Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View (10 page)

“Yeah.” He reached up and scratched his neck, then scratched his head.  “You probably heard about me.”

Sarah waited for him to continue. She wanted to know what he thought she thought. She hadn’t really made up her mind about him. Her grandparents taught her that all men are just after one thing, which contradicted every magazine article she ever read; look perfect to attract the right man, yes they want one thing, and so do you. The members of the Brotherhood specifically told her that Scott was probably bad news which prompted her to walk the long way home, right past the library.

“I heard about you. I saw you at the theater Friday night and last night,” she started the conversation.

“I guess I was, you know there isn’t much to do in Claim Jump over the weekend.”  He looked sheepish.

“Just the wine-tasting extravaganza, the Cornish Brotherhood Spaghetti Feed, the Methodist church raffle and the little league silent auction and crab dinner.” She automatically rattled off. Then wanted to kick herself, she wasn’t suppose to be too aggressive and sound like she was too smart. Or was she suppose to not sound too needy or stupid?  He was watching her with interest.

“What are you, the Chamber of Commerce?”

She felt heat rise to her cheeks. “No, that’s a day job. I’m busy during the day.”

“What do you do?” his voice was kind, maybe she hadn’t blown it after all.

“I care for my grandparents.”

“Can I help you carry all this?” he offered. He didn’t know what the time was, but he was sure his real estate agent would wait for him. “ Where do you live?”

“Grove Street, it’s only a few blocks from here.”

“Isn’t this a little out of your way from the grocery store?”

She thought quickly. “I got a ride from a friend but she got a call from her boyfriend, so this was as far she she’d take me into town. He lives out in Lake of the Pines.”

Scott hadn’t heard of a local lake of that name, but he didn’t want to distract her with an irrelevant geography inquiry. Her eyes were brilliant blue and her hair was fine and naturally blond. He itched to touch it, but that would be too forward. She was just as beautiful close up as she had been on stage.

“I’m so sorry.”  He meant that she had to walk all the way home and her friend couldn’t even drop her off before rushing to her boyfriend.

“Oh, don’t, they’ve been good to me, it’s my turn,” she said enigmatically.

“Is that good or bad?”  It was a reasonable question.

“They told me I’ll inherit the house when they go, to make sure I have something to bring to a relationship, you know like a dowry.”

“That was far thinking of them.”

Sarah juggled the bag of cans. She wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not. “They want me to be taken care of, and to them, that means finding a good man.  But not too soon, you understand, only after I’m finished caring for them.” She looked at Scott a bit sharply as if daring him to laugh.    

He nodded. “I can understand, just do one thing at a time.” He took a breath, and plunged in, risking doing it wrong, but not caring.  “But maybe we could have dinner together anyway?”

She grinned and tightened her grip on her embarrassing purchases. He hadn’t made fun of her. He had said nothing about the Ensure, the diapers, no comment at all. Now that was something the Brotherhood did not know about Scott Lewis.  She made up her mind.

“Can you do a late dinner?  9:00?  Cirinos is still open.”

“I can do that.” He assured her, wondering if Cirinos was in town or located in the mythical Lake of the Pines.  He’d ask around. Mrs. Chatterhill would be more than happy to lecture him on the restaurants in Claim Jump both current and past.

“How about tonight? Is the show over?” 

He knew perfectly well it was, but he wanted to be polite. Was that how it was done? This polite back and forth?  He hadn’t dated much, what he usually indulged in wasn’t really dating per se.

“Yeah, the show is over.  Before I get all dressed up, is there anything I should know about you?”

“That Suzanne Chatterhill hasn’t already circulated?”

She gathered up the fresh bags into each arm to balance the load.  

“I’m Holden Caulfield, only old.”  He was succinct.

She smiled.  “I loved that book. He needed to join more clubs at school.”

Scott watched her swing down the slope of the sidewalk with the same walk she used in the play. Follow the Yellow Brick Road.  Follow. Follow.

I arrived at the library at exactly 10:00. Scott was already outside on the front steps gazing down the street.  I looked too; we automatically follow a stranger’s gaze. You never know if your just missed an interesting sight, but I did not see anything of note.

“Come in,” he invited.

I walked up the two sets of narrow stairs, which I remembered as being much wider and deeper when I climbed them as a child, and paused in the main library room. Huge color saturated quilts were festooned over the empty bookshelves. Their color and number was breath taking.  “How beautiful!”              

