Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “No, more like Scooby-Doo, and it’s Mr. Givens the kindly grounds keeper who dresses like a ghost at night to keep people away from the buried treasure.”

  “And I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you kids,” we said in unison.

  “So you think it’s been the Executive Director all this time? But how would he get the mural if Smith was dead? Why kill him at all?”

  “I don’t know, that was all my brilliance today.” I admitted.

  “You’re doing pretty well.” He paused. “Are you up for a drink?”

  “Sure.” I reluctantly set down the pint of Ben & Jerry’s I had been clutching in my left hand. I didn’t really want to abandon it yet; there was still some ice cream left at the bottom. Ben, Ben & Jerry’s, the debate raged in my head for about a second. Ben.

  We arranged to meet at a bar in downtown River’s Bend.

  Even though I wasn’t really up for anything more because an afternoon spent being repeatedly slammed down on a cement floor leaves a surprising number of sore muscles, I could take one for the team.

  I dressed to kill, taking a page from the Carrie Eliot book of seduction. I too, owned a red dress, a Diane von Furstenberg knock off, a clingy wrap dress. The jersey fabric fitted perfectly around my breasts and followed the plunge my bra created. When I’m in the mood, I can create cleavage that is roughly the size and depth of the Grand Canyon. Not. Professional. At. All. I slipped on matching red pumps.

  Ben actually was silent for a full minute when I appeared at the Steamer Lounge. The Steamer is a bar that use to be a barn and before that, it was a bar. It was still decorated with brass railings and limp ferns placed there in 1975 and never moved. Oh, and it was dark. That’s an important feature for a bar, dark. It was listed for sale once a few years ago. No takers.

  “You look, amazing,” he swallowed visibly.

  “Thank you.” A reaction that wasn’t one of derision or condensation or God help me, professional, was worth the make-up, the hair and the drive down town. Sometimes I get so tired of professional. Sometime I wish we could all have sex with anyone we wanted.

  And there were some people I wanted.

  We found a booth. I ordered a cosmopolitan, he ordered Mazzocco Zinfandel.

  “Ben, like Gentle Ben.”

  “You are not supposed to remember that movie,” he growled.

  I grinned. “Then you need to date very, very young women.”

  “I don’t like very, very young women.”

  “You have no idea how much that pleases me.”

  Oh sure, he has nothing. He rents his house with a grandmother that I couldn’t track down. I couldn’t find Ben Stone on any of our lists, MLS, tax records, nothing. He managed to slide off the grid, which is difficult to do. He does not have a Facebook page. He has a credit card, that’s it. Not that I’m giving up. He’s a mystery man with a past, at the very least, an ex-wife. But for now, I was prepared to take him, as it were, at face value.

  “Imagine,” Ben mused. “Here was this huge mural, featuring the wrong man as the central character, appearing at exactly the wrong time in history and so, for the greater good, the work is slated to be destroyed.” He shuddered at the thought. I took another sip of my drink. Vodka is very good for bruises and pain.

  “But our friend, Mr. Smith, decides that the painting shouldn’t be destroyed, because it’s art after all, but at the same time, it can’t be displayed, so he hides the Guerra, forever.”

  “Why hide it in California?”

  “If it was right before World War Two, California wasn’t on the radar. It probably was as obscure a place he could imagine. Pearl Harbor hadn’t been bombed, no one was looking west, so it was reasonable to believe that no one would think of looking for stolen art here.”

  “No one on the East coast ever pays attention to California.”

  He squinted at his wine. “They still drink French wine.”

  “I know.”

  “So our theory is that in 1942 or so, the war is on the verge of breaking out, the faces in this painting are politically controversial, and political controversy is destroyed, or at least not allowed in the building in the first place. Smith can’t bring himself to destroy the art, but he can try to hide it forever.”

  “So even at 18, Smith was an idealist and a radical.” Ben finished his wine and gestured to the waiter.

  “Mom just said he was a lovely man,” I mused.

