Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (7 page)

Katherine limped into the office and waved at Patricia before the office manager could even open her mouth.

“I am exhausted. That woman is the devil incarnate. How does she keep clients if she is so demanding?”  Katherine dragged her briefcase as if it held two computers and seventeen escrow envelopes, not her single  sleek, red laptop.

“
How did your session with your personal trainer go?”  Rosemary popped out of her office and smirked at Katherine.

Katherine glared at her.  “You said it was super slow.”

“That sounds benign.” I offered.

“
It may have been slow, but after minute three, I thought I was going to die! My legs hurt so bad, I could barely get out of the Beemer.”

Rosemary grinned, “It’s good for you.”

“Maybe not.” Patricia piped up. “Josh said that slow is good for you and all, and it builds long term muscle mass, but I read in
O Magazine
that you need to work out really fast for quick weight loss.”

“
Bursts of energy.” Rosemary nodded wisely. “It’s supposed to be good for your heart rate.”

“
You’re suppose to mix up your routine, but your core program is extremely important,” Patricia countered.

Katherine paused and considered her briefcase.  “I’m going to slowly lie down.”

“No one said it would be easy,” Rosemary said. Her tone was a bit too sanctimonious, even for her.

Katherine rolled her eyes and limped back out the front door.

“I knew she couldn’t do it.” Rosemary crowed.

“Isn’t Joanna a client of yours?”   Patricia asked.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Oh, nothing.” Patricia turned her attention back to her computer screen. The daily postings from the news (she prefers the awful and grotesque) kept her riveted.

“Did you hear about the winery worker who died while he was cleaning the bottom of one of those huge, stainless steel tanks?”  She leaned closer to her monitor. “Damn, there’s no picture.”

If I had more time and energy, I’d be really worried about Patricia.

Chapter 5

That afternoon, I let Ben back into the house. He stopped in the living room and took it all in.

“
I’m going to take care of this mess today.” I quickly reassured him.  Either he wasn’t worried about the mess, or he was so accustom to the state of the house, he no longer saw it. 

“She painted
.” Was all he said.

“I insisted.”

He nodded, “Good for you.  She painted the walls in this dark burgundy when we first decorated the house.”

The idea of them decorating a house together gave me a sudden pang. How did she get to be so lucky? Who was she?

“She toned it down to lilac by the time I came on the scene.” I said. 

“She
thought of herself as very artistic.”  He glanced up at the bedroom, then at me.

I nodded.  I
had already hired cleaning professionals of the more haz-mat variety. They had wrought a miracle with the walls and ceiling. The carpet was replaced by Wednesday afternoon. Everything else, the spread, mattress and all the clothing and shoes Beverley had left scattered around the bedroom floor, had to be thrown away.

I had no idea why Ben was drawn to that room, but that’s where he headed, up the stairs.

I trailed behind him on the carpeted steps. The one thing that kept me from falling head over heels for this man was that I was certain I’d end up the major breadwinner. He had a handyman business, Rock Solid Service, and he was good at what he did. But my income was higher. My grandmother says I’m crazy.  Now my assumptions had been proved wrong. Now what do I do?

“I take it you have plenty of money
.” I addressed his back which was easier than looking him in the eye. This was clearly not a subject of which he was terribly fond, otherwise he’d flaunt it like every other rich guy I came across, or God help me, dated.

He slowed on the stairs, but he didn’t turn around to face me.

“Does it matter?”  

“
Only that I may not need to support you.” I replied to his stiff back.

He nodded and continued to walk to, yes, the master bedroom. I followed him.  He turned slowly around the bedroom taking in the bare walls and the new bed spread and pillows. (We couldn’t get everything out.)

“Where did you put the art?” He asked.

“What art?” I replied.

“You didn’t see any art when you viewed the house?”

“Not the first time
.” I said.  “I have the photos. They’re on the web if you want to confirm.”  I had replaced the photos of the downstairs, but kept the photo of the unsullied master bedroom.  And there was no art on the walls. Not now and not then.  

“No, no
.” His voice was quiet, hurt.  “She must have sold the art. Why did she sell the art?” He said it more to himself than to me.

“How much art?” I asked.

