Hello, Stranger

by Virginia Swift

  Annoyance turned to curiosity. Sally began to wonder about the eviction she’d witnessed. She didn’t doubt that Billy Reno and company weren’t the world’s tidiest tenants. But maybe there was more to their getting kicked out than too much carousing in the place. Sally recalled group houses from her college days, where shifting crowds of people had come and gone for months and there’d been a pretty much constant party going on the whole time. Those places hadn’t exactly been candidates for photo spreads in Architectural Digest, but the landlords had been content to collect the rent. She wondered who owned the place Billy’d vacated. A place, she recalled, with Charlie Preston’s name on the lease.

  What kind of landlord would rent to a basket case like Charlie Preston?

  “How about a glass of wine?” asked Edna, still buzzing with relaxation. “I’d even feed you if you want. Call Professor Green and see if he’s free too.”

  And so they ended up at Edna’s, feasting on pasta puttanesca and Chianti. Edna and her husband, Tom, lived in the heart of the campus neighborhood, in a gracious two-story house full of Pueblo pottery, Navajo rugs, and Nepalese metalwork, reflecting Edna’s years as a world-class field anthropologist. Edna told herself that it wasn’t worth being a university bureaucrat unless you took advantage of the summer vacations. But her idea of a vacation was to go someplace remote and try to communicate with people who’d just as soon be left alone. The amazing thing was that often as not, the people Edna invaded ended up liking her. Sally bet she didn’t let up until she’d wrapped everybody in the village around her little finger. Or perhaps compromised them beyond hope.

  Probably some of both. The woman was plain relentless. “Have you got your hand in Dave Haggerty’s pocket yet?” Edna asked Sally.

  Sally nearly spit Chianti all over Edna’s white linen tablecloth. Hawk cocked an eyebrow.

  “Nope,” said Sally. “It’s not a good time. He’s got a tough client.”

  “So I hear,” said Edna. “Some little crackhead criminal who may have murdered Brad Preston. It’s a damn shame about the daughter,” she added. “I hear she’s in really bad shape.”

  “Yeah,” said Sally. “I went down to the hospital to try to see her this morning, but the nurse told me that only family were allowed to visit.”

  “Probably just as well,” said Edna. “Look—I know you’re worried about her, but there’s nothing you can do. If she did have something to do with the murder, you’re just going to have to accept it. And if she didn’t, the police will take care of things. Give yourself a break and focus on what you can do,” she advised.

  “Like raising money,” said Sally, forcing a grin. Time to change the subject—sort of. “Or maybe scouting a building Dave Haggerty can buy me for my center.” Subtlety time. “Speaking of which, what in hell’s going on with real estate in this part of town?”

  “Great investment,” said Tom, around a mouthful of puttanesca. “Even that itty-bitty house of yours has probably doubled in value since you bought it, Green.”

  “I’m a born real estate speculator,” said Hawk.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Sally. “I mean, it’s not like Laramie’s population is growing, or there’s some big corporation moving in and setting off a boom. Why would property values be going up so fast?”

  “Gentrification,” said Edna.

  “You mean, low interest rates on loans, and a few really rich doctors and lawyers wanting really big houses, willing to pay way too much, and suddenly everybody’s scrambling for bigger loans, and pretty soon there’s a bubble.”

  “And don’t forget the trees,” said Tom. “Some of them want big ugly mega-houses out on the bald prairie, but they’ll pay a lot more down here in the tree district, where there’s some shelter and some shade.”

  “And alleys,” said Edna. “They like the alley access. This is Wyoming. If you’ve got an alley behind the house, you can pull your pickup right back behind the place, and leave the garage for the SUV and the front driveway for the snob car.”

  “Of course there’s the reverse snobbery where you park the sporty model out back and leave the pickup out front so people will think you’re a regular guy. That’s a Wyoming move too,” said Tom, who liked cars a lot. “That’s what I do with my Alfa.”

  “Darling,” said Edna, “you’ll admit that you park the Alfa out back because you think there’s less of a chance it’ll be stolen. Which would be amazing in any case, given the alarm you’ve got on that thing. I swear, when it goes off, you can hear it in Colorado.”

