Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (9 page)

“We sell them to the
Just As Good Store
, and they mark up the goods for more than they paid and sell them to someone who can really use them. For women,” she eyed me, taking in my soaking hair, bedraggled trench coat, and second favorite boots, “who want a bargain. We both get what we need, cash for more important things.” 

She gathered up the clothes and whisked them off to the back of the narrow office.

Unwilling to launch back into the rain. I looked around a bit. The stairs looked to lead to more offices. To my right was a small office, to my left, another identical, tiny, office space. Scarred, clearly used furniture buckled under the weight of the old, full-sized computer monitors. The staff was probably running on old Windows systems as well.  Weren’t there non-profits devoted to helping those who work in non-profits?  Clearly, there should be some kind of help.

I should mention that to Carrie. She understands this side of life much better than I do.

“There.” The woman returned. She must have calculated the financial boon the clothes could bring, because she was much friendlier. She offered me a big smile in exchange for my donation.

“Bring in the shoes tomorrow
.” She instructed.

“Oh
.” I was a bit taken aback.

“What size?”

“What size what?”  I was too distracted by her dramatic make-up which was appropriate for evening, but in the cold light of morning emphasized the tired lines fanning from her eyes. 

“What size are the shoes?”
She repeated patiently.

“Oh, ten.”

“Pity.”

“Tell me about it.” I didn’t have much to say after that. How’s business?  So, what’s your ROI?  Nothing came to mind, and she certainly didn’t invite more conversation now that she had her donation.

I pushed open the door, and it didn’t move. I pulled it back towards me – a gross violation of California fire codes. It wasn’t until I was safely back in my car that I remembered I needed a receipt for Ben’s taxes.  I did not want to go back out in the rain.

I’d get it tomorrow. When I brought back the damn shoes.

The day did not improve, once I returned to my own office.

Inez, our manager sat stiffly at the head of the conference table.  She was perfectly in tuned with the season, her red, wool suit matched her long red nails.  I always admired her perfect manicure. She started the
Monday office meetings at exactly 12:00. 

“It has come to our attention that we’ve had a series of potentially dangerous incidences, and you all need to be aware of them.”  Inez began doggedly, to an audience of three.

Rosemary and Katherine drifted in at 12:15 PM, each carrying a small lined bags with, I figured, their own diet focused lunch.  Katherine was still limping a bit, but Rosemary looked hungrier.

So far, in the misery race, it was a tie.

Patricia walked in carrying a pink bakery box and set it on the conference table. Tom, another agent with no last name, carried in two large soda bottles and plastic cups.

The sandwiches, it turned out, were either vegetarian or chicken salad.

It’s December. Where’s the hot pastrami and roast beef?  Or, if your holiday movie of choice is
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
, Roast Beast.

Where was my Roast Beast?

“The situation needs to be addressed,” Inez continued as I gingerly picked up a chicken sandwich.

“
First off, you should  no longer hold an open house alone.”

Rosemary and Katherine groaned out loud, so I didn’t have to. I bit into the chicken salad to keep from voicing any opinion.

“We’ve had two incidents of agents attacked or in harm’s way. We simply can’t afford it.”  Inez picked at her vegetarian sandwich.

“I have three open houses this Sunday. I can barely find one person for each house, let alone double them up.” Katherine protested.

Only three? That is slow for Katherine.  She usually has more homes on the market than that.

“I have two houses open this weekend.” Rosemary agreed. “What am I suppose to do, run back and forth?”

“We have agents who need the work and the contacts.” Inez was not a woman easily derailed.  She stared down her two, ahem, largest producers. They blinked first.

“I’ll get my husband to sit with me
.” Rosemary muttered.

“I’ll call a friend
.” Katherine acquiesced. 

They both started accusingly at me. I was still distracted by my puny sandwich and wishes for roast beast.

“Me?” I squeaked. “I have to find someone to stay in the house of death for Sunday, top that.”

“This is you
r fault.” They chorused. At last, something they agree upon - my perfidy.

