Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View (18 page)

“Lots of dead bodies.”

“At least the Millers died of natural causes.” I commented.

“Debbie actually confided in me that she thought they were killed to keep them quiet.”

I frowned. “That is a stretch, even for the most wild imagination.  The Millers were already quiet.  Prue says they haven’t attended a Brotherhood meeting in months.”

He nodded.  “I agree, but you know Debbie.”

I just looked at him.  “Oh,” he amended. “You don’t know Debbie.”

He shuffled his feet and gazed up at the unforgiving sky. It had stopped snowing but black clouds hovered between us and the spring sun like a bully blocking the path to the school restroom.

“She moved here, what?” He calculated.  “About ten years ago.  Had some trouble when she first arrived.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Well, she was from the city.”

I nodded, that summarized so much. So many people moved to the bucolic mountains without really thinking it through.  They quickly become disillusioned: the late paper deliveries, the lack of shoe stores, no Costco close by. City transplants even complain about the lack of traffic.  Claim Jump residents encourage as many of these unhappy residents as they can to go back to where they came from as quickly as possible. Some of the displaced city folks end up in Sacramento, which, at least, has proper shopping malls.

“Her apartment burned when she first moved in.”

“Arson?”

“Probably just old wiring.” He scowled at his phone and texted something back. “But ever since the fire, we get a call from her about every six months. She’s convinced that she’s being followed or spied on by a deranged arsonist.”

I thought of Raul and his ubiquitous web cams.  But I did not share that with Tom. I was uncertain about the legality of Raul’s activities and I didn’t want him in trouble.  Raul, not Tom.

Was Raul keeping tabs on Debbie?  Especially since she beat Prue in the City Council race? I never knew with Raul. His background was obscure at best.  Sometimes he claimed he was from Russia and sometimes he spoke of happy years in San Francsico. Raul mentioned he knew or was acquainted with Penny long before he ended up in Claim Jump.    

“Let’s get back to the Millers. Why would anyone want to keep them quiet?  Especially now, I’m sure they’ve blurted out everything they intended to blurt out.”

“I don’t even care.  Natural causes.”  He nodded to the back yard.  A body bag was suspended between the corner and the other officer. The ground was too rough for a gurney.  “Unnatural causes.”

“Was she shot?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t look.”

“I’m not that hardened.” I admitted.  Ben frowned as the body bag swung between the two struggling men.

“Boyfriend?”  Tom switched subjects.

“Fiancé,” I sighed.

“Good.  He looks capable enough to distract you. Try to hold off finding another dead body for at least 24 hours; I have work to do.”

Other than power failures, funerals were my next most exciting activity in Claim Jump. Big fun here, nothing but big, big, fun. The summer season is far less hazardous.

We attended the Miller funeral out of solidarity for poor Sarah and for the Brotherhood at large.  We all stood around the damp basement of the Methodist church sipping bad wine and circulating the same stories around and around.  I’ve been here before; I’ve had these discussions less than a week ago. The church basements in Auburn are identical to the church basements in Claim Jump.

But this time I had my favorite secret weapon. Ben Stone, Rock Solid Service is irresistible to women of a certain age. And every single member of the Brotherhood was of a certain age. It didn’t make them any less dangerous or treacherous. But it did make them susceptible to Ben’s considerable charm.

While Ben distracted and placated the Brotherhood at large, Prue pointed out Sarah’s mother to me. Sarah and her mother shared the same feature I shared with my own mother: we are nothing alike. Sarah’s mother was a perfect example of what happened when effort overrode skill.   She had let her hair go years ago and it stood out from her head in an uncontrolled gray frizz.  Old cake eyeliner emphasized how tiny her eyes were and how much sun damage she had sustained.  Her dress ended in a limp, uneven hem that hovered over the preposterous heels. I got a vertiginous thrill just watching Ms. Miller right herself on her staggeringly high platform shoes, and I use staggering in the literal sense of the word.

I glanced at the former Dorothy of Oz. Sarah must have shopped the same store where I found my black slacks and black sweater (now classics in that I wear them to all occasions, many being funerals). Thank goodness the storeowner talked Sarah into buying the sweater in midnight blue not black. Sarah’s new sweater clung to her slender curves and brought out the ice blue of her eyes.  The matching blue skirt and high heel boots transformed her into the most elegant woman in the hall. 

