Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View (6 page)

“Hi, you must be Allison, your office just called, your manager was pretty enthusiastic.”

“I’m sure she was. Thank you for loaning me a key.” I rummaged around my purse for my wallet and ID.

This local New Century agent was tall, taller than me, and was dressed in formal Claim Jump business attire: jeans and matching jean jacket with New Century embroidered over the left pocket.

“No problem, we’ve lost enough agents during the downturn so we had a few keys just floating around.”  She pulled out a manual key, a chunky piece of equipment the size of an ancient cell phone and handed it to me. The four-digit code allowing me to enter any house in Nevada County was written in ink on masking tape and stuck to the back.

“Do you need a deposit? Want me to sign anything?” I flipped open my wallet to my ID and dug out my DRE card.  I glanced around for a form to fill out; I was prepared to write a check for the privilege of the loan.

“Oh no, just return it before you go back to the Bay Area. I know your grandmother.”

“Well, thanks!”

I dropped the key into my purse and headed up to the parking lot to meet Scott. My phone (much smaller than the key) buzzed.

“I’m running late. Dinner?”

“Works for me, Carrie’s here.”

“Did she call Patrick?”  Ben asked.

I paused by my car. Scott saw me and headed down from the library doors, locking it behind him.

“I still haven’t heard about the sale outcome,” Scott complained as he approached my car. Are people around here always slow to get back to you?”

“Why, did Patrick call you?”  I asked Ben.

“We’ll talk, can you tell Patrick she’s here?”

“I’m with a client, can you call, tell him she’s fine.   I don’t want him freaking out.”  It started to rain again; I unlocked the passenger door for Scott and hurried around to my side.

“Sure, how are you doing?”  Ben asked conversationally.  It sounded on the surface as conversation, but there was far more loaded into that sentence.

“I told you, I’m with a client.”  I wrestled with the door and hopped in.

“I’ll call him.” He understood my sitation immediately. “See you tonight.” 

“What if your bid is accepted for the library? Didn’t that require an all cash offer?”

“Yes, that’s why they agreed to let me make a bid.” Scott confirmed.

“And you have more?”  I meant money; cash would be lovely, even in a foreclosure, cash can move the process along quite quickly.  I love cash, but I hardly ever work with it.

“Yes.” He shook himself like a large goofy Labrador and rained inside the car, leaving me feeling damp and a bit cranky.  “ I do have more. Do you think I could turn it into a bar?”

“No.”

“What do you know about Sarah Miller?”  He quickly changed the subject.

“She doesn’t sing very well.” One of the few verifiable facts I knew about Sarah.

“No kidding.  Uh, don’t tell her I said that out loud.”

“Your secret is safe.” I drove to the first house, only a few blocks from the library.

I did know something about Sarah, all courtesy of Prue, who heard it through Suzanne Chatterhill, who heard it through various members of the Brotherhood. Sarah Miller was like a ward of the town. Many of the Brotherhood members doted on Sarah and found it shocking that her grandparents were so narrow minded and had inflicted their world view on the girl.  Never mind that many in Claim Jump were perfectly aligned with the far right of the world. Narrow minded was categorized differently depending on the situation and the person doing the categorization. 

Mind you, no one actually came out and blamed Sarah’s mother for hiding out at the Ridge, either. Anyone who knew the Millers knew they were on the right side of rigid and judgmental. Sarah did graduate from the local public high school but never made it to classes at Sierra College, the local community college. Girls, according to Sarah’s grandparents, were not worth educating.

“Now there’s a girl who has every right to run amok with an ax and hack her grandparents into tiny pieces.” Prue said last night at dinner.

“Please, grandma.”  

“Sorry.” She forked up her chicken and pointed the loaded fork at me. “But you know it happens.”

“Just not in Claim Jump,” Mike said.  “Nothing ever happens in Claim Jump.”  

To Scott I said, “Sarah was born here, when her mother left her as a baby, her grandparents raised her.  And now Sarah is returning the favor.”  I skipped all the really interesting details of her story. Let the girl tell him herself, that way they would have something to discuss on their first date.

“She must be pretty innocent,” he mused.

“I haven’t met a single millennial who is,” I countered, thinking of my nieces and nephews.  They are too wired to the whole world. I consider myself part of the cranky X generation. The only thing I can’t complain about is that my mother never worked. I would have loved being a latchkey kid, think of the privacy, think of the freedom! Think of all the books I could have read in peace!

But this is not about me.

I dismissed the Sarah question. Did I wonder why Scott asked?  I did not. I know how slim the pickings are in Claim Jump; I’ve had my own moments. Now I import Ben. 

Where did Scott want to live?  He did not know. Did he want to walk to the old part of town (the cute part, rather than the practical part across the freeway that in turn spawned a couple of large mid-century developments, which were fine for what they were, considering Lucky built them in the sixties, but you can live anywhere and have a tract home.  This was Claim Jump, go for Victorian. I prayed Scott wanted character, it would make our time together much more interesting.)

