Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (24 page)

“That can happen to anyone.”  I said sarcastically.

“Where is Beverley?” He repeated.

“I take you are somewhere warm with no extradition treaty with the US?”

“Something in that category.” He agreed.

“Beverley is dead
.” I announced, brutally.

He had the courtesy to pause, and I head sounds of coughing and choking.
“What?  How?  How can she be dead?”

“I don’t think it was easy. Check the Internet. You do have the Internet where you are?”

“It’s difficult, all dial up,” he said absently.

“Have a good life
.” I clicked off.             

He was not anywhere he could be reached.  I knew that, he knew that.  Got rid of his first wife, lost his future second wife.  Perhaps that means he lost?  Was the President of the Homeless Prevention League with him? Had Steven escaped to the same warm island? Maybe they worked out something together.

I regarded the slender phone in my hand. Now, my fingerprints were all over Beverley’s phone, and this most recent call could be traced of course. That didn’t look good.  I scrolled through the names – men, women, I couldn’t tell who was important, and who was not. She had all of Ben’s numbers, and a home number with the San Francisco area code, probably Ben’s parents.

It was a pretty phone – the latest model. I suppose the numbers can be traced and another call would garner Bixby’s location. But would that drag Ben back into the fray?  Bixby did not kill Beverley, he merely ran away with some - not all, apparently- of the Homeless Prevention League monies.  And ran away from a
nother completely unrelated murder.

I hefted the phone, a shame really. But it would guarantee
that Ben and his family would be haunted by this for years to come.  I walked to the largest Cuisinart, dropped in the phone and punched the chop button.

Don’t try this at home.

Carrie’s admission into the private shadows of the Sullivan compound was a good news, bad new scenario.

“I feel I’m that Japanese princess who enters the royal palace, and never comes out.” She said over the phone.

“Is it that bad?”  I asked.

“No, But Patrick is feeling very paranoid and responsible, and won’t let me out of his sight, and since it’s almost Christmas and I’m on medical leave anyway, I figure, I may as well enjoy my rest.”

“So, it could be worse
.” I said.

“The Senior Center is fine. I asked Linda from accounting to take over the front desk, but with no staff at the
Homeless Prevention League,  I’m worried about the clients. I was suppose to drop off some blankets to the RVs. Martha is in charge of bringing the Christmas turkeys to each mobile unit, and I’m in charge of the blankets. I would hate to have her get there before me.” 

I did not say anything. I knew what was coming, then again, Carrie would be meeting Martha at every event she attended, if she looked irresponsible now, she would never hear the end of it.

“We personally deliver to a shelter of our choice, to keep the board members involved in a hands on way.” She was unconvincing. 

“But you’re not staying on the board, remember?”  I pointed out.

If someone can sound severe and judgmental over the phone, my friend can.  “That’s beside the point, people are cold. They need their food and blankets. I would help them even if I was fired from the board.” 

The whole world needs about a million
more editions of Carrie Eliot. “So you want me to bring the blankets to the shelter.” There was no way I was avoiding this.  “Okay, where are they?”

She knew I meant the blankets. “Probably at Target.”

“I have to buy them as well?”  I shrieked.  Target on Christmas Eve? A massive florescent lit monolith packed with men desperately searching for that special, last minute, obligatory gift item for their loved ones?  Cars honking, people yelling. The whole holiday snafu?

I was the Grinch. I really belonged on top of a mountain, not down in the chaos of the Who-ville. 
Stealing the blankets from the homeless would be more in keeping with my holiday spirit.

“How many blankets need to be delivered?”  I said in complete defeat.

Have you visited Target on Christmas eve – well, afternoon?  Don’t. Run far away and save yourself. Go to a nice island and hang out with felons.  But, don’t shop the day before Christmas.  It occurred to me that this was probably a big reason why my grandmother opted to live in Claim Jump.  Maybe, that’s why Emily lived in Northern Sonoma. Maybe, I have more in common with these elderly ladies than I thought.

The revelation did not cheer me.

I found the blankets, and marched into line behind a tall man dressed in khaki slacks and white tennis shoes. Something tugged at my memory, had he come to a recent open house?  Not at Silverpoint, I knew that.

He looked back at me, and smiled.

I automatically smiled back. His cart was stuffed with toys and a blanket similar to the ones I clutched to my chest.

“Last minute shopping?” I asked, casually.

He regarded the pile in the cart. “I am behind, work was a bitch this week, didn’t have time for anything else.”

“Who is the blanket for?”

“Oh, my wife.”

I glanced at my soon-to-be-purchases; they were the cheapest I could find. It was one thing for a homeless recipient, quite another for a loving, well considered, holiday gift for your wife.

I glanced at my watch. I didn’t have that much time, but for heaven’s sake!  “No.” I told him. “You are not giving that blanket to your wife, come with me.”

No good deed goes unpunished,
I remembered that, but I couldn’t let him give such a cheap gift to his wife.  I felt if I didn’t help, I would be violating the secret pact of the sisterhood: prevent crummy gifts at all cost and keep the holiday peace.

I said as much as we cautiously made our way back through the choked store. I avoided the baby strollers packed with product, the baby nowhere in evidence.

“But she wouldn’t know how much it cost.” He protested.

“Yes, she will. We always know how much the gift costs.”  I guided him back to the blanket aisle.

pulled down one of those deep, lush, throws in dark eggplant. “If you must present your wife a blanket, at least give her something that feels luxurious.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”  He dropped the cheap blanket on the shelf and picked up the boxed throw and set it carefully on the cart.

