He strode all over the house once again. He checked the carpet and opened every closet. Not a good idea, at this point, you can’t really see the actual closet. But to his credit, he didn’t complain about all the stuff and junk smashed behind every door.
He paced the size of the rooms and mulled over the garage space, seeing, he assured me, past all the boxes and furniture jumbled in the two-car space.
He didn’t finger items, and he only glanced into the bathroom medicine cabinets. So he wasn’t a thief. Then again, I wasn’t giving him much opportunity.
“Thank you for stopping by.” I said as he moved towards the front door.
“Here’s my card.” He pulled out a bent card from the back pocket of his paint splattered jeans.
I glanced at the card. He had an address in the west county - out of cell range. But, he did have a web site, and an email address, a comforting sign of his commitment to civilization. I appreciated that.
Bo Freedman. I read. His web site was BFDeal.com
“BF?” I said out loud.
“As in Big Fucking fill in the blank.” He was matter of fact.
“Of course.” I took a breath to steady my voice. “Well, Mr. Freedman, you’ve seen the place, do you have an agent?” I asked half-heartedly. Why, why do I get the weird ones?
“I do not.”
“Of course not. I can help you on both sides if you want. Give me a call.”
He glanced up and squinted at the living room walls.
“Didn’t those use to be purple?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I can see it. Good to paint it a neutral color, purple wouldn’t have worked in here. Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He could see the purple through the new paint? I squinted up at the offending walls myself. I could see nothing but beige, precisely as I had ordered.
* * *
“You will never believe this.” Patricia announced as I walked into the office Monday morning.
I had an appointment with Peter Klausen O’Reilley the Third. The odd Bo Freeman was only a potential client and he was odd, plus I had no clue what to buy Ben for Christmas.
“Believe what?” I stupidly asked.
“They found a body in the creek. A homeless woman. Wow, it was exactly like the one they found a couple months ago? You remember, they never did find her feet.”
I stopped dead, (bad choice of words), missing feet?
She glanced up at my face. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop talking about it.” Patricia, our office manager has a touch of Goth about her. Her favorite contact sport is to discover gruesome murders or odd accidents and share the details with the rest of the office. Sometimes it’s funny, occasionally it’s bizarre, today she actually imparted information I could use.
“When? When did they find this body?” I asked. I moved closer to Patricia’s station. I heard Rosemary raise her voice but then it dropped down to a low mummer.
Patricia glanced back at her computer monitor. “Yesterday afternoon. They’re calling it the holiday murderer, they found the other body around Labor Day, and now it’s like Christmas, holiday murders, see?”
“And why is this body different? Than any other murder I mean?”
“Oh,” Patricia said happily. “It was all cut up. Pieces everywhere. I read a blog that said all the officers on the call got sick, ruined all the possible clues. The one over the summer was easier to find. They found most of the pieces, they weren’t scattered so far from the original body.”
I swayed but grabbed the desk in time.
“I didn’t say not to use any means of extra help.” Rosemary voice raised to a level easily heard all around the lobby.
“You didn’t say it would work, you lost three pounds last week.” Katherine fired back.
“Water weight!” Rosemary countered.
“It says here that the police won’t comment.” Patricia continued, unperturbed by the shouting in the adjacent office. “I’d comment. There’s a man running around town with a chainsaw cutting up women into tiny pieces.”
I leaned into the edge of the desk and swallowed multiple times. “How did they figure out the weapon was a chain saw?”
Patricia tossed her hair back and squinted at the computer. “It doesn’t really say, I’m guessing, but that would make a lot of noise wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, yes it would.” I agreed. The high counter separating Patricia from the more or less innocent clients and strangers, dug under my breasts, but it helped steady me.
“Maybe, they used something else.” She suggested, warming to the subject.
Ben spent the night at my house last night. It hadn’t been a great evening. I was unnerved because I had spent a whole afternoon doing nothing except entertaining that strange Bo Freeman who, of course, was just looking. Ben was unnerved because he had spent the whole afternoon fixing things for his mother with whom he did not see eye to eye – on anything.
So what do I do? Yes, I bring up our relationship with one of those tedious and often unnecessary We Have To Talk episodes initiated by yours truly in a fit of openness and desire to express our true inner feelings.
This is how it went:
Me: And why, why aren’t we out in the world? Why aren’t we dating officially?
Ben: To protect you. Beverley can be quite vindictive.
Me: But you’re divorced.
Ben: That wouldn’t stop her. I’m sorry, it probably looked pretty bad to you, as if I was hiding something.
Me: And you weren’t?
Ben: Maybe I still am.
Me: God. Maybe you still are? You’re still protecting me when the house has clearly already fallen on the witch? Why now, when we have parties, and events and this, this, situation. And why now?
Too late, he remembered that the way to my emotional center is directly through my stomach, and calming mixtures of cheese and fried bread always do the trick.
To forestall any more sharing, he quickly whisked me out of the house and to the nearest Italian restaurant. At least it felt like we were finally on a real date.
After two glasses of cab/ merlot blend, he apologized.
After three slices of cheese covered bruschetta, I apologized.
He promised to take me out more often.
