Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (2 page)

Chapter 2

I collapsed onto the bottom stairs. These things are easier to take in cartoon form.  Small brutal creatures eviscerate each other to happy nursery music; you’re familiar with those kinds of cartoons. Anyway, the seller’s bedroom now resembled the aftermath of one of those nasty skits.  Not pretty or even satiric. It was no laughing matter.

Damn. I dropped my head into my hands and tried to think.  I looked up and realized Beverley (the seller and now, murder victim) had actually painted her living room walls. Instead of the original lavender color, the walls were painted a clean off white, or eggshell depending on which brand of paint a person preferred. The point was, it was no longer purple. Good for her. She must have worked all day Saturday. Not the best way to spend Thanksgiving weekend, but it  sav
ed her money to do it herself; kept her out of the stores.  Judging from my visit last Friday, Beverley Weiss was a woman who needed a break from unrelenting consumerism. She had enough stuff, more than enough.

For me, I needed more mouthwash.  I needed lunch again. No, no lunch again. I needed to clean this up.  

I slowly walked back to the front door and studied it. I know a great deal more about doors than I used to. To my now practiced eye, there was nothing wrong. No forced entry. On Friday, I had connected a lock box with a house key on the water hose faucet adjacent to the front stoop – but the front door was open when I came in this morning –  I had walked right in. The murderer had not locked the door on the way out.

Was that surprised expression on Beverley’s face because it was someone she knew? Or had she been surprised
that a stranger had a key?

I checked the driveway. No more visitors.

I stared at my phone, calendar (note, schedule nervous breakdown), cool apps, contact list.

I am nothing, if not generous. To share the pain, panic, and hopefully, the police questions, I called up Ben Stone, Rock Solid Service.

Yes, Ben and I are still an item – a couple of sorts. Our relationship is obvious enough that my best friend, Carrie, is convinced that the best way to celebrate my new relationship is to change.

“Have you thought about losing weight?”  Carrie broached the subject last week, Tuesday, with the appropriate hesitation. But if your best friend can’t ask that question, really, who can?

“I mean,” she continued, emboldened by my silence, aided by the fact my mouth was full of bacon, chili cheeseburger,  “I mean, this is a great opportunity to do something different, what with your new relationship and all.”  She lingered on the word relationship.

Carrie, by the way, is one of those natural beauties who weighs in at an estimated minus 15 pounds and wears a size zero. I weighed more than she at birth.

I swallowed.  “It’s not a big enough relationship to merit weight loss.   Besides, I’m not ready to give up the favorite men in my life, Ben & Jerry.”

Carrie dropped the weight loss plan as quickly as she brought it up. It’s a heavy topic with me.  All pun intended.  And besides, my current “boyfriend” loves me as I am – many points in his favor.

“So, I need to find another cause,” Carrie said.

“You’re really off the board of Forgotten Felines?” She
has told me she was planning to quit one of her pet philanthropies, choosing her current love – Patrick Sullivan of Cooper Milk, millionaire, philanthropist and damn cute – over her work with lost kittens, but I hadn’t heard the end of the story.

Carrie was devoted to the cause of saving lost kittens. That’s the kind of girl she was.

“I do enjoy the kittens and the rescuing and stuff,” she said slowly. “But board had devolved you know? It took us twenty minutes to agree on the next meeting time, and right before I left the last meeting, because I had to get back to my own job, the board members launched into another debate on what kind of donuts we should serve at the meetings. Some of those volunteers shouldn’t be eating any more donuts. And I had work to do, and I didn’t appreciate giving up my lunch for something so silly.”  She took a drink of water.

“Sorry,” she finished, “I didn’t mean to burden you.”

I smiled. I was the burdener in this relationship; she was the burdenee. I think I have taken advantage of this kind, gentle woodland creature about a dozen times since we met.  However, her new relationship with Patrick has given her some more nerve and even some attitude, and frankly it was looking good on her. I was impressed.

“I’m impressed.”

“You are?” She relaxed, “I thought you’d start in on how I am violating my principles or something.”

“No, I think Patrick is a worthwhile trade.”

“He suggested I join this board for the Homeless Prevention League. It’s more important work, saving people instead of cats. And he promised they are pretty organized. We’re going to their annual dinner next week. Patrick is a donor, but he wants to see what I think before proposing my name.” 

What a luxury, to worry about weight loss and love. I will remember that.

***

I was relieved that Ben answered his phone on the first ring, I hoped it was because he knew it was me, but since I never examined his phone to see if I have my own ring tone, or if my name or picture comes up with little heart icons, those last speculations were only that.  Ben isn’t really the type to spend hours choosing exactly the right photos to delineate his callers. 

I felt pretty confident calling him. Two nights ago, we had taken the relationship to a new level, so I gained at least some parity. Some.

To a Realtor, the house is the window to the soul.  Since summer, it’s been about my windows and my soul.  Ben has pawed through my bookshelves, riffled through my closets, and slept in my house, all the while protecting his space with disturbing efficiency. I didn’t even have his address, so I couldn’t look up his property and do a drive by, nor could I look up his records and learn what he owed on his mortgage.  I was beginning to worry about what he was hiding
: his grandmother, for one thing. The man lives with his grandmother.

I know, loser. But he didn’t have any of the other hallmarks of a loser, so I was completely mystified. I was dying for an opportunity to gaze into Ben’s soul, at the very least, his bathroom cabinets.

Ben, or rather his grandmother, lives in Dry Creek, a few miles west of Healdsburg. Even after I discovered his living situation, he still didn’t disclose his address. Okay, fine then.

“Grandma bought dinner,” he announced
when he picked me up in his truck the day after Thanksgiving.   

