Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View (21 page)

“Don’t you want one?” She offered.

“I have one.” I reminded her. 

“That’s right. You know, Penny doesn’t give those away to just anyone.”

“I’ll consider myself special.” I reassured her.

In the typical Victorian, the master bedroom is located at the front of the house, overlooking the street. But that position is terrible feng shui, not to mention just noisy.  So Lucky created a master bedroom across the back of the house, with a narrow porch attached that perched over the downstairs great room and overlooked the rest of the garden.

I would have expected someone like Lucky to re-create the halls of Versailles in his bedroom, something along the lines of a kingly canopy over the large bed, long silk curtains held up by gilded cherubs clutching huge ostrich feathers in their tiny chubby fists. Something appropriate for his station in life.

Nope, his bedroom was decorated in late Mission, a man with style after my own heart.  The head and footboards for the bed were made of thick, straight slats. His king-size bed was too large for the stairs, it would need to be winched out through the large French doors off the porch, which I suspected was the way it had come in.  Three big deep chairs, all accompanied by reading lamps, were scattered around the room. Filled bookshelves lined two of the walls. Chris and Pat’s yellow stickies fluttered from the bed, chairs and end tables. All of this would go.

I automatically approached the bookshelves. No yellow or orange stickies here. Pat and Mike didn’t deal in books. 

I pulled out first editions of
Tom Sawyer
,
Vanity Fair
and
Little Women
. Not bad. Claim Jump hosted the most bookstores of any town in the state, someone would be able to sell these, or at least appreciate them. I hefted the Alcott volume. I appreciated it.  I wondered if Penny would sell these to me, or trade against my commission. It wouldn’t be the first time I indulged in a trade of that nature.

The three front rooms and two baths were either empty or tagged. One room still held a cleared desk, his office at home.  But Lucky also kept an office in a building he owned in downtown. The same lawyer, Buster Parker, asked me to list the commercial building on Kentucky Street, apparently Penny didn’t want the rent from that either.  Silly woman. 

Selling Luck’s commercial building was easy. I called Pat and Mike first, and they immediately gave me an offer. “This will be just delicious,” Pat crowed. “We’ve wanted this building since we first moved here. But Lucky outbid us. So we bought the place down the block, which turned out beautifully, make no mistake, but still, that was always such a great location, and already wired for internet and the like.  Does the furniture come with it?”

“Probably. Do you want me to call Penny?”

“No, I will. We’ll draw up the paper work whenever you’re ready.”

I was relieved they wanted it.  Too many buildings already stood empty in Claim Jump’s downtown.  That bothered me, as the unofficial Miss Chamber of Commerce of Claim Jump I don’t like to see empty buildings or faltering businesses.  We now had Lucky’s office, and the Library, plus this house that could not be used for commercial purposes. So many possibilities, so little time.

In honor of the inaugural Lucky Master’s Personal Home Open House I dressed in my now familiar funeral ensemble, something I’d have to rectify soon. I didn’t care how casual Claim Jump was, I was personally opposed to wearing the same outfit to every event. In my funeral black and Louboutin high heel pumps, I was the picture of prosperity. My goal was to attract potential clients loaded with money to lavish on an old (sorry, antique) house, that for its part, would accommodate a large income by always needing repairs. 

The photos I posted on the web site showed the house to advantage, both enormous and elegant. Not many homes could claim to be located smack in the middle of town.  Most homes in Claim Jump were “close to town” or “walking distance” which was a relative and often flexible term. I mentioned that the theater across the street offered a limited run of performances so prospective buyers wouldn’t think their front stoop would be overrun by rowdy patrons of the arts on a nightly basis.  As usual, I had the web site, the flyers, the ads, the Facebook postings, everything that I knew would be effective.

And I anticipated that the outcome of all my hard work would result in a Sunday afternoon spent alone. I wandered around the house for a good hour, alert to the creak of the front door hinge or the squeak of the loose board on the third porch step. 

It was already April 14
th
, I had been up here for three weeks. It felt like a lifetime.  My shoes clacked back and forth on the hardwood lined second floor.  Like Prue’s house, Lucky’s had one of those superfluous widow’s walks perched on the roof like a third layer on a cake made with a left over batter and an odd sized pan.  But while Prue’s widow walk was reached by a pull down ladder, Lucky’s widow walk was equipped with stairs, albeit very narrow stairs.  Ben and I had noticed them during the funeral, but that would have been presumptuous in the extreme to disappear and climb up to take in the view.  But not today. 

