Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “Then what are we talking about?”

  She stopped and watched me wrestle with the last umbrellas, the final one opened as easily as hers. I felt unreasonably triumphant. “I honestly don’t know.”

  At the appointed time, no one showed up. A half hour after the appointed time, most of the guests were still trickling in, mistaking the waiters for butlers, mistaking me for the maid. I ferried purses and wraps to Prue’s guest room and unceremoniously dumped everything on the bed. The sorting could happen later; perhaps I’d be indisposed by then and unable to help. The shower would end up very late indeed unless Mother Nature did her job and drove the guests out with excess heat.

  My only no-show was Cassandra herself. I was reluctant to invite her in the first place. True, she owned the winery where we were holding the wedding and she was technically “someone” in the valley. But she was more Ben’s friend than Carrie’s, and as such, not really in the wedding shower circle. But I felt it was best not to piss her off, so the invitation went out. And she didn’t show. No RSVP, no nothing.

  “Where’s that Cassandra, the winery owner? I saw her name on the guest list.” Kathleen, dressed in a baggy jumper and short sleeve tee, eyed me as if Cassandra’s absence was my fault.

  “I think she’s crushing the red this weekend so it will be finished by next week, that could be why she’s not here.”

  Miffed that I was backed into making excuses for a woman I did not wish to help, I carefully snaked through the guests making sure everyone held a drink, that the hired wait staff was sufficiently circulating the hors d’oeuvres and that Emily was happy. The tables were set out in the central patio, thirteen tables of eight. I don’t know if the napkins matched the bridesmaid dresses, but they looked festive against the red table clothes and blooming yellow, pink and red dahlias.

  “I don’t know, you know last year was cloudy and overcast, and it was April!” I heard a whiny voice sliced through the general noise. “I know,” agreed another woman, her voice pitched an octave lower. “We’re thinking of the Carolinas next year, Hawaii is just too over run.”

  Chris Connor’s number popped up, but I had to ignore it. Rod Nelson was delivering an ad hoc cooking demonstration when he should have been plating lunch. I shooed the dozen or so devotees to the patio like bad children watching TV when it was so nice outside, then asked the chef to demonstrate setting up a hundred or so perfect luncheon plates. I noticed Emily glowering in the living room. I pried her from the shadows and pushed her into the light.

  Fortunately Emily was the only reluctant guest. I quickly surveyed the crowd and saw no stragglers, no hapless women wedged into a corner hiding her lack of social skills by pretending to text other, nicer friends, but really playing solitaire. The noise level was just about right. Patrick’s mother discovered Emily and drew her into a conversation. Emily relaxed a bit and, I hoped, would soon enjoy herself. I recognized a few faces from the pages of the Rivers Bend Press, those Junior Leaguers who score a picture in the paper because they overbid for a case of Screaming Eagle or Wind Runner wine during the last charity wine auction.

  Carrie was surrounded by well-wishers. I had revived her color with Mary Kay powder and blush. Her bright blue dress was an excellent choice as a foil for all the pink and orange as well as for her long dark hair. She looked pretty and her eyes (finally) sparkled with excitement. Pink and red wrapped gifts were piled in the corner in the living room where Emily usually put the Christmas tree. It was all good. For a minute.

  I wedged into a corner of the patio to be as unobtrusive as I could. I had limited time before Carrie figured out that I might be working during her shower. I checked my voice mail first.

  “We need the TDS right now!” Marcia yelled. “I asked for it two hours ago, where is it?”

  I held the phone for a second. Took a breath, regretted not snagging a glass of sparkling wine and returned her call. “Our escrow coordinator would have emailed that over to you this morning,” I assured her. My call waiting beeped.

  “Can you hold?” I tried to keep my voice even; it wouldn’t do to break down in front of the indomitable Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.

  I hit the office number. “Patricia, where is the TDS for my house?”

  “It’s not there? Wait, oh, here it is, I stuck it in the wrong folder.” She waited. I waited.

