Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View (24 page)

He whisked Sarah back down the stairs and out to the brisk afternoon.

“What was that all about?”  She demanded, not unhappy with the sudden save.

“You have the distinct glow of a woman in love and they can tell. Those ladies are far smarter and craftier than they look and they’ve been outmaneuvering me since I arrived here.” He said it without rancor or judgment.  “Plus they are up to something - very agitated, I don’t want you in their sights.”               

“They invited me to stay for tea.”

“I bet they did.”

The two walked past Lucky’s house, the New Century For Sale swayed in the light breeze.

Scott took a breath, the thrill of the rescue embolden him. He never did anything without carefully thinking it through and more importantly carefully thinking out an exit plan and by then the plan didn’t seem worth implementing in the first place. Nothing was permanent, nothing was good enough, so he always approached his life with the idea that he better leave his options open because another great opportunity could be around the corner, another, prettier girl might be waiting in the next bar.

But the better thing never materialized, the prettier girl never showed up. In the last few weeks he considered that he might be staring right at the next great thing: the last great thing.  So he plunged ahead.  “Want to see my new house?”

“Are you kidding? You bought a house? With what? You just bought the library.”

“Allison Little found a house for me on Gold Way. Dad spent all his summers on that street. I just signed the papers. Do you want to see it?”

“Your dad?”

He paused. The snow had finally melted. The yellow daffodils, most barred behind picket fences, bowed as the couple walked past.

“My dad built buildings, bridges and sighs.” Scott cleared his throat.  “Dad died while on a job in Dubai.”

“I remember you telling me.”  She kept pace with him. He turned down the street and headed towards the elementary school.

“He was building something that was the largest, longest, highest, coldest.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but people who are in charge of projects that include the words biggest, longest and highest, take out enormous insurance policies on the principals of the same.”

“So you got a lot of money from the insurance?”

“That and some other investments.”

He stopped, stepped over a deep crack, and paused.  “My father will never be a grandfather because I couldn’t settle soon enough.  My father will never be able to marry again.  He’ll never see me marry. Never see me finally get my act together.” Scott smiled faintly,  “He will never know I bought a house on his old street.”

              He took her cold hand and tucked it into his jacket pocket.  They turned into the narrow street that ran behind the school.

“I’m selling my house,” she hesitated. “I can help you know, with money for the repairs and stuff.”

He reached out and squeezed her hand. Was it possible to find someone so generous, so genuine, so flippin’ naive? It was like dating Dorothy.

“Thank you, but there’s no need.”  The narrow street dead-ended into Gold Way. Three small moving vans hovered over the most colorful house on the street.  A young couple watched from their front porch next door.  Maybe the young couple would let Scott see the house that Dad stayed in, so Scott could feel, for a second or two, exactly what his dad experienced.

              “You know, I don’t have to work.” 

“Then that was  a lot of insurance.” She hazarded.

“The Shah is a generous guy.” Scott drew in a ragged breath. Had he made a mistake?  Would he miss his father every time he turned the corner to the street?  Would he cry every evening at the front door?

Sarah squeezed his hand.

“All my life I did nothing, just drifted around. And now I want to do something. Anything that will keep me busy.”             

Sarah eyed the peeling paint on the house Scott had indicated.  She saw five loose roof tiles just from the street.  “I’ll think of something.” She volunteered.

Ben answered the call from Penny to come and look at a few things.  I suggested he discover what he could about Penny’s quilting/immolation hobby. I suggested he take his fire extinguisher with him. Maybe a switchblade. He assured me he would be fine and would stay out of her bed, particulary one covered with a hand-made quilt.

“You cannot imagine how relieved I am to hear that.” I drawled.

He waved and climbed into his truck.

Carrie offered to come and help me clean and take photos of Sarah’s soon to be former home. The renters of Gold Way had dissipated so quickly I did not get a chance to nail down the terms for rental, so Sarah won. I’d sell her house.

“What kind of life did she have here?”  Carrie stood in the center of the faded harvest gold carpet and surveyed the tiny living and dining room. The kitchen was so small I had to back into the door to get a good photo.
Efficient kitchen
.  I scribbled in my notebook.

