Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View (22 page)

“Was it a good shriek or a bad shriek?”  I asked tentatively. I did not meet Prue’s eyes.

“Both. Lizzie was angry that so much stock was just left in a safe deposit box. She was angry that she could have used this kind of assets when she was young. She spent a good ten minutes wailing about how the Millers had been terrible parents, withholding assets withholding love, the usual.”

“What was in the safe deposit box?”  Prue asked innocently.

“It was crammed with stock certificates, worth about $300,000 or so. Buster could only estimate. And a couple of life insurance policies that the lawyer insisted Lizzie split with Sarah.  Oh, and Lizzie signed over the house to Sarah. Right there, Sarah seemed rather prepared.”  He looked specifically at me.  I smiled and said nothing.

Ben interrupted us. He slumped in the kitchen, shoulders hunched, head down.  He looked more dejected than Summer in her best funk.

“Where have you been?” 

“Bar.”

“Tom Marten doesn’t mean anything to me.” I quickly protested. The rumors started at bars around here will follow you forever if you’re not careful and quick on your feet. 

He smiled wanly and dropped heavily into his chair.  “This is not about you.”

How is that possible?

He dragged his hands through his thick hair.  “I was just down at Hank’s Roadhouse, place was packed.”

Of course it was, it always is.

He rested his elbows on the kitchen table. “It seems most of the gun club members head over to the Roadhouse after they’ve spent the afternoon target shooting.”

I slid into the chair next to him.  I still had no idea what disturbed him, but I was relieved it wasn’t about our so-called engagement or me.

“They are all torn up about it.” Ben said simply.  “No one knows who did it, who fired the first shot, who fired the last. They are sick about being part of something so ugly. They never knew, why should they? Who would do such a thing?  Who would allow innocent men to kill?”

“A whole group of elderly genealogists?”

He refused to take my bait. “But they don’t have specific arguments with the gun club members, quite the contrary.  So why?”

I placed my hand over his. There wasn’t a single person in Claim Jump, including my own grandmother, who had not, in some week or another, loudly complained about Lucky, publicly threaten to kill Lucky, wanted to kill Lucky, expressed out loud how easy it would be to kill Lucky, and how much pleasure they would derive in Lucky’s untimely demise. More than enough Claim Jump citizens exchanged stories about the various ways a person could kill Lucky and get away with it. The number of potential suspects was staggering, the field was crowded with possible culprits.

And here were the murder
ers: innocent.  Someone drove Lucky to the shooting range. Someone dragged Lucky’s body behind the targets. Someone hoped for the best.

“Just listening to them broke my heart.  People are so sweet up here.” He mused.  “And innocent.”

“Not that innocent.”

Scott walked Sarah to her house and after making sure she really was okay, and not just saying she was okay. He wandered back downtown in the fading afternoon light.  He liked the Sunday evening feel of the town, the shops were closed, the bars quiet.  He was growing quite fond of Claim Jump. The ladies of the Brotherhood were relaxing a bit, especially after their first meeting under “new management” as he was introduced at the meeting, and the members were particularly pleased with his offer to allow them full run of the place until he decided what to do.

“Yoga Studio?”

“No.”

He had left the ladies alone during their meeting and spent the time walking around.  He walked back towards the grammar school, three long indiscriminate blocks to the right of Lucky Master’s house, then two blocks to the left just before the big walled schoolyard.  Gold Way stretched across the back of the school, a dead-end street on both ends, he entered in the middle. The street was the perfect location for a kid to play ball out on the street or build things in the driveway. No wonder his dad remembered it so fondly.

The trees were valiantly displaying flowers and new leaves under the heavy wet.  In the summer, he imagined the towering elms would be leafy, verdant green. He admired big, he understood his dad’s propensity for large, which is why Dubai was just a good fit for dad.  Big, bigger, best.  Dad understood the Shah, Dad understood elaborate. Yet, he never stopped talking about this street and this town.

Scott stood in the chilly air and took measure of the houses.  He knew the one his dad spent summers in had been long sold to another couple, and they kept it up fairly well. The fence needed painting, but everyone’s white picket fence needed painting. Must be that time of year.

The house to the right belonged to Mrs. Legson.  Scott actually remembered her, nice old lady. She was always an old lady.  By now she must be a thousand years old, if she was still alive.

The house on the other side of his grandparents’ was painted with bright colors; the fan carving over the door was painted red, the gingerbread trim, yellow and the main house was colored purple, fading now, but probably pretty spectacular when fresh. Faded Tibetan prayer flags waved from the front porch.

