Foreclosed: A Mitzy Neuhaus Mystery (A Mitzy Neuhaus Mystery, a Cozy Christian Collection)

by Traci Tyne Hilton

  “That’s a delightful idea. I’ll get a pretty dress to match yours so we look cute for the Goings On section of the paper. But put the event out of your mind, I have some pictures to show you.” While she was talking she plugged her phone into the computer and uploaded pictures of the Baltimore Victorian.

  Mitzy saw what was wrong immediately. “You have got to be kidding me!” She stared at the empty kitchen in disbelief. Enlarged on the computer screen, it was clear that all the appliances and the counter were gone. In fact, it looked as though one or two of the cabinets were missing as well. “He did not strip the house. That lousy wretch! We are killing ourselves trying to sell this for him before he forecloses and he stripped the house. I cannot believe it.”

  “He doesn’t actually know we are trying to sell the house for him,” Sabrina said.

  “That’s no reason to strip the house. That beautiful kitchen—gone. It would have sold the home on its own. The quartz, that beautiful, beautiful quartz.”

  Mitzy’s cell phone rang.

  “Yes? You know what, I will. I will let him apologize. I’ll be right there.” She hung up the phone and grabbed her purple croc Birken bag. “I’m going to the radio station.”

  She sat in the radio booth with the station manager and a very contrite Johnny Headly.

  Before Johnny could read his statement about family friendly radio and respecting women as equals, Mitzy leaned into her microphone and spoke. “I’m sorry, Johnny. I wasn’t very friendly the other day.”

  Johnny’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “For a couple of years now I have let you talk to me like we were in junior high. What I should have done was spoken with you privately about how that kind of joking around made me uncomfortable and was probably not what your audience wanted to listen to. I know that you are pretty new to talk radio. Things are different when you are a DJ. But it was wrong of me to lash out at you on air.” Her voice was warm and sincere, but her stomach was in knots. Apologizing on air was the most humiliating thing she had done since junior high school. But she meant every word of it.

  Johnny croaked and the manager stood, shaking his head. Johnny finally turned on his microphone. “How do you do it, Mitzy? I was a complete jerk to you on the radio. You gave me what I deserved. We begged you to come here and give us a second chance, and you out class me again. Really, how do you do it?”

  She looked over at the station manager with a question on her face. They went to church together. He nodded to her. “Do you really want to know why?’

  “I’m dying to know why.”

  “If I have any class at all, it’s from Jesus, my friend. That’s all there is to it. On my own I’m just as bad as anyone else, as you well know. You ought to be mad at me for leading you on!” Mitzy caught his eye and smiled.

  “Yeah, I ought to.”

  The sick feeling in Mitzy’s stomach hadn’t gone away yet, so she kept going. “You may have noticed that I can talk. I can talk and talk. And being a talker has gotten me in trouble more than once. Especially when I’m mad. Just the other night at dinner I was so rude to my sister-in-law it was almost unpardonable. I picked and picked at her until she just got up and left.”

  “That can’t be true, baby. Look at you, all class and Jesus. There’s no way you did that. She probably deserved it.”

  “Come on. Really? Who deserves that? No one deserves to have a dinner guest come over and pick at you all night long. I was just awful. But when I’m mad, I’m mad. God has to change it; I can’t change it myself.”

  “Are you mad now?”

  “Funny you should ask. I am so mad I could spit nails right now.”

  “What has gotten Miss Mitzy Neuhaus so hot and bothered?” He was leering a little again. Mitzy raised her eyebrow at him.

  “I mean, what has gotten under Mitzy Neuhaus’ skin?”

  “Property theft.”

  “Hot dang. Were you robbed?”

  “Kind of. And you were kind of robbed. And frankly we were all kind of robbed. But mostly one bank or another was robbed. Tell me, Johnny. When you lose your house, who owns it?”

  “Do you know something I don’t know?”

  “Come on, play along. Say you went into foreclosure. Who owns the house?”

  “The bank, I guess.” Johnny tipped back in his chair.