“She apparently was okay for the most part. Prue told me the Millers were quite odd, strict, and secretive. They were friends with another couple, the Sisleys, who lived over on Uren Street. The Sisleys had a daughter, Sheldon, but she’s older than me, I don’t know her.” Meaning that Sheldon didn’t spend her summer afternoons along the banks of the Yuba River, the one place a person could let her hair down and strip her clothes off without censure from the Brotherhood. “According to Prue since the Mr. Sisley died, that friendship fell off.”  I shrugged.  “What’s more important is she and Scott found each other.”

“You are a closet romantic, you know that.” Carrie accused.

“Don’t tell anyone, it will ruin my reputation.”

              “Sarah probably just wants a new start.”

“It is much easier to start a new relationship in a new house, the house you shared with a former lover just doesn’t cut it.  I even think you should buy a new bed. But that’s just me.”

“And have you?”  Carrie asked.

“Have I what?”

“Bought a new bed?”

I angled away from the pellet stove and took a shot of the living slash dining area.
Intimate living area,
I wrote down.

“No.” I knew I had a problem, but I was more concerned with firestorm-level batting and Ben hovering around Penny like an agreeable Labrador. I couldn’t figure out if the baby doll head art project belonged to Penny or to her mother.  That distinction alone could make quite a difference. Especially since I prefer to think of Penny as the guilty party.

The full apartment down stairs was accessible by an outside stairs.             
Possible rental/in-law unit
, I wrote down.  It was unremarkable, a sofa that will have to be thrown out and a tiny kitchen featuring an old electric stove. I scribbled,
move-in ready
.

The upstairs, where Sarah lived, was tidy, thank goodness. It boasted a miniature efficiency kitchen that was crowded into one end of a living room area. The walls up here were decorated with posters from current films and Summer Theater announcements.  A single bed and nightstand was all that furnished the tiny bedroom; one window was tucked under the sloping roof.  This room overlooked the creek that tumbled with melting snow and defined the back boundary of the property.  Nothing was in bloom, but the creek was clearly visible.  It was not a good time of year to take pictures of the yard, but that creek access would be an excellent selling point.
Your own private creek
. I wrote.

“She doesn’t have any shoes.” Carrie peeked into the closet.

“What do you mean no shoes? What kind of barbaric, deprived life did this girl live?”

“Maybe she packed them all. She’s staying with Scott at the Northern Queen.”

“And, how do you know that?”

Carrie gave me a pitying look.  “I just spent an hour with Prue at the beauty salon, how do you think I know that?”

“Of course, silly me. Hear anything about the listings?”

Carrie thought for a moment. “The general consensus is that Lucky’s house is overpriced, but that didn’t surprise anyone.  They are glad Mike and Pat made an offer on the Kentucky Street property and without money from Lucky’s estate, the theater will definitely have to shut down.”

“Do you think Summer is capable of killing Lucky to make sure the CRT doesn’t get changed?”

Carrie shook her head.  “Summer may not dress her age and her hair color is all wrong, but I don’t see her as murderer, neither does any one else.”

Generous closet space
, I wrote in my notes.
Private back terrace
. 
Price to Sell!

 
              A good day’s work. I ordered the signs through my new “home” office.

“Why doesn’t she want to keep the house?”  Carrie asked, “besides wanting to live with her new found love?”

“Memories?  It’s also really small, she may want to have a family.”  I said.

Carrie stepped closer to me and put her arm around my shoulders, not easy for her to do, her arms are short and my shoulders are wide, so I doubly appreciated the effort.

“She may, or she may feel she has enough family.” She patted my arm and returned to the closet.

“Maybe.” I echoed.

“What are all these?”  Carrie backed out of the closet pulling out half a dozen quilts.

God, more of the damn things.  “They look like Penny’s.” 

“But simpler. Could be early work, are you sure Penny made them?”

“I’m not sure at all.” I punched in Scott’s number and asked for Sarah.

“Sarah. Where did you get all these quilts?”

“Oh, I found them at the thrift store.  Someone told me an anonymous donor dropped them off, but they were so nice and warm, and they looked a lot like Penny’s work, you know the ones in the library and the theater?  No one will sell them, and I found them for five dollars each.  You can have them if you like.”

