Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View (12 page)

I nodded and turned towards the wine table expecting to find Ben, but he was missing. I poured a couple of glasses of what looked like Merlot; one for me, one for Ben and scanned the crowd for Ben. Summer had wandered off to greet future donors. I sipped my wine, light and unimpressive. Ah, there he was. He had wandered too close to our hostess. Crap.

I was
fully prepared to overlook any behavior on the part of the bereaved, but I drew the line at flirting with my boy friend, now fiancé and current roommate.  I casually strolled over to where Penny was chatting up Ben.  I tried my best not to appear obvious but I don’t think it worked, because Ben greeted me with a huge, triumphant grin as I approached.

Damn, I’m so obvious.

“Well.” Ben drawled right after flashing his shit-eating grin (colorful metaphor courtesy of my grandfather, who was top of mind).“Sure little lady, but don’t you have people around Claim Jump who do that kind of thing?”

I arrived just in time to hear her say, “yes, of course.” Penny hesitated, then placed her hand protectively on his arm, giving his bicep a little squeeze. “But you understand that around here, a handyman comes to work when he feels like it, or when the moon enters the right house, or the Age of Aquarius is in full bloom. Or,” she took a deep breath and gave him a winsome look, “indisposed.  It’s hard to get things done on time.”

“Ah, and you think I’ll be more prompt?”  The grin chased across his features again.  I felt like popping him, but that would destroy my disguise of fabulous, calm, confident fiancée. Instead I offered him the plastic glass of Merlot. He absently took it, his eyes still trained on Penny.

Penny in turn, eyed Ben up and down. “I’m sure of it.”

Ben loves to help, I know because he helps me, he helps Prue, he helps his grandmother, he helps old friends, some of whom I’m not all that thrilled about, but I am even less thrilled about him helping new friends: especially new friends who are taller, thinner, and richer than me.  And who are wounded. Ben is a sucker for wounded.

I wiggled up and placed a protective hand on Ben’s other arm. I hoped it wouldn’t come to a tug of war, we were both sturdy women; Ben may not survive. But to my great relief she dropped her hand from his arm.

“Ah, here she is, Penny, have you met Allison Little? She’s in real estate down in the Bay Area.”

“Penny Masters.” Her handshake was on the flaccid side, which made me quite happy. I squeezed hard and gave her hand a tug.

“Nice to meet you and I’m so sorry about your father.”

              Penny nodded but remained dry eyed. Maybe she and Dad weren’t all that close after all, I had assumed they were. And now she was an heiress, which is a wonderful thing to be, lovely parting gifts and all that.  She could move away from being Poor Penny to Lucky Penny.

“Penny was just explaining she and Summer have an open house next Saturday and… ”

“I’m worried about a leak in the plumbing and your,” she continued.

“Fiancé,” I supplied for the third time in less than a week.  The word was fitting better in my mouth.  Ben gave me a glance but didn’t interrupt, and thank God, didn’t grin at me.

“Fiancé,” Penny repeated smoothly. “Offered to take a look.”

“He’s very generous that way.” I said, “always willing to look into things that are broken.”

Ben raised his eyebrows but did not comment.

We were scheduled to leave tomorrow, but with this new invitation, apparently not.  I had no intention of leaving Ben alone in Claim Jump. I glanced back at Prue. She was balancing her wine and a plate of cheese.  A piece of hard cheese slipped off the plate and Prue was forced to ignore it.

Okay, maybe I wouldn’t be leaving tomorrow for a number of reasons, some of them valid.

“Is this the fundraiser for the theater?” I asked.

“Yes,” Penny confirmed. “Summer and I didn’t think it was right to cancel. Dad would have wanted us to move forward.  You must come,” she invited, a bit insincerely, but I ignored that.

I grinned again because sometimes I’m my mother’s daughter and I can be polite, even if I don’t want to. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

With that happy comment I led the fabulous, resourceful and helpful Ben Stone back towards Prue and the cheese.

“You aren’t pleased?”  He tried to look innocent but was completely unsuccessful.

“No,” I snapped back.  “I’m not pleased.  She’s a predator and you know it. 
Check my leaking
, please.”

“I thought I was suppose to make friends.”

“Not that fast!”

He just chuckled, it was almost as if he wanted me to react, just to make sure I was still interested. Couldn’t he just send a quick text?  Interested?  Yes. See how easy that is?

