Death at a Fixer-Upper (6 page)

We ascended the stairs tread by tread. Loretta's eyes were glued to her device; surely, if yesterday's episode was any indication, it would sound the alarm. But it didn't. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was only Biddie's low blood sugar after all.

We were moving in slow motion down the hall when Loretta came to an abrupt halt. “I'm reading a five-degree shift in the ambient air temperature. Where does this hall lead?”

“To a couple of bedrooms and a linen closet.”

“Let's take a look.” She moved slowly through both bedrooms, her eyes pinned to her device, and shook her head. The closet seemed to excite her interest, though I couldn't see why. A few makeshift shelves spanning the back wall held various unsavory bed linens; the floor underneath was jammed with old-fashioned leather satchels and round-shouldered travel bags. I switched on the light, a single dusty bulb. The walls were grayish-white, with the lumpy texture of lathe-and-plaster construction.

She shook her head. “This isn't it. We need to go up. Are there stairs to the tower room?”

“They're blocked off with tape.”

“Show me.”

We retraced our steps until we arrived at the tower stairs. The device in Loretta's hands beeped, and a series of lights flashed on and off.

“We need to see what's up there,” she said. “Any problem with that?”

I took a quick peek around for a hidden camera. All clear. “None at all. I'd better go first, though.”

I'd slipped under the tape before remembering some of the history Merrit Brown had shared with me. “I suppose you know the original Harrington died up here. A suicide.”

“Marvelous,” she said, her eyes as bright as a child's on Christmas morning.

I tested the first tread. It was slick with moisture but stable enough, as was the second. Floral wallpaper hung in mildewed strips from the walls; a tendril of it brushed my cheek, and I recoiled. A light socket, devoid of bulb, hung from a chain above my head. Gaining confidence, I stepped firmly on the third tread. The wood splintered under my foot and I jumped back, heart pounding.

There was a crash of breaking china from the first story. Loretta's eyes grew big.

“This is the real deal,” she said. “We've disturbed something, and now it's trying to warn us off.”

“Maybe there's someone down there.”

She shook her head. “When you've been doing this is long as I have, you know how to read the signs.” She looked up the stairwell. “We'll have to pass on the third floor for today. A pity. But we can still collect plenty of data.”

For the next thirty minutes she went from room to room, taking readings and muttering to herself. The bulk of our time was spent in the two unused rooms downstairs, one of which was a library crammed to the ceiling with the spines of clothbound books, the other an old-fashioned sitting room. Both had fireplaces with massive oak hearths and brass andirons. After I tired of looking around, I shifted from foot to foot, surreptitiously checking my watch. My neck was stiff, and my bladder was full beyond the safety margin.

Finally Loretta announced, “I think I have what I need. Go ahead and lock up. I'll be outside.”

I rejoined her in front of the house, where she was talking on a cell phone. She ended the call as I approached. “Thank you for your patience,” she said, shaking my hand. “These initial visits can be a bit tedious for the layperson.”

“No problem. I suppose we should head back to the office to write up the offer.”

“Whoa. Not so fast. I need to extrapolate the data and run it by my partners. It's an attractive proposition, but let's not be hasty.” She smiled. “You seem like a competent agent, but you can't tell me every showing leads to an offer.”

I felt a little nonplussed. “Of course not. I didn't mean to presume. It's just that there's been a lot of buzz about this property. Three offers are in already.”

She waved off the other offers. “Ms. Turner, my experience in this business has taught me that if it's meant to be the Fates have a way of clearing a path. I'll be in touch.” She nodded briskly and started down the driveway, staggering a little on the rough terrain.

I stared after her, hoping I hadn't put her off by being overeager. Then I glanced at my watch. I had an hour to kill before the next showing, and I needed to deliver Richard Ravello's offer to Hartshorne & Associates and find a bathroom, not necessarily in that order. I started down the lane at a jog to retrieve my car, figuring I'd catch up to Loretta tottering along on her heels, but I never passed her.

Hartshorne & Associates was the middle suite in a newly constructed commercial building off Bertoli Lane, across the street from Foggy Mist Hydroponics. The building was two stories of moss-green stucco trimmed in dark red, with a square of newly rolled sod laid in front to break up a sea of pavement. A few dispirited shrubs protruded through hillocks of mulch, so recently planted they still sported the tags from the nursery. A dermatologist took up the entire upper floor, while Muy Buena Mexican Cantina and a low-cost spay-and-neuter clinic occupied the units on either side of the realty office.

I pushed open a glass door and entered a dimly lit work space crowded with desks. The carpet was a tightly looped Berber in a neutral gray, outgassing wafts of formaldehyde that mingled with the scents of cat urine and corn chips fried in hot lard. The walls were painted pale yellow and hung with oversized prints of Monopoly deeds: Park Place, Pennsylvania Avenue, Marvin Gardens. As a kid, I'd always claimed the little Scottie as my game piece and tried to buy up the railroads, picturing a life as carefree as a hobo's. Funny how things turn out.

A woman looked up from a desk in the back. “Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Lois Hartshorne.”

“You found her. What can I do for you?”

