“She passed away?” I asked.
“Thank god, yes.” Hillary put in. And that was the end of discussing that marriage. Perhaps they could finally express the fear that the second wife would get everything leaving the children in the cold. It’s a legitimate fear.
“He liked me best,” said Stephen, “and I didn’t even care about art.”
“None of us did.” Hillary snapped.
“Dad,” Mark turned his whole body towards me, freezing out his sister and ignoring his brother. “Dad believed in the theory that when people don a mask, like a lion or a tiger. . .”
“Or a monster.” Hillary chimed in.
He ignored the interruption. “They take on the attributes of that mask. Little children manifest it best during Halloween when they put on a devil mask or a superhero mask; they become that character.”
“Oh please,” Hillary shot back. “Dad just thought this kind of art was evil and a bad influence on the tiny soft minds of the public. And he and Samantha were these heroes for taking the art away and saving children or crap like that.”
“But not you?” I asked as innocently as I could.
She looked at me, her face looking a little too much like the third devil mask for my own comfort.
“I cannot imagine being influenced by art.” She retorted.
“I think three million would be sufficient.” Stephen worked to derail his sister. He was successful. Discussing hard cash return distracted her from the conceptual art debate and she calmed down a bit.
Mark nodded.
“Okay,” I said brightly. “Let’s sign the listing agreement and the exclusive right to sell agreement and the TDS and you all can be on your way!”
TDS stands for Tediously Discussing Stuff.
I not only have the form, I have another long list of items found in your average home – pool, spa, horse paddock, that kind of thing. I check off the items on the list, then the client/seller signs.
Here’s what a typical moment with the TDS sounds like:
“Stove top or cook top?”
“Stove top,” says the husband.
“Cook top,” counters the wife.
“Don’t we have gas?” the husband asks innocently.
“No, we have electric, I asked you over and over to get the gas, even Cindy Meyers has a Wolf Range, but we don’t even have a range. Is range one of the options?”
I have no choice but to concede it is.
“See, we don’t even have a range. Will that reduce the value of the home?”
That’s an average conversation. Until the couple gets to the line item – swimming pool. The swimming pool item always brings up hard feelings, either because they don’t have one, or because one partner really wanted one, but the other one does all the work. Over the course of the years with the pool the spouse who wanted it in the first place decided he or she was allergic to chlorine. Some people don’t even want a pool.
Surprisingly, my group, after disclosing everything – and acknowledging the part about the violent murder, (important, especially in the Bay Area; Asian Americans won’t touch the place) signed. The siblings ended up turning docile and initialed and signed every paper, here and here, right at the little sticky arrows, one of my favorite inventions. List price, three million.
I assured them I would do my best marketing work starting tonight and would be in touch by e-mail. In other words, they could all leave town and I wouldn’t really have to talk to them. It’s far more efficient that way, and better for my nerves.
We never did get back to what to do with the paintings. Hillary gave me the new keys to the new front doors. I slapped a heavy blue lock box on the wrought iron door handle and we were in business.
My phone rang just as I walked in the door. It was Carrie. “Come with me Saturday night.” She outlined all the fun and frivolity and the good cause that this latest gala promised, but I was not convinced.
“But, I just want to sit down and watch TV.” I protested. Not even a mock protest, like, no I couldn’t eat another bite, because a person can always eat anther bite, we do it all the time, this was a real protest. I had my first open house with the million dollar death mansion Sunday and I did not want to party into the night before.
Not that the atmosphere of a formal gala invites partying per se. But that’s beside the point. Spending $150 for chicken, pilaf and a wad of green leaves that passed as an exotic salad because the bus boy scattered pecans over the top, is not my idea of value.
“There will be a band, and a silent auction and it’s for the Boy’s and Girl’s Club. I know you support the Boy’s and Girl’s Club.” Carrie argued.
“Who is going that you want to meet?” I said, cutting to the heart of the matter. Carrie didn’t have the cash for the silent auction, she did not donate to the Boy’s and Girl’s Club, and she did not have the means to be a dilettante. It was all about the felines or it was nothing. And since she’s a receptionist for a Senior Center (Forgotten Felines don’t have enough cash for even their own phone) she too has eaten enough dry chicken breast covered with a tablespoon of mango chutney to take care of her for life. So something was up.
“No reason, I just thought it would be nice to go.”
“Nice,” I echoed. “Okay. Is that all? Nice?” With nothing better to do, I grabbed a damp kitchen town and began swiping at various table and bookcase. My version of speed housekeeping.
“Well, there are rumors that Patrick Sullivan will be there.” Her voice altered just a tad as she said his name.
“And who is Patrick Sullivan?”
I could hear her eyes roll. “He’s the new President of Cooper Milk, the grandson, he just took over the company.”
“And he’s gorgeous.” I put in. Cooper Milk, which sounds like an odd name for a milk company, is one of the largest dairy companies in the county, not difficult to do, dairy is very localized and we have a lot of cows out in west county, happy cows by the way, our cows look exactly like the cows in the commercials, in fact I think I’ve recognized a couple of our own local talent on national TV.
