Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  Open houses are boring and pointless, but sellers are under the impression that on any given Sunday a buyer will magically walk in and want the house so badly on sight that they will write up an offer by 4:00 PM. For the asking price.

  This never happens. N.E.V.E.R. You heard it here first. Neighbors walk into the house, make comments about the price and often regale me with how much better their home is, not to mention more valuable. But real buyers? I rarely meet real buyers at my open houses. But apparently it does happen. On television it happens all the time.

  Usually my system for odious open house duty is to find the most comfortable spot in the house that has the best view of the front door or front walk, and read something uplifting. No mysteries, they look bad sitting on the table, you know with those scary covers and suggestions of death in the title. So I brought along a copy of the newly revised Think and Grow Rich. Because if I think, I’m rich.

  But the book held little charm. I was distracted by the house, the door, the afternoon.

  Maybe it was the ghost of Mr. Smith. Maybe it was Carrie, bent on self-improvement through matrimony. Maybe it was the warm weather.

  I sighed, because I could and no one was around to ask what the matter was, which was good since I didn’t really know. I kicked off my shoes and wandered around the house.

  Nothing had been moved. Here was the problem. For all her snooping around, Hillary failed to take any of the art. So clearly, it was up to me to do a little impromptu staging.

  You’ve probably read about staging and how setting a home with attractive furniture helps speed the sale along by a healthy percentage.

  So it won’t come as surprise to you that walking into an otherwise lovely home and being faced with three more or less authentic devil masks would be considered off-putting. Or more to the point, these makes were guaranteed to send the very Christian screaming from the house. So I started with those three. There was nothing behind them attached to the wall. I almost expected a tiny sign like “got-cha or “Made you look” but no, the walls were blank and pristine white. Heavenly white, now that the masks were gone.

  I laid the masks carefully into one of the deep lower drawers in the kitchen among the pots and pans.

  The canvas in the living room was lively, and the red and purple could grow on you, but it was definitely odd enough to distract prospective buyer, I took that down. The back wall was covered in cobwebs, I groaned and retrieved a dishcloth to swipe at the dirt. Yuck.

  Then last, but not least, was the small menacing figure in the foyer. It looked as if it could animate late at night, like in all those Twilight Zone episodes I wasn’t suppose to watch because it would give me nightmares but did anyway because that’s what my older brothers were watching.

  Perhaps he came alive, stabbed poor Mr. Smith and then turned into a statue. The evil figure that comes to life at night would have to go.

  I picked up the little statue, it was quite heavy, made of ironwood or something like that and hauled it into the guest bath, an odd little room. I had already used it once (the first time I was here - traffic south was clogged and slow and I had to pee so badly I hadn’t even noticed there was no front door and a dead client on the floor, that’s how bad it was. I really have to cut back on my coffee consumption, but I didn’t want to be responsible for a dip in Starbuck stock). So I hadn’t really evaluated the guest bath. The little guy fit neatly into the far corner next to the toilet. Its leer would prevent any visitors from actually performing any duties on the toilet, but that wasn’t my problem. I closed the door on the devil.

  Why didn’t the thieves take that?

  Hillary and her brothers hadn’t responded to the art at all, which I thought was odd. If I reacted to the art, surely the daughter of an art expert would react. But she didn’t even blink. I wondered if Smith willed the collection to someone else rather than his children. If so, the children may have been relieved. Why was Hillary looking under the rug?

  I walked back into the living room and picked up the Asian patterned rug, pricey, the pattern on the back mirrored the pattern on the top – hand knotted. But it wasn’t the rug that interested Hillary. I lifted the carpet edge as high as I could, but all I could see was slightly dusty hardwood flooring.

  Hardwood is very vogue. I already mentioned it in my flyers. But there was nothing else, not even a rough Picasso sketch carefully hidden under the rug. What did she expect?

