“Just a week.” I counted on my fingers. “You can do this, then it will be over.”
She hugged me and the two pulled away. Summer approached as Joan’s car drove down Main Street. She was dressed elaborately as if for celebration. Was this the closing night of You Can’t Take It With You? No, last night was closing night.
“Special Council meeting,” Summer explained, as if reading my mind. “They are hearing more information about the fires.”
“And about Lucky’s trust?” I glanced up and down at her outfit.
She pulled the lacy shawl closer to her shoulders. “I am just defending what Lucky would have wanted, which was to enrich the community, the fires were not his fault.”
I nodded. She was right. There was little argument on that point.
“Hey, someone was looking for your friend, what is her name?”
“Carrie?”
“Yeah, a woman, long brown hair, she came into the lobby and was hunting around. I stopped her just as she headed back stage.”
“She thought Carrie was back stage at the theater?”
“You know how Ridge people are, not able to track very well. I pointed out your grandmother’s place. You are still staying there right?”
I glanced up at the front door with the stain glass fantail above it. “No, I’m here now.”
“Oh, then I gave her the wrong information. Thought you’d like to know. What does your friend do?”
“Get married.”
“I didn’t know a wedding was a full time job.”
“This one is.”
It was pointless to contact Tom Marten. I had nothing. All I had was this feeling of unease and one too many encounters with a mysterious, brown haired woman.
Summer was about to launch into another conversation when a movement by the theater doors caught her eye. “Customer,” she chirped happily.
I didn’t recognize the customer, and since I was feeling a little paranoid and suspicious, I followed Summer. What if this was the man she hired to hurt Debbie Smith? He was tall enough, but when I came closer, his face didn’t look right for the part. And he had a full beard, so not my fantasy hit man.
“Can I help you?’ Summer’s manner was both watchful and hopeful. I knew she wanted to sell him tickets; a brick with his name as part of the new entry, a plaque on the lobby wall. Anything solid that would hold a plaque was for up for sale.
“Do you know Debbie Smith?” he asked.
“Sometimes.” Summer hedged. Oh, it was about Debbie, and Summer did not know him. That was all I needed to know. I made a move to leave but she grabbed me before I could escape. “Why do you ask?” She addressed the man.
“We were supposed to meet here at 3:00 to discuss the class action suit. I guess there’s a special meeting tonight about it though.”
“Did you have a house up on Red Dog Road?” I automatically asked. Summer dug her chipped polished nails into my arm. I did not flinch; it would take more than that to shut me up.
“I did, it was a summer home,” he confirmed. I carefully did not look at Summer. “Was it insured?”
He nodded again, a pleasant enough fellow. “But Debbie said we could get more, much more.”
Summer suppressed a sigh. “I’m sure she’s around here some where. Have you tried the co-housing unit?”
He shook his head and both Summer and I launched into the beauties and advantages of living in co-housing, none of which we believed. We sent him on his way.
“Honestly. I should either keep different hours or charge the Chamber for my time.”
“It’s because you’re so attractive,” I offered.
“Watch out, they’ll be knocking at your door next.” She nodded to my new house. I glumly agreed. I wonder if that magical “No Solicitors” sign would work up here? It certainly had no effect on solicitors in River’s Bend.
“Wow, have you seen Debbie around?” Just before five o’clock, Sarah bounced up the front steps and through the front door.
I dropped the corner of the large Turkish carpet I was dragging across the floor like an inert body and regarded Sarah.
Her blonde hair was tied back in a classic red bandana now faded to pink. She still wore shorts even though it was starting to cool.
“Don’t you knock?”
“Don’t you close your door?” She retorted brightly.
Sarah was rapidly becoming part of my extended family in Claim Jump. She was like the distant sister who never returns calls. Yet here she is.
Now that we had that exchange satisfied, I stepped over the rug and firmly shut the door. I had to push on the door a bit, but it finally squeaked closed. I did not bother to lock it. What was the point?
