Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View (23 page)

She shook her head. “I’m not selling, I’m only 9
8, not ready to go to a home like poor Lou Ellen.”

“So Lou Ellen doesn’t live in her house?”  I sat up and sipped my tea. It was horrible. No wonder Mrs. Legson masked it with brandy. 

“No, she’s been renting it out for what, five years?  I really should go to see her, but she’s all the way in Auburn.”

I nodded in sympathy, Auburn is about forty minutes away, a great distance for the residents of Claim Jump, nothing to residents of the Bay Area.

“Who lives in her house now?” 

“Hippies. Artists. It’s amazing Lou Ellen gets any rent at all, but she needs anything she can get, the poor dear.”

I did not pursue the poor dear comment, at least not yet. “They rent?”

Mrs. Legson nodded.  “Of course, some ridiculous amount.  But the place is too big right now because some of their friends,” she rolled her eyes, “have left and the rent is apparently too high. They’re talking of moving and then where would poor Lou Ellen be?”

We finished our tea and I learned more about Debbie, and Penny who, because her mother was unstable, was never really accepted into the soft bosom of the Claim Jump elite. They can be hyprocritcal about the oddest things.

I took my leave and hiked quickly over to the hippie house, as Mrs. Legson called it.  The house was old, of course, they all are. This was in worse shape than most, the wear and tear more than just the regular suffering through a cold, wet winter.  The door was warped and unpainted.  The elaborate detailing on the roof and porch were faded and flaking.

              A woman answered the door, looking much like Debbie’s twin.  “Yes?”  She wasn’t friendly but at least she wasn’t scary.

“Hi, my name is Allison Little, I understand you rent this place?”

“Since 1996. What of it?” She narrowed her eyes.  “Are you with the government?”

“No.” I said quickly.  “Happy here?” I peered behind her.  The hallway was short, a tiny parlor to the left and a minisculre dining room to the right were empty of furniture. The windows were dirty, filtering what little light there was and dimming it to shadows before it could illuminate the rooms and reveal if the original hardwood floors were still in good shape.

She shrugged. “The rent is good.”

“How good?”

She named the price, the total, which if they were splitting it or subleasing it, would be manageable for a group making their living on selling stain glass and original woven wall hangings at farmers markets and crafts fairs.  But bearing the full amount?  From the deferred maintenance and lack of immediate amenities, this house was clearly wearing on both the renter and the landlord’s resources.

“Would you consider a rental on Grove Street?  Three separate apartments, backs into the creek.”

She shrugged and eyed me suspiciously. I tried my best to look innocent and small town, non-government.  It was easy to do dressed as I was in my all-purpose black funeral ensemble. 

“Those houses never rent, or go on sale. They’re passed along to the kids. We’ve looked.”

“I happen to know there’s a chance to rent a whole house for less than what you are paying here, and it’s all fixed up, no deferred maintenance. Interested?”

Her stiff posture relaxed an inch or two.  “Get us out of the lease?”

“Let me work on it.”

Mrs. Legson did happen to have the name of the rest home where Lou Ellen currently resided. I checked on Prue and Carrie, they were involved with something Raul was showing on his computer. I did not have time to look.  I hoped they were comparing wedding dresses. 

  I found Ben in the garage, building more shelves to hold more magazines and recyclables that still had some good left in them, and pried him away to visit yet another little old lady.

I took Ben because little old ladies love Ben plus Ben commanded an impressive number of contacts in the attorney world. Ben considers the species a necessary evil.

“Third party.” He explained, dialing up one of the creatures as I drove to Auburn. “We can’t do this unless we bring in a disinterested third party.”

We found Happy Homes Retirement Village fairly easily. The parking lot asphalt was worn with shallow puddles reflecting the gray sky. The façade was built in that seventies brutalism style: all the ambiance of a correctional facility. Our initial horror was not abated as we pushed open the heavy alumumin clad double doors.  Here was the perfect foil for home care advocacy. 

“Oh man.”  Ben breathed.  We passed through a bare, undecorated lobby. The walls were painted a neglected beige with white trim that failed to make the forbidding double metal doors that led to the resident’s room look like anything more than an emergency room entrance.  Three small, elderly residents sat propped up in their wheel chairs. Their heads were secured to an upright position, but their eyes stayed downcast, focused on the scarred linoleum flooring.

A phone sat at the abandonded receptionist counter with a sign propped up encouraging all guests to call.  I stated our purpose and Lou Ellen’s name.  A voice promised to be right with us.

We sat in the only two seats without wheels.  They were those hard plastic chairs that reminded me of third grade.  We waited for ten minutes before a young girl, pulling off yellow latex rubber gloves, slowly pushed open the double doors just enough to slide between them and beckoned to us to follow, as she was too exhausted to push open those doors twice in one afternoon.

We followed her slouching frame to room 1034. She gestured without a word and returned to whatever domestic purgatory she inhabited.  The TV volume was turned up so loudly I didn’t think I could hold a conversation. But that’s how cowards think. No excuse for me.

Lou Ellen’s name was printed on a piece of binder paper and thumbtacked over her hospital bed. It helped distinguish her from her roommate, whose name I did not seek out. Fortunately the TV belong to the roommate, I didn’t want to interrupt the woman’s shows.

“Lou Ellen?”  I said loudly.

I could hear her sigh from where I stood; the pathetic sound cut through the incessant blathering from the talking heads on CNN news.  The least they could do was air cartoons, more cheerful.

“Hi.” I moved closer, Ben stayed at the foot of the bed and took in the room’s accoutrements. I could tell from his expression that he was not impressed.

“My name is Allison. I’m Prue Singleton’s granddaughter.”