Prue’s cheeks were colorless, her cheese selection remainded untouched. She had enough. I was not sorry to leave the scene.  Ben didn’t need prompting. He took one look at my grandmother and exited to bring the car closer. Carrie materialized by my side and together we protected Prue from the oblivious crowd as she made her way slowly to the side exit. The three of us huddled under the inadequate eaves as we waited for Ben to bring the car around. The rain had increased and was feeling suspiciously solid and chunky, but there was no snow on the ground. Nothing was sticking, that was good news at least. 

I didn’t see her until it was too late and we couldn’t retreat back inside because that would just make more of a scene. Mattie Timmons must have been waiting in the rain ever since Tom escorted her out.

“There you are!”  Her hair was plastered to her face; her foundation was loosening its grip on her skin, unable to withstand the onslaught of all the cold water pouring from the sky. She approached us with what could only be described as a menacing walk.

“We’re waiting for our ride.” I hoped our impeding exit would deter her from any more conversation, but I was thwarted by one of the members of my own team.

              “You seem very upset.” Carrie said in her best here, kitty, kitty tone. She may have given up volunteering for Forgotten Felines but she still exercised her rescuing skills.

“Well, wouldn’t you be upset?”  Mattie demanded.  “He’s dead and now he won’t pay what Danny is owed, and no one is doing anything about it.  Except her.  She’s gonna pay.”              Mattie jabbed a finger over our head in the direction of the building.

“I didn’t know Danny was owed anything.” But after making her statement to people whom, frankly, couldn’t do anything about her situation, Mattie had disappeared into the thick pines lining the parking lot.

“What was that about?”  Carrie asked.

Prue placed a hand on my arm to steady herself. “There’s an issue about insurance. Debbie is behind it as well.  Mattie is her key witness. I heard that without Mattie there was no way to file a class action suit.”

“Why make a scene at the funeral?” 

Ben pulled up with a splash of tires and I struggled to help Prue negotiate over the muddy puddles and into the front seat of my Lexus.

“Why not?”  Prue shrugged.

Chapter Eleven

Prue collapsed against the comfortable seats of my car. I sat in the back with Carrie who suddenly was embroiled in a furious bout of texting.             

“Better reception here.”

“It comes and goes.” I assured her.

“You know, Allison, Mattie Timmons is wrong.” Prue’s voice wavered from fatigue, but she carried on. “Tom Marten actually started to look into Danny’s claims that the houses Lucky Masters built on Red Dog Road were substandard.  He even went as far as to look into the foam insulation. He even called for samples but the company had gone out of business, so he didn’t get very far.”  

“There are other ways to get information.” I thought of all the work-arounds I had to employ to get answers from loan companies, banks and even from the clients.  It was exhausting, but if you persist, you can always get what you want.

“It didn’t matter.  Tom stopped his investigation.”

“Why?”

“Lucky paid for a new computer system for the department.”

“That will do it.” I acknowledged.  “And now poor Tom has to investigate Lucky’s murder.”

“Everyone is calling for it. Everyone is concerned.”

“What do the members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men think?”  I closed my eyes; funerals make me tired.

“Well,” Prue drawled out.  “They aren’t exactly happy.”

“What do you mean?  They have their quilts. The library is the hands of a compliant owner, what could be wrong?”  

“Lucky recently promised to help us purchase more first editions and original documents for our research library.  Now with Penny in charge…”

“You may have to invite her to join.”  I finished. Or kiss your first editions good bye.

“That’s why Suzanne was so concerned.”

I’d say Suzanne was more than concerned; she was practically foaming at the mouth. “That makes this rather complicated.”

“That makes it typical for Claim Jump.” Prue pointed out archly.

Ben and I dropped off Prue at her house and Carrie volunteered to stay with her. I felt like we dropped off the kids so we could have an afternoon alone. I almost offered Carrie cash so she could buy a pizza for their dinner.

“There’s a reception after the reception?”  I asked.

“Penny said she was just inviting a few special friends to the house for a late lunch.”

I knew perfectly well I was not the special friend.  Prue make her feelings about Lucky quite clear. Poor Penny had always been caught in that deadly silence that washed behind her father as he plowed ahead to do whatever he wanted, no matter the cost. It was too bad Lucky was born too late to be a robber baron, that role would have suited him.

“And you are now a special friend?”

He shrugged. “Guess so.”

