Go, Ivy, Go! (23 page)

Mrs. Magnuson gave me another look. I smiled at her. I had everything back in place now. It might be only will power holding it there, but I do have will power.

“Perhaps you’re thinking of something a bit more upscale?” Mrs. Magnuson suggested almost delicately.

“Perhaps,” Mac said.

“I do know of another property that might interest you.” She dug in a drawer and produced a brochure. “It’s a different type of living arrangement, a condo building, in which residents will each own their own units. But with so many amenities! One- or two-bedroom units.
Two
swimming pools, one indoor, one outdoor, plus a hot tub. Full dining service with a French chef. Tennis courts, workout room, everything to provide an active senior lifestyle.” She gave my Doughboy shape a sideways glance. “Or, if someone prefers a less active lifestyle, there’s a library and a cozy recreation room for playing cards or just relaxing. Plus organized outings to various events and places. All at a very reasonable price.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I said.

“You mean you buy a unit rather than rent?” Mac asked.
      

“Yes, which is why we don’t mention it to everyone.” With that same hint of delicacy she added, “Actually, it’s an
investment
as well as a fantastic lifestyle. You become a part of the company itself, which means you share in the company profits
and
you have the right to purchase a condo at a fantastic price! Of course, a certain income level is one of the requirements of ownership. Would that be a problem?”

“It’s never been so far.” Mac managed to sound not
affronted
by the question, just mildly disdainful of it. “Although I prefer not to flaunt my assets or income.”

Good comment, Mac.
Just in case this woman happened to look out and spot that old Toyota pickup. It looks well past its flaunting days. Actually, I have no idea what Mac’s income is. Sometimes he’s frugal, sometimes spendy, both in situations that have always seemed appropriate at the time.

Mrs. Magnuson smiled as if he’d given the perfect answer. “Of course. And, for someone as astute as yourself
, this is the perfect time to get in on the ground floor! Because, as an investor in the company, you’re entitled to buy a unit in Phase One at half the price they will be when the project is completed. Can you believe it,
half
price
, for a place like Camelot Golden Age Condos!”

“That’s cash?” Mac asked.

“Complete information about both the company investment and condo purchase is covered at the informational seminars, and you can get individual details in a meeting with one of the personal counselors at that time. The seminars are held in various locations, so I’m sure there’s one that’s convenient for you.”

“But I couldn’t live there right away if we bought one, because it isn’t finished?” I fussed.

“The project isn’t ready for occupancy quite yet, no. But that’s why it’s such a marvelous opportunity! The lucky buyers will have both a lovely place to live in the near future
and
a wonderful investment in the company.” Mrs. Magnuson moved a step closer and lowered her voice. “Although I wouldn’t wait, if I were you. There are only so many slots available, and I understand that Phase One is almost sold out.”

“Is this place near here where we could see it?” Mac asked.

“As I mentioned, there are informational seminars in various cities, with a lovely complimentary dinner. There’s even an opportunity to
win
a condo outright!” Mrs. Magnuson put the brochure in Mac’s hand and closed his fingers around it. “This will tell you everything you need to know.”

“This is owned by the same company that owns Heart of Home?” I asked.

“The family is dedicated to projects that benefit seniors. In fact, some older members of the family plan to live in Camelot Golden Age Condos themselves.”

Blunt Mother had another question. “You get a commission if you sell us one?”

“I don’t handle sales directly, no, but my name is stamped on the back of the brochure and you might mention it when you talk to a counselor at a seminar. But it’s such an incredible opportunity that I hope you get in on it whether or not you mention my name.”

“Okay, well, thanks, Mrs. Magnuson,” Mac said. “We certainly appreciate your time and information.”

We went back out to the pickup. I glanced through the glossy brochure as we took the winding road down the hill. Camelot Golden Age Condos. Very slickly done.
An artist’s rendition of an impressive building with balconies and windows. Outdoor pool glittering in sunshine, large building for the indoor pool, expansive lawns, elegant landscaping. Other views were artist’s renditions of condo interiors with sleek woodwork, upscale appliances and airy rooms. There were also artist-rendition people, older but toned and tanned, playing tennis and golf, working out on various machines and lounging in front of an enormous fireplace. There were a few actual photos of beautiful landscaping, lovely trees, a man-made waterfall, and an elegant sign.