  “Then why was he shot? Lovely people don’t get shot.” Ben pointed out. He ordered another round of drinks. I did not protest.

  “I always hoped just the bad people got shot.” The dudes didn’t strike me as necessarily bad, but they had in fact, struck me.

  “Accident? Revenge? Just because it’s a dish best served cold?”

  “Could be, or finally the opportunity.”

  “Let’s go ask him.” I suggested impulsively.

  It’s that simple, just ask. Sometimes Inez asks me to speak to new agents and invariably the question comes up – how do you close the sale? What is the magic? How do you do it? And of course the answer is. Just ask. So do you want to sell your house? So do you want to make the sale? Ask, ask, ask, close the sale, sell the house. That is the Allison Little technique

  Ben did not think it was that simple.

  “What are you crazy? I am not Shaggy and your are not,” his eyes traveled up and down my cleavage, “Thema,” he finished weakly. “We can’t just barge in and say ‘Hi, did you happen to kill Mr. Mortimer Smith?’ Besides, if Mortimer was killed, wouldn’t the Fischer or whomever, steal the painting?”

  “He couldn’t find the painting, remember? Maybe he was so aggravated that Mortimer Smith wouldn’t donate the painting, even after all these years, and that he couldn’t even find the painting that he just shot Smith in frustration.”

  But even that didn’t make sense and I always make sense.

  “You don’t shoot a donor.” Ben said.

  “You do if you need the CRT to kick in.” I pointed out. The waiter replaced my empty glass with a full one, how lovely.

  “True, but usually no matter how dire the situation, or how badly you need the promised money, it doesn’t often come down to shooting the donor, word would get out.”

  “But he did get the money. Smith left a million to the Lost Art museum, Fischer did get it.”

  “He donated before he was killed,” Ben pointed out. There was no reason to do him in.”

  “Okay, then what is your fabulous theory?” I retorted.

  “Don’t have one, so I think we should visit the museum.”

  “Is this a date?”

  ”Sure,” he shrugged, “what the hell.”

  There was a strange resistance between us. Like he was wearing a negatively charged magnetic bracelet and I too was wearing a negatively charged bracelet, yes you can thank Rosemary for that metaphor. He touched my hand as we left the bar, but that was all.

  It occurred to me as I drove home that I hadn’t talked to Hillary – the client - in a couple days. And with the change in status of one of the owners, I needed to know if they still wanted to sell. Clients are skitterish, all of them. One little change in a person’s life and they “can’t handle anything more” and pull out of a sale, or a purchase contract, or the listing agreement. Apparently the average person can only cope with one project at a time. I think that’s why the whole nation shuts down for Christmas, as if it takes the entire month of December to prepare of a single day.

  I wondered if Hillary was one of those single project people, or if she could multi-task. Actually, she had one of the better excuses I’ve come across to pull out of a sale. Her father was dead and her brother had just dropped out of an election, and he may be indicted for stolen good, drugs and murder. I connected to her voice mail.

  “Hillary, I’m just calling to touch base, how are you doing?” That was an understatement. But on voice mail, understatement works best.

  Chapter 10


  Monday morning was the classic, can’t get out of bed blues Monday. My body ached, my head ached. Hell, my teeth ached. My stupid toenails ached. I had repeated nightmares involving dumpsters and pretty kitties. I was a mess, my hair wouldn’t cooperate, so I called in sick at 7:30 AM to avoid talking to any human at all. I left Patricia a message, she could break the news to Inez, it was a chicken thing to do, but I was feeling entitled.

  Satisfied with my plan. I hunkered down, finished the my ice cream for breakfast and watched Ed Edd and Eddy. I was set for serious recovery until Hillary returned my call.

  “Hillary,” I tried to sound like I was at my desk, not crouched down on the couch in my fluffy robe and slippers. Oh and up beat. If you greet clients with the right tone – that everything is fine – you can head off the problems they’ve grown in their heads over night by sounding like there are no problems in the light of day.

