Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “There are other ways to get information.” I thought of all the work-arounds I had to employ to get answers from loan companies, banks and even from the clients. It was exhausting, but if you persist, you can always get what you want.

  “It didn’t matter. Tom stopped his investigation.”

  “Why?”

  “Lucky paid for a new computer system for the department.”

  “That will do it.” I acknowledged. “And now poor Tom has to investigate Lucky’s murder.”

  “Everyone is calling for it. Everyone is concerned.”

  “What do the members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men think?” I closed my eyes; funerals make me tired.

  “Well,” Prue drawled out. “They aren’t exactly happy.”

  “What do you mean? They have their quilts. The library is the hands of a compliant owner, what could be wrong?”

  “Lucky recently promised to help us purchase more first editions and original documents for our research library. Now with Penny in charge…”

  “You may have to invite her to join.” I finished. Or kiss your first editions good bye.

  “That’s why Suzanne was so concerned.”

  I’d say Suzanne was more than concerned; she was practically foaming at the mouth. “That makes this rather complicated.”

  “That makes it typical for Claim Jump.” Prue pointed out archly.

  Ben and I dropped off Prue at her house and Carrie volunteered to stay with her. I felt like we dropped off the kids so we could have an afternoon alone. I almost offered Carrie cash so she could buy a pizza for their dinner.

  “There’s a reception after the reception?” I asked.

  “Penny said she was just inviting a few special friends to the house for a late lunch.”

  I knew perfectly well I was not the special friend. Prue make her feelings about Lucky quite clear. Poor Penny had always been caught in that deadly silence that washed behind her father as he plowed ahead to do whatever he wanted, no matter the cost. It was too bad Lucky was born too late to be a robber baron, that role would have suited him.

  “And you are now a special friend?”

  He shrugged. “Guess so.”

  I should have been upset but I wasn’t. How many times had I passed Lucky’s house on my way out to the river? How many times had I admired the huge elm tree in the front yard on my way to the library? Yet I had never been inside. If I had to sacrifice Ben on the altar of the bereaved Penny Masters to get inside and check out this infamous house, then so be it. If we can’t exploit our loved ones, who can we exploit?

  Reception number two was a more intimate and elaborate affair. We were treated to a catered lunch and much better quality wine. The atmosphere, however, was not any more festive. Ben and I didn’t put that much effort into mingling, I knew some people, and a few knew me, we nodded or said hello and that was the extent of it. I did chat with Leonard, the owner of the local Coldwell Banker franchise. He was a short man dressed in a blazer and jeans. He told me he had handled the sale and purchase of most of Lucky’s properties. He was sincerely sorry Lucky was gone.

  “It’s terrible, and the police have no clues.”

  “But how can that be?” I opened my eyes as wide as they would go.

  “It rained Friday. I heard the body was outdoors for at least 24 hours.” He shuddered, not because he was trying to impress me with his tender sensitivities, but because the thought of what poor Tom Marten discovered on the shooting range was undeniably gross and disgusting.

  “I preferr to think of Lucky as alive, with his cane and his booming voice and attitude.” Leonard drained his beer and glanced around searching for a place to abandon the empty bottle.

  “But didn’t he build substandard housing?” I asked innocently. “I mean that fire was pretty unusual.”

  He gave me a less sympathetic look. “Nothing was amiss. It was a hot fire but that was attributed to the Manzanita bushes. Plus so many of those homes were illegal, no permits at the county. We can’t make an assumption on the whole based on the few.”

  He had clearly crafted this point often enough so it sounded like the truth. I wondered what the home owners thought. Were they re-building? Was the rebuild part of the problem? Were the former owners and residents of the now admitted illegal housing rebuilding as well? I visualized shacks covered with blue tarps bought in bulk from Builders and Consumers. I could travel up the hill to check all this out, but rejected the idea as soon as it formed. The last time I had been at the top of the mountain, I had been fleeing for my life. Bad memories.

  “Look, I know that that sounds harsh, but,” Leonard paused, “are you from around here?”

  “Mostly,” I assured him. “I spent my childhood summers here.”

  He settled his bottle on the window sill. “Then you know how many people moved up to the ridge or even just up Red Dog and Gold Mountain so they could build their own huts from reclaimed wood and third generation aluminum siding. It’s crazy trying to sell up there. I don’t blame buyers for avoiding any home with an upper Red Dog Road address. Who wants to drive by a scene from Deliverance on the way home every day?”

  I nodded; my expression of encouragement was enough to keep him going.

  “But there is little we can do about it. If we bust one illegal squatter we’d have to bust them all. And sometimes the homes are just barely in the acceptable code range, so it would a colossal waste of time. The squatters would be found compliant and we would have made an enemy.”

  “Just plant a fast growing laurel hedge.” I heard that advice from Pat and Mike. Plant a hedge, so your own yard is surround by greenery and you can almost forget about the hillbilly encampment next door, except for the banjo music.

  It was part of the charm of Claim Jump. Not the fast growing Laurel hedges, but the odd semi-homeless camps that proliferate throughout the hilly regions and mountains of the county. Don’t mess with their dogs or their “organic garden” and you will be fine.