Carrie hefted one as I listened to Sarah and shook her head.

“Uh, no, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.  Thanks.”  I flipped the phone closed. 

“Do you think she was trying to kill off the homeless as well?”

Carrie shrugged, but stuffed the yellow and blue patchwork quilts into one of the black garbage bags. “Doesn’t matter, does it?  Maybe she didn’t know and wanted the homeless to be warm.  You know, that’s not a bad thing.”

“Well my blanket delivering days are over.” I announced.

Carrie winced and focused on the full garbage bag, not at me.  “Are you still mad about that?”

During the Christmas holidays I delivered blankets to the homeless as a favor for Carrie.  That the homeless person in question attacked me was not really Carrie’s fault.

“I am not mad, I would never be mad at you.  Unless you break up with Patrick.”

She dragged the plastic bag to the head of the stairs and let it bounce down the steps to the entryway.  “Fair enough.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Carrie volunteered to drive Prue in her car to do errands. Tom called just as I finished up the listing agreement for Sarah.

“I’m going out to the range again.” Tom’s voice was weary, and rather defeated.  “I figure I may as well ask you to come with me, so I can keep an eye on you.”

“I never asked to see the shooting range.” I protested with false sincerity.

“It was only a matter of time.” Tom insisted.

The shooting range was only five distressingly close minutes from Prue’s house, as has been discussed. Even so, Tom was already there when I pulled into the muddy parking area.

“We’ve temporarily closed down the shooting range, sort of out of respect for Lucky.” Frank, the manager of the shooting range, was a sweet looking man of about 75 who offered to show me his automatic machine gun collection. I declined.  Disappointed, he went ahead and opened a locked gate to the range for us. “Between the snow and the rain you aren’t going to see much.”

Tom acknowledged the futility of our mission and we walked through the gate to the range.

“I hear you’re selling every house in town.”  Frank called out to me.

              “Three is not every.” I pointed out. But that was a good rumor, Allison Little, selling out Claim Jump.  No, that didn’t sound right.

              “Any bites on Lucky’s house?” Tom asked idly.  He marched through the slippery mud with more aplomb that I was managing.

              “No bites, it’s kind of big and will need constant repairs. You know how it is.”

“I do know how it is. What about the library?”             

“I’m not selling the library.”

He rolled his eyes. “No, but you know this Lewis guy. What does he want to do with the library?”

“The jury is still out. So far, I’ve convinced him to not open a massage parlor, tea house or yogurt shop.”

“Thank you.” The chief of police said.

“Or bordello.”

“That would bring in the tourists.”

“And bring down the wrath of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men.”

“True, too bad.  Watch your shoes, its all red dirt and mud out here.”

              Indeed. I came prepared. I had the foresight to pack a pair of very cute shiny waterproof boots I rarely had cause to wear. The boots were decorated with big red roses on a black checked background.  I brought them because they were impervious to rain, sleet, snow and cheered me up in the gloom of night. And the old hydraulic mining site was pretty gloomy.

The red dirt gripped my pretty boots and threatened to hold me in place. How could anyone drag a body all the way out here?

As if reading my thoughts, Tom commented. “It was dry the night Lucky was dumped here. The storms started up only after he had been left.”

Dragged, carted, God help us, did the murderer use a wheelbarrow?  

I stood in the chilly air, the stripped monoliths of ripped mountainside blocked what was left of the sunshine. The damp air brightened the striations of yellow, rose and tan that made up the surrounding bare hills. The area was fascinating if you were a geologist, depressing if you loved trees.

We stepped just past the creepy human silhouettes decorated with shredded black and white targets. Shattered shards of plywood littered the rough ground.  I staggered and the mud sucked at my feet as I took slow monster steps to the yellow caution tape.

I had no idea what I was looking for. I had a vague idea that I’d just lean over and pick up the definitive clue to the murder, just like on TV.  But even if such an item existed, the weather would have deleted any telltale signs. If the killer did use a wheelbarrow, there were no signs of a deep track or groove.  There was nothing at all save for a couple of flattened Scotch Broom bushes.

