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

by Catharine Bramkamp

  Visions of charred baby heads danced in mine. “Carrie has one.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The kitchen door stays unlocked just in case any of us, that would be Raul and Brick, Pat and Mike, Ben, or I need to get into the house.

  “You get Carrie’s and check if your grandmother is sleeping under one.” Ben instructed.

  I nodded and dashed upstairs.

  Grandma was snoring peacefully under her own quilt, made in the seventies when quilt making was all the rage. Grandma’s masterpiece looked worse for wear, bedraggled and unmatched. I think it’s called a crazy quilt pattern. But it was safe, that one will not ignite. She must not have taken her quilt when the brotherhood closed shop at the library.

  The Brotherhood. I froze on the landing. Smoking in bed under this quilt would be like dragging in kerosene soaked kindling and lighting a few matches over it to see what would transpire.

  “We’re thrilled to finally be able to take these home.” I remembered a member commenting. “They were certainly good insulation in the library, kept us warm.”

  Those quilt would keep everyone very warm indeed.

  I cautiously stepped into Carrie’s room. This was easier since she was alone. The beautiful quilt lay on top of her recumbent form, too much like a colorful shroud. I gently pulled it off, and tossed two nearby afghans back over her for good measure.

  She frowned and stirred but didn’t wake. I hefted the quilt and peeked into the guest bedroom, a crochet monstrosity covered that double bed.

  “Any more?” Ben whispered.

  “Just this one, Penny gave these to just Carrie, and me.”

  “She didn’t offer me a quilt. ” He mused.

  “She must really like you.” I snapped.

  Ben and I did not sleep well. We were cold and not even tangling our legs and arms helped warm us. We abandoned the bed as soon as it was decent to do so. We shuffled to the kitchen and made coffee while we waited for Carrie and Prue to wake.

  Prue was unsurprised, Carrie was skeptical.

  “How could Penny do such a thing? You don’t just take insulation for houses and stuff it into a beautiful handmade quilt.” She protested. “A person doesn’t do something like that.”

  “Apparently Penny did.” I didn’t counter her argument by pointing out that no, a sane person wouldn’t do such a thing.

  I refused to let the quilts back in the house. We trooped out like a funeral procession to where Ben and I had left the quilts last night. We didn’t even want him inside the house. I wielded a huge sharp scissors I found in Prue’s antique sewing basket. As I pulled out the shears, I recognized thread and scraps from that crazy quilt still on Prue’s bed. It must have been the last thing she made by hand.

  “Just cut off the bottom section.” Ben micromanaged.

  Raul appeared with a small video camera. I didn’t stop him.

  Carrie crossed her arms, huddled against the cold morning air. “I don’t think the quilt is like a bag you can cut and the contents pour out, it’s all carefully stitched together.”

  “She’s right.” I paused, scissors in hand. Damn.

  “Then we default to plan B.” Raul rolled the video. Ben flicked a thick kitchen match on the side of the box and tossed it into the center of Carrie’s quilt. The quilt was soaked with rain so I didn’t think anything would happen. I was wrong.

  In seconds, a streak of black snaked from the center of the quilt marring the beautiful colors, a second after that, flames roared up from the quilt and engulfed the fabric, insulation and the quilt below it like a roman candle. It burned out just as quickly and before we even registered or were able to express our dismay, the quilts were gone, nothing but ash on the walkway.

  “But why?” I breathed. The air was toxic with the smell of spent insulation.

  “For the same reason people put razors into apples and give them away for trick or treat.” Ben’s eyes locked onto the black mess, a curl of smoke rose up, just as it must have smoked right after burning poor Elizabeth, who everyone knew, smoked in bed.

  “You know, I never, ever picked up a razor infested apple when I was a kid, and I was an excellent trick or treator.” I couldn’t look away from the pile of ash, of death.

  “You lived in a classy neighborhood.” Ben squatted down and tentatively poked at the ash. “Come to think of it, I never heard of anyone who ever actually found a razor blade in an apple.”

