rail, Ella didn't find the Wondrous Black Curtain at all psychically cleansing, but instead inconvenient and stress producing. She could have used a pair of night vision goggles.

She reached out for Jeff but instead grazed Greloguevaus's derriere in the darkness. With mild amusement, she realized instead of moving away he pushed himself further against her hand. Well if he was offering, she thought, and took a quick, deep squeeze of his firm flesh. Then she saw their room number reflecting up from one of the blue panels. The bellman opened the door, and the hallway flooded with light.

"Sir, here's your key..." He stopped in mid sentence when he saw Ella standing next to him. His eyes darted to Jeff right behind her. He looked back at Ella, who smiled graciously.

"Expecting someone else?" she asked.

*******

The whip cracked with a piercing snap next to Ella's ear. She flinched but pressed her unclothed body even harder against the hotel room's inch thick, glass shower wall. She stared through the glass at Jeff, stark naked on the other side near the bed, his rock hard penis pulsing ever further toward heaven with each sharp crack of the whip. The tinted glass walls provided the only separation between the bathroom and bedroom, creating the illusion of an icy, sharply angled space populated with chic plumbing fixtures.

The leather whip snapped again in front of her face. She hoped the glass could take the force. But they'd tested it while getting warmed up and the transparent wall had withstood quite a preliminary beating. The arrangement suited Ella fine, in that it allowed Jeff to indulge his more extreme tastes without risk of injury to her.

The whip cracked once more.

"You like that?" he asked lustily.

She threw her head back and moaned, hair falling away from her shoulders.

Jeff cast the whip aside and rushed around the glass to her open arms. He entered his willing partner as snugly and profoundly as a downloaded pop single digitally engages inside the latest iPod.

*******

Ella and Jeff reclined in the all white king size bed, set at an odd angle in the center of the room. Amid the heady afterglow of sexual satisfaction, they sipped champagne and laughed about their impractically stylish "shelter."

"What do you think that egg thing is for?" Ella asked, lifting her chin toward a cream colored roundish object on the floor, about the size of a microwave oven.

"As far as I can tell, it's nothing more than a stumbling block in the middle of the night."

"Right before you smash into the glass walls. I'm glad we're not paying."

Jeff softly rubbed the back of his fingers across her cheek. "So are you ready for tomorrow?"

Ella marveled at how gentle he could be after he'd taken care of his more urgent and savage needs. "As ready as I'm going to be, I mean, sure, what's there not to be ready for?" Ella said.

"Well," Jeff said sinking back against the pillows and picking up the TV remote off the floor, "it's bound to be one of the biggest days ever in the history of San Francisco real estate."

Ella smiled as he switched on the set. Two seconds later they bolted upright in bed, paying rapt attention to a news bulletin flashing between commercials.

... _stock options, and the head of Frackle Business Machines vanishes the night before his company's highly anticipated IPO. The feds want answers. Details at 11._

"Kearney Frackle has run away?" Ella asked with a slight panic in her voice. "What exactly are backdated stock options?"

Chapter 17

"So your IPO shares are worth squat?" Mark asked.

Ella adjusted the washcloth on her forehead. "Apparently Kearney Frackle, with all his money, still felt the need to forge documents, lie to shareholders, manipulate the date the options were granted, and I don't know what else, but it all adds up to a big fat zero."

Bootsie ducked into Ella's office carrying a tray with two cups of steaming tea. "Excuse me, Ella, this should help soothe you."

"Didn't you have some kind of minimum guarantee?" Mark asked.

Ella shifted on the couch to look at Mark. "No. And the stock price is at a 20 year low after all this. My options are worthless."

Bootsie stopped on her way out of the office. "They're saying on the news Kearney Frackle and some young woman were spotted in the Maldive Islands way out in the Indian Ocean."

Ella sighed.

"But escrow did close on the Frackle Mansion?" Mark asked.

Bootsie looked at her watch. "About an hour ago," she said brightly.

"That'll be all Bootsie, thank you." Ella scooted up to a sitting position on the sofa. "You know what really burns me up? The guaranteed stake in the contract for Delicia Cardosa's broker."

"So CB-Pru-U-Z still rakes it in, even without Tiffany Reynolds in the deal?"

"Not quite. Tiffany's estate is claiming part of the commission."

"So she'll make more than you, even from beyond the grave?"

"You know Mark, you're such a comfort. How could I get along without you?"

"You couldn't, it's as simple as that."