I risked missing a guest and potential buyer, and cautiously steped up the narrow creaky stair.  The tiny room was enclosed with dirty glass, but the floor was stable, a person could just fit a tiny table and chair up here. A person could pretend she was Louisa May Alcott writing in the attic.

The bare branches of the huge maple tree in the front yard arched over the top of the roof creating a tree house effect. I was enchanted. I could see the front stoop from my perch.  Debbie walked over to the theater and disappeared inside.  Tourists paused at the fence, then moved on. I could see up and down Main Street. I could stay up here all day. But no, I must play Realtor today. 

I turned and took a step back to the narrow
opening leading to the stairs. My foot caught on a floorboard and I almost sprawled down the stairs. I caught my balance and leaned over to push back the floorboard. It resisted. I pushed it again, there was something wedged under it.

I glanced back out the window. So far, no one approached. I fully expected Debbie to march over here after her visit with Summer, doing the rounds, intent on due diligence.

I tentatively pressed on the floorboard.  The only time something interesting is found under the floorboards of an old house is when they are found between the pages of my favorite mystery novels.  In real life, stuff under a floor ends up just being dusty and boring. 

I stepped on one end of the board to lift the opposite side enough to wedge my fingers under it, very carefully of course, no treasure is worth a trashed manicure.

I pulled and board came up with a shriek of nails.  I glanced outside again.  Good, no one heard, although a haunted house is popular. I wasn’t up for a ghost story, and Lucky would have scared off ghosts a long time ago, unless they materialized monthly bearing rent checks. 

I pulled out a thick shopping bag. It was printed with a sewing needle and thread logo and an address in Sacramento.  I would not be familiar with a fabric store of any ilk but the bag was nice.  I opened it cautiously, old fabric?  Pins and needles set to explode?

At first it looked like a jumble of charred plastic.  I gingerly pulled out the top item and immediately dropped it. It bounced grotesquely around the tiny room and rolled right to my foot. It was a charred baby doll head, burned beyond recognition. 

The whole bag was filled with mangled, melted baby doll heads.

Chapter
Twenty

“Helloooo?”

Debbie on cue.  I glanced back down at the bag and decided quickly that discretion was the better part of valor and shoved the bag stuffed with the rouge burn victims back under the floor and stomped the floorboard back down.

“Hi.” I called as I carefully staggered down the narrow stairs.  “I’m up here, come on up.”

I
landed on the second floor just as Debbie emerged up the stairs: wild hair, followed closely by a full-blown nineteen seventies psychedelic green caftan.  I did not know caftans were made anymore. She must have rescued it from the Hospice store in town.

              “So, how’s it going?”  As if she somehow missed a horde of prospective buyers stomping through the bedrooms.

I kept my eyes on her face and away from the widow’s walk stairs.

“It’s going well, this is the first open house of course, it takes a while to get some traction.”

She nodded to the stairs.  “That’s going to give you some trouble.”

“What?”  I looked back at the stairs half expecting to see escaped baby doll heads bouncing down the stairs. No, all was quiet.  Perhaps they just rolled around at night.

“You don’t want people to climb up those stairs, it’s too narrow, probably not up to code. Do you have homeowners insurance?”

“Penny does.” I reassured the lawyer. But I was happy to move her away from the stairs and the potential danger. I made a mental note to post a sign with a photo of the view with a warning to not use the stairs.

“Good, we wouldn’t want anything to happen.”

Anything more to happen, I thought.  I gestured to the upstairs bedrooms but apparently Debbie had seen enough.  She abruptly turned and banged downstairs, her clunky, probably comfortable shoes, made heavy thudding noises on the hardwood stairs. Like Herman Munster.  He would fit nicely in this house, come to think of it.

I took one last look at the narrow staries and followed Debbie down.  I found her lecturing Scott and Sarah by the front door.

“I like to keep an eye on everything that is going on.”  Debbie crossed her arms under her low slung breats.

“Of course you do.” Sarah smiled quite sweetly and I could actually see Debbie’s shoulders drop an inch or two. Wow, maybe I underestimated Sarah, I should stop assuming that just because a girl is pretty, she doesn’t have skills or guile.

“Are you looking for a house as well?”  Debbie squinted at Scott, who, after a month of exposure to the Brotherhood, was able to hold his ground.

