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

by Catharine Bramkamp

He moved towards her and took up her thin, blue veined hand in his huge strong one. “Ben Stone.” He glanced at me, daring me to say it.

  “My fiancé.” I complied, after all, he was helping me.

  “Ah, good.” She squeezed his hand, and then fell back exhausted by the effort.

  “And you want to buy my house?” I had to lean over the bed to hear her.

  “No, I have a client, friend, who wants to buy your house.”

  “I need the rent.” She repeated.

  “You’ll do better if you sell.” Ben pointed out.

  She shook her head.

  “My friend is Scott Lewis, George Lewis was his father. Scott wants to buy a house on Gold Way, it’s his way of remembering his father.”

  “George.” She gazed off, remembering. The TV turned up louder; we were interrupting her roommate. Sorry about that.

  “He built a suspension bridge over my back fence. Had to take it down, the cats used it as an access. He was a lively little boy. What happened to him?”

  “He died on one of his jobs. He built big bridges.” That was all I knew, that and Scott Lewis could pay for both a decommissioned library and a house with the cash from the insurance policies.

  “Too young.” The elderly woman breathed.

  “Yes.” Ben and I chorused.

  “But I need the rent you see? I can’t afford this otherwise.” She waved a purple veined hand in the air. “The house is all we have. You know we paid $30,000 for it. That’s only two years here.” She nodded wisely; she had done the math in her spare time.

  I could feel Ben grinning behind me. I wasn’t the one who would actually make her world better, but I took some pleasure in bearing good news.

  “How about a little more than $30,000 for the house?” I suggested. I planned to take my time, I would return if need be. I did not want to rush this poor, abandoned woman.

  “No, no, that’s silly, it’s not worth more than that.”

  I looked around at her grim space. “He’ll pay you a million dollars.” I offered with confidence.

  “A million…” She worked out that new number, catching her bottom lip on her dentures. “I could use the money.”

  “Yes.” Ben had the same thought I did. “Yes, you could.”

  She looked at me and at Ben. The thought of money simultaneously energized her, and made her suspicious, which happens a lot. “Why the hell should I trust you?”

  “Because if I’m lying, the Brotherhood of Cornish Men will have my ass.” I said succinctly.

  “They say it needs some repairs.” She looked a little better already, her cheeks showed some color, her eyes were a bit more sparkly. There must be nicer rest homes, perhaps the best rest home. I’d ask Prue.

  We didn’t need one of Ben’s attorneys. We asked the receptionist/cleaning woman to witness the signature. Lou Ellen signed both the listing agreement and the purchase agreement. Scott could sign tonight. I know, I know. Don’t do as I do, do as I say.

  I called Scott.

  All the members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men gathered at the library. They sat in their usual chairs arranged around the table designated as the conference table. Suzanne Chatterhill presided at the head. On-line they had a following, but at home they were ignored, not even the alternative paper carried their stories and meeting times.

  Sarah found the ladies in full throttle. They were arguing about something, old scrapbooks or a new biography or who would take on an elaborate indexing project or something like that. Sarah rarely paid attention.

  She rounded the corner of the main library room and they all stopped talking. “I’m sorry, I was looking for Scott.”

  “He left us to ourselves dear.” Suzanne Chatterhill spoke for the group. “You look lovely today, new lipstick?”

  Sarah blushed. “Thank you.”

  “Scott will be back to lock up.” Suzanne checked her watch, “in about another half an hour and we were about to break for tea, join us?”

  Sarah didn’t feel she had much of a choice and it was still too chilly to sit in the shade outside of the building and wait for Scott there. Plus, it would look silly.

  And she did not want to look silly or pathetic. She was painfully aware she already held the title of Most Pathetic to the good women of Claim Jump. She’d very much like to change that. Today would be the day to begin.

  “Thank you all for attending the funeral, Mom and I really appreciated it.”

  “Oh of course, you are like family to us.”

