Fatal Legislation

by Ellen Butler

  Once again Jackie pulled me from my reverie. She’d probably been calling for quite some time. I looked back. She balanced unsteadily as she teetered along the pebbly pathway in her stilettos. “Cara ... honey, are you out here?”

  I reluctantly walked away from my gazebo oasis and hailed Jackie.

  “Oh, there you are.” She appeared relieved. “Aren’t these gardens just so purty?”

  Pretty was the understatement of the year—stunning, spectacular, extraordinary seemed to fit the bill. I nodded. “Yes, they’re quite beautiful. I’ll buy the house. Let’s write up a contract.”

  “Oh, sweetie, you haven’t even seen the rest of the house yet.” Jackie laughed. “Let’s keep lookin’. The main floor seems fine to me. I took a peep in the cellah and it didn’t look like it was crumbling or cracked. We’d better just wait and see what’s what. I don’t want to put a single, young thang like you in a house with problems. I just couldn’t forgive myself. Let’s look around a bit more, and don’t say a thing to Anne, the selling agent. We wouldn’t want to give her the upper hand, would we?” Jackie gave a conspiratorial wink.

  In keeping with Jackie’s recommendation, we wandered through the downstairs dining and family rooms admiring the crown molding throughout the first floor and the wainscoting in the dining room. After opening every kitchen appliance and closet door, Jackie led the way to the second floor.

  The master bedroom faced the front of the house above the parlor, with tall windows that had stained glass transoms along the top. A sitting area was located above the study. The scent of lemons grew stronger as I entered an en suite bath with all the amenities, including a whirlpool tub. Next to the master bedroom sat the guest bath, and two guest rooms took up the back of the house. Both had windows overlooking the beautiful gardens. Gazing out the window, I had a bird’s-eye view of the layout; the pathways leading to the left of the house were filled with more leafy trees and an area of roses. I envied an imaginary guest this view.

  We left the second guest bedroom, turned right and walked to the end of a short hallway where a heavy exterior door with a dead bolt on it was shut tight.

  Jackie flipped the lock. “This must lead to the third floor, which I believe is finished. This dead bolt is kind of ... peculiar.”

  She swung the door into the hall, and I looked over her shoulder at a small square landing. A generic white exterior door lay straight ahead and on our right stood the same style door. Each had a dead bolt. Jackie crossed to the door straight ahead. The lock snapped with a sharp click and the door swung into the alcove. Muted sunshine lit the small nook highlighting a brown indoor-outdoor rug that had seen better days. Jackie stuck her head out of the opening.

  “Well, look at this. I didn’t even notice this from the outside.” Jackie turned back to me. “The architect cleverly hid a set of outdoor stairs above the carport. They lead down to the back of the house. Maybe it was a fire code or something.”

  “Mm,” I murmured, stepping forward and tilting my head to look over her shoulder.

  Sure enough, I could see the top of a set of white wooden stairs hidden by a partial wall. “The other door must lead to the finished attic.”

  There was minimal space on the little landing with the door open, and I didn’t want to crowd Jackie, so I stepped back into the upper hallway. Jackie shut the door to the outside, turned back to the landing, and grasped the doorknob of the third door. It didn’t budge. The dead bolt needed a key. Jackie tried the house key to no avail.

  That’s odd. I was about to say something when we were interrupted by a clattering of high heels and a melodic yoo-hooing.

  “Anne, is that you?” Jackie called, “We’re up here trying to get in the attic, but it’s locked.”

  “No, no. You can’t get into the attic, Jackie. Why don’t you come downstairs so I can explain?” Anne sounded a bit panicky.

  Seeing the consternation on Jackie’s face at being told we couldn’t see the attic, I said, “We’ll be right down.”

  We crossed the hall and headed downstairs. Indeed, something must be wrong in the attic.

  Perhaps it was full of furniture from the rest of the house. I let my imagination run wild and conjured up the ghost of the former owner who roamed the attic groaning with chains clanking in the night. Could I live with that?

  We met up with the selling agent in the front parlor. Jackie introduced me to Anne, a pert redhead with hazel eyes and a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose. I guessed Anne to be somewhere in her early thirties, just a few years older than me.

