Well good for him and his museum.
“That’s right.” Ben murmured.
“I’ll let them know.” I replied.
I showed Mr. Fischer out and thanked him again and offered my card, he gingerly took it and after a breath, pulled out a card from his wallet and offered me his.
I paused at the door – the frame was still scarred but it wasn’t too bad. I’ll put it down in the disclosures, but compared to the violent death in the kitchen, the dings in the doorframe are inconsequential.
“Well, that didn’t help much, sorry.” I jumped, he was right behind me.
“Uh, that’s okay.”
He nodded. “I have an appointment, I’ll see you later.”
He edged past me since I apparently was incapable of moving from the exit path.
“See you.” I echoed.
And that was the end of that. I may as well go to the office.
Inez called me on my cell while I was heading to River’s Bend. I scored an appointment with her as soon as I arrived. Lucky me.
The New Century Realty office faces the 101 freeway, so staff always ends up walking into the back door that is more protected from the noise and clatter of the traffic. The office is not terribly convenient, but the freeway exposure is priceless. Every afternoon the traffic slows to the point where the drivers who pass our office have plenty of time to view the office, recognize the office name, and if we made the posting big enough, they could read about new listings. Branding. You know I love it.
When I walked into the office, there was one new agent at the front desk mournfully staring at the silent phone. Patricia was at the front desk as well, but as our long-time administrative assistant and escrow coordinator, she belonged there.
“You’re late.” Patricia remarked.
“For what?”
A snuffling sound from the bathroom distracted me.
“I don’t know, but Inez wants to see you right now, or rather,” Patricia glanced up at the clock and simultaneously gave her long hair a flip. “Ten minutes ago.”
Patricia can be a lovely person when she’s in the mood.
“I know, Inez called me already, I’ll go right back.”
Another mournful face appeared from around the corner. It was a new agent, Maria. I think she had children to support, a house payment and an uncooperative ex-husband, at least that’s what I gained from the New Century annual picnic last month.
“Bomb” Patricia remarked as she saw Marie emerge. Back on Market, BOM, you can see why we call it that.
“911 Myrtle Place? I thought that was a done deal, who was she working with?”
“Christopher and Christopher.” Maria supplied, dabbing at her eyes with a wad of toilet paper. Inez should really spring for a box of real tissues in the bathroom, it would look classier. I thought of my own bathroom trouble in Marin and decided to give Inez some slack on that after all.
“Didn’t go through?”
“No, it’s back on the market so I have to wait 30 days to re- submit the property onto MLS and my clients think it’s my fault anyway, and they told me they need it on the market fast so they’re going to use Christopher and Christopher so they can list as new tomorrow.” She sniffed and blew her nose.
“What was the problem?”
“Christopher’s clients didn’t really have the funding, the pre-approval letter was bogus.” Patricia summarized.
Happens a lot. Buyer comes in with a low offer, it’s accepted anyway. The agent representing the buyer claims that it’s all good, and the pre-approval letter is just fine and wonderful and then three quarters of the way through escrow come to find out that the buyers actually need to sell their powerboat to come up with the closing costs and if the mother-in law doesn’t loan them that additional $100,000, they can’t make the deal work. Oh wait, that was my last crushed deal.
“So Christopher and Christopher offered their services?” I asked.
Maria nodded, and dabbed at her dark eyes, her lashes were spiky from tears and she looked beautiful. I envied her that gift, I would give up a three escrows if I could look that good when I’m miserable.
“Ask them.” I encouraged, “Call your clients and ask them.” Peter Christopher was known around town as queering the deal for other agents, then picking up the discarded clients on the rebound and acting as both selling agent and buying agent in the ensuring transaction. There wasn’t anything we, as a group, could do about it. And his reputation never caught up with him; there were always new clients in River’s Bend who were ready to believe.
But I felt bad for Maria.
“Just call your clients and ask for another try, it’s not your fault the buyer had no cash.”
