Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out

by Catharine Bramkamp

  I felt I just made a huge commitment: possibly to eating the whole pint of ice cream. I didn’t think I wanted to jump over the abyss again, at least not in the dark. And I certainly wouldn’t dream of wasting any of the ice cream.

  My books were scattered over the far end of the master bedroom, waiting to take their place in the built-in bookcases. I took a spoonful of ice cream and regarded the books and empty shelves, but I was not up to the task. I peeled off my clothes and hung them up in my new walk in closet, careful to not smear ice cream on anything.

  Ben and I bought a new bed together, a king size sleigh bed with a curling head and footboard. It was so massive, it had to be winched up through the balcony’s French doors by crane. I was almost sorry I wasn’t there to watch it, but then happy I wasn’t there, just in case there was damage or injuries, or comments about the size of the bed compared to the size of my, well, me. I regarded its expanse and set down my treat. I quickly stripped off the thin blanket and sheets and shook them out over the balcony. Dust and sawdust rained on the back lawn and patio below.

  I dusted off the top book in the thirty-second pile and brought it to bed. It was only nine o’clock but the bed and ice cream beckoned. Besides, I had committed to the upstairs. Just as I was about to take another bite and open the book to chapter one, the phone interrupted me. It was a blocked caller. Who is so important they need to have a blocked number? I almost didn’t answer it, but I couldn’t not answer it, I was selling my house.

  I set down my spoon and picked up the phone.

  “I’m calling about the house.” It was Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Crap.

  I drew my legs up and tuned up my tone from grumpy and interrupted to chirpy and pleasant with just a hint of other offers about to be made and so you must hurry up. I chose not to point out the time.

  “I’m so glad you called Marcia (I gulped back the iteration), what can I tell you about the property Marcia?” Marcia. Marcia.

  I carefully set down the ice cream and started punching down my pillows and fluffing them up again, punch, fluff.

  “My clients are interested, but the price is too high. What kind of Comparative Market Analysis did you do? I always work with a dozen homes, just to get it right. I always get everything right for my clients. But you know that. I’m just a bulldog when it comes to my client’s interests. I will always do the best by my clients. And they love me for it. Is the refrigerator included? It didn’t say it was included in the listing, but my clients are possibly interested in the refrigerator, if you reduce the price.”

  I punched the pillow back down again.

  I knew it was best to record everything Marcia said, get the call transcribed and then notarized by a third party (not someone from her office, however) and keep it all in a sealed envelope so that when she turns on me, and she will very much turn on me, I’d have proof, written and signed and the New Century Attorneys, who all know Marcia, Marcia, Marcia, by all three of her names, will have something tangible to work with.

  I grabbed the melting pint container, tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder and cautiously made my way downstairs.

  “I’ll write up an amendment to make sure the refrigerator question is clear.” I paused at the bottom of the stairs.

  I held my breath and jumped over the pit. If Marcia heard the thump, she did not comment, she was too busy thinking of her clients. I opened my new refrigerator. I didn’t want the old refrigerator, but appliances are effective last minute negotiating items. “Would your clients like to see the house?”

  “We’ll be by at 3:00 tomorrow afternoon,” she announced. “Of course you can be there too, you don’t have any other offers on the property pending, I checked. You’ll want to be at the house to meet your buyers. Of course, and make sure the owner is out of the way.”

  Her arrogance rankled. I glanced at the microwave as if knowing it was 9:36 PM would help. I was still in Claim Jump, but Marcia, Marcia, Marcia did not know that.

  “There’s a lock box on the front door. Go ahead and check it out,” I offered. “The house looks just like it did during the Broker’s Open. Yesterday.”

  “Oh, okay.” She was clearly disappointed. Was she hoping to disrupt my schedule? Hoping I’d invite her to come over tonight?

  Good idea. “Would you like to see the house again tonight? You can go right over, I’m not there at the moment, I’m with a new client, but if your clients are anxious. . .” I trailed off. It was a ridiculous offer, but one I couldn’t resist.