He frowned at the walls, as if they had eaten up his investments. “We, she, had a pretty good collection. We bought much of it together.”

“Better to buy jewelry
.” I said. “Take it with you.”     

I wasn’t good at art. The two of us met over art and the controversy it produced. Who knew art was controversial?  I’m of the school where art should be pleasant and match the living room furniture.  I’m not on very sure footing when it came to a discussion about post-modern, modern or pre-post-modern painting. 

Now, jewelry I understand. Carrie told me about the Romanoffs. She learned about them at one of her JC lectures. That family took all their jewelry and hid it in their clothes before their escape. Precious stones are easy to transport. All that jewelry did the royal family no good in the end. I’m merely pointing out that a few rings are easier to pack than a 5 foot by 10 foot canvas.

“She had jewelry, too,” 

I stepped to the free-standing jewelry box, something Beverley probably bought through the Horchow Collection.  The box was packed with baubles, all in a jumble, the same as the living room, the same as her bedroom. Most of her stuff was faux, but good faux, faux that still ran into the thousands for each piece.

Ben glanced into the box
. “She certainly believed in being good to herself.”

“Or her boyfriends did
.” I said automatically.

Ben winced
. “I suppose she would get gifts from them.”

I resisted picking up a piece or two.

“Do you know any of her girlfriends?” I asked.

“
I didn’t see anyone at the funeral who could have been a girlfriend, who had that girlfriend look. Of course, they wouldn’t seek me out, would they?”

“Maybe she earned it
.” I defended her jewelry, if only to protect the age-old contract women have with men. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

“Maybe
.” Ben stared at the empty walls. “All gone, as if they didn’t matter.”

“Did she have any siblings?”  I walked across the room to the closet. Had the cleaning team worked this area over, so I wouldn’t be surprised?  I held my breath and opened the door.

The closet was one of those walk-in styles. It was the size of Carrie’s apartment. And packed with clothes, so many clothes the poles sagged and more clothes were lumped up under the racks. Three pyramids of shoes were piled in the middle of the floor.  

“Beverley was an only child.”

I heard him, but I was too distracted by the abundance before me.  

“
What about her parents? Would they want this?”  I asked.

“
They want nothing.” Ben confirmed,  “I’ll give them that much. They are farmers; I think artichokes. They were angry that Beverley made such a big deal out of my trust fund and about how she needed alimony. They weren’t too supportive of her decisions.”

I picked my way through the tossed garments and separated one dress from the next and wiggled it out. It was a Gucci: silk, wild pattern, the real thing.  I pulled out another designer dress, then another.  All were in size eight, sometimes six. I looked more closely; some dresses still had the store tags. We could return them. But that would be a little bizarre. Donate them to the Hospice store?  To the homeless? Look stylish as you beg for money?  No.

I kicked over a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes. These were black pumps with sharp, weapon-like heels, and brand-new. The bright red soles, the Louboutin signature, were unmarked.

I held a shoe up to the light. Oh, to buy something this beautiful and not even wear it once. What a shame.

Ben moved restlessly outside the door.  I reluctantly dropped the exquisite shoes. The closet was a riot of color: red, leopard, stripes, black, aubergine. The outfits wedged into the closet were all perfect for this season. I pulled out a severe St. John suit, very chairwoman of the board.  I found a sheared, mink jacket, dyed bright blue. It was politically incorrect, but it was lush to the touch.  I ran my hand over the fabrics, elegant party dresses, some beaded, some smooth and diaphanous; all were perfect for Christmas.

I carefully backed away from all the temptation. It was a good thing I wasn
’t Beverley’s size, or I’d be all over the holiday action on those racks.

“
Had enough?”  Ben asked.

“
She must use another closet.” I said.

“
For what? That one is stuffed.”

I gave him a withering look but declined to comment.  I marched to the guest room – this was clearly used as a catch all. I recognized some of the tables from the living room. Random furniture and more clothes were piled around a double bed, decorated with a spread she bought in Target. I slid open the flat doors to the closet.

The space was empty, not a sandal, not a pair of white pants, not a single linen suit in sight. It was completely empty.

“
She was going somewhere. And she was going somewhere warm.” I announced.

“
What?”  Ben had followed me.