I should have been upset but I wasn’t. How many times had I passed Lucky’s house on my way out to the river?  How many times had I admired the huge elm tree in the front yard on my way to the library?  Yet I had never been inside.  If I had to sacrifice Ben on the altar of the bereaved Penny Masters to get inside and check out this infamous house, then so be it. If we can’t exploit our loved ones, who can we exploit?

Reception number two was a more intimate and elaborate affair. We were treated to a catered lunch and much better quality wine. The atmosphere, however, was not any more festive. Ben and I didn’t put that much effort into mingling, I knew some people, and a few knew me, we nodded or said hello and that was the extent of it.  I did chat with Leonard, the owner of the local Coldwell Banker franchise. He was a short man dressed in a blazer and jeans. He told me he had handled the sale and purchase of most of Lucky’s properties. He was sincerely sorry Lucky was gone.

“It’s terrible, and the police have no clues.”

“But how can that be?” I opened my eyes as wide as they would go.

“It rained Friday. I heard the body was outdoors for at least 24 hours.”  He shuddered, not because he was trying to impress me with his tender sensitivities, but because the thought of what poor Tom Marten discovered on the shooting range was undeniably gross and disgusting.

“I preferr to think of Lucky as alive, with his cane and his booming voice and attitude.” Leonard drained his beer and glanced around searching for a place to abandon the empty bottle.

“But didn’t he build substandard housing?” I asked innocently. “I mean that fire was pretty unusual.”

He gave me a less sympathetic look. “Nothing was amiss. It was a hot fire but that was attributed to the Manzanita bushes. Plus so many of those homes were illegal, no permits at the county. We can’t make an assumption on the whole based on the few.” 

He had clearly crafted this point often enough so it sounded like the truth. I wondered what the home owners thought.  Were they re-building?  Was the rebuild part of the problem?  Were the former owners and residents of the now admitted illegal housing rebuilding as well?  I visualized shacks covered with blue tarps bought in bulk from Builders and Consumers.  I could travel up the hill to check all this out, but rejected the idea as soon as it formed. The last time I had been at the top of the mountain, I had been fleeing for my life.  Bad memories.

“Look, I know that that sounds harsh, but,” Leonard paused, “are you from around here?”

“Mostly,” I assured him. “I spent my childhood summers here.”

He settled his bottle on the window sill. “Then you know how many people moved up to the ridge or even just up Red Dog and Gold Mountain so they could build their own huts from reclaimed wood and third generation aluminum siding. It’s crazy trying to sell up there.  I don’t blame buyers for avoiding any home with an upper Red Dog Road address. Who wants to drive by a scene from Deliverance on the way home every day?”

I nodded; my expression of encouragement was enough to keep him going.

“But there is little we can do about it.  If we bust one illegal squatter we’d have to bust them all. And sometimes the homes are just barely in the acceptable code range, so it would a colossal waste of time. The squatters would be found compliant and we would have made an enemy.”

“Just plant a fast growing laurel hedge.” I heard that advice from Pat and Mike. Plant a hedge, so your own yard is surround by greenery and you can almost forget about the hillbilly encampment next door, except for the banjo music.

It was part of the charm of Claim Jump.  Not the fast growing Laurel hedges, but the odd semi-homeless camps that proliferate throughout the hilly regions and mountains of the county.  Don’t mess with their dogs or their “organic garden” and you will be fine.

Leonard gazed at the coffered ceiling. A Venetian glass chandelier in red and purple glass dangled tantalizingly from the center. “Penny asked me to do a CMA”

“But there is nothing to compare this place to.” I automatically protested. An estimate of market price was based on the sale of comparable homes within a certain radius. Lucky’s house was located a block below the Methodist Church and the Library.  His was the first in a series of homes, all dating back to the Gold Rush, that graced this side of Main Street and contributed considerably to the charm of the town but not a single house was anything like its neighbor.

Lucky had also over improved.
  The house was built to be imposing and included a superfulous widow’s walk and bulging Queen Anne turret slapped onto the northwest corner. Yet, because it was old and located in downtown Claim Jump, tourists considered it charming and quaint rather than guady and overwrought. There were no other homes to compare it to.  Not a problem if you are the owner, but a considerable problem if you are charged with pricing and selling the property.

“How many square feet?”

“About 3,000.”               

Prue told me this
house was one of Lucky’s first purchases, back when an astute buyer could snap up ramshackle leftover Victorian mansions for a song. My grandparents bought at the same time and for the same reason.