  “No, no, tomorrow is soon enough,” she admitted reluctantly.

  “Really? The house is open anytime until midnight.”

  I knew to the pint how many Ben & Jerry’s cartons were stored in my River’s Bend freezer, if she took one, I’d know who did it.

  Marcia saved face by announcing she’d view the house tomorrow. I tried to sound as gracious and lovely as I could muster. Once she signed off, I considered jumping back in the car and driving like a maniac to my house just so I’d have time to scrub the floors, paint the interior of the closets and trim the grass with manicure scissors, but I needed some rest. I leapt back over the hole and wondered if the piece of plywood Prue used for the dining room table would fit over this hole.

  I punched the pillows again, drank some soothing tea that did not live up to the little sleepy bear on the box and ground my teeth all night until I could reasonably rise and jump into the car and head back down to River’s Bend to head Marcia, Marcia, Marcia off at the pass.

  Chapter 10

  I reached my driveway in record time, giving me a good couple hours to take a dishcloth and swipe at the already polished walls and floor. I was pissed off that I felt so compelled to come down to be here for Marcia’s clients. She could walk them through the house; she didn’t need my help. Yet I wanted to make sure nothing was missed. I wanted to explain. I wanted to be here. If I have this attitude about everyone who wants to see the house, I would be a wreck in a week; the shower would merely finish me off.

  Emily called as I was automatically loading more boxes into my car to be ready for the next trip up to Claim Jump.

  “They have their caterer, his people just called to confirm.” Emily announced.

  “You don’t sound pleased,” I gripped a box by the top flaps and dragged it to the car. They were all too heavy for me to pick up, which begs a number of questions and would engender more than a few suggestions from Ben, but I was not in the mood to do this well, just in the mood to do it.

  “His People?” Emily, like Carrie, can convey an eye roll over the phone. “Really?”

  “He is probably too busy flambéing or braising or pandering on his TV show to make his own catering calls.” I defended the indefensible.

  “Really,” Emily huffed.

  I stacked the boxes next to the car. “Emily, we can still switch this, I can hold it here at my house, I have no furniture, no books so it would be big enough if we seat fifty or so of the guests in the driveway.”

  “Fifty people standing around in your driveway? No. We’ll make do, but I don’t mind telling you, I’ll be glad when this is over. What are you and Ben going to do? You can hold the wedding here.”

  “You are very sweet to offer, we don’t know what we’re doing yet. But thank you.” I had been so intent on my conversation with Emily that I hadn’t heard the sounds from my own stoop. As soon as I clicked off the phone, I heard them. Shit, Marcia, Marcia, Marcia was early, just to catch me off guard. And it worked. I almost tripped over the stack of boxes as I rushed through the kitchen and to the front door.

  Marcia, Marcia ,Marcia greeted me in the foyer. She was alone. I heard voices upstairs. She had not knocked, but just let herself in using the lock box. She could have knocked first. You never know what you’ll find when showing an occupied house: owners just stepping out the shower, owners in the throes of an argument, owners dead in the bedroom. Many possibilities. I always knock.

  Marcia
was decked out in a bright green blazer with her Green, Green and Green name tag in glittering gold. She had clearly slept better than me. Her make up was perfect and she was as calm as a crocodile ready to grab a baby zebra at the watering hole.

  I stepped out of striking range.

  “We will need both garage door openers,” she started as her greeting. “I have two on my list, you’ll probably need to hunt down the second remote since you are probably only using one.” She made the use of a single garage opener sound pathetic. I steeled to keep my expression neutral and resisted glancing at Marcia’s left hand. My own ring was heavy and comforting. Carrie had my other garage opener. But I did not point that out.

  “I’ll deliver the door openers after escrow closes.”

