Dying to Sell

by Maggie Sefton

I dared, so I did. The door display was neat, compared to the chaotic disarray I walked into. Computers and peripherals covered a desk and two tables; shelves crammed with books and boxes lined the walls, papers hanging out of each. Boxes filled practically every inch of floor space, except a narrow path from the doorway to the desk. A young man, sandy-brown hair pulled back in a long ponytail, was seated with his back to the door. On the desk in front of him, three different computer monitors simultaneously ran different streams of data, interrupted occasionally by beeps and cryptic message boxes.

  "Chester Yosarian?" I said to the young man's back, when he didn't turn. "Guilty."

  "I'm Kate Doyle. Jeannie's mom."

  At that, he spun his chair around and stood up, hand outstretched. He was so tall I had to look up, and I'm pretty tall. "Glad to meet you, Ms. Doyle. Jeannie said you needed some help." He smiled down at me. Nice face, nice smile. He didn't look overly weird on the outside.

  "Yeah, I shouldn't have deleted those files without checking." I shrugged, feigning a casual and careless air. "And I really, really need to get that data back, so I can update it." Better stop now, before the lie got too convoluted. "Jeannie said you would have some software I could use to retrieve those files. If you do, I'd really appreciate using it, if I could. I'll bring it right back." I strove to look earnest and honest.

  Yosarian grinned. "You don't have to bring anything back. It'll be yours to keep." He motioned toward a small chair. "Sit down and tell me what you've got, and I'll know what to give you." He sank his lanky frame into his upholstered chair, while I gingerly sat on the wobbly-looking folding chair beside him.

  "Hold on just a sec," he said as he moved around the semicircle and three keyboards, inputting data into each computer. The screens' output changed accordingly.

  "Okaaaay, tell me what you've got," he said as he leaned back, hands behind his head. "Standard PC with Windows, I take it?"

  "Uh, yeah. That's about it. Nothing special," I said, remembering Mark's setup.

  "Figured." He reached into his second drawer and pulled out a black plastic box, filled with CDs. He flipped through several, then withdrew one, slipped it into a plastic case, and handed it to me.

  "Thank you, uh, Mr. Yosarian."

  He let out a loud laugh. "You sound like my landlord. Chester's fine. Or Yosh. Whichever."

  I grinned back. "Okay, Chester. Thanks a lot. What do I owe you?"

  He scowled at the idea. "Nothing. It's free."

  "Shareware?" I said.

  "Naw. Yoshware. I developed it."

  "And you give it away. That's pretty generous."

  "I guess." He grinned, then cocked his head. "You know, Jeannie told me you were the one that walked in on the murder a couple weeks ago. That right?"

  My grin faded. More curious questions. Well, he'd done me a favor, so I owed him. "Yes, that's right. It was pretty gruesome, and I hope I never experience anything like that again." I deliberately shivered, so he'd get the message not to press further.

  "I'll bet. I was wondering if the police have any idea who did it," he probed, ignoring my signal.

  "You know, Chester, I haven't a clue. Everybody asks me that, as if I know something. And I don't know a thing. I assume the police are working on it. I'm sure they'll find the killer." I rose from the wobbly chair, trying to signal that I was ready to move on and out at the first opening.

  He eyed me for a moment, then leaned back into his comfy chair. "You'd hope so," he said enigmatically. "Tell me, did the guy—the one who died—did he have a computer?"

  I stopped fidgeting with the CD case and glanced back to Chester. He was smiling just a little.

  "Yes, he did. I packed it up myself when we cleaned his office. After the police had finished, of course." I added. "The house is still on the market, you know, so we had to get it ready to be shown to buyers."

  "Packed it up, huh?" he said with a nod. "Well, let's hope the cops don't forget to check it, too. There may be some clues. They wouldn't want to miss anything." He sent me a lazy grin.

  "Uh, yeah, you're right." I nodded, trying not to let my anxiety show. "I'm sure they've already checked that. I mean, they were all over the place for a week, looking for evidence. They must have checked the computer."

  "You never know." He rocked slowly.

  Uncomfortable with his close questioning, I decided it was time to leave. "Well, Chester, I can't thank you enough for your help. I really appreciate it. Thanks again." I yanked open the door, ready to escape.

