Death at a Fixer-Upper (4 page)

“Why don't you give me your email and I'll send you some listings?”

“That's a grand idea. Though, as a matter of fact, I've already spotted a property on the Internet that's captured my fancy. Perhaps we could start there.”

My pulse revved a little. I could really use a quick sale right now. “What's the address?”

“Now, that's the funny thing. There was no address listed. Here, I'll read you the advertisement. ‘Victorian mansion in need of tender loving care. Two point six acres—' ”

I almost groaned aloud. “You can stop. That's 13 Aster Lane.”

“You're familiar with the property, then?”

“Just walked through it this morning.”

“Marvelous! I've called exactly the right person, I can see that. How soon can we take a look? I'm free tomorrow around one o'clock.”

I drew a deep breath. “Listen, Mr., uh—”

“Carleton-Hughes. Raymond Carleton-Hughes.”

“—I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr. Carleton-Hughes, but in my opinion the home needs quite a bit more than tender loving care. A new roof, for starters. A coat of paint. Carpentry. Mold remediation. Probably foundation work. And that's just off the top of my head.”

“Oh, but really, it's all in the eye of the beholder, isn't it? I don't mind rolling up my sleeves. It would be a labor of love.”

“There's another thing—an offer's already come in.”

“Oh, I say. I don't like that. You mean it's too late?”

“Not necessarily. There's some competition is all.”

“Well.” I could hear him draw a deep breath. “I'll tell you what, Ms. Turner—let's put an offer in right now. Over the phone. Can we do that?”

My heart began to thump so hard I wondered if Mr. Carleton-Hughes could hear it through the line. Was he serious? Then I thought of the commission on a $600,000 sale, three percent of which went to yours truly—minus Everett's sizable split, of course. “I don't see why not. And I'm not trying to be discouraging. I just want you to have all the facts.”

“I appreciate your frankness. You must think me completely mad. All right, walk me through the process, if you would be so kind.”

I spent a few minutes on the line giving him instructions and collecting information. After we hung up, I pulled up a purchase agreement on the computer, filling in the blanks as best I could, and emailed it off to him.

Then I gritted my teeth and called Lois Hartshorne again. She recognized my voice.

“Who is it this time, dear? Little green men?” She chortled into the phone, delighted with her own wit.

“I don't know his story. Just that he wants to see the place at one o'clock. And I'm sending you an offer.”

In vain did I wait for her exclamations of delight. Instead, there was a long stretch of silence.

“Lois?”

“Let me just sum it all up,” she said at last. “You've got a developer who can't develop, a ghost hunter, and a sight-unseen offer from God knows what kind of nut job. All to brighten the day of little ol' me. I don't know when I've felt so special. Is it my birthday?”

“Could you just check the showing schedule?”

“What kind of financing are we looking at? A wish and a prayer?”

“Conventional mortgage. He has cash saved up for a down payment.”

“Goody for him. The house isn't loanable.”

“That's your opinion.”

She hooted with laughter. “You have a letter from his bank, I'm sure.”

“I'll get one.” Sparring with Lois was giving me a dull ache in my stomach. Probably another muffin would help settle things down.

She muttered something and dropped the phone with a clatter. Moments later, she came back on the line with a mix of heavy breathing and ear-jarring crackling noises. “I can get you in at two o'clock.”

“He requested one.”

“Sorry, sweet cheeks, but one is taken. Believe it or not, you're not the only agent in town.”

I drew a hand down my face, suddenly weary. “Two is fine. I'll send the offer over in the next five minutes.” Dropping the receiver on its cradle, I wondered if a round of affirmations would clear the knot of tension that was building in my neck. I was a long, long way from accessing my positive energy.

I played a few rounds of clock solitaire while I waited for the phone to ring again. It did, not six minutes later.

“Mission accomplished,” Raymond Carleton-Hughes said. “Do you need a check from me now?”

“That can wait until your offer is accepted.”

“Very good. Now, then, I'll see you at the property, one o'clock sharp, Ms. Turner. I tell you I'm fairly trembling in my shoes.”

