“You’re not going to sell the place,” he said.
I was crushed. “Why not?”
“Because that’s not your goal. Open houses are all about marketing. Make sure your guests sign in. Even the nosy neighbors who want to see how their own homes stack up against the asking price. Names, addresses, phone numbers, email, DNA if you can get it. Then follow up. Put ’em on your mailing list. Start a newsletter. Email them similar listings. Create a bond. When they think real estate, you want your image to pop into their heads.”
I was hastily jotting down his instructions on the back of a grocery receipt I’d dug out of my pocket. “Anything I should know about the property?”
“The less you know the better. Smile, talk about the weather, hand out cookies, get contact information. That’s it. Got it?”
“I guess.”
“Sam,” he said. “Look at me.”
I looked.
“You want to get out of the low end of the market, right? Of course you do. Everyone does. Why work your ass off for three percent of a hundred-thousand-dollar sale when for the same amount of effort you could collect four or five times that? It’s just good business.” He paused to remove his hat and scratch his head thoughtfully.
I felt a jolt of shock, as if I’d stuck my pinky in an electrical outlet. What the—
“This is a terrific opportunity for you,” Everett went on. “I believe you’re ready for it. You’re fresh. But savvy. Got great instincts. You inspire confidence. I think you’ll do just fine.”
I nodded and tried to mouth some words of thanks, but I couldn’t wrest my gaze away from the sight of his gleaming scalp, which was so hairless it might have been treated to a Brazilian wax. Never in the time I’d known my boss had I seen him without the hairpiece he wore centered on his pate, a hirsute oblong so thick and coarse that I’d always assumed it was manufactured from wolverine fur. By tacit understanding, the subject of hair—or lack thereof—was off limits among those of us who desired to remain employed. I fought to tear my eyes away, but it was like driving by a freeway pileup.
“The carpets get cleaned tomorrow,” Everett said. “They may still be damp Sunday, so have your guests remove their shoes.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Got it. Rug—I mean carpet, damp. Anything else?” I addressed the question to the ceiling, then looked out the window, where lunchtime traffic rumbled by on Fourth Street.
“I think that about covers it,” he said.
Not hardly, I thought, my eyes dropping to my lap. “Hey, maybe I’ll get lucky and sell it anyway,” I said, examining my fingernails. Dirty, as usual.
“Never in the history of this office has an agent brought in an offer from an open house.” Everett tipped back in his chair so he could chuckle at my expense. The overhead light refracted off his scalp, nearly blinding me. “But who knows. Maybe you’ll be the first.”
—
The drive to Campus Heights took less than fifteen minutes. I wound my way through the mission-style buildings of Redwood State, my alma mater, until I reached the foothills of the Arlinda Community Forest. A right turn put me on Heartwood Drive, and I began a steep climb that transported me at least four tax brackets upward.
I’d read and reread the chapter in my real estate bible—“How to Kick Butt in Real Estate: Six Simple Steps to Becoming a Super-Agent”—on hosting the perfect open house, and as I drove I tried to review every element. But my domestic situation was a distraction that was creating a growly sensation in my gut. Probably I should have had lunch before I left in such a hurry. Or at least a couple of Pop-Tarts, since they’re fortified with twelve different vitamins and minerals.
I gave myself a brisk shake. It was unproductive to worry about Stacy before there was cause. I tried not to dwell on the notion that maybe if my so-called husband hadn’t walked out on me when Max was a baby, I’d be able to face a little romantic competition with more assurance. But hey, we all have baggage.
The van’s engine began to whine as we climbed higher and higher. I downshifted until I was crawling along in second gear. The road cut through groves of second-growth redwoods, some as big around as three grown men. Lawns were golf-course caliber, dotted here and there with the massive stumps left over from century-old logging. Houses were set back from the street, and built to capitalize on the sweeping views over Arlinda that stretched to the Pacific Ocean. Not in my wildest dreams would I ever be able to afford a spread up here.
