Bidding War Break-In

by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  Bidding war

  Break-In

  A Lily Sprayberry Realtor

  Cozy mystery

  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  COPYRIGHT FEBRUARY, 2019

  CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION:

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Cover Design by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  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. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  EPUB ISBN B07N5HRBPC

  For Mary Ann Ridder

  Thank you for encouraging my love for mysteries.

  Message from the Author

  Small towns are just that, small. Bramblett County, the fictional North Georgia location in this series may be a county, but it’s not lacking the small town personality many cozy readers love.

  The problem with small towns is you can only kill off so many people before you’ve got yourself a little crisis of sorts.

  This book was fun to write because no one gets whacked over the head with a cast iron skillet, stuffed in a truck or killed because he followed the rules. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it.

  Chapter 1

  In a small town, everyone’s in your business.

  Belle finished her walk through of our deceased client’s townhome. “I think it’s perfect.” She smiled up at the painting of the late Walter Payton staring off toward the French doors that opened onto the stone and brick patio. “Do you think they know each other now? That in Heaven, celebrity doesn’t matter, and people just hang out in some big group or something?”

  “I don’t know, but if so, my momma will be all over Steve Perry when she gets there.”

  “Oh Lord, will she be.”

  We both laughed.

  “Bless her heart, the stuff she posts on Facebook? She’s kind of a creeper sometimes,” Belle said.

  “I know. It’s embarrassing. I try to tell her that, but she doesn’t care. She says I don’t get it.”

  Belle shook her head. “Parents. They never learn.”

  “They just shouldn’t be on social media.”

  “At least not connected to their kids, the adult ones, at least.”

  “Which is why I’m barely on it except for business.”

  “Emm hmm.”

  I ignored her because as of late, she was half right, and I didn’t want to argue that, and also because I wanted to take a moment and pay our respects to Carter Trammell, whose home we were standing in, getting ready to officially list it to sell.

  Carter had died three months earlier in a crazy twist of fate I tried hard not to think about. We’d sold him the townhome, or actually, I’d sold him the townhome, and it was the last one available for sale on land that had once belonged to another dead client of mine. One that, if I was being honest, had also died under less than appropriate circumstances.

  Death had a way of seeking me out and latching onto people in my life.

  I’d grown to think I’d been cursed in some weird way, and over the past three months, to break that curse, I’d shied away from listing any properties or working with any clients. Belle typically handled the paperwork and such for Bramblett County Realty, our business partnership, while I handled the sales side of things–though that wasn’t a one hundred percent written in stone kind of thing—but at my urging, we’d switched. For just those three months, and it was a good thing.

  Most importantly, not one single murder happened in Bramblett County during that entire time. So yes, when it came to curses, bad luck, bad karma, or whatever the word of the day was, I had it. I was certain of it.

  If something bad was going to happen in Bramblett, it suctioned itself to me and usually involved me listing or showing a home. And in case I had any doubt in my mind whatsoever, listing Carter’s house proved my point.

  * * *

  The private lots with townhomes in the mixed-use development built on the old Redbecker property had sold out quickly, and none had yet gone up for resale, so Carter’s property would sell fast, and for top dollar.

  The development, the first of its kind in Bramblett, was small, but thriving, and people with money wanted to own their own little piece of it. Designed as sort of a test run for the well-off Atlanteans that could work from home most days but still wanted, and could afford, the luxuries and benefits of city living, made every realtor from the city add it to the top of their lists. We often got calls asking if we knew of anyone planning to sell, and I understood why.

  The development housed five swanky restaurants, two of which were sponsored by some famous chef from one of those reality TV shows, and none of which the locals frequented on a regular basis. It sported a dry cleaner that I’d admit to using twice, and an expensive gym with excellent spin classes I’d tried on a guest pass and fell in love with. I would have joined, but I felt like I was cheating on my current gym.

  I understood the tax benefits the development brought to the county, but the emotional implications were harder for me to work through, and until I could, I sat on the same side of the fence as most of the locals. The mixed-use development, as great as it was, was for the persnickety outsiders, not the townspeople. It was, however, progress, and I knew there was nothing anyone could do to stop the growth coming our way.

  Bramblett County, Georgia was the perfect place to live, and though it was our little secret for many years, the cat jumped out of the bag a long time ago. The county sits close enough to a lake and in the beginning of the Appalachian Mountains to attract both water and land lovers. Bramblett’s what people call a big county with a sweet, Southern, small town charm. Over the years that’s become our biggest asset and our biggest flaw, too.

  “This thing is going to sell in minutes,” Belle said.

  She was right. Carter’s estate was motivated to sell, setting the price low enough to move it quickly, but still high enough that they could create a small scholarship for a local high school lacrosse player. It wouldn’t cover everything, but it would definitely help.

  Given that he’d briefly been the high school lacrosse coach, Carter would have loved that.