“Didn’t get enough to eat, yesterday?”  I tossed my overnight bag  – be prepared – into the back of the truck and climbed in.

“We have no left-overs. Thanksgiving was at Mom’s. I drove Grandma down to the City, and we sat around the huge antique Queen Anne table in the formal Queen Anne dining room and made polite conversation about the weather.  I think my mother may have brought up the Queen herself.  What about you?”

“I enjoyed three hours and seventeen minutes with my brothers and their lovely families,” I said. “We had dinner at the Club.”

“That seems a little,” he trailed off.

“Sterile? That’s how mom runs the holiday
s: organized, proper and color coordinated. The one bit of levity we are allowed is three minutes of clowning around right before the family holiday portrait.  Three minutes. After that, we shape up, and smile fiercely, as if we mean it.  Those who do not smile; do not get dessert, that’s another festive tradition.”

“Sounds,” he couldn’t resist and I didn’t blame him.  “Festive,” he finished.

“About as festive as your holiday.”

“Hey, we enjoyed a lively conversation about the Queen.”

“How is she doing?”

“Daughter-in-law problems.”

I nodded. I hadn’t met his mother yet. I suspected she was the queen in her own world.  I was not looking forward to that encounter, at all.

  “You shopped today?”  He must have read my expression and changed the subject.

“No,” I suppressed a sigh. I love Black Friday.  I love shopping. But business comes first. “I had a client meeting. I’m listing a house in the Villas.  Open House on Sunday.”

“Wow, that’s fast.”

I shrugged; I didn’t want to talk about my new, pushy client. I wanted to focus on Ben. We exited at the second Healdsburg exit. Ben turned left to Dry Creek and then right. 

When Ben admitted he lived with his grandmother, my first thought was, trailer park. Because, to be brutally honest, when a man his age (he’s fortyish) announces that he lives with his grandmother, my assumption is that that man is chronically unemployed, and his grandmother needs help using the toilet. I have visions of them living
exclusively on her social security, just able to afford a single wide in a trailer park labeled Journey’s End, or End of the Rainbow, or something along those lines.  Highly depressing.

That was the mood I was in anyway. The onset of the holidays can do that to a girl.

Maybe some new shoes will make me feel better. The stores were still advertising sales.

Ben pulled into a circular drive and parked.  I peered out at the façade of a huge two-story building. It looked
like a high end winery, one where the affordable bottle cost $60.00. Were we stopping at a winery?  If so, why hadn’t I heard about it?  I thought I knew all the wineries in this valley.

A tall, willowy woman the same vintage as my own grandmother, Prue, slowly pushed open huge double stable-like doors and gestured to us to come in.

The woman wore her hair natural white, and swept off her forehead in an expensive flip.  She was dressed in the same casual outfit my mother favored; matched cashmere sweater set and pressed slacks, flat shoes decorated with bows hugged her feet.

I blew out a breath at the sight of her. I wish it had been a winery featuring expensive wine. At least there, I wouldn’t have to buy.  This was all buy-in.
I knew immediately that Ben’s grandmother was formidable. She knew it too.

Ben, apparently, was clueless.

“This is my grandmother, Emily.”  He pulled out my bag from the truck and gestured to his grandmother.

Emily stood in the enormous open doorway and nodded in my direction. God, the overnight bad was glaringly obvious, but it was too late to snatch it back, Ben swung it back and forth as he approached the front door.

“It’s a pleasure.” Emily said, calmly.

I reached out to take her hand in what turned out to be a firm handshake.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” I echoed.

“Come on in
.” Ben gestured with his head and gently pushed his grandmother to one side. I waited for her to precede me. I stepped into the courtyard and took a deep breath.

When I’m wrong. I am spectacularly wrong. Colossally wrong.  This was not the trailer
I had been imaging for the last few months.

It is difficult to impress me, okay, almost impossible. See enough homes and the mansions in the Villas start to resemble the trailers in Journey’s End. The only difference is the homes in the Villas are bigger than the trailers in Journey’s End, but not necessarily more pleasant.  

This home was more than a string of big rooms.  So you can compare, Emily’s home was built on the same pattern as Michel Schlumberger Winery which is also located in Dry Creek.    Visit the winery, tour around, and you’ll have an idea of what kind of house the taciturn Mr. Stone lives in.

His grandmother led us through the huge doors and through a breezeway running the perimeter of the house, enclosing
the open courtyard on four sides.

“So, Allison, you are from around here, correct?” she said. Her voice was well modulated, the product of
education, fine living, class. 

I nodded, mostly because my own voice is not well modulated. It’s naturally loud.

A second story with deep porches hovered to my right; to my left the house was a single story.

“Sorry, yes, I live in Rivers Bend,” I tried to keep my voice low, but it spiked in pitch at the word bend, and sounded like a question.  I clamped my lips together.

“Lovely town.” She said smoothly. Great, she was a practiced socialite as well.

“You were the one who rescued Ben from the fire.”  She stopped half way across the patio. She was tall, about five foot nine with the same dark blue eyes as Ben. Or rather, he inherited her eyes and height.  She had that effortless patrician air my mother works so hard to emulate.  Emily carried herself as if she was born to money.

I glanced at the home – if she was born into money, she must have squandered it all on this house.  

Lights from the breezeway illuminated the patio area
. A fountain played in the center of the courtyard casting water shadows on the second floor. It was very Spanish, very California, quite enviable.

Ben almost lost his life in a forest fire because of me, so I didn’t really want to dwell on his “rescue.”  Since we met, he has been put in the path of questionable situations twice, so I wasn’t feeling all that great about my influence. Apparently, she didn’t feel I had a terribly salubrious effect on her grandson either.