  And like family, Sarah knew that they would bestow a multitude of advice on whom she was seeing and what she should do with her life now. An absent mother was difficult, only because she then inherited a dozen mothers, which was eleven too many.

  “Okay!” Scott bounded up the narrow steps and skidded around the corner. “Wow, great to see you all again! Sorry for the interruption, Sarah and I have more business to attend to!”

  He whisked Sarah back down the stairs and out to the brisk afternoon.

  “What was that all about?” She demanded, not unhappy with the sudden save.

  “You have the distinct glow of a woman in love and they can tell. Those ladies are far smarter and craftier than they look and they’ve been outmaneuvering me since I arrived here.” He said it without rancor or judgment. “Plus they are up to something - very agitated, I don’t want you in their sights.”

  “They invited me to stay for tea.”

  “I bet they did.”

  The two walked past Lucky’s house, the New Century For Sale swayed in the light breeze.

  Scott took a breath, the thrill of the rescue embolden him. He never did anything without carefully thinking it through and more importantly carefully thinking out an exit plan and by then the plan didn’t seem worth implementing in the first place. Nothing was permanent, nothing was good enough, so he always approached his life with the idea that he better leave his options open because another great opportunity could be around the corner, another, prettier girl might be waiting in the next bar.

  But the better thing never materialized, the prettier girl never showed up. In the last few weeks he considered that he might be staring right at the next great thing: the last great thing. So he plunged ahead. “Want to see my new house?”

  “Are you kidding? You bought a house? With what? You just bought the library.”

  “Allison Little found a house for me on Gold Way. Dad spent all his summers on that street. I just signed the papers. Do you want to see it?”

  “Your dad?”

  He paused. The snow had finally melted. The yellow daffodils, most barred behind picket fences, bowed as the couple walked past.

  “My dad built buildings, bridges and sighs.” Scott cleared his throat. “Dad died while on a job in Dubai.”

  “I remember you telling me.” She kept pace with him. He turned down the street and headed towards the elementary school.

  “He was building something that was the largest, longest, highest, coldest. I didn’t realize it at the time, but people who are in charge of projects that include the words biggest, longest and highest, take out enormous insurance policies on the principals of the same.”

  “So you got a lot of money from the insurance?”

  “That and some other investments.”

  He stopped, stepped over a deep crack, and paused. “My father will never be a grandfather because I couldn’t settle soon enough. My father will never be able to marry again. He’ll never see me marry. Never see me finally get my act together.” Scott smiled faintly, “He will never know I bought a house on his old street.”

  He took her cold hand and tucked it into his jacket pocket. They turned into the narrow street that ran behind the school.

  “I’m selling my house,” she hesitated. “I can help you know, with money for the repairs and stuff.”

  He reached out and squeezed her hand. Was it possible to find someone so generous, so genuine, so flippin’ naive? It was like dating Doroth
y.

  “Thank you, but there’s no need.” The narrow street dead-ended into Gold Way. Three small moving vans hovered over the most colorful house on the street. A young couple watched from their front porch next door. Maybe the young couple would let Scott see the house that Dad stayed in, so Scott could feel, for a second or two, exactly what his dad experienced.

  “You know, I don’t have to work.”

  “Then that was a lot of insurance.” She hazarded.

  “The Shah is a generous guy.” Scott drew in a ragged breath. Had he made a mistake? Would he miss his father every time he turned the corner to the street? Would he cry every evening at the front door?

  Sarah squeezed his hand.

  “All my life I did nothing, just drifted around. And now I want to do something. Anything that will keep me busy.”

  Sarah eyed the peeling paint on the house Scott had indicated. She saw five loose roof tiles just from the street. “I’ll think of something.” She volunteered.

  Ben answered the call from Penny to come and look at a few things. I suggested he discover what he could about Penny’s quilting/immolation hobby. I suggested he take his fire extinguisher with him. Maybe a switchblade. He assured me he would be fine and would stay out of her bed, particulary one covered with a hand-made quilt.

