Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “That’s different.” She tossed her head back and drained her wine glass. “Roberta’s cancer is back, and it doesn’t look good.”

  “Do the kids know?”

  “Would it make a difference if they did? They don’t care now, and I don’t think cancer and imminent death is going to galvanize them to action.”

  I gestured to Steve, our usual waiter, for more wine. Carrie’s parents are a long story, not relevant to the current situation. I changed the subject.

  “Are you going to exchange gifts with Patrick’s family?” I thought of that challenge. Carrie lives carefully on her salary as an administration assistant at the Senior Center. When we go out, I pick up the tab because I can and she’s worth it. Apparently, Mr. Sullivan feels the same.

  “No, Patrick won’t hear of it. He wants me to make him something, something sentimental.”

  “That’s sweet. So are you going to join this board?”

  “There’s an introductory board meeting next week. I’m going to attend and check it out, what’s the harm?”

  “How do you feel about that?” I did my best impression of a psychologist, which wasn’t very good. I don’t see shrinks much. For special events, like the holidays, I just self medicate.

  “I have no idea. Patrick’s really pushing for me to join, and a few board meetings beats the personal trainer.”

  “Anything and everything is better than the personal trainer. What was his name?”

  “James.” Carrie smiled, looking as smug as I had ever seen her. The personal trainer idea was a quickly deleted part of her life. Patrick thought it would be great if they both got in shape. Carrie was not so sure, and after her first session, she was really sure. So, she stuffed herself into the smallest, most uplifting outfit she could find - and I bet she found it on sale - and distracted poor James, the personal trainer, so thoroughly that he dropped a barbell on Patrick.

  End of sessions.

  “Why this push to help the Homeless Prevention League anyway?”

  Steve brought our wine and whisked Carrie’s empty glass away.

  “Patrick’s dad was an early supporter. He helped purchase the RVs when the idea was first presented. Apparently during the first year, Cooper Milk also allowed one of the RVs to park around their facilities, but the residents complained they were too far away from down town. I understand that Harold and the President created the idea of moving the RVs around.”

  “Why?”

  “So that the homeless aren’t living really next to anyone for very long.” She gave me a look. “Charity doesn’t begin at home at all, it’s best when it’s far away and removed.”

  I thought about that. “I wonder why Beverley’s parents aren’t more involved.” I mused. Were they the ones suppressing the information about Beverly’s death? Did they have that much power? If the accident report was the official report, they knew less than me.

  “What is there to be involved in? I think they accepted the idea of accident, it put Beverley in the poor victim position, her mother seemed comfortable with that.”

  “As opposed to Beverley the woman, who was running away to a warm country with an unknown man?”

  “Yes.” Carrie finished her first glass of wine and started in on the second.

  “Who told Beverley’s parents it was an accident? The police?”

  She shrugged. “At the funeral that’s what was said, an accident. A pretty horrible one from the look of it.”

  “Closed casket?”

  She nodded.

  On Saturday I returned to the scene of the crime so to speak, and picked up even more stuff, a preliminary for the fun evening at the Lost Art museum – and meeting Ben’s mother.

  Most of the garbage was gone. The guest rooms were empty now, and the garage was only slightly more packed. I was very happy Ben had not tackled the garage.

  “Hey.” Ben strode into the house then slowed down with every step.

  “Hey.” I trotted down from the master bedroom.

  “I finished a job early and came by for more abuse.” He glanced around at the living with a frown, but smiled as I approached.

  “You’re in a better mood.” I kissed his cheek.

  He shrugged and headed up the stairs. “May as well.”

  “Come up, we can finish with the rest of the clothes and what’s left in the office.”

  “Should we give all of this away?” Ben straightened his shoulder and walked into the master bedroom as if walking to a firing squad. How much time had he really spent in this room? He eyed the largest chest of drawers. It was stuffed full of sweaters, lingerie with no built in support, and a few pairs of expensive pantyhose.

  “I can take it all to the Homeless Prevention League.” I offered. “I took all those boxes yesterday and a box the day before.”

  “And I noticed it didn’t make much of a dent.” He peered into the closet and shook his head. “As much as you can cart away would be good. How about all that kitchen stuff?”

  “You may want a couple of things, or how about your grandmother?”

  “Emily? She’d not really a stuff person.”

  “In that big house? I think she is.” I countered.

  “The house is pretty massive, isn’t it? She bought it out of spite, to show my mother that a person could live luxuriously and well out in the country and you don’t have to live in the city to be happy.”

  “That is a rather expensive way to make a point isn’t it?”

  Ben shrugged, “My family is prone to making very big, expensive points.”

  I waited for a whole second.

  “The family money originally came from the Geary side, my grandmother’s father. Silver.”

  I waited.

  He fidgeted, drew his finger across the top of the dresser, then surrendered. “The family always felt themselves to be “new money” so there was pressure to behave and be civilized and cultured, and act the part of the upper middle class. Anyway, my grandmother wasn’t one to follow along with the newly conceived family tradition of decorum and social norms, so she promptly fell in love with a newspaper man – Stone, although that may not have been his real name. Stone sounded good on a by-line.”

