Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  Death Revokes the Offer

  Death Revokes the Offer

  Catharine Bramkamp

  Death Revokes the Offer

  First edition copyright 2008 Catharine Bramkamp

  Second edition copyright 2011 Catharine Bramkamp

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

  retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,

  mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written

  permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, some places and incidents are

  products of the author’s fevered imagination or are used fictitiously and are not

  to be construed as real. Except for the advise on wine. Any resemblance to

  actual events, local organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely

  coincidental.

  It’s not about you.

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9816848-0-2

  Published by A Few Little Books, Cotati, California

  March 2011

  Cover design and layout by Stacey Meinzen

  Printed in the United States of America

  A Few Little Books Press

  Chapter 1

  The first thing you should know about me is that I do not cut my own hair with a nail scissors. Please. Robert would kill me if I even considered touching my hair with my own two hands.

  I’m not a doctor and I never know exactly why a body is dead, I only know that when you find a dead body in the kitchen, it makes it that much more difficult to sell the house, what with all the hysteria about full disclosure now–a-days.

  Difficult; but not impossible.

  I am not a national park ranger. I do not work while also caring for adorable children or difficult teens. In fact I completely forgot to have children. Some where in my past, the word children was written on some long ago goal list along with items like white wedding at the Marin Country Club and Lose 50 pounds by Christmas penciled in just below that.

  I am not a sheriff for a small town in the Deep South.

  I also know that some people will look to the author and say, “Oh, is that YOU?” Of course it’s not her. I have twice the listings she does and better hair. I’m here to tell you, I am myself. For some people like my best friend Carrie, that is enough. For others like my long-suffering broker on record, Inez; it’s too much.

  “Can’t you just tone it down a little?” Inez asks on a weekly basis.

  Nope, I answer.

  Sometimes I think I should get a little dog. But then I’d have to get a new bag to carry him in, and suddenly it seems too complicated.

  That body in the kitchen. You are probably wondering about that, like is it some kind of metaphor? No, the dead man was the former Mr. Mortimer Maximilian Smith. He had two interesting first names to make up for the third and by the time I discovered him he was already quite dead, sprawled out on the kitchen floor of his strenuously decorated home in Southern Marin.

  I wasn’t really supposed to be there at all. I don’t usually sell homes in Marin, my beat is the River’s Bend area of Sonoma County, but my mother knew Mr. Smith from her exercise class. He told her that he wanted to sell his house quickly and needed someone he could trust.

  I can appreciate his concern. Especially since, according to my mother, Mr. Smith’s children don’t exude trustworthiness (although she later admitted that she had not, in fact, met any of the Smith children, so you can see I began this project using only cold hard conjecture). But, since the children had apparently announced last week that they thought it was better for dad to move out of his huge home and into a more suitable location, Dad, in response to this new threat to his lifestyle, needed to counter fairly quickly.

  I love adult children of a certain age. Suitable location translates to a retirement community that was just far enough away from said children to relieve them of the obligatory weekly visit. From the sound of it, the children were probably considering one of the active senior communities currently proliferating across the country.

  I can hardly wait to see how Boomers manage to spin death. In Mr. Smith’s case, he already knows.

  Here’s another fact: the children weren’t planning to sell the house; that was Mr. Smith’s idea. And it made no sense at all.

  Enter, me Allison Little – a Little Goes a Long Way - with New Century Realty. I had a dead man on the Spanish tile floor, survivors who did not want to sell, and the police on the phone. Or was it the fire department? Whomever. I was personally hoping I was calling within the county limits, but there is no guarantee. I could be talking to some nice young thing in Sacramento or LA, or Bangladesh.

  “There’s a dead body in the kitchen.” I calmly announced.

  “How dead?”

  “Very. Can some one come out and, you know, get him?”

  “There’s no hurry ma’am if the person is already dead. Are you in a safe place?”

  I hadn’t even considered that. Really, I don’t consider my own safety that often– over confidence coupled with having read too many magazine articles with titles like Take Back the Night when I was a teenager. Anyway, who would want to take me on? Most desperate junkies weigh maybe a third of what I do. I could sit on them and crush them. It seems that enough junkies have spread the word to that effect. I’m never accosted when I’m in the City.

  I would judge where I was standing was reasonably secure, although not entirely. Any place my mother recommends has the potential to become instantly dangerous, if only because she may show up unannounced. In fact, it was her fault I was standing here in the first place.

  My mother’s phone call had interrupted me just in time. I was languishing in one of those interminable information meetings that realtors must endure on a depressingly regular basis. Sometimes we attend the meeting because of peer pressure, sometimes because we need the credits to continue our license. And sometimes we can acquire actual, useful information. This was not a meeting that covered the latter. This meeting was entirely devoted to beating the dead horse of 1031-exchange subject. We had been flaying the horse since 9:00 AM. I knew there was only 45 days to identify the new property; I understood that before I came in. Inez made me attend.

