"Yes, I do."
A dramatic sigh. "Why don't you at least give him a try?"
"You mean a test drive?" I laughed. "Forget it. This guy is a born salesman. I'd never get out of the car."
"Think how convenient it would be. You're always rushing around with real estate, and now Ronnie wants you to take self-defense classes too. This could be super-efficient. You could talk real estate and learn Karate moves at the same time. Or, Kung Fooey. Whatever."
"I don't think those are the moves Ted's interested in," I said with a chuckle. "And the last thing I want to do is encourage him. He's got that look."
Marilyn gave her cola a loud slurp. "Do not get me started on that, Kate," she said, and I could hear the disgust in her voice. "I just had a wonderfully wicked calorie-filled burger, and I don't want to have to fuss at you. It'll give me indigestion."
"Don't worry. We're about to engage in one of our favorite pastimes. Looking at new houses. Plenty of time to digest in peace." I turned my Explorer off the north-south artery and into the entrance of Rupert McKenzie's newest development.
Perched on the far southeastern edge of Fort Collins, only a cornfield away from the interstate, sat Jefferson Village. I'd been anxious to tour these homes, because the price range was wide enough to allow some first-time buyers into the market. I was curious to see what they looked like up close. Rupert was a savvy enough builder to balance proximity and price to best advantage.
"These look nice. All clean and neat," Marilyn said as we drove through newly-paved streets, bordered on both sides by colorful new townhomes. Muted colors were the rule, but I noticed some different shades that I hadn't seen before.
"Very attractive," I said. "Perfect for some of my young buyers. Let's hope they're as pretty inside as they are outside."
"Oh, I'll bet they are. Ginny Simpson does a lot of the interior design for builders here, and she has great style."
"You check the decorator's touch while I check the walls and windows," I said.
"Oh, dear. Does that mean you'll be prowling in every basement, like last time?"
"Oh, yeah. Basements tell tales."
"Such dreary work. I'm glad you have to do it."
Turning the corner, we headed down another block with larger homes. The same muted colors were used here, but I also noticed something else. Like the townhomes, every one of these houses had a front porch. And the architecture was reminiscent of the older neighborhoods Back East, as I lovingly referred to it. Certain construction details harkened back to that earlier era with the use of more gables and dormer windows. The entire effect was quite charming, as well as welcoming. Some were calling it New Urbanism. Whatever it was, Rupert had done a good job.
"Aren't those the model homes over there?" Marilyn pointed to the right.
Sure enough, colorful banners plus an enormous American flag marked the sales office. "Yep. We'll head over there in just a second. I want to swing by the construction office and see if Rupert's around."
"Rupert McKenzie? Why on earth do you want to talk to him? He's loud and obnoxious and—"
"And a brilliant businessman. He's managed to resurrect himself from near financial ruin at least three times that I recall."
"Four," she corrected, shoving the empty drink cup in the trash. "That's not the point. He can be a loud-mouthed boor, and I cannot abide to be around him when he starts shouting." She gave a shiver of obvious disgust.
"Oh, he's simply flamboyant. Just like you," I tweaked, driving through the streets of unfinished houses, heading toward the empty lots ahead.
"Don't be ridiculous. I am flamboyant," she said with an aggrieved sniff. "Rupert's just plain rude."
Spying a dingy white mobile home up ahead, I aimed for it. "That's got to be the construction office. Let me check to see if Rupert's free." I pulled to the curb and hopped out. "I'll just be a minute," I promised.
"Please."
I started to cross the vacant dirt lot when the door of the construction office opened and out bounded Rupert McKenzie. Three other men traipsed down the steps after him. Even from this distance, I could hear the conversation. Marilyn was right. Quiet, Rupert wasn't. I stood and watched Rupert march the men across the dirt and straight for a newly-dug site adjacent to this one.
It looked as if I'd have time to tour with Marilyn, after all.
Clearly, Rupert was deep in discussion. I was about to turn when the big yellow Caterpillar caught my attention. It was fascinating to watch the operators maneuver their machines. They made it look precise, somehow.
