by Gina Cresse
Suddenly, he wasn’t sleepy anymore. He walked around the house three times, wondering what to do. In the morning, he would call the lottery officials to find out how to claim the prize money. A sudden fear overtook him. He stared at the newspaper. Home invasion robberies in his neighborhood occurred every night for the past four nights. The homeowners were tied up and gagged while the robbers cleaned them out. Lou removed the lottery ticket from his wallet. He just knew that with his luck, tonight would be the night his house was hit, and they’d steal the ticket. He nervously paced the house, searching for the perfect hiding place until he could get it safely to the claims office to collect his winnings. He finally decided on a place he was sure no one would ever look. After he finished hiding it, he paced the house another half-dozen times.
“How am I ever gonna get to sleep?” he asked himself. He wandered around the house, performing his routine chores in order to save time in the morning and, hopefully, to tire himself out so he could fall asleep. He poured himself a glass of milk, remembering something he’d read about how calcium could help relieve insomnia.
He grimaced at the price tag stuck to the lid of a bottle of calcium supplements. Then he laughed. He couldn’t believe he was getting all worked up about a few dollars when he was now worth over fifty million.
He danced around the kitchen and sang the name of every model car he intended to buy. Then he began naming cities where he’d like to have houses—one for every season. Then he remembered a yacht he’d seen in a magazine that he would love to have. He and Joey could go deep-sea fishing. He danced and laughed so hard the muscles in his stomach hurt and tears rolled down his face. He caught his reflection in the toaster on the counter and laughed at how red the distorted image of his face was. He looked like a clown. He doubled over in the middle of his kitchen, wiping the tears from his eyes. He could barely catch his breath. Then, he felt a tremendous pressure around his upper torso. He felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. He collapsed on the floor, clutching his shirt collar. His last conscious thought was that he really was the unluckiest man in the world. He’d just won fifty-eight million dollars, and he was going to die of a heart attack before he could claim it. It was just like his Death Valley dream, only it wasn’t a dream at all. It was very real and he was going to be very dead.
Chapter One
I had an appointment to meet Fiona Oliviera at her real estate office early on Tuesday morning. Fiona was about ten minutes late, so I waited in my car, listening to the radio until she arrived. A classic rock radio station played a little louder than someone my age should probably listen, but I didn’t care. I unconsciously tapped my foot to the beat. The music took me back to the seventies, when I was a skinny teenager with nothing but horses on my mind.
My name is Devonie Lace-Matthews. I live in Del Mar, California, with my husband, Dr. Craig Matthews. I’d made a decision a few years ago that I didn’t have the right temperament to have a boss or a customer, not because of any specific aversion to them, but because I will nearly kill myself to perform to their expectations—or my perception of their expectations. A minor heart attack and a stern order from my doctor to do something about the stress in my life prompted me to make a major life change. In order to maintain my health and sanity, I dropped out of the rat race and opted for a simpler life. I quit my job as a database administrator for a major telecommunications company, sold my house and lived on a sailboat for a while. Since I married Craig, I no longer live on the boat, but it is docked at our home and we enjoy it as often as we can. To earn a living, I search out bargains at auctions and probate sales and do my best to turn a profit.
I’d nearly lost track of time, singing along with an old favorite, when an older Lincoln Continental came barreling down the boulevard and swerved into the parking lot, nearly hitting me broadside. As it screeched to a halt, I wondered if I should just start my engine and go home.
The woman driving the car shoved the heavy door open, banging it against the wall of the building she had parked next to. She spent two minutes gathering armloads of folders and binders and her purse before she piled out of her car. I opened my door and stepped out.
“Are you Devonie?” she asked, flustered and out of breath.
I smiled. “Yes. And you’re Fiona?”
“That’s me. Fiona Oliviera. Come on inside,” she said, dropping one of the binders on the ground, scattering the papers in all directions.
I began stepping on the sheets to keep them from flying away, then picked them up as quickly as I could.
“Thanks, toots,” she said as I handed her the crumpled stack of papers. She smiled, exposing a gap between her front teeth that a Popsicle stick could fit through. Somehow, she managed to squeeze her size ten body into size eight Capri pants. It was a feat many women attempted, but not many achieved. She wore a low-cut tank top under a faded cotton work shirt that she tied snugly at her waist. I don’t know why I thought I’d be meeting a professional woman in a conservative business suit when I made the appointment with her over the phone. She definitely was not what I expected.
She unlocked the door and I followed her into the Fiona Oliviera Realty office. She dropped her armload onto a desk and motioned for me to take a seat. After plopping down in a chair opposite me, she began spreading papers out in front of her. I couldn’t take my eyes off her hair. It was ash-brown and looked as though it had been curled with soda-pop cans, but not brushed out completely. Something else was wrong with it. Then I realized it was a wig, and it was slipping off to one side. She noticed my stare.
“What? Is it this crazy wig again?” she said, using both hands to smash it down on her head, wiggling it back and forth until it seemed to be centered more or less on her skull. In that process, I noticed she was missing six of her false fingernails. The four remaining were painted bright pink except where they were chipped at the tips. I smiled, not sure what to say.