  “You cannot imagine how relieved I am to hear that.” I drawled.

  He waved and climbed into his truck.

  Carrie offered to come and help me clean and take photos of Sarah’s soon to be former home. The renters of Gold Way had dissipated so quickly I did not get a chance to nail down the terms for rental, so Sarah won. I’d sell her house.

  “What kind of life did she have here?” Carrie stood in the center of the faded harvest gold carpet and surveyed the tiny living and dining room. The kitchen was so small I had to back into the door to get a good photo. Efficient kitchen. I scribbled in my notebook.

  “She apparently was okay for the most part. Prue told me the Millers were quite odd, strict, and secretive. They were friends with another couple, the Sisleys, who lived over on Uren Street. The Sisleys had a daughter, Sheldon, but she’s older than me, I don’t know her.” Meaning that Sheldon didn’t spend her summer afternoons along the banks of the Yuba River, the one place a person could let her hair down and strip her clothes off without censure from the Brotherhood. “According to Prue since the Mr. Sisley died, that friendship fell off.” I shrugged. “What’s more important is she and Scott found each other.”

  “You are a closet romantic, you know that.” Carrie accused.

  “Don’t tell anyone, it will ruin my reputation.”

  “Sarah probably just wants a new start.”

  “It is much easier to start a new relationship in a new house, the house you shared with a former lover just doesn’t cut it. I even think you should buy a new bed. But that’s just me.”

  “And have you?” Carrie asked.

  “Have I what?”

  “Bought a new bed?”

  I angled away from the pellet stove and took a shot of the living slash dining area. Intimate living area, I wrote down.

  “No.” I knew I had a problem, but I was more concerned with firestorm-level batting and Ben hovering around Penny like an agreeable Labrador. I couldn’t figure out if the baby doll head art project belonged to Penny or to her mother. That distinction alone could make quite a difference. Especially since I prefer to think of Penny as the guilty party.

  The full apartment down stairs was accessible by an outside stairs. Possible rental/in-law unit, I wrote down. It was unremarkable, a sofa that will have to be thrown out and a tiny kitchen featuring an old electric stove. I scribbled, move-in ready.

  The upstairs, where Sarah lived, was tidy, thank goodness. It boasted a miniature efficiency kitchen that was crowded into one end of a living room area. The walls up here were decorated with posters from current films and Summer Theater announcements. A single bed and nightstand was all that furnished the tiny bedroom; one window was tucked under the sloping roof. This room overlooked the creek that tumbled with melting snow and defined the back boundary of the property. Nothing was in bloom, but the creek was clearly visible. It was not a good time of year to take pictures of the yard, but that creek access would be an excellent selling point. Your own private creek. I wrote.

  “She doesn’t have any shoes.” Carrie peeked into the closet.

  “What do you mean no shoes? What kind of barbaric, deprived life did this girl live?”

  “Maybe she packed them all. She’s staying with Scott at the Northern Queen.”

  “And, how do you know that?”

  Carrie gave me a pitying look. “I just spent an hour with Prue at the beauty salon, how do you think I know that?”

  “Of course, silly me. Hear anything about the listings?”

  Carrie thought for a moment. “The general consensus is that Lucky’s house is overpriced, but that didn’t surprise anyone. They are glad Mike and Pat made an offer on the Kentucky Street property and without money from Lucky’s estate, the theater will definitely have to shut down.”

  “Do you think Summer is capable of killing Lucky to make sure the CRT doesn’t get changed?”

  Carrie shook her head. “Summer may not dress her age and her hair color is all wrong, but I don’t see her as murderer, neither does any one else.”

  Generous closet space, I wrote in my notes. Private back terrace. Price to Sell!

  A good day’s work. I ordered the signs through my new “home” office.

  “Why doesn’t she want to keep the house?” Carrie asked, “besides wanting to live with her new found love?”