“
See? No summer clothes.”

“Maybe she packed them away. It is winter
.” He pointed out. In  his world, that argument was completely rational. However, when it comes to our wardrobes, women are not always rational.  Could the closet be the window to a woman’s soul? 

“God, look at all this crap.”  He looked around as if finally remembering his life here.

“We never did decorate this room. It was a guest room, but we had no guests.”

“
No friends? A gorgeous, gregarious guy like you?”

“
Not so gregarious.” He shook his head.  “I had a lot of friends in college, but once I married Beverley … .” he trailed off.  He pushed some magazines off the edge of the bed and sat down rubbing his face.

He changed his name and sequestered himself with his grandmother. That’s a long time to nurse pain. It was like the scene in
Lilo and Stitch,
when Stitch realizes he doesn’t have a family, when he reads the story of the ugly duckling.

I almost cried as I remembered that scene
; it always makes me cry.

Ben gathered himself. “You’re right. She kept her off season clothes in this room.”

“And your clothes?”  I prompted.

“
The other room. I kept them in the room I used for a study.”

“Of course
.” The woman couldn’t even share her closet. My, my. I was looking better every minute.  Thank you, Beverley.

Ben rubbed his shaven chin absently, as if stroking a phantom beard. He could be; we haven’t been together that long. I wondered how he’d look with a beard.

“Beverley never operated alone; it wasn’t in her nature. She always had someone with her. She loved, needed, to have people around. She loved being loved.”

“
You loved her?”

“
Yes.” He rose and moved restlessly back to the master bedroom. I followed him, there was nothing more to see in the guest room.

He ran his hand over the surface of the dresser. 
“Yes, I did. But I couldn’t now tell you why or even how. She needed me. I knew that, I enjoyed it.”

She had cleared off the surface of the two chests of drawers, per my request. In fact, it was one of the few cleaning jobs she accomplished.
The two bureaus had been packed with silver framed photographs and personal photos, all of which would have distracted buyers from the room. People tend to concentrate on the pictures of cute babies or wedding photos from the early 1970s, and forget to look at the wainscoting or the double hung windows. The photos were all gone.

“
It’s nice to be needed.” I offered.

He opened the top dresser drawer and pulled out a dozen small, framed pictures.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t the last to be needed.”

He sorted through the photos as if he were dealing out a stack of cards. The frames clicked together in the silent room.

“A different guy in each one.  Cruise, benefit, cruise, benefit, benefit.  Cruise.  She loved cruises didn’t she?”

“Do you love cruises?”  I asked him. Did he miss her?  Even after all these years?  Or was being upset normal?  Did he kill her?  Oh, that’s ridiculous.

“No, I vacation in the Sierra Foothills.”  He lifted his head and offered me a ghost of a smile.  I smiled back. We “vacationed” in the Sierra foothills this last September. It took us weeks to recover from our time off.

“It was all about dressing up and showing off for her. She needed to be seen. Thus, the men.”  He tossed the pictures back into the drawer. I heard glass crack but didn’t point it out to Ben. It didn’t matter.

“Did the police have any ideas?”  What I really meant was did they share anything with him?  I looked around the room. The new carpet was soft and cushy under my feet;  new padding, always buy the best. I hired painters transform the walls from Steven King to Danielle Steel. Everything was white and pristine. We call this “move in ready”. 

The police never said if they found the murder weapon and not much was being said about the cause of death, at all. It was still being called  an accident. I shuddered.

“The clothes bother you.” He observed.

“
So much.” I mused.

“What exactly does that mean?”

“Sometimes, women need to shop because of the feedback they get. You are very important when you’re spending money, and your importance increases with the amount you spend. Even the store owner pays attention, if you spend enough. For the price of a good dress, shoes and a coat, you can be fawned over all day. You’ve seen the movie
Pretty Woman?
It’s like that.  A woman gets feedback, love, in a way.”

My gaze wandered to half a dozen cashmere sweaters stuffed on a shelf by the bed. “Lots of attention.”

“It’s how they get affection, too?” he did not sound convinced.

“
Sure, it’s also how we nurture ourselves, by buying beautiful things, wrapping ourselves in luxury. Like that.”  I glanced up at him.