Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (12 page)

“
Better you than anyone else.”

  I picked out a set of bracelets for Debbie, lines of red, green and white square cut stones in a channel setting  – if they were real, it would be far and above the gift limit of $50. If they were fake, they were still over the limit. 

I pulled out a set of bracelets for one niece.  I took dangly earrings and a necklace for the other niece. From the bottom drawer I pulled two silver cuffs that resembled a twisted cable, along with a matching necklace with a large blue center stone.  I held them up.  

“They could be David Yurman, or forty dollar knock offs. Either way, can I take them?”

He gestured. “Take more, with any luck they’re real.”

I smiled. “You said you didn’t care about that.”

“I don’t, but for you, I hope they are real.”

I regarded the full drawers of glittery stuff - pirate treasure.

“Why didn’t they take anything?”  I asked out loud.

“Good question.
” He followed my train of thought.  “The police asked me that.  They dusted for prints on that,” He nodded at the jewelry stand. “But they found nothing, only Beverley’s prints.”

“Doesn’t that seem odd?”

“The murder didn’t take her computer, and her purse was untouched, from what I understand, the police don’t have a clue, and if they did, they are not sharing.” 

“We’ll check the purse in a minute.”  I had to carry my own ill-gotten gains down to my own purse.  I remembered her purse was downstairs.

“Do you need a Cuisinart?”  He asked, it was not as random a question as you may think.

“I would if I cooked.  Give it to your grandmother.”

“I would if she cooked.”

What was I hoping to find in Beverley’s large, quilted, chain draped Chanel bag?  The bag was an attractive model, spacious with a more discrete double C logo than I initially would give Beverley credit for
. I was hoping the matching wallet would be stuffed with foreign currency so I could immediately trace where she was headed.

No such luck.

From the wallet, I pulled out three visa cards, and two master cards, Nordstrom, Macy’s and Exxon.  No library card.

Ben whistled as I handed him the credit cards. “This is substantial.”

“She may have used the free checks from one account to switch balances to another, it gives you an extra month or so of no payments.”

“But it cost twenty nine percent interest.” He protested automatically.

“Yes it does, but if you are abandoning the whole thing, what does it matter?”

“True. Where was she going?”

“And with whom?” I countered.

He leaned against the granite counter and shut his eyes for a minute.  Speed meditation, I do it every morning.

“I can’t think of a single man.”

I waited, mostly because this technique of not talking was really working.  Ben was opening right up.

“I didn’t pay enough attention to her.  She’d call, sure, ask for money, ask for an advance on her alimony amount.  Ask.  But we never talked. She never asked me, how’s your family?  How’s your business?”

“Maybe she knew your family hated h
er and she didn’t want to ask.” I said helpfully.

“Okay, that is true. Still, I hoped for better communication. Something more congenial.”

I started to say something else comforting, but my phone rang, and out of habit I lunged for it.

It was Owen, he had found another condo on Craig’s List, this, he was certain, had potential.

Ben waved at me and headed back upstairs, the pull of that master bedroom was disturbing, I’d have to work at keeping him out of the house all together.  Better for him. 

I patiently listened to Owen’s glowing report on a condo that I was pretty sure Owen had seen last spring but had rejected – the shingles looked loose?  The stairs weren’t even? (He carries a level with him where ever he goes). I couldn’t remember why he had rejected the place the first time around.

“Sure,” I promised, of course I promised.  “I’ll meet you in an hour and we’ll take a look.”

I brought the Chanel purse upstairs to put in one of the drawers, We didn’t need to give it away yet. 

“Would they tell you where she was going?”  I said, meaning the police.

“It may not matter.”  He absently smoothed the new bedspread.

“But what if she was leaving with someone, and that someone was her murderer?”  I asked, but that idea didn’t make sense.              

“No,” distracted, Ben pulled out the framed photos and laid them out on the dresser surface.  “I’m still the main suspect.”

All together there were twelve framed photos. They were originally scattered around the bedroom and I belatedly wished I could have seen them in situ. Would the photos next to her bed be of the men she loved the best? Or was currently seeing? Now we couldn’t tell.

Ben squinted at one and then another.  Two were of the same man, three were of another man, the rest were singles; Beverley posed with every one of them.

“Did she have a regular relationship?”  I asked, but if what he said was true, then Ben would have been the last person she’d confide in. Did anyone besides members of various non-profit boards attended her funeral? Or was it packed with acquaintances rather than friends?

He picked up a framed photograph, then the next. “She loved men, needed them.”

I leaned over his shoulder. Beverley wore a different dress in each photo, although about five of photographs looked to be from the same cruise, the background was the same, the seats in the dining room were the same.

“She was all about the show.” Ben gazed at the pictures. “She kept her weight down because she was worried about how she looked in photographs.” He held one up.  “How do I look?  She asked me that all the time.  That’s why I now go for more,” he squinted at me, “solid women.”

“Should we see him?”  I gestured to one of the pictures ignoring the back-handed compliment.

“
Probably all of them.” His hand shook and the frame dropped on the dresser with a loud clatter.  He crossed his arms and frowned at the collection.  “I only recognize one person.”

I picked through the collection and pulled out the two of the same man.

  “I recognize this one, but I can’t place him.”  I took them and studied them. Beverley wore a red silk dress that showed off her small breasts to as much advantage as a woman her size could reasonably manage.  The man was dressed in a tuxedo. He was a red head, unusual in a man. Beverly’s hair was dark in the photo, it almost blended into the background. Both photos were taken on cruises.  A little gold was barely visible under the frame.