  “Maybe a kid made that up so he or she would never have to eat fruit, just pre-wrapped Snickers and Mars Bars.”

  Ben dusted his fingers. “It worked, smart kid.”

  “The poor woman.” Prue backed away from the mess as if it was contagous.

  “Who, the dead Elizabeth?” She was on my mind.

  “No, Penny. What would drive her to do such a thing?”

  I had no answer, but those burned baby doll heads came immediately to mind. Crap, Penny was not stable at all was she? Did her father’s death finally unhinge her? I looked at the charred, curling remains of the quilts. No, she had been doing this for a very long time.

  And Mattie? Was Penny unwilling to wait for Mattie to do herself in, death by quilt smothering? Should I call Tom Marten? Sure and explain that the flammable insulation that no one believed in was stuffed into beautiful collectable quilts that no one could take home? Did Penny even know what she was doing? Wasn’t that part of the quilting tradition: make do with what you had around the house? Or in between the walls of the house?

  Should we talk to Penny? What possible good would that do? Particularly since I was selling three of her buildings a situation that Inez christened as “fabulous.” I was back in the good graces of the company, did I want to risk that?

  I took a deep breath. Who knew? That was the next question. We saw Summer on video. She was clearly unaware, but what about the ladies of the club?

  Ben shoveled the remains of the quilt and loaded it into a black garbage bag. The rest of us trudged back to the relative warmth of the house.

  We all wanted as much coffee as the coffee maker would produce.

  “What about the Brotherhood members?” I helped Prue up the back steps. “What do they know?”

  “I’ll ask them. I’ll make calls.”

  “Are you going to contact the police chief?” Carrie asked sensibly.

  “Right after I contact a little old lady.” I replied.

  Finding a house for sale on Gold Way was more difficult than I anticipated. I called and called, because that is what I do, it’s my job. Finally one person responded to my message but only because I was Prue’s granddaughter and she loved my grandfather. Mrs. Legson was 98 years old, and just got around to calling, she explained on my voice mail, because she only checks her message machine once a week.

  “Why don’t you come over for some tea?” Her voice was quivery but from age rather than lack of personality.

  “Prue, do you know Mrs. Legson?” I hung up the phone.

  “Everyone knows Mrs. Legson. She walked neighborhoods for me during my run for City Council. She thinks Debbie is an idiot and is still upset over the election.”

  “Member of the Brotherhood?”

  “She’s not a joiner.”

  Mrs. Legson sounded interesting. I presented myself at her door as soon as I could.

  Mrs. Legson was a round, pleasant woman shaped like a sticky bun. She answered the door and gestured for me to come in. “I’m too old to get out. You can come to me.”

  I complied. She led me through the hallway to the kitchen in the back. The kitchen overlooked a ravine that may or may not brag a creek. The term, seasonal creek, can also be code for winter flooding.

  “What can I get you?” She toddled to the old gas stove and pulled the whistling kettle off the burner. She poured the hot water into a teapot in the shape of a bright-eyed Asian; his long braid was twisted to make the handle of the teapot.

  “I understand you have someone interested in buying a house on this street?” I pic
ked up the tray with the pot and chintzware cups and followed her halting steps into the living room.

  “You must know Debbie Smith, the person on the council now.” Mrs. Legson continued. “She wanted to buy a place here too. She rented from Lou Ellen; back when Lou Ellen was more involved. But there was a fire and she had to move out. I heard some of the locals said she was bad luck; no one wanted to rent to her.”

  I couldn’t see the house from the living room windows. Fire damage did not sound promising.

  “The place needed work anyway.” Mrs. Legson sipped her tea and made another face. “Needs something. Honey, can you reach that bottle there?” She gestured to a sideboard loaded with silver framed photos of people in various stages of life. I plucked a brandy bottle from the clutter.

  “That’s it, bring it here.”

  Of course I obeyed, who wouldn’t serve a nice little old lady her brandy at 11:00 in the morning?

  “Perfect, thank you dear, have some yourself.”