“Oh, about the time—”

“Yes?”

“No big deal. One o'clock was taken. So we're in at two.”

There was a silence. “Are you certain?” he snapped. All traces of his warm manner had vanished.

“Pretty certain.”

“Two o'clock, then. Very well.” He hung up abruptly.

I spent a few minutes doodling on the blotter and replaying the conversation in my head to see where it might have been off. Nothing leaped out at me. People did experience sudden attractions to unsuitable properties, just as they did in selecting partners for a lifetime…or an hour.

Funny, though, his voice had seemed vaguely familiar. I tried to place it and couldn't. He'd been somewhat put out, I thought, at the change in showing times—disproportionately so, after having been so charming up to that point. Maybe the later time conflicted with his afternoon tea.

I shrugged. The worst that could happen was I'd simply be wasting my time.

The offer was waiting in my in-box. I printed it out and looked it over. Five hundred and seventy-five thousand, thirty percent cash down. Take that, Lois Hartshorne. I fed it into the fax machine a sheet at a time. When I was sure all twelve sheets were humming through the phone lines toward Hartshorne & Associates, I breathed a sigh of relief. Time to get moving.

I took the short walk to my car. On the verge of heading home, it occurred to me I could hit the ground running by picking up a copy of Edsel Harrington's will at County Records in Grovedale, a mere seven miles south.

The bus fired right up, always a good omen, and I merged onto the 101 heading south. Salmon Bay stretched to my right. The surf today was the color of weak coffee, topped by foamy whitecaps like steamed milk. Because of the curve of the highway I could see Grovedale six miles ahead, with the particleboard plant on the horizon just behind it spewing clouds of sawdust-laden steam. Garish billboards marred the view every quarter mile, advertising everything from get-out-of-jail bonds to discount vasectomies to grab-'n-go breakfast sandwiches drooling liquid cheese and saturated fat, offering hungry travelers a quick trip to the land of hardened arteries. It was a wonder no one had taken a chain saw to the billboards years ago. I'd have been tempted myself if I weren't such a law-abiding citizen.

I crested the bridge over a murky slough and descended into Grovedale. The 101 rolled right through the heart of town, bisecting it into a historic waterfront district to the west and a residential neighborhood of stately Victorian homes to the east. With architecture like this, one might expect a populace of old established families, prosperous owners of businesses catering to the tourist trade or individuals comfortably entrenched in county government jobs with the full benefits package, including dental. And there were quite a few of those. But the people who frequented the 101 corridor or perched atop weathered stoops smoking cigarettes and watching the cars whizz by were hollow-eyed and gaunt-faced, perpetually down on their luck, who awaited their next fortified beverage and court date with the same air of patient resignation. Grovedale could be a scary place.

The county courthouse was a big building of salmon-colored masonry positioned between the north- and southbound lanes of the freeway. I parked on a side street and locked my car front to back. Skirting a couple of fellows making a drug deal on the courthouse steps, I passed through the security checkpoint, where I was relieved of my nail clippers, and took the elevator to the fourth floor. At the county clerk's office, I shelled out twenty-two bucks for a copy of Edsel Northrup Harrington's last will and testament. I was surprised at how easy it was; no one questioned my right to the information or demanded proof that I was related to the deceased. Disappointing, because I'd worked up a couple of plausible lies just for the occasion.

Back in the van, I propped the document against the steering wheel and read through it, not without some difficulty. It had been prepared by the law firm of Gussman, Saul, Nordberg & Klinghoffer, with offices on the fourth floor of the Jacobsen Storehouse in Arlinda. Shorn of all the wherefores and whereases, the bulk of the estate, after any debts and testamentary expenses had been paid, went to the Arlinda Botanical Society. Five thousand dollars had been left in trust for Lily Mae Brown, daughter of Merrit Esperanza Brown, to be put toward her education. Merrit herself had been left six rose plants of her choosing, including their root systems and any soil peripherally attached. A touching remembrance, but probably not as useful as a fat wad of cash, I thought.