  "Anytime, Ms. D. And let me know if you need any more help," he said, emphasizing the last word. I waved thanks as I left, convinced I needed serious work on my transparency. Two people in one morning saw right through me. Not good.

  Glancing at my watch, I ran down the stairs and out of the building. Somehow the time had run faster than I had, and now I was behind schedule. It didn't seem right to race through the Oval without taking time to drink in its beauty, but I had no choice. The appraiser was probably pulling up in the Schusters' driveway that very minute.. As short and succinct as his messages had been, I was worried that he might finish his appraisal before I even got there. I was thirty minutes away in slow traffic. Lucky for me, the coffeehouse owner knew my order by heart and practically poured it for me the moment he saw me walk in the door.

  Chapter 9

  The appraiser was still parked in the Schusters' driveway, so I pulled in and gave the big, black truck plenty of room. J. CHEKOV, LICENSED APPRAISER was written in white block letters on the side. Saying a brief prayer of thanks, I grabbed my briefcase, balanced my coffee, and hurried up the walk. Checking the door, I found it unlocked, so I stepped inside and took a deep breath to slow down. The espresso rush had hit me fifteen minutes ago on South College Avenue. An empty stomach just heightened the effects.

  "Mr. Chekov?" I called out. "It's Kate Doyle." Hopefully, a muffled voice would reply from upstairs.

  Nothing. I scanned the side and back yards to make sure he wasn't finishing up outside and heading for his truck. There was no sign of him. I strolled through the house.

  "Mr. Chekov? Kate Doyle, here. Where are you?"

  Again, nothing. Maybe he was upstairs in a bathroom and couldn't hear. I started up the stairs. Then I heard a bump, then another, above my head.

  What the hey? There it was again, unmistakable this time. He was in the attic, walking around. Brother, talk about thorough. Ronnie was right. A lot of appraisers wouldn't bother crawling around the attic, especially with a newer custom home like this one. They'd assume everything was okay. But the really, really good ones never assumed. They'd check everything.

  The footsteps headed across the ceiling toward the kitchen. I followed, figuring he must be finished and headed for the garage. Sure enough, the long pull-down ladder angled out of the attic entrance in the garage ceiling. Slowly, a man began to emerge. I set my briefcase down on a nearby shelf, sipped my coffee, and waited for him to safely descend.

  Jake Chekov sped down the sloped ladder and jumped the last two steps. Tall, with a close-cropped beard, dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt, he spotted me watching. "You the real estate agent, Kate Doyle?" he asked as he approached.

  "That's right," I replied, watching him brush his hands across his shirt and pants. Hard to believe the immaculate Schuster home would have a dusty attic, but I noticed cobwebs in his dark hair. "I'm glad you're still here, Mr. Chekov. I wanted to show you the comps I used when I priced the home. I really make an effort to use appraiser techniques when I adjust for different properties. I took all my GRI classes last year, and one of them was an appraisal class. And ever since then, I've made sure to use those techniques when I have to adjust between properties. For comparables, that is. Of course, in this case, we had several strong comps already. Three sales in the last six months. Almost the exact square footage. Slight differences, of course. I wanted to show you how I adjusted for those differences. If you'll step into the kitchen, I'll—"

  "Whoa
, easy, easy," Chekov said, hands up signaling me to stop. Still no smile. "I'm not finished here yet. When I am, you can show me what you've done."

  "Sure, sorry. Didn't mean to hurry you." I wondered if this guy was as hard-nosed as he was thorough. If so, I'd dazzle him with numbers. I was good with those. Real good.

  "Believe me, I won't let you hurry me. It takes as long as it takes." With that, Chekov turned and headed out the side door into the back yard.

  Well, alrighty then. Heading back into the kitchen, I decided this Chekov was definitely no-nonsense. I'd really have to give him the evidence for the high-end price I'd put on the home. Murder or no, this house was worth every cent. So I rifled my briefcase for the file, and spread out the market analysis I'd used in determining price, complete with accompanying comparable sales worksheet with adjustments.