  “No, I’m good, thanks. You were talking about the fire.”

  “Oh, that’s all fixed. But I’ll tell you, I don’t know how Lou Ellen manages. There’s far more money going out than coming in. If at all.” She added darkly, just in case I didn’t get it.

  “And where did Debbie move?”

  “Her next house was one of those awful tract houses up on the hill, above your grandmother. She was in Sacramento the day of that horrible fire, good thing, her rental burned like the rest of them.”

  “Not very good luck around here.” I commented.

  “You would think she’d take the hint, but she stayed and fought.” Mrs. Legson sighed, poured herself more tea and doused it with more brandy. “I’ll give her that. So my dear are you interested in our little street for yourself, I understand you’re looking.”

  I ignored her hint and stayed on topic. “I have a client interested in buying a house here on Gold Way.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not selling, I’m only 98, not ready to go to a home like poor Lou Ellen.”

  “So Lou Ellen doesn’t live in her house?” I sat up and sipped my tea. It was horrible. No wonder Mrs. Legson masked it with brandy.

  “No, she’s been renting it out for what, five years? I really should go to see her, but she’s all the way in Auburn.”

  I nodded in sympathy, Auburn is about forty minutes away, a great distance for the residents of Claim Jump, nothing to residents of the Bay Area.

  “Who lives in her house now?”

  “Hippies. Artists. It’s amazing Lou Ellen gets any rent at all, but she needs anything she can get, the poor dear.”

  I did not pursue the poor dear comment, at least not yet. “They rent?”

  Mrs. Legson nodded. “Of course, some ridiculous amount. But the place is too big right now because some of their friends,” she rolled her eyes, “have left and the rent is apparently too high. They’re talking of moving and then where would poor Lou Ellen be?”

  We finished our tea and I learned more about Debbie, and Penny who, because her mother was unstable, was never really accepted into the soft bosom of the Claim Jump elite. They can be hyprocritcal about the oddest things.

  I took my leave and hiked quickly over to the hippie house, as Mrs. Legson called it. The house was old, of course, they all are. This was in worse shape than most, the wear and tear more than just the regular suffering through a cold, wet winter. The door was warped and unpainted. The elaborate detailing on the roof and porch were faded and flaking.

  A woman answered the door, looking much like Debbie’s twin. “Yes?” She wasn’t friendly but at least she wasn’t scary.

  “Hi, my name is Allison Little, I understand you rent this place?”

  “Since 1996. What of it?” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you with the government?”

  “No.” I said quickly. “Happy here?” I peered behind her. The hallway was short, a tiny parlor to the left and a minisculre dining room to the right were empty of furniture. The windows were dirty, filtering what little light there was and dimming it to shadows before it could illuminate the rooms and reveal if the original hardwood floors were still in good shape.

  She shrugged. “The rent is good.”

  “How good?”

  She named the price, the total, which if they were splitting it or subleasing it, would be manageable for a group making their living on selling stain glass and original woven wall hangings at farmers markets and crafts fairs. But bearing the full amount? From the deferred maintenance and lack of immediate amenities, this house was clearly wearing on both the renter and the landlord’s resources.

  “Would you consider a rental on Grove Street? Three separate apartments, backs into the creek.”

  She shrugged and eyed me suspiciously. I tried my best to look innocent and small town, non-government. It was easy to do dressed as I was in my all-purpose black funeral ensemble.

  “Those houses never rent, or go on sale. They’re passed along to the kids. We’ve looked.”

  “I happen to know there’s a chance to rent a whole house for less than what you are paying here, and it’s all fixed up, no deferred maintenance. Interested?”

  Her stiff posture relaxed an inch or two. “Get us out of the lease?”

  “Let me work on it.”

  Mrs. Legson did happen to have the name of the rest home where Lou Ellen currently resided. I checked on Prue and Carrie, they were involved with something Raul was showing on his computer. I did not have time to look. I hoped they were comparing wedding dresses.

