A Grave Issue

by Lillian Bell

  I ignored her question. “Did you? You’ve been to Kyle and Lola’s house when it was on the garden tour. You could know where they kept their gun.” Might as well get straight to the point. I turned to her friends. “Or did one of you do it?”

  They all laughed as if I’d told a really good joke.

  “What?” I asked, feeling foolish and not entirely sure why.

  She gestured to me. “Go check my Facebook page. You’ll see.”

  I took a step back and pulled out my phone, pulling up Facebook. Sure enough, Tanya Medina had accepted my friend request. I went to her page.

  “Go to the photos albums. Look at the one called ‘Cruise,’” Tanya directed me.

  I did. The cover photo showed three women standing under a banner that read, “Welcome to Ensenada—July 12.”

  “We were on a three-day cruise to Ensenada. Fabulous food. You ought to go,” Tanya said.

  “Anybody can fake a date on a photo,” I said. “That’s not enough.”

  She waved a hand at me. “Call the cruise line and ask around. People tend to notice us.”

  So another suspect cleared. I was clearing everybody but Kyle. I looked at my phone again. Next to the album for the cruise was one called “Paintings.” I clicked that open and found the one that had taken my breath away. I turned the phone toward Tanya. “Tell me about this.”

  She squinted at my phone. “Oh, it’s part of my local landscape series.”

  “You have more than one of them?” I asked.

  Her friend cackled. “More like fifteen of them. And counting.”

  “Do you sell them?” I asked.

  * * *

  After making a handshake deal on Tanya’s painting of the view from Cold Clutch Canyon, I went inside to talk to Johanna. She jumped a little as I walked in. She looked rattled. It couldn’t have been easy to walk past those signs, and apparently it was taking a toll on her.

  “They’re gone. It’s probably safe to come out. I don’t think anyone else is showing up, though. They’re a pretty intense deterring force,” I said, looking at her tabletop display of brochures on reverse mortgages.

  “That sign with the picture of Alan.” She shuddered. “Terrifying.”

  “They’re pretty angry,” I said. I didn’t fully blame them. “Did the bank really kick Tanya out of her house a month after her husband died?”

  Johanna sighed. “I wasn’t in on those decisions. The reverse mortgage program was really Alan’s thing. He promoted it, managed it, and made all those choices. It does seem . . . harsh.”

  “Decisions plural?” I asked. Had Alan foreclosed on more than one widow? That wasn’t exactly a way to make friends.

  “I can’t really discuss that.” She started packing up her display.

  Couldn’t or wouldn’t? I wondered. “Are you going to continue the program?”

  She shook her head. “Alan had this session already scheduled, so I filled in, but I’m not going to set up any more.” She gestured around to the empty room. “There’s not much point, is there?”

  There might not have been a point to the promotional meeting, but there definitely was a point for me to look into. How many people had lost their houses because of decisions Alan had made about reverse mortgages?

  I said good-bye and went outside. I pulled out my cell and called Jasmine. “What are you doing?”

  “What am I always doing?” she countered.

  I thought for a second. “Listening to other people’s problems, usually. You generally don’t answer your phone when you’re doing that, though.”

  “True. I’m finished listening to people’s problems, and now I’m writing case files about listening to people’s problems.”

  “Great. I’ll be right over.” I strolled past Tappiano’s and the Clean Green Car Wash, where a group of guys in matching polo shirts sat in the shade not washing cars. Where did they get the moldy money they were depositing at the bank? No one ever seemed to be there getting their car washed except Professor Moonbeam, and they weren’t exactly doing a bang-up job on his truck. Oh, wait. There was one person. Rosemarie came out as they pulled her Mercedes out front. She took the key from one of the men, got in, and drove away. I waved to her, but apparently she didn’t see me.

  A small group of people were leaving the building that housed Jasmine’s office. Mostly men. I only recognized one. Professor Moonbeam in his kurta getting into his dirty truck and driving away. Another one looked familiar too. I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen him or why he seemed familiar, though. Something about his walk. I waited for the group to disperse, then I walked in and plopped down in the comfy chair across from Jasmine.

  “Do we know anybody who went into real estate?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding me?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you not looked at the little divider things at Al’s Fine Foods? Or the cup sleeves over at Cup o’ Joe’s? Or the bus stop at Sparrow and Goldfinch?”

  I was usually pretty observant. None of those things had tripped any of my triggers, though. “Why?”

  “Michelle Swanson’s face is on every single one of those things. Everywhere. Ready to help if you’re interested in buying or selling a home,” Jasmine said in a mock singsong voice.

  Michelle Swanson had been a cheerleader at Verbena High, but not a particularly obnoxious one. Actually, contrary to every teen movie ever made, the cheerleaders from our year were never obnoxious or cliquey. A little bubblier than I generally could stand, but whose fault was that? “So I bet her phone number and e-mail address are on all those things too.”

  “They wouldn’t exactly be a good marketing tool otherwise.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Why do you need to talk to someone in real estate? You looking to buy?” She snorted at the thought.

  “No. Just trying to find some information on people who’ve lost their houses recently.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people like that might have a grudge against a banker,” I said.

