Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (8 page)

He stared at me, uncomprehendingly.

“It’s like buying fine wine.” Not a glimmer of understanding in his face. I tried again.

“It’s like buying new power tools.”

His expression cleared. “Oh, okay, I see.”

The shear volume of stuff flowed from bedroom closet to the kitchen. Beverley stashed an incomprehensible amount of new goods in every cupboard (I spent a paragraph in the MLS on the storage in the kitchen).  Piles of holiday plates for every holiday were crammed into the pantry. A huge industrial grade mixer in pink for awareness sat on the panty floor. New looking Calphalon pots and pans swayed from a hanging rack above the range.

I found blenders, another mixer, a regular sized Cuisinart mixer, a small Cuisinart blender, and the mini Cuisinart chopper displayed on a lower shelf in graduated sizes, they resembled the babushka dolls Katherine brought back from one of her trips to Russia.  A shiny espresso machine and matching coffee grinder gleamed on the granite counter. Every item represented the best of its breed. This was not a woman who was sitting at home watching the shopping channel.  I’ve been in those homes. Shopping Channel crap never stays put; it has a propensity to spill out of cupboards and storage bins, as if the sale items missed the spotlight of their most recent television appearance and need to always be admired.

Beverley had the taste and the cahones to buy everything that was pricey and “valuable.”  Yet the coveted items were not neatly put away, or even used. It was if she opened the packages and abandoned the prize right where it was first unwrapped.

I was reluctant to open the garage door, and I was right to be cautious, no heavy objects fell on me, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have. Carelessly stacked boxes, furniture, tables, more chairs, and loose collections of free gifts from name brand cosmetic promotions swayed precariously from the breeze I created by opening the door. The stacks and stacks of boxes were so high that a sneeze would topple them onto the late model Mercedes wedged between the living room chairs and stacks of papers and periodicals. 

“
I’ll never shop again.” I said out loud.

“Then our work here is done
.” Ben said, with the first real smile I’d seen all day.

But the questions still lingered, as well they may.  Ben rummaged through the paper and packaging strewn kitchen, randomly opening cupboards and closing them without much regard.

“Why sell the art?  Why mortgage the house?”  It was a rhetorical question; I knew he didn’t expect me to answer.

“
Drugs?” I suggested.

“
Maybe, but she didn’t die of an overdose.”

“
No, she did not.  Blackmail?” I offered up, anyway.

“But why? It would be very, very difficult to really black mail a person now-a-days. A scandal wouldn’t necessarily decrease your stock in society. It would probably elevate you to notorious, always a desirable status in this culture.” 

He opened the high cupboard over the stove, a popular place for liquor that is not often used, as was the case with Beverley. He pulled down an ancient bottle of Kahlua coffee liquor and a huge bottle of industrial grade vodka, half full.

“
A scandal barely makes the local paper. No one really cares after the first conversation, and nothing stays on the front page for very long.”  He held up both contents to the light.  “I swear these were here when I moved in.”

“Not much of a drinker?”

“At least not alone.”

“So why did she sell?” I asked him.  I thought it was obvious, but he had to come to his own conclusion. I was in no position to denigrate a recently dead client. 

“
A quick get away?  Liquidate all the stuff and leave the country?”  He dumped the liquor down the sink and tossed the empty bottles into the recycling.

  He put his hands on his hips and glared at the door leading to the garage.  “Should I
clean that up before we show the house?”

He looked tense, and I had learned quickly that he was a man of action, taking his stress or energy and channeling it into outward focused activities. His expression told me he was ready to tackle something big, some huge distracting project, and in every home, that meant cleaning the garage. It meant tossing out things that had some good left in them, tossing out all those things you may need some day. I meant chaos.
             

“Do you think she was planning to escape to some place warm?”  I asked. I edged closer to the door connecting the kitchen and garage to protect the contents from his well meaning
administrations.

He raised his eyebrows. “Remind me not to underestimate you in the future. That’s a good possibility.  I’ll call the bank.” 

“They won’t tell you anything.”

“
Yes, they will. I’m still on her accounts.”

