Yet again, while Mitzy waited for the Smythes to take action, she would be keeping herself busy at the inn. Running back and forth from her office to the work site was going to kill her gas budget, but it seemed to be the way her life was going these days.
Carmella’s thick black hair was piled high on her head; there was no way she would wear a hard hat. And she was wearing stiletto heels. Her Aviator shades were a nod at protective eyewear. Mitzy had on five inch heels as well, she called them boots, but they weren’t work site wear. Alonzo smashed a hard hat over her fluffy platinum curls and shook his head. He was about done with the both of them.
They were trudging through the mud pit that was the back of the property to discuss the landscaping.
“We’ll get the pond and the gazebo finished before the rain starts. We’ll leave the rest of the landscaping until spring.”
Mitzy picked her way across the muddy clay to the foundation of the gazebo. “No,” she said. “That won’t do at all. It’s much more important to get the driveway and the fountain done. If we finish the gazebo and keep the back mowed it will look fine. The front is a disaster. We need the curb appeal much more than the pond.”
“We aren’t even half done back here. If we poured a driveway and put up the fountain the heavy machines would tear it all up again. And you can’t mow a mud pit.” Alonzo squinted into the distance at the trees. “We need to dig the pond and dig foundations for the barn. We need to excavate at least half of the trees.”
“I don’t know where to start with how wrong you are,” Mitzy said turning her gaze to the woods on their property line. “Except by asking what on earth do you mean by a barn? And don’t you dare touch my woods.”
“Carmella,” Alonzo said exasperated. “You said the barn was Mitzy’s idea.”
“It was! You know Mitzy, when we ate at that bistro place with the movie theatre and they had that little barn they used for, like, a cabana? You loved it and said how great it would be at the inn. Alonzo said we could build one easy enough.”
“Carmella.” Mitzy sighed. For Mitzy the difference between admiring a building and changing a business plan was obvious.
Alonzo shook his head and walked off towards the woods, muttering something under his breath. Mitzy thought he heard “frustrating” and “girls.”
“Carmella,” Mitzy said again, “I really liked that barn. But we can’t afford to put a barn on our property. Our plans are complete. We have all of our permits and we have a schedule. And again, we can’t afford it.” She gazed in bewilderment at the woman in front of her. So bright, in theory but so reckless to the business budget. A commotion at the side of the inn caught her eye. She shaded her eyes with her hand and squinted at the building.
“What’s going on over there?” she asked Carmella.
“Diego’s mixing it up, I’d say,” Carmella said, after spotting her husband who was waving his arms around and yelling at someone on the roof.
Mitzy and Carmella ran to the house to see what was going on.
“Calm down, Diego,” Mitzy said, “And tell me what is going on.”
Diego took a deep, loud, breath through his nostrils and shoved his hand out, like a strike, to the roof top. “That,” he said, “Is what’s going on.”
Three men in black suits with Bluetooth devices in their ears were on the roof. They looked like idiots, up there with their leather soled wing tips, one of them on his hands and knees. Alonzo and Mitzy had kept the little visit from the FBI to themselves, but plenty of the crew must have known about it now. Mitzy started up the ladder.
“Get down from there,” Diego huffed. He grabbed the cuff of her pants and tugged. She kicked back with the pointy heel of her boot. Diego dodged her foot and let her climb.
“Well, hello,” she said with a smile to the men in suits.
The one on his hands and knees looked up and gave her, she felt, an undignified evil eye.
“Can I help you gentlemen? Was there something I could do for you? Because, to be frank, we just put the shingles up here and were hoping not to have to replace them.” As she said this, the man on his hands and knees peeled back a roofing tile and popped its nails out. “Now see,” Mitzy began again, “That was just exactly the kind of thing we were hoping to avoid. Would you mind telling me what you are looking for? I’m sure we’d rather help you than not.”
The man who was slender and wearing glasses who had seemed in charge last time spoke up, “This is an investigation. You’ll have to talk to the detective in charge.”
“Oh goody. Where can I find this detective?” Mitzy asked.
“She’s right below us in your attic.”
Mitzy clambered down the ladder and headed inside.
She trucked up two flights of stairs, passing the old family bedrooms on floor two and the old ballroom on floor three until she was in the attic space whose purpose was so hotly contested.
“Hello? Anyone here?” Mitzy called down the hallway.
A woman, dressed in a long camel trench coat and sensible shoes much more suited to rooftop exploration than those of her agents, stepped into the hallway.
“Detective Backman,” she said.
“Hello Detective. May I ask what your boys are doing on my roof?”
“So Mitzy, you all did not know about the attic rooms when you first purchased the house?” Detective Backman asked.
“What does that have to do with the men on the roof?” Mitzy asked
“When you made your reports to the police and gave over a selection of…” she flipped a new page in her notes, “jewelry that you found on the property to the Russian Embassy in Seattle, you made no mention of the attics or of finding anything in the attics.”
“That’s right,” Mitzy said. “The first day we entered the property after making the purchase, we uncovered the jewelry collection that we had reason to believe the Russian government wanted back. We immediately contacted both the local police and the embassy and made the return. But I believe you know all that.”
