The memorial service was on a sunny October day. Elizabeth felt like a Judas and didn’t want to go, but there was no way she could say no. She felt physically sick but made herself attend all the same, even though she was certain everyone could read the guilt on her face.
Everyone treated her like she was Mazie’s good friend because she’d been her assistant, when in truth, Mazie hadn’t even really liked her any more than she liked anyone else. The feeling had been mutual.
At the service, Elizabeth smiled and nodded and accepted condolences she felt she didn’t deserve. Eventually, she escaped the claustrophobic hall where the service took place to the reception room at Lemon Tree, an airy restaurant near to the Suncrest Realty offices, a spot where Mazie often met her clients for lunch.
Elizabeth tried to tuck herself into an out of the way corner where she hoped to hide out until she could politely and unobtrusively leave. The only place available was near the back end of the bar, which ended up being right in the middle of the action.
A server plopped down a tray loaded with mini-croissants, wedges of cheddar and Havarti, and wheels of brie cheese right beside her, and the appetizers served as a siren’s call to the milling crowd. Elizabeth found herself a reluctant focal point as people moved closer to order drinks and grab a small bite. Suncrest’s owner had wisely rejected the idea of a hosted bar suggested by one of the dumbest sales associates—dumb because Mazie’s blood alcohol had been enough to kill her on its own—and offered food and soft drinks instead. If anyone wanted a drink, they could buy it themselves.
Elizabeth held onto her club soda and tried to move out of her spot, but she was trapped by the crush of people mingling around the bar. Paddle fans swirled overhead, but still the room, filled as it was, seemed close. Stuffy. People dressed in black swarmed around the bar, keeping their voices low. Though Elizabeth would have preferred a glass of wine or two to help dull her senses, she stuck with her soft drink and silently counted the minutes that dragged by until she felt comfortable saying her good-byes.
Elizabeth shook her head at the memories, realizing how similar her feelings were at both services. At Mazie’s, she had counted the minutes till she could leave just as she had at Court’s funeral. Unwillingly, her thoughts returned to what had happened next at Lemon Tree.
In her corner, she sipped slowly, waiting and trying not to think too hard about how angry she’d been at Mazie, but her mind worried the problem like a dog with a bone. Her last confrontation with her boss had been at the office with the owner of the company. Mazie had cut off a suggestion that Elizabeth had been making and had sneered at it, acting as if Elizabeth were a moron. During the awkward silence that had followed, a malicious gleam had appeared in Mazie’s eyes and a slightly satisfied curve had appeared on her full lips. She’d put her underling in her place. Along with a hot wash of embarrassment, Elizabeth had seen red, anger streaming through her bloodstream as she returned to her desk.
You didn’t ply her with drinks, she reminded herself from the corner. All you did was wish her dead. She drank too much and got behind the wheel. That’s what killed her.
But that didn’t make sense. Although Mazie certainly liked her vodka tonics, Elizabeth had never seen her have
more than one or two at any event, had never witnessed Mazie more than faintly buzzed. The woman was always selling, selling, selling. Inebriation was simply not part of her real estate game plan.
So, how had she gotten so drunk? Elizabeth asked herself. How? Mazie had apparently been at home before she took off on the wild drive that ended her life. Had someone been with her, drinking with her? No one seemed to think so, or at least Elizabeth had never heard that Mazie had been with a companion before her ill-fated launch off the freeway.
You did it, her mind accused once more. Elizabeth shook her head, set her drink on the bar, and tried to force her way through the crowd in search of air and elbow room.
Connie Berker, one of the sharks who’d tried to grab Mazie’s clients from the moment of her death, caught her before she could reach the door and escape. “Elizabeth,” she called, holding up a hand to stop her as she wended past a crush of bodies. “You’re not leaving?”
“I am.” Elizabeth kept moving. “I’ve got a daughter at home.”
“Tragic, isn’t it?” Connie said, ignoring the fact that Elizabeth had one hand ready to push open the restaurant’s side door. “Mazie going airborne like that.” She gave a full body shudder.
“Yes, it really is.”
“Seems so un-Mazie-like, though, doesn’t it? She was always so rigid about everything.” Connie scowled into her own glass. “You know, I just can’t see her getting sloshy drunk.”
“I guess she did, though,” Elizabeth said, forcing herself not to steal a glance at the oversized watch on Connie’s wrist. She just wanted to leave.
“We’re all sorry she’s gone. I mean, it’s terrible. Truly terrible.” Connie made a face, then looked slyly at Elizabeth and whispered, “But, let’s face it. We all know Mazie was a total bitch.”
Elizabeth’s heart started pounding a heavy beat. “Well . . .”
“She was sure hard on you,” Connie went on as if sensing the protest forming on Elizabeth’s lips. “Everyone saw it, but I guess you were smart to hang in there. Get your real estate license. Handle her clients. Never let her get to you.”
Elizabeth made a noncommittal sound even though Connie had been wrong on that score. Hatchet-faced Mazie had definitely gotten to Elizabeth more than once. The older real estate agent would smile warmly at her clients, then, as soon as their backs were turned, she’d bare her teeth and snarl invectives at any and all coworkers she thought had screwed her in some way—and she always thought she’d been screwed in some way.
As Connie floated away, waving to another colleague, Elizabeth pushed the door open and left the restaurant.
Elizabeth didn’t move from the chair facing the window. Not wanting to think about Court or her marriage, she let more memories of Mazie flood her brain.
Mazie believed her younger assistant was trying to usurp her clients, which made helping her a double-edged sword. Though Mazie needed someone to run interference for her, she was highly suspicious of anyone who did, certain they were just humoring her while they tried to steal her clients.
Elizabeth was attempting to help a woman as demanding as she was rich, but Mazie had the idea that Elizabeth was trying to poach on the woman and the potential sale.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” she warned, her black eyes boring into Elizabeth.
“I’m not doing anything,” Elizabeth answered carefully, sensing Mazie was about to erupt.
Somewhere in her fifties, Mazie always told people she was in her midforties and was able to pull it off owing to hours at the gym that kept her thin and tough as rawhide. The fact that Elizabeth was in her midtwenties grated on Mazie who always assessed everyone around her as competition, whether real or imagined. She glared at Elizabeth as if she were deliberately goading her. “You met with the Sorensons when I wasn’t here,” she accused.