by Dorien Grey
I’ll see what I can do. And don’t worry about it too much. Things have a way of working out.
* * *
Friday on his lunch break he called Larry and left a message to set up appointments to view the two properties. While there were no further manifestations from Aaron, Elliott had, for what he realized as the very first time, a clear sense of Aaron’s presence. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly how Aaron’s differed from John’s, but he could feel a distinct identity.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to be aware of Aaron. Still, he took it as a sign Aaron was on his very best behavior and wanted to be sure Elliott knew it.
He was on his way home when Larry called to say he’d tentatively set up an appointment to see the Wrightwood townhouses Saturday at three, and the Fullerton property on Sunday at two.
“I hope this isn’t too short notice,” he said, “but I figured you would like to see them as soon as possible. I told each of the owners I’d call back by seven tonight to let them know for sure.”
“That’ll be fine,” Elliott said. “I’ll meet you there.”
* * *
Yet another pleasant evening with Steve, during which nothing, as if by mutual unspoken agreement, was said about Aaron, the building, or Bill’s death until they’d returned to his place for the night.
As they sat on the couch, listening to music and having a nightcap, Steve reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper wrapped around a business card. Unfolding it, he handed both to Elliott.
“The card you wanted,” he said. “And a listings sheet.”
As Elliott set down his glass to take them, Steve indicated the sheet and said, “That’s a new twist. Bruce apparently put them on the counter in the breakroom first thing this morning, but I saw they were gone after lunch. I suspect the boss doesn’t appreciate Bruce’s turning the breakroom into a branch of his wife’s real estate office.”
Elliott glanced over them, noting that the sheet had only four listings. Refolding it, he put it and the card in his shirt pocket.
“Thanks.”
“Any idea what you might do with them?”
Pursing his lips, Elliott said, “Not sure yet. I think I may consider putting my condo up for sale—if I can find the right realtor.”
Steve grinned, shook his head and took another sip of his drink.
* * *
Elliott arrived at the Wrightwood townhouses a little early to give himself time to get a better look at—and feel for—the place and the immediate neighborhood. He already knew, from frequently passing through, that it was a nice area, but he drove around two of the adjacent blocks to double-check his impressions.
The row of townhouses, as he had noted earlier, had a comfortable, solid look. They sat back about fifteen feet from the street, which allowed for a very small square of lawn in front of each unit. An identical short flight of steps led up to the first floor of each unit. Raised basements were common throughout the city, since they required less digging than a fully sunken basement and allowed for larger windows on the ground level.
The problem he had with row houses was that they were customarily sold as individual units, which he preferred not to do because it involved six times the hassle, and finding a buyer for all six would not be as easy as selling a single multi-unit building. It was something to consider.
Finding a parking place, he walked back to the townhouses and met Larry, approaching from the other direction.
They had seen only three of the units before Elliott decided to pass on the property. It was pleasant enough and in relatively good shape, but nothing stood out sharply enough to spark that small charge of excitement he always got when he found a property he really liked. And even though the asking price was within reason, be felt he had the luxury of weighing his inner responses before deciding to buy.
Larry, who had worked with him often enough not to question his reasoning, merely went along and said, “Well, I’ll see you on Fullerton tomorrow at two, then.”
They shook hands and went their separate ways.
CHAPTER 13
Though Steve had said nothing, Elliott knew his birthday was the following Wednesday, and had been debating what to get for him. It was one of those times when being wealthy could backfire. While he could afford anything he wanted to buy, he felt he had to be very careful not to step across the invisible line that divided acceptable and extravagant. He avoided flaunting his wealth in front of others and especially did not want to do so with Steve.
It wasn’t unlike Cessy’s situation with Brad. He knew Steve’s pride, like Brad’s, made caution a necessity. He therefore couldn’t get anything Steve couldn’t afford to get for him in a reverse situation. And even as that thought entered his mind, he was both bemused and a bit troubled by the fact he was equating Cessy’s and Brad’s relationship with his and Steve’s.
He settled on a membership to the Art Institute, which he knew Steve would enjoy, and a small bottle of a very subtle cologne he knew Steve liked and to which he responded as though it were distilled pheromones. The membership he could buy online and have held at the will-call office, and the cologne was available at the same store where he’d bought Cessy’s birthday perfume.
After leaving Larry, he drove out to Lincolnwood for the cologne and a card, which later proved to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated. He felt he had to find a sentiment somewhere between “Happy Birthday to a Friend” casual and “Happy Birthday to My Beloved” intimate. He finally opted for a contemporary card with a bare-chested hunk on the front and “It takes one to know one: Happy Birthday” on the inside.
* * *
The major drawback to the Fullerton property, he decided as he walked the two and a half blocks from the closest place he could find, was the parking. Luckily, the building had two small one-car garages, probably built in the 1930s, on the alley directly behind it. Still, with the relative proximity of Children’s Hospital and DePaul University, he put parking down in his mental negative column.
Larry was waiting for him on the sidewalk in front of the building. From the outside, it was a Victorian gem: red brick with ornate concrete accents and trim that gave the stateliness of the structure an element of whimsy, which Elliott loved. He glanced at the fact sheet Larry handed him, noting that a single-family home a few blocks west on Fullerton, built in 1890, was on the market for $1,227,000.
