Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith

by Catharine Bramkamp

  I slipped on the big David Yurman bracelet studded with large, bright, gemstones from the Beverley Weiss collection. Two of the stones were deep red and matched the shoes and bustier. My hair could stand against a class four hurricane. I was ready for the damn party.

  I grabbed the gift for Patricia.

  “Hi.” Ben looked rested and more like himself, casual, but in control. He wore a designer suit, an upgrade even from the one he wore to the museum party. I felt honored he made that effort for me.

  “Was I supposed to bring a gift?” He glanced at the decorated bottle bag in my hand.

  “No, guests are exempt, only the New Century agents and staff exchange.”

  I wasn’t keen to walk alone into a room filled with people, even people I work with on a daily basis. I think I must have run out of small talk. And I wasn’t feeling myself. I was distracted by Ben in the throes of being distracted by his deceased ex-wife. I was immensely grateful that he was even coming with me to the party.

  One of the agents, from the north office, admired my bracelet.

  “Thank you, it’s … ”

  Ben gave me a look, and I immediately changed my story. “David Yurman, it’s new.” New to me.

  “It’s fabulous.” She examined it closely, twisting it so she could view all the colored stones.

  During the gift exchange, I gave Patricia two bottles of wine. She was appropriately grateful it wasn’t something awful, say, like a clown statue.

  My gift was a necklace made of fake plastic beads that didn’t even muster up a fake pearl glow under the relentless ballroom lighting. In comparison, the faux stones in my bracelet glittered as if they were real.

  “I would have loved a Barnes and Noble gift card.” I said quietly, but fortunately no one heard me. I wondered if Rosemary and Katherine got diet books since what you think about, you bring about.

  “Really?” said Susan. She was from the Mendocino county office, and sat at our table. She fingered the gift card she received. “I got one that’s not even good for music.”

  “Ah, well, we all have our burdens.” Ben said.

  Once dinner and the gifts were taken care of, agents began to circulate and talk.

  “Well, Allison, at least you have an, interesting listing.” One person snickered as he walked past me to the bar.

  “Yeah, people must be dying to see the house.” said Susan, whom I no longer liked and I hope she hated to read.

  This, from what should be my own people.

  Ben squeezed my hand, but that didn’t assuage my feelings.

  “Did you hear about the new category? DOA instead of REO?” Another person, I didn’t recognize him, threw that bon mot out as he passed by the table.

  I can take as much ribbing as the next woman, but my pantyhose top was cutting into my soft. vulnerable stomach and I needed to pee. Or I thought I did.

  I escaped to the ladies room, used the facilities, and thoroughly washed my hands. I applied some hand lotion. I sat down at the vanity table and re-applied my lipstick. I thought I could rest here, in the ladies lounge, for a minute or two, or an hour. I put my head on the marble counter top, and closed my eyes.

  “Allison.” Ben’s voice came from right outside the door. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” I said loudly enough for him to hear.

  “Then why are you locked in the bathroom during a holiday party?”

  “I’m not locked in, I can leave anytime I want.” The counter top was cool on my forehead. I could stay here forever.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” He pushed the door open and strode in.

  “What are you doing in here?” I shrieked. My voice echoed nicely around the tile walls.

  “Hey, you have nice bathrooms.” He surveyed the lounge with his hands on his hips.

  “You should know, you work on them.” I shot back, it was kind of nasty and I don’t know why I said it, but there it was.

  “We all have our Waterloos. Come here.” He pulled me to him, wrapped his arms around me, and let me smear clumpy mascara on his jacket.

  “It’s okay.” He said into my hair. “This will work out, we’ll figure out what happened to Beverley, we’ll sell the house, and we can put all this behind us.”

  He pulled up from my head. “Hey, how much hair spray did you use tonight?”

  “All of it.”

  “Oh, excuse me.” One of the secretaries from the Marin office pushed open the door, then quickly retreated.

  “It’s okay, I’m a professional bathroom remodeler.” Ben assured her. “I’m here to do an inspection.” He escorted me out, and held the door for her.

  I tried to smile at her, but she was so shocked that I knew by next week, rumors of my unconventional love life would be circulating through all the New Century Offices. Oh hell.

  “Here.” Ben handed me a red envelope. “Open it.”

  “Right now?” Ben was steering me back into the fray. Still on the program: desultory ballroom dancing and a dessert buffet of indifferent quality.

  I opened the envelope. It was a $20 Book Gift card.

  “I traded for you.” He explained.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, now let’s get out of here.”

  I felt much better after I stripped off the many layers that had held me hostage, and changed into my forgiving sweats. Once free, I did exactly what I really wanted to do, sink into my favorite chair and watch three back to back episodes of SpongeBob Square pants.

  Ben brought in his lap top and worked while I watched TV.

  “Uh oh.” He said, as the last episode wrapped up.

  “What?”

  “The authorities think they found the murder weapon. They first linked it to that poor woman the police found in the creek, but they are now linking it to,” he scrolled down, “the body they found this summer, and Beverley. Damn, they named her.”

  “That was bound to happen. What did they find?”