Maria nodded, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She was pretty, with long shiny brown hair and big – eyes. She was fluent in Spanish, perfect for this business. It was her bad luck that her first transaction was with one of the more notorious agents in town.
“Go on.” I encouraged her as I headed to Inez’s office.
The New Century – River’s Bend office is a long narrow building. It’s little more than a series of rooms attached to a narrow crooked hallway that seems to go on forever especially if you have clients in the conference room and you need to use the copy machine that is located in the front office next to Patricia’s eagle eye. Inez’s office is located at the opposite end of the building. Sometimes I think she’s the Minotaur and I have to snake through the warren of tiny offices to reach my nemesis. I am pretty sure this is unintentional. I should bring string so I can find my way back outside, but I always forget. Inez wouldn’t think it was funny anyway.
“The Department of Real Estate called and they say you haven’t sent in your renewal papers yet.”
“Of course they did.” I purred. I pulled out my phone/calendar/e-key/what have you/ and checked the dates.
“I sent in my renewal form by certified mail on March 3rd. I received that handy little card from the US Post Office back on March 8th. The Post Office, unlike the DRE, does not lie. So, not to contradict you, but yes, the Department of Real Estate did indeed receive the paper work.”
The DRE in our area is wedded to paper, bureaucracy and inefficiency. Like most bureaucrats, they will put no information or correspondence in writing or email, too much of a trail. It took them four months to issue my first license. Six weeks after I sent in my application, I finally received a latter stating my fingerprints were “lost” and I would have to start all over again. And if I didn’t respond in 15 days, my license could be delayed. The DRE lectured me on being timely. It was the gall of that final statement that pissed me off the most.
“Did you call them?” I asked, as calmly as I could.
“They never answer their phones,” Inez said with disgust. “You know that.”
I nodded. It pains me to run up against institutions that are so clearly and fully devoted to not giving customer service. It’s a closed system and a zero sum game.
“I knew they’d lose the renewal.” I said out loud. “I’ll send them another copy, certified mail. Or should I drive up to Sacramento?”
Inez sighed. “What is it with you and the DRE?”
“Bad Karma. I’ll go there in person and renew.”
It saddens me to know that when California does experience the “big one”, Sacramento will not be affected. That means that while the residents of every coastal community from Crescent City to San Diego are wallowing in twisted rebar and accordion pleated freeway on-ramps, members of the legislature, the governor and the State Senate can deny anything happened at all because of course, there will be no sign of an earthquake immediately out their own windows, and so, the legislation will do what they do best, bicker among themselves over various tort reforms and passing bills heavily backed by casinos.
I had time to return some calls on my drive up, or really, over, to the state capitol. I left a message on Hillary’s phone to see if I could meet with all the Smith childr
en tomorrow. They needed to know about the art and I needed most of it out of the house. I had two calls from agents who had ventured into the house. To summarize the feedback; the art was too scary and what was with the torn up bathroom?
I had two calls from other clients about the lack luster response to their homes. I’d have to address those. But I called back the agents first. I explained we had a small problem that was not pest related. They were satisfied and promised bring their clients back around to take another look in a week. It was best I could do.
At the DRE there was a long line in front of the customer service sign. At the head of the line was a neatly hand lettered sign requesting that phones be turned off. Please, these are real estate agents, or would be once the DRE get around to issuing the licenses.
I pulled out my phone and started up a lively game of Yahtzee.
It was my turn after only five games, a record. I was almost nice when I approached the elderly woman at the desk and handed in my extra copies of paperwork.
Always make extra copies.
“You real estate agents always wait until the last minute and then have to come down here, what a waste of time.” The woman in charge of customer service wore a high necked lavender blouse and dark purple cardigan. She was of indeterminate age, her long life in the dark corridors of the capitol had kept her out of the sun. She could have been forty or seventy. She snatched my paperwork from my hand and ruffled through it.
“Where are the originals? We need originals for your renewal.”
“With you.” I said carefully.