  “Can you send it to Marcia at Green, Green and Green?”

  “Oh, sure.” Patricia clicked off.

  I flipped back to Marcia. “It should be coming. Call me if you don’t get it in the next five minutes.”

  “Well it’s about time.” She huffed.

  Carrie spotted me. I smiled, waved and pocketed the phone. I passed by three women amiably debating the virtues of Napa versus Sonoma wines, five women discussed the best place in which to put up relatives during the holidays and I circumvented the three older women speculating on the date when Carrie would produce the first baby. All were happily munching on the hors d’oeuvres and waving their perfectly color coordinated napkins over their meticulously colored lips.

  I joined Emily and Patrick’s mother. Mrs. Sullivan (Senior) emanated a kind of generic beauty that was hard to describe or specifically identify. She was beautifully dressed in a dark rose silk dress and matching scarf. I joined the two of them in time to hear her say “Lovely girl, Terry.”

  “Carrie,” Emily and I corrected.

  “You know she came to us at Christmas.” The woman frowned trying to remember why. I knew why, but loathed to bring it up. Carrie had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A very desperate woman had beaten her senseless. The only good thing to come of it was how badly Patrick took it, making him realize he loved Carrie and couldn’t live without her. Patrick’s way of protecting Carrie at the time had been to spirit her away to the family compound. We refer to it as the Forbidden City. It appeared that Mrs. Sullivan herself may spend too many days alone behind the protective walls of the family compound.

  “Mother!” Kathleen pounced and wedged her angular form between her mother and me. “You’re making new friends, how excellent. Let’s get some yummy food okay?”

  She didn’t even look at me, but guided her mother away without a second glance at me and Emily.

  “I never,” Emily sputtered.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket, despite the jokes, it wasn’t that exciting. “I think we’re ready for lunch. Can you start inviting the guests to sit down?”

  Emily nodded and I quickly moved out of the patio and to the dark living room. Carrie glanced around for me; I waved reassuringly and hustled to Emily’s hiding place.

  Worried that the caller would drop to voice mail, I answered as soon as I was out of ear shot, not bothering to scrutinize the caller ID.

  “We have an offer.” Marcia’s strident tones blasted over the phone. “How soon can the owner respond?”

  Seriously? “Pretty damn quick, what’s the offer?”

  I watched the guests take their seats and Rod’s five assistants began serving. Rod himself served the head table. Nice touch.

  Marcia reluctantly revealed the offer. It was fair, so I automatically countered. She responded she’d have to get back to me. That was fine, she had 24 hours for a response. I wondered, just briefly, if Marcia had paid attention to who exactly owned the house. Maybe not.

  Carrie approached me carrying a plate loaded with a disturbing number of green things. She glanced at my expression and then looked down at her plate. “Don’t worry, there are plenty of round foods for you.”

  I still adhere to my round food diet: pizza, cookies, tortillas, wine (round glass), I strived to eat only foods that were round.

  She patted me on the arm. “This is going well, Kathleen, Claire and Patrick’s mother seem very happy.”

  “I hope so.” I surveyed the guests. Most of the women in attendance were like a who’s who of the Sonoma County Polo Club. In fact, I could have held the party there; most of the invited would have been members and could
have contributed to the event by hauling up their own wine from their on-site private cellars. A rich person is not any more a business lead than an average person. Which reduces my wow factor at these events considerably. And Ben, lord, that man dredges up amazingly odd friends. Sometimes the friends are just odd, stoners from his days at private school, and sometimes they are well connected. A case in point, about four days ago Ben suggested we hold our wedding out at the Grove.

  The Grove?

  “We could marry on the stage next to the lake, and the guests can stand around the perimeter of the water and the reception can be at the lodge. It would be fun. Or we could stage the whole thing at the camp.” He mused.

  “Only one problem. I have women friends. Oh yes, and I too am a woman. And they don’t allow women at the Bohemian Grove, I know, I read about it, so it must be true.”

