Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith

by Catharine Bramkamp

  At first, I thought Flex was the name of a paint store, - for houses (of course I would think that). I learned Flex Industries actually makes coatings for optics, very high end. That’s all the information I have because the awards and lectures had interrupted my burgeoning conversation with the Flex man.

  Carrie sipped at her full wine glass and continued to politely listen to the lecture, or rant.

  Patrick leaned over to me and whispered. “Maybe, he wasn’t too stable, or rather he’s not too stable.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I heard a lecture on the psychopathic mind last year.”

  “Good heavens, why?” I whispered.

  “We support a mental hospital in San Francisco.” He replied shortly.

  The professor did have style. He threw out his hands, bellowed, and ranted against society. He accused us all of being shallow and of not paying enough attention to the pain and suffering all around us. He clearly hadn’t attended Thanksgiving with my family.

  The professor made a segue into the invisibility of the common man and how it takes so much to get noticed, and that is all anyone really wants - to be noticed.

  “Okay.” Harold leaned over to Anne and whispered something in her ear. She leaned into him for a second longer than necessary, but he didn’t seem to notice. She nodded and moved quickly from the table, dragging the tablecloth and upsetting her wine, but Harold caught the cloth just in time and righted the glass. Anne staggered over something, recovered and edged around the ballroom.

  Harold picked up the offending object. It was one of largest purses I have ever seen, brown vinyl, and riddled with zippers and flaps. He set it carefully on her chair.

  Anne snuck down against the wall and quietly moved behind the speaker.

  “Fifteen minutes of fame. Everyone will have fifteen minutes of fame. There are whole magazines devoted to exploiting and celebrating everything that is mundane!”

  Anne tapped him on the shoulder, while deftly plucking the wireless microphone from his fist. It looked to be a practiced move.

  “Thank you so much, Professor.” She said into the microphone. “We are so fortunate to be able to help you in your time of need.”

  He grumbled something in response, but her hand covered the mike, and it didn’t pick up. Clever girl. I felt a bit more respect for her, even though she was dressed as a penguin.

  Chapter 8

  Friday morning, Ben and I met again at what I now thought of as his house. For the record, we each went our separate ways after dinner. It wasn’t because I was focused on being good so Santa Baby will come down the chimney tonight. I didn’t imagine that after hearing all those accolades about his ex-wife, Ben was much in the mood to make ME happy. And I wasn’t in the mood to BE happy.

  He drove me home and agreed to rendezvous back at the Silverpoint property in the morning. I wanted to pull out as many of Beverley’s clothes, and shoes, mustn’t forget the shoes, before the open house on Sunday, not to mention all the rest of the stuff. I loathed the necessity of sorting it, but it would be criminal to throw away the tons of papers and magazines without looking through it, wouldn’t it?

  I was already laboring under the cloud of the murder or “accident” as it was being called, so I needed to make the house as appealing as possible. That cloud, the murder cloud, followed me wherever I went. Oh, and the other cloud, with Ben’s mother name on it. Two clouds, almost a storm.

  “Mom will be at the Lost Art Open House, Saturday,” Ben reminded me.

  “Great.” Let’s add that to my day. It had been twenty-four hours since I announced the Silverpoint property at the Broker’s meeting. It was the lowest price – by far – in the Villas. The photos were beautiful, the price was excellent, yet I hadn’t received a single call. Not even a call to mercilessly tease me about mysterious accidents at all my listings. People always make sweeping generalizations. In all my years as a real estate agent, there were only two dead bodies in my listings. The one other time, I was representing the buyers, which is totally different.

  Ben arrived, armed with boxes of black garbage bags. The sky was overcast, blocking any residual warmth from the already low winter sun. It was a good day to be depressed.

