Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith

by Catharine Bramkamp

  Carrie gestured to the wine glasses and the waiter poured. The rice wine was sweet and cold.

  I toasted her with my glass.

  She clicked her glass against mine. “I ordered it before you came in, I thought it would be more festive. You do feel festive don’t you?”

  “It’s a beautiful ring.” I said. “You deserve the ring, the man and the life, better than anyone I’ve ever known. And yes, I feel festive.” Once I recovered from the shock.

  “You found the murderer didn’t you?” She took a sip of her wine.

  I nodded.

  “Was it Professor Von Drake?”

  I stared at her, my sake half way to my mouth. How did she do that? Every once in a while she popped off with the answer. She is far more intelligent than she even gives herself credit for.

  “You do realize, you sent me right to him, burdened with blankets that I have half a mind to give you the receipt for.”

  “But you won’t.” She toasted me with her sake. Her ring caught the light and glared painfully into my eye. I blinked.

  “And I didn’t ever think it could be him, I mean, the professor was so charming, really lovely to me, he said I reminded him of Beverley.”

  “And you took that as a compliment?” Our first course arrived, and we slurped salty miso soup between sips of sake.

  “No, but I did use the professor’s comment yesterday when Patrick and I were discussing the honeymoon.”

  “Damn you’re good.” I said admiringly.

  “Allison.” She set down her soup bowl and leaned forward. “I would never have sent you to the RVs if I thought anything was wrong. I didn’t really figure it out until later. When all the excitement over the ring and the engagement died down a bit, Patrick and were talking about the murders and what was involved, and that’s when we came to the conclusion that it was the professor. Patrick had a lot of insight about erratic behavior.”

  “It was also in the paper that morning.” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but Patrick said he was always uncomfortable with the way the professor was so easy to anger, and how he got worked up about the lack of recognition, things of that nature. Plus, we thought that maybe since Beverley hired some of the Homeless Prevention League clients to do odd jobs, she probably hired the Professor to come during Thanksgiving to paint. And when we thought about it a bit more, we realized that the professor probably had help.”

  “Probably.” I hadn’t thought about that, he had made his work sound like a solo act. Of course he would, he was working on being the star, any of the little people who had helped him, and I didn’t really want to think of it any further than that, would remain unnamed.

  And they would be still free, but leaderless.

  “Now, you can start the new year clean.” Carrie encouraged.

  I thought about Ben’s proposal, no less weighty for lack of jewelry. Did I want to move in? Rent my house? Change my life? Did he want to move into my house? Should we get a place together? That’s what I would suggest to any other couple, but I rarely take my own good advice.

  At least, and I’m going to give myself full credit for this, I did not react badly to Ben’s proposal, in that I didn’t dismiss him, didn’t say, give me time, let me think about it. I was pretty straight forward. I said, “great, I would love to have you to myself 24/7. Your place or mine?”

  It was the perfect response. It bought me some time, because the question, your place or mine, is fraught with complications. It’s going to take a bit of time for us to figure this out.

  For Carrie, there are no questions. The princess will be drawn into the family compound and I hope that won’t be the last I see of her.

  “Will this change our friendship?” I asked.

  She made a face. “Never. Besides, Patrick likes Ben, we’ll be together, a lot, I think.”

  I couldn’t help it, Carrie’s diamond drew me in, as if it was one of Rosemary’s magnets. “It’s amazing.” I said, absolutely sincerely. Carrie is going to have to return to the gym, she’ll need to work out so she can pick up her hand.

  “We’re holding an engagement party on New Year’s Eve. You and Ben are invited of course.”

  “Of course.” I said. Damn that thing was the size of well, one of my fake rings, or all of them, put together.

  “It’s at the French Laundry.” Carrie said. “Patrick reserved the whole restaurant.”

  The French Laundry is so exclusive and expensive that even I hadn’t been there. The three star restaurant is located in Yountville in the Napa Valley; where the rich live, and the wines are pretty good, but this is from a Sonoma county resident, we only grudgingly appreciate of any wine not from our own vineyards.

  Anyway, a person, any person, can’t just walk into the French Laundry off the street and order dinner. A person must make reservations two months to the day in advance, and if that person is planning on eating more than bread, he or she should check the equity line of credit on the house, to make sure dessert is covered.

  “New Year’s Eve? Are you kidding me?” I blurted out, because all that last information went through my brain faster than it took to explain it to you.

  She glanced at her hand. The ring, really, was rock star huge. Ginormous.

  “Allison. What have I done?”

  Epilogue

  Christmas Day is quiet in the Wal-Mart parking lot. The bargains had been purchased, the specials fought over, the dollar bins cleaned out and stuffed randomly into stockings hung by the fire with increasing obligation and decreasing wonder.