The Cat's big jaw dropped as it slowly moved forward, scooping up an enormous mouthful of dirt. Then, like a ballerina pirouetting, the machine spun around and dumped the dirt neatly onto a nearby mound. Scooping, dumping, backing down into the excavated hole, and climbing out again, the machine scraped the site, ready for the foundation to be poured.
As I headed back to my car, I spotted a couple of trucks from the largest concrete and cement company in town. I remembered how fascinated I'd been when I once watched them pour a foundation. Clearly, I hadn't played with enough trucks when I was a child.
"It looks like Rupert's busy for a while," I said as I climbed into my car. "We'll go take our tour."
"Thank you. And when you feel the need to seek out Rupert again, don't worry about me. I'll amuse myself in the model homes."
Returning through the streets to the sales office, I parked, and we began our tour. The on-site sales agent was a young woman who was clearly in the last trimester of her pregnancy. Real estate was an attractive part-time career choice for some women, especially when they were starting their families and had little ones at home. I admired their determination to combine the two careers. Motherhood is demanding enough. Add to that the constant demands of real estate with caring for clients, looking for listings, and managing the paperwork—I didn't know how they did it.
I scooped up a packet of information on all the models, as Marilyn and I set out on the little trail that led through the sales site. Usually the models were all situated next to each other and connected by an easy-to-follow pathway. That way, potential buyers could traipse through one model after another and decide which one was right for them. If they were serious, that is. Some folks simply liked to amuse themselves by looking at new houses and the pretty decors within. Getting ideas for their own homes, no doubt.
It was hard to tell the "bona fides" from the browsers. One of the toughest lessons to learn in real estate was trying to distinguish between the two. So much of a real estate agent's time and energy could be lavished on someone who was not ready, willing, or able to purchase a home, no matter how much they wanted to. Alas, wishful thinking did not a sale make—for buyers or real estate agents.
We entered a charming townhouse, complete with its small front porch. I was surprised at the spacious look to the living and dining area. Vaulted ceilings helped. So did the beautiful kitchen, complete with stylish black fridge and blacktop range. Tile counters and island opened to an inviting family room. Rupert had done a very good job, indeed.
I was beginning to regret that I was there to probe Rupert about Mark. But lovely and tasteful homes to the contrary, I needed to gauge the depth of his dislike for Mark Schuster. I was fishing and I knew it, but someone hated Mark enough to kill him.
"Ginny's had her hand in here. I can tell," said Marilyn as we strolled through the bedrooms upstairs.
The second bedroom was smaller than I liked, but big enough if a couple wanted to start a family. Also, there was a nifty loft at the top of the stairs, which could easily be used as a kid's playroom. Or a TV room. Of course, I hadn't even seen the basement yet, but I could tell from the townhouse's footprint there would be plenty of room to create a whole new recreation area down below. Concrete walls sealed off lots of noise.
A remembered shiver from Sunday's house tour with Henry Ackerman rippled through me. I hadn't heard another word from him or his wife about this house they were so captivat
ed with. Maybe I'd eliminated him from my suspect list too soon. Maybe...
"Whoa!" Marilyn exclaimed. "Nice jetted tub, but the neighbors can see everything. What if you weren't alone in the tub?"
"Doesn't look big enough for two, Marilyn. Besides, haven't you heard of blinds?"
"Bothersome details," she said airily as she wandered through the spacious master suite.
From the bedrooms I scurried down the stairs to check out the basement, leaving Marilyn to investigate all the appliances. After assuring myself there were no ugly surprises waiting below, I resurfaced.
"I'm really impressed with the quality he's got here," Marilyn said, strolling about the kitchen. "I mean for these prices, I'd expected a lot less." She waved the sales packet.
"Yeah, he's done a good job," I said. "Let's go see if the rest of the models hold up to our scrutiny."
Marilyn and I hit the trail and toured the remaining models, which carefully ascended in price. I made it a point whenever I was on the second floor of each home to gaze out the windows, peering toward the construction office, hoping Rupert's fancy silver truck was still there. I'd spied the monster when I parked near the office site and figured it had to be his. After all, the personalized license plate proclaiming RUPERT kind of gave it away.
