Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (23 page)

Chapter 17

I held the phone, stunned.  O’Reilly’s voice continued as he gave directions, plus two parking alternatives, because parking is always problem at the courthouse – something I never personally experienced, not being a hardened criminal with many appointments to keep with the judge. I was stalling. I listened to the message again, then realized I had to launch into action.

In any emergency, it’s normal to throw on whatever clothing is laying on top of the pile on the closet floor, and go, go, go! I knew that a second, or even a minute or two, spent getting dressed in real clothes
would garner long term benefits, if only for me. So I hurried into a grown-up outfit as fast as I could.  I managed to rip through two sets of pantyhose in the process, but I persisted.  I hoped that in the satitorial hierarchy of the incarcerated, pantyhose would elevate me above the regulars.

The sky grew darker instead of lighter, and seemed to press down on me as I drove up the freeway to the courthouse. Had they jailed Ben?  Had they tortured him and now he was a puddle of human flesh and broken dreams?  Should I stop watching selections from my James Bond DVD collection late at night?

I parked, per the instructions from O’Reilly, and hurried to the courthouse.

I was right. The combination of elegant snakeskin (fake but still substantially expensive) pumps, pantyhose, and a suit with the slenderizing lines that only money can buy, did the trick. I was ushered, with minimal security and delay, into a back room where Ben and Peter O’Reilly were seated.
             

“I thought you’d be in jail.”  I said.

“You got here pretty quickly.” O’Reilly, maybe I should call him Peter after this adventure, stood and shook my hand.

“Of course I did
.” I glanced over at Ben, who did not move.

“He’s a little shocked
.” Peter explained.             

“Why?”  I sat down next to Ben and stroked his arm. His eyes were red rimmed. He looked drawn, even haggard. It was as if he was re-living Beverley’s murder.

“They brought him in for questioning, yesterday.” Peter explained.  “A squad car picked him up from his home.”

“Oh no, your grandmother!”

“She’s in the public waiting room.” Peter explained. “I asked them to bring you around the back way.”

He took a breath, “Emily was understandably beside herself. She called the family lawyer
.” Peter winced, as well he should, it was akin to using a cannon to take out a fly. Ben had said his family was prone to over reaction.

“Is the Concron contingency here?”  I asked cautiously.

“They are on their way, as are Gloria and Ben Sr., Donald too.”

“Family
.” Ben raised his head and I realized, too late to discreetly turn away, that he was tearing up.

“But that’s good, they want to support you.”  I tried to sound positive.  

His face was twisted more in pain, than anything else.  Ah, he subscribed to the family involvement equals exponential pain, school of thought.

“Should I greet them?” I asked.

Ben nodded, “I can’t.”  He dropped his head into his hands.

I continued to rub his arm, the only physical comfort I could offer under the circumstances.

“What was the charge?”  I asked O’Reilly.

“When they hauled him off?  Pre-meditated murder.”

“Oh lovely.  And their evidence?” I asked as calmly as I could.  Patricia’s dour voice ringing in my ear: it’s always the husband.  Well, it hadn’t been Cyndi’s husband, Carrie doesn’t have an ex, so we have good odds the murderer wasn’t Beverley’s ex, either. I have no idea if that’s a legitimate argument or not.

I squeezed Ben’s arm, careful not to dig in with my long acrylic nails, and faced O’Reilly. The lawyer looked a bit more human, he had known Beverley too; this couldn’t be easy.

I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but Peter beat me to it.

“Are you sure the signature on your listing agreement, was Ben
’s?”  

“
There was a signature. And it was his name.” I said carefully. “But apparently Beverley signed documents with his name all the time.”

Peter let out a breath.
“Thank you. Yes, she did, so much so that Ben is in danger of having the bank reject his real signature.”  

“What are you going to do?”

“Get him out of here, and then talk to the DA about signatures, forgery, and motive. You were with him last Saturday night?”

“The night poor Cyndi was killed?  Yes, he was at my brother’s party, then with me.”

“Ah, I see.”  I didn’t appreciate the way he said that, but I couldn’t snap at him, I couldn’t do anything mean, he was helping Ben. And even while I appreciated the irony, I was also relieved. O’Reilly scribbled something on a, yes, legal yellow note pad.