  Leonard gazed at the coffered ceiling. A Venetian glass chandelier in red and purple glass dangled tantalizingly from the center. “Penny asked me to do a CMA”

  “But there is nothing to compare this place to.” I automatically protested. An estimate of market price was based on the sale of comparable homes within a certain radius. Lucky’s house was located a block below the Methodist Church and the Library. His was the first in a series of homes, all dating back to the Gold Rush, that graced this side of Main Street and contributed considerably to the charm of the town but not a single house was anything like its neighbor.

  Lucky had also over improved. The house was built to be imposing and included a superfulous widow’s walk and bulging Queen Anne turret slapped onto the northwest corner. Yet, because it was old and located in downtown Claim Jump, tourists considered it charming and quaint rather than guady and overwrought. There were no other homes to compare it to. Not a problem if you are the owner, but a considerable problem if you are charged with pricing and selling the property.

  “How many square feet?”

  “About 3,000.”

  Prue told me this house was one of Lucky’s first purchases, back when an astute buyer could snap up ramshackle leftover Victorian mansions for a song. My grandparents bought at the same time and for the same reason.

  “How much does Penny think it’s worth?”

  “Two million.” He admitted morosely. He clenched and unclenched his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them. I thought maybe he needed another beer.

  “How much work needs to be done?” I loved the antique chandelier, but there was probably a lot of corresponding antique dry rot.

  “A lot.” He acknowledged. “The Pest One inspection is pretty extensive.”

  “So how much are you going to list it for?” Often the margin between the owner’s idea of value and the market reality is vast and wide as a redwood grove.

  He rubbed his neck as if to ease future tension. “She hasn’t exactly a
sked me to list it yet. And I didn’t want to push her, not today.”

  “Furniture?”

  “Penny doesn’t want it. We’ll keep it for the showings then see. I’ll call Pat and Mike, they’ll do an appraisal on the whole houseful.”

  “I thought that’s what Penny does.”

  “Not like them,” he shook his head. “They are the best in the county.”

  I nodded. The house with it’s high ceilings, elaborate molding, and rosettes in the ceilings would show fine empty, but it would show even better if the authentic antiques that littered the floor were allowed to stay.

  I hate antique furniture - very uncomfortable. Prue loved antiques and what she didn’t love; Pat and Mike talked her into buying anyway. Which is why, when I visit her house, I sit on the floor.

  I released Leanord with Coldwell Banker and poured another glass of Amador County Zinfandel from the generously stocked bar. I shook hands with Lucky’s lawyer, Buster Porter because he was blocking my escape from the bar. Mr. Porter looked the part of a prosperous small town lawyer; someone who takes on the case of proving to small children there is no tooth fairy. We did not linger in each other’s company.

  The typical Victorian home in Claim Jump is a warren of small parlors and sitting rooms surrounded by tiny bedrooms and miniature closets that are pressed into service as efficiency bathrooms, all encased by wood siding that seems to need painting every other week. While I may not agree with Lucky’s exterior improvements, I liked what he did with the interior. The miniscule front parlors had been joined to create one gracious room. The back of the house had been extended to accommodate a more modern great room that flowed into a modern kitchen, perfect for entertaining, or perfect for the caterers.

  I did not know if Lucky entertained or not. Prue never mentioned attending a party hosted by Lucky or even Penny, and this is a town famous for holiday parties and open houses. Maybe he always drove up to Penny’s house and they kept the holidays quiet.

  I sipped the peppery wine and gazed through French doors that led to the damp back yard. The property was about one third of an acre, small if you live in the country or up the forested hills, but huge for a downtown location. The yard was terraced and planted with things not yet green even in the early spring. The whole area was fringed by yes, the ubiquitous laurel hedge.

  “Does it have a garage?” Ben pulled in behind me and blew on my neck.

  I peered out the back window. “I think so, Lucky always drove high end cars, BMWs I think, he wouldn’t want to leave those to the elements.”

  After taking Scott Lewis around, I noticed garages were a premium inside the city limits. For instance, the homes on lower Marsh Avenue that lined the elevated sidewalk not only lack garages, there was no room to park on the street. I hadn’t paid much attention to details like that before.

  “Sometimes life here can be a challenge.” I admitted.

  “There’s a stairs to the widow’s walk, do you want to explore?”

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate.” I was dying to climb to the top of the house, but what if we got caught?

  As soon as we said our goodbyes (resisting the lure of the widow’s walk), I called the office.

  “I have a client.” I began.

  “Good.” Patricia said. “Because if all you’re doing up there is just licking your wounds and pouting, Inez will have your scalp.”

  “On the war path?” Thank God Patricia picked up the phone, at least she wouldn’t lecture me.

  “Has been ever since National’s been coming down on her. Lucky for me there’s not a national rubric or stretch goals for secretaries.”

  “Since when did you become a secretary?” She used to hate the term.

  “Since it was safer.” She said equably.

  “I need to cancel all my floor for this month.” I just blurted it out; kind of like ripping off the SpongeBob band-aid in one quick flourish.

  “You were scheduled for four this month.” She unnecessarily pointed out.