I promised not to make him share his feelings again until Valentine’s Day.
He agreed that would be fine.
“Are you okay?” Patricia asked me, in a moment of unprecedented solicitousness.
“I think I’ll get more coffee.” I avoided every other office and headed to the break room for a relatively fresh cup of coffee, it wasn’t Starbucks, but it would do the job. A holiday murderer. Come on, the Thanksgiving killing of Beverley had to come up in the papers; the story was too good, and frankly, too easy. This was not good news for an already paranoid real estate office. I shrank back and watched Rosemary march down the hall to Inez’s office as if she were doing her aerobic exercise for the day.
From the immediate responses, Inez was clearly in no mood to respond reasonably to Rosemary’s demands. Rosemary and Inez argued over Rosemary’s open house so loudly we could hear it all the way in the lobby. And Inez’s office is a very long walk from the front desk.
“If you can’t get two people in there for the afternoon, you’ll have to cancel them.” Inez said curtly.
“Cancel them? Do you have any idea what you’re saying?” Rosemary shrieked. She must not be eating enough emotionally calming fats and carbs, just spiky green things. I had no idea what kind of tincture Rosemary was taking to make her lose those three pounds in a hurry, but knowing Rosemary, it wasn’t on the FDA approval list. She was sounding a little shrill.
Katherine lurked back into lobby, obviously listening in on the altercation.
“I have people.” She told me gleefully. “I pay my friends to hang out at my open houses. There’s not much going on right now, I don’t understand why she’s so worked up.”
“No, it’s not in keeping with the holiday spirit.” We heard Inez say dryly. “But in this case, money is not everything.”
“Holiday spirit! My sellers won’t have a freaking holiday if I don’t sell their house. I have to hold it open!”
Which is not entirely true, open houses are of dubious value in the sales process, but that was far from Rosemary’s point.
“There was another murder this morning.” Inez said stonily. “Get someone to stay with you.”
Even if Rosemary was bullet proof (and I suspected she was), Inez was clearly worried that one of her own would be next. I thought of Mr. Bo Freeman, a potential client and a potential murderer? How big of a stretch was it for him to return to the scene of his crime? Don’t people do it all the time? Well, none of the nefarious characters I’ve ever met, but it could happen. I decided to keep this Mr. Freeman to myself, for the time being.
Debbie Little, my sister-in-law, the one you’ve been hearing about, called and I knew enough not to ignore her. What a toss up, meet with an attorney or talk to my sister-in- law? It was not a great beginning to the week.
“We are having a themed Christmas.” Debbie informed me as soon as she figured out who I was. She doesn’t have caller ID; she must enjoy the surprise.
“Themed?” I couldn’t simultaneously sit quietly and listen to Debbie talk. I wandered from my office to the lobby, where all the action in our office usually takes place. Patricia was fishing out the holiday tree from its box and Rosemary was helping by holding down the box flaps.
“I saw it on TV. It’s a nostalgia theme. You’re suppose to bring something from your childhood that represents something you loved about Christmas.”
I would love a trip elsewhere. “Does that include my Barbie?” I asked, playing directly into her already low opinion of me.
“No, no, things to EAT and the gifts are not nostalgic, those need to be new and recently bought.”
I waited to hear her suggest where the recently purchased gifts need to be from, but she stopped herself in time.
“Jell-O salad? That kind of thing?” I asked. I thought the holidays were nostalgic regardless. From the time they married, Debbie had always promoted Christmas as her favorite holiday. But except for the big annual holiday party, she didn’t get much of a chance to inflict her version of holiday cheer on the rest of us. My mother kept tight control of family events, keeping Richard away from the bar, Allen from too much of any one activity, the grandchildren in line. There was a lot of work involved. And now we were shaking it up for no good reason that I could determine. But, I don’t have kids.
“Mary is already bringing the Jell-O salad and your mother is bringing the vegetable dish.”
Onions in cream. I already knew what dish mother would bring. She tried to foist it off on us every year for about two centuries until Richard, in an unfortunate fit of honesty, told my mother what he really thought about her cooking. And Debbie gave mom an opening to resurrect the damn dish. She was so clueless, had she not listened Richard’s stories, had she ignored Allen’s?
Guess not, we can willfully ignore any fact if we work hard enough.
“So, do you have a suggestion?” I asked carefully.
“Well, since you don’t cook,” she said it with disdain but I hardly notice anymore. “You can bring the favorite rolls that your brother talks about, I have no idea why he wants them, they are not even homemade.”
“That’s what made them special. I’d be happy to bring the rolls and the butter.”
“I have butter.” She snapped.
She had low fat margarine. I’d bring real, Cooper produced, hormone free, butter. I would also bring olives so my nieces and nephews could slide one black olive on each finger and run around the house, another family holiday tradition that was difficult to do at the country club restaurant. Well, that part may be fun.
“I’d be happy to bring the rolls, I know exactly what kind to buy.”
* * *
Ben and I arranged to meet with Peter Klausen O’Reilly the Third right after my usual Monday meeting at the office. Ben doesn’t have an office and so did not need to submit to office meetings of any kind, at any time. Pretty smart.