I passed two desks on the way to Lois's, complete with phones and computers but lacking any marks of personality, like photographs or children's drawings. Lois Hartshorne was a big raw-boned woman nearing sixty, with iron-gray hair permed into whimsical ringlets that were incongruous with her square jaw and hard eyes. She wore a pastel peach suit that did nothing to soften her impression as a former prison matron turned real estate agent. Her sentences were delivered in a low baritone without inflection, so that even the questions came out as statements.

I introduced myself and waited for her to shower me with abuse, as she had on the phone, but she seemed to have forgotten all that. She accepted the Ravello offer without comment, extracted a file from a stack on her desk, and dropped the offer inside. She glanced at me, apparently surprised I was still standing there. “Something else?”

Relief that she tolerated my presence made me garrulous. “Where are all your associates today?”

“I'm currently associate-free. Why? Thinking of making a change?” She looked right through me with her gimlet eyes.

“You never know. Maybe.” Through the walls I could hear strains of marimba music, punctuated by the yowls of tomcats going under anesthesia.

“Think about it. I wouldn't advise any new agent to start their careers at Home Sweet Home.”

I remembered Gail's juicy tidbit of gossip. “I guess you know Everett Sweet.”

She made a hoarse sound in her throat I decided was a laugh. “You could say that. I was at Home Sweet Home a couple of years before working my way up to this palatial spread.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm, jostling a can of cola so that a few drops sloshed on her desk.

I looked around. “You have a nice place here.”

“Just finished last month. Acoustics are terrible and the Wi-Fi is spotty.”

I gathered my courage. “Listen, uh, I'm wondering how things look in regards to the Harrington estate. For my clients, that is.”

She gave me a look like I was a nincompoop. “You know I can't tell you that. Violation of my fiduciary responsibility.”

“Of course. Of course. I just wondered if I should advise my clients to strengthen their offers. To be competitive with the one that came in earlier. That would benefit your seller, right?”

“Nice try,” she said, apparently enjoying herself in a humorless way.

I heard the distant sound of a blender starting up; then the smoke detector on the ceiling above Lois's desk began to beep frantically.

“Goddamn margaritas,” she said. “I told Manuel not to run two blenders at once, but does he listen?” She jumped up and pounded on the wall, rattling the Monopoly prints. Nothing happened.

“Be right back,” she said, and trotted out the front door.

I leaned forward. My good angel told me to wait quietly and touch nothing. My bad angel offered me a Snickers bar to open the folder where she'd placed my offer and have a little look-see. It was no contest. I riffled through the papers, spotting the first offer I'd submitted, then a third, written by—well, well. Lois Hartshorne herself. Things were starting to make sense. Lois would double her commission if hers was the winning bid.

Rapidly I scanned the first page of the contract. Full price offer, seller to carry first deed of trust with $200,000 down, interest rate—

The blender noise stopped. I tapped the stack of papers on the desk to square the corners, then started to tuck the offer back in the folder. A thought occurred to me and I pulled it out again, scanning the tiny print for the name of the purchaser. A door opened and I heard the scuff of shoes against concrete. Almost humming with panic, I stuffed the papers back into the folder and dropped it on Lois's desk just as she came huffing through the door. She pulled a chair from an empty desk and balanced on it precariously, reaching up to smack the beeping smoke detector. It gave a squawk, then was silent.

Her eyes narrowed, sweeping over me before traveling to her desktop, then back to me. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Not unless you want to give me some advice on these offers.”

“You want advice?” she said as she climbed down heavily. “Don't get involved with someone you work with.”

I left Hartshorne & Associates in a hurry, fearful that Lois might notice something out of place on her desk and come after me, grinding me into pulp on the pavement. As I trotted through the parking lot, the aroma of corn tortillas sizzling in hot fat tickled my nostrils. I wondered if I had time for a basket of chips and one of those aforementioned margaritas before the next showing.

Instead, I climbed into the VW and started the engine. It was time to check in on real estate matters a bit closer to home.

A few minutes later, I pulled up opposite the pale blue Victorian that housed North Coast Podiatry and Arlinda Mortgage. Becky Daley's office was located to the right of the big wooden foot and up a short flight of stairs. She was on the phone, talking with animation about the Federal Reserve. Today she was the consummate businesswoman, blond hair carefully styled, a touch of blusher on her cheeks, dressed in a navy blue power suit. She'd given birth to a strapping baby boy a few months back and I'd seen her on two hours' sleep with spit-up on her shoulder, so this was a different look.

I settled into a padded office chair, glancing around. Something was missing. I stole a peek under the desk.

She hung up. “Rob's doing the dad thing today. It's our new routine. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays Xander comes to the office with me. Tuesdays and Thursdays he stays home with Daddy and they do guy stuff. I have a freezer full of breast milk banked ahead, thanks to this little wonder.” She patted a breast pump that was positioned on her desk between the computer monitor and electric stapler. “This is the Cadillac of pumps. Twelve volts with battery backup, six-amp motor, dual action. State of the art. Makes me feel like a pedigreed Holstein.”

“That's dedication.”

