Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (4 page)

“And where is Beverley?” He asked calmly. I interpreted his voice change as moving from bewildered to preternaturally calm. He did not waver, there was no rise in inflection, no indication of future hysteria and melt down. Besides, he was safely on the phone. I was in the same house with another dead body. This time he was going to share the experience.

“Oh
.” I said purposefully vague. “Lying around.”

“Allison
.” His tone changed from calm to commanding.

“She’s the dead body
.” I admitted quickly.

“Dear, God
. I’m coming down. Don’t touch anything.”

“Trust me.”

Chapter 3

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is the busiest day of the year for airports and grocery stores, but one of the quietest days of the year for real estate. Unlike most of the agents in our office, I did not need to shop for dinner or travel to the far reaches of the country to reunite with relatives. All my relatives were local.

I was lurking in the office, trying to look busy, for the benefit of our office manager Patricia and the broker on record, Inez. That is why, when Beverley Weiss marched into our office and demanded the best realtor in the company, there were only two people in the front to appreciate her performance.

Barely an hour earlier, the formidable Ms. Weiss could have had her pick of two of our equally formidable Top Producing Realtors, Rosemary and Katherine. They, too, had no need to travel or shop, but they were both in foul moods, a down market will do that to a person. They had taken to competing in events that did not have anything to do with real estate. Each woman was cranky and ready to rumble. 

Today’s challenge was the Diet, a feminine favorite. But they were not competing against their own personal best, no. They were dieting against each other
, as if it were a contact sport.

I lurked by the copy machine to ease drop.  

“So,” Rosemary boomed. “Do we have a bet?”

Katherine eyed her professional adversary doubtfully. 

It was one thing, I thought, to be in competition professionally, but quite another to make it personal, as in the case of fitness or diet. I believe a girl should choose to be fit or thin, but not both. The lack of nutrition in the typically female “diet plan” would leave me so weak I wouldn’t be able to find the strength to leave the house, let alone indulge in something as odious as jogging, running, discus throwing or caber toss. Fortunately, in the name of keeping our neighborhoods beautiful, jogging was not part of the Katherine/Rosemary bet. Both women are substantial. Katherine is even larger than me so jogging wouldn’t be a good idea at all.

“Yes
.” Katherine agreed. She clearly had the advantage over Rosemary. Katherine had less weight to lose, and the weight she did bear was the result of temporary overindulgence overseas. Her latest trip to the Dalmatian Coast had left her relaxed and filled with grilled squid and Croatian beer. 

On the other hand, Rosemary was the queen of herbal remedies, magnets and magical thinking.  She was not above burying a statue of St. Joseph upside down in the back yard of a house that was not selling quickly. Go to any Christian bookstore, there’s a whole kit
.

“Do you think Rosemary has something up her sleeve?”  I mused as the two women marched out to conquer their own physiques in the absence of house listings and buyers. Real estate
sales and escrows slow down to a crawl during November and December. A person may as well find another project, or a new way to compete. I was relieved they didn’t ask me to play.

“Not since she gave up wearing Kimonos to work
.” Patricia, our office manager, pointed out.

Rosemary loved Japan. Her husband had recently finished building a set of Torii gates in their back yard. The fact that her house is Craftsman and Adobe Mission style is  immaterial
. The gates were painted an authentic, and bright, orange.

I overheard part of their bet, as well as the contest rules that included engaging a personal trainer. They were not hiring the same personal trainer; that would be a conflict of interest. They had their own. And since that was more important than hanging around an empty office, I had to face the infamous Beverley Weiss alone.

I knew Beverley Weiss only by reputation. For years, Beverley was Sonoma County’s “it” girl for photos and events. Beverley had the knack and the timing to appear at every important event and in every photo of that event. She was always in the paper, from polo matches to wine auctions. That is, until Carrie became the “it” girl of the dairy world and usurped Ms. Weiss from the society pages. (I am not allowed to call Carrie the Dairy Queen; she’s surprisingly sensitive about that.)  Beverley even received the
Woman of the Year
award from the Girl Scout Council for her work with the homeless and jolly good for her.