Joan taught me that word.

“It’s not my fault that she died in her own house.” I protested.

“The papers say it was an accident
.” Inez said firmly.  “And I am making sure that during this holiday season, there are no more accidents.” 

Inez glared at us.  We meekly agreed, but not in so many words.

“Am I being clear?” Inez repeated. She did not move a muscle.

“Yes
.” We grumbled.

“Good, now eat your
lunch.”

It was not my fault. I happened to find a dead body after I listed a house, but that was in Marin, different county. This last body was just a fluke, could happen to anyone. Shouldn’t happen again.

“It better not happen, again.” Rosemary muttered, effectively reading my mind. “Or we’ll be completely shut down.” 

Chapter 7

The HPL dinner immediately followed Beverley’s funeral. And I suppose at this late date, the League couldn’t just cancel the annual dinner, these events are important for donor appreciation, or so Carrie tells me. I began my day at the Hyatt, with an embarrassing breakfast meeting. I could finish my day in the same ballroom, feasting on dried chicken filet. Full circle of fun.

I stared at my closet and felt, uninspired, not to mention a little full around the waist. Bland chicken salad must have expansive qualities. After much consideration, I finally pulled out something purple.  I wasn’t really ready for the evening, but once I saw Ben, I had nothing on him.

The accumulation of the funeral, facing all Beverley’s financial maneuverings and losing his art must have caught up with him.  At first, he assured me it was no problem, he was sad, but there was no problem.  However, from the additional lines on his face, and his haunted look, he was clearly losing sleep.  It was very much a problem.

“I don’t think I can take much more of this.” He said under his breath as he absently kissed my cheek.

“
Come on, one more night.”  I tucked my arm under his and led him into the crowd milling around the closed ballroom doors.

“Everyone talked about her, but I don’t think anyone really liked her or understood  her.  Maybe, I didn’t either.”

“I’m sure you did, otherwise, how would you know they didn’t?” I squeezed his arm. The only thing I could do was support him. Obsessing about the past was not going to help me, or him, at all.

“I’ll be right here with you.” I assured him.

And it was a good thing.

Ben was spotted as soon as we stepped into the cocktail reception area.

“Mr. Weiss?” The formidable, and infamous (based on Carrie’s impersonations over the years), Martha Anderson bore down on Ben like a cruise liner hitting four knots. 

“You are so kind to attend our little soirée after your tragic loss.” She bellowed. Her voice was loud and projected so well, half the guests in the lobby paused to hear what she would say next. Her voice was a result of practice, rather than being, ahem, naturally loud. 

Ben allowed her to take his hand and shake it vigorously. As if that contact wasn’t enough, she pulled him into a bear hug. He almost disappeared. 

“It’s Ben Stone actually
.” He managed to blurt out when she finally released him.

“Ah, that’s right. I met your grandmother. Lovely woman, lovely.  She’s a Geary, I understand, quite a philanthropist in her own right?”

“She supports the arts mostly.”  Ben smoothed his hair, tousled after the affectionate ambush.  “We all have our pet projects.”

“Ah, well, then let me tell you a bit about what we do. After all, I couldn’t very well speak of the HPL during poor Beverley’s funeral?  It was such a tragedy.”

“She was so young.” I put in.

“Yes,
” Mrs. Anderson echoed, seriously. She looked at me, apparently did not find what she was looking for, dismissed me and continued to address her remarks exclusively to Ben.

“Well, we do so much good. Were you aware that we maintain and support over thirty movable shelters that house over seventy of the chronically homeless? We are located in seven counties. Because of our work, many of our clients are able to move on to jobs and subsidized apartments of their own. We have quite a track record of success, one of the best in the country.”

She beamed at Ben, then as a gesture of good will, smiled at me.

Ben was mute.

“That’s wonderful.” I interceded.  

She waited for Ben to produce some sound of understanding, or an indication of how impressed he was with her facts, anything, really.