  “Well, it’s good to go once these photos are done. I’ll get the listing up this afternoon. I suspect you’re right, it’ll sell fast.” I sat on the couch, and Belle sat next to me, wrapping my fingers into hers. “Lily Sprayberry, don’t you go and get all soft on me now. You know there is no curse on you.”

  I snapped several photos of the unit, more than I knew I’d use for the listing, but just in case some didn’t turn out. Belle and I both took several photography classes so we could take our own photos of our listings. We did it to save our sellers money, and because we’d found with all of the photo editing programs available now, we could tweak the photos to hide our mistakes. If a client insisted on a professional, we’d definitely use one, but none had in the past year.

  I headed back to the office to make the listing official. Of course, I had to stop at Millie’s Café for a cup of coffee and a scone first.

  Millie was all sugar and spice for a Monday. I’d learned Millie didn’t like Mondays, though I wasn’t sure I knew anyone that did. Usuall
y, she kicked out a few faithful customers for breathing wrong, or appearing impatient, but by the time Tuesday came along, they’d be right back, and she’d smile like nothing ever happened. I’d yet to be banned, and worked hard to not let that happen!

  She smiled, showing me a whole mouth full of teeth. “Well hey there, Lily Sprayberry. What’s your pleasure this fine Monday?”

  I wondered what she was up to. “Hey there, Millie. You okay?”

  “’Course I’m okay. What makes you think I’m not?”

  Something banged loudly in the kitchen, but Millie ignored it.

  “You’re all sweet and stuff on a Monday, that’s what.”

  She narrowed her eyes and flicked her head toward her kitchen. “I think I got to let someone go back there, and I hate the thought of it, so I’m just pretending everything’s fine.”

  “So, basically, you’re faking your good mood?”

  “Shh. Don’t be telling my secret, you hear?”

  “Bless your heart, you do know the entire county knows Monday’s aren’t your thing, right?

  Her frown flipped upside down. “Now you hush. I love Mondays.”

  I pressed my lips together for just a second. “Your secret’s safe with me. Promise.” I leaned in toward her. “But why do you think you’ve got to fire someone? What’s going on?”

  She tilted toward me and whispered close to my ear. “It’s my kitchen staff. There’s discord back there, and I can’t take it no more. I can’t come to work with them fighting all the time. I feel like I’m living amongst the Hatfields and McCoys. All this bickerin’ and pickin’ on each other going on back there.”

  “Oh dear, that’s got to be horrible.”

  “Sweetie, you don’t know. Makes me want to crawl into bed and throw the covers over my head.”

  “Have you tried to talk to them?”

  She nodded. “Don’t matter a thing, though. They’re never going to get along anymore. They’re like oil and water, them two.”

  Just as I was about to ask why it could be happening, a spatula flew across the kitchen. I watched it wisp past the door. “I told you to keep stirring it until I said to stop,” Annie, one of the kitchen staff in back, hollered.

  Millie’s face hardened. “Here we go again.” She darted back to the kitchen, ducking for cover as she did.

  People in line whispered. I heard things like, food contamination, roaches, and salmonella, and decided to put a stop to that immediately. I flipped around and help up my hands. “People, calm down. Millie’s is a clean, and well maintained establishment, and y’all know that. Everyone has disagreements, and that’s what’s going on here. It’s not a health concern, so don’t go and spread rumors. You know that’s not nice.”

  That quieted them down right quick.

  Seconds later, after Millie used a few choice words to stop the fighting, and promised to use a switch on the both of them where the sun ain’t never gonna shine, she marched back out of the kitchen, poured me a cup of coffee and slammed a raspberry scone on the counter. “Here. The coffee’s on the house.” She glanced at the next person in line. “Everyone inside the store gets a free coffee with your purchase this morning, but if I hear one word about what happened in here today, you’ll all be getting your coffee at the Quik Trip from now on, you got that?”

  Nobody in Bramblett wanted their coffee from the Quik Trip. It was almost a ten minute drive out of town, and for most people, that was just about driving all the way to Alabama.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We hear ya, Millie.”

  “Sorry, Millie.”

  “Bless you, Millie.”

  Everyone had something on the positive side to say regarding or toward Millie, and I realized then she was definitely a marketing queen. I needed to make note of her technique.

  The thirty second walk to the office was enough time to gobble up a good portion of the scone and burn the back of my throat with Millie’s dark roast. In the excitement of the event, I’d completely forgotten to add my cream, so it was extra hot, too. Thankfully, we had a Keurig and half and half in the office.

  Belle was already there, so I filled her in on the town gossip, knowing she wouldn’t spread it, but it wasn’t a surprise to her. “Of course those two are arguing. Tucker broke up with Annie two weeks ago. Doesn’t Millie know that?”

  Her two full time kitchen employees, two college students, Annie Simms and Tucker Corder, had been dating for years, but I had no idea they’d broken up either. “They broke up? Really?”