“How’s that?” she asked, waiting for my approval.
“Better,” I answered. “But, maybe just a little more to the left.”
She adjusted it one more time before rifling through the mass of papers on her desk. Then she took a pencil and slipped it under the wig, scratching her scalp. “I hate this darn thing. Itches like crazy,” she complained, rubbing the pencil up and down, pushing the wig out of place, again. “But I can’t grow a decent head of hair since I turned sixty. Without it, I look like a radiation fallout victim.”
I frowned. She seemed to be fighting the aging process with the determination of a Hollywood star desperate to remain young.
“But you couldn’t give a hoot about that. You’re here to see the bank repo,” she continued. She put her pencil down and rearranged the stack of papers on her desk.
Her phone rang and she stopped to answer it. “Fiona Oliviera Realty. Fiona speaking.
“You’re kidding.
“No. The people withdrew their offer last week. They got tired of waiting.
“Great. Fax it over. Thanks, Chuck”
Fiona hung up the phone, leaned over on her desk and grinned as though she was about to reveal the secret whereabouts of Elvis Presley. “Toots, this is your lucky day.”
“Really?”
“Yes. That was Chuck… oh, what’s his last name?” Fiona snapped her fingers repeatedly as if the action would cause the man’s last name to magically pop into her head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s the executor to an estate I’ve had listed for, let me see, must be almost six months now. Thought I had it sold, but the people got tired of waiting and found something else. It’s a great deal. Better than the repo.”
Fiona continued rummaging through the stack of papers on her desk, pulling one out to the top. “Here it is,” she said, placing a black-and-white photocopy of an old house in front of me. “It’s got potential, but it needs some TLC. That’s tender loving care in real estate talk.”
I nodded with understanding as I inspected the picture. The house was cute. It had a lot of curb ap
peal from what I could see from the photo.
“What it really means is the place is a wreck and after you’ve finished fixing everything that’s wrong with it, you’ll swear on a stack of home repair books that you’ll never do it again.”
I chuckled at her directness. “Is it that bad?” I asked.
“Let’s just say it’s more than new paint and carpet. If you’re handy at all, you can flip it and make a nice little profit.”
I squinted at the photocopy in my hands. “Can you show it to me? I’d like to see what’s involved.”
Fiona smiled, revealing a thousand wrinkles on her over-tanned face. “Good. I had a feeling you weren’t one of those gals afraid to break a nail or two. Let me get the key.”
I rode with Fiona in her huge boat of a car. The springs on the old Lincoln felt like they hadn’t been replaced since it was new, at least thirty years ago. She took the corners like a policeman in hot pursuit of a bank robber. I gripped the door handle and tried to remember that the car was built like a tank and could probably survive anything short of being broad sided by a semi-truck. “Come on, baby,” she coaxed as she pressed her foot into the accelerator to climb a steep hill. We nearly ripped the door off of a car as some poor unsuspecting man pushed it open into Fiona’s lane. I cringed as she swerved to miss it at the last second, honking her horn as she blew by him.
“Another graduate from the moron school of driving. I didn’t know you could get a driver’s license from a box of Crackerjacks,” she complained, leering at the man in her rear-view mirror. I shrunk down in my seat and peered into the side-view mirror, just in time to see the alarmed man shake his fist at us.
As we crested the hill, she pointed to a house on the right. “See that house? I just sold it last month. Cute little place, but the people who bought it—crazy as loons. Two bedrooms, one bath, and four kids—all girls. Can you imagine? Where are they all gonna sleep? Six people and one bathroom? The poor father will never see that room.”
I shook my head, but before I could say anything, she was pointing to another house on the other side of the street. “Sold that one, too. And over there? That’s my listing,” she said as the Lincoln drifted into the oncoming traffic lane. The car coming the other way blared its horn at her, causing her to swerve back to her own side of the road. She made the maneuver as though it were a common occurrence.
When we finally pulled to a stop in front of the little old estate-sale house, I peeled my fingers from around the door handle and rubbed them to try to get some blood flow back.
“This is it,” she announced, pushing her door open to bang against a tree she’d parked too close to.
I eyed the house. “It doesn’t look bad,” I said, noticing that it appeared to be well maintained, except for the overgrown yard.
“The outside is fine. It’s the inside that’s the problem,” Fiona explained.
I followed Fiona through the yard gate and up the path. The house was old, probably built in the fifties, but it fit right in with the other mature homes in the neighborhood. It was painted Nantucket blue and white. Neat little shutters added charm to the front of the house, which would have been too boxy and plain otherwise. The gingerbread trim reminded me of visits to my grandma’s house when I was a little girl. I half expected Grandma to greet us at the door in her apron. At one time, there were flowers and shrubs in the flowerbeds, but they had died of neglect. A bougainvillea, displaying massive clumps of bright pinkish-red petals, flowed over the fence from the neighbor’s yard. I could smell jasmine in the air. This would be a nice place for anyone to call home.
