Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out (32 page)

“
I don’t need the money
.” Sarah dismissed Joan’s caution.

“That’s sweet
,
rich
with friends and love
?
”

“No, we’re really well off
.
I just
wrote this book for fun.
”  Sarah was serious.

“And fun is what you’ll get
,
”  Joan
nodded
.
“
B
ut first I’ll look at it, don’t get your hopes up
,
”
s
he added kindly.  

Her work here finished, Joan turned to me. “Now Allison
,
let’s
have
a
pre-
bachelorette party for this bride.” 

“Thank you for ta
l
king
to
Sarah, I had no idea she was a writer, otherwise I wouldn’t have pushed her in front of you.”
I poured more
Roederer
sparkling wine into each glass.  We had ended up in Nevada City – the liveliest spot, lively meaning open after nine o’clock
,
was Friar Tucks
, specializing in ambiance and fondue
. 
Ensconced
in a
boot
and
armed
with an excellent wine list and
confident that
no one knew us, it was a perfect spot for a loud boisterous drinking –
which is what the other patrons were doing. 
In contrast to the regulars, we
were
pretty sedate.

“Everyone writes.”  Joan gave me a severe professorial look and I retreated.  “Sorry, I don’t write anything down. Unless it’s in a contract,” I amended.

Joan nodded.  “That’s what I like about you, you are simple.
Uncomplicated
.”

“But I don’t want to be uncomplicated. I want to be mysterious like Cassandra
,
” I cried.
  Carrie pushed my wine glass towards me and I obediently took a drink.

“You aren’t, and frankly, that mysterious stuff is just wearing.  And you don’t know why the person is mysterious, maybe they are trading off mysterious for unstable.
”

“I’m certainly not unstable.  I’m solid,
Ben said so.”

“Ben is right
,
”
Carrie
said with satisfaction.
  “And you don’t want to b
e
mysterious
.
Cassandra
who is
either mysterious
,
inscrutable,
or a bad communicator,
is
in the hospital because
she
’s
so mysterious
it pissed someone off enough to push her off
her own scaffolding.”

“I thought we agreed it was an accident.”

Carrie daintily
lifted her smoking meat from the hot oil fondue pot and swirled it in the clarified butter
.
“We all know it’s not, I’m just saying it out loud.”

“Just wait until the wedding is over right?”

Carrie nodded. 

“Good plan.” Joan agreed,
“
it’s only in what, a week?”

We chorused yes, just a short week. 

“How are you doing?”  Joan had two forks in the hot oil. She pulled out a mushroom and a chunk of chicken.

“I hate the person who is buying my house
,
” I admitted. 

“That’s not what I asked.
”
She looked at me over the top of her
large
wine
glass.

“
Okay, Ben and I are good, we’re just busy. With the house and the wedding and this winery.  Just busy.” 

“And?”  Carrie and Joan looked at me expectantly.  I
,
in
turn, twirled a meatball in the
oil and concentrated on it as if I were
Chef
Rod
Nelson starring
on the Cooking Channel. 
“I love him so much it hurts. I want to marry him so he will belong to me forever and I don’t have to worry
about losing him to waifs like Cassandra
.  I want him here in this perfect place because when we’re here,
life is
not so distracting. But I’ve been fooled
before;
I’ve been left at the altar. 
I’ve
been
deceived
. How do I know Ben is not just another bad decision?”

“You don’t
,
”
b
oth
women
declared, rather definitely.

I must have looked deflated.
  I popped the hot meatball in my mouth
.
The melted cheese in the center was somewhat of a consolation.

“I think you can trust him, you’ve met his people right?”

“His mother is awful.”

“Every mother is awful
,
”
Carrie
waved her hand dismissively. 

Joan clearly agreed.
“My mother was nice
to Nort
on out of sheer relief.  Norton
could have been a serial
murderer
and mom would not have cared as long as
it
was
steady work. 
Does Ben make you happy?”

The waiter, tattooed
,
pierced
but dressed in a clean white shirt and black pants, cruised by
. He scooped up
the empty sparkling wine bottle and cooler and whisked them away.

“Yes.” I picked up the thread of conversation. “Yes
,
he does.”

