“I cannot bear to circulate these grocery store books, but I can’t reject them either.”
“They burn at 451 degrees,” Joan tossed off.
Sarah paused. “I can’t burn the books. We just recycle them for now.”
Finally Joan capitulated. She must field this dream hundreds of times over the course of her work. She is a professor for both the undergrad and for the MFA program at the local State University that will remain nameless because the climate is so mired in politics and blatant favoritism that when professors finally do make tenure, they respond by committing suicide. Joan assures me that is a joke.
“Send it to me,” Joan said, pain already in her voice, the rejection already assured.
Sarah clasped her hands. “Really? You’d look at it? I could use feedback from someone who wasn’t trying to be nice and just encourage me.”
“I’m not trying to be nice.” Scott abandoned his conversation with Carrie to join his wife. “I think you’re good.”
Scott was a lovely young man, but not exactly a literary critic. I did not offer that assessment.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have an encouraging bone in my body.” And to make her point clear, Joan repeated her stock phrase, “Even if you do publish, you won’t make any money.”
“I don’t need the money.” Sarah dismissed Joan’s caution.
“That’s sweet, rich with friends and love?”
“No, we’re really well off. I just wrote this book for fun.” Sarah was serious.
“And fun is what you’ll get,” Joan nodded. “But first I’ll look at it, don’t get your hopes up,” she added kindly.
Her work here finished, Joan turned to me. “Now Allison, let’s have a pre-bachelorette party for this bride.”
“Thank you for talking to Sarah, I had no idea she was a writer, otherwise I wouldn’t have pushed her in front of you.” I poured more Roederer sparkling wine into each glass. We had ended up in Nevada City – the liveliest spot, lively meaning open after nine o’clock, was Friar Tucks, specializing in ambiance and fondue. Ensconced in a boot and armed with an excellent wine list and confident that no one knew us, it was a perfect spot for a loud boisterous drinking – which is what the other patrons were doing. In contrast to the regulars, we were pretty sedate.
“Everyone writes.” Joan gave me a severe professorial look and I retreated. “Sorry, I don’t write anything down. Unless it’s in a contract,” I amended.
Joan nodded. “That’s what I like about you, you are simple. Uncomplicated.”
“But I don’t want to be uncomplicated. I want to be mysterious like Cassandra,” I cried. Carrie pushed my wine glass towards me and I obediently took a drink.
“You aren’t, and frankly, that mysterious stuff is just wearing. And you don’t know why the person is mysterious, maybe they are trading off mysterious for unstable.”
“I’m certainly not unstable. I’m solid, Ben said so.”
“Ben is right,” Carrie said with satisfaction. “And you don’t want to be mysterious. Cassandra who is either mysterious, inscrutable, or a bad communicator, is in the hospital because she’s so mysterious it pissed someone off enough to push her off her own scaffolding.”
“I thought we agreed it was an accident.”
Carrie daintily lifted her smoking meat from the hot oil fondue pot and swirled it in the clarified butter. “We all know it’s not, I’m just saying it out loud.”
“Just wait until the wedding is over right?”
Carrie nodded.
“Good plan.” Joan agreed, “it’s only in what, a week?”
We chorused yes, just a short week.
“How are you doing?” Joan had two forks in the hot oil. She pulled out a mushroom and a chunk of chicken.
“I hate the person who is buying my house,” I admitted.
“That’s not what I asked.” She looked at me over the top of her large wine glass.
“Okay, Ben and I are good, we’re just busy. With the house and the wedding and this winery. Just busy.”
“And?” Carrie and Joan looked at me expectantly. I, in turn, twirled a meatball in the oil and concentrated on it as if I were Chef Rod Nelson starring on the Cooking Channel. “I love him so much it hurts. I want to marry him so he will belong to me forever and I don’t have to worry about losing him to waifs like Cassandra. I want him here in this perfect place because when we’re here, life is not so distracting. But I’ve been fooled before; I’ve been left at the altar. I’ve been deceived. How do I know Ben is not just another bad decision?”
“You don’t,” both women declared, rather definitely.
I must have looked deflated. I popped the hot meatball in my mouth. The melted cheese in the center was somewhat of a consolation.
“I think you can trust him, you’ve met his people right?”
“His mother is awful.”
“Every mother is awful,” Carrie waved her hand dismissively.
Joan clearly agreed. “My mother was nice to Norton out of sheer relief. Norton could have been a serial murderer and mom would not have cared as long as it was steady work. Does Ben make you happy?”
The waiter, tattooed, pierced but dressed in a clean white shirt and black pants, cruised by. He scooped up the empty sparkling wine bottle and cooler and whisked them away.
“Yes.” I picked up the thread of conversation. “Yes, he does.”
“And does he demand you change, or that you always do what he wants and never what you want?”
I remembered all the red flags that made up a small parade when I was dating and engaged to Mark. He wanted so much and I was so thrilled he’d have me at all, that I capitulated to every demand.
“I used to have low self esteem.” I forked up two shrimps and plunged them into the hot oil. We needed another bottle of wine, the Sierra Starr Zinfandel.
“Not any more.”
“No,” Joan pressed her advantage because my mouth was full. “Self esteem is not your problem anymore.”