“Yes, I think I’ll settle here. You seem to like it.” He nodded at Debbie.

Debbie sidestepped that loaded question.  I looked out the front windows.  What I needed were potential clients from out of town, not these uninterested locals staring at each other, taking up space.

“This place will take a lot of work.” Debbie commented, as if her job here was to talk potential buyers out of considering the house.  

“Are you in the market?”  Scott asked innocently.

“Hell no, I’ve had it with these old houses - dangerous - I have a place in the co-housing up the street.”

I knew that co-housing place. “And that of course is all up to code.”  It had to be, they got government funding to finish the project. It was a lovely idea, a group of strangers all wearing sensible shoes, living cozily together and cooking dinner every night in the big communal kitchen. Shoot me.

“Not only is it up to code, it’s sustainable housing.” She scowled and her shoulders hunched up again. She must have been Nurse Ratched in another life. “We are very green, we live responsibly.”  

“I’m sure you do.” I said soothingly. “Is there anything I can tell you about the house?”

I had created a brochure for the house with the help of Prue and the historical society, many of who were also members of the Brotherhood.  If anyone had the goods on the house, they would.  And if I really want to sell an old house, it must have history. I handed Debbie the brochure and she took it without much enthusiasm.

“I suppose this place isn’t up to code at all.”  She brightened at the thought and glanced around with a renewed vigor, ready to find violations, ready to file a new report.

“It was built before the code was written.” I glanced at my watch.  I wondered how Carrie was doing, and Prue. I needed to close up and get back to them.

I shooed Scott and Sarah upstairs to look at the bedrooms and warned them not to hike up the stairs to the top of the house.  Debbie planted herself in the hallway, her substantial butt precariously resting on a narrow antique hall table.  An orange sticky note fluttered from the leg. Good, it wasn’t valuable.

I was defeated.  “So what does bring you to Claim Jump?” I glanced at my watch again, fifteen more minutes and I could legitimately close up the house and rescue what was left of my Sunday.

“I moved up here to supposedly save my soul. I was really good at what I did, made a lot of money in the 80s, but it wasn’t working too well. I had health problems.”

“What kind of law?”  I asked tentatively. I did not know if I really wanted the answer.

“Real estate law.”
              I stifled a groan. Real estate lawyers think every real estate agent they meet is a crook, a shyster and ready to debunk every client who signs a listing agreement. To real estate lawyers, Realtors are the enemy. I had a client/evil lawyer once berate me saying I was just out for the money and didn’t care about him or his family at all. I finally broke down and pointed out that I make one percent of the sale price and he was buying a condo and if I wanted money, I’d go into banking and bleed customers slowly through more traditional methods like torture and predatory interest rates.

I don’t like lawyers, and I did not think associating with Debbie was going to change my mind.

“Are you still practicing?” I did not want to antagonize her, these lawyers can blow at any minute. One little crack in the sidewalk or evidence of suspicious behavior hidden in the attic, and it’s lawsuit city.

“I work on our garden. It’s organic.” She added unnecessarily.

              “That must be more relaxing that litigation.”

“Yes.”  She gnawed at a fingernail.  Scott and Sarah banged down the stairs, circled us and headed to the kitchen.

“You do know to tell people they can’t turn this into a bed and breakfast.  We have too many bed and breakfasts, you know there is a new ordinance.” She said it with great pride so I could guess who was the author.

“People can’t convert, maybe you should put that on the flyer?” She was quite helpful and clearly did not understand sales.  I smiled and said nothing.

              Debbie found another errant fingernail to tortue.  “Isn’t your grandmother running a bed and breakfast?”  She was good. Her tone stayed conversational, and she looked me straight in the eye.  I did not blink.

              “I assume that by bed and breakfast you mean paying guests?” 

“Of course.” She went for another nail.

“I can assure you that my grandmother’s guests do not pay a penny.” Extortion, trade and the occasional distribution of controlled substances do not count.

 
              Debbie dropped her hands. I waited.  She waited.

“You never married did you?” I was willing to fire a direct hit just to get her out of the house. She was not going to be my friend. I had nothing to lose.

She shook her head.

Of course not. Maybe there was a nice woman she could meet. I don’t know why that was important, but recently I have found the tumbling and polishing of a relationship had worn down some of my own sharp edges, or maybe that was just the result of regular sex. Maybe both.  My mental message to Ms Smith; lighten up and cut your hair.  But I did not express that thought out loud, she may sue for wrongful beauty advice.