“At that time you mentioned finding a cache of old papers hidden in the floorboards, excuse me, in the rafters above the butler’s pantry, but you did not say what you found in the attics. I have reason to believe that is because you hadn’t been up here yet.”
“Yes,” Mitzy said. She didn’t relish reliving the most frightening day of her life; the day she learned that Alonzo had a weak spot for puppies and she had almost been killed by the mafia.
“We are conducting a thorough search in this area. It is untouched,” she looked up from her notes at Mitzy with distaste, “And we have reason to believe it could hold more valuable information for us.”
Mitzy had sized up her competition, and while the detective was a good deal shorter than Mitzy’s own 6 feet plus high heels, she had the upper hand. “Well, since you are here and all ready to search our property, why don’t you avail yourself of the furniture storage room. If there is anything to be found in all that old furniture, you are right here to take the stuff and leave the furniture.”
Detective Backman made eye contact with Mitzy and held it. “We will. And we will take whatever we need to take.”
Mitzy glanced out the window. She saw no vehicle large enough to haul away all of the furnishings they had hauled out of the storage room and the basement, so she filed that particular worry away for a later date. “I would like to be there while you search it. I think I will head to the storage room to wait for you.” She nodded at the detective and took long, quick steps to the head of the stairs.
When the agents had finished feeling up her antiques, Mitzy watched them from the attic windows. They got into their black cars and most of them drove away. But as she watched, one of the cars turned around in the parking lot of the Historic Old Church and made its way back to the inn, parking at a discreet distance across the street.
“It looks like we have a new friend,” Mitzy said to Alonzo. Alonzo joined her at the window.
“I wonder which on
e of us they will follow home?” he asked.
Mitzy smiled, “I bet they expect we go back to the same home at night.”
“Then they’ll be disappointed too,” Alonzo said.
The next morning, Mitzy sat at her desk shifting old yellowed papers back and forth. She had a lavender legal pad on her lap and a pencil tucked over her ear.
“Just copy them,” Sabrina said.
“Or scan them,” Ben said. “Or let me scan them. Or burn them.”
“She’s not going to burn them, Ben.”
“No, I’m not going to burn them,” Mitzy said. “I’ve been taking notes because old handwriting is hard to read when copied. I should scan them, but last time we tried to make interesting electronic copies our shop was busted into.” Mitzy scratched a few more notes onto her pad and picked up a new paper. She held it close to her eyes and squinted. “These are really hard to read.”
“You shouldn’t read them. You should burn them. Seriously,” Ben said again. “Or just give them up. If they knew that you had read those, which they will because they are covered in your fingerprints, your name wouldn’t be worth the cardboard it was printed on.” He tapped the Neuhaus New Homes for Sale sign that was leaning on the wall by his desk with a pencil.
“They’re my property. Obviously, if I gathered them up and turned them into the cops they’d have my fingerprints on them.” Mitzy took a few more notes.
Ben rolled his chair over to his boss’s desk. “Your notes are harder to read than the papers.”
“It’s called shorthand, Ben. Very useful for making many notes on few papers. I just want to know what’s going on with these papers before I turn them in.”
“What does Alonzo want to do?” Ben asked.
“He’ll do the right thing. I mean, what can we do? If this stuff is evidence and the government needs it we have to give it up. But I don’t think we have to give up all the furniture. I think we can figure something out. We let them search the furniture on the premises. They left it at the inn for the time being.”
“That was a great idea,” Sabrina said.
“They probably just didn’t have time to take it yet. They’ll be back to box it all up and ship it to some storage place and then never do anything else with it,” Ben said.
“With the ark of the covenant, right Ben?” Sabrina said with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t mind if Harrison Ford popped over to solve the problem.”
“How does Bruce feel about that?” Ben asked.
Sabrina blushed.
“I don’t want all of this furniture just stored forever. I’ve got consignment shops waiting for it. Dupree’s in New York wants some of it immediately,” Mitzy said, scratching more notes on her legal pad. “They have waiting lists of people looking for good antiques. And then Marcel’s Stage Craft in Los Angeles is waiting for their stuff. They want the pieces that aren’t in good shape anymore. They refurbish stuff and rent it out to be in movies. I’ve got every piece catalogued, photographed and all but sold. I’ve got deposits on it all. I’ve got to deliver it.”
“You haven’t spent the deposits, have you boss?” Ben asked.
“Seriously? You know the answer to that. Of course I haven’t. But we are counting on spending the deposits and the balance of the furniture sales to do some of the higher end finishes we want. You can’t put eight full baths into a vintage home without needing a lot of money.”
“Speaking of,” Sabrina interjected, “The Meyer Trust sent another letter. Here. Do you think you’ll get the money from them?”
“I don’t know. It was a total long shot. The trust money would have to go to the Oregon Historical Society and we could only use it to turn a portion of the inn into something completely historically accurate and the Society would get to decide what it was, how it was done. They would have the staffing responsibilities for the museum side of things. It gets very complicated. But at the same time, if the Meyer Trust will fund part of the renovations/restoration and the Oregon Historical Society will staff that part of the inn we would be fools to say no.” Mitzy flipped a page on her legal pad and started writing furious short hand again. “Putting Russian names into shorthand from old handwriting that is only half our alphabet is more challenging than I had expected.”