  According to Hillary the police found no signs of the gun. (The perpetrator took it with him, even I know to do that) The police have no clue, because Smith must have let the murderer in, but how could we know that? The door was gone. Was it gone before or after poor Mortimer was shot? Had he been shot through the open door way?

  I walked back outside to the mailbox and wrestled out three days of mail.

  Circulars, my listing postcard (a good head shot of me), and solicitations from no less than three fine arts museums. Two candidates advertising their immediate availability for public service including Mark Smith for DA – a little early for that, but if he wants to waste his money, that’s fine with me. The PG & E bill (we’d have to pay that, it’s difficult to display a dark house to best advantage), flyers, solicitations from other real estate agents, coupons and a copy of the New Yorker.

  Just before I came here to be bored out of my mind, I exacerbated the experience by having lunch with my mother.

  At the club.

  “I’m so glad you took this listing.” Mother crooned over, yes, salad.

  “You just did this so I’d visit.” I twirled my fettuccini Alfredo, made with real egg and bacon and balefully regarded my manipulative mother. If I had half her skills, I’d have twice as many dates, which at the current rate, would still add up to zero.

  “What else do you know about Mr. Smith?” I quizzed.

  “Well,” she tapped her manicured nails against her lips, were they newly plumped? Did I really want to know? I did not.

  “He had a PhD in something. And when he tried Jazzercise it was quite a disaster, the man had no sense of rhythm at all.”

  “A PhD in undeclared?” Usually a person announces that particular achievement and what their field of expertise is as often as they can fit it into the conversation. “Come on, what did he have a degree in?” The smooth sauce on the pasta was somewhat mitigating my circumstances, there must be a new cook at the club. This was divine.

  “No it wasn’t general ed.” Mom remained calm, swirled up another bite of greens and more greens garnished with funny lacy greens and popped it into her preposterously plump lips. I’d have to ask a sister-in-law. Since my brothers did indeed marry their mother, my sisters-in-law and my mother were very close. And they would know about random acts of surgery.

  “It was something to do with images and art and public influence. Hmmm come to think of it, he was quite emphatic on the subject, even in retirement. He often became really agitated about the dangers of the wrong art, I think he called it.”

  “The dangers of the wrong art?”

  She nodded. “According to Mortimer.”

  Since my mother has a degree in Kinesiology, or as I call it, PE, her grasp of the complexities of representational art was limited at best. Then again, my degree isn’t much better; I think I have a BA in something, men? No, that can’t be it; they didn’t even count as an extra curricular activity at the Kappa house. I have my degree in business. Yes, business. How boring is that? Well, there you go.

  But at least I knew what I didn’t know about art. Which is substantial.

  I did know, as I wandered around the house only an hour after lunch, that scary art is bad for business and frankly I don’t think I’d want to live with it either.

  The downstairs art was disturbing; upstairs was not much better. Four-foot long canvases covered in wild streaks of color overpowered the two guest rooms and den. The painting in the den showed suffering people falling into hell (any of my friends? I look closely at the distorted faces, but didn’
t recognize anyone), and a really offensive three panel work featuring an angry Jesus and a mournful mother Mary. But she always looks like she’s suffering. How could Mortimer work with Jesus balefully staring at the back of his head? How could anyone? Maybe this was one of his techniques to keep the children from spending the night.

  Since I lean towards Thomas Kinkade, I am certainly not qualified to judge the merits of the works that currently dominated the house. I know what kind of art works as a natural compliment to the living room sofa - landscapes and bowls of fruit are my first choice. Would Hillary want to sell the art? I’d e-mail and ask.

  I carefully closed the door on one of the guest baths that held a screaming man filled with arrows painted in thick Technicolor red. What was that saying? I shook my head, even the most sophisticated art patron, or at least the people who have enough money to purchase art, lean towards lovely cityscapes and sentimental depictions of fruit. Realistically, this stuff may not be that marketable. But there must be someone else besides me who can inform Hillary.