  “Tell Inez that I’m working up here and can’t come down.”

  “You only have one buyer.”

  “An escrow is an escrow.” I repeated the chant we uttered every staff meeting.

  “True.” Patricia conceded.

  “Thanks.” I clicked off before she could protest.

  “Okay,” I said to Ben. “I’m here for the rest of the week.”

  “Good, I need to go to Penny’s house first thing tomorrow.”

  Was that supposed to make me feel better?

  My phone vibrated on cue. “I don’t want that place after all, I want to look some more, and I don’t want to just settle on the first place I see.” Scott Lewis, just your average first time home buyer

  “Of course not,” I soothed. “How about tomorrow morning?” If Ben could be busy, so could I.

  “That will work great, thanks!”

  The tall library shelves towered over me, empty, but the ladder I remembered as a kid was still propped up against one of the bookcases. A person could, if she wanted, re-enact the scene in The Mummy where the girl knocks over a whole room of bookshelves like dominoes. I’d like to try that. I was eyeing the ladder wondering if it would hold my weight, when Scott startled me.

  “Hah,” he exclaimed, “I didn’t squeak that time!”

  “You’d make a great librarian.” The song, Marian, Madam Librarian from Music Man flitted through my head. I think I played a small child in the opening crowd scene. Or I just watched it with Prue, I couldn’t remember.

  “No,” he said. “I’d have to finish school to do that.”

  “You never finished school?”

  He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. “I haven’t finished much of anything.”

  “Why did you buy this then?”

  “Honestly? To create focus. Dad loved this town and it seemed like the right thing to do, to put down roots, or a stake in the ground. For the first time, doing the right thing,” he trailed off.

  “Then let’s find a house so you can stay the course, shall we?” I sounded like a Victorian schoolmarm. Or better, a Victorian Egyptologist like my favorite literary character. “There are a few more homes left in your price range.”

  “Then let’s spend more.” He offered suddenly. “Can we look for houses just under a million?” Out of habit and reflex, I did the math. I’m up to almost two percent of a sale, unless headquarters rescinds that, so it was well worth squiring Mr. Scott around in the pouring March rain. Without question, it was worth spending the week at Prue’s. Once Scott was in escrow, I could work from Sonoma County.

  “There are about a half dozen homes in that price range, many in town.”

  “In town.” He repeated seriously. “I don’t want those big homes in Lake of the Pines or in that other area you showed me, Oak Glen.”

  “Oak Glen is nice.” I started. In fact Penny’s house was at the top of that “exclusive” development and there was a house for sale across from her property. But I had dismissed it as too expensive for Scott. Apparently my instincts were very two days ago. The criteria had changed. I was happy it changed for the better.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not that fancy or elegant a guy. Can you see me wandering around Oak Glen? I’d need a little dog and plaid slacks.”

  I grinned, that was pretty good. He was showing some spunk, and I always like spunk.

  “No one in Claim Jump is that fancy or elegant.” I assured him. “But we’ll stay in town.”

  We ventured out again in the everlasting rain. I liked a house on Nevada Street, it had a deep porch, rolling lawn that was terribly impractical, but lovely to look at, and the kitchen looked like it could handle at least two caterers and their staff.

  “Nope.” Scott dismissed it, “too big.”

  I bent the corner on the sales flyer and shoved it into my purse.

  The next house was too small; the next one was too dark. Two houses, despite their location and pri
ce, lacked the necessary garage. I trailed him as he walked through the empty homes. When the client knows, they know. My job is to watch for that moment and point it out.

  “I’m sorry.” He apologized after three hours. “I know I’m looking for something but I can’t figure out exactly what it is. Does that make sense? That I don’t know what I’m looking for?”

  “We often don’t know what we’re looking for until we found it.” I soothed. How was that? I could embroider that on a pillow myself.

  “Where did your grandmother live?” I shooed him back into my car.

  “What?” He held onto the door and gazed at me, water dripping into his eyes.

  “Where did you stay when you came here with your dad?” I repeated.

  “Gold Way.” He said immediately.

  Gold Way was a small street tucked up behind the elementary school. There were probably nor more than a total of five houses on the street.

  “But there aren’t any for sale up there.” He looked at me with those big puppy eyes guys are expert at producing during serious clutch moments.

  “Let me make some calls.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Before we launched ourselves into the merriment that characterized Prue’s kitchen, Ben and I shared moring coffee in the apartment. The rain drummed on the roof creating a cozy, rather than depressing ambiance. I liked puttering around the small space with Ben.

  He eased his big frame into the vintage chrome kitchen chair and ran his hands through his hair.

  “Penny has quite a place.” He steadied the fragile table and leaned away from it completely. “The open house is next Saturday. We should go. You should see this house; it’s as huge as Summer claims. It overlooks a deep canyon filled with pine and fir trees. Penny told me she watches birds fly under the porch that’s off the study, it’s that high up. There’s a lot right next to her house that she said she’d sell it to me for cheap.”

  “I bet she did.” I said coolly.

  “I could build something like Penny’s house, views, big rooms, we could each have our own office.” He offered.