“What do you think now?” I asked Mac. I squirmed in the seat. My willpower was apparently fading because the padding felt as if it were doing another continental shift. “Is this new place Drake Braxton’s golden goose laying Porsche eggs?”

“Sounds as if it could be.”

“I wonder if the ‘informational seminars’ are the meetings Drake and his nephew fly around to?”

“I’d guess ‘informational seminar’ is a nice euphemism for a hard-sell sales pitch. And don’t forget the ‘complimentary dinner,’” Mac said.
      

I studied the fine print in the brochure. No Braxton name anywhere, just the rather uninformative statement that this was a Camelot Golden Age property. The location wasn’t specified, other than a general statement that it was in the “banana belt of the Midwest.” There was a number to call for dates and locations of the informational seminars.

“You never found anything like this when you were searching for Braxton-owned property?”

“No. But I’ll look again using the Camelot Golden Age name.”

“Do you think this is on the up-and-up?” I asked finally.

“I question whether anything the Braxtons do is on the up-and-up.”

“Including Beth Braxton and the Paso Fino horses?” I asked with a feeling of dismay. Beth and her grandma seemed sweet, and I certainly didn’t want to think of them involved in anything nefarious.

“They may be the exception to the rule,” Mac granted. “But I’m beginning to see that the Braxtons hide behind any number of company names.”

He asked if I wanted to stop at the same gas-station restroom to undo my makeover, but, with the brochure in my hand, apprehension jabbed me. As if we might turn a corner and run head on into Drake Braxton in his Hummer at any moment. I suddenly wanted to get out of Daniel Springs
now
. Mac cooperated, and we whipped right on through town, and it wasn’t until the second small town farther along the road that we stopped at another gas station.

***

That evening I realized, as I should have before, that DeeAnn and Mike, and Sandy too, thought we’d gone to see Heart of Home Hill because we were actually thinking about living in a retirement home. And, helpful people that they are, they had a slug of other brochures for us to study. I gave them a real semi-explanation, which brought out their concerns, of course. I assured them we hadn’t left a trail at Heart of Home Hill for any murderous Braxtons to follow.

We had another good evening, this time a steak cookout on the patio, and next morning DeeAnn’s homemade cinnamon rolls for breakfast. She even packed a lunch for us, and at noon we stopped at a roadside rest area to eat it. I was leafing through the various brochures while we ate, thinking how wonderful they all made old age sound, if we were only living in their particular establishment.

I was looking at the Camelot Golden Age Condos brochure again when I saw something I hadn’t noticed before in one of the actual photos. I adjusted my glasses and looked again. Could it be? No, surely not . . . but it was!

“Mac, look at this.”

Chapter Twenty

Mac scooted over and looked at the photo I was tapping. “So?”

“Don’t you recognize those trees?”

“Why would I recognize them? They’re just trees. Pretty trees,” he granted.

“It isn’t an artist’s rendition like most of the others. It’s an actual photo.”
      
      

“I can see that.”
      

“Mac, those are the magnolia trees in Magnolia and Geoff’s yard when they’re in full bloom!”

“Why would their trees be in a brochure for the Braxton’s condos?” Mac scoffed. He pulled the brochure over, took another look and shook his head.

“Look at the shape of the tree there on the left. It’s a profile of Nixon’s face! It was there when I left Madison Street, and I noticed it again as soon as I got back.” I traced the outline for him. “There, can you see it now? How many magnolia trees are shaped like Nixon?”

“If you squint and hold your head just right and use a lot of imagination, there might be some small resemblance to a face,” Mac said, clearly not convinced.

“You look when we get back home and you’ll see it. Those are Magnolia’s magnolias.”