We heard a rather large commotion from the front lobby.

“Mom.” Ben said from between his fingers.  I patted his tense shoulder and walked out to the public waiting room. If I couldn’t face them now, I would never be able to face them.

“Allison, you’re the one!”  Emily, dressed in black yoga pants and a colorful sweatshirt, glared at me with hatred. 

I composed myself as best I could and avoided Emily’s eyes.

“I’m Ben’s girlfriend, Allison.” I extended my hand to the closest person, who must have been Ben Weiss Senior, from whom Ben
had more than a passing resemblance. I wondered why I didn’t notice that when I saw the Senior Ben at the Lost Art Museum. Ah, because here was Gloria.

“I understand you told the police Ben was at the scene of the crime.”  Gloria did not shake my hand, she crossed her arms and glared at me. Well, at least she was still protective of her son, I actually held that in her favor, same for Emily.

“Mother.” Ben’s brother, with far less hair and a bulkier body than his brother, gently moved his mother aside and did take my hand.

“I’m Ben’s brother, Donald Weiss. Our lawyers will be here in a minute, is there anything you can tell us?”

The family Stone-Weiss all stared accusingly at me. I was doubly glad I wore pantyhose and decent shoes. Facing this group in sweat pants and Tasmanian Devil slippers would not have held at all. Those were the easy choice items on top of my pile in the closet.

“Beverley forged Ben’s signature
.” I said. “Apparently for years. Ben’s personal attorney, Peter Klausen O’Reilly, the Third, is talking to the police at this very minute. I am not really involved.”  Except to protect Ben from his loving family.

“Then why blame Ben?” Emily demanded.

“I suppose there isn’t much else to go on.” I admitted. “But he has alibis for the other  murders.”

“
They think he murdered other people?!”  Gloria shrieked. Wow, she does make my mother look pretty good.  I debated on whether or not to tell my mother that, then decided not to, didn’t want mom to get a swelled head.

“No, they have to cover all the bases
.” I repeated.  I held myself tightly. I would have liked to scream myself. But I didn’t. I braced myself for more questions. Donald was holding Emily and whispering something to her.  Gloria was standing rigidly in the center of the room, her slender body almost vibrated with pent up tension. Ben, Senior stood a foot away from his wife, as if her aura prevented him from moving any closer.

At that moment, when I was about to come up with something really inane, like – everything is going to be fine - Ben, with Peter holding him by the arm, appeared.

A riot ensued.  When all the kissing, exclamations, admonishments and dirty looks in my direction, were over, Ben was whisked off for breakfast and I was left standing alone in the lobby of the county court house.

“Buy you a cup of coffee?”  Peter watched the group exit. Ben didn’t even look back at me.

I shook my head, and absently fluffed my hair.

“Don’t take it personally
.” Peter said.  “His family is a big, bad juggernaut, when they swoop in, it’s all over for the outsiders.” He made quotation marks with his fingers.

“
You’ve known him for a long time.” 

“We
attended the same high school.  He spent as much time away from home as possible, he usually ended up at my house.”

“
I thought you two weren’t friends.”

“
We aren’t, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t help each other out, now and then.”

“
I will never understand men.”

“Don’t bother,” he glanced at me. “Don’t worry, he won’t give you up for them.  He’s always made his own way, that’s why they’re all here. He hasn’t needed them since the divorce, so this is an opportunity to smother him.”  Peter paused.  “And be right. They love being right.”

“Great.” I said gloomily.  I was not having luck with this family at all.  Carrie was doing better with the clannishly private Sullivan family.

I took a breath and tried to subtly readjust the waistband of my pantyhose.

“Yes, you can buy me coffee.”

Filled with caffeine, but not any more of Ben’s past, as Peter was as cautious as Ben when it came to childhood memories, I finally arrived at my office. Patricia greeted me with the news that Beverley’s ex-husband had been held over night for questioning then released.

“Thank you.” I said, shortly.  I stood in the lobby, there was something I needed to do, what was it?

“
Where is everyone?”  I tentatively glanced around the corner at Rosemary’s office, but it was deserted.