  “This is just the last straw,” she started out. “I just can’t believe Mark would do such things, for what?”

  “Winning the election?” I offered.

  “Well, then it didn’t help, did it? He pulled out of the race, you know. All that early advertising, lost. It’s a good thing Dad is dead.”

  “Have they discovered. . . ” I trailed off letting her fill in the blanks.

  “The police have no leads and Mark insists that it was his accomplices who killed dad.”

  “But we’ll never know that for sure,” I confirmed.

  “In cold blood. Isn’t that a title of a book? My God, I can’t believe he’d kill someone. He claims it was an accident but I don’t think I believe anything the bastard says. I cannot believe it! I thought I knew him and now this. The children are just devastated, I can’t imagine.”

  I remembered the sound, and his cold assessment afterward. I said nothing.

  “Never mind, never mind,” she composed herself. “We’ll get through this. I’m in charge now. And I say we just sell the damn house and put this all behind us. Stephen agrees. What’s the hold up?”

  “The bathroom,” I said automatically.

  “Well, fix it.”

  “Would you be willing to drop the price?”

  “What ever it takes, it doesn’t matter. Mark gets nothing. I’m through with him. Poor Karen.” Hilary pointed Karen out to me at the funeral but we had not been introduced. I remember Karen had the look of the supportive wife, neatly dressed, always standing in the background as her husband took one oath or another for public office. Now she was the long-suffering wife. She could play the wronged wife on TV if she wanted. But that was her business.

  “I’ll make the changes,” I assured Hillary.

  “Good, I’ll meet you the house tomorrow and sign whatever you need.”

  “What about the art?”

  “Give it to that museum, the first one, just get it all out. You can do that tomorrow as well. God, I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

  Great, I was back pimping art.

  I popped three Aleve, changed into a skirt and light sweater and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. The trick, when someone was purportedly sick or injured, but has to drag her sorry ass into the office anyway, was to look the part. I even skipped mascara, an omission that with my coloring usually helps me look less the picture of health and more at death’s door, which is where I’d been recently knocking.

  I still had the listing, I had carte blanche, which is what I usually insist upon anyway. Why wasn’t I ecstatic? Why wasn’t I jumping up and down for joy?

  Mainly because I never jump.

  I walked into the office clutching the Ocean View files. I nodded to Patricia who made a moue of sympathy in my direction.

  No one was on floor, or at least Patricia was alone at the front desk. I walked to my own office intending to just log on and change the price of the house, and the listing information.

  My phone rang as soon as I entered. It was just a query and my subsequent promise to meet with the potential clients next week.

  I set the phone down and turned to the computer. The phone rang again. At the second ring, three more lines lit up. Wow, busy day. I answered, another prospect who had just heard about me, could I come by this afternoon?

  Patricia materialized at my door and pointed to the blinking phone lines. She held up three fingers. All for me? All waiting to hear from me?

  I noted the prospect’s information and turned to the next blinking light.

  After the fifth call, I had a moment to take a breath. Patricia materialized again and handed me the Rivers Bend Press. A rather unflattering photograph of Mark Smith enhanced the headlines, DA Drug Bust. My name made it on the front page, Ben was not mentioned at all. That explained it.

  The phone lines lit up again. The average person loves a famous person even if they don’t know why. I sighed and dropped the paper on my desk and reached for the phone. For the first time in years I hoped it was a wrong number, or for Rosemary, or even Katherine. It was for me.

  It took three hours to finish up fifteen minutes of real work. I knew that come next week, that only a few of the insistent potential clients would be really serious those are just the numbers. But again, I had potential clients. I shifted in my chair, my back hurt, my skinned thighs hurt. There must be an easier way to get mentioned in the paper. Oh, buy ads.

  I made a note to remember the camera tomorrow for new pictures of Ocean View (without the art) and an another note to track down Mark so he could sign off on the final papers when it came to that. (Little known fact, his is a valid signature, even from prison) I’ve never visited the Marin County jail. Was it decorated nicely?