I reached the summit of Heartwood just before the whine became a shriek and pulled to the curb, leaving the engine idling to cool off. From the rear of the van, I hauled out one of the freestanding OPEN HOUSE signs I’d snagged from the office. I dragged it over to the sidewalk and planted it in place, then stepped back a few paces to see how it looked.
An elderly man with trousers cinched up to his armpits came out on the porch of the house on the corner. I waved, giving him my brightest real estate smile.
He didn’t smile back. “You can’t park that thing here!” he yelled above the din of the motor.
I pulled my hand back and pinned it to my side before I inadvertently flashed him the bird. Swinging myself back into the driver’s seat, I turned right onto McMillan Court, a dark, heavily wooded street that lacked the grand view. The properties here were more modest in scope, though still commanding prices of up to half a million for the privilege of living where the deer dined on your perennials and the raccoons craftily tipped over your trash can every night.
Halfway down the street, I spotted the distinctive yellow-and-pink FOR SALE sign of Home Sweet Home Realty. I figured parking my old VW in the drive might knock a few grand off the home’s curb appeal, so I left it on the street a few houses down, then grabbed a second OPEN HOUSE sign and walked back to 412 McMillan. The house was a boxy two-story covered in a combination of beige stucco and mossy brown shingles, shaded by clumps of tall conifers that grew along the property line. A low split-rail fence separated the yard from the sidewalk, and a handful of dispirited snapdragons grew along the fence. The rest of the yard was covered in low-growing periwinkles, without a blade of grass to be seen. Redwood needles blanketed the roof in a thick layer, and the air was heavy with dank humidity. I could smell the rich perfume of decomposition.
I plunked the sign on the sidewalk with the arrow pointing in the right direction and trotted down the muddy walkway to the front door. An agent’s lockbox hung from the knob. After the usual fumbling with my access card, I extracted a set of keys from the box, feeling a little thrill of excitement at my very first open house. Okay, so it wasn’t my listing—my clients tended to be more of the bottom-feeding variety, relying on unemployment compensation and disability for their primary incomes. But here was an opportunity to market myself, build my client base, and maybe even impress my boss. Stranger things had happened.
As I unlocked the front door, the faint odor of rose-scented air freshener washed over me. I stepped into the foyer and flicked on the lights. The entryway was tiled in gray slate, and my footsteps echoed with the hollow sound that vacant houses always seemed to possess. Beyond the foyer was a big living space with a high, open-beamed ceiling. Everything else was white: stark white walls, ivory carpet still bearing the parallel marks of the steam cleaner, white brick fireplace, and white leather sofa and love seat positioned near the fireplace. The only splash of color was a peacock-blue vase on the mantel. It looked old and expensive, so I decided to keep my distance.
I dropped the keys in my pocket and hung up my jacket on the hook behind the door. Slipping off my shoes, I crossed the carpet, leaving a trail of cushy indentations in the spotless shag. A wide archway led to the dining room and kitchen, with a sliding door to the back deck. I unlatched the slider and removed a four-foot length of curtain rod from the channel, a primitive but effective security measure. The white-on-white decorating scheme had been abandoned in the dining area, where an oak table with four chairs was centered under a cheap glass fixture. The kitchen was a
long, narrow galley, hemmed in by faux-granite countertops and Harvest Gold appliances; the linoleum underfoot was of a pattern I hadn’t seen since George Michael was at the top of the charts, telling me to have faith. If I’d known then what was in store for me, I might have switched to country music, where you can pretty much expect hearts to be achy-breaky.
There was a sheet of writing on the counter, pinned in place with a timer shaped like an egg. I snatched it up.
“ ‘Everett, everything should be ready for your open house,’ ” I read. “ ‘The cleaners said the carpet should be dry by Sunday, but I put a basket of little booties by the front door if you wouldn’t mind handing them out. Let me know how it goes. There’s a bag of cookie dough in the freezer if you want to bake them off. I read in a magazine that makes a house seem homier. Oven timer doesn’t work, but this one does. Love, Marian.’ ”
Love? That was a few shades warmer than the typical client-broker relationship, at least in my admittedly limited experience. But perhaps Everett owed his success to the personal touch, as befitted a man with more exes than I could keep track of.