  I pulled out a yellow legal pad from the front hall table. I scribbled something she couldn’t see. “What else did your buyers want to include?” I had already made the bed, but neglected scrubbing the tiles one more time. I hoped they wouldn’t notice that the tiles weren’t sparkling.

  “The master bedroom is awfully small, I don’t think the king size water bed will fit in there, and there is no chandelier in the living room, that’s not very elegant. What will my friends say?” A familiar whine floated down from the second floor hallway and caused the hair on the back of my neck to rise. I glanced up with quickly dawning horror. It was Heather Schultz, a young shallow girl with far more beauty that common sense or personality. She actually worked as an agent in our office for a few tortuous months, then changed her career to work for State Farm Insurance. That company recently relocated to Bakersfield, which I’m not so sure wasn’t a reflection on Heather, and now here she was. In my house. Was I doomed to deal with everyone I disliked in a course of one short week? A gentleman who looked to be in his late fifties, fit, with a bland expression, followed Heather out of the master bedroom.

  And Heather hadn’t even called us, her former office and place of (albeit brief) employment, to help her buy her house. What will Rosemary and Katherine say about that? Now that was something I could hardly wait to convey. Maybe it would distract them from their squatters-in-the-foreclosure project.

  I smiled tightly and addressed the man who trailed behind Heather. He looked well enough to take on a woman half his age, which was about right. Heather simpered and eyed me with an expression of clear triumph.

  “Oh, hi Allison. This is Hank, he’s buying me a new house for a wedding gift, isn’t that romantic?”

  The last time I saw Heather she was mocking me, along with the rest of a room full of agents, for finding another dead body in one of my listings. I may not forgive her for that. I may not forgive her for a number of things, but Heather never lit on any one career or project long enough for me to get a clear sighting. I hoped Hank was up for her level of activity. He looked as if he may be.

  He leaned around his lovely, young, girlfriend and shook my hand. “Hank Wilson, nice to meet you. Your client has a beautiful place.”

  Heather pouted a bit. “But it’s not very big.”

  I automatically bristled but resisted rising to her bait.

  “It’s very big for your price range.” Marcia, Marcia, Marcia said severely. “This is the thirtieth house we’ve seen this week, if you want to stay in River’s Bend, this is the last of your choices currently on the market.”

  “Don’t you have any of those pocket listings?” Heather pouted. “I know about those, you keep all the good houses for yourselves and don’t put them in that MLS thing. I was in the business you know.”

  She had been in the business for about fifteen minutes. Heather made a terrible Realtor in that she always got lost. She couldn’t find her way back to her own house even armed with a GPS and a Google Map. I stepped back and fought to suppress a huge smile from stretching across my face. Oh sure, this was bad, if Heather did like my house, the escrow would be miserable and awful especially with Patricia so distracted. But damn, thirty houses? (In probably more like a week and half, Marcia, Marcia, Marcia was prone to exaggeration). And she had to save mine for last? No one was having a good time in this partnership. I was delighted.

  “I can fire you, you know.” Heather continued, her glossy lips, a signature of hers, formed into an even more expressive pout.

  “No,” I defended Marcia, Marcia, Marcia out of shear spite. “Don’t do that, you know Marcia,” I choked back the other two repetitions, “is a bull dog when it comes to her clients. You know you want someone who will fight tooth and nail to make sure every light bulb is in place after the client moves out.” I batted my eyes and dared Marcia, Marcia, Marcia to respond.

  She riffled through sheets of MLSs printouts and stared at the ground. What on earth was she doing with all that paper? No one used paper anymore.

  “You did count the light bulbs already?” I goaded her. “You know, we don’t want anything to go unaccounted for and not written down,” I wrote a note on my own paper-intensive notebook. I glanced up at the high ceiling in the foyer. “Do you want to count the cobwebs as well? Or should we assume they come with the house because they are clearly attached?”

  I smiled gleefully. I just needed the right, terrible, dark attitude. Hosting a shower with two women carrying the sobriquet of the Furies will do that to a woman.