I glanced out one of the clear, high windows. Debbie Smith, dressed in an easy to spot tie-dyed shirt bounced across the street carrying a small occasional table to the theater.  Ah, looting Lucky’s house already. I assumed she had Penny’s blessing, and if not, the table wasn’t being carried very far.

Scott was disinclined to leave Sarah alone, even for a minute.  She looked wonderful, all Technicolor: the woman of his fantasies. His heart started beating faster every time he looked at her.  She looked even better today than when she was costumed as Dorothy.

Sarah’s mother approached, and Scott automatically hummed the theme music for the Wicked Witch of the West. At least the woman wasn’t fat.  Before she died, Scott’s mother told him to always look at a girl’s mother to see how she’d end up.  So, not fat. And he assumed the woman’s hair looked that way on purpose.

“The term,” a man placed a hand on Scott’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Is rode hard and put away wet.”

Scott nodded not turning to look at his new friend. He was too focused on the women plowing through the crowds towards Sarah.

If the rumors were true, and to date, all the Claim Jump rumors were true, this is what Sarah would look like if she had about 30 years of hard drugs, and he assumed, less than salubrious living conditions, behind her. In the hard drug department, Sarah was not keeping up.  

Lizzie Miller squinted at Sarah and then at Scott.

“So you finally got a boyfriend.”  She shook her head. “Your grandfather is probably rolling in his grave.”

“Is not.” Sarah denied hotly.

“Scott Lewis, nice to meet you.”  Scott held out his hand and shook Mrs. Miller’s limp one.

“And what do you do Scott?”  She swayed, and then righted herself with only a bit of arm waving.                

“He owns the library.” Sarah quickly answered. “You must be starving.”              She took her mother’s arm in a heavy grip and led her away from Scott. She glanced back and he nodded.  He understood completely.  Lizzie Miller looked a little drunk.

“She never met a controlled substance she didn’t love.”  Prue Singleton placed her hand on Scott’s arm to steady herself. She had a more legitimate reason for tipping over.  According to the rumors, she tripped in her own greenhouse.  There was something about the green house that was important, but he didn’t catch that part of the story. He automatically helped her.

“But Sarah is not her mother.” He pointed out unnecessarily.

“Or her grandmother, for which you should thank God. I think you’re safe.”  The perky little old lady winked at Scott and limped away.  Now, she would have been a good grandparent for Sarah, Scott mused.

Allison Little approached him and blocked his view of Sarah and Lizzie.

“What do you think of a pizza parlor?” He asked automatically.

“No.”

“Pet store?”

“No.”

“Thank you for taking such good care of Sarah.” Allison changed the subject.

“Care?  Oh, yes the grandparents.”  He took a breath. Maybe his father had passed down some valuable qualities after all. That would be nice.  He missed his father. All these funerals were difficult, but he couldn’t not show. He cared too much for Sarah to blow her off just because he still felt sad about the loss of his father.

“It was the least I could do.”

Allison Little nodded and looked at him thoughtfully.

“I was the first person she called.” He blurted out.

She smiled. She had a really dazzling smile.  He almost thought she would be so pretty if…   he stopped that speculation, it was an insult to who she was right now.

He smiled awkwardly. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to the people who care.” 

He glanced around the sparsely populated basement.

“Okay,” she admitted. “Everyone here probably cares.”

“Look what I found.” Another man, tall and broadly built, joined Allison. She took the plastic cup of wine from him and glanced up with deep gratitude.  Wow, Scott considered the couple. He had feelings for Sarah. But these two were so in love it radiated from them like, what was that called? Like an aura, Scott could almost make it out in the dim yellow light of the basement.  It was almost shocking.

“At least the snow stopped.” Allison Little took a sip of the wine, and stepped back an inch or so to make room for additional guests to join the conversation. 

“Yes, that’s a relief.” The man said. “I hear you bought the old library. What are your plans?”

“Plans?”  Scott automatically shrank from the question.  Plans. Adults were always asking about the plan. What are you going to do with your life Scott?  What are your interests Scott?  Sometimes he had no answer; often he had no answer. Why does everyone need to know his business?

“Scott is going to help me for a while.” Sarah returned sans mother, just in time to save Scott.