I know nothing of the domestic arts, but I could see that these were unusual patterns pieced together with beautiful colors.  One
quilt featured a single tree, sinuous and stunning as it climbed up the quilted surface of the blanket to a blue patterned sky.

“Oh, those belong to the members of the Brotherhood.  They bought them, but Lucky insisted the quilts stay in the library.”

“How can he dictate what they do with their own property?”

“I think it was the condition of the sale.  Apparently Penny Masters makes them. You must know her, Lucky’s daughter?”             

I nodded. I knew of her of course, but not that well.  She was much older than me and didn’t run in the same circles as my grandmother, after all, Prue hated Lucky Masters with a passion.

“I can’t imagine Suzanne taking suggestions from Lucky.”  I commented.

“Neither can I, but they did,” Scott agreed. He sounded like a local.

“What happen to the one over there?”  I pointed to a forlorn empty shelf, naked compared to the brilliantly covered neighbors.

“I don’t know, it was gone when I,” he paused.  “I think a woman named Elizabeth took it.”               

I waved my hand.  It didn’t matter who. Often the members of the Brotherhood act in a collective manner, they are like the Borg in that way, the large conglomerate enemy on
Star Trek
that just assimilates people with no discussion or protest. And like the Borg, woe to anyone who resisted assimilation by the Brotherhood. 

“Anyway, she took it. But the rest stay. I suppose now there is no one to stop the ladies from taking their quilts home.” 

“No Lucky to monitor the situation.” I observed.  “It will look pretty empty here without them. ”

He nodded.  “I’ll think of something.  How about a Laundromat?”

I glanced at him, disbelieving, and he gave me a wicked grin in return.

“That was good,” I conceded. “Suggest a bordello next and see where that gets you.”

“Why not, I have the quilts, plenty of room in the back.”  He regarded me with mock seriousness. “It’s a tradition in the Gold Country.”

I shook my head and grabbed his arm. There were only three more houses for sale in town. I wanted to get back to Ben and my grandmother.  Who knows what they would be up to?

We opened the door to a blast of frigid air. 

I managed to finish with Scott in record time.  He displayed all the typical traits of a buyer, for which I’m prepared.

“Let me think about them.” He climbed out of my car in front of the library. Could he just turn that place into a residence?

As if reading my mind, I’m a bit transparent when I’m not paying much attention, he replied out loud, “you know that Debbie Smith from the council?  She informed me the library was commercial zoned only.”

“Just a thought.” 

My phone buzzed, I automatically picked it up.

“I’m at an open house because that’s what you do. You work every Sunday at every open house you can manage to get leads.” Rosemary’s voice was firm and a bit echoey, the open house in question must not be furnished.

I was working on Sunday.  “And you take floor every chance you have, like tomorrow.” I said, not without some satisfaction.  “That ought to get you more leads.”

“Who approved that?” She immediately dropped the motivational coach persona as I knew she would.

“Katherine, of course.” With so much in common, these two should get along. But their sense of competition usually trumps their need for camaraderie. The only problem with their animosity is that I am so often in the middle, sometimes making peace, but mostly just stirring them up more, even when it’s not my intent. Their last competition was to see who could lose fifteen pounds first.  They both cheated, and they both gained the weight all back.  See? Lots in common.

Inez, our manager, works hard to channel their competitiveness into real estate transactions.  She is mostly successful, except for that one awards banquet when Rosemary slipped Katherine some kind of herbal diuretic and Katherine missed her opportunity to walk on stage for her award.  Rosemary accepted on Katherine’s behalf. It was very sweet of her. I can’t remember if Rosemary mentioned Katherine at all during the acceptance speech.

“Of course,” Rosemary echoed.  She must be in one of her REOs, empty, cleared out. For her sake, I hoped the disgruntled previous owners hadn’t ripped out all the appliances.  When owners walk away from their over-leveraged homes, they sometimes feel quite justified taking a few mementos: the toilet, the water heater, chunks of cement from the driveway, just a few more reasons why I don’t like the foreclosure category.

“Well for YOU, I’ll take floor. Listen,” her voice was low and more urgent.  “You cannot quit, you are too good to quit.”

“I’m not quitting, it’s corporate who has my head on the block.”

“You make your own life.” Rosemary repeated her favorite mantra. “And we ride these markets out. It will pick up, I promise, it always does.”

She managed to stuff a whole bundle of empty platitudes into one sentence. I was impressed.