  Jasmine paused. “Could be.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Verbena Free Press

  SUNDAY, JULY 21

  Annual Fire Festival Scheduled for July 26

  The Verbena Fire Festival and Street Fair will take place on Friday, July 26, between Oriole and Robin Streets from 4 PM to 10 PM. The fair will feature performances by the Verbena Ballet School and the Verbena High Marching Band. Cold Clutch Canyon Café’s food truck will be serving steak Diane and bananas Foster, and Tappiano’s has developed special fiery sangrias for the occasion. Many area businesses will have booths with games and information. Fireworks start at 9:30 PM by the gazebo.

  The Fire Festival celebrates the fire of 1913 that nearly demolished the town of Verbena. Instead of walking away, the citizens of Verbena came together to rebuild their beloved town. The Fire Festival celebrates that spirit.

  * * *

  Michelle was easy to reach and easy to schedule an appointment with. She answered on the second ring. She at least pretended to remember who I was and pretended to be enthusiastic about seeing me. “Come by the house on Monday,” she said. “We can catch up.”

  I contained the sigh that rose up in me like a reflex to that phrase. “Great,” I said instead.

  She gave me the address, and the next morning, I drove over there. It was in a new area of Verbena. Another change since I’d left. There hadn’t been houses like these when I’d lived here: two-story stucco minimansions with faux Palladian windows and lawns the size of postage stamps. I glanced up and down the street. There were three models and about four colors. They were mixed enough that it didn’t quite look like ticky-tacky houses from the old folk song, but the underlying sentiment sure was there. The sidewalk sparkled in the sunlight. I rang the bell. Tasteful chimes ensued, then the door flew open.

  “If it isn’t the flavor of the week!” Michelle said, taking a moment to look me up and down. She gave me a quick
hug and an air kiss and said, “Your hair looks great. Come on in out of that heat, Desiree.”

  I stepped into the cool air-conditioned tile foyer, wondering when Michelle had become a southerner and what the flavor-of-the-week comment meant. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust from the glaring sunlight outside. The ceiling soared above me, a chandelier floating from it. Stairs wound up to the second floor. The walls were dark sage green and the ceiling sparkling white. There wasn’t a cobweb in sight. “Your home is beautiful.”

  She gave a coy little smile. “In this case, the cobbler’s children have nice shoes. It’s a marketing tool all on its own.” She motioned for me to follow her. “Let’s go settle in the family room. We’ll be comfy in there.”

  I love the Turner Family Funeral Home, but it’s old. It’s another building that went up right after the fire of 1913, and it has Frank Lloyd Wright’s influence written all over it. It had style, but that style was dated, and the upstairs in particular could use a fresh coat of paint and a serious update of the kitchen. This house screamed the kind of California you see on television. High ceilings. Big windows. Tile floors. All of it cool and clean. We stepped down into the big family room/kitchen. We did the usual catch-up dance. Michelle had a little boy who looked so much like his father that I wasn’t sure Michelle had passed on any genetic material whatsoever. He was at a playdate at the moment, so she had just thirty minutes to explain whatever it was I wanted her to explain to me.

  “Would you be able to tell if someone had lost their home because of a reverse mortgage?” I asked.

  “You mean like would there be some sort of sign on them? Like a scarlet M?” She tucked her feet up underneath her on the big leather couch.

  I laughed. “No. I mean, would there be something in some kind of database that might clue you in?”

  She tapped her forefinger against her lower lip as she thought. “Probably nothing that specific. I could definitely find out if a house had gone into foreclosure. Then you could probably backtrack from there, but it would have to be on a case-by-case basis.”

  That could be time consuming. “How many foreclosures would you say there are around Verbena?”

  She smoothed back her already smooth blonde hair. “It happens. It’s not like it was ten years ago when the bottom dropped out of the real estate market and half the state was underwater on their mortgages. Things have bounced back since then. Still, people fall on hard times. Lose a job. Get sick. Get divorced. Suddenly, they can’t pay their mortgage and poof! There goes their house.”

  “Poof? That sounds a little harsh.” It wasn’t a magic trick. It was most people’s life savings. Then I remembered Tanya Medina’s “poof!” about her husband.

  “It depends on the lender. Some of them are a little more hardcore than others. There are quite a few who will work with people to keep them in their home. They don’t really want the hassle of putting a house into foreclosure and then selling it.” She inspected her French manicure.

  I tucked my hands under my thighs to hide my nails. “What about the Verbena Union Bank? Are they hardcore?”

  Her lips pressed together into a hard, straight line, and she didn’t say anything.

  “That bad?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say anything.” She pointed out.

  Once again, what people didn’t say was even more important than what they did say. “But don’t they have the reputation of being a friendly hometown bank?”

  “They have commercials saying they’re a friendly hometown bank. You can say lots of things in commercials.” She shrugged. “They actually used to be pretty nice to deal with. Starting a year or so ago, they’ve gotten a lot more hard line.”

  This was interesting. Everything seemed to have changed about a year ago. What was the catalyst, though? “Have any of your clients had trouble with them?”