*******

Giselle Frackle answered the front door of the mansion. "Surprised to see me answer the door myself, young lady? As you know, I'm short on staff at the moment."

"I'm sorry about all that's happened to you, Giselle. It must have been terrible discovering Safada's past, and her involvement with..."

"What I lost was a good maid," she responded with a wave of her liver spotted hand. "And Edgar's gun collection. The police took it away to some laboratory or another. To think Safada used his precious weapons in such a dreadful way. They did find her body though, not far from here on China Beach. Horrible it was, all tangled up with a hairy little dead dog."

Ella gulped. "I didn't know that, how sad."

"Life is a series of decisions Ella, and some of us make the wrong ones."

"What about Kearney?"

"Kearney's on his own. He'll have to get himself out of this one, Mommy can't come running to solve every little problem."

Sanjay descended the stairs carrying a suitcase in each hand while Giselle rattled on. "Thank god most of my money is still in the railroad, I'd be in trouble if all my chips were in the FBM basket."

Giselle could hardly be in trouble. She'd clear tens of millions on the sale of the mansion alone.

"In any case," Ella said, "I just came by to pick up our signs and any leftover sales materials." She smiled as Sanjay approached. "It looks like you're planning a little getaway."

Giselle shifted on her skinny legs. "Yes, that's right. Sanjay, bring me my wheelchair, my feet hurt."

Sanjay nodded his head, and moved away silently. Ella wondered whether his future with Giselle held matrimonial or man-servant status. But she supposed either way it beat answering phones in a Mumbai call center.

"What about your move?" Ella asked. Giselle had possession of the mansion for five days after closing, but the gigantic residence looked in no way prepped for such a massive undertaking as a full household move.

"The movers are coming after we leave, everything's going to storage, the whole darn thing, every last bit of it. I just want to go away for a while."

"Where are you off to?"

"Azerbaijan."

"Oh really? How interesting."

"We're going to a petroleum spa. It's the latest thing in relaxation. One dips one's body in tank full of deep brown, slippery oil and emerges refreshed as the day is young."

"Is that... safe?"

Sanjay pushed the wheelchair up behind his beloved. Giselle sat down with a small thud. "It'll be good for my joints. There is some talk about cancer, but why would I worry about that at my age?"

Ella glanced up at Sanjay, whose dark eyes didn't convey the same carefree attitude toward cancer risk.

"Oh here, Ella, I have something for you." Giselle fished an envelope out from a pocket in her skirt. "I know things didn't quite work out as we all might have expected, so for your effort, here's a little something."

"That's very kind, I appreciate it." She slipped the envelope into her purse. "Best of luck to the two of you."

"Come see us in San Ramon, it's going to be very cozy in Sanjay's condo."

Ella turned and walked slowly down the Frackle Mansion driveway.

*******

Jeff lounged on the street outside the mansion gate, leaning against the side of his Jaguar. He's offered to drive her out to meet with Giselle, then they'd have lunch afterwards.

Ella stopped next to the Barker Brokers yard sign, the thick post still buried a foot deep in the lawn.

"You didn't really come to get that sign, there's no way," Jeff said. "It's a big job."

"Actually we have sign contractor that'll come dig it out and take it away. I just wanted a final visit. Once Delicia and Hank move in, I doubt I'll be invited back." She took the envelope out of her purse, and held it up for Jeff to see.

"What's that?"

"Just a little something Giselle gave me for my trouble." She smiled slyly while opening it with a fingernail. She unfolded the personal check inside, and then laughed boisterously.

"What's so funny?"

Ella shook her head. "Not much, it's for $1,000."

"That's your commission on a $56 million dollar sale? You're kidding."

"No, I'm not kidding."

He walked over and put his arms around her. "I just heard something else you might find interesting. Could be good news or could be bad, depending."

"What now?"

"The latest QuickPrice report shows a sixteenth of one percent drop in San Francisco real estate prices."

Ella laced her arms around Jeff's neck, and looked him in the eyes. She didn't respond.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

She spoke slowly. "Thank god."

He slapped her on the ass. "Come on lover, let's go eat."

The End

About the Author:

James Turner works as a videographer when he's not staring into the abyss of his word processor. He's also written for various television news operations, and his passions include real estate, architecture and San Francisco. He splits his time between São Paulo, Brazil and California.

Connect Online:

author@sfvaluesbook.com

Twitter: @SFValuesBook

Smashwords: <https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/sfvalues>

www.sfvaluesbook.com
