Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View (4 page)

I did know Sarah Miller after all. But once I saw her, I remembered more about her. Sarah is a player in the long narrative that is Claim Jump.  Sarah was born here and never left.  Her mother left both Claim Jump and baby Sarah and moved to the Ridge in a haze of pot smoke and acromony. The grandparents, being most excellent Christians, took in the baby even while they disowned their own daughter. 

Prue shook her head. “I don’t know what will happen to her when her grandparents die.  She has no job, fewer prospects.”

That’s Prue, always looking on the bright side.

Summer was back. She clutched a plastic glass of Charles Shaw red and stalked around the lobby. She periodically dashed out to the sidewalk, checked, then returned with a dejected expression on her face.

The theater lobby is small and hot. Winter or summer, the audience spills out the entrance doors to the sidewalk. Some patrons wander all the way down the sidewalk to the Mine Shaft bar and never return. One year, during a particularly painful interpretation of
Fiddler on the Roof
, a majority, enough to be noticeable, never returned for the second act. Summer actually walked down to the bar and rounded up a good dozen members of her audience and forced marched them back to the theater.  We all knew then how the residents of Anatevka must have felt.

I usually don’t dress to attend any event or program in Claim Jump; it’s just not necessary. No one wears makeup around here, not even the women who own retail businesses and should know better.  No one worries about the latest fashion because up until about five minutes ago, there weren’t any stores that carried interesting, fashionable clothing.  The stores now have upgraded their merchandise, but the women in town still ignore every opportunity to look better, fashionable and uncomfortable. Even I admit that comfort can be rather compelling. Debbie on the other hand, had elevated comfort to an extreme sport.

She slid up next to be and started to talk, no introduction, no hello, no “how are you” or “how do you like the play?” 

“The theater needs to be retrofitted
.” She announced into my ear.

“Retrofitted?”  I glanced around.  Sure, one little 4.6 tremor and this place would crumble down to a pile of rubble. If we were cataloging the dangers of Summer Theater, it was also a fire trap, the chairs were so full of dust I sneezed for days after just one evening here, and there was a real risk of helplessly witnessing a truly painful performance of a Broadway show that used to be a favorite but now was forever ruined.  And who knew if the water heater was secured? But that was part of the performance art: the disrepair of it, the bold embrace of the mediocre. It all served to enhance the veneer of old time charm.

“Yes,” Debbie continued as if I had agreed with her.  “We have a real problem in this town, so few of the buildings are up to code. I blame the past councils for letting things slide and I even thought we should sue some of business owners for not repairing and upgrading when they sold their buildings, but I couldn’t find the minutes from the seventies.”

“Oh,” I said. I suspected the minutes she was searching for went up in a forest fire - long story - but I wasn’t going to share history with Debbie.

“Weren’t they in the old library?”  I asked instead, because that’s where I once searched for the old council minutes, before I learned the meeting minutes of the seventies had been taken by a private citizen to “keep them safe.”  The private citizen had lived miles above my grandmother’s place on the upper reaches of Red Dog Road in one of Lucky Masters’ tract homes. And there had been that fire.             

Debbie
nodded. “They were moved to City Hall when the library was decommissioned.  Easier to keep them safe.” 

              I had no comment to make about the relative safety of paperwork and possible guilty parties. In the rather immediate past I had discovered that so much of what went on in Claim Jump was not recorded, at least not officially. Prue had access to a number of documents, but those were kept safe to keep her safe.  She may have some paperwork that revealed lax permitting, bribes, incidents of council members looking the other way so that developers could have their way with the forests surrounding the town. But she didn’t flaunt it.  We just kept it around for Prue’s own benefit.  But it had nothing to do with what Debbie searched for.  What Debbie wanted had actually, legitimately, gone up in smoke.

“Are you enjoying your time on the council?”  I asked brightly.

“Enjoying?” She barked. “I don’t have time to enjoy, do you know how much has been left to chance in this town? Do you know how little regard these owners have for codes and regulations?”

It was odd to hear a woman draped in tie-dyed splendor speak of codes and regulations.  I watched Mike elaborately sneak up behind Debbie making terrible faces and mock snarling. He and Pat, who owned a number of the buildings downtown, were probably the bane of her existence (codewise), and she theirs.

“Debbie, how lovely to see you and you are so, colorful tonight!”  Mike swooped around her and issued a bear hug that took her breath away.

“Oh, uh, yes.”