Allison nodded with some private satisfaction.  “That is very generous of you Scott.”

Damn, she saw right through him!  “I still want to know about those houses.”

She took another sip of wine.  “Don’t worry, I’m on it.”

“What about my grandparent’s house?”  Sarah asked. “Should I put it on the market?  Mom wants her half of the money.”

Allison narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t that house for you? So you have somewhere to live, always have a roof over your head?”

“She wants her half of all the money.” Sarah repeated miserably. “She said I’d have enough to rent an apartment for at least a few years. And I can work.”

“Rent!”  Allison snorted.

“Honey.” Lizzie lurched back towards them. “I want you to meet my friend Jack, he’s here to help me with your grandparent’s things.”

“Sure mother,”
Sarah peered around her mother, but saw no one she didn’t already recognize. Was Jack an imaginary friend?

“He’s over there.” Lizzie said impatiently.

Sarah dutifully detached from their small group and followed her mother’s swaying figure.  Apparently this Jack was best met one on one. 

“Sarah has good instincts.” I noted out loud.

“But a terrible upbringing.”

“I’m inclined to disagree.” Scott started.

“No, no, she is lovely, clearly.” Prue said quickly. “But those Millers, all Fox news and Republican boneheads.” She shook her head, as if being Republican was the worst thing a person could be.  I held my tongue.

“She shouldn’t lose the house.” Scott said hotly.

“No.” I watched the mother and her new boyfriend bend and sway towards Sarah.  “No, she shouldn’t. Is there a will?”

Scott nodded.  “Their lawyer is Buster Porter, he’ll read the will later today, just family of course.”

Buster Porter, Lucky’s lawyer.  That was interesting.

“Did Mr. Miller work for Lucky?”

“In the seventies.” Prue confirmed.

Chapter
Eighteen

One would think that after a funeral there would be time for contemplation, for ruminating on how short life really is, and wondering what the hell a person was doing with her own life.  That’s what I thought. But when I watched poor Sarah Miller walk stiff legged with her mother (with what must have been Jack trailing behind) to the Miller’s Oldsmobile, I knew that in their case, contemplation would be more along the lines of financial remuneration, not big-picture spiritual questions.

“Damn, I wish there was something I could do.” Scott stood next to me in the doorway of the basement and watched Sarah firmly take the keys from her mother and climb into the driver’s seat.

“Just be by your phone.” I counseled. “She’s going to need a friend after this session with her mother.”

He nodded.

“A good friend.” I emphasized.

Her mother did not waste any time. She rolled out of the back of the Oldsmobile and scurried into the house as fast as her high heels would allow.

“No rush babe, they’re already dead.” Jack, as grey and grizzled as Lizzie, followed her inside.  Sarah waited for about ten seconds. She could hear the sound of the door to her grandparents’ apartment rattling from her relatively safe position inside the car.

“Fuck!  Who locked the door?”

Sarah smiled.  Her mother was no match for the members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men. Yesterday, despite the power failure and treacherous road conditions, three Brotherhood members had arrived at that same door minutes after Suzanne Chatterhill made her calls.  They spirited away the remaining silver, three books they deemed “rare”, all the jewelry and two original watercolors by local artists.  Suzanne made a list and handed it to Sarah.

“After the it’s all over, here’s where you can pick up your things.”

The list was in Sarah’s purse.

She slowly exited the car and took her time walking over the ice and sludge covering the driveway.

“I locked it of course.” Sarah said coolly. “The whole town knew about the funeral.  You wouldn’t want to risk someone stealing grandma and grandpa’s stuff would you?”  Sarah handed her mother the key and opened her blue eyes as wide as she could.  She played an orphan in
Annie
a number of years ago.

“Wow, we don’t even have locks on the Ridge.”  Jack reached to rub his nose. It was bulbous, pockmarked and looked too fragile for such rough handling. Jack rubbed and then thought better of it.              He saluted her with a smile that was blackened by years of home cooked smack.  Lovely, her mother certainly knew how to pick them. This Jack made Scott Lewis look like a god, but that comparison wasn’t fair to Scott.

Her mother grabbed the key and jammed it into the lock.  She stalked in.

“We need the TV.” She announced immediately.

“Sweet.” Echoed Jack.

“I’m sure you do.”  Sarah trailed behind as her mother weebled and wobbled through the tiny apartment.

