Backyard (23 page)

24

A Proposition

A
man George and Nan didn't know, and dressed for business besides, parked his shiny new Honda on Payne Avenue behind Cullen's Camaro. He spotted them lounging in the backyard and walked up the steps leading to the patio with a smile and a casual wave. He was carrying a satchel, which appeared to be made out of fancy leather. It gleamed a rich, unblemished brown and had a gold clasp that shot reflected flashes of sunlight right at them.

“Turn off those brights,” said George, shielding his eyes. The upscale briefcase struck George and Nan as strange, as the religious proselytizers they had entertained from time to time never seemed to carry such an accoutrement. Neither did they wear sport coats. Come to think of it, the mirror-lensed aviator sunglasses, blue Oxford-cloth shirt, and striped tie looked kind of out of place, too. They wondered whether this might be some high muckety-muck associated with Burdick's Best Yard Contest, or maybe a salesman of encyclopedias or laxatives.

“Greetings!” said the man as he stepped onto the patio purposefully. “Great day to be lounging around. Taking the day off, I see. Vacation?”

“We're not taking the day off,” said George, who took an instant dislike to the man and his patently disdainful attitude toward sloth. “This is our work. We sit and watch our gardens, and drink a little wine. Besides, it's almost noon. Aren't most self-respecting epicureans relaxing around this time of day?”

The man chuckled self-consciously.

“Sure,” he said, reflecting uneasily that he had somehow insulted the Fremonts. “Sure. After this, I'm gonna go play golf, for instance. I know a guy who sits around and drinks during the day. He got laid off work and just went through a divorce, though. Ha-ha. Ha-ha.”

George and Nan grimaced.

“We never drink to excess if we can help it,” Nan said firmly. “At least not too much to excess. We have not been fired by anyone and we are not contemplating divorce. Are we, George?”

“No, unless you make me do the laundry today.”

“Ha-ha, ha-ha,” went the man. “Brother, do I know how
that
goes.”

“Can we help you, Mister . . . Mister?”

“Abelard. John Abelard.” John Abelard laid his briefcase on one of the patio chairs, and plucked a business card out of his billfold to present to George.

“Schwall's Dry Cleaning? I didn't know dry cleaners made house calls.”

“We don't have anything that needs dry cleaning now anyway,” Nan said. “Usually, we take it to Jocelyn's Dry Cleaners right here in Livia.”

Mr. Abelard slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead.

“A thousand pardons,” he said, holding his hand out for George to return the card to him. “Wrong card.” He put the card back in his billfold, wondering if the trick, which veteran colleagues told him was a great ice-breaker for cold-call visits, would work. He pulled another one out and handed it to George.

“This is the genuine article. Well, gee, at least that helped me remember I've got something to pick up on the way home. Ha-ha, ha-ha.”

George inspected the card and raised his eyebrows.

“Hmm, a realtor, huh?”

“That's right,” said Mr. Abelard, straightening up and smiling proudly as he removed his sunglasses to reveal sunken, beady, darting eyes that reminded Nan of whatever animal it was that had sunken, beady, darting eyes. She could understand now why he might want to wear sunglasses, even in the dark. “One of the best around, and specializing in Livia properties. I made the $1,350,000 club last year. Not too many in my business do that well.”

“How nice,” said Nan.

“What brings you to us?” said George. “Glass of merlot?”

Mr. Abelard paused, his eyes shifting furiously, and tilted his head as if in careful reflection, pretending to consider the offer.

“Gee, I'd love to but I can't,” he said. “Not while I'm working. But thanks so very much for the offer. How 'bout a rain check? I'll take you up on that someday when
none
of us is working. Ha-ha.”

George and Nan nodded stiffly, hoping that he would never return to take them up on that offer.

“Well, I'll get right down to brass tacks.” With that he opened up his satchel and removed a sheaf of papers, then pulled back one of the patio chairs. “May I?”

“Certainly,” said George.