“And
does
he demand you change, or that you always do what he wants and never what you want
?
”

I remembered all the red flags that made up a small parade when I was dating and engaged to Mark. He wanted so much and I was so thrilled he’d have me at all, that I capitulated to every demand.

“I used to have low self esteem.”
  I forked up two shrimps and plunged them into the hot oil.  We needed another bottle
of wine, the
Sierra Starr Zinfandel.

“Not any more.”

“No,” Joan pressed her
advantage
because my mouth was full.  “Self esteem is not your problem anymore.”

I swallowed. “Except the dress.”

“You owe Carrie, wear the damn dress.”

I drained my glass.
“I want him
because
he makes me happy.”

All the drinking and carousing
(well, drinking)
exhausted my fr
iends.   Both retired
immediately
when we returned to the house.
I was pleased they each could stay in their own rooms.  Even though the rooms were minimally furnished with one bed and one nightstand.  I promised more luxury to come.

I was still restless.
I wandered downstairs and popped open my computer.
I surfed around the Internet, looking for something interesting. 

This Saturday marked the last
performance of
You Can’t Take it With You
a
t the Summer Theater.
 
The performance
was over by the time we came from dinner, so I looked
online
for the feed.
Raul still recorded the
theater
shows and posted them.  Summer says it helps her exposure, I still think people watch the feed so they don’t have to pay the fifteen dollars to see the real thing.   I found it and
rescued a partially eaten container of Crème
Brule
ice cream.
I
liked this play,
particularly the
part
when the beer explodes under the house. 
A couple of nights
ago
I
could even hear
the explosion from my house.
Summer created quite a blast
it was so loud
it
caused
some of
the
children in the audience cry - a triumph.

I let the show run while I
dumped the
empty ice cream
container
.
  When I returned, the audience had left and the screen had gone dark. There were low
sounds;
I rubbed the
track
pad to bring up the images.  Summer and a man I had never seen
before
,
were
deep in conversation.
He was handsome, possibly gay
since he was
clean shaven
and good looking, but I’m a bad judge of these things.

“
Did you find her
?”
Summer’s
heavily lined eyes narrowed.
Most of the lights in the theater were off. The stage
opened like a
yawing black hole
behind them
.  The two
had moved to the edge of the web cam’s scope, they were barely illuminated by t
he green glow of the
exit sign.

I think he shrugged. If I wanted, I could
cross the street
and stand in the doorway of the theater for a better view
, but I suspected my presence would be unwelcome.

“No one has found her.
She
really has
disappeared.”

“Nice work,”
Summer
handed him something, but
her hands were j
ust low enough to be out of camera range.
Now, what the hell did that mean? 
Had
Summer
actually
hire
d
a hit on
Debbie
?
Summer
was reckless and made questionable
fashion
decisions
,
but
hiring
out for murder
?  Yet
at the same time,
Debbie’s actions were a
far
bigger
threat
to Summer Theater
than
anything
Lucky ever
did
.

And while we’re at it,
Summer
and her Theater were none
of my business.
I shut down the computer
and idly tapped the cover.

My cell phone lit up,
speaking of Raul.

“Yes?” I hoped he was in
Prue’s
kitchen, if he moved to the front of the house to talk, he’d cut out and I
wouldn’t
get his whole, and I was sure, convoluted message.

“Allison.
You are up!
The site is okay, did you do it?”

“I certainly
did not
,
” I
retorted
.

“Did you see all her
v
ideos? 
Very good, to make a good video every day.
But she posts just crap on her
blog
.  Her photographer is sloppy, no editing. I
edit my videos,
”
h
e
added virtuously.
He did indeed edit.  Most o
f
Raul’s li
v
e
web
feed
s
garner very interesting material that for a price, he’
s happy to keep off the Internet.
 
Extortion is one of R
au
l’s
specialties
. 
And
yes,
it does get him in trouble. 
 

“Tell me about the sloppy editing.”

He sig
h
ed
impatiently
.  “Go to your computer, I will just show you.”

I
opened up
my
laptop
again and typed in the URL.  He directed me to the
list of
videos
for Prophesy Estates. I wasn’t sure I was suppose to be rooting around in the “protected” part of Cassandra’s web site, but I had to know. What a lame excuse.