  “Memories? It’s also really small, she may want to have a family.” I said.

  Carrie stepped closer to me and put her arm around my shoulders, not easy for her to do, her arms are short and my shoulders are wide, so I doubly appreciated the effort.

  “She may, or she may feel she has enough family.” She patted my arm and returned to the closet.

  “Maybe.” I echoed.

  “What are all these?” Carrie backed out of the closet pulling out half a dozen quilts.

  God, more of the damn things. “They look like Penny’s.”

  “But simpler. Could be early work, are you sure Penny made them?”

  “I’m not sure at all.” I punched in Scott’s number and asked for Sarah.

  “Sarah. Where did you get all these quilts?”

  “Oh, I found them at the thrift store. Someone told me an anonymous donor dropped them off, but they were so nice and warm, and they looked a lot like Penny’s work, you know the ones in the library and the theater? No one will sell them, and I found them for five dollars each. You can have them if you like.”

  Carrie hefted one as I listened to Sarah and shook her head.

  “Uh, no, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea at all. Thanks.” I flipped the phone closed.

  “Do you think she was trying to kill off the homeless as well?”

  Carrie shrugged, but stuffed the yellow and blue patchwork quilts into one of the black garbage bags. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Maybe she didn’t know and wanted the homeless to be warm. You know, that’s not a bad thing.”

  “Well my blanket delivering days are over.” I announced.

  Carrie winced and focused on the full garbage bag, not at me. “Are you still mad about that?”

  During the Christmas holidays I delivered blankets to the homeless as a favor for Carrie. That the homeless person in question attacked me was not really Carrie’s fault.

  “I am not mad, I would never be mad at you. Unless you break up with Patrick.”

  She dragged the plastic bag to the head of the stairs and let it bounce down the steps to the entryway. “Fair enough.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Carrie volunteered to drive Prue in her car to do errands. Tom called just as I finished up the listing agreement for Sarah.

  “I’m going out to the range ag
ain.” Tom’s voice was weary, and rather defeated. “I figure I may as well ask you to come with me, so I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I never asked to see the shooting range.” I protested with false sincerity.

  “It was only a matter of time.” Tom insisted.

  The shooting range was only five distressingly close minutes from Prue’s house, as has been discussed. Even so, Tom was already there when I pulled into the muddy parking area.

  “We’ve temporarily closed down the shooting range, sort of out of respect for Lucky.” Frank, the manager of the shooting range, was a sweet looking man of about 75 who offered to show me his automatic machine gun collection. I declined. Disappointed, he went ahead and opened a locked gate to the range for us. “Between the snow and the rain you aren’t going to see much.”

  Tom acknowledged the futility of our mission and we walked through the gate to the range.

  “I hear you’re selling every house in town.” Frank called out to me.

  “Three is not every.” I pointed out. But that was a good rumor, Allison Little, selling out Claim Jump. No, that didn’t sound right.

  “Any bites on Lucky’s house?” Tom asked idly. He marched through the slippery mud with more aplomb that I was managing.

  “No bites, it’s kind of big and will need constant repairs. You know how it is.”

  “I do know how it is. What about the library?”

  “I’m not selling the library.”

  He rolled his eyes. “No, but you know this Lewis guy. What does he want to do with the library?”

  “The jury is still out. So far, I’ve convinced him to not open a massage parlor, tea house or yogurt shop.”

  “Thank you.” The chief of police said.

  “Or bordello.”

  “That would bring in the tourists.”

  “And bring down the wrath of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men.”

  “True, too bad. Watch your shoes, its all red dirt and mud out here.”

  Indeed. I came prepared. I had the foresight to pack a pair of very cute shiny waterproof boots I rarely had cause to wear. The boots were decorated with big red roses on a black checked background. I brought them because they were impervious to rain, sleet, snow and cheered me up in the gloom of night. And the old hydraulic mining site was pretty gloomy.