by James Turner
A blatant pitch to the dot com nouveau riche crowd, but Ella couldn’t fault the approach. She quickly checked the commission, and saw only the word “Standard.” Odd. She gathered up her purse and overcoat, and headed out the door to meet Jeff.
*******
The Tilted Window restaurant had valet parking, a blessed attribute after Ella’s parking nightmare in the Mission district. The Saturday night multitude in the foyer grew and bubbled like a fermenting science experiment. The overwhelmed hostess sought protection behind her little podium, while clusters of people with 8:00 p.m. reservations bellowed for her contemptuous attention. The restaurant, open for two weeks and the must-have reservation of the moment, filled a cavernous space paneled in the latest slick and sound reflective materials, mostly textured cement, wood and glass. No fabric or curtains of any kind interfered with the transfer of sound. A deafening echo chamber, the noise level reverberated far beyond the little bomb symbol used by the Chronicle to denote an untenable racket. A bomb going off would be the least of distractions in this place, Ella thought, the din was so intense. But Peruvian-Chinese fusion ruled the foodie acolytes this month, and the Tilted Window didn’t disappoint.
She felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned around to see Jeff Arnold, looking handsome and friendly, his prominent jaw making her want to kiss him on the spot. Instead she smiled in a flirty manner, or at least what she hoped was a flirty manner. 25 years had passed since she’d been on the dating scene.
“Let’s get out of here,” he shouted, jerking his thumb back toward the front door.
“Fine by me,” Ella screamed awkwardly. They walked out into the cool night air.
“We could have been seated right away, I put in a call to the owner, recent client, but the noise is insane.” Jeff said.
Ella nodded, smiling as the bedlam faded away.
“There’s a little bar next door, it’s a lot quieter. We can start there, maybe get a bite somewhere else…”
“Sounds great,” Ella said as they passed a group of two dozen or so people speaking in sign language, on their way into the Tilted Window. “They’ve got the right idea.”
Jeff laughed. “It’ll be better over here, come on.”
The bar was a dark and affable little place, and thankfully off the trendiness radar which rendered it quiet and relatively uncrowded. They settled back comfortably in a softly padded leather booth.
Ella took a deep breath and began to relax.
“You look tense,” Jeff said.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“You’re aware Giselle Frackle is selling her Sea Cliff mansion?”
“Yeah, I got wind of it a day or two ago. I’d love to fix up the buyer with Super Jumbotrix financing.”
Ella hesitated, she hadn’t heard of that particular mortgage. “I was in the running, but didn’t get the listing. Tiffany Reynolds did. They’re asking a cool seventy million.”
Jeff whistled in amazement, then laughed slightly as the waitress walked up.
“What’s so funny?” Ella asked.
“Let’s order a drink, then we’ll talk.” The server offered the Mai-Tai special, which Ella quickly declined. She ordered Absolute and Amaretto on the rocks. Jeff ordered Chivas Regal 18-year old scotch straight up.
“So?” Ella continued. “Why the laughter?”
“Tiffany’s popping up on everyone’s radar these days. She closed on Delicia Cardosa’s place yesterday.”
“She did?” Ella felt another stab in her stomach. “I guess I was so involved in my interview with Giselle Frackle, I wasn’t paying attention. Giselle and her maid are something else, let me tell you. But Tiffany slithered in before me.”
“She sold the Cardoso apartment for fifty percent above asking, cash in thirty days.”
Ella sighed. “Delicia is more than I can think about right now.”
“Sorry I brought her up, I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t worry about it.” Apparently he knew the wretched details too. Who in San Francisco didn’t for that matter?
The drinks arrived and Jeff lifted his glass. “To overcoming challenges.”
“To the enemy at the gates,” Ella said, beginning to cheer up.
“Even in today’s market, who’s going to be able to afford the Frackle Mansion, much less the property taxes?” Jeff asked.
“There’s always somebody. If it sells for the asking price, the taxes will be close to six hundred and fifty thousand a year,” Ella said.
“Almost enough to buy a rundown shack in Hunter’s Point.”