Ben actually looked a little dazed.  Maybe he lost some oxygen in that hug.

“Mr. Stone is so overwhelmed right now, what with the funeral and the holidays. You can imagine.” I drawled out the end word, for emphasis. I took his arm and gave him a little shake, so he’d look more
animated.

“Oh, of course.”  Mrs. Anderson took a step back as if to give Ben the physical as well as emotional space he would need to make an informed philanthropic decision.

“He is taking everything into consideration.” I explained.  I did not tell her that as he helped extract me from his truck, he commented that he had half a mind to donate $10,000 to the charity with the best graphics on a dinner menu.  He wasn’t feeling too focused right now. 

I do not blame him in the least, particularly since he was an arts guy, and Beverley’s philanthropic works focused on health and human services. Those two endeavors were very different. 

We were left alone for a minute, but only for a minute.  I sipped my wine and looked over the crowd.

“Most of these people are from the funeral
.” Ben finally said.  Oh, he lives!  He moves!  I kept my opinions to myself.

“Patrick said he’d be here with Carrie.”  Ben knew Patrick only casually
, I knew more about Patrick because of what Carrie told me, but that did not matter. Ben needed an ally, and Patrick was his man. 

“I’m not very good with direct service charities
.” Ben muttered. “My mother worked with the homeless when I was a kid. She discovered a couple of her clients were rather good artists and she made a good commission promoting their art.  She plowed most of it back into the shelter, but she stopped volunteering there and switched to supporting the arts. I’m more comfortable with the arts.” 

“
You could save people,”

“
I do too much saving as it is,” he said, absently. “Beverley was one of them, and you saw how successful that was.”

A man in his mid thirties, tall and lanky with
a mild manner about him, headed towards us. He held a tray, which was an encouraging sign.

“
It was an accident, remember? You weren’t there, remember?” I said through my smile. “And by the way, you don’t have to save me.” I said confidently. I lie, he’s already saved me, twice. We are not even.

“
Not in the same way, no.” He agreed. “Still, I think I’ll stick to art.”  He glanced at my cleavage, anything I wear produces cleavage, I don’t have to try that hard. 

“
I think I’ll stick with you.” He added after a second or two.

“I couldn’t help seeing you were talking with Martha.
” The man greeted both of us. “She’s our membership chair. Shrimp?”  The man was nice looking in an academic kind of way, but thin. He made Norton, my music professor client, look like our former state governor on a particularly bulked up day.

I glanced at the pretty shrimp he offered, and took one.

“Yes, we were.” Ben took a turn carrying the sophisticated conversation load.

“She was telling us about the shelters. Are you familiar with their work?” I asked.

“Familiar?”  The thin man balked for a moment, then glanced down at the shrimp, as if shrimp tails forecast the future or the present. 

“Oh, well, yes.  Sorry.  I’m not a waiter, well, I’m acting the part of a waiter for tonight. Allow me to introduce myself.  I’m Harold Meyer, Vice President for Development for the HPL.
”

“Yet, you’re serving shrimp.”  I had to point it out, in case he had forgotten he was shelping a large tray of curled
crustaceans. He also carried a handful of cocktail napkins. I took one, emblazoned with the Hyatt logo.

“More cost effective for an event such as this. The staff pitches in to save the organization money
.” His voice conveyed a little conviction, but not enough. At least, I wasn’t convinced. I didn’t think he was either, but he put up a good front.

He took my silence as agreement and took advantage of the opportunity to address the former Mr. Weiss, presumably because Dame Anderson already warmed him up. Ben, not Harold.  

“So, did Mrs. Anderson tell you about the thirty two movable shelters we maintain to great success and with very little overhead?”

“Yes,” Ben said weakly.  Oh, man, he was a sitting duck. I have never seen the will sucked right out of him before. This Vice President wasn’t even that impressive, I’ve fended off worse at Chamber mixers.