“Breast is best,” she said. “Now, what can I do for you? Checking in on Fickle Court?”

“Yeah. How do things look?”

She pulled up my file on the computer. “Nothing but blue skies. Appraisal came in right at the contract price, so that's perfect. We're on track to sign papers Tuesday at Calville Title and Escrow, fund in the afternoon, close Wednesday morning. By noon you'll be a homeowner.”

A little uneasiness wriggled through my gut. “You think it's a lock? I've heard horror stories about last-minute issues.”

“All our ducks are in a row. I'd stake my reputation on it.”

“Great. That's just great. I can't thank you enough.”

“Don't mention it. I appreciate the business. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Actually, yes. Let's say a client of mine wanted to buy a house in disrepair. He has some cash to put down. Can he just use conventional financing?”

“That depends,” she said. “Does he plan to live there?”

“I think so.”

“How bad's the house? Any structural issues?”

“I'd say most definitely yes.”

“A renovation loan might fit the bill, then. Did you mention that to him?”

Since this was the first time I'd heard of such a thing, I shook my head.

“Tell you what. Have him give me a call. I'll be here until four today. Tomorrow I'll be attending a continuing professional-education seminar from nine till three, then working from home after that. You can give him my cell.” She glanced at her watch. From under her desk, she produced a small insulated carryall. She unzipped the top and took out a picture of Xander, all exquisitely plump cheeks and downy hair, his little face wreathed in a toothless smile.

“Inspiration,” Becky said. Next she took out what looked like two giant suction cups with a clear plastic line trailing from them and glanced at me. “Time for me to make some milk. Go on. You were saying?”

I was out of my chair as if it'd been electrified. “Gotta go. Keep me posted.”

“You bet. Ta-ta. Lock the door behind you, if you would.” She had the top two buttons of her blouse undone before I reached the safety of the porch landing.

Back in the van, I glanced at my watch. I was late. Perfect. I hopped aboard and punched the gas, skidding to a stop in front of Home Sweet Home a minute later. Gail was waiting, a sandwich bag of ice pressed to her face. She opened the passenger door and climbed in.

“Ith afther thoo,” she said.

“Sorry.” I signaled and pulled into traffic. “I lost track of the time. How was the dentist?”

She moved her jaw gingerly. “Rooth canal.”

“Seriously? Ouch. You sure you're up for this?”

She nodded. “Wanna see the houth.” A bead of drool rolled down her chin, and she blotted it with a piece of tissue.

Two minutes later, I was steering the bus between the big stone pillars. Gail braced herself against her seat, wincing a little as we bounced over the rutted driveway. Her eyes widened when we turned the last corner and the house came into view.

“Holy craf,” she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a camera.

I parked in the gravel pullout again, looking for my client. No signs of life. Maybe he'd decided to wait for me out back.

Gail snapped pictures while I started down the brick path, keys in hand. A gleam of white registered in my peripheral vision. I slowed my steps and saw it was a piece of paper caught in the brambles. I extended a hand toward it, but a capricious gust of wind sent it airborne, skidding along the path just out of reach. I blinked. There was another sheet of paper in the grass. As I stood in place, the wind brought a third one, tumbling it end over end and finally depositing it at my feet. I bent to retrieve it, then went rigid. It was spattered with red.

My heart began to rattle in my chest. I straightened up slowly, looking around. Not ten feet away, a pair of brown leather shoes protruded from a clump of tangled foliage. I edged a little closer. The shoes were connected to brown socks, which, in turn, were attached to rumpled trousers. My eyes traveled up the length of the pants to a nylon jacket and pale blue shirtfront.

“No,” I said. “Please.”

Right on cue, Gail came skidding around the corner, camera in hand. Her mouth dropped open.

“Fucsh,” she said. “Fusch, fusch, fusch.” Then she opened her mouth so wide I could see a wad of gauze wedged between her molars and cheek, and began screaming.

The earsplitting din jolted me into action. I grabbed Gail's shoulders and shook her. “Stop it!”

She swallowed a second scream building up in her throat and hiccupped.

Trembling a little, I edged toward the figure in the vines. He lay on his back, his arms outflung as if about to embrace me. One look at his head was enough. I didn't look again. His body lay in a bower of crushed roses. Blood dripped from the leaves; he hadn't been dead long. Chunks of cement were scattered among the vines. I pieced together the fragments like a puzzle and realized I was seeing the remains of a figurine. Automatically I looked up and, sure enough, one gargoyle was missing from its perch.

My stomach roiled and I was considering finding a quiet spot to throw up when I caught sight of Gail's face, her complexion pale as milk. Visions of Biddie's collapse danced through my head.

“Oh, jeez. You'd better sit down.” I pushed her over to a grassy spot about twenty feet from the body and she sat down hard, her legs limp as two strands of spaghetti. “Maybe you should put your head on your knees or something.”

She waved me off. Another sheet of paper floated by, and she snatched it out of the air.

“Ith a purthase conthract,” she said. “Wh-wh-who—?”

I took the page from her and saw my name along the bottom margin. With a clunk I felt all the way down to my heels, the other shoe fell.

“He's my two o'clock,” I said.