  “That’s right, the bank. They own the house. The whole house. You can’t sneak back into the house you just lost and steal the built-in china cabinet, the river rock fireplace and five hundred feet of the floor plan.”

  “Well, now, obviously you can’t. That’s physically impossible, Mitz.”

  “Yes. And you can’t steal the kitchen either.” Mitzy bounced in her chair. Her heart was pumping. Everyone (who listened to AM radio) was going to hear about the crime at her dream house. She was going to make a real difference. And the she was going to catch the guy who stole the kitchen.

  “Also physically impossible—wait. Not entirely.”

  “That’s right. Kitchens are sort of portable.” Mitzy grinned. “But they are definitely property of the owner of the home. If you sell the home and write into the contract that the refrigerator, stove, etc. are included, then they are included. But the kitchen counter tops? If they exist at the time the contract is written, they stay with the house.”

  “Of course.”

  “But if you lose your home you lose your kitchen. You lose the appliances and the really expensive quartz countertop, you lose the house. It is really sad.” Mitzy rocked back in her chair. It tipped a little too far. She caught herself and laughed.

  “Slow down, sister, you’re getting all worked up.”

  “Sorry! I’ll try and be good. Here’s the thing, somewhere, while you are wrestling with the bank and trying to save your home, there might actually be a Realtor trying to sell it as well. We notice empty homes. We try to connect people with them. But if the owner sneaks in and strips the stuff that could help us sell the house you totally ruin our chances of negotiating a great deal for you that might actually save your credit—and your future! It is maddening.”

  “Are you saying Realtors are economic superheroes?”

  “I am anyway!” Mitzy’s feet were tapping the floor a mile a minute.

  Johnny reached over and tapped her knee. Then he put his finger to his lips.

  Mitzy made a silent apology and tried to keep her feet quiet.

  “You take this real estate thing pretty seriously.”

  Mitzy took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice calm. “Of course I do. These are homes where people live and build their lives. They are investments that make people’s futures secure. They aren’t just Jenga blocks to be slipped out bit by bit, loser makes it crash. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Call me psychic, Mitzy, but I think you have a certain property in mind.”

  “It’s true. There’s a house I absolutely love. It’s a huge historic home in Southeast. I’ve been working the system every direction to make a connection with the right buyer. I’ve been sad for the owner who is losing his home. I’ve been sad for the neighbors who have a vacant place on their street. I’ve been heartbroken for my friends, who remodeled the kitchen and were never paid. It makes me sick that some unknown person ripped the kitchen out.”

  “I’ve been doing a little Googling while you talked. Did you know that it really is stealing? It’s a jail time crime.”

  “It ought to be.”

  “It is.”

  “Then I am going to pin this guy down. I’m going to sell that house and pin the guy down. He can’t get away with this. The house is too important to be treated the way he did. It will have the right owner and he will get put away for what he did.”

  “You get ’em, tiger.”

  Johnny and Mitzy smiled at each other in conspiracy. At least he didn’t call me cougar, she thought.

  Laurence Mills was listening to the radio as he ate his lunch in his pickup. Did Mitzy Neuhaus just say quartz countertop? He
turned it up and hunched forward over his wheel. He heard everything she said. Every threat she made. He revved his engine and hit the road running.

  At the office the following morning, Mitzy and Sabrina pored over their respective computers.

  Sabrina hunted Craigslist for new listings of high end appliances for sale.

  Mitzy looked for any personal information regarding Laurence Mills. She wasn’t above hiring a private detective, but she sure would prefer to do it all herself. However, she was getting nowhere.

  “After your radio show yesterday, I’d bet his postings have been pulled,” Ben said from his desk, where he had nothing in particular to do. Parts of a paperclip and rubber band crossbow were spread across his desk. His feet were up on the garbage can. His back had been up since Mitzy didn’t offer him a spy job. “It’s because I was with Jenny this weekend wasn’t it?” he muttered.