  She considered herself, ironically, a member of the disenfranchised, if it could be said that the disenfranchised have a membership. She was at loose ends, and decided to walk in the watery, chilly sun. Even if she hadn’t intended to head in that direction this morning, Anne watched enough television to realize it was only a matter of time before she was inextricably drawn to the scene of the crime. Many crimes, she had to admit. Who knew that the story of Homeless Prevention League owning only one shelter instead of thirty or thirty-two or thirty-five (she couldn’t recall exactly how many she had promised over the years) would break, and people would care? Yesterday, their story had made the front page in font so large she could actually read the opening paragraph through the window of the paper kiosk. They were above the fold. She was inordinately pleased with that. Even if it was bad news.

  “All we ask, is spell our names right.” She murmured.

  It wasn’t raining, that was nice. She settled her purse on her shoulder and walked down to the last place she had left the RV.

  She was surprised to see it. After years of claiming a fleet of mobile shelter systems, seeing the phantom shelter units so clearly in her mind, so she could convince any donor that the network was enormous, it was almost startling to see the real thing. But that was silly, she knew their one RV intimately. Now that she was more removed from the immediacy of her job, she marveled at the hubris that led her to her park it, one last time, in the center of the Wal-Mart parking lot.

  She stood on the rough worn asphalt clutching her bag, wondering. A breeze tossed an empty holiday sticker shell, the outlines of red bells and green holly momentarily caught her attention, before it tossed away to the edge of the lot.

  “So.” Harold walked up and stood next to her. “It’s still here.”

  “It should be admitted for evidence, scene of the last murder. But the police couldn’t guard everything on Christmas Eve.” She glanced sideways at him, how did he find her? On this day? At this hour? No one hangs around a parking lot. Not even the professor would stoop to that. All the homeless would be at some dinner or another. Fed for this one day.

  She however, had no place to go.

  “Last place anyone would look.” She surveyed the oil stained parking lot. “It fits right in, don’t you think?”

  He said nothing. He silently stood next to her in the noon light. He thought of her as being like the swallows. She had to return to the RV, at least for one
last look, before she moved on to something else. And he’d never see her again.

  “You’re taking it pretty well.” She ventured.

  He narrowed his eyes against the sun. The professor was gone, in a safer place, a harsher regime to be sure, but still, three meals a day, still the guest of the tax payers.

  That’s how it is.

  “Adversity looks good on you.”

  “Well, thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be able to write a book about it.”

  “Nor I.”

  They both stood and looked at the RV. The door to the living section was smashed, but it still closed. One back room was probably a horrible mess and would need through cleaning.

  “Color TV.” She said.

  “Really? Still there?” Harold was surprised.

  She nodded. “I locked it right after the police removed the professor.”

  “And how did you come to lock up after the arrest?”

  “I was his phone call.”

  He nodded, and squinted at the RV again. “He once suggested driving away in it.”

  “Of course he’d be arrested before he left town. Besides, we don’t keep much gas in it. But now the gas is all gone, almost all gone.” She amended.

  She had enough gas to get it to the Wal-Mart, in the pouring rain. No one noticed her at all. She seemed to be the only one who noticed the dark stains in the back of the bus. The police were probably now learning about that themselves.

  “I think he killed Cyndi then drove her back to the office.”

  “To point the finger at us.”

  “He had nothing to lose.”

  Harold ran his hand over the clean side of the van and walked around to the front where the door stood locked against all do-gooders and criminals alike. From this new angle the RV glowed copper color.

  For twenty-four hours it had rested here, ignored, while reporters and Chris Conner, wasted their energy and their Christmas morning scouring the county for the other RVs. No one thought to ask he or Anne

  “Here.” Anne fished out something from her enormous handbag and pulled out a key ring. She handed him the keys.

  He looked down at the shiny objects in his hand, surprised, as if she were a magic genie handing him all the wishes in the world, the magic lamp, the magic compass, the magic ring. Keys unlocked mysterious doors with old runic writing, they unlocked the front gates of castles, they unlocked secret boxes that often were best kept closed.

  “We would be stopped.”

  “Cyndi was pretty haphazard with her filing system.” Anne dug around again in her voluminous purse. He sighed automatically. What would she come up with? An egg? Photos of someone else’s children? Sausage and cheese ball? Shrimp?

  She pulled out the pink slip to the RV.

  His mouth fell open as if she had levitated, finishing up the magic trick during which leopards and woodland creatures disappeared before your eyes, then appeared again at the back of the theater.

  “Cyndi was always a little casual in her filing system. I found this last year and kept it, just in case.”

  “In case the board members asked to see all the ownership slips for the thirty one vehicles?”

  “Thirty two, I would have told them the pink slips were in the safe.” Anne said with confidence.

  “We don’t have a safe.”

  “We don’t have fleet of RVs, either.”

  He hefted the keys in his hand. “You want to come?”

  She shrugged her bag onto her shoulder more securely. “Sure.”

  Continue on with Allison

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  A 380 Degree View

  Book 4 in the Real Estate Diva Mysteries

  Chapter One

  Since my grandmother, Prue Singleton wouldn’t call me, I manifested my own outcomes, and called her.

  “I hear gunshots.” I hoped she was watching TV, except my grandmother never watches TV.

  “That’s just the shooting range.” My grandmother’s voice wavered a bit. “You know how sound echoes up here. It sounds closer since the fire.”