  Scott and Sarah returned. “Thank you, I always wanted to see this house. Grandpa talked about it all the time.  He worked on the plumbing for extra money.” 

“Ah ha.” Debbie brightened up considerably at that news, amateur plumbing, non-union, payments under the table, no permits.  “I better be going, there is so much do.” And with that, she launched out the door and down the front steps.

“She’s spending too much time with Summer.” Sarah noted.

“We ordered pizza.”  Carrie announced as I let myself into the kitchen.

“How are you doing?”

She shrugged keeping her expression netural.  She glanced around the kitchen as if looking for hidden cameras, as well she should. 

“I should be going.” She finally said. “Patrick is back home.  I should be with him.”

“What about your parents?”

That broke her. “I don’t know!” She wailed and ran to the front parlor.  A good escape from possible calls from those very parents we are all so concerned about, but not a very effective escape from me.  I followed her.

“It isn’t that difficult is it?” I thought of Scott and Sarah, the perfect couple, probably because they were young.

“Easy for you to say.”  Carrie stood off in the far corner of the parlor. This room hadn’t seen this much action since the seventies.

 
              “Not really.” I countered.

              “We know what I want.” Carrie deftly turned the tables on me. “What do you want?” 

Not fair, she knew my favorite subject was me, but this time I was having none of that. I resisted the urge to make it all about me again and turned the tables again. “What do you want?”

 
              “I want to marry Patrick.”

              I was relieved there was a name at the end of that sentence.  If she had said, I just want to get married, I would have been even more depressed than I already was.

“Then don’t let your parents come between you and your happiness.” It was at once a simple solution and a complicated answer. 

“Did you read that in some horrible inspirational blog?”

“No, I think it’s embroidered on a pillow, somewhere around here.”  I cast around the parlor littered with antique chairs and tiny pointless pillows - many of them gifts from my mother who didn’t bother to understand what her own mother would enjoy. Every year I suggest books (books and more books) but Mom thinks books are educational and thus not very festive, so she never gives books as holiday gift. Plus reading interferes with a person’s golf game.

I give my mother books on golf.  But we are discussing Carrie.

“What did Patrick say before he left?”  I asked, fluffing a tiny pillow that read
Eat Dessert First
.

“He loves me.” She pouted.

“See? Even after blurting out your past, he still loves you.”  I picked up another pillow, read it, and tossed it on a narrow love seat. 

She ignored me, as if her past, because it was now so public, was no longer an issue.  “His mother will insist on sending them an invitation because it’s the right thing to do and Patrick will not tell her all the sordid details to protect me because he says it isn’t anyone’s business. But then how will she understand why I hate them so much?  And I know they’ll say something, something about how damaged I am, how lucky I am, how they are so pleased I can afford to support them in the manner they’d like to be accustomed.”  She trailed off, the fight abruptly drained from her.

She picked up a pillow
Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History
. I found that for Prue myself.  “That’s really what’s bothering me.”  She squeezed the pillow, and then let it fall back to the needlepoint chair seat.

“That they will spend the next thirty years at your back door with their hands out?” 

“I thought it was the past, that when I ran away, it would all be over. I mean, who does that to a child?”  She demanded, but did not, fortunately, wait for an answer. “But I know what really will drive me crazy is their constant begging, constant asking.”  She rubbed her eyes.  “Patrick is so easy to find.”

“I don’t have a creative answer right now.” I admitted.

She nodded. “You usually need about 24 hours to come up with a miracle.”

A minute later, Pat banged on the kitchen door then let himself in. “So, did you hear?”  He flopped down in the kitchen chair, one of the few floppable pieces of furniture in the house.  I think at one point in the seventies, my grandfather staged a rebellion against fussy Victorian furniture and purchased kitchen chairs that were designed in the audacious service of comfort.  Of course, they don’t match any other furniture in the house – no one cared.

“I was down at the bank yesterday and you will never guess what happened!”

“Go ahead.” I set down a glass of wine for him and kept an ear out for the pizza delivery, what an indulgence, I would have picked up.

“The infamous Lizzie Miller, with her horrible boy friend in tow, marched down to the bank with one of Lucky’s lawyers.”

“Was Sarah there?”  I asked.

“Sarah was sort of hovering. Buster Porter and Lizzie opened the safety deposit box and you should have heard her!  Shrieked so loudly it could have shattered the windows.”