Harold nodded, encouraged that Ben already was so well informed. “We have a vigorous and devoted staff. We accomplish a great deal considering our narrow margins.  Ninety cents of every dollar goes to direct service, which is better than the industry standard. Our donors demand efficiency, so we have only three paid staff members: the President and CEO, and a staff of two.” He nodded to a man in his late fifties standing across the room from us.

The president possessed all his hair. It was white and elegantly brushed back from his high forehead. He wore a custom made tuxedo and was accompanied by a custom made blonde, the same blonde who took Beverley’s old clothes earlier this morning. Tonight she was swathed in a vintage Bob Mackie made during his sequin period. It was completely inappropriate for Sonoma County, but it looked great on her. 

“He looks very, efficient.” With his looks, the CEO could be a symphony conductor, or an elegant actor who only takes character parts.  

“The woman with him is his secretary, but she only works part time,” Harold explained.  “We don’t pay her nearly enough for everything she does.”

“I don’t imagine you do.” I said neutrally.  Perhaps, she was a cost effective perk, although she did not look cost effective. Judging from her blond highlights, I’d guess that she was not cost effective in the least. I made a mental note ask Carrie what she knew.

“
And our only other paid staff is Anne, over there.”

“Serving the baked brie?”  I asked.   I love baked brie.

Anne was cute in a mousy, why-Miss-Magillicudy- I- had –no- idea –you – were – so - beautiful –without – your - glasses kind of way. She was small boned and not very pre-possessing, but then again, she was attending a formal dinner dressed in a rented tuxedo and serving food. How confident could the girl be?

“Your bottom line is all about efficiency?” I repeated.

“
Yes. We also use one of our own recipients of our services to serve as our key note speaker for this event. It saves some cash as well. Of course we have corporate sponsorship to fund the  dinner.”

Cooper Milk was one of the sponsors listed on poster board displayed on a stand at the entrance to the hotel, as was Flex Paint and Safeway.

“And what did Beverley Weiss do for you?”  Come on, you wanted to find out, too. I just said it out loud.

Ben blinked. I gave him a shrimp and he obediently ate it.

“She delivered blankets and food to the moveable shelters and counseled the clients.  She was convinced they weren’t reaching their full potential and was bent on helping them.”  Harold handed Ben a napkin.

“
Sometimes, she even found jobs for them, part time and temporary, of course. A couple of clients were good at home repairs. I think she hired them for that kind of thing.” He looked at me, seriously. I suspected that he was the kind of man who was always serious; everything was serious. I have found, recently, that the only thing in life that should be taken seriously is death. The rest is pretty trivial. I was not going to point that out to a serious man with a serious shrimp serving mission.

“She was quite a volunteer
.” I offered.

“
She was excellent in the field.” He said, cryptically. I took another shrimp, hoping I’d spoil my dinner. Tight budget equals dried chicken breast. 

“
It was lovely to meet you; enjoy the dinner.” The vice president in charge of shrimp gave me his card and marched away, bearing the hors d’ouvres to the masses.

“
Good in the field.” I repeated.

“
Doesn’t that mean she was a pain in the ass in the office?”  Ben roused himself.

“
That’s what it usually means.” I popped the last shrimp in my mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“
She wasn’t perfect, but you’ll think so, after tonight.” He remarked.

I swallowed. “
If she was perfect, you’d still be together.”

“
Maybe.”

I wondered what the residents of the HPL
shelter units thought of Beverley’s charity? What kind of jobs does a homeless person prefer?  Where did she send them to work?   This was not her only project by a long shot.  Ben said he had been contacted by no less than a dozen non-profits in the county, from the Girl Scouts to the Food Bank, all of whom delicately inquired about Beverley’s will.

Carrie once told me that you have to ask or you get nothing, which is what Beverley left of all these good hard working people, nothing. All her assets reverted back to Ben, which did not make Ben look very good to the police.

Ben, in turn, planned to donate to each of the organizations that Beverly helped.  It was only a matter of how much. I was chagrinned to learn that he also planned to donate his own money to a couple of the art based charities to celebrate never having to pay alimony again.