Now, I’ve only read about the fabulous Beverl
ey Weiss, and seen her many photos in our local paper. More important, I’ve heard stories about Beverley from Carrie. Carrie is not a fan of Ms. Weiss.  Remember, Carrie used to rescue feral cats out of the goodness of her heart, no photo ops needed. So, I knew there was more to Beverley that met the eye. Rivers Bend Press reporters, Chris Connor among them, may think Beverley walks on water but I doubted very much that was how the woman cleaned her pool.

I was not pre-disposed to love Ms. Weiss, if only to be loyal to my best friend.

Beverley was tall and very thin which is not necessarily the best look for a woman staring down fifty. This afternoon, she was dressed in a leopard print dress and matching shoes. She had the whole stalking feline thing going for her, but the overall effect was brittle, not sexy.  Her collarbone pushed sharply against the thin fabric of her Furstenberg knock off. A man could get a nasty bruise from her bony hip.

Patricia
, our office manager/receptionist smirked and gestured in my direction.  I hesitated. I was not on Floor (meaning that if a potential client walked into the office, the possible client/sale would not “belong” to me, the client would “belong” to the agent who was working floor) someone else could take this, really.

“Hi
.” I greeted her reluctantly. “I’m Allison Little.”

“I’ve seen your ads
in the paper.” She nodded at me but did not take my hand.  “Good.  Meet me at my house tomorrow at 10:00. I want to sell it.”  She flipped back her dark hair to emphasis the finality of her demand.

“That’s Thanksgiving morning
.” Patricia pointed out.

Beverley paused for a second or two, as if calculating what Thanksgiving exactly was, then she dismissed the holiday out of hand.

“How about Friday?” I offered.  “I’ll be in town.”  I glanced down pointedly at her footwear.  “Love the shoes. Blahnik?”

“Yes
.” She eyed me with some suspicion.

“I remember them from last years’ collection.” I was completely pleasant.  “So Friday then?”

“Friday then.”  If anything she bristled more, as well she should.

She handed me a card
, Consultant Services for a Better World
, with a home address in the Villas. Lovely.

She stalked out of the office.

“Nice hit on the shoes.” Patricia said, happily.

“Wait until the Christmas party
.” I warned. “I picked your name for the gift exchange.”

Patricia’s face fell. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh, yes, you will.” I retrieved my laptop kept myself busy preparing a market analysis for the Villas. 

We have two neighborhoods in Rivers Bend that are distinct and known by name alone. Live in either one, and simply hearing your street addr
ess will give an acquaintance a rather accurate summary of your income, taste, and aspirations. I do not live in either area. My neighborhood does not infer any residential reputation, good or bad, which is the way I like it.

The first and most expensive neighborhood in Rivers Bend is the Villas. It was named a long time ago when there were only a dozen or so homes ground into the foothills overlooking the eastern part of the town. The Villas have since been partitioned off and sold into tiny, tiny lots with great big steroid-smacking houses that push painfully into the few trees that survived the building process in the 80s.

The Villas now comprise of multiple rows of expansive streets and deep cul-de-sacs stacked with homes. Despite the prices starting at one million, the houses all look the same. This is actually part of their appeal.  Really.

Nothing says success like a home in the Villas. One of my good friends, Joan, a college professor who should know better, used to have a lot to say about the Villas, until she and her new boyfriend, Norton, bought a condo at the foot of the Villas. Their condo has all of the address without the extra cost. They are inordinately pleased with themselves. Although I appreciated the commission, I wasn’t all that excited by their choice.

I sighed heavily. I did not want this listing with Beverley Weiss in the Villas. But times were not great, and only an idiot turns down a listing opportunity. I was not an idiot. But working with Beverley Weiss? I didn’t know if that would enhance what was left of my reputation or irrevocably trash it.  