“Giselle Frackle only pays four grand a year now.”
“No doubt she’s one of the overburdened elderly who’s been able to keep her home thanks to Prop. 13?” Jeff asked, with no small amount of sarcasm.
Heralded as a taxpayer revolt and passed by California voters in 1978, the law limited property taxes to one percent of a home’s purchase price, with only small annual increases permitted. Consequently, a home bought years ago for a pre-bubble price carried vastly lower property taxes than a comparable nearby property, purchased after the run-up in values. After three decades, huge inequities in tax rates abounded, with long term owners paying a fraction for the same government services compared to neighbors who bought more recently.
“Well, “Ella said, “we know what the U.S. Supreme Court said, it’s legal.”
“It pays to hold on,” Jeff said taking another swig of Chivas. “I heard some other interesting Frackle news as well.”
“What now?”
“Frackle Business Machines is going public.”
Ella set her drink down. “You mean an IPO, now? After all these years? Why?”
“Why else, money.”
“You’d think they have enough.”
“That’s heresy, you could be banished from this town if anyone heard you say that.” Jeff raised his hand to call the waitress, ordering a Chivas refill. Ella had barely started her cocktail. “Anyway, I read about it on Valleywag.com this afternoon, it’s probably breaking all over the web and TV by now. It’s speculated an FBM IPO could raise ten to twenty billion dollars the first day.”
Ella swallowed hard. “Impressive. I’d love to get my hands on a few options.” She’d unwittingly uttered a very prescient comment, albeit one that offered no hint of unexpected consequence or peril.
*******
After cocktails, they left the bar to have dinner at a nearby sushi restaurant. On their way out, they fought through the crowds still pouring into the Tilted Window next door. A murmur trickled through the multitude, and Ella immediately could see why. San Francisco’s tall, handsome boyish mayor, Vende Vinho, made his way into the restaurant, surrounded by a small entourage. Recently divorced, Mayor Vinho inevitably courted one striking, long legged blonde or another. Tonight appeared to be no exception. But when Ella got a better look at the mayor’s companion, she stood stock still. She put her hand on Jeff’s arm, stopping him as well. Tiffany Reynolds strutted with her hand hooked through the mayor’s elbow, laughing merrily at some municipal utterance. Before Ella could escape, Tiffany’s eyes locked on Ella’s. She smiled hugely, and Ella could see smug victory in her expression. Ella started to turn away when Tiffany held up her hand to wait. At the same time she tapped the mayor on his shoulder, and steered him their way. Ella was trapped.
“Ella,” Tiffany trilled, “how good to see you. You have met Mayor Vinho before? Vende, this is Ella Barker, one of the city’s most successful real estate brokers.” Insincerity and mockery poured out of every one of Tiffany’s pores.
Ella had met the mayor several times. She extended her hand. “How good to see you again, Mayor.”
The mayor, by nature gracious and diplomatic, responded in kind. “Ella, how are you? How’s business in Pacific Heights these days?” he said with a wink. Ella’s Pacific Heights office was down the block from the Getty Mansion, close friends of the mayor.
“Very good, thank you.” She turned to Jeff. “Please meet my friend Jeff Arnold.”
The two men shook hands and exchanged quick pleasantries until Tiffany interrupted.
“Vende, aren’t you thinking of holding the Formula One on Russian Hill?” She put her hands on the mayor’s shoulder to emphasize their intimacy, charm bracelet jangling. “Ella is the most amazing driver, you really should see her in action.” Tiffany looked at Ella and once again tilted her head in the most irritating of fashions.
“Oh?” the mayor asked. “You never know what talents people are hiding.”
“No, you don’t,” Tiffany said, looking straight at Ella. “Like who has the talent to rise to the top, take over and make this great city her own.”
An aide to the mayor urged them to move on. When the group walked away, Tiffany turned around. “Ella, please do bring your qualified buyers to see the Frackle Mansion.”