“Enjoying the play?”  Mike twinkled at her.

“I was hoping to catch Lucky Masters. He needs to file his EPA before he starts building again and I heard he was starting to hire workers before all his paper work was cleared.”

“No!”  Mike placed his hand on his heart.  “I am shocked, not file the right papers?”

Debbie apparently had little to no sense of humor, which is too bad. Mike is rather amusing if a person is relaxed enough to appreciate it.

“Yes,” Debbie replied with a straight face. “And I wanted to stop him with an injunction.”  She patted her leather-tooled purse, hand made, straight from 1975.  She wore it slung from one shoulder to the opposite hip.  The strap cut across her chest, effectively isolating each breast so they looked like islands floating in a riot of orange swirls. Don’t ever do that.  Even if you are all about comfort, don’t ever do that.

“You were going to serve papers during an amateur theater production?”  I asked. I had to ask.

“Did you find him?”  Debbie caught Summer on one of her return trips from the sidewalk. Summer shook her head.

“How is Penny Masters?”  I asked Summer.

“Penny?” The theater director finally focused on me.  “Penny is marvelous. We’re organizing a house tour for April first and that’s taking up a lot of our time. Will you be in town?”

“Probably not.” I reassured her.

“You should come back up for it, Penny is displaying her quilts at the house as well, that’s one of them.”   She pointed to a large colorful quilt hanging behind the snack table in the lobby.  Its bright colors just served to make the red carpet look more faded in contrast.

“She made that?”

“Yes, we’re raffling that one off to raise money to upgrade the heating system.  She’s very generous, just like her father.”

“Is it up to code?”  I couldn’t resist asking.

Summer gave me a puzzled look. Debbie harrumphed and stalked away, probably to cover the exits so Lucky couldn’t sneak out the back doors.  It would not be good evening for Lucky should either woman find him, which is probably why he was not anywhere in evidence.

I wandered over, bought some of the bad wine and knocked it back before intermission was over.

By the time we all reorganized into our seats and admired the placement of Raul’s cameras, which were difficult to detect, even when he pointed them out I noticed that our young man - that’s what Mike and Pat had dubbed him, our young man - had moved up to a front row seat.

Chapter Three

I wasn’t really tired. The play hadn’t taken up too much mental bandwidth and the fettuccini Alfredo at That Italian Place after the play was a nice pick-me-up.  But Prue looked exhausted, so we said good-bye to all the boys and I helped her get to bed.

I wandered around downstairs. The air had a suspicious nip in it and I wanted to make sure all the doors were firmly closed against the rain that could turn to snow overnight. I glanced at my computer, partially buried under the
Claim Jump Union
. I picked up the front page of the local paper. “ Library under bid, two possible buyers.  Bids due today at 5:00 PM.”

I read further with interest. 
Our
Historic library is under siege! Lucky Masters, local developer, is rumored to be purchasing the state historic site. He plans to tear down the historic building to build a live/work complex.

“While we think that live/ work is the way of the future,” commented mayor Summer Johnson, “we don’t think that sacrificing such a fabulous building is the answer.”

Ms. Johnson is also the director of the Summer Theater in the old theater building and admits, for the record, that much of her funding comes from Mr. Masters’ company, Lucky in Love, and that she acknowledges conflict of interest. She had recused herself from both the planning commission vote as well as the final approval set to be put forward to the city council at the April meeting.

The odds were good Lucky will win the bid, which will give Prue as well as the Brotherhood an excellent reason to get not only terribly worked up about the fate of the library, but also terribly righteous about it.  Summer was one of the very few people disposed to think fondly of Lucky Masters. Maybe Penny, his daughter, loved him as well. That would make two.

A loud pounding at from the front of the house startled me. I dropped the paper and hurried to the door before a second bang woke Prue.

I jerked it open without bothering to peek through the narrow side windows or even trill “who is it?” Standing on the porch looking much like one of her own rescue kittens just saved from drowning was the elusive, not answering her messages, Carrie Eliot.  Her long, dark hair clung to her neck and shoulders in dripping strands.  She hadn’t bothered to belt her raincoat and the front of her sweater and jeans were soaked.  You can get surprisingly wet just making the trek from the street to the front of the house.

“They came to my house.” Without even a hello.

But of course she didn’t need a hello. I’m her best friend and as such it is my job to be able to dispense with the formal greetings and go straight to what I knew was the heart of the matter.