I arrived at Beverley’s on Friday morning (five minutes early).  Beverley was snapping with energy. Her footwear was clearly from this fall’s collection, a bright cobalt blue spike heeled pump that matched her formal cobalt boiled wool suit. The suit was by Chanel, and it was not a knock off.

I wore something by DKNY. I don’t remember what.  I usually dress conservatively, so as not to distract or frighten the prospective clients. My news about the list price (much lower than they imagined) of their house is usually shocking enough without overwhelming them by wearing a crimson suit by Versace, at least in this current market. 

“I must sell this right away
.” Beverley allowed me to come in and waved to the two-story high living room stuffed with faux antiques and Chinese inspired furniture found at Cost Plus.

The lilac walls clashed with the dark rosewood of the chairs in the dining room as well as the yellow, uncomfortable appearing couch.  No less than five small rugs were scattered on the cushioned wall-to-wall carpet. Magazines and papers slipped and sloshed over the crowd of tables. Plates and glasses covered the dining table.  I pushed aside three china plates, all in different patterns, to make room for my briefcase (Coach). 

“The average time on the market is ninety days.” I pointed out, armed with statistics, real time quotes and a market analysis. I opened my laptop and started up the PowerPoint. My elbow hit a cut glass wine goblet. I grabbed it and moved it carefully out of harm’s way.

I glanced up from the computer. There was so much stuff. The place was crammed with crap, and I mean that in a descriptive, non-judgmental way. Crap.  Yet, her house would do well on the market listed in the 1.5 range. 

“I don’t have ninety days.”  She glanced at the computer screen but didn’t focus on it for long.  She paced, her shoes muffled by the carpet (white).

“On average
.” I corrected her.

“Can’t we sell this tomorrow?”  She marched back and forth; her pointed heels dug tiny half circles into her thick rugs.

“We will need to list it lower than everything else in the neighborhood.” I said.

“Do that,” she instructed.  “Whatever it takes for a quick sale.”

I frowned. I had pulled more than the market comps. I pulled her mortgage and tax information as well.  “You’re highly leveraged, you may not get enough to make any profit.”

Beverley had three loans on the property.  So far, the equity had risen enough to keep pace with her withdrawals, barely.

“I also noticed on the tax records that your spouse, listed here as
husband
is still on title,” I added.

“Oh, that
.” She waved her hand elegantly, a practiced gesture to ward off peasants, flies and unpleasant facts.  Her nails were long and acrylic, polished with the popular French manicure style, a sparkling pink and white not found in nature, but seen in women’s gyms across the country. I had the same manicure, but I’m not found in any gym.

“Don’t worry. He’ll sign.
We’re divorced of course but he’ll sign whatever I want. Leave it,” she gestured to the file I set next to the computer, “and I’ll have his signature for you.”

“He doesn’t have a problem with you selling the house?”  I have to ask these things, really. If I don’t, when the argument comes out later, it’s always messy, depressing and by then, I’m out hard cash on marketing, advertising and signs.

“Oh, no, he only wants me to be happy, the dear.” She assured me.

I imagined a soft man, who was originally corralled into the relationship because of her charm, personality, or a pregnancy scare.  He did have the nerve to divorce her, which shows he had some balls. I was proud of our Mr. Weiss, whoever he was.

“Can you start the ball rolling, while I get the other signature?”  She smiled at me, it was meant to influence people and charm donors, but I was immune, probably because I understand the game.

“You are aware, of course, that November isn’t the best time to sell?   The holidays are not a traditional home selling season.” 

“Can you sell it anyway?”

“Of course,” I said, without thinking. Sorry, spontaneous reaction. I can close escrow on homes with dead people still on the premise. I am that good.  Fortunately, I didn’t bring up that bragging right.

“Good, when can we have the open house?” Despite her restless movements, she managed to avoid knocking into any of the antique furniture, tripping on the throw rugs, or slipping on an errant magazine.

“You may want to paint first
.” I pointed out. “Pastel colors can really turn off potential buyers, especially the men.”