  I couldn’t stash all the art in the wine cellar, but I seriously considered it. The paintings were a little too big for me to take down the curved stairs by myself, so I’d need help. And help I would have, there will be no paintings upstairs at the next open house.

  I was already committing to the idea that there would be another open house.

  I am often my own worse enemy.

  I walked back downstairs, and no, there was no crowd of potential buyers panting to see the house and make an offer. There was no one at all. People are even too busy to be nosey.

  One of the solicitations in the mail pile was for a museum called “The Lost Works. A new experience in art.” I pulled it out and tossed it in my bag. Was it the same museum I heard mentioned last night? Maybe they would know something about this art? Did they perhaps specialize in losing art? Now that’s a service I’d pay money to hire. I’d call tomorrow.

  As odd as it sounded, was the million dollars Mr. Smith pulled out of his equity, here on the walls?

  I suppose it wasn’t really my problem.

  I glanced at my watch. Only 1:45 PM. The afternoon drags so long when I’m alone in a strange house. There’s nothing to do really, I can’t work on the house, and it’s not mine. I can’t nap, someone may come in, and as much as I don’t believe someone will come in, just the possibility is enough to keep me from relaxing. I can’t do errands, hike, or fall into a book and stay there. Nothing. It’s annoying. I often call my grandmother because she understands if I have to break off conversation in favor of a visitor, but I wasn’t in the mood.

  I glanced outside and listened for approaching cars. No sound. I could use the facilities, which wastes a good three minutes out of my three hours of forced inactivity.

  I sat down next to our scary figure. He leered at me, and I decided to take it as a compliment.

  “You too,” I said.

  He was situated at the lowest slope of the small room, right where the stairs forced the wall down to only three feet before curving towards the front door. The highest point of the powder room was six feet. The toilet was plumbed in the highest corner of the room. I glanced up at that wall (no reading material in the bath) strangely, there was no picture hanging in here. The wall was blank and painted white (a relief). But up on the top I could see the dry wall was starting to sag. In fact, it was really sagging.

  I finished, closed the toilet lid and stepped up. Now I was too tall and my head bent awkwardly to the right. But I was correct. The top of the dry wall was pulling away from the studs and there was a healthy 3-inch gap.

  That would never do. It was one thing to have this odd room, completely undecorated and unpainted, but sagging drywall is a very bad sign.

  I’d have to point that out to prospective buyers or maybe get some one in here to pull it down and re-patch it. Or replace it entirely. Damn.

  I stepped down and walked into the kitchen. I had people in Sonoma County who were, well, my people, but I needed someone down here who knew the local vendors etc. etc. And could get to the property in a timely manner. I retrieved the phone book from a lower drawer and flipped it open on the counter. I ran through the yellow pages and an ad for Ben Stone, Rock Solid Service caught my eye. M y last direct mail campaign featured my slogan: A Little Will Get You More. This Ben Stone and I must be kindred souls.

  I called this Ben Stone and left a message. It was Sunday after all.

  I wandered back to the bathroom, drawn to it like a roadside accident. Could I pull the sheetrock down myself? Did Hillary keep up the homeowner’s insurance? I stepped out from the bathroom and listened for noise on the driveway. Nothing. It was a silent as Sunday afternoons get. No, I could not just rip the sheet rock off the wall with my bare hands. I thought about it though. For about five minutes. Then I gave up and wandered back out to the patio to breathe in the warm air and take in my million-dollar view. I do not have a terrible job.

  My phone interrupted my moment of Zen. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hi, this is Ben Stone, you called?”

  He had a nice enough voice, considering I was talking with him over the cell in a less than optimal phone space – only three bars.

  “Hi, yes, wow, you called back. My name is Allison Little with New Century Realty and I have a sheet wall challenge, is that something you do?”

  “Do you want sheet wall installed?”