“Why would I have seen Debbie?” It was a reasonable question. Debbie and I were not friends. We have even less in common than Sarah and I, but Sarah is cheerful and friendly. Debbie is dour and disagreeable.
“She usually makes the rounds by now.” Sarah glanced around the newly painted living room with clear appreciation. “Love what you’ve done with the place. And she didn’t stop by yesterday either, so I just wondered. Scott says you know everything, so I popped by.”
Would that be one of the down sides to my new location: people popping by? I couldn’t help make comparisons. My old house was located in the perfect location, a little out of the way, no traffic on a cul-de-sac. In the Bay Area, finding a no traffic zone is akin to discovering the Holy Grail. Light traffic, no traffic, quiet street, all these are trigger words that encourage buyers to take a second look at a home. The ultimate combination of course is quiet street coupled with easy freeway access. One of the many oxymoron’s in my business.
But here I was, on Main Street living in a house that invited tourist photos and people just popping by. I was in it too deeply to complain. I could always escape back to the impersonal River’s Bend. But I did not want to.
“She makes the rounds?” I gestured to the kitchen and Sarah followed.
“Wow, who did your kitchen? Will he do our kitchen? How did you get that refrigerator through the doors? Debbie makes rounds. She likes to see what we’re all up to. And because of the lawsuit against Lucky’s estate, she wants to gather as many friends as she can.”
“Isn’t walking around a little old fashioned?” The kitchen was perfect: just antique enough, with scored white cabinets and long tile counters (tile, sometimes in fashion, sometimes not, but if you are as careless as I am, it’s the perfect kitchen surface. I cook so infrequently that a kitchen must be built to survive my attempts at boiling water i.e. I place hot things directly onto the counter without ever considering the ramifications).
“I walk around,” Sarah confirmed. “I know it’s old fashioned, but so many of the merchants like to do things in real time. Scott is building a Facebook page and blog for the kids to find their favorite books, so we have that covered.”
“Kids who have cell phones and computers read books?”
Sarah nodded, her bright blue eyes sparkling, “You’d be surprised.”
“And Debbie?” I pulled out a bottle of Pinot Gris and poured for both of us.
“She wants to get support for the lawsuit, so many of the plaintiffs are out of town, and she’s running out of time, so she’s been drumming up signatures. You know, I haven’t seen her in a couple of days, now that I think about it. I suppose we’ve been too busy to notice.” She frowned, clearly not pleased with her inattention.
“What does Summer think of that?”
“Summer and Debbie aren’t speaking,” Sarah replied with great authority. Sarah had moved from cause célèbre to woman to be reckoned with. I understood she actually turned down the Brotherhood’s offer of membership. Now that took balls.
But Debbie could possibly be more annoying as a missing person than when she roamed the street looking for code violations. And since the last murder dragged her victim to the shooting range and allowed innocent men to make the final murderous blow, I didn’t put it p
ast any resident of Claim Jump not to be guilty.
I couldn’t get Summer out of my head. Did she do something to Debbie? The theater was everything to Summer, certainly, I knew that, but would she kill Debbie over it?
“I overhead Summer tell a very big guy who looked like something from the mob, to get rid of Debbie,” I admitted. “And I’m a little concerned.” That’s me, Allison Little – a Little Concerned.
“Oh, that,” Sarah waved her wine glass and slopped some wine onto the counter. “Summer,” she glanced around and retrieved a dishtowel and wiped up the wine. “Is working on a new play and wanted to create a mysterious kind of buzz about it, you know there are web cams all over the theater. But why would she use Debbie’s name?”
“Wishful thinking?” I was more than relieved, but I didn’t want to reveal too much, I still harbored the fantasy that Sarah looked up to me.
“Maybe, but doesn’t it seem odd? One minute Debbie is picketing up and down Main Street and the next minute she’s just gone.”
“Do you know anyone at the co-housing?”