  It was two o’clock when a rescue call came in. The phone buzzed and danced across the Formica topped table, I blinked, trying to focus on the phone. My eyeballs were about to fall out because they were so dry. Before the call, what was left of my eyes kept straying to the picture of the beautiful waterfall on my water bottle. The bottle was empty except for the picture. The guy next to me, who just recently won the Mr. River’s Bend contest (ticket sales to fund a worthy cause, I think it was the Homeless Prevention League or Seniors, something like that) and looked it, guzzled the last of his water bottle emblazoned with the simple command Refresh! I would love to refresh him. And I would love to know less about 1031 exchanges.

  So I did not care who was calling. I murmured “a client,” picked up my eyeballs (that was a metaphor) and escaped to the women’s room. The acoustics in the ladies room are excellent.

  My mother calls any time, for any reason. For the most part, her calls go directly to voice mail in my futile attempt to convince her that I work and am often busy. But this was an exception. I answered.

  She had an idea that could only be discussed over lunch.

  I’m all about a free lunch, so I agreed.

  I think I’ll name my first child Liz Pendens.

  “Mr. Smith is such a nice man,” my mother insisted. “He should be able to sell his own house if he wants.”

  My mother sat on the edge of her padded chair at her usual table at t
he Marin County Club. She was dressed in her “casual” uniform; pressed tan slacks and a pressed cashmere sweater. How her dry cleaners manage to press cashmere I’ll never know.

  My mother always wears pearls. She tells me they are more refined than diamonds.

  She daintily cuts her tiny side salad that she claims is enough for a full lunch. She eats the lettuce bite by bite.

  She chews carefully.

  I too, chew carefully.

  But I’m chewing a double-decker cheeseburger with a side order of fries. I don’t know why I always crave something like a double cheeseburger with fries every time I go out with my mother, but I do. And the club chef does a passable job with burgers; I assume a better job with a dinner salad because mom always orders the salad, and to drink, black coffee.

  My mother likes to think she looks younger, slimmer and prettier than me, which, for the most part is true, especially the thinner part. Mom is still embroiled in that ancient rivalry between wife and daughter for the love of the father/husband. And I was not clever enough to mitigate the competition by tossing a granddaughter between us. My bad.

  “You say Mr. Smith is a nice man.” I repeat between dainty bites of my burger.

  She swallowed and sipped her ice water. “A very nice man, he’s been in the area for years. He loves modern art, is a patron to the arts both here and in San Francisco. I think he even donated a considerable amount of money to some organization down there. Anyway, he’s lovely, and his kids want to move him out of the house and I suppose, move in themselves.”

  “They don’t want to sell?” I picked up three fries and daintily dragged the tips through the ketchup puddled precisely an inch to the left of the burger.

  “No, they don’t, I think the daughter, Hillary, wants to keep the house, maybe buy her brothers out. She lives in Danville. But that’s not the point.” Mom waved her fork. “The point is Mortimer wants to sell the house before the kids take over.”

  “Well, mom, they can’t take over unless he’s dead.”

  I’m so sorry I said that.

  I regarded the prone body of poor Mr. Smith. Over the phone he had announced that his house should list for 4.5 million leading me to believe he had plenty of time to sell. I hadn’t even seen the house, but there was nothing, nothing, to support a 4.5 asking price. I put out some feelers anyway and bam! A couple from LA with more money than commonsense responded immediately and offered full price for the property. All that was needed to close the deal was the paperwork.

  I clutched those very forms in my hand. It’s a lot of paper. Many trees gave their life for Mr. Smith’s deal.

  The sales commission would have taken care of me for six months; I was already planning a trip to Costa Rica.

  But no. Mr. Smith wasn’t able to accept the offer and now this lovely offer was void, null and void. I don’t suppose telling him now would really count would it?

  No, really, it would not. But I did think of it. Come on, 4.5 million? In a buyer’s market? Would our attorneys accept that as a legitimate acceptance?

  “They loved the house sight unseen, which means that location can trump even that strangely shaped guest bath under the stairs.” I told him.

  “Just nod your head. Twitch an eyelid. Tell Allison yes.”

  No luck. He did not move, or cooperate in any manner.

  Blood oozed from underneath his skinny body. The blood ruled out a heart attack, not that I’m a professional, we already established that.

  The man was eighty if he was a day, and left scrawny from all that exercise and healthy eating. And he died violently anyway. See?

  That would mean, in the words of the dispatcher who had assured me someone would come out and pick up the body, (I know that in mystery books, the coroner picks up the body but we always do things differently in California. I was personally hoping for a couple of firemen because it’s been my experience that firemen are very attractive and I haven’t come across one yet who couldn’t put out my fire, but I also know it wouldn’t end up being that kind of day) that the murderer may still be in the house.

  Oh, and I forgot a salient point. There was no front door.

  This is a material fact and would require an addendum to the contract, signed by both parties, but since the offer couldn’t be accepted in the first place, the lack of front doors was moot.

  No front door.