Fiona opened the front door, and I blinked a couple times to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. The scene was such a sharp contrast to the outside that I couldn’t believe it. Holes in the walls. Cupboard doors ripped off. Carpet torn up. Vent covers mangled and bent. It looked like someone had turned a herd of angry bulls loose inside the small house and then waved a red flag.
“What happened?” I muttered, gazing around the ruins.
“Vandals broke in. Darn shame. From the looks of the outside, it was probably a cute little place,” Fiona explained.
“Vandals? Is this a bad neighborhood?” I asked. I knew that no matter how good the house was, if the area was bad, then I shouldn’t waste my time or money.
“Not really. Oh, there was a rash of break-ins a few months back, but those turned out to be a couple of under-disciplined kids. Police caught them and scared some sense into them. Haven’t had any trouble since.”
I wandered through the kitchen, calculating in my head what repairs needed to be made—new appliances, new cabinet doors, patch and paint the walls. As I continued through the house, I couldn’t figure what the vandals had in mind. It seemed almost as though they were looking for something, but I couldn’t understand why they’d punch holes in the walls. Fiona followed me through the house, pointing out every positive feature she could.
“Now, close your eyes,” she said, taking me by the hand to lead me out to the backyard. “This is the best part.”
I obeyed her order and let her guide me through a doorway and out to a yard of overgrown grass and weeds. She put her hands on my shoulders and turned me until I was in just the right position. “Okay. Open your eyes,” she commanded.
I opened my eyes to a huge patch of bamboo that covered the entire back fence. It was at least eight feet tall. “Bamboo?” I questioned.
“Not the bamboo. It’s what’s on the other side of the bamboo,” she said, parting a clump of the overgrown greenery to give me a glimpse of the view.
I strained to see through the small opening she was able to provide. “Is that the ocean?”
“You know what that view is worth? Fix this place up, cut down these chop-sticks, and you’ve got yourself a goldmine.”
I pushed my way through the thick growth to the back fence and brushed the tangle of leaves out of my face. “Wow. It’s beautiful.”
Fiona headed back toward the house. “Put some French doors here, a bay window over there, and voila, instant ‘sells itself’ charmer.”
I followed Fiona back inside. This house seemed too good to be true. The asking price allowed more than enough for the repairs needed to make it marketable, plus a very nice profit. “What’s the story on this place? Why hasn’t some investor snatched it up?” I asked.
Fiona grinned at me. Wait till you hear this story. You’ll think it came right out of a bad soap opera.”
“Really?” I said, waiting with anticipation for her to continue.
“You hungry? I’d kill for a breakfast burrito.”
“I had breakfast, but if you—“
“Great. Come on. I know a great little place. My treat,” she said, herding me through the house to the front door. I waited on the porch while she locked the door. “I’ll tell you all about this place over breakfast.”
I watched Fiona smother her scrambled-egg burrito with hot salsa while I sipped my grapefruit juice. She glanced around the restaurant coyly, then reached down and unbuttoned the top button of her pants. “These darn things are cutting me in half,” she complained. “They build clothes for Barbie dolls, not for real women.”
I smiled and nodded. I could probably tell her if she had salsa on her chin, or even if her wig was slipping, but I couldn’t suggest that she buy a larger size, or even a style more appropriate for her age. Who’s to say what women should wear, anyway? Right? But comfort should definitely be considered. “I found some great Capri pants over at the mall, and they’re stretch. The most comfortable pants I own,” I offered.
“Really? Stretch? I should try them. I can barely breathe in these,” she said. “So. What do you think about that little place?”
“I like it. You were going to tell me its story?” I reminded her.
“Right. You’re the first one to see it since Chuck got things straightened out. It’s gonna go fast. Thought about picking it up myself, but I’m too busy right now. Chuck’s the exe
cutor, I think I told you. Previous owner died about five or six months ago.”
“Heirs?” I asked.
“Plenty, but that’s where it gets complicated. Man’s wife was deceased. Had three kids—two sons and a daughter. Oldest son is committed to some institution somewhere. Locked him up after he wouldn’t stop threatening to assassinate the president.”
“President?” I questioned.
“Of the United States. Don’t remember which one. He’s been in there twenty years or more.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “That’s a long time. Guess he’s not cured?”
“Not hardly. But his share will go into an account to help pay for his care. The daughter is in the Peace Corps somewhere in Africa. Took months to find her. She was notified but said she didn’t want any part of the estate.”
“What about the other son?” I asked.
“He committed suicide right after his father died. Real sad story.”
I frowned. “No other heirs?”
“The son who killed himself—he was a policeman. He had a son with his wife, Bridgett was her name, I think. Anyhow, that boy stood to inherit his father’s portion of the estate. But this is where it gets complicated. Mr. Policeman had a mistress—Raven Covina was her name. She and Mr. Policeman had an illegitimate son together. Named him Bahama Breeze. You believe that? Hanging a name like that on a poor kid? Some people shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce. Anyhow, when Raven found out that Mr. Policeman’s legitimate son was going to inherit his father’s share of the estate, Raven got herself a lawyer and demanded an equal share for young Bahama Breeze.”