  “Do you have the pest report we can review?” Marcia asked me, not addressing anything I just suggested. No sense of humor, or whimsy, poor woman.

  “I’ll email them. And the pest suggestions as well, everything is up to date.” I nodded to Hank. “The refrigerator may be negotiable, but the price is not dropping.” Not if Heather wants it. I may even consider increasing the price.

  After they left, I eyed my house and garage. What would it cost to just have someone else come and take everything away?

  When a house has been foreclosed and abandoned, the new owners, who look very much like bank vice presidents will occasionally concede that the house, already an unwelcome asset, would sell faster if the rotting food is removed from the refrigerator and the rusted pick-up truck towed from the drive. Often the only way to accomplish a thorough cleaning of a foreclosed house is to order a trash out. In a trash out, a group of professionals come into the house and strip it of every nasty, horrible thing from the back bath to under the house.

  Once a trash out is complete, the house is much easier to sell, and a new family can move into something that no longer harbors the depressing scent of failed lives and broken dreams.

  I repeat - professionals. An amateur trash out is called vandalism.

  No, a trash out was too extreme, even in my current mood. I sucked it up, loaded more books into the car and headed to the office. I was still pre-occupied with this new potential sale and the ever-lasting shower when I ran into Katherine. I wasn’t in the best frame of mind, the shower was expanding as rapidly as the wedding and reception and Marcia had called me three times while I was driving with inane questions she jolly well could have researched herself.

  “We have them all set, the children will start school tomorrow, not a lot of time lost.” Katherine said with satisfaction.

  “And his wife will start a job soon, I’m just waiting for the employer to call me as a reference.” Rosemary reported.

  “You enrolled the children in school?” I dropped my purse on the reception counter.

  They shrugged together in unison. “All you need is an address, it’s not hard to do. The schools are almost empty anyway, they want the child and the money.”

  “They are already paying PG&E, we set them up with basic cable.” Rosemary said piously. As if she was helping the poor, but they weren’t really helping the poor as much as they were screwing the rich.

  “We’re taking donations for school clothes.” The women, a two-person charity program, stared at me pointedly.

  I sighed and pulled out my wallet.

  Chapter 11

  Since I’m apparently not busy enough, I was assigned the task of picking up the wine and delivering it to Em
ily’s in time for the shower on Saturday.

  I pulled into the empty parking lot of Prophesy Estates Wednesday afternoon. The only other car on the gravel parking area was a sleek black Mercedes. I glanced at the plates, just newer California plates. Maybe Cassandra needed a new car for her winery as well.

  I shouldered my bag and marched into the winery. The warehouse reverberated with workers shouting instructions and orders. Metal banged, engines revved, brakes squealed, a long truck with the V-shaped bins rumbled by, a cluster of grapes spilled from the heaped top and dropped onto the patio.

  I was glad we weren’t converging on the winery for the shower as well.

  No one manned the tasting room. Who would she get to replace poor Fred? Cassandra was only open for private appointments during the week so the place was deserted.

  “Hello?” I had called ahead, and Cassandra promised three cases of her white for the party. I thought maybe the cases would just be sitting on the tasting counter. I had planned on grabbing it and heading to Ben and Emily’s. It was not to be that easy.

  I poked my head into the office. Papers strewn across a battered Mission style desk that looked suspiciously as if it hailed from the Ben Stone collection. I couldn’t complain, we had agreed to put most of my newer furniture in the new house and Ben could keep some of his furniture at his grandmother’s. But apparently not all of it.

  Men shouted in the back. A terrible grinding noise filled the room, more shouts and the grinding stopped.

  I peeked around the back door. The place was flooded with light; the floor was covered with water and grape seeds. I glanced up at the two remaining stainless tanks. The lower doors seemed secured. Ben told me the insurance company was sending in a claims adjuster, even though it was officially an accident. No one was happy about the possibility of a spike in the already difficult to procure insurance premiums.