Cooper Milk started out as a Co-op in the sixties. Their followed their motto, do good, to the letter. The founders, the Sullivans believed that if they supported the community, the community would reciprocate. They were right. The milk is excellent. The company donations to the community are stupendous. Over the years the term co-op morphed into coop and then cooper because it’s just easier to pronounce. The family owners, being pragmatic, just adopted a big chicken as the company mascot. There is a group of teenagers on call who routinely dress up as the Cooper Chicken and for $12.00 an hour march around at cancer rallies, fairs, school openings, and any local event that attracts more than five people. But it works. And now there is a new, eligible, president. He will not last. Not as head of the company, he’ll probably do fine as a CEO. He won’t stay single longer than fifteen minutes.
“And you want to meet him.” I tossed the towel up into the corner of the hallway hoping to knock down the spider web that I noticed last week.
Carrie took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“You are so transparent.” The towel came down, it’s mission incomplete, the spider web ruled.
“Well he’s single, I’m single.” Carrie reasoned.
“You just build from there right?” I caught the towel and glanced down at my nails, they needed to be done. If I did attend this gala, I may as well look good. I had just enough time to get the nails done and my roots touched up. I already had the dress.
A beaded dress is not a garment to be taken lightly. I was determined to wear it as many times as I could to justify the initial investment. I didn’t really care how appropriate it was or not.
I wore the dress to our local Real Estate awards and had the distinction of being the most overdressed person in the room. But the sight of thousands of small jet beads covering a size 18 body was enough to stun most people into silence, so I had a lovely time chatting and marching up to
receive my well-deserved awards. If you have a good, productive year, you are rewarded. New Century hands out these gold colored statues for the top producers. I know, the idea of getting a statue for just doing your job is pretty trite, even silly.
I have five statues. Count ‘em. Five.
So that’s how I came to the Rolling in Clover Gala dressed in my beaded dress and sporting newly filled nails. Carrie wrapped in a little red number that screamed – Diana, the huntress. But only the women knew that, the men, and her quarry, would not notice – the huntress part, they noticed Carrie right away. I wish my breasts would stay up by themselves the way hers did. But that’s the beauty of being just thirty instead of on the way to forty using the commute lane. Maybe I should get the name of Hillary’s doctor.
I wandered around the hotel ballroom. There are two choices in town, the Hilton or the Hyatt. I’m sure to the staff at the Hilton or the Hyatt, the hotels are completely unique and special. But to the average citizen of River’s Bend and parts north, the hotels are remarkably interchangeable. Often people show up at the wrong hotel, sometimes even staying at the wrong party for quite some time before noticing that event is sponsored by the Down Town Rotary Club and not the Rivers Bend Chamber of Commerce. And as a Chamber board member, some people should have recognized that right away. But some people took a bit longer, and drank some very nice complimentary wine before realizing her mistake. Or so I’ve heard.
So there was little of interest to me. I carefully read each list for the silent auction, noting how many names like Beverley Weiss appeared, reviewed the offerings for the live auction and greeted half a dozen people all of whom already knew my profession, had my card and had already referred me to someone else. No new leads. I knew that any time after half an hour in this place would become a waste of time. But I’m an optimist.
I continued to prowl around the ballroom, alone, I may add. Carrie left me at the door – she is one focused woman, I have to admire that.
If I was looking for any more information on Mr. Smith, I would need to attend parties in San Francisco, events so expensive that even I couldn’t afford it, let alone Carrie, not even to support world peace. I idly bent over a silent auction list just to see if anyone was in a bidding war with anyone else.
“Well, I would love to have an unexpected million dropped on me.” A rather pained voice said.
“Who wouldn’t? Do you know who the donor is?”
“Fischer wouldn’t say, the bastard. Says it’s all terribly confidential. That’s not even a real museum – lost art, what does that have to do with anything important?”
“I understand starting it up was like a life- long dream of the curator. Maybe he deserves the gift.” Said the other man.
“Or was it the father? Someone down there was really into collecting.”
“No one deserves money, they earn it.” The first man replied sanctimoniously. “I for instance, need to build another wing on the hospital. And this guy gets it all at once, finishes up the capital campaign and there you go, finished.”
“So you’re just jealous.” The friend, I assume it was a friend. An acquaintance or prospective donor would have walked away well before the conversation turned so bitter.
“Yeah, maybe I am. I owe you a drink.”
The two men drifted off.
“I just wish I worked out of Marin, Stuart is lucky he found a job down there.” Was the final comment.
See? I discovered absolutely nothing, except that the cheap Bruno Magli’s I picked up at Nordstrom hurt my feet. And that tiny beads are very uncomfortable to sit on, and that Carrie makes a shark look like an ADD victim. Within the hour the woman was by the side of the scion of the Cooper Milk family and had wrangled an invitation to sit at the family table.
“There was a last minute cancellation. His sister couldn’t make it, so I’m taking her place!” Carrie shrieked, but in a whisper, I didn’t know a person could do that. Apparently they can.
“Are you okay on your own?” She had the grace to ask.
“Isn’t that why you brought me?” I had the temerity to inquire.