“
That makes you appear even more suspicious” For instance, he told me he hadn’t stopped by to sign the listing papers, but his signature was there on the agreement.

“
It does, doesn’t it?” He agreed, matter-of-factly.

I narrowed my eyes. “Have you been talking to the police?”

He sat down at the kitchen table, it wobbled when his elbow hit it. It was not the best quality. Maybe she was a patron of the shopping network after all.

“I already talked to the police. They were kind enough to inform me that I’m their number one suspect. Don’t leave town, person of interest, and all that.”

“Loved ones usually are.” 

“Or screwed over ones.”  He ran his hands through his hair, but at least there was no glue to make his hair stand on end.

“I’ll have to disclose the death and the murder when I show the house.  At this rate, I’ll get a reputation.” I pointed out.

“Undeserved.”

“Who do you think did it?”

He rubbed his face and smoothed his hair.
“My first guess is something out of the
Orient Express,
and everyone did it. Every one of those guys in the pictures probably gave her something; jewelry, gifts, at the very least, dinner. And what did they get?  Nothing.”

I disagree, they probably got something,
but it was not my place to bring that up. Besides, I was too distracted by the idea of each man taking …  

“You think each took their own little, piece
.” I said.

“Sit down.”

I sat down and tasted my hazelnut latte for the second time this morning. But I couldn’t sit still for long.

“
We could start with all those pictures, and ask the men who dated her.”

He gave me a pained – a very pained – look.

“Okay,” I drummed my fingers on the table.  I needed to do something, besides the difficult and daunting task of marketing “Murder Mansion”. The clothes, I could do something about the clothes. The Homeless Prevention League would be the best option, since Beverley supported it.  I’d take over a car-full on my way back from the Broker’s Open tomorrow morning.

I wandered over to the kitchen counter.

I rifled through her paper work in the kitchen; most important paper work starts in the kitchen.  I found the listing agreement in a basket next to the LAN line phone. I flipped to page six.

“
You signed the listing agreement.” I pointed out.

“
Did not.” He contradicted mildly.

“Did so. Is this your signature?”  I brought it over to him.

He glanced at the page. “No, but it’s good enough, Benjamin M. Weiss.”

“
What does the M stand for?”

“
Manly.”

I did not take the bait.  “She said you’d be happy to sign.” 

“I’m sure she did, and I’m sure this wasn’t the first time. All those loans against the house? I probably happily signed for those, too.  She was clever.”

“Apparently not that
clever.” I pointed out.

“The police said she liquidated everything, all her accounts, and obviously, she sold the art. I wonder to whom?”

I reviewed the listing price. “How am I going to explain the murder?”  I said out loud.

“Accident?”

“They said that in the papers.”

He nodded. “That detective? The one who raced up the stairs?”

“Yes, I thought he was the coroner or something.”

“Doesn’t matter. At the station, the detective told me they didn’t want to release the details of the murder, so the confessions would be easy to cull out. Apparently, there are a number of people happy to confess to murders.”

“Gets them on TV.” I confirmed.

“Exactly, and when they don’t get on TV?”

“It must piss them off.” I concluded, “but wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

“What, pissing off a psychopathic murderer?  The police don’t think he’ll strike again, and they went to great lengths to tell me they thought this was personal.”

“About as personal as you can get.” I agreed.  “Listen, what about reducing the price?” I suggested tentatively.

“Of course. How much do we need to sell it for?”

“Not too low, I want to give you a bit of wiggle room.” I suggested.

“Drop it to the bare bone minimum, enough to cover the commissions and the loans if that’s possible.”

I calculated. “It’s possible.” I glanced up at him. “Thanks.”

“
I always pay people for their work.” He said seriously.

Chapter 6

Thursday was not shaping up into a fun-filled day
. First off, it was raining, not unusual, but it did contribute to the general atmosphere of gloom and despair for the day. To make the 8:30 MLS (Multiple Listing Service) and Broker’s meeting, I had to get out of bed earlier than my usual time.  There was no Ben to comfort me or cajole me or otherwise entertain me in the dark morning, which left me feeling flat and uninspired.