  Ben scratched his head, losing track of his narrative and clearly losing interest in the story. His eyes wandered around the empty master bedroom, with all the garbage and strew clothing gone, there wasn’t really anything to rest his gaze on and I knew that was part of his discomfiture.

  “She married him.” He continued after a deep breath. “The Geary family members recovered and built the house in Pacific Heights for her as a wedding gift. Stone was killed covering the labor riots. Grandma never married again. We all lived in the house together for years even after mom married and my brother was born. Mom appreciated the address: it gave her immediate prestige. When I was about five, grandma and mom had a falling out and grandma moved. I spent as much time with her up here as I could. So you see, we’re used to each other.”

  “Did your father, Weiss, have money?”

  “Oh, yeah, mom met him at prep school. He had a boat-load of money and the boat to keep it in. Dad grew up in Sea Cliff, we kept that house as well. My brother lives in the Sea Cliff house.”

  I did some mental calculations, superficial of course, because money doesn’t buy happiness, but it buys lovely containers in which to put the happiness in should you stumble across any.

  “Why didn’t you get the Sea Cliff house?”

  “Well, Donald, my brother, works in the City, so it seemed fair. Besides, I don’t care for fog.”

  I understood some of the problems in his first marriage. Beverley cared about money, position and status, Ben did not. That must have made her crazy.

  “So, the jewelry? The photos?” I pointed to the drawer where he had tossed away the photos a few days before. I was not sure quite what to make of the suddenly pedigreed Mr. Stone, Weiss, Geary in descending order. Where Carrie had purposefully and deliberately followed he
r goals and found the obviously rich and clearly organized perfect man, I accidentally found mine in the yellow pages.

  I’m an old fashion girl.

  “The jewelry. Could we sell it on eBay?” Ben suggested.

  I shook my head. “Nieces? Your nieces?” I suggested. Now that he was away from the marauding philanthropists and contemplating an evening with questionable art, he looked much more relaxed, even while standing in his old house.

  “I don’t have any, Donald has two boys, wow,” he perked up. “That pissed mom off. She wanted cute little granddaughters to take to tea at the Sheraton Palace. She got more boys instead. Every holiday she gets mad all over again.”

  “Why did she expect anything different?”

  “She didn’t take genetics in school.”

  I flipped open the top of the jewelry case.

  “Really, take a couple of things, for your nieces.” He encouraged. He walked over and stared into the case. “I could never tell the fakes from the real thing.” He murmured.

  I glanced at him, and waited for the obvious conclusion, but he didn’t offer it and I wasn’t interested in grinding him down about his past.

  I stared at the mix of shiny stuff a little longer before I admitted that he was right. Big gaudy jewelry would be perfect for my two nieces as well as for the constantly disappointed Debbie. The chains and pendants glittered invitingly.

  “Come on, make a choice. Or take a handful.” He encouraged.

  “It seems odd.” My hand hovered over a cuff bracelet covered with bright, large gemstones. I wanted it for me.

  “Better you than anyone else.”

  I picked out a set of bracelets for Debbie, lines of red, green and white square cut stones in a channel setting – if they were real, it would be far and above the gift limit of $50. If they were fake, they were still over the limit.

  I pulled out a set of bracelets for one niece. I took dangly earrings and a necklace for the other niece. From the bottom drawer I pulled two silver cuffs that resembled a twisted cable, along with a matching necklace with a large blue center stone. I held them up.

  “They could be David Yurman, or forty dollar knock offs. Either way, can I take them?”

  He gestured. “Take more, with any luck they’re real.”

  I smiled. “You said you didn’t care about that.”

  “I don’t, but for you, I hope they are real.”

  I regarded the full drawers of glittery stuff - pirate treasure.

  “Why didn’t they take anything?” I asked out loud.

  “Good question.” He followed my train of thought. “The police asked me that. They dusted for prints on that,” He nodded at the jewelry stand. “But they found nothing, only Beverley’s prints.”

  “Doesn’t that seem odd?”

  “The murder didn’t take her computer, and her purse was untouched, from what I understand, the police don’t have a clue, and if they did, they are not sharing.”

  “We’ll check the purse in a minute.” I had to carry my own ill-gotten gains down to my own purse. I remembered her purse was downstairs.

  “Do you need a Cuisinart?” He asked, it was not as random a question as you may think.

  “I would if I cooked. Give it to your grandmother.”

  “I would if she cooked.”

  What was I hoping to find in Beverley’s large, quilted, chain draped Chanel bag? The bag was an attractive model, spacious with a more discrete double C logo than I initially would give Beverley credit for. I was hoping the matching wallet would be stuffed with foreign currency so I could immediately trace where she was headed.

  No such luck.

  From the wallet, I pulled out three visa cards, and two master cards, Nordstrom, Macy’s and Exxon. No library card.

  Ben whistled as I handed him the credit cards. “This is substantial.”

  “She may have used the free checks from one account to switch balances to another, it gives you an extra month or so of no payments.”

  “But it cost twenty nine percent interest.” He protested automatically.

  “Yes it does, but if you are abandoning the whole thing, what does it matter?”