“
Gone, working, dieting, whatever.” Patricia said dismissively.  “They haven’t caught the murderer yet.”

They may never catch the murderer, he could be sipping pina coladas on a resort beach at this very minute, safely ensconced on an obscure, and difficult to find tropical island.

“There’s a blog about how the police are puzzled about that last murder.”  Patricia said. 

“Cyndi
?” I looked up at the clock, it was almost eleven, what was it that I was suppose to be doing?

“Yes
.” Patricia agreed. “With the odd spelling, anyway there wasn’t enough blood at the scene.”

I had to stop and fight down the coffee I had consumed with Peter Klausen O’Reilley the Third. Coffee, was I having coffee with someone?

Patricia did not notice how distracted I was.  “They think she was brought to the site after she was killed.” Patricia continued.

“Why does that information help?”  I asked.

“Well, where was she killed then?”  Patricia said sensibly.  “Maybe in the creek, like the others.”

“She disappeared after she attacked Carrie
.” I said, the idea forming in my still addled brain. Where would Cyndi go?  Crap!  Bo Freeman, the offer on Ben’s house!

I engaged Patricia in an actual work. We scrambled to download the contracts, and disclosures. I raced out of the office, the purchase agreement still warm from the laser printer.

Chapter 18

I bought only a tall sized, decaf latte, and sat down to sort through the paperwork for the Silverpoint offer. I tried to take a breath, and practiced smiling in order to arrange my face into an appropriate expression. I glanced at my watch, five after. Thank goodness Mr. Freeman was running behind. I was too relieved to worry that he may stand me up. But more important that standing me up, was Freeman the killer? He seemed to come out of nowhere, and wanted the house, with very little protesting or questions. Fine with me, cash trumps concerns over a psycho killer on the loose.

Mr. Freedman strode in at ten after the hour. He had given me exactly enough time to compose myself, and use the restroom.

“Thank you for doing this.  I usually don’t get this kind of attention.”  Mr. Freeman slid into his chair and waved away my offer to buy him a high caloric, but oh so delicious, Starbuck’s special peppermint, mocha drink.

“Really?”  I said, trying to look disbelieving.  I mean, the man looked more homeless than the professor, or even Cyndi. Poor Cyndi.

“Yeah. Well, here is my check, and my letter from my banker that says the check is real. You know the drill.”  He handed me the check, and leaned back in his chair.

I certainly did.  What surprised me was that he knew the drill.  I took the check, the note, and filled in the rest of the offer. 

While I worked, he tapped his fingers on the table top, and jiggled his foot clad in those ugly, but apparently comfortable, rubber clogs. They were the kind of shoes my grandmother Prue would wear, I wore my third best boots, years old, but the spike heel was still serviceable.

Bo signed the purchase agreement, here, here, and here and we were in business.  I promised to get back to him soon. Christmas eve loomed, and Ben had only technically three days to counter, or accept the offer, but exceptions would be made for Christmas. In my world they are made all the time.
             

“Can you get an answer by Christmas?” He asked suddenly.

“By Christmas?”  I repeated. “Well, I don’t … ”

“It’s a gift for my sister
.” He explained hastily. “I want to present it to her on Christmas Day.”

My coffee went down the wrong way. I coughed and coughed. He waited patiently but did not offer to bang me on the back, for which I was grateful, cash or no, he was still pretty odd.

“She supported me when I was starting out.  I thought I’d return the favor
.” He explained as if it was the most sensible of ideas.

The very thought of one of my siblings making such an outrageous gesture was, well, unthinkable.

“You are sure she won’t mind the stories of the murder? People around her will remember, they will ask questions, want details.” I warned him. I shouldn’t warn him, I had the signed offer, but I did anyway.

“She’s not that sensitive, and she’s always wanted to live in the Villas. The address is important to her. And if it’s important to her, than that’s what she’ll have.”   

He not only had enough cash to buy a house, he was giving it away, as a gift. Perhaps he didn’t just emerge from a Unabomber shack after all.

“Why was she so supportive?”  I finally asked.  I didn’t feel all that compelled to make a new friend, he still frightened me, but I was curious.  