The rain had let up and fluffy clouds decorated the blue sky. Bright light washed out the Christmas decorations in the store windows, the tree lights in the parks barely held their own against the sun.
Peter Klausen O’Reilley, the Third leased an office in one of the newer office buildings that spread out from the boarders of Rivers Bend like high tide. We took the elevator and hummed along with Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer, the orchestra version. Peter’s office door was decorated with an elaborate wreath from Williams-Sonoma, the pleasant scent of cinnamon greeted us as we marched through the double glass doors.
O’Reilly greeted us as if we were old friends. Which we were not, but what the hell, it was the season of good will towards men. Rudolf will do that to you. O’Reilley led us into his private office, and we sat facing him over a huge mahogany colored desk.
“She.” O’Reilly started. He rested his forearms on the desk and leaned towards us. I wasn’t sure if he was sincere or faking sincerity. Maybe it didn’t matter in this case.
Ben looked at him and O’Reilly looked at Ben.
“Didn’t confide all that much in me after the, “ he paused, like a person pauses before blurting out the word cancer to someone undergoing radiation therapy, “divorce.”
We all sat in silence and contemplated that which is divorce.
“She wasn’t really happy with me of course.” O’Reilly admitted. I appreciated his honesty.
“Of course.” Ben smiled for the first time. “You traveled to the Caribbean with her?”
“How did you? Oh, of course, the photos. She loved taking photos. That trip she must have taken seventeen photos with every man she could find on the ship. She insisted it wasn’t about US, you understand, but she wanted to have fun, and taking all these photos was fun. Expensive too.”
“You paid for her photos with other men?” I asked.
O’Reilly gave me a look. “Did you ever meet Beverley?”
I shook my head.
“Kept her away?” O’Reilly glanced at Ben and then turned his attention back to me.
“Yeah, Beverley never knew.” Ben confirmed.
“That was smart of you.”
“What does that mean?” I couldn’t help asking.
“She wasn’t all that secure.” O’Reilly said. “And she didn’t take kindly to competition.”
“But they were divorced.” That I was arguing with an attorney shows how embroiled I was in this Beverley situation.
“Yeah.” Ben looked far away focusing on something beyond the painted wall of O’Reilly’s office. “You and she were an item for how long?”
“Long enough.” O’Reilly said. He looked at me. “She had this knack. You were the only man in the world, the king. Only you could help her, only you were perfect enough for her. Even with all those photos, I was the only one who could make it happen: pay for the photos, pay extra for the gourmet dinners, make her happy. Only I could find her key card. I can’t really explain it.”
“She could be completely dependent, yet she was always so fascinating.” Ben acknowledged.
I was no longer part of this conversation.
“She made you feel so important.” Ben said dreamily.
“How?” I asked. I wanted the bullet points, the Power Point slides.
O’Reilly pushed back in his chair. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.” Ben repeated.
I hate men.
Ben recovered first. “So who do you think could do such a thing?”
“Do, wasn’t it an accident?” O’Reilly sat forward with a bang.
I swallowed, remembering the scene. Ben regarded O’Reilly.
“She was murdered.” I gave him some credit, Ben could have taken advantage of the situation and strung O’Reilly along, but he did
n’t. He disliked O’Reilly - I think there’s rather a long list of grievances - yet he didn’t go for the cheap shot. And I admired him for it.
O’Reilly turned much paler than his usual light complexion. “I had no idea. Why didn’t the papers say anything? Why wasn’t it on the Internet?”
“She’s not all that significant.“ I pointed out, a bit churlishly I admit, but honestly, she apparently was the first girl in history to make men feel important. It was annoying.
“Murder.” O’Reilly twisted his hands. “Shit. I heard she had a number of boyfriends after me. But no one she royally pissed off. I mean, she didn’t marry any of them.”
“No, but when she wanted something …”
O’Reilly nodded. “She wanted it now. It could have been a frustrated lover, but I don’t see it.”
“I don’t either.”
“Thanks for telling me, in private.” O’Reilly stood and pushed out his hand. Ben took it.
“By the way,” Ben said casually. “Cassandra is back in town.”
O’Reilly froze. Ben kept his grip on the other man’s hand.
There was the cheap shot.
O’Reilly gulped. “Here in town?”
“No, she’s north. She’s taken over her parent’s vineyard.” Ben released O’Reilly’s hand.
“Ah, yes,” O’Reilly said, as if he knew all along that was her plan. He absently rubbed his knuckles.
“Well, thank you for the information.” Ben said.
“Or lack of it.” O’Reilly acknowledged ruefully. The comment about this Cassandra, she of the new winery, Ben’s new partner, another woman of mystery, seemed to have completely derailed O’Reilly. He didn’t even point out that Ben was the reasonable first suspect in the murder of his ex-wife.
Chapter 12
The holidays raged around me as I went about my business. I worked from home in order to stay off the streets and out of the office. The rancor between Rosemary and Katherine had escalated to such a pitch that I wondered if you can lose weight simply by staying angry for a unspecified amount of time. Except with that kind of diet program, you’d lose everything else as well. You’d be thin and lonely.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 13