  He sighed and squinted up the stairs. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “I want you to get as much paper, toiletries, stuff, magazines, more stuff, crap, mail, files, dirty dishes, and Styrofoam food containers out of the house as you possibly can. I am in no way responsible for what you throw away, you are.” I glared at him with my best impersonation of Katherine in her lecturing mode. “Throw everything you can away. No storing it, no going through it. No saving for later, when you have more time. This,” I gestured to the burdened living area, filled with a tornado of diet drink cans and fast food bags, “needs to go. Now.”

  “Wow, you’re pretty bossy.” He held up an empty bag and waved it as a flag of surrender. “But you’re right.”

  “Thank you.” I left him to his work. I didn’t ask if he was the cleaner in the relationship and if he was the one who picked up all the time. I imagine if he were, it would get old fast. But I didn’t ask.

  I had time in the afternoon to make a run to the HPL offices before they closed for the weekend. At least on this trip, I didn’t get lost on the way.

  “We’ll take good care of this.” Anne took the bags of clothes and shoes from me. There was no sign of the secretary.

  Harold, the shrimp man, stared moodily into his computer monitor. A small Christmas tree decorated with colored lights and five or six plastic hearts from the Volunteer Center’s Giving Tree program was tucked in the corner next to the door.

  I had found my favorite boots and a skirt that fit much better, which proves that there is a difference between a $100 garment and a designer $350 garment (on sale). I was feeling a bit better than yesterday.

  “I was told that you sell it to the Just as Good Store, and they mark it up and sell it for more at the store.”

  “Sell it?” Anne looked down at the boxes of clothes and shoes. “We give them the clothes. We don’t do much with clothes directly, unless I hear of something specific from one of our residents, but they are trending towards male and so these,” she lifted one of the boxes and set it close to the stairs leading up to the second floor of office suites. “Will go straight over to the Just as Good Store.”

  “Oh, my mistake.” I said quickly. She gave me an odd look, so to cover up my gaff, I started talking, “You must work pretty hard here; do you do everything for the organization?”

  “Pretty much. I’m the marketing director, sales, donor relations, and chief bottle washer.” She allowed herself an ironic smile. “Our membership is handled by Martha Anderson, she does a lot of work for us at no charge.”

  “That must be very helpful.”

  “Yes, well.” Anne looked a little vague around the edges with that comment, but she was allowed, I suppose. Carrie never talks about the donors or the volunteers for the Senior Center; it wasn’t proper protocol for staff to discuss volunteers.

  Harold snorted, but that was the extent of his editorial contribution.

  I smiled back at Anne. “You must be pretty talented to do all those different things.”

  It wasn’t much of a compliment, but Anne stood a little taller and preened a bit. Clearly, no one gave this poor woman enough attention. I was dying to tell her to do something – anything – with her hair, but I refrained. I would not make a snarky comment to this girl, because I sensed she couldn’t handle the banter. I left her alone.

  “I was impressed with the way you handled your speaker the other night. Does he sometimes get out of hand?”

  “Sometimes?” She repeated.

  Harold snorted again.

  “He can be a bit of trouble.” Anne glanced at Harold, but spoke directly to me. “But despite that, he’s our homeless poster boy. I don’t have the whole story as to why he became homeless in the first place. He never said.�
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  “Our female board members love him, and he is quite an asset for our cause.” Harold’s voice came out of the gloom. Anne looked relieved at his interruption.

  “I understand that charm is not the issue. A person has to be pretty competitive and cut throat to make it at a university.” I said, thinking of some of the stories my friend, Joan, told me over the years. Her hair raising renditions of the political maneuvering at her college made me glad I was involved in a business, by comparison, was simple and innocent. For instance, I find real dead bodies in my homes, while Joan claims the university is filled with the dead, but they all still walk the earth, and many teach undergraduate classes. Sometimes, I don’t understand Joan at all.

  “Did he ever work at a university?” I asked, thinking maybe Joan could tell me something.

  “Maybe.” Harold offered from the dark recesses of his office. His narrow face was thrown into relief by the virtual glow of his computer screen. He typed as he spoke. The clack of keys accompanied his short comment.