Then I thought of the cookies and my mouth watered. Nothing like the scent of fresh-baked goods to put people in their happy places. And happy people bought houses.
I tucked the note into my pocket. The kitchen might have been dated, but it was clean and orderly, except for a paring knife in one well of the stainless steel sink. The blade was discolored with rusty patches, so I picked it up by the handle and dropped it in the dishwasher. That ole Kenmore had seen better days, possibly even better decades, if the cloudy water stains under the door were any indication. Still, it probably beat being up to your elbows in soapy water.
I took a rapid tour of the rest of the house, unlocking doors and turning on lights. Upstairs, the master bedroom was at the end of a short hall, an impressive suite with its own bath. Everything was mauve and pale green with touches of lilac, from the thick quilted bedspread to the pleated blinds. On the nightstand was an artsy doodad of blown glass, the colors reflecting the overall scheme. A pair of French doors opened up onto a private deck—not large, but cozy if a couple wanted to canoodle under the stars.
In the master bath, even the oval rounds of soap on the vanity matched the hand towels and the fluffy toilet-tank cover. I took a minute to polish a smudge off the mirror and straighten the tank lid, which was slightly askew, but apart from that everything was in apple pie order. This was real home “day-cor.” I flashed on my own bathroom, with its mismatched thrift-store towels and soggy bar of Ivory floating in a puddle of soap slime, and vowed to elevate my standards. One of these days.
I returned to the main floor and took another short flight of stairs to the lower level, which consisted of a large family room with a door to the yard and a smaller room set up as a combo laundry room and wet bar.
Before I’d finished poking around, there was a pounding at the front door. I glanced at my watch. The eager beavers had arrived.
I fluffed my hair and trotted up the steps, crossing the pristine white carpet to the front door, where I found a little man with bulging eyes and a face like curdled milk on the step.
“Good morning,” I said brightly.
“What are you going to do about those trees?” he snapped, making no move to enter. He was garbed in gardening clothes: baggy jeans, muddy boots, and a red and blue flannel shirt, brandishing a trowel in front of him like a weapon.
“Trees? I—uh—”
“I’ve been after the owners to cut back those branches for years now. Lookit how they’re hanging over the fence line.” He swung the trowel around to point out the offending branches, and I leaped back. “Encroachment, that’s what it is. I’ve lost my prize-wining begonias to stem rot the last two seasons. And my south wall has an ongoing mold issue thanks to your clients’ negligence. If they sell this place without pruning those trees, there’s gonna be hell to pay.” Angry spittle had collected on his chin, and he stopped to scorch me with a truculent stare.
Remembering one of Everett’s pet axioms—that today’s asshole is tomorrow’s new client—I tried a warm smile and some reassurance. “I’m sure something can be worked out, Mister, uh—”
“Williams. Remember that name, sister, because next time you see it will be on court documents if your clients don’t have a crew out here in three days.” He turned on his heel and stalked off.
“Well,” I said, closing the door. “Nice to meet you, too. Jerk.” Not an auspicious start to my perfect open house.
Back in the kitchen, I took a few minutes to lay out the glossy color flyers I’d printed up. I thought they looked pretty damned professional. The sign-in sheet came next, a clipboard with a pen secured to it with a length of string. I’d made neat columns down the sheet of paper to docket every iota of contact information.
I had my hand on the freezer door when there was a second knock at the door. Mr. Williams, back for another round?
On my way through the living room, I reached over and cranked up the thermostat to a balmy seventy-two degrees, perfect buying temperature. Then I polished my teeth on my sleeve, cleared my throat, and threw open the door.
An attractive dark-haired woman stood on the step, her hand poised to knock again. “I’m afraid I’m early,” she said.
“Not at all. Come in.” I stood back, essaying a big smile that I hoped was warm and inviting but probably looked as if I suffered from gas pains.