  Meanwhile, I kept track of Chekov's outside maneuvers, paced the kitchen, and finished my coffee. When an antsy fifteen minutes passed and Chekov was still outside examining the exterior, I called my office to re-schedule an appointment with a colleague. Annoyance flirted with impatience, all mixed with the caffeine buzz, as I continued to pace.

  Brother, was this guy thorough. Either that or he was deliberately testing my patience. Better not. He didn't know what kind of day I'd had. My pacing quickened, so that I completed a sweep of kitchen, dining room, and great room in just under two minutes.

  After another five minutes, I was about to go outside and start on him there, when Chekov entered the kitchen, clipboard in hand. I practically raced toward him.

  "Hey, how'd it go?" I asked.

  He glanced up from the clipboard, gave me a quizzical look, then went back to his scribbling. "Still wired, huh?"

  I blinked. Did he mean me or the house? "What?"

  He reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew a small package of peanuts, and handed them to me. "Eat these, then we'll talk. Meanwhile, I've got to check one more thing." And before I could reply, he turned and disappeared through the basement door.

  I stood holding the peanuts and stared after him. It was like trying to have a conversation with the White Rabbit. Every time I'd ask a question, all I got was a cryptic reply before he'd disappear down another hole. I looked at the peanuts, debating whether to toss them blatantly on the counter in rebellion. Then I thought better of it. The purpose of this visit was to "support" the appraisal, not aggravate the appraiser. That was part of my job. Besides, I was hungry. I consumed the peanuts in less than a minute.

  I was chasing them down with water when I heard Chekov climbing the stairs. This time, I deliberately waited for him to speak, rather than accosting him with questions. Instead, I waved the empty package at him before I tossed it in the trash.

  Something that resembled a smile made a fleeting appearance, then was gone. "Good. Now we can start. First, let me tell you why I chose the comps I did; then you can show me yours. Plus, that'll give the peanuts a chance to catch up with the caffeine. Okay?"

  Spying a genuine smile at last, I responded in kind. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you a moment ago."

  "I work with a lot of real estate agents, so I come prepared. Now, here's what I did."

  He proceeded to methodically run through every one of the same houses that I'd chosen as comps myself, how he'd adjusted them to the subject property, and so on. As I listened, I exulted, convinced we'd be on the same page for sure.

  "Now, about this house. Everything is in good shape. However, I did notice a separation beginning beside the chimney flashing. Only a slight trace of water shows in the attic now, but not for long. None of the comps had any roof defects. So, I'll have to adjust for that... and other things." He placed his clipboard on the counter. "You can tell me what you found, if you'd like."

  Suddenly my exultation was gone, like air escaping from a balloon. Leaks? Water in the attic? So much for their custom builder from Denver. And so much for pushing the top of the price envelope. I tried to disguise my reaction, but it didn't work. Chekov was watching me like a hawk. "Well, darn it," was the mildest version I could think of.

  "I figured you didn't know about the roof. Otherwise, you wouldn't have shoved the price up."

  "This is a gorgeous custom property. I didn't shove anything," I responded, not a little defensive. "You've seen all the designer work they've done here. Look at those shelves. An artist from Santa Fe designed them. And the chandelier. That's from France. And the wine cellar—you did see the wine cellar, didn't you? How about—"

  He held up his hand. "Don't worry. I saw everything. Stop selling."

  I deliberately took a deep breath. This guy was more than annoying. Appraiser or no, I'd had enough of his needling. I crossed my arms and leaned back against the counter. "Tell me, are you always this charming, or am I just lucky today?"

  He grinned and imitated my pose. "Believe me, I'm being nice."

  I was about to rise to the bait, then thought better of it. Whether this guy was trying to push me or not, I still needed him. So I switched tactics. "You mentioned other concerns. Such as?"

  "Such as the other properties do not have a notorious history, so to speak."

  "Notorious history?" I feigned ignorance. "I have no idea what—"

  "You know what I'm talking about. No one's been murdered in those houses. Like it or not, I have to take that into consideration."

  This time I didn't even bother to hide my frown. "You mean you're really going to mark this gorgeous house down for psychological impairment? Brother. Ronnie said you were hard-nosed. She has no idea. I want to see you explain that to her."