“So, what about the money?”  Lizzie paused in the kitchen just long enough to reject the stacks of Blue Willow plates and bowls.

   “What money?”  Sarah had an unexpected advantage; she didn’t know what her mother was talking about.

              “You don’t know?  Who has been taking care of the money all this time?”

“We get a check from Social Security every month and I make that last.” That should be pretty obvious. The TV was small, the house was small. They had lost the tenant downstairs last year and never replaced the rental income.  They got by, that was all.

“Well, then who gets the benefits?” Her mother kicked off her shoes. One made a dent in the wall. Barefoot she trolled through the house again, opening drawers and testing the cushions on the loveseat and matching rocking chair.

“What happened to their chairs?”

“I threw them out.” Sarah explained.

“Why? We could have sold them!”

“No.” Sarah pointed out, keeping her voice low and moderate, Suzanne Chatterhill would be proud. “No, they died in those chairs.”

Her mother paused a moment.  “Oh, I guess that wouldn’t have worked.”
She lurched towards the back door. “What did they keep in the basement?” 

The house Sarah grew up in, the house her mother grew up in, was three stories, and like all the homes on the right side of Grove Street, built on a hill that sloped down to the creek.  The basement was actually a full apartment. But the tenant complained about the old-person smell and the TV noise all day, and moved. 

              Sarah could hear the banging and clanking as her mother prowled through the empty lower apartment with the focus of a women determined to find gold bullion stashed somewhere obscure.

“There is nothing here, they had nothing!” Lizzie finally emerged and stalked back through the kitchen. 

“They had me.” Sarah said quietly. But her mother didn’t hear.

                I knew what the members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men were capable of, but on days like today, they always exceed my expectations and assumptions.   

We returned from the funeral and found Carrie alone.

“Bad?”

She shook her head. “Not bad, better. We’re working on it.”

“Good, you two can now concentrate on Sarah.  Here.”  Prue thrust a safety deposit box key at me.  “This is for the Miller’s box, Sarah is on the signature card.  Take her down on some excuse before her mother gets wind of it.”

I glanced down at the key.

“It was my turn to keep the key.” Prue said innocently as if it was her turn to bring the deviled eggs, oh yes, she did that too.

“In other words, before the IRS gets wind of it?”

“The electricity has been out.”  Prue expression was guileless.  She should try out for the theater’s next production.

I glanced at my watch. I called Scott and gave him instructions. “We’ll walk, it will be less obvious.”  Carrie nodded and pulled on her boots.

Sarah left her mother as soon as she got the text from Scott. 

“Mom, I’m going to pick up some of the food from the reception we forgot.” She searched her mind for a plausible food.  “The deviled eggs.”

Her Jack and her mother had dived back down to the basement and the crawl space unconvinced that it was full of little more than cast off furniture and an ancient electric stove. Sarah shook her head and quickly walked down the street to the massive brick Bank of America building on the corner of Main and Kentucky.

Scott, Allison and another woman greeted Sarah as she entered the bank.

“Mom and Jack are probably loading the TV into the Oldsmobile as we speak.”  Sarah announced.  “There really wasn’t anything more valuable than that in the house.”

I gestured to the bank teller who offered Sarah the signing card.  Sarah scribbled her name and we headed to the vault.

“Is your mom keeping the car?”  I asked.

Sarah nodded.  “And she still wants to sell the house. She says we’ll split the money.” 

I did not say anything. The teller tried to keep me out of the tiny room for viewing the safe deposit box contents, but I brushed her aside the same time Sarah said,

“Oh for heaven’s sake Suzie, she’s with me.”

Suzie stepped aside and I wedged myself into the private viewing closet to privately view whatever it was that the Millers wanted to keep private.

Carrie waited in the lobby with Scott.

The safe deposit box was crammed with stock certificates, two insurance policies and cash.  Cash.  Jesus. Or maybe the cash was for Jesus. I had no way of knowing.  I immediately took the cash and stuffed it into my purse. Sarah nodded and shuffled through the colorful papers.

“It’s all Lucky’s company.”  She fanned out the stock certificates.

“You have a lot there.” I looked at the certificates in her hand and started mental calculations but I didn’t know any current valuations. 

“Grandpa must have bought them when he worked for Lucky. That was before I was born.”