  Sally took a sip of wine. Blackberries exploded on her tongue. “Is it possible,” she wondered, “that just a few people could be driving up prices? I mean, a few investors with deep pockets, flipping properties until they’ve got enough to get out, and watch the bubble burst?”

  “I’ve wondered the same thing,” said Edna, “because if there is, we ought to be hitting them up, big-time. If they’re making a killing on the university neighborhood, it seems only fair and proper that they’d give a little back to keep the mother ship sailing along.”

  Alleys and sports cars and real estate bubbles and making a killing. Now Sally’s head was humming, and it wasn’t just the yoga and the wine. “Maybe I’ll do a little research,” she said. “See who’s doing deals and all.”

  “The college development office would know,” said Edna.

  “I think I’ve got a better source,” said Sally.

  Which was how Sally and Hawk ended up on the late shift at the Wrangler, sitting at the bar sipping club soda and waiting for Delice to finish reaming out a cocktail waitress for slipping too many free drinks to her sorry-ass deadbeat friends.

  “This is her last chance,” said Delice, glaring at the girl, who slunk away to tend to her tables. “I don’t mind the occasional Budweiser for the boyfriend, but six double Chivases and a Baileys Irish Cream goes beyond my limit. Plus I’m not crazy about that fucking navel ring. But the cowboys seem to love it, so what am I supposed to do?” The bartender brought her a shot of tequila, a salt shaker, and a slice of lime. Delice licked her hand, shook salt on it, licked again, downed the shot, and bit into the lime. “What’s up?” she asked, ritual over.

  “Maybe we should go to a table,” said Sally. “A little discretion.”

  “As long as we sit where I can keep an eye on things,” said Delice. “I don’t like the look of those guys who just sat down. They’ll probably be okay, but then, they’re more likely to behave themselves if I put the evil eye on them.”

  As they wove their way toward a table in the middle of the room, Delice made a pistol with her thumb and forefinger and pointed it at the young men she’d indicated, grinning as she passed by. Four guys with shaved heads, wearing football jerseys. They pretended to ignore her. Sally thought one of them looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Then again, there seemed to be a whole lot of shaved-head punks in Laramie these days. Hell, half the male students on campus had gone in for the cue-ball look.

  “Let’s talk about real estate,” said Sally as they sat down.

  “You’d be better off talking to my sister-in-law,” said Delice. “Or to Sam Branch.”

  Sally’d had plenty of conversations with the Realtors in question over the years. “I’m not in the mood to take their shit.”

  “I’m flattered that you’re willing to take mine,” said Delice.

  Sally pressed on. “Property values in the U. area are blowing up.”

  Delice nodded. “And with interest rates the way they are, you can really make out. I just refinanced my house, and you wouldn’t believe what it was appraised for. Why? Are you thinking of getting a real job and making some actual money?” she asked.

  “Sally? A real job? Not while they still pay people to pontificate,” said Hawk.

  “Speak for yourself,” Sally answered. “Seriously, Dee, about those house prices. Do you know if there’s somebody around town who’s got the bucks to speculate in Laramie real estate?”

/>   Delice thought about it. “A few businesspeople, a handful of doctors and lawyers—that’s about it. I know a few people in town who’ve done pretty well in the stock market, but it’s not like we’re Denver, and there are people who own oil companies or microchip plants or big banks. Somebody local could have been squirreling money away for a while, and then started buying up property in a big way. But you’d have to have found some way to make a bunch of money without anybody in town noticing. And I’d have noticed, believe me.”

  “Which is precisely why I’m asking you,” said Sally.

  “So do you think it’s somebody from out of town? Some smart operator looking to play with his money in a sand-box nobody else had noticed yet?”

  “Could be,” said Delice. “But it’d probably be somebody with local connections. Otherwise, why bother? We’re too far away from anywhere, the weather’s too shitty, and we’re just plain too insignificant for anybody to bother with, unless they have some reason for actually wanting to be here. Which suggests to me that it’s somebody who lives here.”