  I plopped down the files on the front desk and leaned on the counter to talk to Patricia when Katherine loomed up into my field of vision.

  I didn’t think I was quite ready for Katherine, but here she was.

  “Feel deep appreciation for all your experiences,” Katherine intoned. “Feel gratitude and appreciation for everything in the universe.”

  “Where’s Maria, isn’t she suppose to be on floor this afternoon?” I asked back instead.

  “She didn’t appreciate what she had,” Katherine said sadly.

  “That’s nice, but where is she?”

  I liked Katherine better when she was too was obsessed with magnetization. She claimed that Rosemary was just copying her because Katherine had a better year than Rosemary and Rosemary was desperate. I didn’t think that was the reason at all. I think both women are a little unbalanced, but I would never say that out loud, their response to such a suggestion would be dire. I may find myself enrolled in a yoga class or something healthy like that. .

  “But the experience is what makes the life,” Katherine intoned like the New Age guru she likes to pretend she is.

  “I’d like to experience someone on floor to answer the calls,” Patricia shot back.

  I gathered up the files, ready to retreat. I’d bring them back to Patricia when there was more time and fewer people hanging around the front lobby.

  “Me too,” Rosemary echoed emerging from here office. “Cracker?” Rosemary thrust out a flat object covered in black spots. “They’re flax seed, very good for your digestive system, working wonders on my cat’s allergies.” She took a bite and regarded me for a moment. “Maria quit today, she’s taking a job at State Farm Insurance.”

  “What a shame she couldn’t reach her potential,” Katherine intoned.

  I regarded the wafer of cardboard Rosemary offered. “No thanks. I’m due for a Carl’s Junior burger - it’s on my rotation diet.”

  “Your rotation diet?”

  “I only eat things that have rounded corners, like meat balls, burgers, cookies and pancakes.”

  Rosemary rolled her eyes and escaped with her flax seed, trailing her flowing sari scarf behind her. Katherine grinned and escaped to her office, located at the opposite end of the building.

  I’d like to go to Thailand.

  We are selling, we are painting. We are cal
ling back Ben Stone — Rock Solid Service to expedite both projects.

  “Hi,” I started, as if he didn’t know whom it was. Caller ID has eliminated the best part of a phone call – the mystery. Who is calling at this hour? And who is it? What will they say? Now there is no warm up or twenty questions. I remember when I had to chat with a caller for up to five minutes before I could figure out who it was. It was a game. Now we play real games on our phone and already know who is calling. I admit, sometimes it helps to form the answer to what you know will be the question before picking up. But still, takes the sport out of phoning.

  “You still think it was the curator in the bedroom with the walking stick?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t know what I think. Perhaps a new career.”

  “No, you seem pretty good at what you do.”

  “Thank you. I do need the bathroom painted.”

  “What color?”

  “I don’t know, pick something. And we’re suppose to take down the remaining art to the Lost Art museum and donate it in Hillary’s name.”

  “For the tax write off.”

  “You know something? Hillary was so distraught that she didn’t even mention the tax write off.”

  He paused for a moment, contemplating that idea.

  “Are you still angry about my comment about Carrie being a gold digger?”

  When was that? A lifetime ago. “No, but she’s my friend and those are hard to come by.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. Can you help me take the paintings down to the city?”

  “Only if you let me take you to dinner afterwards.”

  “Okay.”

  I checked my phone; one showing of the Ocean View property that created a single ray of hope. An agent had a client who was interested as long as the bathroom was painted and that odd art wasn’t included in the sale.

  Oh, we can do that.

  Ben and I met at the house early Tuesday morning. We cautiously circled each other as we each took to our tasks. He disappeared to paint and I lifted and staggered with the large canvases and frames and slowly, and carefully loaded them the back of Ben’s truck. The pieces upstairs were a bit too heavy and awkward to handle, I should have gotten help, but I wanted the bath painted, and I was dressed for heavy work – shorts, sandals and an old tee shirt from Race for the Cure. Not the rock group, I’m not that old.