Sarah shook her head. I drained my wine. “I’ll talk to them.”
My brief errand sounded like a children’s book: Allison Visits Co-Housing. I’ll suggest it as a title to Sarah.
Co-housing is lovely: a lovely, lovely idea that I would never, ever do. In this particular system, called Blue Bird’s Nest, the individual units were compact, two-story condos with high peaked roofs that easily shed snow and gave the collection an Alpine vibe. Each member owned his or her own small condo; the average size was about 987 square feet. And all the members co-owned and shared the public spaces. The promise of co-housing was one of cooperation, fellowship and as far as I could tell, never being left alone. It may take a half hour to retrieve the mail. Two hours for that communal dinner, following a chore list created by committee. Living in a house on Main Street was enough exposure and pubic discourse for me.
I passed by an extensive and thriving vegetable garden, and separate herb garden, fragrant in the late season sunshine. I headed to the main public building that housed a lounge and a large kitchen. These living areas never seem to offer wet bars. It would be more attractive if it did.
A woman draped in a long batik patterned skirt and matching tunic smiled at me and abandoned a big pot simmering on the industrial grade stove to greet me. The cabinets above her were painted friendly orange, green and blue, it reminded me of pre-school, happy, happy all the time.
“Welcome, we’re making lentil soup,” she extended her hand and I took it. Her grip was firm. “Would you like to stay and hear more about the co-housing movement?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I‘m here to see Debbie Smith.”
The woman frowned. “She’s not here.”
Rather than launch into an inquisition, I waited just a bit. Believe it or not, I often employ a strategy of waiting in silence. People don’t like silence, they will rush to fill it like a vacuum.
I smiled at the woman but made no move, I did not sit on the colorful chairs grouped four to a table, nor did I inch any closer to the simmering soup pot. I can wait out anyone in negotiations and this was no exception.
She broke first. “Actually, I haven’t seen Debbie in a couple days. Her committee was in charge of weeding the garden yesterday and she didn’t show. She didn’t even leave word of where she was going. I know her apsesrias fern won’t last in this heat without water; it’s odd she wouldn’t make arrangements to water it, she’s so organized. What do you know?” She quickly turned the tables.
“Less than you.” For instance, I did not know Debbie nurtured a fern.
“She was working on a law suit just filed against us, apparently we forgot some paper work, and Debbie was on it. Which is great for us.” The woman smiled, revealing a mouth full of perfectly aligned teeth. That’s what was interesting about the residents of Claim Jump: many were here to escape perfectly decent childhoods, loving families, college alumni societies. She probably harbored an interesting story, but I didn’t have time to listen this morning.
“You always want attorneys on your side,” I agreed gravely. I wondered if that guy I met in Summer Theater had already come and gone. But I didn’t want to ask, I didn’t want her to think I knew too much. I did not want to be the go-to person for information about Debbie.
“Sometimes she just seems like a lost soul,” the woman said contemplatively. “I often don’t know what’s going on in her life.”
“She must be very complex.”
The woman brightened. “We all are complicated aren’t we? Are you sure you won’t join us?”
The scent of lentils wafted into the dining room, triggering a huge craving for a cheese and bacon hamburger. “I have things to do,” I begged off.
Joan called me at eight o’clock that night. “Allison.” From her tone I knew I now was in her debt. How bad had Sarah’s manuscript been? I was impressed she read it so quickly. I just hoped Joan would be as kind to Sarah as she was to her freshman composition students. On the flip side, the last time Joan did me a big favor, it led to her meeting the love of her life and now live-in boy friend. I thought perhaps reading a couple of kid stories would make us even.
“I owe you a thousand open houses. If I didn’t already owe you for Norton, I owe you even more! Did you know the girl wrote?”