There was an additional clause in the body of the will that I puzzled over for some minutes. I read it through three times and decided it had to be one of the “issues” referred to by Lois Hartshorne. Digging out my phone, I made an appointment to see Louis Klinghoffer, attorney at law, the following afternoon at three o'clock. Due diligence? I'd show Lois I could due-diligence my ass off. Then I hit the road north, headed for home.

I pulled into the space reserved for Unit 1 just after five. Our apartment—soon to be ex-apartment—was up a dark, musty flight of stairs accessed by a fire door off the back of Hancock's Hardware and Gifts. I plodded up to the second story, each step feeling like a dozen. It had been a long day, and there was still the question of dinner.

But as I climbed an enticing smell of sautéed onions, garlic, and Italian herbs wafted over me. I unlocked the door and traversed the short length of hallway. Max was at the stove, stirring something thick and piquant in a saucepan. Tall and lanky, he had a white apron tied around his waist with a dish towel folded over the string. A shock of brown hair hung over his eyes.

“Homework?” I said.

He glanced up. “In process.” He coated a teaspoon with red sauce, blew on it to cool it, and took a taste, rolling the flavors around his tongue before adding a dash of black pepper and a palmful of leafy green stuff.

“Oregano,” he informed me, using a big wooden spoon to blend in his additions. He placed the spoon carefully on a folded paper towel and consulted a sheet of paper, presumably his recipe.

I dropped my bag on a stack of boxes and helped myself to a beer from the refrigerator. “This is for your cooking class?”

“Yep. Pasta and sauce. I get extra credit for the garlic bread.” He filled a saucepan with water from the tap and added a pinch of salt, then set it on the range, turning up the gas. “How's five-thirty for dinner?”

“Perfect.” I flopped into a chair at the kitchen table, watching him cook. He fussed some more with the sauce.

“It really should simmer overnight for optimum flavor,” he said.

Optimum flavor? He sounded like one of those slick cable TV chefs who whipped out a five-course dinner in half an hour and never seemed to have to tackle their own dirty dishes. My own idea of optimizing flavor involved using the “medium” setting on the toaster to gently brown my Pop-Tarts. “You like culinary class, I take it.”

“It's really pre-culinary. But it sets me up for the Culinary Arts program at Arlinda High.”

I almost groaned aloud. My son, in high school. It raised a lot of questions. Where had the years gone? Why hadn't I achieved more in life? Would there be dessert?

“I took intro to Culinary Arts as a sophomore,” I said. “My favorite class. I had a great instructor.”

“Did you go through the whole program?”

“Nope.” I took a swallow of beer. “The instructor retired and they had trouble replacing her.”

His shoulders twitched and I thought he would say something, but he clammed up. I took that as an invitation to chatter on. “I ended up in wood shop my junior year, but that wasn't a good fit. Barely made it out with all my digits. I forget what I took senior year. Typing or something.”

Harley, our gray-and-white cat, strolled out of Max's room, pausing to stretch elaborately. Like Max, he was in his teens now, the round softness of kittenhood replaced by a lean, manic energy and an enormous appetite. He fixed an eye on my shoe, arched his back, and danced up to it, swatting it with a lightning paw before streaking off to climb the curtains. I watched morosely.

“Bob's gonna nick us for claw marks on his curtains,” I said. Our landlord had recently issued us a sixty-day notice to vacate, in no uncertain terms, for violating his pet policy and because he was an asshole in general.

“Tell him it's the distressed look.”

“I'll try that, but I'm not one of his favorite people. How's the packing coming?”

“Just about done.” The water in the saucepan had achieved a full rolling boil, and Max dropped in a handful of spaghetti, stirring with a pair of tongs. I jumped up and sprinkled a few bites of kibble in Harley's dish. In a flash he was at my feet, winding himself around my ankles with a thunderous purr. Finally, someone who appreciated my skills in the kitchen. I plunked the dish down on the table, and he dug in.