I swallowed. “Except the dress.”
“You owe Carrie, wear the damn dress.”
I drained my glass. “I want him because he makes me happy.”
All the drinking and carousing (well, drinking) exhausted my friends. Both retired immediately when we returned to the house. I was pleased they each could stay in their own rooms. Even though the rooms were minimally furnished with one bed and one nightstand. I promised more luxury to come.
I was still restless. I wandered downstairs and popped open my computer. I surfed around the Internet, looking for something interesting.
This Saturday marked the last performance of You Can’t Take it With You at the Summer Theater. The performance was over by the time we came from dinner, so I looked online for the feed. Raul still recorded the theater shows and posted them. Summer says it helps her exposure, I still think people watch the feed so they don’t have to pay the fifteen dollars to see the real thing. I found it and rescued a partially eaten container of Crème Brule ice cream. I liked this play, particularly the part when the beer explodes under the house. A couple of nights ago I could even hear the explosion from my house. Summer created quite a blast it was so loud it caused some of the children in the audience cry - a triumph.
I let the show run while I dumped the empty ice cream container. When I returned, the audience had left and the screen had gone dark. There were low sounds; I rubbed the track pad to bring up the images. Summer and a man I had never seen before, were deep in conversation. He was handsome, possibly gay since he was clean shaven and good looking, but I’m a bad judge of these things.
“Did you find her?” Summer’s heavily lined eyes narrowed. Most of the lights in the theater were off. The stage opened like a yawing black hole behind them. The two had moved to the edge of the web cam’s scope, they were barely illuminated by the green glow of the exit sign.
I think he shrugged. If I wanted, I could cross the street and stand in the doorway of t
he theater for a better view, but I suspected my presence would be unwelcome.
“No one has found her. She really has disappeared.”
“Nice work,” Summer handed him something, but her hands were just low enough to be out of camera range. Now, what the hell did that mean? Had Summer actually hired a hit on Debbie? Summer was reckless and made questionable fashion decisions, but hiring out for murder? Yet at the same time, Debbie’s actions were a far bigger threat to Summer Theater than anything Lucky ever did.
And while we’re at it, Summer and her Theater were none of my business. I shut down the computer and idly tapped the cover.
My cell phone lit up, speaking of Raul.
“Yes?” I hoped he was in Prue’s kitchen, if he moved to the front of the house to talk, he’d cut out and I wouldn’t get his whole, and I was sure, convoluted message.
“Allison. You are up! The site is okay, did you do it?”
“I certainly did not,” I retorted.
“Did you see all her videos? Very good, to make a good video every day. But she posts just crap on her blog. Her photographer is sloppy, no editing. I edit my videos,” he added virtuously. He did indeed edit. Most of Raul’s live web feeds garner very interesting material that for a price, he’s happy to keep off the Internet. Extortion is one of Raul’s specialties. And yes, it does get him in trouble.
“Tell me about the sloppy editing.”
He sighed impatiently. “Go to your computer, I will just show you.”
I opened up my laptop again and typed in the URL. He directed me to the list of videos for Prophesy Estates. I wasn’t sure I was suppose to be rooting around in the “protected” part of Cassandra’s web site, but I had to know. What a lame excuse.
“Go to Video 120,” he instructed.
“Stay in the kitchen,” I recommended and started the video.
“How did you know? Never mind.” He must have moved away from the front of Prue’s house, his signal was clearer. I didn’t know much about computers, but I know my cell coverage.
“See in the background?” The video showed Cassandra, looking very photogenic, talking about terroir and walking up and down a vineyard. The grapes were purple and fat; she must have taped this only a few weeks ago.
“See there?” He asked. I watched closely, I saw what looked like a blur in the background up on the road level. I hit pause and made out what looked like a woman. That was all.
“That’s all?” I asked.
“You asked,” he remarked. “The same woman can be seen in two other videos.”
“You’re sure?”
“Your friend was upset no? Ask her about it.”
But why would Patricia care about a brunette woman in the background of Cassandra’s videos?
Chapter 14
Saturday morning Carrie wandered down stairs before Joan was up and headed for the coffee. “Patrick called.”
“That’s good.”
She filled a mug and contemplated the contents. “He suggested I stay another day here. But I have another fitting.” She stood perfectly still. “Allison,” she whispered. “Does he not want to be with me? Am I being too shrill and demanding?”
“Are you both under pressure?” I pulled out the milk and handed it to her. She absently added the milk so quickly the contents spilled over.
“Stay, you can rest on Sunday, because you have to work today.”
I mopped up the spill and led her to the large center island. “You can keep me company for another day, it would be a huge, huge favor.” I knew her hot buttons. She would stay to help me, but not to help herself. I wondered what was going on. Was Patrick finally protecting her from the Furies? The wedding planning was essentially finished. Now we all just needed to play our scripted parts. The dress was perfect and did not need “another fitting.” Everything that needed ordering, had been ordered. Including me. Jose and Ben were finishing up at the winery to get it cleaned up for the wedding, the caterers were the best in town. I sighed.
“You kind of feel superfluous don’t you?”
“I’m just the bride,” she said morosely.