  Other than that, Mr. Smith owned a typical, traditionally overblown, Marin home: 4,000 square feet, view of the city skyline, a large yard that stretched to the bay, front elevation screened from the road by a dry stacked stone wall. Mature trees, upgraded kitchen, blah, blah, blah. More important to the children; they’d inherit the current Prop 13 property tax limitations. I could go to Costa Rica five times for what they will save yearly in property taxes.

  But dad didn’t want his children to inherit. And I had a voracious couple fresh from LA, who heard about the price and the address and those magic words, waterfront, and that was that.

  I love LA natives, I really do.

  Maybe the daughter, Hillary would sell once she learns the listed price. Or I could help her with the sibling buy-out. Maybe I could remind her about inheritance taxes and the fact that even though my mother expressed the situation in the most veiled language possible, I already guessed that for these three siblings, sharing the house was out of the question.

  Did they all stab dear old dad? A la Agatha Christie? Do I want to turn the body over to discover if he harbored multiple wounds? I did not.

  And I felt the murderer was away and gone. Possibly he took the door with him. Clues, should I look for clues?

  I’m not good at clues. Oh sure, there was 3490 Coast Edge Ave. where I found the water line that reached to just under the hot tub deck and I had to practically shake the owner to make him admit that maybe, on occasion, the Russian River rose past the first story of the house, but, I was assured, only during the winter, or when it rained really, really hard. Most buyers would consider that a potential problem and important to disclose, yes?

  But that was my only triumph in the detection field. I glanced around the kitchen, expecting to see the smoking gun or something like that but stopped just in time. I was not going to get involved. I was out. The kids would have to decide what to do with the house, and they could use my superior services or someone else, it didn’t matter. Plus, for them, hiring a real estate agent who was not completely certain that there was a violent death in the house may be a more strategic choice. Of course, the kids would have to replace the front door.

  Do I even trust the kids? When it comes to money, inheritance and taxes, its always family. I know that.

  I was planning to list the house today (even with an offer, you never know), I had my checklist, and the camera and a lock box in the car. Well, the lock box was fairly pointless since there is no door on which to hang it. I entered sans key, sans knocking, sans everything.

  Who will pay for a new door?

  I walked out to the front entryway, and stood on the marble floor. The hinges on the left side of the door frame were still attached; the right hinges had been pulled off along with the door. This was not a careful job. The door frame was splintered, that would have to be replaced as well. The thieves must have used crowbars, quickly pulled off the doors, ran.

  Who the hell steals a door?

  I couldn’t just sit and wait for the police. And I certainly wasn’t going to hang around a dead body. I skirted around poor, prone Mr. Smith and checked out the property. I hadn’t seen the house myself, I took the listing over the phone, per mother, the price pulled in the buyers, per greed. And here we are.

  Good thing they didn’t see the house first.

  Don’t get me wrong; it’s a lovely mansion, big, grand and completely appropriate for the area. However, I am not that impressed with a house merely because of its size. Most houses are either small rooms strung together, or really big rooms strung together. It takes an original Julia Morgan or Frank Lloyd Wright
( I would have liked to see the Marin Civic Center with the intended gold roof instead of fiscally compromised blue) to get me excited at all. This house was not even inspired by either architect, but did aspire to the Hearst Castle category of excess. It sported a wide curved stairs that spilled into the front foyer, which would make a very impressive photo on the MLS and a good lead for the web site. The front room curved at the end opening to the obligatory Tudor turret. The kitchen was cluttered with stainless steel colored appliances and hand rubbed cabinets. Every piece of furniture and every appliance from the espresso maker to the toaster looked expensive. Was he shot for his money?

  I glanced back at Mr. Smith. Rejected lover? Hadn’t considered that. Maybe mom knew something.

  Hell, I’d have to tell mom. She would immediately assume it was my fault.

  She’ll say something along the lines of “Oh Allison, if only you had arrived for your appointment EARLY, you could have saved Mr. Smith.”

  No, I am not kidding, she thinks that way. I have witnesses.

  So we have the Tudor turret. We have the Gatsby swimming pool. But what really set off Mr. Mortimer’s big expensive house, was an overwhelming collection of very, very big art. Not big like important, big like huge massive canvasses covering what were probably nice innocent white walls.

  I love nice clean white walls almost as much as I love curtain-less windows. We didn’t have either in this home. Heavy curtains protected the big art from the sunshine. A dubious save.

  I may not know much about art, but I know big and scary when I’m confronted by it. And the house was plastered with big colorful, disturbing, scary art. There must be a museum or haunted house that would take these, um, priceless paintings, but I knew for certain that I could not sell this house with that stuff defacing the interior space.

  A huge wood mask with a long beard of dried grass loomed over the living room couch, distorted red and purple images smeared across a bare edged canvas dominated the opposite end of the living room. I spent a minute staring at that one. But even after a minute I couldn’t figure out what the painting was supposed to depict, say or indicate. Nope, I do not even know what it’s a picture of. And of course, what every kitchen needs – three grimacing devil masks hovering over the stove.