“I’m an artist.  Here.” He fished out a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me, “here is a sketch of what I’m working on, see?”

I regarded the sketch, and then looked at him again.  “Will you sign it?”

He nodded. We had a deal.

I did not even stop at the office. I hightailed to Ben’s place in Dry Creek, and laid in wait until he came home. I was a little nervous about walking in unannounced and greeting the angry and upset Emily, on my own.  I was sure I was persona non grata as far as she was concerned. So I parked outside the main gate
s, and when his truck appeared, I followed him into the driveway.

“Hi
.” I greeted him with a kiss.

“Hi. You could have come inside, I think Grandma is home.”

“No, I was okay, I, uh , had some calls to make.” I hedged.

He glanced up at the imposing façade of the house.  “Yes, well, they aren’t that mad at you. The police have dropped charges, thanks to O’Reilly.”

“Does that mean you’re even?”

“For what?’

“For what he did to that friend of yours, Cassandra.” I took a stab at it and from his expression, I was right.

“
Oh, that, no, we are not even, but he came pretty damn close today.”  Ben paused, had his family finally won?  Did he want to throw his lot in with them, live with Emily all his life?

He pulled me into his arms and hugged me so hard, and for so long, I was having trouble taking a breath.  I could feel his heart, banging up against my breasts double time. He had not recovered from this morning, not by a long shot.

“What did you do for the rest of the day?”  My voice was muffled against his chest.

“Hammered things. Then I used a sledge hammer to break up some cement, then I bent up some aluminum siding for recycling.”

“With your bare hands.” I guessed.

“That’s right
.” He released his grip a little. “Don’t ever get hurt. Don’t ever go away.” He whispered.

That was enough for me.

“Okay, well,” he recovered slightly.  “Come inside.” 

I followed him around the house into the entrance that led directly to his own part of the house. I hadn’t noticed before, but he did not have a Christmas tree, or even  bowl of oranges on his small coffee table. No signs that we were smack in the middle of the most wonderful time of the year.

“You don’t decorate for Christmas.”

“No
.” He said absently. “I wrestle out the tree for Emily and she decorates enough for the both of us.”  He pulled off his sweatshirt splattered with sawdust and caulking smears and headed to the washer and dyer, adjacent to the bathroom.

“I have an offer
.” I called after him. “And you should take it.”

“Already?”  He ran his fingers through his hair and shook himself like a dog
, scattering bits of detritus from his body.  He always threw himself into his work.  It was an appealing thing about him.

“I told you I was good.”

“Yes, you are.  What’s the offer?”

“Full cash
, full price. And he’s buying it for his sister – as a Christmas gift!  Here’s a pen.” I said wearily.  “This is a God send.”

“Or a gift from Santa.
”  He said, glancing at the contract.  “Where do I accept?”

“Why can’t all my clients be like you?”

“Because, I am the only client you’re sleeping with.”

“
True.” I conceded. 

I called Bo Freeman right away.  Instead of being a murderer, he was actually an artist.

Bo answered the phone on the first ring.

“Merry Christmas.” I said. 

I turned my phone to vibrate. All the important business had either been taken care of or was in front of me.  We ordered pizza as a late lunch/ early dinner. Ben did not suggest we convene in the main rooms of the house, we kept to his cozy apartment.

“I met Beverley at a holiday party, I’m pretty sure it was a service oriented one.”  He considered it for a moment.  “Boys and Girls Club?  I think that may have been it.  The place was filled with elderly men who insisted on calling it the Boy’s Club and Beverley spent the evening correcting them – it’s the Boys and GIRLS club -  she’d point out. All night.”

He smiled. Ah, here it was – there had been attraction, there had been something, a spark, some chemistry.  It was actually better
than thinking the poor man had been simply duped.

“So, it was love at first sight?” I asked, and took a third piece of pizza.

“No, that was with you. This was more love after three or four or five dates, but she was flattering, and I was complimented. You remember what O’Reilly said, she made you feel needed, important. She needed your big, manly, protection.  You know how it is.”

I blushed, I could feel my face turning as red as my jacket. I had encountered a lovely man a few months ago. He paid attention to me, took me to dinner, lavished me with compliments, and in the end, betrayed me. And that was only the most recent example.