  "Ronnie will understand. I had to do it to one of her properties years ago. Over in Old Town. That one was haunted."

  I bit my tongue to ward off further argument, or the price might plummet like a stone. Instead, I turned away in obvious disgust. "Boy, this day just keeps getting better and better," I muttered.

  "Sorry."

  "Yeah, yeah." I began to pace the kitchen.

  "Tell me, how were you planning on handling that issue anyhow?"

  I shot him a skeptical look. I'd had it with this guy. "If you're trying to be cute, it's not working. You know I can't reveal those issues. It's against the law. Besides, everyone in town knows what happened here, so I don't have to say a thing. They already know."

  "What about an out-of-town buyer? What would you say to them?"

  "What are you, a spy for the real estate commission?" I retorted. "It doesn't matter. I cannot disclose that information. Besides, their real estate agent will have blabbed it already."

  "What if they want to work with you? And they're from another state? They're clueless."

  I stopped my pacing and faced him. He might have been smiling, but it was hard to tell. "You must not have any more appointments today, Mr. Chekov, or you wouldn't be standing here asking me all these annoying questions."

  "Just curious."

  "Sure, you are. Okay. You're the appraiser. You've got the power. You win. In that situation, I would advise the buyers to use another real estate agent to represent them. In fact, I would recommend one personally."

  A raised brow was his only reply.

  Hoping I'd quieted him at last, I scooped up the market analysis and worksheet. "I chose the same comps you did, so I don't think I'll waste any more of your time. If I may ask, do you have any idea how much that roof will hurt?"

  He pushed away from the counter and grabbed his clipboard. "I'll put everything into the computer and see what I come up with. I'll give you a call when I have it done."

  I can hardly wait, I thought. The caffeine high had evaporated, and I was crashing. The roof and Mr. Chekov had merely hastened the descent. "Did you make sure the doors were locked when you finished outside?" I asked. He'd started across the kitchen and I was hoping for his exit.

  "Yep." He nodded as he headed for the great room, then paused. I braced for more questions. This guy was positively perverse. "Tell me, are you really going to have an open house this we
ekend?"

  Not looking up, I kept loading my briefcase. "Yes, Mr. Chekov, I really am going to have an open house this weekend."

  "You're either brave or crazy."

  I had to smile. Finally he'd said something I could agree with. "A little of both."

  "That's what I thought," he said, and headed for the front door at last. "I'll call you when I have the report ready."

  I won't be holding my breath, I thought, as I finally heard the door close with Chekov on the other side.

  * * *

  My office phone started ringing the moment I entered the office. Too tired to dive across the desk and grab it, I dumped my briefcase, then collapsed into my chair and let it ring. When I finally answered, Marilyn's voice was leaving a message.

  "And don't think you can avoid me, either," her rich contralto scolded. "I know where you live. I'll come and get you if necessary—"

  "Why would I avoid you, Marilyn? What have you done since I saw you last week? Any amusing escapades?" I needed some cheering up.

  "Boy, you sound tired," she said. "That Schuster house is wearing you out, Kate. Take it easy. Amanda doesn't expect you to kill yourself. Uh... bad choice of words. You know what I mean."

  I rubbed my eyes. The peanuts had only reminded me how hungry I was. "Yeah, well, it's been a rough day. Plus, I'm starving. Haven't eaten since breakfast, except for some peanuts."

  Marilyn sounded truly horrified. "That's awful. Go get something now. That's an order."

  "Can't. Too busy. Besides I'm having dinner with Jeannie tonight. But I don't think I can last. If I hadn't sworn off them, I'd send Lisa across the street for one of those delicious-but-terrible-for-you burgers."

  "Now, you're talking. What happened today? I thought you and Rachel had the house all ready to show."

  Not wanting to reveal Ackerman's spying or my own for that matter, I grabbed the only information I could share. "Oh, it's that appraiser Ronnie recommended. Jake Chekov. She swears by him, but he's a jerk. Told me he's going to drop the appraisal because of the murder."

  "Hmmm. Chekov. Chekov. I've met him before. Yeah, I agree with Ronnie. He's good. And good-looking too."