I pulled out my phone and called Ben, who quickly called his stockbroker.  Ben has his stockbroker in favorites because he is in constant contact.  Ben doesn’t just fix plumbing, he just likes to make people believe that’s all he does.

“Rough estimate?”  Ben called me back within minutes.

I tried to get comfortable in the tiny room.  “Rough is fine.”

“All in all the stock is worth about $500,000, a lot really, considering Lucky’s recent setbacks, but he probably had more going on that any of us know or want to know.”

I clicked off the phone and considered Sarah’s options.

Thanks to the quick and, I suspected, practiced efforts of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men, Poor Sarah was no longer poor.

“Your mother wants to sell the house and split the proceeds.” I tapped the certificates and considered the options.

“Yes, mom thinks it’s worth $500,000 at least.”

I shook my head.  “Not anymore, what has she been smoking?”
              “Everything.” Sarah said glumly.  “She’s determined to get a quarter million, that’s how she says it, a quick quarter million.  Jack is all over it.  The quicker the better.”

“Your grandparents left you the house?”

“Yes.”  She ran her hand over the colorful stock certificates.

“Okay, listen to me, my grandmother is a member of the Brotherhood so you can trust me. Do you trust me?”  I lifted the girl’s chin so she could meet my eyes.

She nodded.

“He could turn it into a spa.” Carrie suggested.  “He could sell those lavender infused soaps and sachets, like that adorable store down the street that sells only white things. He could sell all purple things.”

“No.”

              Carrie twisted her ring.  “Patrick said he’d take care of my parents. But how?  They’ll just want more money, there’s no paying them off.”

“I know.”

“I know, you know, but I’m not sure Patrick knows. I don’t think he’s a match for the way they work.  He lives in a beautiful home, and has a great job and doesn’t have people coming at him all the time, you know, savage, mean people.”

“Maybe he’ll surprise you.” Although I was not really convinced myself. Sometimes street smarts can outwit education. I’ve seen it before; our business is loaded with street savvy survivors. Natural sales people take on real estate with no formal educational background save for the training their own offices cram down their throats. And yet they are not only successful but magnificently and astonishingly wealthy.  Sometimes success is a triumph of experience over education.

In Patrick’s case, I hoped I was wrong.

“What do you think happened to that Lucky person?”  Carrie asked.

I sagged down in my seat. I had calls to make on Gold Way for Scott, Penny wanted to talk to me about lowering the price of her dad’s house and she wanted to sell off his rentals, which was idiotic but I wasn’t ready to tell her so just yet.

“I’ve been too distracted to consider Lucky’s murderer.”

She nodded. “Understandable.  You did a good thing for that Sarah Miller.”

“Thanks.  I think I convinced her to not sell her own house. Where would she live?”

Scott walked Sarah back up to her house.  They took their time, Sarah was in no hurry to confront her mother again, Scott understood.

“I feel so alone.” She finally said out loud.

“Are you kidding, the whole Brotherhood has your back.”

She gave him a pained looked.

“Maybe that’s a mixed blessing.” He reviewed the cast of supporters from the theater.  She had twice as many people as Dorothy, any number of scarecrows, tin men and cowardly lions.  She had a whole village at her disposal.  But that’s not what she meant. He knew that.

“When my dad died.” He watched where he stepped on the slippery uneven sidewalk. “I thought my life line, my whole life, was over. I was officially an orphan.”

She sniffed loudly and wiped her hand over her mouth and nose.  “Did you get over it?” The safe deposit key weighed heavily in her pocket. If she didn’t have enough to worry about, she had to pull off this plan.

“It’s only been six months.”  Scott said.

“So no.” She kicked away a ball of snow and it shattered in the street.

“The Shah sent me a plaque, an acknowledgment of Dad, he said he would do anything he could for me.” 

“Well that’s nice, is he rich?”

“Owns the whole damn country.”

She nodded, but wasn’t all that impressed because she had no point of reference. He liked that about her.

“We’re both orphans. We really are alone.”

“I still have my mother.”  From her tone, it was clear the woman didn’t really count.

“That’s good, she’s like a barrier, between you and death.” Scott moved a wet branch out of the way. “She will probably go first. It’s like she represents time. She stands between you and eternity.” He stopped climbing. She paused to rest with him.