Mr. Abelard sat down and leafed through his papers for a moment. He put on a pair of reading glasses, not because he needed them, but to impress prospective clients with his supposed erudition.

“The old vision's not what it used to be,” he said. “Ha-ha, ha-ha.”

Mr. Abelard went through the papers again, then laid them on the table. In doing so, he allowed his coat sleeve to pull back, revealing a very expensive Rolex watch gleaming in silvery splendor from his wrist. Such a tactic, he had learned, impressed and intimidated possible clients. Intimidation, he had been told by those in the know, was the fifth of the seven keys to success in business. But it couldn't be carried too far. A little pushing, a little feigned surprise when someone turned him down, and a fast-paced, let's-get-'er-done approach when someone showed the slightest inclination to sign on with him was how you hooked a prospective seller.

“A client of mine who lives right here in Balsam—”

“Livia.”

“What?”

“You're in Livia now, Mr. Abelard. Balsam is twenty miles away.”

“Ah, certainly. So sorry. I have an appointment in Balsam tomorrow. You know us busy realtors. No time to think! Uh, as I say, my client, who lives right here in Livia, is interested in your property and would like to buy it . . . or, at least,
use
it for a few days. What do you say?”

George shifted uneasily in his chair. Nan quickly drained the rest of her wineglass, and just as quickly filled it back up again.

“My client is willing to pay you more than the market value for your house—within reason, of course. Or, if you prefer, keep your house, and allow her use of the grounds for, oh, three to four days. She, of course, would pay for that use. We call that an easement.”

“How much more than market value?” said George.

“I don't have an exact figure at this point. Within reason, as I said. Hmmm, you could be looking at ten to fifteen percent over market value.”

“How much for using it?”

“Two thousand dollars a day.”

George cleared his throat.

“Should you sell, a condition would also be that she have immediate access to the property. Not the house. You can continue to live there until you find a new place. She would just need access to your backyard for three to four hours a day.”

“Why?” said Nan.

“Why?” said Mr. Abelard as he pulled out a sheet of paper from his sheaf and laid it on the table in front of George and Nan. “She is an archaeologist who is interested in this property for historical reasons. You see, my client is convinced that your house rests on an old Indian burial ground. Hundreds of years old, but with skeletons still moldering away not more than ten to twenty feet under your backyard. If she owned this property, she would be able to study this Indian graveyard without the constraints of time or having to seek permission to dig it up.”

“Burial ground!” George and Nan cried.

“Certainly. The Indians in the vicinity may well have buried their dead right beneath your property.”

“Hmmm,” said George, as laconically as if he had just been told something mildly interesting about the digestive tract of a manatee. Nan figured he must have suddenly sampled semi-somnolent ennui from his rather limited emotional palette.

“You should know that Indian spirits are renowned for looking after their old stomping grounds . . . and protecting them by whatever means necessary.”

Nan shivered.

“My client, a member of our august state archaeologist's office, has asked me to urge you to do nothing to disturb the grounds. Otherwise, the spirits might take offense.”

“Don't disturb the grounds!” Nan cried. “Why, we've been doing nothing
but
disturb the grounds for the past six years! What about the house? Somebody built the house on the burial grounds and there it stands, as sturdy and safe as ever.”

“My client informs me that the probable burial site is not under the house itself, but under the yard; indeed, under where many of your remarkable gardens are now located.”

“But what about all the work we've done on our gardens?” said Nan. “Isn't it possible that the dead approve of what we're doing and have been blessing them in whatever way dead Indians bless things?”

“My client said the spirits are probably really mad now and will get even madder if you so much as lay a hoe edge to any of your gardens. She asks you to please refrain from any future improvements that will disturb the souls underneath. Don't even water the grounds. Let nature take care of it, is what my client counsels. Sell or rent the property to a trained archaeologist, of course, and she will know exactly how to placate these restless spirits.”

“Who
is
this client of yours anyway?” said George.