  Sally’s mind struggled through sludge, not quite fixing on a buried thought. Somebody who lives here. Somebody with a stake in the community. Somebody who’d made a bundle, and was now looking to make a real killing.

  Chapter 17

  May Day

  May Day. Time to gather the blossoms of the field, festoon the big pole with streamers, put on the dancin’ shoes.

  Also the Workers’ Holiday, the People’s Holiday. Sally had an old friend, a sixties leftie turned Realtor, who’d sent her a card last year, a bright red square printed with the message “It’s May Day. Time to think about private property.”

  After weeks of blustery winds, scudding clouds building into afternoon hailstorms, cold, thin sunlight at dawn and shivering silver dusk, isolated days of balmy false promise, the weather turned. Crocuses poked their heads up. Daffodils ventured out timid blooms, nodded their yellow heads with growing confidence. Irises and tulips speared forth, lilac bushes budded out. In all likelihood, there’d be one more monster snowstorm, but for now, Sally stretched in the sunlight, shook out her legs, and welcomed the first morning in months she’d run without gloves and a hat.

  She needed thinking music, so she’d chosen jazzy guitar/bass duets by Hot Tuna and set off at a lope, seeing the familiar street scenes, the very houses along her route in an entirely new light. Here, somebody was adding on a second story, with vaulted ceilings and custom wood windows out the wazoo. There, workers were hauling plumbing pipes and fixtures, a china sink, a porcelain toilet, into what had once been a detached garage, now being transformed into a luxury cottage for the proverbial mother-inlaw. And there... something else again. A huge Victorian with peeling yellow paint, gravel driveway packed with a VW van painted with clouds and graffiti, a superannuated Buick Century with a broken taillight, flying the Jolly Roger from its radio antenna, and a light pickup sporting a “Go Pokes” bumper sticker; two motorcycles parked on the front lawn. On the huge, inviting front porch, someone was huddled in a sleeping bag on a dilapidated couch. An empty Southern Comfort bottle lay on its side, halfway down the front steps.

  A mud-spattered brown Chevy Suburban with University of Wyoming logos painted on the front doors sat at the curb. Sally sidled up to the passenger side, peered in at the front seat. A sweat-stained feed cap with a “King Ropes” logo lay on the bench seat. In the plastic slot on the inside of the driver’s door, someone had stuck a curve-headed rock hammer and a yellow-backed waterproof notebook, the kind geologists used so they could take notes on rainy days in the field.

  She glanced back at the porch, and now she noticed a pair of crusty boots sitting on the deck next to the sleeping bag–shrouded figure on the couch. The mud job on the boots matched the one on the Suburban. Hmm.

  And something else caught her eye. A “For Sale” sign in the middle of the lawn. Sally mentally noted the name and phone number of the listing Realtor, then spent the rest of her run reciting the phone number to herself, over and over, until it had become the lyrics to the Hot Tuna instrumental jam. She kept up the repetition, even as she decided to take a detour past the apartment that had once housed Billy Reno and his roommates. She was not at all surprised to see a “Sold” sign out front.

  The minute she got home, she wrote the real estate agent’s number down, did a few stretches, and then picked up the phone. “I’d like some information on a house for sale at Tenth and Kearny,” she began.

  “Oh yes, that’s a fantastic property,” said the Realtor, who’d answered the call herself. “I could meet you there in an hour and a half. I’ve got another appointment right now, but if you’re interested, you’re going to want to move fast. You understand, of course, that the place has been a student rental, so it’s going to need some updating and a touch of TLC.”

  Which was supposed to stand for “tender loving care,” but in this case, Sally suspected, probably meant “tremendous load of cash.”

  Think fast, Mustang. “Um, actually, I can’t make it this morning. But for now, could you just tell me about the place?”

  “Five bedrooms, one and a half baths, farmhouse kitchen, detached two-car garage. The tenants have a lease until August 1, but we could get them out sooner if absolutely necessary. We’re listing it at three-seventy-five, and if you move quickly, you can probably get it for that. But once there’s a bid in, a war could start.”