  Michelle shook her head. “No. I’ve steered them elsewhere for their mortgages. Plus I really try not to push people to buy above their means. It doesn’t feel right. I like to sleep at night.”

  A realtor with a conscience. That was nice. “So how would I start getting a list of properties that have been foreclosed on in the last year or so?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

  I considered my options. I could lie, but I’m not the best at doing that. I could pretend I was working on a story about reverse mortgages and foreclosures, but who would I say I was writing for? I decided to go with a radical option and tell the truth. “I don’t think Kyle Hansen killed Alan Brewer. I’m looking for other people who might have wanted Alan dead. Someone he foreclosed on might be just the ticket.”

  She sat very still for a second. “Have you talked to Tanya Medina?”

  I nodded. “She was on a cruise when it happened.”

  Michelle made a face. “Too bad. She really had it in for Alan.”

  “I thought that maybe someone else might also have it in for him and not have been quite so public about it. So what do you say? Will you help me find a list of properties that have been foreclosed on?” I asked. “Please?”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “Pretty please with a cherry on top?” I said.

  “No cherries. I wouldn’t mind some wine, though. Tappiano’s got this killer rosé, but it’s hard to get. They didn’t make much. Score me a bottle of that and I’ll get you your list. You’re still tight with Jasmine, right? I’ve heard she has a stash.” She arched her brows.

  “Let me check.” I texted Jasmine: “Need a bottle of Tappiano rosé. Can I get?”

  She texted back: “Why?”

  Me: “Getting Michelle to access database.”

  Jasmine: “It will cost you.”

  I turned back to Michelle. “You got it.” I’d figure out what I’d owe Jasmine later.

  She walked over to the desk in the corner of the room and opened her laptop. “Okay, then. Let’s get started. You want the foreclosures in Verbena in the past year, right?”

  “For a start.” I followed to look over her shoulder, because that always helps people work more efficiently.

  She tapped on her computer keyboard and then said, “Here you go. That’s what’s in foreclosure or in danger of being foreclosed on right now.” She turned the monitor to face me. There were ten listings.

  No names or addresses jumped out at me. “What about ones that have already been purchased by someone else?”

  “Once the property has changed hands, the notice of default would be gone,” she said.

  I leaned against the desk. “Is there any way to go backward and find that information?”

  “Not on the computer, but I keep some hard copies of listings.” She turned away from the laptop.

  I sat back upright. “You do?”

  “Yeah. I like to know who my competition is. I’ll go back to check occasionally if someone bought a property I’m interested in. Sometimes you can see patterns in things when they’re printed out more easily than on the screen.” She tapped the computer.

  “Can I see some of those listings?” I asked.

  She hauled a three-ring binder off the bookshelf to her right and plopped it down in front of me. I leafed through it, not entirely sure what I was looking for. Patterns, Michelle had said. She looked for patterns. I tried squinting my eyes to see if something would jump out at me like one of those Magic Eye posters. Shockingly, something did. Several of the properties in danger of foreclosure listed in one of the months weren’t in town. They were out on the county roads.

  “How come so many properties out in the country were suddenly listed?” I asked.

  “King Snake Fire,” she said.

  I looked again at the date. “Oh, yeah.” It had been about that time. My dad had still been alive. I’d still had a job in the career of my choice. The hills I’d loved hadn’t burned to a cinder because of some teenager with illegal fireworks. Good times. “But why would that have put places into foreclosure? Wouldn’t they have be
en insured?”

  “Sometimes insurance doesn’t cover everything or is slow to get people a check. Or maybe the people don’t have the heart to rebuild and decide it’s easier to let it go.” She looked a little sad. I was starting to think Michelle actually cared about people being in homes they liked.

  I pointed to the row of them in the listing. “Were any of these purchased?”

  “I can check.” She opened the laptop and tapped at her keyboard again, then plunked her finger on the first one. “This one didn’t sell. The owners must have gotten caught up on their payments. This one sold, though, and for cheap.” She touched the next one.

  “Who’s the new owner?”

  She tapped some more and then made a face. “Monique Woodall.”

  “Monique, the waitress from the café?” That made no sense.

  Michelle shrugged. “Unless there’s another Monique Woodall in town, it’s her. Smart girl. I can see her investing in real estate.”

  “How on earth could a waitress afford to buy a property like that? Or should I be asking how good the tips at the café are?” Maybe I should see if I could pick up a couple of shifts.

  Michelle shook her head. “She might not have needed that much. It’s a pretty hefty loan. She financed ninety percent of the purchase price.”

  “What would she be doing with a piece of property like that?” This still wasn’t connecting up for me.

  Michelle shrugged. “An investment maybe? Rental property? If so, she’s shrewder than she looks.”

  “Do people rent out rural properties like that?” I asked. I’d always thought of those places as family farms.

  “Sure.”

  “What about some of these other properties?”

  Ten minutes later, Michelle said, “Monique bought four of these properties.”

  “Flabbergasted” is the best description I can come up with for how I was feeling. Gobsmacked, perhaps, too. “Four? How could she possibly afford that?” Even with financing, the down payments would be substantial.

  Michelle peered into the screen. “I don’t think she did it alone.”