“Maybe a friend of mind is rubbing off on me.” I admitted.

“That
would be Carrie Eliot?”
              I dropped the blankets and backed into the hard, metal shelves.  They rattled, but held.

“How do you know that?”

“Detective William Morris, Bill. I’m working on the Weiss murder, as well as the assault on Ms. Eliot.”

“And you’ve been following me.”

He was not a potential client at all, a stalker of sorts, but at least not the murderer.

“Not really in a serious way
. I wanted to keep an eye on things. You were a suspect of course, but not a very convincing one.  I decided to switch from catching you, to keeping you safe.  You take a lot of chances, don’t you?”

“Hazard of my profession.”

He rearranged his cart. “It would seem so.”

“Then who is the main suspect?”

He placed his hands on the throw. “Wow, that is nicer, thanks!”

“You’re not going to answer my question.”

“It’s not your boyfriend.”

I gathered my own blankets.

“Do you think she’d want one of those watches with jewels?”  He asked.

“I’m
sure she would.”
      “Look, we haven’t arrested anyone, yet. So be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“No, you’re not.  Happy holidays.” He pushed the cart around the corner and disappeared.

“Am too
!” I called after him.

I was due up at Ben and Emily’s for Christmas Eve dinner. I was even invited to spend the night, by both of them, which was a compliment I took to heart. Maybe I could get on Emily’s good side after all? I hoped so.

Distracted by that thought, and worried Emily wouldn’t like the four red wine goblets I found for her gift, I pulled around the back of Target to the only RV I knew about, where the professor lived.

My phone buzzed as I was exiting the car.  I pulled back in and answered.

“I think I want to buy that last condo.” It was Owen.

“The last condo?” I said, trying to buy some time, which condo?  We saw so many, which one?

“You remember,” he said, a bit belligerently. “The one with the deck out back. I want that one, what do I do?”

“Meet with me on the 26
th
, and we will write up an offer.” I said.  It was almost too good to be true and so, I wasn’t going to get all worked up about it, not yet. Owen and I have been down this path before, and the path always seems to be marred by an unacceptable crack in the pavement.

“First thing?”  He said.

“Ten o’clock at my office, Owen.” I promised.

“
I don’t want to lose any time.” He reminded me.

I wrote a note in my day planner to stop by the office on my way to Richard’s house, and print out the purchase agreement.

That would a good treat, two houses sold during the traditionally worst time of the year to buy or sell a house.

Go Team Little. 

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and stared at the RV. In the light, it looked copper, then a little green.  Very pretty, it was probably that Flex paint. Ben told me that the golf club loved their Flex paint jobs because the cart changed colors depending on where you stand. The cart can look green, or blue, or copper colored.

Washing the same RV over and over.

I suspected I only needed to deliver blankets to this one RV, and I would have the whole program covered.

I took a deep breath, called forth my latent philanthropic traits, gathered up the blankets and walked up to the RV. The air was damp and heavy, more rain was on the way. I hurried up a two-step metal stair pushed up against the side of the vehicle. It served as the gracious entrance and porch.  I wobbled on my heels and knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” A voice called out. Were there roommates? I wasn’t sure.

“
My name is Allison, I’m here from the Homeless Prevention League. I have your Christmas gift.”   There, a little mystery is always helpful.  Open the door, take the blankets, and I’ll be on my way, my good deed carefully executed.

The professor, Marcel I think, jerked open the flimsy door and looked me up and down as if I were the derelict, and he was the righteous volunteer. I wore a beautiful velvet skirt and my favorite boots - finally discovered at the back of my closet - I was certainly not
dressed as a derelict.

In honor of the holidays, the professor was clad in a dirty tee shirt that stretched over his ample stomach, and a shiny, worn, suit jacket. He was barefoot.

It started to rain. I twitched as it settled on my hair, but held onto my blankets and made a mental note to be careful and not slip on the metal steps when I was finally allowed to move.

“Blankets
!” He did not bother to hide his disgust.

“It was the best they could do
.” I was defensive on the HPL’s behalf. Honestly, the way people complain about free stuff boggles my mind.

He sighed with exaggeration. 
“Come in, set them over there.”

I complied. The interior was pleasant enough, the lights fixed under the tiny kitchen cabinets lent a soft glow to the whole room - kitchen/dining/living/study/formal dining and entertainment center, all within arm
’s reach.

I dropped the blankets on the built in banquet, and straightened up.  I filled the small room and as a result, I was not comfortable. Cozy, in this case, translated to cramped.

But something stopped me.  What was that smell? It was faint, but still horrible, and distinctive.  Oh God, Oh God.  I swallowed and composed my face.

I turned slowly to face the professor and to re-orient myself to the door, there was only one exit from the space.  It was to my left, one big
desperate lunge away.

“
It was a great story.” He said conversationally, looking me in the eye. “The homeless mother from a wealthy family, it can happen to you, kind of angle.” He said with some satisfaction. “I finally got something on the front page.”

“
Good, then you got what you wanted, yes?”  I stepped towards the door with confidence that I did not feel at all. Get out, I thought. Don’t turn your back. Don’t  hesitate. Just get out.  I didn’t need to do any more than that, no one would expect any more than that.

The survival song reverberated in my head like bad
tune that won’t go away. Get out, get out.