  “A reticulating saw, one of those saws with a thin blade suspended between two handles. I use them to cut pipe, thick siding, anything, they are,” he paused, “quite sharp.”

  I hoped he knew where his saw was located right now. And I wasn’t the only one. The call from the police came that evening. Following all the obvious leads, Mr. Stone, was the reasonable request by the authorities.

  “I’ll look in the morning.” Ben assured the caller.

  We watched my copy of Charlie Brown Christmas, Ben’s favorite childhood Christmas movie and How the Grinch Stole Christmas; mine.

  Chapter 13

  While I was mentally preparing for the awful company party (by doing nothing about it), Carrie was on tour with the Homeless Prevention League. Not a great name for a band.

  She called Sunday morning to update me.

  “They loaded us into this wine tour van, wine glass holders and everything.”

  “Did they serve wine?” I cradled the phone in a perfect clench that will guarantee me tense neck pain later on.

  “Of course not. Only at the end.”

  I waited, but she was uncharacteristically quiet. “What else?” I pulled out a dishcloth and wandered around the house wiping dust from the surfaces not protected by piles of books.

  “Well, we viewed the first RV, or mobile shelter as they call it. It’s parked over by the creek.”

  It’s a long creek, well, river. The RV wasn’t necessarily parked next to the last location of the most recent murder, so I didn’t bring it up. Yet.

  “That’s where the professor lives, the one who spoke at the dinner. He wasn’t dressed as well, of course, but he joined us to give us his, the homeless client’s, view of the program.”

  “Did you go into the RV?” I dusted the TV screen and wiped off my leather chair.

  “No, we viewed the outside, going in would be a violation of their privacy. The first one, the professor’s, was kind of green color, not in bad shape, I wasn’t really scrutinizing it. I had to pay atte
ntion to Martha, who was talking incessantly about philanthropy in Sonoma County and how the local colleges needed to stop building new concert halls and start educating, that kind of rant. As soon as she mentioned the university, the professor took the microphone, and stood in front of the bus and lectured us on the tragedy of the homeless, and what the HPL was doing to prevent it. All while, we lurched through the Saturday afternoon traffic.”

  “So, where were the other RVs?”

  “Across town. Of course.” She said in disgust.

  “Why did they give you a tour on one of the busiest shopping days of the year?” I walked upstairs knocking off the dust between the stair rails.

  “Tell me about it. It took forever to get to the next location. Once we finally arrived, that RV turned out to be a kind of coppery color, very modern looking, apparently Flex paint, remember him?”

  I nodded. Even though she couldn’t see me, Carrie always seems to read my expressions, even by phone.

  “They paint the RVs for free, which is lovely of them, so the RV isn’t really white and sticking out, it sort of blends in with the …”

  “Weeds?” I supplied.

  “It’s not that bad. This second one was over across town, by the Grocery Outlet.”

  “And the third, or are there more?”

  “There are more.” She confirmed, “But we only had time to see three. The last one was south of town, and the traffic through there is horrific, five miles an hour the whole way. That RV is parked at the edge of the Wal-Mart parking lot. But it didn’t look as if it had been there long. We only had time to look at the three RVs. I had to get ready for a family party with Patrick, and Martha had something. Cyndi mentioned she had something to do. The professor of course, really didn’t have anything else to do, so he kept lecturing. After we visited the third Mobile Shelter Unit he, the professor, started talking about the quest for the perfect fifteen minutes of fame and what that was worth now-a-days.”

  I had managed to finish wiping off the all surfaces - not covered in books - in the bedroom by the time she was finished with that last paragraph.

  “Didn’t he say something similar at the dinner?” I was distracted by the Flex paint, so it worked on things other than high tech coating on lenses, that was kind of cool.

  “Yes, he did. I think. Patrick was whispering to me at the time, I don’t remember the professor’s whole speech.”

  “Did you meet anyone else, besides the professor?”

  “No, Cyndi told us that the residents go to the day program run by the Salvation Army and some do pick-up work for board members.”

  “That seems odd.” I referred to the odd jobs for board members and Carrie knew it.

  “Beverley did it a lot, hired them for cash. The professor loved that part of the program, and said so. He also appreciated Beverley because she didn’t ask what or where the money went.”

  “Was he sad that she was gone?”

  “He seemed to miss the work.”

  I tossed the dirty dishtowel onto the laundry pile. “Did you learn anything new?”

  “I have to think about it. I’m not sure.”

  “They found another body in the creek.” I had to tell her.

  “Like Beverley?” She immediately asked. She’s quick, quicker than the local reporters.

  I closed my eyes. “Like Beverley.” I admitted. “She was cut up, like this poor woman they found. The papers are going to start talking about it. Just be prepared, the news may or may not affect the Homeless League.”

  “Homeless Prevention League.” She corrected me. Then took a breath. “God, Beverley was hacked up? Who would do such a thing?”

  “No one has any theories at this point.”

  My next call was to the elusive Ben Stone. Ben did find his own saw: it was safe on his workshop bench in Marin and apparently clean. The police were pleased to hear that. Ben was pleased to say it. I was just pleased. For the time being, he was more than fine, despite the signature on the listing papers and the claim that he didn’t sign anything for Beverley.