“How much does Penny think it’s worth?”

“Two million.” He admitted morosely.  He clenched and unclenched his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them.  I thought maybe he needed another beer.

“How much work needs to be done?”  I loved the antique chandelier, but there was probably a lot of corresponding antique dry rot.

“A lot.” He acknowledged.  “The Pest One inspection is pretty extensive.”

“So how much are you going to list it for?”  Often the margin between the owner’s idea of value and the market reality is vast and wide as a redwood grove. 

He rubbed his neck as if to ease future tension.  “She hasn’t exactly asked me to list it yet.  And I didn’t want to push her, not today.”

“Furniture?”

“Penny doesn’t want it. We’ll keep it for the showings then see. I’ll call Pat and Mike, they’ll do an appraisal on the whole houseful.”

“I thought that’s what Penny does.”

“Not like them,” he shook his head. “They are the best in the county.”

I nodded. The house with it’s high ceilings, elaborate molding, and rosettes in the ceilings would show fine empty, but it would show even better if the authentic antiques that littered the floor were allowed to stay.

I hate antique furniture - very uncomfortable.  Prue loved antiques and what she didn’t love; Pat and Mike talked her into buying anyway. Which is why, when I visit her house, I sit on the floor.

I released Leanord with Coldwell Banker and poured another glass of Amador County Zinfandel from the generously stocked bar.   I shook hands with Lucky’s lawyer, Buster Porter because he was blocking my escape from the bar.  Mr. Porter looked the part of a prosperous small town lawyer; someone who takes on the case of proving to small children there is no tooth fairy.  We did not linger in each other’s company.

The typical Victorian home in Claim Jump is a warren of small parlors and sitting rooms surrounded by tiny bedrooms and miniature closets that are pressed into service as efficiency bathrooms, all encased by wood siding that seems to need painting  every other week. While I may not agree with Lucky’s exterior improvements, I liked what he did with the interior.  The miniscule front parlors had been joined to create one gracious room. The back of the house had been extended to accommodate a more modern great room that flowed into a modern kitchen, perfect for entertaining, or perfect for the caterers. 

I did no
t know if Lucky entertained or not. Prue never mentioned attending a party hosted by Lucky or even Penny, and this is a town famous for holiday parties and open houses.  Maybe he always drove up to Penny’s house and they kept the holidays quiet. 

I sipped the peppery wine and gazed through French doors that led to the damp back yard.  The property was about one third of an acre, small if you live in the country or up the forested hills, but huge for a downtown location. The yard was terraced and planted with things not yet green even in the early spring. The whole area was fringed by yes, the ubiquitous laurel hedge.

“Does it have a garage?”  Ben pulled in behind me and blew on my neck.

I peered out the back window. “I think so, Lucky always drove high end cars, BMWs I think, he wouldn’t want to leave those to the elements.”

After taking Scott Lewis around, I noticed garages were a premium inside the city limits. For instance, the homes on lower Marsh Avenue that lined the elevated sidewalk not only lack garages, there was no room to park on the street. I hadn’t paid much attention to details like that before.

“Sometimes life here can be a challenge.”  I admitted.

“There’s a stairs to the widow’s walk, do you want to explore?” 

“I don’t think that would be appropriate.” I was dying to climb to the top of the house, but what if we got caught?

              As soon as we said our goodbyes (resisting the lure of the widow’s walk), I called the office.

“I have a client
.” I began. 

“Good
.” Patricia said. “Because if all you’re doing up there is just licking your wounds and pouting, Inez will have your scalp.”

“On the war path
?” Thank God Patricia picked up the phone, at least she wouldn’t lecture me.

“Has been ever since National’s been coming down on her. Lucky for me there’s not a national rubric
or stretch goals for secretaries.”

“Since when did you become a secretary?”
She used to hate the term.

“Since it was safer
.” She said equably.

“I need to cancel all my floor for this month.”
  I just blurted it out; kind of like ripping off the SpongeBob band-aid in one quick flourish.

“
You were scheduled for four this month.” She unnecessarily pointed out.

“Tell Inez that I’m working up here and can’t come down.”

“You only have one buyer.”

“An escrow is an escrow.”
  I repeated the chant we uttered every staff meeting.

“True
.” Patricia conceded.

“Thanks.”  I clicked off before she could protest
.