"Boy, Kate, I've got to hand it to old Rupert," Marilyn said as we left the next-to-last model. "He's giving them a lot for the money. How did he manage that?"
"Well, one reason is his development is the farthest from town. A lot more driving. But for some folks, it's worth the tradeoff. You can really save—" I stopped mid-sentence because I had spotted a black SUV cruise past with two men I recognized. Now was my chance. "Hey, Marilyn, there go the guys that were with Rupert. If you don't mind, I'll scoot over there right now and grab a minute with him."
"Sure, Kate, go ahead. I'm enjoying myself. See you back at the sales office." She waved me away as she continued along the trail.
I raced to my car and sped off, hoping to catch Rupert before he left the site. The imposing silver truck was still parked, so I pulled up behind it and set about locating Rupert. Where to start? I scanned the vacant lots surrounding me.
Then I heard it. I needn't have worried. His voice boomed two sites away, so I honed in on his signal. Once I got closer, he was impossible to miss. Not only was his the loudest voice around, but so was his wardrobe.
Standing atop a large mound of dirt, Rupert yelled at someone in the newly-finished basement below. His royal blue shirt contrasted beautifully with a canary yellow tie and almost kept me from noticing his suit. But I could recognize expensive tailoring when I saw it, even atop a dirt mound. And then there were his boots. Expensive boots. Rupert always wore cowboy boots—on site, in the office, or at a banquet.
He was bending over one knee, so I got a good look at the sleek, patterned leather. Probably some exotic, endangered reptile, I decided as I approached the edge of the foundation walls. I peered below, curious as to what had incurred his wrath. Rupert was a stickler for details, and nothing escaped his scrutiny. At first glance, everything looked okay. The plumbing was in, the furnace and air conditioner were "Get that damn furnace outta there and don't come back until you have the model I ordered!" he shouted, pointing at the poor unfortunates installing the fixture.
I backed away from the edge, letting Rupert finish his tirade. Having witnessed one of his explosions at another site last year, I knew enough to get out of the way and let him spew. God help the carpenter who tried to hurry up and skimp when framing. Rupert was known to yell the walls down, and the carpenter with them.
Rupert spied me as he bounded down the dirt hill. "Hey, miss, you shouldn't be out here. You could get hurt on the site. There're all sorts of... hey, don't I know you?" He peered at me as he approached. His wavy mane of silver hair set off his suntanned face, so that even his wrinkles looked good. Over sixty and going strong, according to Ronnie.
"You probably remember me from my former life, when I used to frequent the country club," I said. "I'm a real estate agent now with Shamrock. Kate Doyle." I gave him my brightest smile, along with my hand.
"Ronnie's a great gal," he said, giving my hand a firm shake. Then he pointed behind. "If you're looking for info on the development, Kate, the sales office is over there."
"I've already been there, Rupert, and I definitely have some young buyers I'll be bringing out here," I promised. "But there were some other questions I wanted to ask. About your planned developments, I mean."
"Sure. You'll have to keep up with me, though. I'm running a little late, and I've got to check a couple more sites." He grabbed his clipboard from the dirt and strode off, with me struggling behind, trying to keep up with his long-legged stride. He headed toward a nearby site where the house was already framed. No walls yet, but the rooms were outlined.
"What kind of developments do you have coming up, Rupert? Some high-end models, maybe?" I managed, when I caught up with him. My strategy was to disguise my scrutiny behind a client. But not just any client. I chose one designed to provoke a reaction.
"Sure do, Kate." He grinned over his shoulder as he climbed the slant board that substituted for steps into the house under construction. "Next year I'm breaking ground on my new development. Washington Valley. My best one yet."
Rupert strode into the skeleton of the house-to-be, leaving me to cautiously make my way up the slanted piece of wood. The angle was steep and I wore heels, so it was slow going. I really needed to carry sneakers in my car.
I tried to stay out of the way of carpenters and electricians as they banged on two-by-fours and strung wires throughout the skeleton. Skirting the yawning black hole that opened to the basement below, I made sure I didn't go near the edge. No railing, no steps, and no lights yet, only another slanted board, leading down into the dark.
