Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “Do you remember we picked up all that insulation I had on my hands?”

  “After you pulled the door off the hinges to escape a fiery death? That insulation?” That was the last time Ben had visited Claim Jump. Danny, ironically was part of the problem then. At the time, Danny mistook Ben for a housing inspector, and Danny did not want to take the fall for Lucky’s shortcuts. So he decided on the spur of the moment that Ben should take the fall.

  “You make it sound so melodramatic.” He teased, “It was a flimsy door, and the fire was at least five minutes away.”

  “Thanks, that makes me feel so much better.”

  He waited. I turned the corner and headed back to Prue’s. “Check the glove compartment.”

  He did, after pulling out handfuls of unnecessary AAA maps of places I no longer visited, three emergency lipsticks, a small travel size hand lotion, gum, mints, notepads and scratched New Century name badges, he found a flattened baggy wedged in the back corner of the compartment.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little risky to just drive around with a baggie of white powder in your car?” He waved the folorn thing at me.

  “Not really, it’s not pretty and sparkly enough to be coke, it looks more like corn starch and that’s not yet a controlled substance.”

  He hefted the bag. “We can tell the story, but that won’t hold in court or in favor of a class-action suite”

  “No, no it wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll take it down to a friend of mine in Davis, he can be the expert witness, if it comes to that. Will you be okay if I’m gone overnight?”

  “It’s Claim Jump. I’ll be fine.”

  “Just stay off the shooting range, and out of Penny’s way, and don’t sell any home filled with this,” he rattled the bag then slipped it into his pocket.

  “I’ll be careful.” I promised.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I should have been worried that there was a murderer lurking around the community, ready to strike again, but I was pretty certain this was a one shot deal, so to speak. I was still convinced that a whole group of residents were responsible for Lucky’s death, which meant the whole town was crawling with would-be murderers. Perversely, I felt safer for it.

  I picked up my phone and walked around the apartment until I found enough bars to make a call.

  Tom answered on the first ring. “It’s after hours.”

  “This is not official business.”

  “Allison.” His voice held a note of warning. I had no rights, Lucky wasn’t my father, but Penny wasn’t asking questions, so I would.

  “Was the body tied up?”

  “No, but we did think of that.” He said with exaggerated patience.

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “Would I tell you?”

  “No, but you may as well.”

  “We have no leads. It’s a bizarre accident, we may never know what really happened.”

  “Aren’t people clamoring for justice?”

  I heard him blow out a breath. “We’re talking about Lucky Masters here. Penny isn’t pursuing the situation and Summer just discovered the theater will be generously endowed. No one is protesting anything.”

  “So you are going to write it off?”

  “The mayor would like that. Just bury the whole event along with Lucky and, as she put it, allow his good works to stand for themselves.”

  “Or not.”

  “Or not,” he agreed.

  “Did you get very far with the cause of last fall’s fire?” I switched subjects.

  He paused and then cleared his throat. “We hit a dead end there too; no evidence.”

  I thought of Ben driving to his friend’s lab in Davis. I did not bring that up, I don’t know why.

  “If you had evidence, would you open the case again?”

  His pause was even longer. “Lucky’s insurance agency would like to know, and a pack of attorneys would like to know. But you know if there is a class action suit, like the kind Debbie is working to organize, all Lucky’s money will go to the plaintiffs.”

  “Instead of the theater?”

  “Instead of the theater.” He agreed. “Instead of the Children’s Festival, Instead of the music hall for the high school, instead of the tympani drums for the symphony, instead of overtime for the police to organize the Constitution Day parade. Instead of a long list of things.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Stop calling me at home.”

  I returned to the deserted kitchen in the main house to work on my computer since the apartment was out of Wi-Fi range. I skimmed the web for further reports on Lucky. As annoying and sometimes scary as our receptionist Patricia was, she was excellent at researching the web. I had half a mind to call and ask for her help, but there was no excuse I could use. Lucky was not a New Century client.

  “What are you doing?” Carrie padded down wearing a pair of my grandfather’s thick socks.

  “Looking up information on Lucky Masters, what are you doing?”

  “Mourning what could have been.”

  I wondered, did they say anything about finding a cane at the scene? I scrolled down and read the local news report and blog but there was no mention of a cane.

  “He always carried his cane.” I said out loud.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Carrie snapped.

  “Someone needs a cookie.” I continued to stare at the rows and rows of sentences and letters willing them to form an answer to questions I didn’t know yet.

  “It has to do with Lucky’s ambulatory status at the time of death.” I finally said out loud.

  “What?”

  “Did he walk out to the shooting range himself or was he carried?”

  “Like tossing kittens in the lake.” She said unexpectedly.

  “Yes, yes. It doesn’t say if the body was tied or bagged. Tom said it wasn’t tied. Did the killer find him napping and without waking him, dragged him to the shooting range so a good twenty or so citizens of Claim Jump could plug him full of holes?”

  “Drugged?”

  “Doesn’t say.”

  “Sometimes they don’t,” she pointed out. She was right, it used to be that the fourth estate would helpfully print everything about a murder or suicide or killing of every kind. Now reporters were more circumspect. Evidence was withheld so the real killer could be discovered; I had personally run into that technique before.