“I have a client.” I guided the Lexus up through the lower half of Prue’s street and crested the hill right before her house.

“Well that’s good.”

“A buyer.” I delivered the bad news.

She paused.  “Well, a buyer is at least something.  See you Tuesday.”

Tuesday.  Maybe. I clicked off the phone and marched into the kitchen, ready for lunch.

What greeted me was pandemonium.

Chapter Eight

Carrie wailed like a mother cat mourning a bag of drowned kittens. Ben clutched his phone, he had not even changed out of his sweats and tee. He was pacing up and down with the mien of a caged bear.  Raul had inserted himself off to one side crouched over his laptop like an intelligent chimp.  Prue was attempting to sooth Carrie, tentatively pawing at the howling woman.

It was like feeding time at the zoo.

I stood in the doorway for a full minute before anyone noticed me.

“We have a little challenge.” Ben paused, and kissed me.  “I’m on the phone with Patrick.”

“She,” I pointed to Carrie.  “Should be the one on the phone with Patrick.”

Ben whispered “not now,” and and hurriedly spoke into the phone to the disembodied Patrick.

“Up here!  They are coming up here!”  Carrie cried.  “I knew they’d find me!”

“Where are they now?”  I already knew the answer, based on the tableau I walked into.

“Apparently,” Prue patted Carrie’s arm rhythmically. “They descended on Patrick’s office.”

“With no appointment.”  Carrie shrieked.  

              “They burst into Patrick’s office.” Prue amended.  “And loudly introduced themselves.”

“Is it too late for the fiery car crash?” Carrie hiccupped. At least she was a bit quieter. Ben moved down the hall, I waved my arms to stop him. If he wandered too far into the front parlor, he’d lose reception.

“I think it’s too late.” I confirmed.

“Damn!”  Ben’s voice echoed down the hall. He had wandered too far into the parlor.

“This place is like a black hole.”  He growled, still acting the grouchy bear.

“Only for cell coverage.”  I soothed.

“What did he say?” Carrie looked up at Ben; her blue eyes were enormous and shiny with tears.

Ben touched her hair.  “He’s coming up.”

“It’s over then.” She slumped down in her chair. “He’ll call it off.” She glanced down at her ring.  “What a beautiful dream it was.”

“It’s not over.”  I soothed, but I didn’t have much else to say. “Tell him the truth.  You can explain that you didn’t invite them to the engagement party because you were embarrassed. Now that he’s met them, he’ll certainly understand that part.”

Her phone rang and she picked it up. Really, I had to talk with her about voice mail, very handy when you need to screen your calls.

              “Hello?” She listened for about a second then hit the speaker button, too exhausted to repeat the story.

“And boy, he sure is handsome.”  Her mother’s voice, gravely from a lifetime of smoking, floated up from the phone (like the wicked witch of the west). “Dad and me are just so proud that you made something of yourself.”

“Marrying is what makes me something?  Is that all?  Leaving and making it on my own, that counts for nothing?”  Carrie burst out, glaring at her pretty phone.  It was just the messenger, I wanted to remind her, don’t blame the cell.

Her mother ignored her daughter. “He’s something, invited us direct to the wedding.  We are pretty sure we can make it.”

“Your schedule is so impacted.” Carrie rolled her eyes.

“You know honey, if it doesn’t work out you can always live back with us.”

“What else did you say to him mother?”  Carrie demanded. 

“That you were a lucky girl rising out of poverty like you did, of course we’re much better off, we have a double-wide now, the biggest place in the park.  We have room, you sure you don’t want to come home?”

How delusional was this woman?  Even I knew Carrie would never, under any circumstance, come within ten feet of her abusive father. Unless he was dead. Then she’d approach cautiously, but only up to five feet.

I never asked for more details aboiut her past. The last thing Carrie needed was to relive her crappy childhood, but Patrick may ask. Patrick may insist. Frankly I recommended a while back that she spill her guts and tell him everything. I myself have told Ben everything about my own past. Was it my fault that he happened to fall asleep just before I came to the really embarrassing parts?

“I will never come home.”  Carrie said firmly. Tears streaked down her cheeks.  Ben handed her a tissue.  She clicked off and checked the number.

“How do you block numbers on your phone?”

“Now you’re talking. Let me do it.”

“If only they would just die.” Carrie clapped her hands over her mouth and looked over her fingers in horror. 

“I didn’t mean to say that, of course I didn’t mean to say that, they are my parents. I’m supposed to love them.”