  The phone rang and Ben answered it. “Yes? Really? Just a moment.” Ben spun around in his chair, kicking the garbage can over. “Is there a Realtor in the house, gang? A home just sold!”

  Sabrina dropped her coffee. “Don’t holler!” Sabrina patted her dress dry with the mouse pad.

  Mitzy was already on the phone. “Yes? The property on 72nd? Umm hmm. Yes, it is a beautiful home. No, it’s not a short sale. Absolutely that’s the price. It’s a great deal, isn’t it? No, I swear it’s not a short sale. Standard closing in thirty days. Just fax over the offer, okay? Who do they want to underwrite it? Really? You’re kidding, then we can probably close much sooner. Okay. Fax over the offer. I’ll get my seller on the phone. Thanks.”

  She looked at her colleagues, complete surprise written on her face. “A cash buyer, I must be dreaming. It had better be a good offer. The Smythes have been waiting forever and the price is so low they just can’t take anything else off.”

  The three anxious real estate professionals sat with their eyes fixed on the fax. They were about to give up when it started spitting papers onto the floor. Mitzy scooped them up and passed them on after she scanned them.

  “No kidding,” Ben said.

  “No kidding,” Mitzy agreed.

  “That’s a great offer. The Smythes had better take it.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? It’s almost full price, buyer to pay all the closing, just like in the olden days. Okay guys, I’m off to bring some very happy news to our friends on 72nd Street.” Mitzy slipped into the private office to make the call.

  The Smythes accepted the offer and Mitzy called the other Realtor back to tell her. They arranged a bank to meet at to make the purchase. They would do the transaction tomorrow.

  She came out of the little office, a happy, hopeful smile on her face. The sale helped soothe the sting of losing the great kitchen in the mansion. “Ben, get a welcome home package together. We have some friends closing tomorrow.”

  Ben flipped a pencil off the edge of his desk. Sabrina cheered.

  If Ben had been a girl, they would have had a group hug.

  Sabrina and Mitzy exchanged a meaningful glance. With a grin, from ear to ear, Mitzy called Joan.

  The three ladies met down the block at a little coffee shop for a quick celebration.

  Ben stayed behind to work on his welcome basket. It was boring and effeminate, but it was better than playing addictinggames.com for another day in a row.

  Mitzy’s table was covered with grande non-fat lattes and a sampler platter of pastries.

  “It is exciting, but it’s a little odd, isn’t it? How many cash sales do you guys do a year?” Joan sipped her coffee.

  “A year? I don’t think there is a yearly. In the last five years we may possibly have done three. So I guess it is unusual, but unusual in a good way. We need a closing. For morale.” Mitzy held her cup close to her mouth and blew into it. Everything about the industry was unusual right now. Cash buyers were everywhere—at short sales and auctions, but this kind of full price family home buyer was a welcome oddity.

  “It’s great news, Joan. Don’t be a downer. The 72nd house is a lovely home.” Sabrina didn’t want Joan to ruin the one piece of good news Mitzy had had in days.

  “She’s right, Sabrina. It is unusual. I know. But I don’t want to think about that. The buyer’s Realtor says they are good for it. They are going to the bank together to do the transfer in person. I don’t see how it could go wrong.” In reality she saw quite a few ways it could go wrong, but didn’t feel the need to share.

  “But the 72nd property isn’t anything special. If you could lay down cash wouldn’t you do a custom home, or a great location, or a vintage property?” Joan was persistent.

  “We might do that. But we are single business women. The 72nd house is in an incredible school district. It is immaculate and has had all the green efficiency upgrades. You know, I bet it’s a property firm. I bet someone is buying it as an investment. In fact, I really would bet. A lot of people are losing really nice homes in the crash. They need someplace to live. And even if they have to rent they want to rent something comparable to what they lost.” Talking it through was increasing Mitzy’s confidence. That house was a sound investment. Of course it was a property management company.

  “Okay, let’s bet. Dinner at Nero’s on the loser.”

  “You’re on.” Joan and Mitzy shook on it.