*******
Jeff insisted on driving Ella home. She left her car at the Tilted Window valet parking, somewhat unsure of what she was doing but three Absolute and Amarettos surely assisted her decision making process. When they stopped in Ella’s driveway on Edgehill Way, Jeff reached over and put his arm around the back of her seat.
“I really had a great time, you’re fun, and interesting.”
Ella smiled a little too broadly, slightly embarrassed. She really liked this man. “I had a good time too, with the exception of our friend Tiffany.”
“Forget about her now, she’s nothing.”
“We’ll see about that,” Ella replied.
“Can I walk you to the door?” Jeff asked with a Safada-like stare in his eyes. Rather than provoking annoyance however, Jeff’s stare gave flight to a thousand butterflies in Ella’s stomach.
She looked at him. They both knew where “can I walk you to the door” would lead. She nodded and got out of the car.
When they stopped at the front door, Ella inserted her key into the lock. Jeff slipped his arms around her waist from behind. She froze as the nearly forgotten pleasure of human contact raced through her body. He nuzzled the back of her neck with his lips. She didn’t turn around. Her head fell to one side, involuntarily, she couldn’t stop it. She closed her eyes and relinquished herself to his soft kisses.
He whipped her around and pushed her back up against the wood siding next to the front door. She heard the doorbell ring incessantly somewhere in her consciousness. He kissed her full on the mouth. She opened wide, their boozy breaths mixing in a lustful frenzy. He grinded up against her, his rock hard penis straining through his khakis.
Too much too quick, she thought, but did nothing to stop it. Instead she rejoiced at the tingling in her neck, the steamy feeling all over, her rising body heat. She felt powerless against the first sexual excitement to overwhelm her since before the divorce. She reached behind and opened the front door. They slipped inside, and their date really began.
*******
Ella floated through the next couple of days, decidedly more relaxed, attending to business as usual at her various offices. After so long without sex, she felt tingly and alive again. And despite the setbacks in obtaining the Frackle listing, Barker Brokers still had dozens of solid deals in the works, the great majority proceeding smoothly. Even the Littlefeather-Jones deal was quiet for the moment while going through the motions of loan approval.
Jeff still seemed attentive since their encounter, and they’d agreed to get together the following weekend.
“So he didn’t run off after getting his candy then?” Mark asked slyly.
“Unlike you,” Ella retorted, “with your puppy dog attention span.”
Ultimately however, the Frackle Mansion loomed over everything in her mind, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Selling such a house would crown her career gloriously. 9900 El Camino Del Mar was simply the most expensive home ever offered for sale in San Francisco, with nothing close to it in size, prestige or location. If it sold for anywhere near the asking price the record would stand for some time, along with the names, reputations and sales commissions of those who sold it. The failed meeting with Giselle Frackle represented a major disappointment for Ella, with Tiffany Reynold’s obnoxious and unprofessional gloating only making it that much worse.
As far as Ella operating from the other side of the deal and finding a buyer, that opportunity did exist. In that vein, she put out feelers to her most wealthy clients and high level business connections. But other than some mild curiosity in wanting to see the mansion, no one expressed serious interest. At least not yet, she hoped.
*******
Ella suffered from occasional insomnia. Like most of country she had a sleeping pill prescription, but didn’t like the feeling of dependence that crept up after several nights’ use. She’d cut herself off and deal with it, even if it meant getting to sleep at three in the morning. On these nights she’d either read or lie there and listen to the silence.
Nocturnal tranquility played a big part in Ella’s passion for living in San Francisco. Sure, the city boiled over with urban attractions; great restaurants, foreign movies and museums were never more than a few minutes away. But unless one happened to live near a freeway or major artery, a lovely and peaceful calm swept over most neighborhoods after dark, providing a fine escape from a busy life.
Ella also relied on one additional cure for sleeplessness. She’d climb into the Mercedes and go for a late night cruise. One night the week after her delicious date with Jeff, a racing mind kept her awake past midnight. Avoiding the pill bottle, she wrapped up, got in the car and headed out to the ocean.