“I need a favor,” Max said.

“Anything. Just name it.”

“Wow. How about a bigger allowance?”

“Sure. Since you're making dinner. What else?”

He left the stove and went down the hall to his room, returning with a crumpled piece of paper. “I was supposed to have you sign this form. It's from our race sponsor.”

I looked over the document. It had been folded into a small square and gave every indication of having been dampened, dried, and possibly used as a napkin. When I spread it out flat, I saw traces of powdered cheese in the creases. “How long have you been carrying this around?”

“I dunno. A week?”

“At least.” I scanned the text. It was a waiver releasing SmithBuilt Construction from any liability arising from participation in Saturday's Kinetic Sculpture Race, covering such unforeseen events as loss of life, traumatic injury, and/or dismemberment. That was comforting.

“You'll be careful, right?” I asked him.

“Don't worry. Nothing'll happen.”

I frowned. The race, created more than two decades earlier by a couple of guys bowling around the street on modified tricycles, had rapidly mushroomed into a grueling pilgrimage across forty miles of the North Coast's streets, sand dunes, and waterways. Every year the field grew larger and the machines more elaborate. Hard to believe a spectacle of such overweening silliness could also be dangerous, but the risks were undeniable: crashes, traffic, exposure to sun, wind, rain, and junk food, a capsize during the water crossing…yikes! Better not to think about all that.

I picked up a pen, then noticed the date. “You were supposed to turn this in on the fifteenth.”

He had the good grace to look sheepish. “Spaced it. Team captain says if I get it in by the end of the day tomorrow I'm good to go.”

“Fine.” Signing my name in an artistic scrawl, I pushed the form toward him. He made no move to pick it up.

“Here's the thing,” he said.

“Let me guess. I have to deliver it.”

“I have practice after school.”

I glanced at the address. SmithBuilt had a new complex on Salmon Bay Boulevard, only a few blocks west of Arlinda proper. But I was irked nonetheless.

“I have a busy day tomorrow,” I growled.

“Sorry.”

“Three showings. And a meeting in the afternoon.”

“That's awesome.” He flashed me one of his crooked smiles. Ugh.

“You're lucky I'm in a generous mood.”

“Thank you. I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I fell silent, lost in thought. Should I tell my son his father was in town? Was I absolutely sure of it? I gathered my courage. “Max.”

He was back to stirring his sauce. “Yeah?”

“I, um…”
Damn!
I'd lost my nerve.

“Don't skimp on the garlic,” I said.

After a dinner that lived up to its olfactory promise, I retired to a comfy spot on the couch to sort out my thoughts. There was Aster Lane and my three new clients. There was Wayne. And there was Bernie. I moved restlessly. Better not go there.

My cell phone rang and I picked it up. It was Gail. We made a little small talk, and then I told her about the third showing.

“Two o'clock?” she said. “I should be done at the dentist. Any chance you can pick me up at the office?”

“Sure. Unless it'd be easier to meet at the property.”

“Jim's taking the minivan in for service. He's going to run me to and from the dentist in his truck in case they gas me.”

“That's a thoughtful man.”

“Bernie would do the same for you, if you'd let him.”

“Don't start.” I didn't tell her about our dinner date. It was already creating a hum of anxiety in my gut. “You ever have any dealings with Lois Hartshorne? She was downright antagonistic on the phone today.”

“You'd be antagonistic, too, if you'd been married to Everett Sweet.”

My mouth dropped open. “Our boss?”

“The one and only. It didn't end well, or so I've heard.”

“You're a mine of information.”

“I hear things,” she said modestly. “Hey, I'd better go. I'll see you tomorrow.” She paused. “So you've got three showings with three different clients on the same day.”

“Weird, huh?”

“Amazing is how I'd describe it. Damn. What are you doing for marketing? Shopping carts? Refrigerator magnets?”

“I swear they just called out of the blue. It's great, but…I don't know. I'm waiting for the other shoe to fall.”

“It'll fall, all right,” she said. “Right into your bank account.”