“They date these.” I said.  I pulled off the frame back and pried out the photo.  “See?  This was taken last year.  And this one,” I pulled out the other of the red haired man.  “Was taken, two years ago.  Well, that doesn’t help.”

‘”But this does. Recognize him?”  Ben held up three frames in one hand, they were all 3 by 5. In fact, not one of the men merited an 8 by 10.

I looked at the one with the background of the Hilton ballroom. The man cast his arm around Beverley’s boney shoulders, but the arm seemed to hover over her as if there was a force field between her skin and his arm.

“God, not him!”  My outburst was spontaneous.

“Do you think she dated him?” Ben asked.

The man in the photo was Peter Klausen O’Reilly the Third. And he was not Ben Stone’s (Rock Solid Service) favorite person, for various reasons, not the least of which was that Peter Klausen O’Reilley the Third was an attorney. Most divorced men are not found of attorneys, Ben among them. I flat out dislike the whole species.

Ben squinted and stepped closer.
“It’s entirely possible,” he took the picture from me and scrutinized the happy couple.

“But he’s so terrible.” I said.

Ben nodded.  “But you have to admit, they would make a perfect pair.  He handled her side of the divorce.”

“
Who handled yours?”

“
Some kid from Charlie Concron’s office. He did a fair job, at least he was intimidating.”

“
From Charlie Concron’s office.”  I repeated. Concron was a notorious attorney in San Francisco, and it wasn’t because he dressed well.  His office staff defended rather heinous criminals, and won. But Concron could possibly be an old family friend. I suspect that Ben’s background was far more illustrious than he let on.

Ben studied the photo.  “This was a while ago, it could have been – judging from the way he gingerly holding her – at the end of the affair.”

He grinned. “There wasn’t much O’Reilly could do. He got her possession of the house, but she couldn’t afford to buy me out, and in fact, didn’t really want to. She got $6,000 a month in alimony, not enough of course, but she managed to squeak by.”

I thought of her shoes, squeak by was right. There was no way she was paying for those clothes and shoes and jewelry on a mere $6,000 a month. Which was probably where the missing art came in.

I did not express that idea out loud. “Was she the friend?”

“
What friend?”

“
When we first met and you and O’Reilly were so rude to each other, and you explained it was because he screwed with a friend of yours - was Beverley the friend?”

“
No, but that’s a great guess.  Beverley wasn’t a friend.”

“
The woman you married was not your friend?”

“
It’s complicated.”

“
I should say so.”

But I didn’t pursue it. 

***

“
Why didn’t you pursue it?” Carrie demanded when I called her from my car to update her on the Ben situation.

“
It’s complicated.” I repeated.

“It’s
always complicated when they don’t want to explain something.” She said sarcastically.

“
I honestly don’t have an answer, and here is my client. I’ll call you back.”  It was the first break Mr. Owen Spenser had ever given me.

Misty rain is not ideal for viewing condos
(nor is it a good name for a stripper). Condos tend to look bare and small in the overcast dim light. I was 100 percent certain we had seen this condo before, but since Owen Spenser was determined to buy at the very bottom of the market, and because he  re-discovered this one on Craig’s List, it had the patina of a bargain. The rain was not a deterrent.

“It’s pretty cheap.” Owen is a comfortably average looking single man who teaches math at the local Junior School. I think both my nephews had him as a teacher.  I never felt threatened by Owen, which in the light of the warnings currently posted over my email from the Realtor Association about the inadvisability of women agents showing homes alone, was a comforting thing. Sometimes an empty condo can feel as isolated as a country house in the middle of a five-acre parcel.

All the admonishments from the office
maybe had finally penetrated my sometimes thick skull.  I even remembered to look around as I opened the door. The only human I saw was one man strolling in the opposite direction, he didn’t look interested in me.  Good.

“Many of the condos in town are pretty cheap.” I pushed open the door so Owen could precede me.

  “And,” I continued, out of habit, “it has windows and a view out to the field and a full kitchen, including a new stove.” I had to glance down at my MLS print out. New Stove was a feature. When there isn’t much to say about a property, agents resort to listing the relative age of appliances.

Owen wandered to the upstairs leaving me alone in the kitchen. I peered out the window, but saw nothing and no one.
             

Owen’s footsteps were heavy on the stairs.  “The closet poles aren’t perfectly balanced.  That’s too bad.”

Last time he viewed this property he was concerned with the slope of the patio and whether it drained properly. I did not bring this up again since he seemed to not notice this time.

I looked
out at the gloom outside. The sky had gradually faded into dark and hung heavily over the bare field that was considered a “view out the kitchen window.”

“What
are your plans for the holidays?” At least a conversation would keep the noise level up and dissipate some of the stony silence.

“
My daughter will have us all over.” He said.  “You?”

“
We’re having dinner at my sister- in-law’s.”  I said it as if it was a yearly occurrence. But it was not.

I took a deep breath. Owen seemed neither disappointed nor enthusiastic. Actually that was progress. Owen Spenser was a man
perpetually in balance; each side of the equation equaled the other, nice for math, terrible for decisions. The first time I offered to buy coffee, he spent fifteen minutes weighing  the pros and cons of latte versus cappuccino.  Over the last six months, I have learned not to hold out for a sudden decision from him. Even when he claims he’s interested in buying; I do not rush to the office to fill out the purchase agreement.