***

I reminded him of this when we drove down Madison Street late that afternoon. He still couldn’t see anything unique about that tree in Magnolia and Geoff’s yard. They were beautiful trees, yes, but just trees, no Nixon profile lurking among them. He parked at Eric and Tasha’s place, and I grabbed his hand and determinedly led him back down the street for a better look. Magnolia came out to see what we were looking at. I pointed out the shape of the tree to her also, although I didn’t mention the photo in the Camelot Golden Age Condos brochure. Mac and Magnolia both studied the trees the same way they’d look at a package of beans. All exactly alike.

“The forehead is a little more rounded than it used to be, but it’s
there
,” I insisted.

Magnolia frowned. “Ivy, I don’t think this is a good thing, your seeing presidents and celebrity faces everywhere. Remember John Wayne?”

“I don’t see them everywhere,” I protested. And that blotch on a sidewalk in a little town in Arizona did bear a remarkable resemblance to John Wayne, even if Magnolia and two passers-
by couldn’t see it and one of them made that little twirly gesture at her head when they walked away. “Nixon’s profile is definitely in that tree.”

Mac squinted at the trees. “Well, if I close one eye and tilt my head just right, and stand on my left foot—”

“Maybe if you stood on your head,” Magnolia suggested with facetious helpfulness.

They were making fun of me, gently, of course, but I felt totally frustrated. “Oh, forget it,” was what I muttered, but what I was fuming was,
Why couldn’t they see it? Nixon’s nose was plain as that padding on my hips.

“Oh, before I forget it, someone was here looking at the motorhome while you were gone,” Magnolia said. “He took a lot of photos.”

“The police or arson investigator?”

“The car had an insurance company name on the side.”

Great! Maybe the motorhome insurance money would be coming soon. Although I still hadn’t heard anything from the house insurance people, and that one side of the house definitely needed an overhaul.

Mac and I walked in silence back toward the parked pickup. Finally Mac said, “I’m sorry I can’t see it.”

“It’s probably not important anyway.”

“But maybe it is. Maybe really important. Let’s do some supposing here. Some what-iffing.”

“About what?”

“A company called Radison Properties is trying to buy up everything on and around Madison Street. Right?”

“That isn’t what-iffing. They’re actually doing it.”

“But who is Radison Properties? Braxtons are using several names for their businesses. Braxton Enterprises and Braxton Construction and Braxton Furniture. Zollinger Computers for the computer store. Braxton Brothers down in Arkansas. Suppose they set up another business, with a totally different name—”

Before Mac could get wherever he was going with this, Magnolia yoo-hooed us back.

“Something else I forgot to tell you. Ed called earlier today. You remember Ed and Marie who used to live here? They were at the barbecue.”

“Yes, I talked to them. Why did he call?”

“He and Marie drove over to Illinois to that Radison Properties address in Springfield. Ed decided he wanted to talk to them in person about the deal on their house. And they found that it isn’t a real business address at all. It’s just one of those mail forwarding outfits like you and we use.”

No doubt some legitimate businesses use such services rather than maintaining an expensive office, but still. . .

“He said if anyone decides to sell to them, they’d better be really careful.” Magnolia segued into another subject without pause. “I’m going to tell Geoff we need to get these trees trimmed. They’re getting all out of shape.”

She didn’t mention it, but I had to wonder if perhaps she finally
had
seen Nixon’s profile in her tree. From this angle, no Nixon was visible, but if you looked really close at that tree in the middle—

Forget it, Ivy! No face, no ears. Nothing. It’s just a tree.

I thought Mac was going to head on back to the RV park, but instead, when we got to his pickup, he said, “I think we should consider this some more.”

“Consider what? My tendency to see things that aren’t there?”
The question was a little grumpy, but I was alarmed that for a minute I had seen Obama’s ears in that tree. Is it normal to see presidential body parts in the local flora?
Maybe not. But then, I sometimes think
normal
is highly over-rated.

“No. To do some more what-iffing,” Mac said.
      
      

“Okay.”

We went inside. I fixed lemonade, took a glass out to Eric working in his shop and heard his report about a great day at the flea market. With all the trees out there, the shady back yard was cooler than the house. Mac was studying the brochure for Camelot Golden Age Condos when I returned and sat down beside him on the sofa in the living room.