  “Oh, we’d do it off season, like in June. Or something.” He trailed off, embroiled in difficulties of his own making. “Okay, we can just have it at the club in the City.”

  I had only nodded and changed the subject. At the time, my own plans were not top of mind.

  I glanced around the patio out of self-defense. I liked knowing where the Furies were at all times, that way they couldn’t sneak up and surprise me. I checked my watch. Two more hours and this whole miserable thing would be over. It cheered me to no end. I spotted Kathleen and Claire standing together in the corner farthest from me. They should be seated at the head table. I headed over to chastise them. They were almost hidden behind the forest of unfurled patio umbrellas. The profusion of open umbrellas, like a Christo installation, made it difficult to see who was here or who was missing with just a quick glance.

  The Furies were cornered by what I assumed was a well meaning relative, who, as we all know, are the deadliest guests at an event like this.

  I moved instinctively towards the two women. Kathleen looked elegant and aloof, Claire looked earthy and harassed.

  “So when are you two going to tie the knot?” The small woman’s malevolent eyes glittered as she looked to first one sister, then the other.

  “Ummm.” Was the dubious response from Claire.

  “We enjoy our freedom,” parroted Kathleen in a well-rehearsed line.

  I moved closer to the tiny group. Kathleen’s mouth was set in a grim line and Claire sported one of those painful smiles that spoke volumes to me, but was lost on her inquisitor. Claire clutched a red napkin wadded into a tight ball. Kathleen gripped the stem of her empty wine glass. They had been ambushed before they could even sit down for lunch.

  “You should have children,” the woman pressed through the silence. “They are such a comfort in your old age. My Henry has been just gold to me. Did I tell you he paid for a cruise for me and all the grandchildren? We went to Alaska, it was just lovely, you don’t even have to fly, you can drive to Seattle and board from there.”

  “Alaska is lovely,” I interjected. “I think it’s the salmon we love best. Have you tried the smoked salmon? It’s part of the salad and they are serving right now. Let’s get you a good seat shall we?” I deftly took the woman by her fragile arm and steered her away from Patrick’s sisters. I did not look back; it was up to them to make themselves scare.

  I delivered the tiny but deadly woman to a table of guests who greeted her with at least some familiarity. I took a deep breath and plunged back into the remaining crowd, the members of whom were certainly not drinking enough because they weren’t cheerful enough. Come on, a wedding shower is the happy time. A funeral wake is depressing and a baby shower is just scary. So be happy, I silently ordered everyone.

  I drank as much wine as I dared. I could spend the night here if need be, so I wasn’t worried. But before I could achieve even a buzz, and well before I could find a place to sit, Claire dashed up and gripped my arm.

  “There is a man at the door,” she hissed. “He isn’t supposed to be here, it’s for ladies only.”

  “I’m sure he’s not here to crash the party.” She didn’t know very much about men if she thought the average man would voluntarily enter any kind of event glutted with a hundred women determined against all odds to be cheerful.

  Jose from Prophesy Estates hovered in the driveway. Claire had shut the door in the poor man’s face.

  “Hi, what’s up?” I stepped out and joined him outside the huge doors that lead directly to the patio. When the temporary foreman of a winery leaves the facility during crush, it’s not to deliver good news.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt.” His handsome face was pale in the high sunshine. “There’s been an accident at the winery and this was the closest address.” He peered around at the colorful groups of women in the central courtyard. Silver and crystal glinted in the afternoon sunshine. It was like a picture in Town and Country magazine; not anchored in reality one little bit.

  “Is,” he glanced down at a card in his hand. “Ben Stone here?”

  “No, no he’s not. May I help you? I’m his fiancé.”

  As if that gave me automatic authority over all Ben’s doings, comings and goings. It was an odd thought; I’d be mingling my life with his, my stuff with his. All his books would be mine. All his problems would be mine. All his ill-advised investments would be mine. All his projects – mine. We’d have to discuss that. But I was already in deep, I may as well go all the way.

  Jose nodded as if Ben’s fiancé was indeed a good enough substitute. “Can you come with me?”