I groped around in the shower for my shampoo and banged my elbow. Because it mattered, my hair didn’t cooperate
. I couldn’t find my favorite Charles Jordan boots, and was forced to settle for my second favorite pair of Anne Klein boots, which were brown not black, which necessitated a whole new whole outfit. To add insult to injury, the skirt that matched the boots didn’t fit, and I had to come up with yet a third option. 

I hit every red light from my house up to the Hyatt and had to circle the parking lot twice before finding a space big enough
to prevent the doors of the Lexus from getting dinged.

A two-story Christmas tree
overpowered the lobby.  It festooned with enormous red bows that gradually decreased in size as they reached the top. A red draped angel with a tiny gold trumpet hovered over the fake pine tree. Hark and all that. I turned to the  greeter.  She nodded, as I approached the table with the Rivers Bend Realtor Association Sign prominently displayed.

The cost for breakfast is eight dollars
, says on on the sign.  I pulled out my wallet and found two, one dollar bills. 

“Will you take a check?” I asked her.

“Allison,” Mary Beth (from CPS) looked at me with pity in her eyes.  “You are aware the hotel asked us to take only cash. If you ever came to a Board Meeting you’d know that.”

“I’m on the Board? I’ll have to owe you
.” I threatened. My hand hit my phone as I rummaged around for a pen to write an I.O.U. I pulled it out and turned the ringer to vibrate.

She looked at me. I looked at her and tried not to tug at my skirt because this one was fitting pretty snuggly as well.

“Oh, promise not to eat anything.” She grumbled.

I took a breath right before I walked in.  I surveyed the crowd for a friendly face, found none, and slunk to a table. I grabbed a cup of hot coffee on my way. No matter how long I work in this business, there is something very intimidating about the weekly MLS meetings.  I
always feel like a theater major stepping into cheerleading camp. This from a former cheerleader.

I missed the opening announcements. Agents were now grabbing the mobile microphone to announce community holiday fairs, the coat drive, and where we could drop off new un-wrapped toys for Toys for Tots. A new Farmer’s Insurance agent was introduced.  She stood, licked her shiny, glossy lips, and proceeded to waste three minutes describing how she saved this hapless Realtor money with her fabulous insurance services and she, Heather, can do the same for any of us.   

“I’ve been serving Sonoma County for years,” she cooed into the microphone, and repeated her phone number twice.

I squinted at her glossy lips. I recognized her.
Oh my goodness, it was the Heather.  She actually worked at our office for what, ten minutes. She was one of those bright young things who seems to have great potential the first week on staff, but ends up a bad deal by the second week. It turned out that Heather was not very good finding her way around Rivers Bend. I think she even got lost driving to her own house. As for years in the business, the only years Heather had already racked up was tenure in glee club.

I wished any and all
of Heather’s insurance clients the best of luck. When Heather finally sat down, the group applauded politely but unenthusiastically.

I nodded to two other Realtors and they nodded back. I glanced at, but did not make eye contact with, the third member of my table.  He was a self
-proclaimed member of the Rivers Bend Sign Elimination Committee For the Betterment of Rivers Bend. Rosemary nick-named this group the
Sign Nazis
because of their draconian, and often illegal, sign removals.  Self appointed, this group pretends they work for our local listing resource and as such they feel justified to take down any For Sale or directional sign that they themselves, deem unsightly. There were not many of us who had not lost a sign or two to this group because the sign wasn’t in the “right” location.  It can get expensive. The
Sign Nazis
don’t return your signs; they throw them away.  I focused on my coffee and did not look up again.  

The meeting moved quickly forward; announcements, buyer’s needs, pocket listings, new listings not on tour.

I raised my hand, and the microphone and its handler made her way over to me. 

“Hi, Allison Little, New Century Realty.”

“Allison, is this another house of death?”  A cheerful voice called from the back of the room.

“REO? Or is it really a DOA?”  Called another.

“Did you find another dead body?”  That was from Heather, joining in the fun. I was momentarily distracted, as I considered how to take revenge for that comment.               

“Are you now exclusive to accidents?” Another rude question.