The house next to the colorful house was painted a simple green and white, it looked reproachful in its simplicity as if to say, look at those gaudy colors over there. Just look at that hippie house! Look  how they show off and make a scene when the rest of us are so sensible..

Scott sympathized with the plain house, but he liked the gaudy house too.  Didn’t matter, none were for sale.

Why wasn’t Sarah involved with some nice local boy? It was the first question that popped out of his mouth the first night they spent together. Way to go Scott.

              “A nice local boy?”  She snuggled next to him and pulled the bright colored quilt she brought from home over them more closely.  It was heavy and marvelously warm.

“There were a couple of boys, when I was in high school of course, but my grandparents did not approve of me dating, probably because of my mother.  She dated seriously, like it was a contact sport. That and other activities.”  She trailed off.  

“So in contrast, you’re a paragon of moral rectitude.”

She frowned. “Maybe. I really didn’t have the friends to do bad things with. You know, you need friends to really behave badly. And once I started caring full time for grandpa and grandma I didn’t have time at all.  So there you go.”

She was matter of fact about it, but it still made him wince to think about all those good years, all that wild fun, lost. 

“And I’m the first.” He confirmed unnecessarily.

It had been simultaneously an honor and horrible. She had not really elaborated the situation until it was too late. Of course, he hadn’t pointed out how long it had been for him since his last encounter either. To be honest, his last sex had not exactly been a prelude to a relationship, or to cement a relationship, or to consummate a relationship or, never mind.

With Sarah it did feel like the beginning of something, maybe something big.

He rolled on his back and stared at the Northern Queen ceiling.  Allison said she might have a lead on a house on Gold Way.             

He pulled Sarah closer, her slender body fitted against his as if she were made for just that purpose. “So, how are you feeling, now that your grandparents are gone?” 

“Honestly?”  She rested her head on his bare chest.

He rolled his eyes, “Well sure, honestly.” What was left but honesty?

“I feel free.”

Chapter Twenty-One

That night, I curled up with my own good man. We snuggled down under Penny’s heavy quilt and felt comfortably insulated from the cold and rain whipping outside the tiny windows of the apartment.  At least it stopped snowing.

“Isn’t this fun?  Just you and me.”  I pulled up the quilt over our heads careful not to disturbe the candles on the head board.

“Do you like it that way?  Just you and me?  I mean, is that enough?”  Ben’s face was carefully composed.

It was the closest comment he had ventured to make about my hospital stay.  I blinked. He reached over my head and pulled the candle closer to see me.  The power was restored, but we had discovered the romance of candlelight the night before and I could use all the romance I could muster.

“Yes.” The word was heavy in my mouth and heavy in my heart. Was two enough?  I never doubted it until last month.

He nodded. “I think we can make it enough.”  He gently stroked my lips.  “You, of course, are more than enough.”

He pulled me close and I flung my arm around him brushing the candle.

The candle tipped over and hit the edge of the quilt, tented up around our heads.

“Crap.”  I automatically pushed the quilt down and patted the scorched marks. It was so lovely. Tt was a shame to mar it.  While I patted, I considered ways to mend it, would Penny take it back and help repair it?  Could I pay her to do it?

My efforts and plans did not affect the quilt in any way. Instead of behaving like a good, thickly sewed cotton quilt, the scorch mark bolted down to the center of the quilt and burst into flames as if fueled by a stream of lighter fluid.  I yelped and threw the whole thing to the bare floor.  The weight of the quilt should have smothered the fire, but it started to blaze up like eucalyptus branches on a bonfire (you only do that once, then you learn).  I pulled off the wool blanket from the bed and threw it and myself on the flames, I couldn’t think of any other way.  I was so involved that I forgot about Ben who had, in this tiny nanosecond, found the fire extinguisher. He pushed me off the rapidly heating wool blanket and covered the whole mess with foam.

“My God.” I panted. “Was that thing possessed?”

Ben pulled on his jeans. Still barefoot he quickly dragged the sodden, foam-covered quilt down the stairs, the stuffing falling out to the walkway outside, oblivious to the rain and cold.

He paused and sniffed the air. I found an umbrella and followed. I was as lightly dressed as he was, but I didn’t care, the rain felt good. Immolation was not something I aspire to.

Ben leaned over and pulled out a handful of stuffing from the inside of the quilt.

“I’ve smelled this before.” He ground the stuffing between his fingers.  I couldn’t see things very well, but the stuff in his hands had a glow of its own.

“Is that.” I tentatively touched the material, now taking on rainwater and swelling in Ben’s hand.