  “Maybe.” Anne echoed. “It’s difficult to get a straight answer out of him, but he speaks well, and that’s all we need, someone who doesn’t “look” like a homeless person, but is one. Do you know how hard that is to find?”

  Not as hard as it used to be. Our office was handling more and more clients who were on the verge of losing their homes, and we were losing agents to part time or even other full time jobs. They too, were losing their homes. People were even moving in with their parents.

  It will take an earthquake of 8.6 magnitude and a complete leveling of every building in Sonoma County plus a big, big tsunami obliterating the coast line before I would consider moving in with my parents. At that point, I’d simply drive to Claim Jump and move in with my grandmother.

  “So, the professor is the poster boy.” I concluded.

  “Literally,” she gestured to a big poster in various shades of blue, one color processing, but it appeared to have at least three colors because of the shading and degrees of that one blue ink. There he was, the smiling professor, not in a tux, but a baggy suit, looking a bit sad. He could act, too. Talented guy.

  “For years,” she said, immediately, but then calculated more closely. “I think it began about three years ago. It was my idea to dress him in a tux for the awards banquet. The donors went wild.”

  She smiled, not at me, but at the memory of a triumph, and from her expression, I realized she didn’t have many from which to choose. “Even Chris Connor was impressed. She wrote a nice blurb in her Goings On column, and she is never impressed about anything we do.”

  “That’s for sure.” Harold said.

  The local paper, in general, and the columnist Chris Conner in particular, wasn’t really anyone’s friend. I didn’t blame the reporters, but the bad news piled onto bad news was becoming more than a little frustrating, which is why the lack of bad news about Beverley was so puzzling. Who did I know at the paper? Anyone? Did Ben?

  “You get it.” Anne nodded.

  “I do get it.” I said. “The only time the Rivers Bend Press even considered covering real estate was the month most of the major real estate offices stopped buying advertising. Only then, did the editors realize that trash talking headlines about real estate and diminished ad revenues from real estate companies were causally linked. By then, it was too late for both our businesses.”

  “The only time we make it in the paper is when there’s a scandal or something. The good news is never published.”

  “Which doesn’t really help.” Harold acknowledged.

  Anne looked at him for a bit and nodded. “Beverley’s death got us a little bit of attention, at least some good?” She directed her question to Harold, who did not look up.

  Come on, I thought, at least look at the girl, a little mascara, better posture, and she’d be pretty.

  “I heard the accident was kind of gruesome.” Anne finally said in the absence of her colleague’s response.

  She didn’t hear it from me. I smiled my go ahead, make the counter offer, smile. “Who told you it was gruesome?”

  I knew the murder wasn’t even on the Internet because our office manager Patricia was trolling for any change in information and under orders to report what she found. Why was this particular incident so effectively covered up?

  “I don’t know.” Anne shrugged. “I heard. Maybe last night. There was a lot of talk, rumors, that kind of thing.”

  Somehow, the word got out, not to the point of showing up in blogs or in the paper, not even the intrepid girl reporter, Chris Conner, had reported the rumors. It still a small rumor. Maybe, Beverley’s death wasn’t all that important? That was a depressing thought. If someone with Beverley’s credentials wasn’t big news, then what hope did the rest of us have?

  “Is Patrick Sullivan really dating Carrie Eliot?” Anne asked me, but in a way I knew she wasn’t really asking, only talking out loud.

  “I think so.” I confirmed non-commitally, as if that’s possible.

  “I never thought his sisters would let him out of their sight. They are very tight, that family. There was some tragedy, makes them hyper aware of each other, protective.”

  “Death?” I guessed, since death was on my mind.

  “No, no, I don’t think death. Something. Anyway, not a big deal. Carrie is pretty nice, not a bad match for Patrick Sullivan. He’s been single for a long time.” Worry lines creased Anne’s mouth and between her eyes. Her skin was dull but nothing a couple sessions with a good facialist wouldn’t solve, or she could meet with my Mary Kay Consultant. That may be more cost effective. Anne was younger than me, but looked ten years older. I was depressed on her behalf.