Within five minutes she turned onto the Great Highway, a broad four lane stretch of road running parallel to the Pacific shore. She drove along in dark solitude, her mind wandering and relaxing, with only the velvety V-12 soundtrack to accompany her. The moon shone brightly, but owing to dunes alongside the road she couldn’t see much of the beach. When she approached the Cliff House, the dunes receded and the ocean burst into shimmery view.
The Cliff House, magnificently renovated and hanging off a rocky outcropping over the sea, offered stunning views and decent food. Its two restaurants attracted both locals and tourists, but so early in the week everything was already sealed up tight. The dashboard clock glowed 12:30. Only a few cars littered the beach parking lot. A bonfire or two roared away on the sand with small groups of people huddled about, seeking warmth against the ocean’s chill.
Ella drove on, continuing her nighttime observation. She stuck close to the coast and shortly found herself entering Sea Cliff. Maybe she’d meant to come here all along, though she hadn’t consciously planned it. The meticulous streets and large, mostly Mediterranean-style homes emerged elegantly under the subtle blush of the streetlights. The odd window here and there glimmered with life, while tasteful landscape lights illuminated the exotic and expensive residential flora. Not a soul wandered the streets at this hour and the neighborhood exuded quiet.
She rounded another corner and came slowly up on Giselle Frackle’s gate. The peaked roofline of the Tudor mansion loomed in the dark behind the high walls. She pondered the whole situation again, when she spotted the CB-Pru-U-Z “For Sale” sign staked into the lush lawn next to the gate. Her stomach knotted in near physical pain. The sign was the typical hangman’s style thick, wooden post, with a metal placard suspended from a short crossbeam bearing the company logo, website and phone number. But when Ella got closer she saw something terribly amiss with the CB-Pru-U-Z sign. She switched her Bi-Xenon High Intensity Discharge headlamps from low to high beam, and under the white hot glare found herself looking straight into Tiffany Reynold’s startlingly wide, clearly lifeless, blue eyes.
Tiffany had been strung to the crossbeam of the For Sale sign, tied so that the top half of her body laid horizontally, her head resting on its cheekbone next to the little sign affixed to the top that read “Ask for Tiffany Reynolds☺.” Her body creased at the waist, with her legs hanging down along the s
pine of the post. She wore a black skirt, pink top and heels. Blood ran down across her smug features, with her matted blonde hair pulled back off her face. She’d been shot in the forehead. Long rivulets of blood flowed down her hanging arms, dripping off her charm bracelet onto the deep rich green of the lawn.
Ella didn’t know what to do. Fear and fascination paralyzed her for long seconds. Shaking her head as if to wake herself up, she tried to think clearly. She put the Mercedes in reverse and backed up. About three feet away she spotted a sheet of paper in the moonlight, lying on the grass. Ella’s night vision could compete with any eighteen year old, thanks to her driving glasses. She recognized the California Association of Realtors logo. Before she could comprehend her own actions, she jumped out, grabbed the paper and ran back to her car. She threw the Mercedes into gear, and for the second time within a week, raced off from an upsetting encounter with Tiffany Reynolds at the vaunted gates of the Frackle Mansion.
Chapter 9
“Did you call the police?” Mark Allen asked anxiously.
“Sshhh, keep your voice down.” Ella stopped her shopping cart and looked at Mark. “I did, but not from my phone. I used a pay phone on Geary. I had nothing to do with that poor little bitch’s death, there’s no reason for me to get involved.”
Ella and Mark strolled down one of the pristine, sparkling produce aisles at Brilliant Foods, a sleek South of Market emporium which specialized in only the highest quality and most expensive meats, produce and specialty items. Even the parking lot gleamed, with highly buffed luxury cars skirmishing for too few spaces.
Mark picked up a high gloss $6.00 apple from Japan, rolling it around in his hand. “It was all over the news this morning.”
“I saw.”
“And you’re just now telling your best friend? You could have called me last night.”
“You really are my best friend.” She felt a little embarrassed saying it out loud.
“You’re just now realizing it? I guess it took a cold shoulder from the Russian Hill lunch crowd for it to sink in.”