Defeated, I asked Tom what he thought.

“I think he or she dragged the body out on a black tarp and then left the body here, right behind the targets. It wouldn’t look like much, just another hump of built up debris and mud, and more important, since no one expected to find a body out here, they didn’t see it. We found a muddy tarp in the recycling bin, but there was nothing on it.”

“How about a quilt?”  I asked suddenly. A quilt was not only sturdy, if Penny made it, the evidence would flame up and disappear in a matter of seconds.  We would never recover it. Clever, I had to admire that approach. 

“What about the quilts?”  Tom asked.

“Penny’s quilts are stuffed with flammable insulation.” I blurted out.

He raised an eyebrow and waited for the punch line.

“There is no punch line, that’s it.”  I freed one, then the other boot so I wouldn’t be stuck out here forever like poor Lucky. “Ben and I almost went up in a fireball the other night. The quilts are as flammable as the houses above Deer Creek.”

He blinked.  “Are you telling me Penny Masters is a mass murderer?”

“I don’t know what it means.” I admitted helplessly.  “Maybe she doesn’t know. And it certainly can’t be a focused kind of vendetta. How can she control who uses the quilts and what they’d do in bed?”

Tom shook his head.  “She can’t be that dumb.”

“But she can be in denial.” It’s a popular river in my family; my mother cruises down De Nile on a regular basis.

“I’ll look into it.” He promised.  But I knew he could do as little with the information as me.  A quilt is not a weapon. A person would have to wrap him or herself into the quilt and ask someone else to torch it.  Not very dependable, as far as murder weapons go.  Better to drag the body out to a firing range and let the community take care of the murder.

It was not a cheerful meeting.

“I’m back.” I called to Prue, but there was no answer. I wrestled off my boots outside and left them by the door. I padded into the chilly kitchen and called again. Where was my grandmother?  It was past five o’clock and she usually hosts the cocktail hour during the week. Pat and Mike take the weekend.

I stood in the cold room and called again.
A little wave of panic snaked up my spine. She was injured after all.  No, no, she was fine.  I dashed upstairs to check hoping she was just napping.  She was not.

I took a deep breath.
  First thing was to contact the cocktail team. Carrie and Prue probably stopped by Pat and Mike’s after picking up the groceries.

“Nope, she’s not here.” Pat said. “Did you lose her?”

“Ha ha, very funny, no I’m just checking around.”

I smacked my phone in my hand.  Just checking around.

I prowled through the house. Carrie wasn’t in evidence either, which made sense she was supposed to be with Prue. I dashed outside, soaking my socks in the process, but no Prue.

I walked back to the kitchen door since it had the best number of bars for my phone service. I pulled off my sodden socks.  No messages from Carrie. If they needed to stop somewhere, why wouldn’t they call?

Thank goodness Ben picked up. 

“I’ll come right.” And then he faded out.  He must be back out at Penny’s. She does not have great cell reception at her magnificent house.

I was too worried about Prue to worry about where Ben was spending his time. Besides, he said he was coming. It would take him fifteen minutes to drive back down Penny’s mountain and back up this mountain.  I wanted to wait for him outside so I could look for the car, but it was too cold to stand outside. 

“Where is spring?” I demanded to no one in particular. “Where are the darling buds of May?” 

It was only April. Spring came in May.  But I needed spring now, right now.  I pulled my boots back on over my bare feet and stomped around the yard. I wanted to find something, but at the same time, I didn’t. I couldn’t help thinking of Lucky wrapped in a tarp and Mattie Timmons wrapped in nothing at all. Teenage boys running across the fireing range. My own search of the property produced nothing of interest: no signs of struggle, no bodies, and the greenhouse was locked. The boots sucked at my feet and I couldn’t feel my toes. I abandoned the boots again at the door and marched barefoot back into the house.  I found Prue’s cell phone in the knife drawer.  The charger was in the liquor cabinet. Her purse was gone. Who had taken Prue? And had the same person taken the purse?