  “Certainly not,” I protested. “I have this shower to do.”

  Emily slipped through the door. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to go down to the winery.” Again. Jeez.

  She waved me away. “Go, I’ll be here. The entrée is just being served, this will take at least an hour, plus it will take another hour for Carrie to get through all those gifts, poor girl. Do you have any idea what these women brought? Silver serving platters, you can’t even put them in the dishwasher. Another woman revealed she gave Carrie a silver samovar, just wait till she opens that, so practical for the modern couple. Who are these people?”

  I hugged the protesting hostess and hitched a ride with Jose in one of the winery trucks, the colors and name of the winery emblazoned on the door.

  I was suddenly free, albeit hungry. But I would miss at least an hour of oohing and ahhing over material goods that I knew wouldn’t interest the recipient one bit. Gifts at a shower like this were far more about competition with the other guests than helping a young woman set up house.

  Jose was tight lipped as he raced the truck down the hill from Emily’s and turned quickly to the Prophesy Estates driveway. It was two thirty, the tasting room was supposed to be closed, but three cars were parked in the public lot. As I entered the back of the winery I heard loud laughter from the tasting room. It echoed to the back. Jose shooed away a couple of young visitors clutching their wine glasses and staggering in the direction of the stacked barrels in the back.

  “We just want to see how’s it’s all done,” he hiccupped.

  “Magic,” Jose waved his hands to block their passage. “All wine is magic, go try the dessert wine now, you’ll love it.”

  He rolled his eyes and hustled me through the back, past the red stained stemmer crusher. Men hosed the cement floor pushing hills of stems, seeds and skins into gaping drains. The liquid was dark, almost black. What kind of grape made that color? The long stemmer crusher was silent, covered in purple sticky juice and seeds.

  “Where?”

  “The office.” He pointed the way.

  Ben’s old desk still dominated the office. It didn’t look as if Beth had made any inroads through the troublesome paperwork. Piles of forms, half filled in with blue ball point pen, fluttered as I entered the room. A soft couch stood in one corner, I hadn’t noticed it before, but that was because it was so familiar, another piece in the Ben Stone collection. An inert bundle perched unsteadily on the cushions. It was covered with an old blanket and for good measure a canvass
tarp. Blood streaked through blond curls that tumbled over the rough edges of the tarp. Blood seeped through the canvas.

  “My god.” I automatically pulled out my phone.

  “No need, I already called. She’s unconscious, but breathing.” Jose said behind me.

  I’ve seen worse, but that didn’t make me immune to pain and blood, anyone’s pain or blood. Jose and I stood silent for a full minute before he spoke again.

  “She fell into the stemmer crusher.”

  I immediately visualized the huge stainless steel screw-like apparatus that would do a James Bond villain proud. It was built to tumble and divide the grapes from their stems. It could also just as effectively separate a hand from an arm, a foot from a leg. I shuddered and swallowed a sudden lump in my throat.

  Jose continued, his voice struggled to stay calm and even. “She insisted to climb that scaffolding. It’s not secure, she knows that. We built it quickly after the last safety inspection. She liked to see over everything. No one saw what happened, we were in a hurry to get it all finished before the wedding.”

  Cassandra moaned and her arm released from the blanket, it looked like a shark had taken a bite but spit it out because it was neoprene flavored and sharks don’t like neoprene. None-the-less, the process did not leave a person in very good shape. I thought I saw a flash of bone. I gulped, and held onto the edge of the desk to keep steady.

  Again we heard the sirens. I hoped the guests (private, it was supposed to only be open to private parties, one more thing to worry about) were partying too loud to pay much attention.

  “How badly is she hurt?” I asked in a low voice.

  Jose’s eyes filled with tears. “One minute she was up there calling from high up and telling us to hurry. Everyone was concentrating on throwing the grapes into the crusher. The next thing we heard was her scream. She must have lost her balance.” He drew in a ragged breath. “It took a few seconds to shut off the machine.”