“I thought I’d go for character.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

I will not bore you, but what I loved, Scott didn’t and what he loved, I saw problems, because that’s my job.  But by the fifth house - he had impressive home viewing stamina - we agreed on an adorable house just around the corner from the elementary school. He could walk to work and get winter exercise by shoveling his car out of the driveway because there was no garage. He liked it.

“What do you think?”  He asked politely.

I liked all five of the houses we investigated, and all for selfish reasons.  I liked the large ones because I could use the extra bedrooms for home office space.  I liked the house that backed into the creek for a low maintenance water feature. I liked the huge new house on Gold Mountain.  So much for complete professionalism. If only I could take two of the houses I liked in Nevada County and situate them between Geyserville and Rivers Bend; I’d have the perfect home. It seemed a fantasy house was the only kind Ben and I could share.

“I like this one.” I agreed. “Get an estimate of the work once escrow closes. I know the local contractors.” 

“Do I do that now?”

“No.” I counseled.

I called the listing agent to see what kind of offer we could make.  I know Scott was willing to pay asking price, but I also know you never really have to.

“Hi, this is Allison Little from New Century Realty,” I began.

“Are you there with Scott Lewis?”  The agent, or receptionist responded; he was probably an agent on floor. My, this is a small town.

“Yes.” I confirmed, a bit tentatively.

“He just won the bid for the library.  Ask him what he’s going to do with it.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

“You just got the library.” I announced to my client.

He clapped his hands.  “Good, Great!  Now what do I do?”

“Wonder how the hell you managed to beat Lucky Masters at his own game,” I responded.

Chapter Five

Sarah’s mother may have viewed her parents as simultaneously evil and indestructible, but Sarah knew better.   

“I sort of thought,” she addressed her grandparents. “That you’d be around forever, you know?”

Her grandfather grunted; her grandmother snored.

“I’m going to call Hospice,” she informed them. “The Hospice ladies are very nice. They promised to send Melissa; she is good with this kind of thing. She will help get you out of the chairs, and other stuff, because I can’t.”

It had been so messy, these last three days. She couldn’t leave them alone; they weren’t moving from their chairs or moving much even in their chairs. It was torture to leave them just for the few hours she performed. The bathroom was a very big issue and the cans of Ensure she set out on their TV trays went untouched.

“You’ll be fine, on your feet in no time.” She left the TV on for company and wiped the drool from her grandfather’s lips.

“Tell them Lucky knew all the time,” he mumbled.

“I’ll tell them Grandpa.”  She didn’t really listen to the old man, not anymore, maybe not ever.  He was harshly opinionated when she was little. He told her what to do, told her to follow Jesus and that Jesus was always right, as if Jesus could choose winning stocks and controlled the outcome of dodgeball games. But Sarah could never figure out if Jesus was heading in a direction Sarah was interested in taking.  She learned, over the years, to just say yes and ignore her grandparent’s grim, narrow view of the world. 

Tell them Lucky knew.  Her grandfather worshiped Lucky Masters. The best job grandfather ever had was working for Lucky Masters. Lucky Masters knew how to raise a house in no time. Lucky Masters knew a bargain when he saw it, Lucky Masters, blah, blah, blah.  Sarah knew who Mr. Masters was of course. She saw him in the theater all the time.  But who would
them
be? Didn’t Lucky Masters know everyone? And didn’t everyone know everything about Lucky Masters?

Sarah climbed the narrow stairs to her own little apartment the floor above her grandparents. She wanted to change clothes before she walked down to the theater to become Dorothy, who, by the way, got to leave her house behind and head for a more magical place filled with possibilities and adventure.

She pulled down jeans and her comfortable boots from a sparsely filled closet. She could hear the TV, but it wasn’t too loud, and she could definitely hear if one of them moved or tried to move: the chairs creaked loudly; the thump of their heavy landing would reverberate throughout the walls of the old house.

The old place really needed insulation. Her grandpa could have used some leftover insulation from a job he did for Lucky back in the ‘80s but he hadn’t, and never explained why.  They had been good grandparents in their own way. They did let her go to high school and if she said nothing, she could take part in as many after school activities as she liked, as long as it didn’t inconvenience them.

They used to be busy people: Bible study, church, more Bible study, Brotherhood meetings, and at night, the news.  All the terrors of the world brought to you directly to your living room, in livid color.

Maybe she could get a computer when they passed, maybe there would be some money. Her mother would need some of course. But Sarah would not count her chickens before they hatched, she knew better than that.

Her thoughts wandered to that cute guy at the theater, the one who had sat in front.

I dropped off Scott at the front of the library, his library now.  I was on the verge of escape, but a woman hailed me.  I was conditioned to be polite and waited for her to catch up to the car.  The rain had abated but the air was still cold.  I hoped the chilly air would encourage a quick conversation.