  They chattered over their coffee. They hadn’t had the excitement of a sale in weeks.

  Ben hit print and stared out the window. A mild looking man of middle height walked past. His jacket was tan. Totally nondescript. Ben laughed at himself. He described the nondescript guy.

  A teenage girl on a bike rode past without a helmet. Idiot. She’d get herself killed in this traffic.

  Two old men cut through the parking lot. They would probably be headed for a bench on the river. The nondescript guy came back this way and stopped at Bean Me Up Scotty’s.

  The women folk weren’t hurrying back. Ben laid the welcome home package on Mitzy’s desk for her to sign. He shuffled through the gift card drawer and pulled out a few for her to choose from. He had already ordered the flowers. He checked his watch. 10:30. Not even time for lunch yet.

  Another teenager, this one on a skateboard and male, rode past.

  A guy on a scooter slipped through traffic, apparently also wanting to get killed.

  Another guy in a tan jacket was across the street looking in windows.

  Or was it the same guy?

  Maybe that’s why nondescript had come to mind earlier. He really had no idea if this was the same guy or not.

  He looked out the side window…no one there. This guy entered the café, so he must not have been the same man. But then, who buys a coffee at a little hut and then goes to a café?

  Ben shuffled through his desk drawer looking for something that needed to be done. Nothing came up so he opened up his games file and made ready to sweep for mines. “Kill me now,” he said aloud to himself.

  The nondescript man in the tan jacket watched the tall blonde at the table with her friends. She was in profile and arguing something with energy. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and took three or four pictures of the scene, then quietly entered the café. He ordered a coffee and took his seat at the table, directly behind the blond woman.

  “Seriously, Joan, in what world was Clamato juice ever a good idea?” Sabrina was vehement.

  “It was a different generation. They spiked it. It’s good.” Joan tried to defend her weakness for tomato and clam juice.

  “Something’s fishy about Clamato juice,” Sabrina said with a straight face.

  Mitzy snorted. “I bet you drink your Clamato juice with tomato aspic.”

  “Give me some credit, please,” said Joan pulling a long face.

  “Tomato is a fruit. Fruit Jell-O is classic.”

  “With celery and olives!” Sabrina threw in.

  “What was the worst food you’ve ever had at an open house?” Mitzy asked Joan.

  “Oh the worst? Goodness, mostly it’s just sta
le cookies and burnt coffee. But once someone tried to serve homemade tiramisu at an open house. It smelled like a cheap bar in the house and the carpet was almost ruined from where bits of it dropped as people toured. It tasted good, but it was really a disaster.”

  “I once showed a home right after the family had spent the day making homemade sauerkraut.” Mitzy attempted to suppress a laugh, but failed. Her head was light and everything was funny, like she had sucked on a helium balloon. She took a deep breath to pull herself together, but even that made her laugh.

  Sabrina hiccoughed and her bobbed brown hair swung around her face as she rocked with laughter.

  Joan leaned back in her chair and looked at them over the tops of her granny glasses. “You children need to pull yourselves together.”

  Something rustled loudly behind Mitzy. She turned around and saw a large newspaper open in front of a man in khaki pants. “Sorry if we’re disturbing you.” Her voice was low and serious which sent Joan into a wheezing laugh, for reasons she couldn’t have explained.

  The man lowered his newspaper and looked Mitzy up and down. “Not at all,” he said.

  Mitzy thought it sounded as though he had a bit of an accent. English maybe? His paper went up with a loud rustle before she could ask him where he was from. He didn’t look foreign…or maybe he did. She couldn’t quite remember what he looked like. Sort of nondescript.

  However little they may have been disturbing him, they had been disturbed and turned back to their coffee more subdued.

  “Speaking of fishy, I still think paying cash for the 72nd house is a strange move. Very strange.” Joan took a slow sip of her coffee and looked at her young friends over the tops of her glasses.

  “So what?” said Sabrina.

  “So…what if it is some kind of cover? Money laundering, for example.”