“You've probably heard of her,” Mr. Abelard said. “Dr. Phyllis Sproot?”

“Yes, that name
does
sound familiar,” Nan said.

“Wait a second,” said George. “Isn't she one of those gardening nuts I overheard Earlene McGillicuddy telling you about?”

“Why, yes, George, I believe it was . . . the
trespasser!
”

“And she's an archaeologist, too?”

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Abelard said. “My client is a woman of many interests, gardening being second only to archaeology. But she would never stoop to trespassing. Never! I would stake my professional reputation on that. Just so you know everything is on the up-and-up, I've got an official document here attesting to the probable archaeological value of the property signed by Dr. Sproot herself.”

Mr. Abelard pushed the paper he had separated from his pile toward George and Nan. It bore the letterhead of the state's “Department of Archaeological Research,” and, at the bottom, the signature of one “Dr. Phyllis Sproot, Assistant Director in Charge of Indian Artifacts and Burial Grounds.”

“Looks official enough,” said Nan, pushing the document back to Mr. Abelard after she and George perused it. “But I wonder if this is that same woman running around in a monk's cowl or whatever it was she was wearing?”

“And who supposedly will do whatever it takes to win the Burdick's contest. Or, hey, maybe that woman who's been poking around in the yard and won't even come over to make a little polite conversation.”

“That's right, George! That's right!”

“I can assure you that is just some libelous rumor being passed around the neighborhood,” said Mr. Abelard as he leafed through his pile of papers and retrieved another document. “My client does not run around masquerading as a monk and trespassing on people's private property, though I suppose she might have taken a gander at your backyard at some point. I mean, after all, she wouldn't be doing her job as an archaeologist if she didn't do a little site inspecting . . . hee-hee. Now, we can get this done in a jiffy.” He pointed his pen at the bottom lines on the document.

“All you need to do is sign right there, and that will get the process rolling. Or, if you prefer a rental arrangement, I have that document right here, too. There will be more to sign and get notarized later, but this will do for now. Need a pen?”

“The house is
not
for sale . . . at least not yet,” said Nan.

“It's not? What do you mean it's not?”

Neither George nor Nan liked the tone of this response.

“Just what she said,” George said. “It's not for sale, perhaps never for sale.”

“She said not now.”

“Take that to mean never.”

“Mr. Froebel . . .”

“Fremont.”

“Huh?”

“Fremont is my name.”

“Oh, dear, yes . . . Fremont. So sorry. Too much to do today. Ha-ha, ha-ha. You are being offered a price for this property that you could probably not ever get for it, except from my client. Who knows, maybe she would even go twenty percent over market. If that's not generous enough, why not sign the temporary use agreement? That could give you a quick $6,000 to $8,000. I'm thinking my client might even go up to $3,000 a day, but no more than that. Certainly, no more than that.” George and Nan looked at each other in silence. Mr. Abelard sensed an opening.

“Sign now,” he said, thrusting the pen toward George. “I have the two documents here. The sales agreement merely promises that you will sell the property to my client for an agreed-upon sum. We don't have to talk about an actual amount now. That can be agreed on later. Or, if you wish, I can take any amount you have in mind, take it to my client, and return today with your answer. Or, if you sign now, and no amount is agreed on, the deal is kaput, and the document is voided. I will tear it up with no hard feelings.”

Mr. Abelard picked up the paper and made a tearing motion across it.

“But, as I said, a condition of the agreement would be that my client is allowed to begin her exploration of these historic grounds immediately.”

“You mean, to wreck our gardens?” Nan said.

“Ah . . . I don't think
wreck
is quite the word. There are a few spots where Dr. Sproot said she must do exploratory digs. Ummmm, some slight damage, perhaps, but only minimal. She'd just be scratching the surface of what she'd
like
to do. Then, as I said, you can back out if you change your mind . . . so could my client, for that matter.... I have here the rental document as well. Think about it, thousands of bucks for a little disturbance to the soil, and you keep the property anyway.”