  Real estate war? Sally swallowed. “That sounds like a lot, frankly. I mean, there’d be plenty of expense just repairing what the tenants have broken. Not to mention putting in another bath, updating the kitchen and appliances, paint, landscaping . . .”

  She was taxing the agent’s patience, and she knew it. “Look, it’s entirely up to you. I’d be delighted to show you the place, if you’re really interested.” Sally was beginning to think “interested” was a code word for “rich enough.”

  “But to be honest, for this neighborhood, you’re looking at a seller’s market. My most recent listing sold the day it went on the market. Either you jump on what you want, or it’s gone. And as far as this property goes, the owner is in a position to demand the asking price, or more.”

  In a position? Meaning, again, “rich enough”?

  Might as well go for it. “So who does own the place?” Sally asked, knowing that Realtors really weren’t supposed to divulge that kind of thing, but what the hell.

  “Sorry,” said the Realtor. “I’m getting a call on my other line.” She hung up.

  Sally called the development office at the university. “This is Professor Sally Alder,” she said.

  “Oh yes, Dr. Alder. One moment, please.”

  The receptionist connected her with a development officer, a man Sally had met several times socially, and once for a business lunch at which they’d agreed that nothing mattered more than having a first-rate university. It wasn’t the greatest deep-thinking moment of her life, or for that matter, his, probably, but he’d seemed like a nice, intelligent guy.

  “Ted,” she said, “have you heard about somebody snapping up a lot of real estate near campus lately?”

  “I put down a bid on a house on Custer,” he said. “Asking price. They came back later and said somebody had offered twenty K more. And then I heard they’d turned right around and sold the place for fifty more. It’s obscene. And of course, whoever has the bucks to do that kind of stuff ought to be giving giving giving to their friendly neighborhood institution of higher learning. But are they? Nooooo. We can’t even find out who it is.”

  “Really? Why not?” Sally asked. “I’d have thought you guys would have a line on every dollar in this town.”

  “Maybe that was possible ten years ago,” said Ted. “But it’s a new world. One of our attorneys did a title search on some of the properties that have changed hands in the last six months, and you know what? About a dozen houses in this town have been bought and sold at least twice during that period, with big price jumps. In every case,
the first buyer, second seller turned out to be a corporate blind with offices in Longmont, Colorado. When you call them up, you get an answering machine.”

  “What’s the name of the outfit?” Sally asked.

  “Just letters. WWJS. Probably the last initials of the partners or something. We’re still pursuing it, but in the meantime, we’re focusing on the people who’re ending up with the places. We have this foolish idea that they might actually be planning to live in the houses, and they’ve all shelled out a big chunk of change, which suggests to us that they might want to show us some love. Frankly, we don’t see it as all that fruitful to go chasing after some money-grubbing Coloradans who’ve probably got about as much interest in Laramie as a community as they do in saving the whales.”

  Did anybody care about the whales anymore? What about saving the students, or at least their chance of living in something remotely resembling a campus neighborhood? Sally thanked the development guy, then hung up.

  Hawk came into the kitchen, damp from his post-basketball shower.

  “Who do you know who drinks Southern Comfort?” she asked him.

  He made a face. “Students,” he said. “They’ll drink anything.”

  “Okay,” she said, “let me narrow it down. Who do you know who drinks rotgut and might have checked out a university truck yesterday?”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down much,” said Hawk. “But it’s easy enough to find out. Why? Have you joined Professors Against Drunk Driving of University Vehicles?”

  “No. But tell me what you think of this,” Sally said, and related what she’d seen on her run.

  “I don’t get it. What’s your point?” Hawk asked.

  “Think about that eviction I saw,” said Sally. “Consider the fact that Charlie Preston’s name was on that lease. I mean, the slumlords probably make more money evicting deadbeat tenants than they do renting to them, but still. She was barely of age, she had a long history of mental illness and run-ins with the law, she was a mass of facial piercings and, not to put too fine a point on it, she’s a girl. Who the hell would rent to her?”