  She smiled, showing her perfectly bleached, porcelain-white teeth as she held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.” Her arm jingled with gold bangle bracelets as she shook my hand.

  I responded with a similarly inane remark.

  Finished with the pleasantries, Jackie got right down to business. “So, what’s going on with the attic? Why can’t we see it? Is there something wrong with it?”

  “Oh no. There’s nothing wrong with it. A tenant lives in it.” “That explains the dead bolt.”

  Jackie and I released a sigh of relief.

  “Yes, well, if that’s all, maybe we can arrange a time to see the apartment when the tenant can make it available,” said Jackie.

  “Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. You see ...” Anne looked apprehensive, “The provisions of the sale of the house state the tenant stays. You can’t go into the attic.”

  Jackie pulled herself to her full height and towered over Anne. “I beg your pardon? What exactly is going on here? I’ve never heard of anything so ludicrous.”

  Anne winced.

  “Ladies, perhaps we should sit down. There’s a small table out back where I’m sure Anne can explain the situation and we’ll straighten everything out.” I gestured toward the French doors.

  Anne nodded gratefully. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Let’s all sit down.”

  As we walked out back, I wondered how it would be to own this house and have a tenant. I could certainly use the extra cash, and with the outdoor staircase—its purpose abundantly clear now—I wouldn’t have to see whoever it was much at all. I knew I wanted the house badly enough I was trying to justify this strange provision. Once we were all settled around the table, I invited Anne to tell us the story.

  “Well, you see, the owner of the house was Jerome Stein, a retired lawyer. He passed away about three months ago, and his son, Max, is taking care of the sale of the house. Mr. Stein gave the tenant a ten-year lease on the apartment upstairs. The lease was written into Mr. Stein’s will and anyone purchasing the home must agree to honor the lease. Rest assured we’ve looked into the lease and the will, and it seems very straightforward. Mr. Stein was a good lawyer and knew what he was doing. It was written like a commercial lease. It’s all very technical. I suppose a buyer could go to court, or something ...” She trailed off.

  Jackie looked stunned by both Anne’s speech and the bizarre arrangement.

  “How many years are left on the lease?” I turned my attention on Anne.

  “There are four years left, with an option to extend for five more.”

  “Who can invoke the option?”

  “It has to be mutually agreed upon by both parties.”

  “What do you know about the tenant?”

  “His name is ...”

  At that, Jackie came out of her speechlessness with a vengeance. “His name! The tenant is male?”

  “Well, yes, but he’s harmless. As a matter of fact, he’s a recluse. You probably wouldn’t even notice him. You see, he’s some sort of computer programmer and rarely leaves the house. His groceries are delivered once a week.” Anne gave a reassuring smile.

  “Great. Some creepy computer nerd that plays games all day lives on the third floor,” Jackie said derisively.

  I looked at Anne. “Is he agoraphobic?”

  Jackie looked confused. “Agora-what?

  “Agoraphobic. Does he have a phobia of going outs
ide his home?”

  Anne took a moment to respond. “I don’t really know. I do know that twice a week his psychiatrist comes to the house to see him.”

  “Who’s his shrink?” Jackie asked.

  “Dr. Nolan from downtown on Bradford Street.”

  Silence descended as we chewed on this information. I looked at the small wrought iron balcony jutting out from the third floor.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Dr. Jeffrey Nolan,” responded Anne.

  “No, the tenant’s.”

  “Oh, let me see. It’s right here in my file.” Anne searched through her files. “Yes, this is it. Daniel Johnson.”

  “I can’t see the apartment at all?”

  “I have photos that were taken by Mr. Stein before the tenant moved in. You can at least see what the finished space looks like. It has a small kitchen, two bedrooms, a den, a bath and a large living room. All the utilities for the attic are billed directly to the tenant, except for sewer and water.”

  “How much does he pay in rent?”

  Referring back to her notes, Anne named a price that temporarily stunned me. The rent he paid would completely cover my monthly mortgage.

  “There’s also an automatic three percent increase in rent every three years.”

  “Is he ever late?” Jackie jumped back into the conversation.

  “No. Never. From what I understand from Max, he pays punctually on the first of the month.”

  I mulled over this new piece of information. “When can I meet Mr. Johnson?”