She took a cautious step through the entryway. “Oh, my,” she said, surveying the wall-to-wall white. “I’d better take off my shoes. The walk’s a little muddy, you know.”
“Just slip these on,” I said, handing her a pair of booties from the basket. “Then I can give you the grand tour. I’m Sam, by the way.”
“Wanda,” she said, her head bent as she teetered on one foot. She was dressed like a local who knew that summer in Arlinda is a lot like winter everywhere else: dark green fuzzy vest, long-sleeved gray tee, black Dockers, leather closed-toe sandals. She straightened up and gave me a nice smile. “All set.” Brown eyes, glossy shoulder-length hair trimmed to outline a heart-shaped face. Her teeth were even and white, with none missing that I could see. A good sign. Maybe she actually could afford the place.
“If you don’t mind signing in—” I held out my clipboard, and she jotted down her name and other personal data. This was going perfectly.
We did a quick circuit of the house. Wanda frowned over the kitchen, but brightened as we stepped out onto the deck. “What a lovely view,” she said.
“Half an acre,” I put in. “You could drink your coffee out here every morning.”
“Oh, it’s not for me personally. It would be an investment. Do you know what other houses in the neighborhood rent for?”
“Um, sure,” I said. “I mean, I can find out.” But she’d moved on, shuffling up the stairs in her little white booties. I trotted after her in my stocking feet, mentally calculating prospective rents in the Heights. An arm and a leg? At least.
I followed her as she explored the second story, trying not to hover. Everett had stressed the importance of sticking with the “guests” rather than turning them loose so they could pocket the silverware. It seemed like a waste of time to me, but I followed his instructions, staying on her heels as she made short work of the rest of the house, and was at her elbow as she peered inside cabinets in the garage.
“Plenty of storage,” she said, examining a section of pegboard from which a rake and a limb saw hung suspended.
“Yes,” I said. My shining moment.
We returned to the living room, where I was startled to find an elderly couple standing just inside the front door. I recognized the man by his cinched-up pants and sour expression as the fellow who’d shouted at me from the house on the corner. He took a tape measure out of his pocket.
“The width of this hallway isn’t up to code,” he said. “Can’t get a wheelchair through here. That’s discrimination.”
&nbs
p; “The house was built in 1973,” I said. “I think it’s grandfathered in.”
He gave me a narrow look. “That some sort of ageist crack? I just might file a complaint, young lady. Where’s the bathroom? I got a bum prostate.” He stumped by me without waiting for a response. His wife, thin and gray in a drab sweater and navy slacks, hurried down the hall after him. “Now, Norm—”
“Stow it, Ethel,” he said.
I pictured Ethel placidly stirring some strychnine into Norm’s morning coffee the next time he barked at her. A cheering thought. In the meantime, I suddenly realized Wanda had slipped away. I trotted up the stairs, then back to the living room, where I found her by the front door slipping the booties off her shoes.
“Well, thank you,” she said.
I felt a flutter of panic at the thought of losing a hot prospect. “Oh, here, take a brochure.” I grabbed one off the counter and pushed it into her hands. “And here are some financing ideas from Arlinda Mortgage. Becky Daley there is a real ace.”
“I always go through Liberty Financial,” she said. Her eyes went blank for a moment, as if a switch had been flipped somewhere. Then she gave me a bright smile. “Guess I’ll be off. Nice meeting you.”
I watched her pick her way down the muddy walk and turn north toward Heartwood Drive. Then I thunked my head against the door frame. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’d scared her off with high-pressure sales tactics. Maybe my real estate bible was wrong and Everett was right. Less is more, he’d said. Talk about the weather, the Giants’ relief pitching, anything but the house.
I retreated to the living room, wondering how long Norm was going to tie up the commode. The sound of a car pulling up brought me back to the door. A woman was unloading a fluffy golden Labradoodle from a battered minivan. She clipped a lead to his collar, and the two of them came up the walk.
A Killer Location Page 2