  I found Ben in the garage, building more shelves to hold more magazines and recyclables that still had some good left in them, and pried him away to visit yet another little old lady.

  I took Ben because little old ladies love Ben plus Ben commanded an impressive number of contacts in the attorney world. Ben considers the species a necessary evil.

  “Third party.” He explained, dialing up one of the creatures as I drove to Auburn. “We can’t do this unless we bring in a disinterested third party.”

  We found Happy Homes Retirement Village fairly easily. The parking lot asphalt was worn with shallow puddles reflecting the gray sky. The façade was built in that seventies brutalism style: all the ambiance of a correctional facility. Our initial horror was not abated as we pushed open the heavy alumumin clad double doors. Here was the perfect foil for home care advocacy.

  “Oh man.” Ben breathed. We passed through a bare, undecorated lobby. The walls were painted a neglected beige with white trim that failed to make the forbidding double metal doors that led to the resident’s room look like anything more than an emergency room entrance. Three small, elderly residents sat propped up in their wheel chairs. Their heads were secured to an upright position, but their eyes stayed downcast, focused on the scarred linoleum flooring.

  A phone sat at the abandonded receptionist counter with a sign propped up encouraging all guests to call. I stated our purpose and Lou Ellen’s name. A voice promised to be right with us.

  We sat in the only two seats without wheels. They were those hard plastic chairs that reminded me of third grade. We waited for ten minutes before a young girl, pulling off yellow latex rubber gloves, slowly pushed open the double doors just enough to slide between them and beckoned to us to follow, as she was too exhausted to push open those doors twice in one afternoon.

  We followed her slouching frame to room 1034. She gestured without a word and returned to whatever domestic purgatory she inhabited. The TV volume was turned up so loudly I didn’t think I could hold a conversation. But that’s how cowards think. No excuse for me.

  Lou Ellen’s name was printed on a piece of binder paper and thumbtacked over her hospital bed. It helped distinguish her from her roommate, whose name I did not seek out. Fortunately the TV belong to the roommate, I didn’t want to interrupt the woman’s shows.

  “Lou Ellen?” I said loudly.

  I could hear her sigh from where I stood; the pathetic sound cut
through the incessant blathering from the talking heads on CNN news. The least they could do was air cartoons, more cheerful.

  “Hi.” I moved closer, Ben stayed at the foot of the bed and took in the room’s accoutrements. I could tell from his expression that he was not impressed.

  “My name is Allison. I’m Prue Singleton’s granddaughter.”

  The woman regarded me suspiciously. I can hardly blame her. She closed her eyes, and then opened them. “I know Prue, still growing?”

  “Uh, yes.” I glanced around to see if anyone had heard, but we were alone except for the roommate, who was not paying attention.

  She nodded. “Those brownies really helped my Hank. She wouldn’t even let me pay for the stuff you know, she said she was happy to help.”

  “That would be Prue.” I agreed. All compassion: little profit. Then again, her pot growing was just an entertaining sideline, sanctioned and encouraged each time she helped another cancer victim in pain. It was, as you can imagine, quite the family conundrum. My mother becomes frantic and wild-eyed just thinking about it. So she doesn’t.

  “And what are you doing visiting an old lady?” Lou Ellen got right to the point.

  “I’m here because someone wants to buy your house.” I obliged her directness with my own.

  She shook her head. “I need the rent, it keeps me here.”

  Ben sucked in his breath. I agreed.

  “Yes, that could be true.” I kept my tone as neutral as possible. I cast around for a good argument, the best argument. “What about your kids?” If she had kids, they should be shot for leaving her in a place like this.

  “Didn’t have any, we had kids in the neighborhood, that was enough.” She smiled at the memory.

  “Then when you go, the house will go to the government.” I pointed out.

  “Hank will inherit.” She said.

  “Hank is gone.” I reminded her gently.

  “Oh.” She thought for another minute, possibly getting her head around Hank being gone. I hated being the person to remind her of that.

  “Who is that?” She finally noticed Ben.