  She giggled. “Sweetie, you are as kind as the day is long, but totally clueless. Sometimes I’m surprised you can even function.”

  “Me, too, Belle. Me, too.” I set up my laptop and downloaded the photos of Carter’s townhome from my camera. I picked the best ones, cleaned them up with my editing software program, and downloaded the completed listing onto the multiple listing service. The photos are always the last part of the set up process, so once they’re done, the listing is good to go, leaving just the actual submission part of the job required. “One day I’d like to hire an office assistant. Someone to do the detailed work, you know? Wouldn’t that be great?”

  She glanced up at me from her desk with a raised eyebrow wiggling at me. “Um, you do know I usually handle the details, right?”

  “I don’t mean the contracts and such. I mean the listings and things like that. Assistant things. You’re much more than an assistant.”

  She tossed her pencil at me. “Of course I am. I’m your partner, partner.”

  I laughed. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way. At some point I’d just like to have someone that could do some of this stuff for us.” Our office line rang. “Like answer the phone, for example.” I picked up my desk phone and used my most professional voice, trying hard to keep my accent at bay. “Bramblett County Realty. Lily Sprayberry speaking. How may I help you?”

  A woman with a Southern drawl that oozed old money like a pimple ready to pop spoke from the other end. “Ms. Sprayberry, my name is Jill Lakeland. I’m calling regarding your listing in that adorable mixed-use development in Bramblett. Is that still available?”

  The one I’d listed two seconds ago? “Yes, ma’am. I just posted the listing a moment ago. It’s brand new. Would you like to schedule a viewing?”

  “Oh no, darling, that won’t be necessary. My client would like to extend an offer via the phone, and I’ll confirm it in writing shortly, of course.”

  “Without seeing the property?”

  “Yes, dear. Is there a problem?”

  The other line rang, and Belle grabbed the phone on her desk.

  I responded to the realtor on my line. “No, ma’am. No problem. I’ll have to discuss the offer with my client of course.”

  “I understand your client is deceased, so I assume you mean the estate?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You have experience with such a thing, sweetie? I’ll be happy to handle this if you don’t think you can.”

  I rolled my eyes. Oh, I bet she would. But I did, and with that exact location, actually, but I didn’t think that was any of her business. In fact, I didn’t think it was appropriate for her to talk to me like that. “Ms. Lakeland, what is your client’s offer? I’ll make sure the estate representatives have it as soon as you provide me the details.”

  I glanced at Belle, ready to roll my eyes again, but when I did, she mouthed, “Holy cow,” as she pointed to her phone.

  I mouthed, “What,” back.

  “Yes, sir. The townhome is still available. Actually, we do have a verbal offer on it at the moment,” Belle said.

  My mouth dropped to the floor.

  Belle’s eyes widened. “Of course, yes. You can make a verbal offer, too.”

  I all but fell out of my chair.

  “Ms. Sprayberry? Hello?”

  “Yes, Ms. Lakeland. I’m waiting for your offer.”

  “We’d like to bid ten percent over the asking price, please.”<
br />
  Bid? It wasn’t an auction, it was a home listing. She didn’t need to bid.

  “Oh, uh. Okay. I wrote down the information and told her I’d contact the estate. She assured me she’d have the appropriate paperwork to me within minutes.”

  “Please hold for a moment, and I’ll find out.” Belle held her hand over the speaker part of the phone. “What’s the offer?”

  I did the math and held up the answer on a piece of paper, though I wasn’t sure why I’d done it that way.

  “Holy cow,” she mouthed. She uncovered the speaker on her phone and spoke to whoever was on the other end. “The current offer is ten percent above the asking price, Mr. Bell.” She waited a moment and then responded. “Oh, well, yes. We would be happy to entertain an offer such as that. Yes, I’ll make sure to talk with the listing agent. Yes. I’ll expect your paperwork momentarily. Thank you.” She hung up the phone, jumped out of her seat, and did a happy dance, hopping up and down and swinging her arms in the air. Belle couldn’t dance, but I gave her an A for effort. “They’re offering twenty percent over the asking price!”

  “Oh my goodness.” I did a happy dance, too, until the phone rang again, and again, and again, and in thirty minutes we had seven waiting voicemails and six verbal offers on Carter Trammell’s townhome.

  Belle spread the papers out on our conference table. “This, my friend, is what you call a bidding war, and we haven’t even checked the rest of the voicemails.”

  I stared at the numbers on those papers. The roughly three-hundred-and-twenty-seven-thousand-dollar townhome received offers for over half a million dollars. “This doesn’t happen in Georgia, let alone in Bramblett County.”

  “It does now.”

  “Belle, it won’t appraise for these prices. You and I both know that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it will appraise for, Lily. These people don’t care. They’re paying cash anyway. They’re paying for the location, not the value. Don’t you get it? They’re paying to be here, in Bramblett. Do you know what that means?”