No one would notice if I fell into the pit. Rupert was talking and gesturing to a workman, and I had already become invisible. When Rupert thought I was a potential buyer, he'd been concerned for my safety. Not anymore. Now I was merely another real estate agent. There were tons of them in Fort Collins. Too many, in fact. I wouldn't even be missed.
I stayed on the small slab of tile at the doorway until Rupert finished his inspection. Checking his clipboard as he approached, he pointed to the adjacent site where the house under construction had walls up and the windows in. Maybe this one had stairs, I hoped, as I followed him out the door.
"This must be some client for you to hang around, Kate. Who're you shopping for?" he asked as he headed out the door.
"Well, uh, yeah, it is," I said as I started my descent down the wobbly slant board. Rupert had already bounded to the ground. It was now or never, I decided, and released my trial balloon. "It's Amanda Schuster. You see, I'm selling her house now, and she's going to need—"
"What?" Rupert stopped in his tracks and spun around, faster than the Caterpillar for sure. "The hell you say!" His face flushed scarlet. "I'll be God—"
He erupted with a stream of curses that froze me in place. I couldn't move, but I swore the slant board swayed beneath me with the force of his fury at the mention of the Schuster name. Just let me get to the ground, I prayed, as the board shifted with another plume of curses spewing forth. A virtual lava flow of blasphemous, colorful phrases, and combinations of invective that brought even the construction workers to a halt. I thought I saw a carpenter cross himself, and the furnace guys nearly fell over each other trying to skulk from the site without drawing attention. Rupert paused to suck in wind, and I scooted off the board like a scolded puppy.
"Dammit, Kate! That son-of-a-bitch nearly ruined me, and you want me to find a home for his widow? I'll be God d—" Another eruption spewed forth.
I slowly crept closer to the fire, glad that I wore SPF 15 makeup, or I'd be sunburned for sure. "Rupert, please," I said, hands raised in supplication. "Don't take it out on Amanda. She had nothing to do with Mark's business. Besides, Mark's dead, and—"
"The so
n-of-a-bitch got what he deserved! I'd have killed the rat bastard myself, if someone else hadn't beaten me to it. I hope he burns in hell!"
Whoa. My cheeks flamed, and my trial balloon popped—incinerated by Rupert's pure, undiluted hatred of Mark Schuster. Clearly, Rupert despised Mark enough to kill him. Was his over-the-top response merely a clever ruse to disguise his guilt?
It didn't take more than a second for me to eliminate that possibility. Rupert McKenzie was a hothead, to be sure. But up this close, I could see the fire in his eyes was banked, allowing him to release it at will. Maybe that's why he was still in such good shape. When anything or anyone bothered him, Rupert didn't worry about it. He just let it rip. I bet the man didn't have a clogged artery in his body. Surely cholesterol must dissolve at those temperatures, just like my balloon. Besides, Rupert was a savvy businessman. If he planned to eliminate Mark, he'd probably challenge him to a duel, then sell tickets. That way, he could shoot the rat bastard between the eyes and make a profit at the same time.
"I'm sorry, Rupert," I said. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm only helping out Amanda, and I admire your work so much, I thought—"
"Schuster's widow. That's rich." Rupert mumbled his curses now.
I took that as a good sign. "I'm just trying to do my job, Rupert. And for what it's worth, I never approved of Mark's business tactics either. But I try not to speak ill of the dead. Kind of makes me uneasy."
Rupert snorted. "When the dead leave a legacy like Schuster's, they deserve it."
"Legacy?" Something about the word piqued my interest.
"Yeah, ruined businesses, ruined lives, things like that," he said in a disgusted tone as he headed across the dirt, clipboard under his arm. "I'm not the only one he nearly destroyed. Some didn't have my, uh, resilience. Some went under. Like Ken Barstow."
"The name's vaguely familiar, but—"
"He was a real estate agent turned developer. Small scale. But it was his dream to build houses. Had some good plans, too. Lined up his financing, everything, but it all hinged on getting Mark's parcel of land. I was going to sell Ken a section for his homes, but when Mark screwed me, it was all I could do to hold on. Ken, poor bastard, he just didn't have enough cushion. Lost everything. Even his wife divorced him."
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