“Well, it will soon be over.” I ratcheted up my voice to Tigger enthusiasm. “And you can get back to real life.”
“What is real?” she asked.
“Beside the Velveteen Rabbit?” Joan rubbed her eyes, her short red hair stood up around her head as if she used a fork to style it.
“Holding an open house is real.” I said firmly.
I dropped off Carrie and Joan, along with two open house signs at the Grove street property. “Just show people around, don’t say anything, give them the flyer.” I tapped the listing price and my number. “Tell them I’ll contact them later today, when I’m in range. Don’t tell them the part about not being in range.”
Carrie saluted. “Thanks,” she glanced around the tiny house. “I like this place, I feel safe here.”
“Why wouldn’t you feel safe?” The car door slammed behind her and she and Joan strode to the front door, lock box key in hand.
Safe. I supposed being watched all the time was getting on her nerves. Patrick told her he had hired detectives or security guys to keep an eye on either Carrie or her parents, whomever was in range. But there was no one up here, which added immensely to the appeal of the place.
I left and drove up to Penny’s house or rather, the former estate of Lucky Masters. I hoped the money from the sale of this house would go directly to the theater, or to the police station, or to the Brotherhood of Cornish Men so they could buy their indexes or something like that. If not, well I didn’t feel as inclined to line the pockets of Debbie Smith’s people.
I pulled into the empty driveway and opened the house. I placed signs on the corner both to help the couple who made the appointment to see the house at, I glanced at my watch, two o’clock. I also liked seeding the neighborhood with open house signs because it made the potential clients nervous; I wouldn’t want them to think they were my only potential buyers.
I quickly dusted off the most obvious surfaces, carefully avoiding the large empty fireplace that dominated the living room.
An accident. I mused. When is an accident murder? I know that’s up to a jury, but I couldn’t help thinking that the scaffolding over the stemmer crusher was conveniently rickety at a crucial time, and the cases of wine fell just as poor Fred and Trisha Gault strolled underneath. Was Fred meeting with Trisha? Did someone not want them to meet?
Ben may know, I pulled out my phone to ask, but there was no service. That’s right. I wondered if that was a material fact worthy of disclosure.
Maybe not just yet.
The couple with the appointment did not love the place and so did not spend as much time in the house as I hoped. For the rest of the afternoon, I entertained locals who could not afford to attend last year’s fundraiser – a house tour and lunch with Penny Masters (those proceeds benefited the theater). But they loved seeing the last house that Lucky Master’s built. In other words, I got nothing but lookers who already owned homes that were probably so deeply underwater they had no leverage to move up even if they wanted.
I was tempted to advertise that the house featured a 380-degree view, but resisted.
I called Joan on the LAN and suggested they knock off early. We agreed to meet at Prue’s. I could always count on a party at my grandmother’s.
When we arrived at 3:30, lunch was still in full swing. The meal today featured indifferent sandwiches and refreshing sangria. Pat and Mike waited on Prue, who usually tired by late afternoon. I forget that the elderly heal more slowly than we do. Don’t tell Prue I called her elderly.
“What’s across the creek from the Miller’s place?” Carrie sipped her sangria and closed her eyes with pleasure. “I shouldn’t,” she murmured.
“I’m driving you home.” I sipped my own drink. “Indulge.”
“It’s an apartment complex.” Mike confirmed. “Not in very good shape, but then the rents aren’t very high
either.”
“Ah, that’s probably what it was.”
“Was what?” Pat automatically cleared an armful of magazines, ready for recycling or for the library or for collages for shut-ins or whatever Prue saved them for, and sat down.
“A girl came down the from the apartments across the creek. I said hi but she didn’t wave or acknowledge me. Maybe she couldn’t see me very well.”
“At the very least she could see the ring.” I commented.
“You should talk.” She shot back.
“What did she look like?”
“She was pretty, long brown hair in a long braid, very Claim Jump. She was barefoot, but it’s warm outside, that’s all I can recall.”
We make terrible eyewitnesses. But the girl wasn’t important. We ate, we laughed.
“What did you mean about being safe?” I remembered in a flash.
Carrie shifted and reached for the sangria pitcher. She concentrated on pouring just the right amount of liquid into her glass, one bit at a time. I did not lose interest as she hoped I would. I waited her out. She finally finished and took a careful sip. Her eyes met mine over the glass.
“Okay.” She set the glass down and clasped her hands between her knees. “I got this call from Mary Bennett, she’s the executive director of the homeless shelter. A woman came into the shelter three nights ago asking for me. Mary told her I used to work for the Senior Center and maybe that’s what she was thinking of.”
“Was she homeless?”
“Sometimes you can’t tell,” Carrie pointed out with little heat. “But what an odd place to look for me.”
“Did Mary say what the woman looked like?”
“I didn’t ask. Should I call her back?”
“No, it probably doesn’t matter.”
“I wonder what she wanted?” She abandoned the question in favor of more sandwiches. Joan needed to leave early. Carrie, at the last minute, decided not to spend another night with me, but to leave as well. “I have that fitting,” she explained. I was not going to keep track of her or make her do anything she wasn’t up for.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out Page 19