“But don’t go back to it yet. What does the Historical Society want to do with the inn?” Sabrina asked.
Mitzy straightened her back and stretched her neck, turning her head from side to side. “They are interested in most of the house. But we have negotiated the front parlor. It has a few features that are unique.”
“Such as?” Ben asked.
“It’s really two rooms, a formal parlor and a family parlor. In the distant past there was a sliding door, probably solid walnut that could close them off. I don’t know if you noticed, but there are really two fireplaces.”
“Pretty normal for a house that age isn’t it?” Ben said.
“Sure. But a house this age in this part of Portland isn’t that normal.” Mitzy turned away from Ben and looked at Sabrina, “For small family affairs, the rooms would have been closed off so as to make heating the rooms easier. But when company was expected the family could slide the doors open, put on two fires and entertain a large crowd.”
“I think it sounds nice,” Sabrina said, smiling. “Good for weddings.”
“But unique?” Ben asked.
“It would make a nice place for your wedding,” Sabrina said.
Ben groaned.
“What’s wrong with the inn for your wedding?” Sabrina asked.
“Nothing. Except it’s not big enough for Jenny’s guest list, or expensive enough for her taste.” Ben pursed his lips. “I think the courthouse would be fine.”
“But then it’s not a real wedding!” Sabrina said.
“So…the museum,” Ben said.
“Well…” Mitzy said, “If you really want to know, the Historical Society would like to refurbish the rooms to period accuracy, keeping the family parlor with the smaller fireplace…the one in the back that leads to the sunroom, as a sitting room for guests at the inn. The other room would be roped off for viewing and both rooms would be used for lectures with regular tours.”
“Who would want to tour just two rooms?” Ben asked.
“They’d like to offer tours of the whole inn, pointing out what is the same and what has changed as well as taking people over to Historic Old Church across the road,” Mitzy said.
“That sounds like a nice tour,” Sabrina said.
“If you’re 80,” Ben said.
“I think it could be fun for a lot of groups, senior centers, grade schools, exchange students.”
“Senior centers,” Ben said nodding.
“So what? Seniors would like it. That doesn’t make it a bad idea. The Historic Society would get new interest from people who were staying at the inn and the inn would get a lot of free marketing as well as two rooms maintained off of our budget,” Mitzy said.
“It sounds complicated,” Ben said.
“Well, yes. But business is complicated. It would be boring if it wasn’t.”
The letter from the Meyer Trust was quite positive. Most of the communication had to be between The Oregon Historical Society and the Trust. Mitzy had no interest in running a non-profit inn. But it was nice to be updated every so often on how things were going.
Having fought for the dilapidated and abandoned Victorian Mansion with Alonzo Miramontes, her highly successful but irritatingly arrogant commercial real estate developer and now boyfriend, Mitzy was determined to have a successful business out of it. In some ways, she had lost the fight. Her dreams of putting a wealthy family in the old mansion to reinvigorate property values on old Baltimore Street were not going to come true. But she had won in another sense. She had lost a bitter enemy and gained a savvy business partner and a great date.
Alonzo had made a compromise as well. He wanted to buy Mitzy’s Neuhaus New Homes office building and the inn without an investment
partner. Admitting that he couldn’t have afforded to do it all without Mitzy’s money was painful to him. But the days when he considered her the most annoying Realtor in town were long gone. She was far from annoying, in fact. He still didn’t love her purple blazer with the big shoulders, but her platinum curls that were a flashback to the 80’s had grown on him. He thought a lot of her curls, in fact. He thought a lot of running his fingers through her curls.
The two were in the beginnings of a very promising romance. The cooling effect that starting a business was having on the relationship was probably good. Or so they both reasoned after a long day of work.
She set her transcribing down. It was giving her a headache. Linguistics was not her passion—real estate was. And though she might not have a clue about what she was up against by choosing to defy the Feds, she knew real estate. And she expected her advice to be taken seriously. She was gracious in her own way, to her clients, but persuasive and tenacious as well. It had been two days since she had spoken with the Smythes and she was ready to see if they had taken her advice. She put her pages of notes away and called her painting contractor first.
He confirmed that he had been booked to paint the house on 72nd Street, so Mitzy called Dawn Smythe.
“I understand that kind of fear,” Mitzy found herself saying, “It might very well feel like sleight of hand, but it’s not. Other realtors who will be showing your house will know it has been on the market a long time. But they are the ones who know what a good solid house it is. They will appreciate that you have done a few things to help it show. You all picked me to be your Realtor because you trust me. I value honesty and transparency more than you can imagine. My whole world relies on it.”
She didn’t finish the call until she was sure that Dawn was comfortable with the plan and they had picked a date for the re-listing and open house. With any luck that open house would be all they needed.
Traci Tyne Hilton - Mitzi Neuhaus 02 - Eminent Domain Page 3