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

“
Allison Little, New Century Realty.” I repeated. “I have a new listing, not on tour.”  I glared at the tables daring anyone to interrupt me.  The group finally obliged. “It’s in the Villas.  Priced.” I searched the room for the last agent who spoke. He should talk; his listing has been on and off the market for a year now.

“To sell.”

“Did you get the body out yet?”  Called out Pete, from a competitive office.

“It’s a great property and a great buy
.” I parroted. Stay on message. You’d be surprised how difficult that is when all you want to do is lash out at people.

I stood and endured two more witticisms and sat down. My coffee was cold.  I couldn’t leave until we finished up with the tour sheets and the group all left to tour the open homes we had interest in or had clients for.  It would look bad, even cowardly, if I slunk out now
. And clearly I already looked bad.

I wasn’t in the mood to view the five measly homes on tour that morning.
The holidays take a toll on home sales, always. No one wants to sell during the holidays, and no one wants to buy (but come on, a new house for a Christmas gift?  A memorable gift, no?)

The rain had not let up by the time I hurried to the end of the parking lot. I didn
’t pause to chat with any of my detractors; it was enough that I avoided eye contact with any and all Realtors plus the Committee for Betterment guy. He would probably rush to my listing to determine if my sign met their random and capricious criteria.

I got lost hunting down the Homeless Prevention League offices. The GPS voice had to recalculate many times, as I made U turns around and between one of the many business parks that blur the edges of Rivers Bend proper.

Driving during the holiday season in Rivers Bend is not pleasant. I understand why the onset of Christmas Day inspires frantic consumer activity, but I don’t understand the frantic driving. I love to shop, please understand, but it’s a sport best exercised by those of us who have trained for years, perfecting our craft and increasing our credit limits to astronomical amounts, not by weekend warriors who write out of town checks and forget their IDs. 

In my family, we draw names for gifts. This year, I picked the same sister-in-law I
was stuck with last year. Debbie, married to my oldest brother, Richard, was remarkably unimpressed by my gift last year. I would need to come up with something new and interesting, if I had any enthusiasm left.   All families are annoying in their own way.

After half an hour of driving in circles searching for the Homeless Prevention offices, the GPS voice was finally satisfied, and I found myself in a wasteland of asphalt.

The Homeless Prevention League could probably park their homeless shelter RVs right in front of the business park, and no one would really notice. I wonder if the board of directors ever thought of that.

The rain increased as I dragged the box of clothes from the back of the car.  I couldn’t manage the box of clothes and an umbrella simultaneously, so I balanced the stuffed box as best I could and dashed to the HPL offices that I thought were located to the right of the complex. No. I dashed down one courtyard, only to discover that the numbers stopped one digit short of my destination, so I scrambled back up through the courtyard, down a second courtyard, past a broken fountain, filling with rain water, and to the very back of the complex where I found the discretely marked office door. By then, my hair was lost to the ravage of rain, and wind. And it was only eleven in the morning.

I backed through the glass door, holding the now very damp box of clothing with both hands.

“Oh
!” A woman was just descending the stairs. I set the box on the floor.

“You’re making a donation.”  Her voice was high, on the barely tolerable side of grating. She was dressed in tight jeans decorated with studs and embroidery, and high heel boots. Her outfit was of good quality, but I couldn’t identify the designer.  She wore an incongruous holiday sweater decorated with penguins of the more cartoon variety.

“Yes.” I confirmed.  I tried to fluff my hair back up again, but the rain had soaked it beyond fluffing repair. 

The woman
watched me as I tried to save myself. Quickly bored, she marched over to the box, her high heels clicking in the silence of the empty building.

“Oh, these must be from Beverley,” she said, before I could even explain.

“I recognize the dress. Are you donating the shoes as well?”  She craned her neck around looking for the bag of shoes that should, of course, accompany the clothing.

“I could, I suppose.”

“Do.” She nodded, vigorously. “That will make it easier to sell the clothes.”

“Sell?  Don’t you give them away or something?” I asked. Judging from the roll of her heavily lined eyes, I
had made an incredibly naive comment.  

“What would a homeless woman do with silk?”  She demanded.
“They need blankets and food.”  She thrust out a slender hip and eyed me, as if I were a total fashion moron, which I am not.