The building he was now considering had been built in 1882 as a duplex, which was unusual for the time and area. The fact that it was a duplex was not apparent from the street, since both three-bedroom, one-bath units shared a common, leaded-glass-door front entry.
“I’ve already opened it up,” Larry said as they passed through the wrought iron gate surrounding the small front yard.
As always, Elliott made quick mental notes of possible improvements, starting with some relatively simple landscaping and lighting. The small paneled entry had a door to the left and a relatively wide, six-step staircase to a landing, where the stairs turned to disappear behind a wall to continue to the second floor.
Opening the door to the ground-floor unit, Larry stepped back to let Elliott pass. He entered a short hallway, the end of which gave on to that staple of Victorian homes, the parlor. The room was relatively small, as Victorian parlors tended to be, the twelve-foot ceilings and large fireplace with a slightly raised hearth making it appear even smaller. The floors had been carpeted but the carpeting had been ripped out, leaving hundreds of small nail and tack holes. The walls had not been painted in some time, and lighter-colored squares and rectangles showed where pictures had hung. Checking the fireplace, he noticed evidence of ash and, bending over to work the flue, felt a slight updraft indicating that it was working.
Back in the hallway, a door on the right led to the sitting room, only slightly larger than the parlor, and wainscoted, though several layers of paint prevented him from identifying the wood. All the wood trim, including the crown molding, also bore
several coats of paint.
Directly across from the sitting room was the dining room, slightly larger than either of the other two rooms. A built-in credenza with beveled-glass doors covered most of the outside wall and was built around the leaded-glass window that looked out onto the building next door.
A wave of disappointment came over him as they entered the kitchen, which had been redone, judging from the fixtures and cabinets, in the 1950s or 1960s. There was a large pantry, as was customary in houses of its time, but whatever other original character it might have had was completely gone.
The single bathroom, also clearly redone in the 1950s, was across the hall from the kitchen, and neither of the two bedrooms, located side-by-side at the rear of the unit, had a closet.
The more he saw of the place, the more torn he was. On the one hand, it was nothing near what he had envisioned from the outside. On the other hand, he knew it could be. Complete restoration would be impractical simply because of the societal and cultural changes in housing needs since the building was built. Still, he knew much of the original feel could be restored, although whether the expense would justify it, he couldn’t say until he’d seen the upper unit and done a lot of calculating.
The upstairs was largely a duplicate of the downstairs unit, with the same intrinsic problems. Looking down from one of the bedrooms, he saw that the garages would definitely need to be replaced, but the small back yard had possibilities.
His mind was, as it had been since they entered the building, in what he called his “bottom line” mode, noting problems, possible solutions, roughly calculating cost in time and money, envisioning every aspect of the building in terms of how it was now and how it could be.
Sensing his dilemma, Larry said, “The owners have had the property since nineteen fifty-two, but haven’t lived here since the late sixties. They moved to St. Louis but kept it as investment and rental property. Being so far away, they couldn’t keep that close track of it. Or maybe they just didn’t have the interest. I know it needs a lot of work, but it’s structurally sound and, knowing how good you are with buildings like this, I figured you would want to see it.”
“You’re right,” Elliott replied. “Overall, I like it, but I’m going to have to do a lot of thinking. In the meantime, if anything else comes up, let me know.”
They left together, Larry first taking the time to lock everything up.
“Well, you’ve got a couple of things going for you,” Larry said as he locked the front door. “I get the impression the owner really wants to sell, but in today’s market, it isn’t going to be easy. A large cash down payment certainly wouldn’t hurt in influencing the response to an offer.”
Extending his hand, Elliott said, “Yeah, I’ll definitely give it some thought and call you in a day or so.”
As he returned to his car, he realized with no small degree of gratitude that he had not given a single thought to Aaron all day. It was a good feeling. But, of course, once Aaron entered his mind, there he remained, and on the drive home, his thoughts ping-ponged from the Fullerton property to what he was to do next about Aaron and Bill.
* * *
It ain’t easy.
May I quote you on that? I’m really stymied. I can’t think of a single thing more I can try to find out about either Jim Babcock or Irv Wilson, and they are the only two names I had. It’s frustrating as all hell.
Are you going to call Aaron’s sister-in-law?
I suppose so. But that’s really grasping at straws. I can’t imagine what she could possibly tell me, and the only reason I’m considering it is to prove to Aaron I’m doing everything I can. He’s got me over a barrel; and he knows it.
But Aaron’s brother and sister-in-law had a lot to gain by Bill’s death.
You said you didn’t think it had occurred to Aaron that they might be involved?
No, but that’s not surprising. Bruce may have been an ungrateful leech, but he was still Aaron’s brother.
I suppose if they knew Aaron didn’t have a will and was going to make one leaving everything to Bill… And for God’s sake, I don’t even know that for sure. No one can know, now, with Bill and Aaron dead four years. I hate this trying-to-play-detective crap.