  “Well, that’s the rub. He doesn’t see anyone besides his psychiatrist. I understand Mr. Stein met him when he moved in, but Max seems to think he keeps to himself and he’s not sure his father ever saw much of him.”

  “Can I speak to Mr. Johnson on the phone?”

  Anne brightened for a moment. “I have his e-mail address. I’m sure I could give you that.”

  Jackie snorted but I pressed on, “Can I talk to his psychiatrist?”

  “Cara!” exclaimed Jackie. “You can’t actually be thinking about buyin’ the house with this ridiculous condition.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am thinking very seriously about buying this house. Obviously, Mr. Stein, a well-known local lawyer, thought enough of Mr. Johnson to give him a ten-year lease. Clearly, the third floor is a full working apartment, quite separate from the rest of the house. Most importantly, the rent from the apartment would provide me a second income.”

  Seeing a live one on the line, Anne began thrusting documents at me. “Here’s the floor plan Mr. Stein used when he had it finished. Here are some color copies of the finished product. I have the full color photos back at the office if you’d like to see them.”

  “But ... but,” Jackie stammered, “he could turn out to be some sort of lunatic that will murder you in the middle of the night. Or maybe ... maybe he has that pack rat illness and the attic is full of newspapers and garbage ... and MICE! The house could turn into a foul-smelling pigsty. Or maybe he’s runnin’ a meth lab up there!” Jackie pointed one of her pink manicured fingers at Anne. Turning back to me, she continued on her rant. “That’s it! Drugs! The police will descend upon you at three in the mornin’, guns a-blazin’, and the entire house will be blown to bits durin’ the raid.”

  “This isn’t a war, Jackie. I’m sure Mr. Stein wouldn’t have allowed a drug dealer to live on his third floor. Right, Anne?” I calmly eyed Anne who shrank back into her chair during Jackie’s rant.

  Slowly she sat forward. “Well, I don’t think he’s violent or doing anything illegal. I’m sure Dr. Nolan could speak to you about any concerns you might have.”

  I wasn’t so sure the good doctor would speak to me at all about Mr. Johnson. After all, doctors tended to guard their clients’ privacy like a mother bear guarded her cubs. However, small towns were known gossip mills, and maybe this Dr. Nolan would be willing to give me a little more information about the reclusive Daniel Johnson.

  “Yes, I think you’re right, Anne. I’d like to speak with Dr. Nolan. If you could just write his address down for me, I’ll pay him a visit.”

  With a sage nod, the realtor wrote down the information and handed it to me.

  Jackie seemed to be holding back strong emotions that would come tumbling forth once Anne was out of the picture.

  “If you two don’t mind, I’d like to take another look around the house.” I rose.

  “Yes. Take all the time you need.” Anne smiled.

  “Well, I don’t wish to keep you from your other clients, Anne. I’m sure Jackie can get everything locked up right and tight when we leave.” I shook Anne’s hand with a smile, knowing perfectly well Jackie wasn’t going to stay quiet for much longer.

  Anne took her dismissal well and headed through the kitchen.

  Jackie waited for the front door to close before she started in. “Honey, have you lost your mind? This whole situation is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of. Now, if you’re truly interested in the house, I’m sure we can have a lawyer look at the contract and get the tenant evicted.”

  From my experiences, I was sure Jackie was right. There were always contractual loopholes. I also had a feeling Max, the son, would want to honor his father’s memory and wouldn’t sell me the property if a lawyer moved into the picture.

  “Jackie, I don’t want to chuck this poor guy out on the street. This is his home. He’s been living here for six years and obviously he has some sort of neurosis that would make it difficult for him to find a new place.”

  “Well, I’m sure we could arrange for a thirty-day notice which would give him plenty of time to find someplace new to rent.”

  “The rent he pays would more than cover my mortgage.” Some of the money I’d save on the mortgage could go toward a car payment instead. My Honda was twelve years old and had begun nickel and diming me recently. I was getting close to holding a burial for it.

  Jackie had trouble giving up. “But, honey ...”

  “Look. I’m not deciding anything yet. I’ll meet with the psychiatrist and maybe talk to Max and then go from there.” Gathering my handbag, I stood, effectively ending the conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jackie’s shoulders slump as she began collecting her things.