  “That’s not comforting.” I pointed out. Could the guns be closer as well? No, that was ridiculous. The shooting range was only within walking distance if Prue cut through about a dozen privately owned back yards. But she would never cut through other back yards, nor did she need to visit the gun club. No, she was safe.

  “I don’t really hear it honey. Inside the house it’s not loud at all.” She sighed.

  “Grandma what’s wrong?”

  “Oh,” she said airily, as if it was nothing at all. “I broke my foot. You know how inconvenient that is.”

  My stomach tightened and my own complaints died on my lips. “How did you break your foot?” When it came to my grandmother, Prue Singleton, there were too many options: she slipped in her greenhouse where she grew “medicinal” marijuana; she decided to repair the roof herself and slipped, falling two stories to the cement walkway below; she was shoveling snow off her sidewalk and twisted her ankle; she fell down two flights of stairs and had laid motionless for hours before one of her tenants wanted a martini and found her on the hardwood.

  “Oh, it was silly, I just slipped. How are you feeling? All recovered?” She was actually interested in my answer, I could tell. Perhaps she hadn’t expressed much sympathy at the time, because I’m unusual. All Sullivan women get pregnant early and completely, there are no half measures. This genetic propensities explains why I have an older brother and a relatively young mother (do not confront her with the math) and why my grandmother is “more youthful” than people think she should be. I’m thirty-six, well past any expectation by the family that I will ever reproduce and certainly past the “mistake” phase. But couldn’t I get at least some sympathy?

  I could, if anyone had known. Announcing my current challenge (we don’t say the word problem in sales and marketing, we use words like challenge, opportunity and situation) wasn’t really an option, or appropriate. Inez, my manager at New Century Realty, was not aware of my loss and thus was not cutting me any slack. So it was really my own fault.

  Inez had problems (challenges, opportunities, situations) of her own. The numbers for our office were not good, or even sustainable. It must be dire; I was forced to interrupt my Pirates of the Caribbean marathon to slouch down to the office for a special mandatory meeting with my manager.

  “You’re not working as hard as you should.” Inez flicked her long red nails at me and then tapped on a stack of spreadsheets. I was one of her top producers, had been for a long time. I was not used to hearing that I was not working hard enough. My small hiatus in the last month or so was an exception, and as I stated before, I think I deserved it.

  “Rosemary,” Inez pushed back her heavily styled hair, “has three listings, and Katherine has four, not great, but at least they are out hustling.” Inez patted her coif in place. She returned to the Excel spreadsheet on her desk. I shifted uncomfortably.

  Rosemary and Katherine held the other two top producer monikers in our office with me operating a comfortable two or three escrows behind them. Was that now a problem?

  “What have you been doing?” Inez pursed her lipsticked mouth and scanned the spreadsheet filled with escrows listed for this month. She didn’t need to look; I could have just told her my name was conspicuously absent from the list.

  “Looking for houses.” For myself, not for clients. I didn’t say that out loud.

  “Yeah, like Goldilocks.” Inez tugged at a heavy gold hoop and then took it off and tossed it into her IN box. “This one is too small, this one is too mid-century, this one is too much work. This one’s in a flood zone.”

  “Not enough choices I suppose.” It was a lame excuse. For a month I had looked for a house with one set of features: a study, a guest room for grandmothers, walk to restaurants. Then abruptly I was searching for good schools, an enclosed yard and a separate master bedroom suit.

>   Three weeks later I was back to looking for studies and views. It was a see-saw of emotions that made me sicker than I had felt during the whole month of January. Inez did not know all this; I did not hold her ignorance against her.

  “You need to focus on your work. Mary at the head office is only focused on escrow’s closed, not effort.” She dragged out the word. “And I don’t have to tell you, your name is not on this list.” She rattled the spreadsheet. “We might have to stop carrying you.”

  “Carrying me? I’m one of your top sellers!” My confidence that my past history would do exactly that, carry me through the present, quickly eroded. “But I’m one of your stars! Carrying me?”

  “And what are you doing right now?” Her voice rose. “I’ll tell you what you should be doing right now: contacting all your old clients for referrals, sending out direct mail pieces, renewing your directorship in the local MLS. You should be on the phone at least five hours a day.”

  She chanted it out like a mantra with magic properties: pick up the phone: sell a house, repeat. Dialing for dollars.

  “I know.” But I couldn’t bear to pick up a phone. How exactly could I answer the question, “What have you been up to lately?”

  “Allison, I just need to let you know. We can’t afford to keep any agent who isn’t contributing.”

  I must have looked pretty startled. Inez reached over her desk and grabbed my hand. Her manicure was freshly done, my nails looked ragged and pathetic in contrast. I couldn’t pull my focus away from that trivial comparison.

  “Please.” Her voice was low and pleading, as if the economy was in my control and I just chose to create the worst real estate market since the Great Depression. “You are one of my stars, but New Century National is on a rampage to cut out all un-producing agents, and they aren’t looking that deeply into history. You need to do something.”

  I need to do something.

  So when my grandmother, Prue Sullivan, told me about her injury, I wasn’t in a particularly stable mood.