  Before I had a chance to shower, Bo Freeman called and wanted to make an appointment to see the house again.

  “What do you think, can I see it again today?” he asked.

  “Today?” I wasn’t planning on holding it open, it was too late in the season. But I had nothing else to do this afternoon. Yet, I was honestly unsure about meeting him alone. I wondered if I could do what Beverley did, and hire the homeless, like the professor to sit with me during these meetings, maybe he could hang out with me at the next the open house (in January, thank you). It would be safer than staying alone in that house.

  I dismissed the idea immediately as far too paranoid for what I’m all about. I’m all about strength. I’m all about independence. And I had no clue how to contact the professor short of finding the RV in which he lived, and knocking on the door. And wasn’t all that easy to do, as Carrie explained.

  I called Ben instead. But he was busy. Last minute holiday repairs, fair of course.

  The possibilities of a sale won out over personal safety, which shouldn’t surprise even a casual acquaintance of mine.

  I agreed to meet Bo at 3:00 PM, when there was still some afternoon light left. I didn’t tell him that part of course.

  The house, with my sign on the front lawn waving in the damp breeze, looked innocent and completely normal. The Sign Nazis must not search this part of town; I was still good.

  I had one directional (those red arrows) sign at the top of the hill, in gross violation of the unwritten rules. When I am caught, I often claim I didn’t remember the rules. I’ve been forgetting the rules for about fifteen years now.

  But, all was well with my signs. The house was now radically staged. The downstairs rooms were not only clear of junk; they looked officially uncomfortable and spare. I don’t want visitors to feel comfortable; I want them to buy the house.

  The living room boasted one built in bookcase that was completely book free. The shelves were filled with big shells from the Caribbean and various awards of the kind inflicted on Ben and Patrick at the Homeless Prevention League dinner. I left the awards where they had been abandoned. They were easy to ignore.

  Bo Freeman arrived at the unlocked door exactly on time, not something I expected at all. I had planned to go through the rest of the master closet and box up another set of clothing, maybe even all of it, while I waited for him to appear. A project made the waiting easier.

  But here he was.

  “Hello.” I greeted him as enthusiastically as I could, considering I thought he may be the serial killer. Although in all fairness, he didn’t seem familiar with the house. I heard of killers returning to the scene of the crime, but buying it?

  He shook my hand. His grip was warm and firm. I relaxed a bit, but couldn’t relax completely. The saw, Beverley’s body, the bodies in the creek, and no motive at all, not even a speculative motive, which should have been trumpeted on the front page, had me feeling a bit edgy. With no answers, everyone was a suspect. Be careful, watch your back. Don’t allow strangers into your empty house. As if I’ve ever listened to that advice.

  Mr. Freeman walked the same pattern he followed when he first viewed the house, but in more detail. He didn’t say much, which was just as well. I followed him at a cautious distance as he wound about the house.

  He knocked on the walls, peeked out onto the deck outside the kitchen. He asked about run off, view lines, all typical questions. He didn’t ask about anything inappropriate, nothing weird, nothing odd. Plus, he did not mention the murder or the bad chi of the house.

  “Do you think the seller is willing to negotiate?” He finally asked.

  “Do you want me to write an offer?” It was the only thing I could do, as the agent for both this Mr. Freeman and Ben, otherwise I’m negotiating with myself, and I have too much information, and not enough schizophrenia to pull that off.

  “Maybe.” He glanced around the living room. By then I had
edged him towards the front door. “It’s hard to tell if there’s enough light.” He commented.

  “On the shortest day of the year? Yes.” I confirmed. “But the dining room has lovely view of the mountains.” And of more houses built up on those mountains, but I didn’t point that out.

  “I’ll get back to you.” He promised.

  I hoped not, but I was representing a client, and this is my job. So I smiled with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, and ushered him out the front door.

  It was only three thirty. I glanced upstairs, it was in pretty good shape. I could fill a couple more boxes with clothes. I knew where to get the boxes.

  The volume of boxes and packing material stuffed into the two-car garage was daunting. Should I do this all at once? Of course I should. But, I didn’t have the heart for it.

  I wondered who would get the car? Maybe Beverley’s parents could use a new car, so they could drive better at night. Ben said they were very stoic through the funeral, they asked for donations to be sent to the Homeless Prevention League, in lieu of flowers. They did not ask for any of Beverley’s things.

  Boxes were piled all across the garage floor, blocking the side window. Some stacks teetered precariously in kindergarten versions of skyscrapers that skimmed the rafters. I negotiated my way to those tall towers. I pushed back one or two tentatively, to feel their weight. I pulled down the empty boxes, they would hold the last of the wardrobe from upstairs.

  The last box under the third box tower was a sealed Fed Ex box. I pushed against it to feel the weight of it.

  It was heavy. Full and ready to ship.

  Of course. It’s almost the same to ship as it is to pay the extra weight at check-through. Or, so say Rosemary and Katherine, the world travelers of our office. No, they do not travel together.