“Oh, yes. Do you want to leave early? I probably can get a ride home with Patrick.”
I looked at her in her short Norma Kamali dress ruched around her perky breasts, legs all the way up to her chin. Chestnut hair. She was the whole package. She deserved to be the whole package.
“I don’t doubt for a minute you can get a ride home with Patrick Sullivan.” I said sincerely.
That left me alone, story of my life, my own fault. Who knew I’d miss all this peace and quiet?
Chapter 3
“So he was the perfect gentleman.” I turned off the almost deserted freeway, 12:50 PM on Sunday is would be a great time to commute to San Francisco, no one else is doing it. The overcast that hung over my home this morning had already broken up down here, the sun was almost at full strength. I would have hung my head outside to feel the warm air but I was on the phone.
“Yes damn it.” Carrie responded.
“But he took you home?” I pulled past the bright New Century/for Sale sign – bless the sign people, and the open gate and paused for a moment to put out my open house sign, even though I had a sign rider that announced “Open on Sunday” on top of the big sign that proclaimed FOR SALE. Sometimes you have to help the public along with extra information. No, I did not attach balloons to my sign; I hate balloons.
“In his Mercedes 550 SL.” She informed me, as if sitting in a pretty car would help make the conversation inside that much more interesting. That is actually an urban myth. Yet she believes.
“Well, that’s a start.” I said cheerfully. I maneuvered back into my car and drove down the drive.
“I have to open the house, I’ll call you back.”
At some point I’ll be able to stay on the phone, talk, and open the lock box simultaneously. But so far technology has not caught up with my needs.
I called her back as I opened the two locks with the keys Hillary gave me and let myself into the house. The door had an odd smell. It was thickly carved with birds and trees or something like trees; maybe this was another genuine Gilberto door, if so, I was not overwhelmed. The varnish smelled terrible. I left the door open hoping the smell would escape out rather than into the house.
“Yes,” she conceded, her tone telling me she clearly was not convinced. “It’s a start and he gave me his business card with his cell number printed on the back, that’s a start right?”
“Absolutely.” I agreed. But I was distracted. I was worried the violent death in the kitchen would drive down the price. Sigh.
“Are you listening to me?” Carrie demanded.
“Oh sure.” I walked out to the patio with its million-dollar view. The city burned white under the sun. The financial district looked like a cluster of points, like pencils stacked into a cup. From the financial district flowed neat blocks of low buildings and homes bisected with lines of streets, all neatly labeled in alphabetical order, all rolling towards the water and disappearing around the curve of the Golden Gate.
The opening to the Bay is called the Golden Gate, the bridge itself is not gold, it is red. As a child I thought it should be golden color to match my expectations. It is not. That realization was the first of many childhood disappointments, like learning that M & Ms really can melt in your hand, if you try hard enough.
To the left of the city skyline, the Bay Bridge and the East Bay simmered in a low mist, not as clearly defined as San Francisco. At night the scene looked like scattered jewels. Things always looked better in the dark.
“Why don’t you marry a bus boy or something easy?” I suggested, thinking that I should take the picture now, now, now. The fog could roll in at any moment. But, as you know, I couldn’t take a picture, because my phone was also my camera, so I’d have to wait until I was off the phone to take the picture. Technology was not making my life less complicated.
“No way, my mother married a bus boy
and look what happened,” she trailed off, and then came back strong. “It won’t happen to me.”
“What happened to you? Did your biological clock go off?” I squinted at the horizon – was that a wisp of fog? From where I stood I couldn’t see the bridge, (that reduces the view price by about $30,000 give or take $500) which was usually first to be covered by that band of fog so prevalent in the summer. Then again, maybe not. I didn’t see anything suspicious.
I haven’t heard many biological alarms recently. Had we all stopped listening? When did I stop listening to mine? Ah yes, if I remember correctly, the last time my biological alarm sounded, I threw the clock across the room and it broke.
“No, yes, I don’t know, it’s just time to stop messing around and start working towards something.”
That something being marriage. At least she had her priorities straight – fall in love rich. I never managed to do that, being a sucker for the workingman. Or the fact that the only opportunity I have to even meet single men is when I hire them to fix something - thus the blue collar working man thing. And clients may be rich, but unable to converse. And I know too much about them. Oh hell.
“You don’t have anything to worry about.” Carrie continued. “You have it all together, a great house, a great career and a great life. I just have my volunteer work and a less than impressive administrative assistant job. I want a family and a life, why not upgrade?”
“Why not, indeed.” I was beginning to feel sorry for the scion of the wealthiest family in River’s Bend.
I murmured encouragement, told her to get call waiting instead of stressing over being on the phone in case he called – and took my fog-free photo. I took a number of pictures; you never know when you need a view of the City skyline for a MLS upload.
New doors, clean kitchen tile. All was well.
I arranged the flyers for the house and my business cards on the long dining table – loaded up the refrigerator (cleaned out by a professional crew, Hillary would have nothing to do with that project – which also meant all those lovely cartons of Cooper ice cream were gone, oh well.) with water bottles and wandered into the living room with my book.
Death Revokes The Offer Page 4