  “So, I hear.” I said. Good, there wasn’t a rumor about the Sullivan family. I did not want Carrie walking into something she couldn’t handle. She was swimming in pretty deep water as it was, but so far, doing fine. She’s a good swimmer, but I was still worried.

  Anne brightened on cue. “Thank you again for the donations. They will do a great deal of good in the community. I have to get back to work.”

  I was properly dismissed. I remembered to pull open the front door and glanced back as I exited. Anne placed both hands on her battered desk and bent her head, looking as if she was completely defeated. What did she know? More than she was saying.

  I checked in with Ben and he promised to take out as much junk from the property as he could, but he had work to do Saturday. At last count, he stuffed 100 garbage bags with, as he put it, poetically, more shit than anyone has a right to acquire.

  I think anger is a stage of grief.

  Chapter 9

  The best thing about Friday was my weekly drink with Carrie, and even though Ben was manfully executing garbage runs, and even though I probably should be helping, I didn’t want to forego my time with my best friend.

  Tonight, we met at the wine bar down town: low lights, soft couches and lovely Cabs and Merlots by the glass.

  “So are you going to do it?” I twirled a dense red Malbec (usually an Argentinian grape, but this was from California) in my glass.

  Carrie had this year’s Nouveau Beaujolais. She was still dressed in her work clothes; slacks and a bright turquoise sweater that highlighted her clear, young skin and brunette highlights in her hair. She and Anne were contemporaries, yet Carrie looked so much better. Clean living? The love of a best friend? I’m going to assume it’s because Carrie has such an excellent best friend.

  “Do you think it’s a conflict of interest for a staff person from one organization to serve on the board of another?”

  “Could be, are there rules for that kind of thing?” There are huge, massive, paper intensive rules and disclosures in my business, attorneys hover over real estate transactions as if each sale represented a complacent, slow moving, cash cow. I thought non-profits would be staffed and boarded, so to speak, by sensible people who only wanted the best for the underserved in the community.

  “Is that the way to t
alk about them? The underserved?” I asked out loud.

  “That’s a good word. Direct Services is the over reaching term. A little passive, but hey, it is what it is.” She sipped her wine. “I don’t think there’s a rule. I’m worried that it will be odd, not an acceptable thing to do.”

  “Why doesn’t Patrick sit on the board then?”

  “Can’t, the meetings are on the first Wednesday of the month, and he has an obligation in the City on that day.”

  “Of course.”

  “Hey,” she shot me a warning glance. Carrie was doing everything right to keep Patrick by her side, including wooing Patrick’s sisters who, after she attended a lecture of Greek mythology, she calls the Furies.

  I’ve never met either woman. I have nothing to say about them. I have my own sister-in-law problems.

  “Sorry. My mother called me today.” I confided.

  “You did remember to behave at Thanksgiving didn’t you? You said Richard and Allen weren’t drinking too much.”

  “I’ve already forgotten about Thanksgiving. It was fine. Debbie called mom and complained that I picked her name again for the family gift exchange and she did not, and I’m quoting directly here, want another crappy gift card.”

  “How full of Christmas spirit she is.” Carrie commented. Carrie deals with neglect and pain on a large scale, which, in my world, makes her the perfect foil for my sister-in-law to whom everything is given, and so, nothing is good enough.

  “I have to come up with something wonderful.” I concluded.

  “Still keeping the limit at fifty dollars? Get her a bottle of rum and a Johnny Depp DVD, Yo Ho Ho and call it good.” Carrie said, dismissively.

  “That’s a little cold, even for you.”

  She took a breath. “I spent an hour listening to Roberta Brown complain that her children never visit, which is true enough, and they are particularly scarce between Thanksgiving and New Years.”

  “You don’t visit your parents either.” I pointed out.