A long, long, time ago, I had actually made it all the way to the altar before my last serious relationship blew up, very publicly, in my face. Ben and I had both lost our hearts.  Maybe we could help each other find them again.  

I snuck out of Ben’s house first thing in the morning. I still didn’t want to run into Emily in general, and I did not wish to encounter her first thing in the morning in particular. I wanted to at least spare her that.

I checked my phone. No messages. I switched it back from vibrate to ring.

If Beverley was escaping the county to meet someone, and I assumed it was a man, why hadn’t he contacted her? Wasn’t he concerned that she hadn’t shown up to the rendezvous? They must have agreed on a rendezvous point, yes?

Or, had Beverl
ey’s phone buzzed and buzzed, but no one heard it?  Many people who attend endless meetings keep their phones on perpetual vibrate.  Where had I left her purse?

Katherine called me as I snaked my way south through the worst of the morning traffic.

“I’m quitting. I can’t diet at this pace. And those grass drinks really upset my stomach!” 

“You drank wheat grass?
” I asked.

“Rosemary suggested it.”

“She also recommended the personal trainer, and you almost killed him.”

“It would have been in self defense
.” Katherine protested. “But at least I wouldn’t have cut him up into little bits.”

“Don’t
.” I protested.

“Sorry, don’t tell Rosemary, I’m going to let her compete until St. Patrick’s Day.”

“That’s noble of you.”

I felt the universe was back in balance.

The stop and start south bound traffic gave me time to think. Beverley must have had a phone. Everyone has a phone. And it followed that Beverley had the latest phone, the thinnest phone, the cutest phone, the kind of phone you can’t find in your purse until the last buzz buzzes, and the caller goes to voice mail and complains that you are never there to answer your phone. That kind of phone.  

I detoured to the Silverpoint property.

I keep lock boxes on my listings until escrow closes, so it was easy to get back into the house.  I shivered, the grey days had cooled the house too much. I flipped on the heat to take off the chill.

The
cell phone was indeed well hidden. It was tucked into a padded phone pocket on the outside of the Chanel bag. It was very easy to miss. I had missed it the first time, but I wasn’t looking for a phone the first time I went through her purse. Even now, I couldn’t even feel it when I squished the bag.

I flipped it open
, it was dead. I returned to those stuffed kitchen drawers and after a few moments, found the charger and plugged in the phone.  After only a few impatient minutes I was able to scroll through the missed calls. Yes, here was the list, seventeen missed calls before the phone had gone dead. All the same number.

I pressed the most recent missed call, but did not get a helpful ID, yet the call dialed through anyway.

“Hello, hello!” A male voice.  “Beverley?” ah, he had caller ID on his side.  

“You are late!
” he continued without bothering to confirm that the caller was, in fact, Beverley. Was that arrogance or idiocy?

“
What happened?” He continued. “Where are you? Your stuff arrived by the way, where am I suppose to put all this?”

I still didn’t recognize the voice, but I had my suspicions. “Yes, she is late, Mr. Bixby.”  

Silence.

Got him.

“Who is this?” At least he didn’t hang up.

“Her Realtor, yours too.” I
had represented the buyers for Mr. Bixby’s house, and the sale went through despite some last minute problems - like finding Mrs. Bixby floating face down in the hot tub.  

He dismissed my last comment.  “Where is Beverley? She was supposed to sell the house, and join me, uh, here, by Christmas eve.”

“How romantic. And you haven’t heard from her since Thanksgiving, weren’t you worried, say, three weeks ago?”

“We agreed not to communicate until end of December.” He explained innocently. His easy admissions were astonishing.   I could be an under cover agent, I could be FBI, I could be …  someone who could actually do something about all this.

But I was not. I did, however, have a question.

“Did you kill your wife?”  I had actually met his wife, Debbie Bixby – another Debbie, go figure – this one hadn’t fared well at all. I count myself lucky that Debbie’s was one of the few bodies I hadn’t personally discovered. 

“I didn’t kill her
. She passed out in the hot tub.  And I may have accidentally closed the lid, not realizing she was still in there.”  He was even unconvincing over the phone.