“Sure, from a long distance with a restraining order.”  I said briskly, but her expression was haunted.  She was more upset about her own reaction that the rude abusive behavior of her parents. Typical Carrie.

I finished with the phone and looked at her. “You’re going to have to tell him the truth.”

“Not the whole truth, Oh God,” she moaned. “I never intended to bring it up, ever.”

“He loves you, he’ll understand.”  I tried to smile and appear encouraging. As if I knew Patrick. I did not really know Patrick, I only know about him through Carrie. I had no knowledge of his background; I imagined it was packed with private schools, private lessons and private summer homes.  No stress, just happy children cavorting with happy cows.

“Will Patrick stay here?”  Prue asked.

“I don’t know.” Carrie touched the phone, then pushed it away. “It depends on how our conversation goes.”

I didn’t know about Patrick, but I couldn’t stand aside and let Carrie’s father ruin her life again.  He had already, irreparably, done it once and she escaped, all by herself. This time she was not alone. That monster was not going to ruin my best friend’s life. Of course I had no plan to back up that bold assertion; I had a better chance figuring out who murdered Lucky.

“It’s going to get crowded here.” Ben observed.  He was looking at Raul. Raul was ignoring Ben and everyone else. I figured it must be warmer in the kitchen than the guesthouse.

“Yes,” said Prue. “And the days when guests were willing to sleep under the dining room table are gone.”

“We’ll move.”  Ben suggested.

“Where?”  I asked. Was this another replay of why I was up here in the first place? Our inability to share quarters?

“Is the apartment over the garage still empty?”  Ben asked Prue.

She nodded.  “Excellent idea.  You two move there, Carrie and Patrick will have the third floor to themselves.  Check the toilet while you’re there. I think it’s running.”

“Thank you.” Carrie said quietly.

“Come on, let’s do this now.”  Ben rose and headed towards the hallway.

“We have time.” I protested. I was hungry. I wanted my lunch.

“Patrick is flying up, we have half an hour.”

The apartment above the garage was built in the seventies - no permits because you can’t really see it from the street.  It overlooked three neglected weed-choked lots that backed into our property. From the second floor we could see the rooftops of new homes that had been built after my senior year, when I stopped spending so much time up here. Prue usually allowed people to stay in the apartment for as long as they needed, which in Claim Jump time can be years. The most recent occupant stayed over Christmas, but Prue assured me she now had her own place.

Ben motioned me in and we climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor apartment.  Last fall we tried to find privacy up here, but did not meet with success.  This time I hoped for better.

As I climbed, I pulled out my phone.

“Checking for reception?” He pushed me up the last step and looked around. I wandered from corner to corner finally ending up in the tiny bathroom.  “Here, four bars right here in the shower stall.”

“That will keep the conversation short.” he said genially, even cheerfully.

“Don’t you have something else to do other than hang around here?”  I finally asked.

“Nope, besides, you have another great Claim Jump murder, another mystery to cope with, and it’s my job to keep you safe.” He removed the toilet lid and peered inside.

“The last time we hung out together in Claim Jump, I almost got you killed.”

He shrugged. “You are interesting that way. But I can’t leave you, I certainly don’t intend to abandon Carrie.”  His expression darkened.  “Are her parents that bad?  Patrick said they were uncouth and clearly lower class, but not monsters.”

“Monsters come in many disguises.”

He raised one eyebrow.  “Really.”

I met his gaze levelly. “Really.”

We replaced the apartment mattress with one we found in an empty guest room in the main house. I filched towels and soap from my own upstairs bath and I grilled Raul about web cams.

“I took them all down in January,” he admitted.  “But All-Is-Son they were very helpful, really.”

“I do not want to hear about it.”   But I searched for the telltale camera eyes just in case.

Our privacy assured, even cozy, we left our new nest to hunt for a coffee maker, but were distracted by Patrick’s arrival in the only cab in town.  The Claim Jump airport is mostly reserved for the borate bombers, but occasionally private planes do zoom in and out.  There is no baggage center. There is no TSA, no car rentals.  No services.

Ben and I followed Patrick into the kitchen.

Prue hung up the phone.  “The funeral is tomorrow, you are all to come.”

Patrick paused in mid-step.

“Sorry, I’m Prue Singleton. Welcome.”

Ben clapped Patrick on the back.  “See what happens when you’re spontaneous?  Welcome to Allison’s insanely bizarre home town.”