  “True. Where was she going?”

  “And with whom?” I countered.

  He leaned against the granite counter and shut his eyes for a minute. Speed meditation, I do it every morning.

  “I can’t think of a single man.”

  I waited, mostly because this technique of not talking was really working. Ben was opening right up.

  “I didn’t pay enough attention to her. She’d call, sure, ask for money, ask for an advance on her alimony amount. Ask. But we never talked. She never asked me, how’s your family? How’s your business?”

  “Maybe she knew your family hated her and she didn’t want to ask.” I said helpfully.

  “Okay, that is true. Still, I hoped for better communication. Something more congenial.”

  I started to say something else comforting, but my phone rang, and out of habit I lunged for it.

  It was Owen, he had found another condo on Craig’s List, this, he was certain, had potential.

  Ben waved at me and headed back upstairs, the pull of that master bedroom was disturbing, I’d have to work at keeping him out of the house all together. Better for him.

  I patiently listened to Owen’s glowing report on a condo that I was pretty sure Owen had seen last spring but had rejected – the shingles looked loose? The stairs weren’t even? (He carries a level with him where ever he goes). I couldn’t remember why he had rejected the place the first time around.

  “Sure,” I promised, of course I promised. “I’ll meet you in an hour and we’ll take a look.”

  I brought the Chanel purse upstairs to put in one of the drawers, We didn’t need to give it away yet.

  “Would they tell you where she was going?” I said, meaning the police.

  “It may not matter.” He absently smoothed the new bedspread.

  “But what if she was leaving with someone, and that someone was her murderer?” I asked, but that idea didn’t make sense.

  “No,” distracted, Ben pulled out the framed photos and laid them out on the dresser surface. “I’m still the main suspect.”

  All together there were twelve framed photos. They were originally scattered around the bedroom and I belatedly wished I could have seen them in situ. Would the photos next to her bed be of the men she loved the best? Or was currently seeing? Now we couldn’t tell.

  Ben squinted at one and then another. Two were of the same man, three were of another man, the rest were singles; Beverley posed with every one of them.

  “Did she have a regular relationship?” I asked, but if what he said was true, then Ben would have been the last person she’d confide in. Did anyone besides members of various non-profit boards attended her funeral? Or was it packed with acquaintances rather than friends?

  He picked up a framed photograph, then the next. “She loved men, needed them.”

  I leaned over his shoulder. Beverley wore a different dress in each photo, although about five of photographs looked to be from the same cruise, the background was the same, the seats in the dining room were the same.

  “She was all about the show.” Ben gazed at the pictures. “She kept her weight down because she was worried about how she looked in photographs.” He held one up. “How do I look? She asked me that all the time. That’s why I now go for more,” he squinted at me, “solid women.”

  “Should we see him?” I gestured to one of the pictures ignoring the back-handed compliment.

  “Probably all of them.” His hand shook and the frame dropped on the dresser with a loud clatter. He crossed his arms and frowned at the collection. “I only recognize one person.”

  I picked through the collection and pulled out the two of the same man.

  “I recognize this one, but I can’t place him.” I took them and studied them. Beverley wore a red silk dress that showed off h
er small breasts to as much advantage as a woman her size could reasonably manage. The man was dressed in a tuxedo. He was a red head, unusual in a man. Beverly’s hair was dark in the photo, it almost blended into the background. Both photos were taken on cruises. A little gold was barely visible under the frame.

  “They date these.” I said. I pulled off the frame back and pried out the photo. “See? This was taken last year. And this one,” I pulled out the other of the red haired man. “Was taken, two years ago. Well, that doesn’t help.”

  ‘”But this does. Recognize him?” Ben held up three frames in one hand, they were all 3 by 5. In fact, not one of the men merited an 8 by 10.

  I looked at the one with the background of the Hilton ballroom. The man cast his arm around Beverley’s boney shoulders, but the arm seemed to hover over her as if there was a force field between her skin and his arm.

  “God, not him!” My outburst was spontaneous.

  “Do you think she dated him?” Ben asked.

  The man in the photo was Peter Klausen O’Reilly the Third. And he was not Ben Stone’s (Rock Solid Service) favorite person, for various reasons, not the least of which was that Peter Klausen O’Reilley the Third was an attorney. Most divorced men are not found of attorneys, Ben among them. I flat out dislike the whole species.

  Ben squinted and stepped closer. “It’s entirely possible,” he took the picture from me and scrutinized the happy couple.

  “But he’s so terrible.” I said.

  Ben nodded. “But you have to admit, they would make a perfect pair. He handled her side of the divorce.”

  “Who handled yours?”

  “Some kid from Charlie Concron’s office. He did a fair job, at least he was intimidating.”

  “From Charlie Concron’s office.” I repeated. Concron was a notorious attorney in San Francisco, and it wasn’t because he dressed well. His office staff defended rather heinous criminals, and won. But Concron could possibly be an old family friend. I suspect that Ben’s background was far more illustrious than he let on.

  Ben studied the photo. “This was a while ago, it could have been – judging from the way he gingerly holding her – at the end of the affair.”