  The sky was dark and forbidding on April Fool’s Day, on odd day to schedule an event, but I was not in charge.

  Patrick did fly in for the weekend but he and Carrie were as frosty as the weather. Ben and I pretended everything was fine. We loaded the love birds into the back of my warm car ignoring their sidelong glances and glowering expressions.

  I felt like a mom with recalcitrant children who, minutes before boarding the car, wanted to stay home from the field trip after all. The good news was that I found a great new dress to wear. The bad news was that like a ballerina who has to wear a sweater over her costume for trick or treating, I had to pair the light jersey dress with winter black boots and my heavy coat. I was cranky, the weather was oppressive and cold, and Patrick and Carrie did not utter a word the whole trip up the mountain.

  Ben’s news didn’t do much to cheer us either. He returned Friday afternoon just a few hours ahead of Patrick. Carrie and I were oddly unenthusiastic about our loved one’s homecomings.

  “Thirty voice mails from my parents.” Carrie announced. She deleted them all. “I don’t know what they want from me. I don’t know what Patrick wants from me. Some kind of happy reconciliation? They won’t change, and I wouldn’t trust them if they said they had.”

  “A note from an AA sponsor?” I suggested.

  “Even more than that.” Carrie was my fabulous, liberal, caregiving, kitten saving friend. She makes Mother Teresa look like nothing more than a publicity hound. Carrie saves everything and everyone who crosses her path. But her charitable propensities did not be
gin at home.

  “Maybe they just want to reconnect.”

  She gave me a withering look. “I’ve been drinking Cooper milk all my life, this is not lost on my parents. They want a cut, they want money.”

  “Can you give them enough to get make them stop harassing you?”

  “There will never be enough money for extortionists,” she said. “They would never leave me alone. I already know that.”

  “What about Patrick?”

  “He’s coming.”

  That was all she said on the subject.

  Ben’s news wasn’t remarkable or dramatic or even very helpful. The insulation was flammable. Great. We knew that. We had a signed statement from a real research professor, but we still did not know what the hell to do with the information. Especially since no one really wanted it.

  It was a low point in our visit. Patrick, who burst into the house with a blast of icy air, was a welcome distraction. To her credit, Carrie immediately greeted him in the hall.

  Ben listened to for a moment. “I think we should all take Prue out for dinner. No one can misbehave in the presence of a grandma figure.”

  He was right of course. Patrick would never make a public scene, and Carrie wouldn’t put Prue through anything embarrassing, not in such a small town. We grimaced and made small talk and chatted as much as we could to get through the evening.

  The open house event was perfect, a distraction.

  Penny’s house, built on upper Gold Mountain, was located in an exclusive area called Oak Glen, the development Scott thought was too fancy, and he was right. Lucky developed it and sold it as the only place anyone who was anyone could possibly live. I remember reading the ads in the Sunday Chronicle when I was little, even then I remembered thinking, Claim Jump? Exclusive?

  But enough wealthy former Bay Area residents took the bait in the eighties and built their monstrous dream homes with views well under 380 degrees. Penny’s house was the crown jewel in the development.

  We drove though an elaborate iron gate that was usually locked to keep out the commoners. It was propped open for this event. We drove past dogwood trees covered by delicate pink and white flat flowers. Penny’s house sat at the top of a crest surrounded by similarly sized homes: some built in Tudor style, some built to resemble Queen Anne, all pretentious, none very funky. One prairie style home was enhanced by a blue Coldwell Banker for sale sign waving next to the mailbox built into a stacked stone pillar. I could show that to Scott tomorrow. I squinted at the front door.

  Ben saw what I was doing, and dashed to the house.

  “What are you doing?” I called after him.

  “Checking for a lockbox.”

  He quickly returned. “There is one on the front door. You’re good to go.”

  Penny was stationed at her front door, greeting the guests like the good hostess she was, or at least aspired to be.

  “I want you to sell my father’s house.” Penny stated right after I said hello to her in her foyer. “Ben says that you are the best.”

  She batted her eyes at Ben as she said it.

  “Yes, I am, but what about Lucky’s friends? Your dad was in the business. He must have a number of Realtors who could help.” Good, Allison, now you’re deflecting business. What was wrong with me? But I couldn’t snatch a listing from someone like that nice Coldwell Banker guy, Leonard. Leonard liked Lucky, and he’d probably do a great job at selling the place.

  Would Scott want Lucky’s house? It was only a few doors down from the library, short commute, beautiful place, historic as all get out, riddled with character.

  She ignored my suggestion. “Will you do it?” she continued to squeeze my hand, not hard, she wasn’t capable of that, but insistent. I suddenly understood Ben’s position better. Penny didn’t give a person much time or space to consider her proposal or even say no.

  “How much do you want for it?” I acquiesced. I agreed with Leonard, there was no way to comp the house, and no way to put a price tag on the former home of the murdered Lucky Masters. I would either have a stampede on my hands or I’d have to call in professional psychic cleaners to run around the house with smudging sticks. I was already mentally ordering the plastic statue of St. Joseph to bury in the back yard.