I understand. But if you want to sell that budding, you’re going to have to. We both know Aaron won’t leave until he knows for sure exactly what happened to Bill. So maybe you should follow up on the idea of talking to the sister-in-law.
Yeah. And maybe the mailman and the paperboy and…
If you have to. But first things first.
* * *
Monday morning, during a break for coffee, he took out Marylinn Hightower’s business card and his cell phone and called the number on it. He didn’t know if it was a private number for her, or a general office number. It proved to be the latter. Asking to speak with Marylinn Hightower, he was informed she was not in the office, and asked if he cared to speak to another agent. When he said no, he was asked for his number and told Ms. Hightower would be happy to return his call as soon as possible.
About eleven thirty, his phone rang.
“Mr. Smith, this is Marylinn Higthtower of Brighton Realtors returning your call. How may I help you?” Her voice personified the word perky. Elliott wasn’t big on perky.
“Yes, Miss Hightower.” The “Miss” was deliberate, since she obviously had no idea who he was and he wanted to keep it that way as long as possible. “I’m thinking of listing my condo, and a friend gave me your card.”
“Wonderful!” she said. “I’d be delighted to help you. Can you tell me a bit about it?”
“Of course. It’s a three-bedroom, two-bath south-and-west-facing unit on the thirty-fifth floor at sixty-seven-hundred North Sheridan.”
“The Malibu. I’m familiar with it. I’m sure we can get you top dollar for it. Would you like to set up an appointment for me to view it?” Her voice conveyed efficiency but little warmth.
“That would be fine. Would tomorrow evening be convenient?”
“That will be fine. Seven thirty?”
“Seven thirty will be fine.’
They exchanged good-byes and hung up. Elliott finished his sandwich and coffee then returned to work.
Exactly what he expected from the meeting, he had no idea, but decided that doing anything was better than doing nothing. He just hoped John would be able to convince Aaron that he was trying. He took the fact that work went uninterrupted as a positive sign.
He had all but given up trying to figure out what more he might be able to do to either implicate or exonerate Jim Babcock or Irv Wilson. Had Bill been planning to use the same lawyer as had drawn up his original will and the papers of incorporation for the business, Babcock might somehow have found out about the scheduled meeting and surmised its purpose. But Paul had said Bill had purposely wanted another lawyer just to avoid that very thing. He made up his mind to call Paul and get the name of the lawyer.
* * *
That evening, after talking with Cessy and before calling Steve to invite him out to dinner Wednesday to celebrate his birthday, he looked up Paul’s number and called, not sure he would be home. He recognized Paul’s voice at “Hello?”
“Hi, Paul. Elliott Smith. Sorry to bother you, but I had a question.”
“Sure, Elliott. What do you need?”
“Remember you told me you had referred Bill Somers to your lawyer. Do you by any chance have his name and number handy?”
“Name, yes—Clarence Cunningham. He’s on Belmont near Ashland. I don’t have his number—I’m on my cell and am just on my way to my parents’.”
“Ah, then I won’t keep you. Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome. And stop by the Anvil some night to say hello.”
“Will do. Thanks again.”
Going to the hall closet where he kept the Yellow Pages, he took it into the den. Checking under “Attorneys” only to find there were no such listings, he had to search through the pages to find “La
wyers,” mentally cursing whoever created the Yellow Pages for making it as difficult as possible to find anything. He finally did locate what he was looking for and wrote down the number.
He had not, when talking with Steve about Wednesday dinner, mentioned his Tuesday appointment with Aaron’s sister-in-law, partly because he still had no idea what he hoped to accomplish by it, and partly because of his reluctance to get Steve any more involved than he absolutely had to be.
Tearing his mind away from Aaron, he fixed dinner then spent the rest of the evening at his desk in the den going over all the information he had on the Fullerton duplex, jotting down notes from his recollection of what needed to be done and for a few extra touches he would want to make, simultaneously doing rough time-and-material cost estimates. By the time he called it a night, he’d decided to have Larry make an appointment for him to bring his crew over for a walk-through to get their input. Given the state of the housing market, he knew it might be a gamble, but his instincts told him it might also be worth it.
* * *
While he did not hear from John during the night, he did have one of his favorite dreams of flying—of running to the edge of a cliff and leaping off to soar over a vast green forest, and he remembered wondering at the time if that was what existence was like for John.
Leaving a check and a note of instructions for Ida, his cleaning woman, he went to work, remembering to be sure he had the phone number for Bill’s attorney with him.
On the drive, he wondered exactly how he was going to handle the call to the lawyer. What, exactly, did he think the man might be able to tell him? What could he say, and how could he say it? What reason could he give for his interest? Surely client-lawyer confidentiality would enter into it somewhere along the line.
He could pretend he was seeking an attorney, just as he’d told Bruce’s wife he was thinking of listing his condo, but he preferred not to lie if it could be avoided. He decided to hold off on the call until he could think it out more carefully.
Once again he wondered what the hell he thought he was doing getting involved in the problems of a man—okay, he amended, two men—dead for four years. Helping John find his identity had been totally voluntary, but it had opened a door he sensed he could now never fully close.