“I think it’s the insulation. The famous or rather infamous insulation.”  He dropped the stuff and dusted his hands.

“She stuffed this quilt with the illegal insulation Lucky used on all his homes?”

“I bet not just this one.”  Ben contemplated the soggy mess.  

Visions of charred baby heads danced in mine. “Carrie has one.”

“Let’s go.”

The kitchen door stays unlocked just in case any of us, that would be Raul and Brick, Pat and Mike, Ben, or I need to get into the house.

“You get Carrie’s and check if your grandmother is sleeping under one.” Ben instructed.

I nodded and dashed upstairs.

Grandma was snoring peacefully under her own quilt, made in the seventies when quilt making was all the rage.  Grandma’s masterpiece looked worse for wear, bedraggled and unmatched. I think it’s called a crazy quilt pattern. But it was safe, that one will not ignite. She must not have taken her quilt when the brotherhood closed shop at the library.

The Brotherhood. I froze on the landing.  Smoking in bed under this quilt would be like dragging in kerosene soaked kindling and lighting a few matches over it to see what would transpire.

“We’re thrilled to finally be able to take these home.” I remembered a member commenting.  “They were certainly good insulation in the library, kept us warm.”

Those quilt would keep everyone very warm indeed. 

I cautiously stepped into Carrie’s room. This was easier since she was alone.  The beautiful quilt lay on top of her recumbent form, too much like a colorful shroud.  I gently pulled it off, and tossed two nearby afghans back over her for good measure.

She frowned and stirred but didn’t wake.  I hefted the quilt and peeked into the guest bedroom, a crochet monstrosity covered that double bed.

“Any more?”  Ben whispered.

“Just this one, Penny gave these to just Carrie, and me.”

“She didn’t offer me a quilt. ” He mused.

“She must really like you.” I snapped.

Ben and I did not sleep well.  We were cold and not even tangling our legs and arms helped warm us.              We abandoned the bed as soon as it was decent to do so. We shuffled to the kitchen and made coffee while we waited for Carrie and Prue to wake.

Prue was unsurprised, Carrie was skeptical.

“How could Penny do such a thing? You don’t just take insulation for houses and stuff it into a beautiful handmade quilt.” She protested. “A person doesn’t do something like that.”

“Apparently Penny did.”  I didn’t counter her argument by pointing out that no, a
sane
person wouldn’t do such a thing.

              I refused to let the quilts back in the house. We trooped out like a funeral procession to where Ben and I had left the quilts last night. We didn’t even want him inside the house. I wielded a huge sharp scissors I found in Prue’s antique sewing basket.  As I pulled out the shears, I recognized thread and scraps from that crazy quilt still on Prue’s bed. It must have been the last thing she made by hand. 

“Just cut off the bottom section.” Ben micromanaged.

Raul appeared with a small video camera. I didn’t stop him.

Carrie crossed her arms, huddled against the cold morning air.  “I don’t think the quilt is like a bag you can cut and the contents pour out, it’s all carefully stitched together.”

“She’s right.” I paused, scissors in hand.  Damn.

“Then we default to plan B.”               Raul rolled the video. Ben flicked a thick kitchen match on the side of the box and tossed it into the center of Carrie’s quilt. The quilt was soaked with rain so I didn’t think anything would happen. I was wrong.

In seconds, a streak of black snaked from the center of the quilt marring the beautiful colors, a second after that, flames roared up from the quilt and engulfed the fabric, insulation and the quilt below it like a roman candle.  It burned out just as quickly and before we even registered or were able to express our dismay, the quilts were gone, nothing but ash on the walkway.

“But why?”  I breathed.  The air was toxic with the smell of spent insulation.

“For the same reason people put razors into apples and give them away for trick or treat.”  Ben’s eyes locked onto the black mess, a curl of smoke rose up, just as it must have smoked right after burning poor Elizabeth, who everyone knew, smoked in bed.

“You know, I never, ever picked up a razor infested apple when I was a kid, and I was an excellent trick or treator.”  I couldn’t look away from the pile of ash, of death.

“You lived in a classy neighborhood.”  Ben squatted down and tentatively poked at the ash.  “Come to think of it, I never heard of anyone who ever actually found a razor blade in an apple.”

“Maybe a kid made that up so he or she would never have to eat fruit, just pre-wrapped Snickers and Mars Bars.”

Ben dusted his fingers.  “It worked, smart kid.”

“The poor woman.” Prue backed away from the mess as if it was contagous.