The woman regarded me suspiciously.  I can hardly blame her.  She closed her eyes, and then opened them.  “I know Prue, still growing?”

“Uh, yes.” I glanced around to see if anyone had heard, but we were alone except for the roommate, who was not paying attention.

She nodded.  “Those brownies really helped my Hank. She wouldn’t even let me pay for the stuff you know, she said she was happy to help.”

“That would be Prue.” I agreed.  All compassion: little profit. Then again, her pot growing was just an entertaining sideline, sanctioned and encouraged each time she helped another cancer victim in pain. It was, as you can imagine, quite the family conundrum. My mother becomes frantic and wild-eyed just thinking about it. So she doesn’t.

“And what are you doing visiting an old lady?”  Lou Ellen got right to the point.

“I’m here because someone wants to buy your house.” I obliged her directness with my own.

She shook her head.  “I need the rent, it keeps me here.”

Ben sucked in his breath.  I agreed.

“Yes, that could be true.” I kept my tone as neutral as possible. I cast around for a good argument, the best argument.  “What about your kids?”  If she had kids, they should be shot for leaving her in a place like this.

“Didn’t have any, we had kids in the neighborhood, that was enough.” She smiled at the memory.

“Then when you go, the house will go to the government.”  I pointed out.

“Hank will inherit.”  She said.

“Hank is gone.” I reminded her gently.

“Oh.”  She thought for another minute, possibly getting her head around Hank being gone. I hated being the person to remind her of that.

“Who is that?”  She finally noticed Ben.

He moved towards her and took up her thin, blue veined hand in his huge strong one.  “Ben Stone.”   He glanced at me, daring me to say it.

“My fiancé.” I complied, after all, he was helping me.

“Ah, good.” She squeezed his hand, and then fell back exhausted by the effort.

“And you want to buy my house?” I had to lean over the bed to hear her.

“No, I have a client, friend, who wants to buy your house.”

“I need the rent.” She repeated.

“You’ll do better if you sell.”  Ben pointed out.

She shook her head.

“My friend is Scott Lewis, George Lewis was his father. Scott wants to buy a house on Gold Way, it’s his way of remembering his father.”

“George.” She gazed off, remembering.  The TV turned up louder; we were interrupting her roommate. Sorry about that. 

“He built a suspension bridge over my back fence.  Had to take it down, the cats used it as an access.  He was a lively little boy. What happened to him?”

“He died on one of his jobs. He built big bridges.”  That was all I knew, that and Scott Lewis could pay for both a decommissioned library and a house with the cash from the insurance policies.

“Too young.” The elderly woman breathed.

“Yes.” Ben and I chorused.

“But I need the rent you see?  I can’t afford this otherwise.” She waved a purple veined hand in the air.  “The house is all we have.  You know we paid $30,000 for it.  That’s only two years here.” She nodded wisely; she had done the math in her spare time. 

I could feel Ben grinning behind me.  I wasn’t the one who would actually make her world better, but I took some pleasure in bearing good news.

“How about a little more than $30,000 for the house?”  I suggested. I planned to take my time, I would return if need be.  I did not want to rush this poor, abandoned woman.

“No, no, that’s silly, it’s not worth more than that.”

I looked around at her grim space. “He’ll pay you a million dollars.”  I offered with confidence.

“A million…” She worked out that new number, catching her bottom lip on her dentures. “I could use the money.”

“Yes.” Ben had the same thought I did.  “Yes, you could.”

She looked at me and at Ben. The thought of money simultaneously energized her, and made her suspicious, which happens a lot. “Why the hell should I trust you?” 

“Because if I’m lying, the Brotherhood of Cornish Men will have my ass.” I said succinctly.

“They say it needs some repairs.” She looked a little better already, her cheeks showed some color, her eyes were a bit more sparkly.  There must be nicer rest homes, perhaps the best rest home.  I’d ask Prue.

We didn’t need one of Ben’s attorneys.  We asked the receptionist/cleaning woman to witness the signature.  Lou Ellen signed both the listing agreement and the purchase agreement. Scott could sign tonight.   I know, I know.  Don’t do as I do, do as I say. 

I called Scott.

All the members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men gathered at the library. They sat in their usual chairs arranged around the table designated as the conference table. Suzanne Chatterhill presided at the head. On-line they had a following, but at home they were ignored, not even the alternative paper carried their stories and meeting times.

Sarah found the ladies in full throttle. They were arguing about something, old scrapbooks or a new biography or who would take on an elaborate indexing project or something like that.  Sarah rarely paid attention.

She rounded the corner of the main library room and they all stopped talking.              “I’m sorry, I was looking for Scott.”

“He left us to ourselves dear.” Suzanne Chatterhill spoke for the group.  “You look lovely today, new lipstick?”

Sarah blushed.  “Thank you.”

“Scott will be back to lock up.”  Suzanne checked her watch, “in about another half an hour and we were about to break for tea, join us?”

Sarah didn’t feel she had much of a choice and it was still too chilly to sit in the shade outside of the building and wait for Scott there.  Plus, it would look silly.

And she did not want to
look silly or pathetic. She was painfully aware she already held the title of Most Pathetic to the good women of Claim Jump.  She’d very much like to change that. Today would be the day to begin. 

“Thank you all for attending the funeral, Mom and I really appreciated it.”

“Oh of course, you are like family to us.”

And like family, Sarah knew that they would bestow a multitude of advice on whom she was seeing and what she should do with her life now.  An absent mother was difficult, only because she then inherited a dozen mothers, which was eleven too many.

“Okay!” Scott bounded up the narrow steps and skidded around the corner.    “Wow, great to see you all again!  Sorry for the interruption, Sarah and I have more business to attend to!”