“I heard you were in town,” she panted.  “Nice car, four wheel drive?”

“Of course.” I squinted, working hard to remember her. Had we met during one of my many summers here? If she were one of the many people I met at the river, odds were good I would never be able to recognize her with her clothes on.

“I’m sorry.” I gave up. It was too cold to play guessing games.  “Do I know you?”

“No you don’t. I’m Mattie Timmons, Danny’s ex-wife.  You dated him this summer.”  Mattie looked like she used to belong to the Future Farmers of America and had never changed her look after sophomore year. Her hair was scorched by years of perms and stood out from her head in kinked blond strands. Her thick stomach strained against her tight low riding Lee jeans.  I couldn’t see, but I guessed she wore cowboy boots.

“I didn’t date him,” I corrected.  “We connected again and had few drinks.”

“You know what happened to Danny?  Lucky thinks I don’t know, but I do.” 

I nodded; Danny had shared his suspicions about how Lucky cut corners on his buildings, which included pumping cheap and highly flammable insulation into the walls of every house he constructed. But Danny decided to prove his theory by immolating himself in a conflagration of his own creation. He started the fire to prove how flammable the homes were, and of course all the evidence burned along with the homes. Apparently Danny hadn’t really thought that part through. Don’t drink and start fires.

I did not share my insight with Danny’s divorced widow.

Mattie dropped her voice, although there wasn’t a soul on the street, not in this weather. “Lucky was pumping bad insulation into those homes, but Danny couldn’t really prove it, he had no backup information or expert witness, that kind of thing.”

“That makes it kind of awkward, don’t you think?”  Taking on Lucky Masters was not for the faint of heart, or for the unprepared.  Lucky was very powerful, well hated, and retained likely dozens of attorneys on retainer. To join the I Hate Lucky Masters Club, Mattie Timmons would have to take a number.

“I can prove it,” Mattie insisted. “I have Danny’s old notes back when he worked on those first houses. He used to tell me how the guys on the crew used to squirt some insulation onto a bunch of wood and light a fire, it worked better than gas.”

Lovely. 

“And I told Lucky. He owes me, he owes the kids.”  She folded her arms across her puffy ski parka and glared at me as if I was defending Lucky’s actions.  

I knew I should have been more impressed, by both her revelations and her take-charge attitude, but I get tired of people like Mattie who possess a huge vainglorious sense of themselves.  They threaten to hire lawyers when their coffee is too hot.  They call the police if a dog shits in their yard.  They want to look at million-dollar homes because a deal with their cousin is about to go through and they will make enough to pay cash, tomorrow. 

I drop these potential “clients” as quickly as I can at the first sign of litigious propensities; they are not worth it, and I certainly didn’t intend to volunteer to hang around such a person.

“Lucky can have the notes, if he’s willing to pay for them.”  Mattie declared.

“Why are you telling me this?” It finally occurred to me to ask.

“Danny trusted you, and he didn’t trust many people.  If this thing with Lucky doesn’t go through, I wanted someone else to know.”

Now she was just being dramatic. Lucky cut corners, sure, but the man wasn’t dangerous. 

“I was jealous of you, you know.” She switched to a more conversational tone, just girl talk, out here in front of the library. In the cold.  “He talked about you all the time when we was first married.”

Oh great.

“That was a long time ago.” I pointed out hopefully.

“Yeah, he liked women, especially pretty women.” She acknowledged me in that category which was nice, not accurate, but nice.

“Danny was a sweet man,” I offered.  Danny and I had been an items a very, very long time ago, and recently we had intereacted as just friends, my term, not his, he wanted to be much more than friends.
              “Not too bright though,” Mattie sighed. “He couldn’t keep a steady job and with the children I needed someone more stable.  It was only after our divorce that he found work with Lucky.”

“And do you have someone more stable?”  Please say yes, I thought, a steady boyfriend would do wonders for her.

She looked me in the eye.  “Have you tried dating in this town?”

“Yes, once, and it didn’t end well,” I admitted.

“Welcome to my world.  The last guy I dated ended up in jail for beating his wife.  No, it’s just me and the kids.”

              I hate the phrase
you owe me
.  I wanted to tell her to get an education and get a better job and care for your own children yourself. It’s the Republican in me that rears up during encounters like this. 

“You probably should leave this alone.” It was the best I could offer in lieu of delivering the lecture in my head.  “Lucky doesn’t lose, ever.”

She pouted, but her expression told me she already knew as much.  I was not going to help her; there was nothing either of us could do against Lucky.

I thought it would be the end of it. I said good-bye with, I hoped, some finality and drove back to Prue’s. I had faith in my abilities to talk people out of things, out of painting the house orange, out of installing Italian marble in a $250,000 tract house, out of buying in a flood zone, out of taking on Lucky Masters.  I was good. I was all that.

I swaggered as I stepped out of the Lexus and marched to the kitchen door.