“Who, the dead Elizabeth?”  She was on my mind.

“No, Penny. What would drive her to do such a thing?”

I had no answer, but those burned baby doll heads came immediately to mind.  Crap, Penny was not stable at all was she? Did her father’s death finally unhinge her?  I looked at the charred, curling remains of the quilts. No, she had been doing this for a very long time.

And Mattie?  Was Penny unwilling to wait for Mattie to do herself in, death by quilt smothering?  Should I call Tom Marten? Sure and explain that the flammable insulation that no one believed in was stuffed into beautiful collectable quilts that no one could take home? Did Penny even know what she was doing? Wasn’t that part of the quilting tradition: make do with what you had around the house?  Or in between the walls of the house? 

Should we talk to Penny?  What possible good would that do? Particularly since I was selling three of her buildings a situation that Inez christened as “fabulous.” I was back in the good graces of the company, did I want to risk that?

I took a deep breath.  Who knew?  That was the next question.  We saw Summer on video. She was clearly unaware, but what about the ladies of the club?

Ben shoveled the remains of the quilt and loaded it into a black garbage bag.  The rest  of us trudged back to the relative warmth of the house.

We all wanted as much coffee as the coffee maker would produce.

“What about the Brotherhood members?”  I helped Prue up the back steps.  “What do they know?”

“I’ll ask them.  I’ll make calls.”

“Are you going to contact the police chief?” Carrie asked sensibly.

“Right after I contact a little old lady.” I replied.

Finding a house for sale on Gold Way was more difficult than I anticipated.  I called and called, because that is what I do, it’s my job. Finally one person responded to my message but only because I was Prue’s granddaughter and she loved my grandfather. Mrs. Legson was 98 years old, and just got around to calling, she explained on my voice mail, because she only checks her message machine once a week.

“Why don’t you come over for some tea?”  Her voice was quivery but from age rather than lack of personality.

“Prue, do you know Mrs. Legson?” I hung up the phone.

“Everyone knows Mrs. Legson. She walked neighborhoods for me during my run for City Council. She thinks Debbie is an idiot and is still upset over the election.”

“Member of the Brotherhood?”

“She’s not a joiner.”

Mrs. Legson sounded interesting.  I presented myself at her door as soon as I could.

Mrs. Legson was a round, pleasant woman shaped like a sticky bun. She answered the door and gestured for me to come in.  “I’m too old to get out.  You can come to me.”

I complied. She led me through the hallway to the kitchen in the back.  The kitchen overlooked a ravine that may or may not brag a creek. The term, seasonal creek, can also be code for winter flooding.

“What can I get you?”  She toddled to the old gas stove and pulled the whistling kettle off the burner.  She poured the hot water into a teapot in the shape of a bright-eyed Asian; his long braid was twisted to make the handle of the teapot.

“I understand you have someone interested in buying a house on this street?”               I picked up the tray with the pot and chintzware cups and followed her halting steps into the living room.

“You must know Debbie Smith, the person on the council now.”  Mrs. Legson continued.  “She wanted to buy a place here too.  She rented from Lou Ellen; back when Lou Ellen was more involved.  But there was a fire and she had to move out.  I heard some of the locals said she was bad luck; no one wanted to rent to her.” 

I couldn’t see the house from the living room windows.  Fire damage did not sound promising.

“The place needed work anyway.” Mrs. Legson sipped her tea and made another face. “Needs something. Honey, can you reach that bottle there?” She gestured to a sideboard loaded with silver framed photos of people in various stages of life.  I plucked a brandy bottle from the clutter.

“That’s it, bring it here.” 

Of course I obeyed, who wouldn’t serve a nice little old lady her brandy at 11:00 in the morning?

“Perfect, thank you dear, have some yourself.”

“No, I’m good, thanks. You were talking about the fire.”

“Oh, that’s all fixed. But I’ll tell you, I don’t know how Lou Ellen manages. There’s far more money going out than coming in.  If at all.” She added darkly, just in case I didn’t get it.

“And where did Debbie move?”

“Her next house was one of those awful tract houses up on the hill, above your grandmother.  She was in Sacramento the day of that horrible fire, good thing, her rental burned like the rest of them.”

“Not very good luck around here.” I commented.

“You would think she’d take the hint, but she stayed and fought.”  Mrs. Legson sighed, poured herself more tea and doused it with more brandy. “I’ll give her that. So my dear are you              interested in our little street for yourself, I understand you’re looking.” 

I ignored her hint and stayed on topic.  “I have a client interested in buying a house here on Gold Way.”