I called Carrie’s number, but she didn’t pick up. Some joke?  An accident?  I groaned, and envisioned the two of them, run off the road, crashing down the side of the mountain, broken bodies, broken phones, unable to hit 911. Tom said that Mattie reported being run off the road, so it was possible. Here were my two favorite people, completely out of range. If they crashed on the side of the highway, they wouldn’t be able to get through, even if they could manage to raise a broken finger to hit send.

Ben startled me.  “I came as soon as I could get away from Penny.”

“I can’t find my grandmother!” I tried to get the vision of crumpled cars and bloody steering wheels out of my head.  I was only moderately successful.

“She must have fallen!” The thought was awful. I’ve heard of old people who fall and can’t get up.  “And,” I warmed up to my second worst fear. “ Old people lay on their sides for days in the dark, hungry and stiff and all the blood pools in their arms and they can’t move and it will be my fault for not finding her in time!”

  Did that high pitch wail come from, me? I believe it did.

“Okay, Okay.” Ben tried to pat my arm, hug me, rub my back, all in an ineffectual attempt to calm me down.  “Where was she last?”

I sniffed and dragged the back of my hand across my nose.

“I don’t know.” I admitted. “She and Carrie went out earlier. I thought they’d be back by now. I had a chance to see the shooting range and I didn’t pay attention to their plans, if they even mentioned what they were doing.”

“Okay, where would she likely be?  Did you search the house and the barn?”             

I gave him my best withering look, but didn’t hold it for long; he was, after all, trying to help.  “Of course I did, it was the first thing I did. People fall in their home all the time, I even checked the bathtub although she never takes a bath. But you never know!”

“Carrie, did you call her?”

“Not picking up.  I left a voice message.”

“And where have you been again?”  He finally circled back to that fact.

“I had a chance to go see the shooting range.” I admitted.

“So you aren’t going to say much about me helping Ms. Masters because you were outstanding in your field with the chief of police with whom you had more than a passing acquaintance.” He correctly summarized.

I stopped my blubbering for a second or two.

“Oh my God, that is the most complimentary thing you have ever said to me. Except for the Mitchell brothers wet dream compliment, but that was just to my breasts.”

He dragged his hands through his hair. “You are welcome.  Come on, did you call the hospital?”

              “They would have called me.” I explained.  “I’m the number on her call sheet.”

“And you say I baby my grandmother.”

“I never said that, I said I understood.”

“Come on, think, where could she be?”

“She doesn’t just leave places with no notes. Or clues.”  Clues!

I raced out to the front door.  No scuffle, the door wasn’t locked, (Prue forgets to lock her door more often than not), no note, she usually leaves a paper, hard copy, and scribbles a couple words using the stub of a pencil that still has some good left in it.

Maybe she and Carrie are just up the road. Maybe they decided to take a pleasant spring stroll to admire the daffodils.  I didn’t really believe she’d do that. Not during the cocktail hour.

A pessimist is never disappointed.   Prue was not a friend of Lucky so why would his killer come after her? Then again, she said some trenchant comments about Lucky to Debbie and to Penny and to poor Mattie. Could someone be after her because she knows too much?  Prue has always known too much, why would today be any different?

“I don’t know!” 

“Then call this Tom Marten.” Ben suggested.

I must have looked surprised. He nodded. I still wasn’t sure I endorsed his friendship with the redoubtable and possibly deranged Penny Masters.  But here he was encouraging a call to an old friend. Ben was a bigger person than I.

Tom gently informed me there was nothing he could officially do until 24 hours had passed.

“Could she be in a back alley poker game?  Drinking illegally?”  He didn’t say what he really wanted to say, not over a cell phone. I let it pass.

“I did check the greenhouse.” I said both to answer Tom and assure myself. “She’s not there either.”

“You need a GPS chip in her.” Tom growled.

“I know; she won’t do it.”

“Where does she normally go on Tuesdays?”  Tom acquiesced, which was pretty nice of him.

“Book club every other Tuesday, Brotherhood of Cornish Men every third Tuesday.  Cocktails with Pat and Mike every afternoon, but she’s not there.” I recited.

“Where is the Brotherhood meeting nowadays?”

“They’re still at the Library. Scott apparently hasn’t found the balls to kick them out.”
              “They are a formidable group.”  Ben said sotto voice. “Give the kid a minute or two to brace up.”