  “Lockbox?” I asked, hoping I could borrow one from the New Century office; maybe they could share Inez’s percentage if they helped me.

  “Of course,” agreed the daughter of a developer. She knew the score; I’ll give her points in her favor for that.

  “See me tomorrow.” Penny dropped my hand and walked away. Her work was done. I wasn’t sure if I was flattered or deeply insulted.

  “See?” Ben came up behind me. “There is nothing you can do, resistance is futile.”

  “What just happened?” Carrie asked.

  “I just got a listing.” I said, still feeling a bit stunned. “This will make Inez and the national office happy.” And at least this time the dead body was not located IN the house.

  “You’re selling Lucky’s place?” Carrie asked. “Won’t people just be curious and tramp all over the house?”

  “Of course they will; I would. But morbid curiosity can sell just as well as perfection, and Summer is practically across the street at the theater, she can shoo away the merely curious.”

  “What about privacy?”

  “You don’t buy a huge house like that and expect privacy.” I lectured. “You live up here for privacy. The buyer can always plant laurels in the front yard.”

  As if on time, I spotted my client, Scott Lewis. Sarah Miller was with him, not holding his hand, but hovering close by. I wondered what the members of the Brotherhood would make of that.

  “Hi.” I greeted them both.

  “Hi Allison. This is Sarah Miller.”

  “Hello Sarah.” I shook her hand, it was rough from housework, but she returned my grip with equal strength.

  “Hospice is with my grandparents, or rather Melissa is with them. I didn’t leave them alone just so I could come to this.” Her words tumbled out as if I had accused her of neglect.

  “You have a great reputation for caring well for them.” I soothed.

  “I wanted you to know that Lucky’s house is officially for sale.” I told Scott.

  “I remember his house.” Scott said. “Dad and I liked walking around the town when I was a kid, just imagining the lives of people who could afford just marvelous places. Dad said that Lucky’s house reminded him of the movie It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  I wondered if it was the house, or Lucky’s attempt to turn Claim Jump into Lucky Town, just like Potterville.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It does have that feeling of a grand house. I have a couple of calls in for Gold Way.”

  “Thank you for letting me know. Hey, how about a breakfast restaurant?”

  “No.”

  All the niceties, the greetings and business accomplished, we split up. Ben took Patrick’s arm and they wandered off to the right, Carrie and I wandered to the left. The house itself was beautiful with Craftsman flourishes, tile and enough wood paneling to reforest Stern Grove. Lucky had removed most of the surrounding forest to build the house, it was a small comfort to imagine he had put all that wood back into the house.

  As naturally stunning as the place was, what was more eye catching and impressive were all the quilts. The house was packed with Penny’s hand sewn quilts. I recognized them; they looked like the ones hanging over the library shelves and gracing the brick walls of the theater. Red and blue quilts covered bedroom walls. Green and umber quilts doubled as shower curtains. Quilts lined the upstairs hallway. Every bed in every bedroom was covered in an elaborately pieced, perfectly color matched, hand crafted quilt.

  “These are fantastic. Look at the variation in the Wedding Ring pattern; I’ve never seen that. And the gradations in the Log Cabin.” Carrie put her hands on her hips and surveyed what was the smallest guest room. It looked like the guest room in my house - unused.

&
nbsp; “These are amazing.” Carrie stroked the quilt. “Where did she get them?”

  “She makes them.” It was one of the few pieces of information I was certain of.

  “Really? The woman who owns the house?”

  “Incongruous?”

  “She doesn’t strike me as the domestic type.”

  We listened to the other guests in adjacent rooms oohh and ahh over the quilts. We slowly threaded through the crowd and made our way back to the main floor. We met up with Ben and Patrick in the living room. It was a large space with a soaring 20-foot ceiling dotted with glass. Very impressive, but it held no charm.

  To the right, over by the front foyer, Summer stood at a table piled with quilts. A hand lettered sign announced the quilts were valued at $500 apiece, checks to be made out as a donation to Summer Theater. She was doing brisk business. Now there was a good fundraiser. Carrie and I approached, not able to resist something for sale.

  Summer looked much better this afternoon, her hair was slicked back in a more restrained bob, her lipstick was bright red and mostly intact. “It’s about time, Lucky never allowed her work to be sold, as if they couldn’t leave the family! But now, this will make Penny’s reputation.”

  “Did she ever enter in the fair?” I thought of the banners of quilts hanging along inside the Lucky Masters Building.

  “All the time.” Summer confirmed, “She told me she started making quilts right after her mother left, in the early eighties. It was terrible. Her mother died soon after.”

  Summer shook her head. “I just can’t imagine, the poor thing. You know what Lucky told everyone? That his wife was unstable.”

  Unstable: as if life was only about successfully balancing in your first pair of high heel shoes.

  “She used to decorate the house on Main Street for every holiday. Lucky was once very proud of her, but gradually things became worse and worse and she had to go away, but to lose your mother.” Summer shook her head.

  I did not have an answer to that, because I had no reference. Two women clutching three quilts each pushed up against me. I stepped aside. “You look busy, I’ll catch you later.”