She took a ragged breath and stepped onto the mat just inside the door. She shook off her raincoat and handed it to me, I took it gingerly and hung it over the newel post. Water pooled on the floor.

She wrung out her hair. “God, it rains hard up here. And it’s cold, you didn’t say it was cold up here!”  She looked at me accusingly as if I controlled the weather. I would love to control the weather; I’d make so much more money.

“Yes it does, when it rains in Sonoma County, it pours in Claim Jump.”  I stood and waited for her to start.

She didn’t, so I started. “I assume when you say they showed up at your door, you are not talking about zombies.”

“I wish.”

“If not zombies, then your parents.” I guessed. 

“They came bearing the newspaper article on our engagement.”

“Ah.”

“And they want money.” 

“And offered forgiveness in exchange?”  I said, although I knew perfectly well her parents thought nothing of what they inflicted upon their only daughter. In their world, girls were expendable and boys were valuable since boys worked for the family.  Maybe Carrie’s parents were zombies; they were certainly abusive and decidedly odd, although I can’t say for sure they routinely suck out brains. The Eliots made my mother look like a saint. They even made Ben’s mother look like a saint and that is saying something.  

“And you said,” I prompted my wet friend.

“I told them to go to hell. And then I drove straight up here.”

“Welcome.” I gingerly hugged her sopping wet body.  “Don’t slip on the puddle.”

Carrie’s parents are alcoholics and drug addicts although not particuraly in that order.  Her sister married an abusive alcoholic just to keep the family tradition going. Carrie’s brother, the promising one, the one on whom all family attention was lavished, is currently a guest at Folsom prison. Twice a year, her parents shake themselves from their stupor and either contact Carrie for money, booze or bail.  She has as little to do with them as possible.  The really big question is, will her parents redeem themselves in the final hour, clean up, dress in long sleeves to cover the track marks and the tattoos, and engender a loving family reunion just in time for Carrie’s fairy tale wedding?

Probably not, not even clean and sober families have that kind of capacity or where withall. 

Before she could take another step into the sanctuary that is my grandmother’s home, her phone buzzed.  She answered without thinking.

“Oh, no mother.” Carrie drawled the words. It was as close to sarcasm as my friend would venture.

I gestured to the kitchen, just in case she wanted to be alone.

She shook her head violently and gestured for me to stay.

“I’m out of town, so getting together won’t work for this weekend.  No I haven’t picked my dress.”
              I gestured to the far eastern corner of the parlor.  She followed me obediently.

“Your dress?” 

I mouthed, “we’re walking, we’re walking.”  She followed and suddenly said, “Mom, you’re cutting out, I can’t hear, Oh, damn.”

By then she had squeezed up against the far wall, getting as far out of range as she could.

“That damn was pretty sincere.”  I complimented her.

“I hope so, thank you, that was pretty smart.”  She flipped her phone, and frowned.

“Five messages from Patrick.”

“You haven’t called him back?”

She rubbed her eyes. I took her hand and led her to the warmer kitchen.

“How can I talk to him Allison?  How can I explain these people to Patrick?”

“The truth?”  I ventured. I know, for a saleswoman, the truth is not necessarily the best first line of defense, but I was becoming fonder of the truth over other methods of mendacity. Sometimes it’s just easier, and as a bonus you don’t have to remember what you said.

“He would never understand!” She collapsed at the kitchen table and weakly accepted a glass of white wine. 

“I love this table.” She ran her palms over the scarred wood. “Patrick has everything in the world including not a single problem in his family, everyone is wonderful.  How can I admit I have drug abusers as parents?”

I was reminded of something Ben said over Christmas.  If everyone has a relative who is an alcoholic, then when do we stop saying it runs in the family and just admit it runs in the human race?

I repeated that to Carrie.

“Yeah, but Richard keeps it under control.”

“My brother controls his drinking to the best of our knowledge,” I said. “But no one knows for sure, maybe his wife, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”  Debbie, my sister-in-law, is blessed with the ability to only see what she wants to see. That includes my brother’s drinking problem.  

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”  Prue emerged from the dark hall wrapped in a worn terry robe, limping on her casted foot.

“Hello, Carrie. Welcome, I thought I heard your voice.”  

Carried leapt up and threw her arms around Prue.  “Thank you, I knew I could come here.”

“Always,” Prue said. “Stay as long as you want.”