“Of course not, this was the first I heard of her writing aspirations. Something like this would have gotten around.” The Brotherhood of Cornish Men would have, at the very least, filled the theater with supporters for a staged reading of Sarah’s work. Raul would have video taped it and posted on the web, the paper would have printed part of the book. Tom Marten would have kept the crowds of fans at bay. Sarah would have been marginally famous for exactly the fifteen minutes she was allowed. So no, no one knew.
“It’s fantastic, she’s like the next Dr. Seuss. Really, thank you, I am thrilled to be part of this and I owe a friend in New York, this book will make us even, hell it may even put him back in my debt. I may even send my manuscript along with hers.”
“You are kidding me, you’re sending it to someone else?”
“I never kid about books,” Joan’s tone was serious.
I volunteered to give Sarah the news and promised that Joan would call on Friday to update her on what the agent said. Sarah displayed more maturity about the news than I would have. “I would love to be an author, it would help the book business don’t you think?” She gave a little Tigger bounce. Ah, that was more like it.
“You could give classes,” I offered. “You can show people how to write.”
Sarah shook her head. “No, not me, I have no training. But,” she thought hard, “we can bring other people in, other authors to speak.” She bounced and her pony tail bounced in counter point. How does she do that?
“That’s exactly what we can do, and the money people pay for the classes will go to the books for the kids.” She stopped dead in mid-bounce. “Do you think?” She paused and considered her idea. “We could become self sustaining?”
“We can only dream,” I offered.
Sarah hugged me and hopped away.
I was worried about Carrie, the missing Debbie, and I was even worried about Cassandra who apparently was not doing well at all. Ben told me O’Reilly hadn’t left her side all day.
“She took a turn for the worse,” Ben reported, he worked hard to keep his voice level and professional, but I knew better. “They don’t know if she’ll pull through.”
I loved the house, but couldn’t settle. I should be happy that Cassandra was out of the way and I had Ben to myself again. I should be happy the damn wedding of the century was almost at a full stop end. But I couldn’t sit and just be happy.
I wandered up and down the cool hardwood floors, my bare feet made no sound, like I was a ghost. Was everyone Okay? Would Carrie get all the way to the altar?
I held the Grove street open house on Tuesday, keeping an eye out for any signs of the
neighbor across the creek, but saw no one. Debbie’s disappearance finally made the paper; both the print version distributed on Wednesdays and the web site. It wasn’t as bad as “Have You Seen Me?” flyers, but close. No one had any information, but the opinions were abundant and not terribly complimentary. I stopped reading half way through the article. I didn’t like Debbie, but there was no need to be insulting.
I opened Penny’s house for viewing Thursday afternoon as something to do. I assured Carrie I’d be back on Friday in time for the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. But I was in no hurry to return to River’s Bend. Miraculously the torrent of texts from the Furies had slowed to a trickle. I only heard from one or the other three times during the day, and they were all focused on Carrie.
I also wanted to avoid the scene that was sure to transpire sooner than later over the Christopher’s purportedly deserted, bank owned property. I knew that Marcia, Marcia, Marcia had let in the odious Heather back into my own house twice in the last two days. I’m sure Heather was measuring the space for the big water bed, or for new furniture, or to gloat, whatever. They must be confident about the loan going through. I called Marcia about the loan every time I thought about it.
Two can be bull dogs for their clients. And my client, me, wanted to know the minute the damn loan came through.
The maple leaves were just beginning to turn red, the plane trees, yellow. And as a bonus, two or three trees flamed up in brilliant orange leaves. We could and do brag about fall color up here, and in the last few years, it has advanced to a full a tourist attraction. And, I hoped, a way to attract buyers to more homes.
In contrast to my house, which Lucky Master’s renovated for himself, the house his daughter had occupied had been built from scratch. Apparently it was to be the family home, but it never worked out that way. Lucky created a modern home, with custom everything, there wasn’t a pre-made cabinet or counter top in the place. This makes for an impressive house certainly, but when a home is built specifically for an individual rather than for the population in general, the results may be stunning, but a sale is often slow.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out Page 20