  “No, removed first, then I’ll know more. Can you meet me on Monday?” I asked, hoping that if I have something to do on Monday I can miss the Monday meeting at the office. I will do almost anything to miss the Monday morning meeting at the office, it’s an hour long – five minutes of useful information, and 55 minutes of people like Rosemary and Katherine complaining about the market. It’s not an uplifting way to begin the working week.

  “I can come this afternoon,” he offered.

  On a Sunday? So he was insane. Fabulous.

  “I would love to have you come this afternoon, can you get here by three o’clock?” I cooed. I court contractors. They like to be stroked and told they are manly men and often they really are.

  “Sure can.” A manly response; a solid name. I imagined that this Ben Stone looked like most of my contractors; solid girth with a soft stomach from all the after-work beer. He’ll be about fifty years old and wears a baseball hat at all times because he’s going bald. At least this contractor sounds more like a Giants fan than Raiders.

  Since it was only 2:05 PM I had plenty of time to worry about my decision. What if he pulls down the sheet rock while someone is looking at the house? What if some one comes and considers making an offer afternoon and the bathroom queers the deal? What if he, this contractor, attacks me? With that missing gun? What if I just sat down and took a breath?

  Honestly, it’s just sheet rock.

  Yeah, but when it comes to a house that I’ve already committed to sell – it’s never just sheet rock.

  With visions of dry rot dancing in my head, I waited anxiously for this Ben Stone to deliver me simultaneously from my anxiety and my boredom. He had to meet very high expectations.

  Twice I thought I heard the appropriate sound of a truck that would belong to a construction guy and not a neighbor, but twice the sound disappeared around the corner, only pausing at the for sale sign for a moment. Just looking. I hope they at least grabbed a flyer.

  Promptly (and finally) at three o’clock a truck finally pulled into the drive and Ben Stone walked into the house.

  “Hi,” he greeted me with an outstretched hand. “I’m Ben Stone.”

  Ben Stone stopped me cold.

  Here’s why.

  Ben Stone was taller than me by a good five inches and sported those broad shoulders women always say they swoon over. Ben Stone had deep blue eyes and a thick swatch of sandy brown hair so I couldn’t tell if he was going grey or not. He was imposing, self possessed, and not fifty at all. Maybe forty, maybe.

  I stood rooted to the
floor, difficult to do since its marble. Fortunately muscle memory took over and I quickly grasped his offered hand.

  “Allison Little.” I responded faintly. Good, remembered my name.

  This was Radcliff Emerson. This was Ranger, this was Dietz. This was the man of my dreams and not just because he had the equipment to tear down walls. He towered over me both because he was fabulously tall, and because I had taken off my shoes and hadn’t bothered to shove my feet back into them, not for a contractor.

  I was sorry about that omission.

  Oh, but this was a lovely man. However, I’m not at 19th Century archeologist and he was not looking for buried treasure. He was looking to fix the dry wall.

  ”Nice watch.” He was the first to break the silence that had apparently fallen around us.

  “Oh this?” I was about to launch into the usual polite denial of this old thing? A person doesn’t spend $24,000 on a watch to say, “oh this old thing?” Because the truth is, I bought the damn watch because it was fancy and impressive. But I didn’t want a Rolex, that’s too nouveau, I have just enough clients who know and appreciate the difference, and the commission on their house pays for things like this damn watch. Almost. Okay, I’m still paying for this particular watch. It was the same year my water heater exploded.

  “Thank you,”

  He waited expectantly as if the watch was terribly important and I had something interesting to say about the watch. The silence was actually disconcerting. It took me a few seconds to realize he wasn’t focused on the watch at all.

  “It’s a Timex.” I blurted out.

  “No, it’s not.”

  He leaned over and lightly held my wrist and flipped it over so he could look at the face – of the watch, not my face, that part of me was starting to blush making me very happy he was focused on the watch.

  “I see these for sale on the streets of New York. What’d you pay, Ten dollars? Twenty?”