Carrie was more in tune to my grandmother than I was.  She didn’t linger but insisted she was tired so Prue could go back to bed.  We all trooped up the stairs, Carrie leading the way, me bringing up the rear.  If Prue fell backwards, she could land on me.  I’m soft.

Carrie instinctively headed to the third floor rooms.  I stayed in my usual room on the second floor. Prue’s room was close by.

“Are you sure?”  Carrie moved to her favorite bedroom with confidence born of many visits.

“Of course, if I can escape, so can you.”
              “I’m not escaping.”

I thrust an armload of sheets and towels into her arms. “And neither am I.”

Scott Lewis woke early, well before noon. The early hour did nothing for him; there was little to do in his hotel room and he was too anxious to watch TV or listen to music or surf the net or any number of activities that in the past, could consume the better part of an afternoon.

It was different here, in this little town.  He had made the biggest single bid in his life, the largest, most adult gesture he had ever made in the course of his whole existence, and today he would learn if he won.  If “won” is the right word to describe the priveledge to spend a boatload of money on something he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted. He dressed and decided to walk through the cold misty morning to the library. He already had a key, the president of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men offered it — a key to something he did not even own yet.  Apparently it was a normal gesture in Claim Jump.

“Don’t take any records.”  Scott recalled the woman’s name was Suzanne. To him, she had no distinguishing features, she was round, full breasted, wore bifocal glasses and stomped around the main floor of the library in sensible, squeak-free shoes.

The rubber soles of Scott’s own Nike running shoes made a terrible squeaking sound as he crept around the worn linoleum flooring. Maybe he’d replace all the flooring with hardwood.  He could so that as soon as he owned the place and as soon as he figured out a plan.

He didn’t really have a plan locked down.

Scott hustled up the main street. Few shops were open yet.  He felt virtuous by being up and out before even regular people.  The library’s gray granite facade loomed up out of the mist.  Scott climbed the four wide steps and was about to insert the key into the deadbolt when her heard a voice behind him.

“Have you seen Lucky Masters?”  It was the woman who couldn’t stand still during intermission last night - bouncing in and out of the lobby. 

“Who is Lucky Masters?”  Scott asked.

“Only the most influential man in town. He put in the other bid for this place. Didn’t you know?”

Scott shrugged.  “I didn’t, the bids were sealed; the decision was made yesterday.”  He pulled out his phone, frowned and slipped it back in his pocket.

“Nice phone.”

“Oh, yeah, a gift from my Dad’s boss.”

“And you’re sure you haven’t seen Lucky?”  She eyed Scott suspiciously as if he personally had something to do with this Masters’ disappearance.

“I really don’t know. What does he look like?”

The mayor put her hands on her hips and chewed her bottom lip.  “I haven’t heard from him in over 24 hours.  Suzanne said she called and called but there was no answer at Lucky’s home or his office. Debbie has calls into him as well, but of course he’s not going to return her calls.”

Scott slipped the key in the new deadbolt lock. 

“Doesn’t he have people?”  Scott’s father had people. For years those people were the closest Scott could get to his father.

“His daughter, Penny, used to work for him, but she’s busy with the Home Tour and hasn’t been over to the office for over a month. I don’t think they’re speaking right now.”  She continued to chew at her lip. Each time she caught her lip, the dark red lipstick stuck to her teeth and the naturally light color of her mouth seeped through.

“What do you plan to do with the place?”  She finally asked.  Not an idle question. The editor of the paper had called yesterday and asked the same question.

“I don’t quite know yet,” Scott admitted.  The front door finally gave. A burst of cold air, colder than the outdoor temperature, smacked him in the face. Okay, not very cozy. But maybe he could find another place to live, some place that was cozy.  He gazed up at the building facade and made his decision.  It was the second most adult decision he had made in his life.

“Do you know someone who could help me find a house?” 

Her face brightened either from a desire to perform honest help or from calculation, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t read people very well, not like his father could.

“I do. Allison Little is up visiting her grandmother. I just saw her last night. You saw her too. She was sitting with a bunch of guys. She can help you.”

He had to admit he hadn’t really focused on anyone else but the girl playing Dorothy. 

“But if she’s visiting.”

“Allison is like a local, and she’ll know where to place you.  Here.”  Summer pulled out her phone and found the number. He entered the number into his phone.

              “How early does this Allison start her day?”  He asked. The prefix was from the Bay Area.

“Santa Claus.” Summer turned away to head back down to Main Street.

“What?”

“Lucky Masters looks like Santa Claus.”