She rolled her eyes, tossed my copies on her counter and marched away in her sensible low heel shoes leaving me standing at her desk with no additional explanation,
I toyed with the idea of playing one more game of Yahtzee, my high score was only 320 and I wanted to beat it. But I refrained. I shouldn’t have, she was gone ten minutes.
“Well, we can’t find your work, you’ll have to fill it out again.” She thrust the sheaf of papers at me giving me no choice but to take them.
“You can go over there.” She nodded to a row of hard plastic chairs; two agents were already uncomfortably seated, trying to fill out papers on their laps, there wasn’t even a thick magazine on which to write. Kind of like that scene in Men In Black.
“You lost the paper work.” I just made the statement.
“Did not.” She retorted.
I opened my mouth and then closed it, like a wide mouth bass. Hold it in; do not kill her, that will only slow down the process.
“Did,” I said out loud. “Too.”
I stood there, holding the paper work and staring at the unlovely apparition before me. But what if killing someone sped up the process? What if something needed to be escalated and there was just one person in the way? Oh hell, now I was back to the children. Or maybe it was an accident after all, that’s what Mark the DA suggested. But death by accidental shooting? That explanation made no sense.
I smiled at the woman, frightening her a bit, I suppose. Bureaucrats never expect you to smile. But I did not take the new blank forms off the desk and I did not move. I ignored the shuffling behind me. Whispers into phones.
“I’ll see if we can get the manager.” She mumbled.
“I’ll wait right here.” I assured her. I always wondered if there was someone actually in charge at these offices, this could be my chance to find out.
The manager, unearthed from the back of the offices, looked like the twin of the front desk customer service clerk. His sweater was gray. I smiled again.
He grimaced and shook his head explaining that they needed the originals. I said they did indeed have the originals and I would happily wait for those forms to appear. He fumbled, glanced longingly at the copies in my hand and scurried off.
I practiced taking deep breaths. Rosemary, one of the agents in our office, recommends taking deep breaths to calm yourself in times of great stress. I took enough breaths to fill another hour. I did score a new personal best of a 400 on my game. The manager in the gray sweater finally appeared from a different door, this time clutching my original forms and fingerprints. He expressed great surprise that it was all in order.
“You know, you can phone us for matters such as these.” He lectured even as he made certain all the information was correct.
I glanced around for something heavy in order to hit him, nothing. Now I understood what could trigger a crime of passion. I took another deep breath.
“Sure, call you. I’ll remember that.”
To finish up my fabulous day that began too early with the mysterious Ben Stone and my traffic choked drive to Sacramento in order to be abused by the DRE, Hillary returned my call and announced that they couldn’t meet tomorrow; we’d have to meet tonight.
Did I make the evening worse by eating with my mother? I did not. I stopped at a Jack in the Box and ate my favorite meal, well one of my favorite meals, the grilled sourdough sandwich and a shake. I did not order the fries, too fattening.
Fortified, I was ready for another meeting with the Smith children.
The painting was where I had left it, leaning against the kitchen counter. Mr. Fischer had mentioned that he could take the painting back to his museum to keep it safe. But as the youngest child with two older bullying brothers, I knew better than to let anyone take anything to keep it safe. “Keep it safe” is really code for “you’ll never see it again.” Kind of like letting someone move into a house before the loan funds and escrow closes. Don’t do it. There are stories of bad, bad people out there, and once a bad person moves in, or takes your stuff for safe keeping, it’s over.
So the painting remained in the kitchen, a six-foot tall reproach. Early evening light streamed into the living room and cast long rays of sun into the dining room where we all gathered.
Stephen leaned back in his chair because there was no one to tell him otherwise. Mark placed his hands on the table and focused on his long fingers, his wedding band sparked bright gold in the kitchen light.
“So, is that it?” Hillary sat across from her two brothers. I sat with my back to said painting because it wasn’t my problem and across from me sat a new member of our party, the family attorney. The man looked the part. He was tall and skinny with a shock of gray hair. He took my offered hand and stared into my eyes for about a minute – a long minute. He had no laugh lines, I had that much time to notice. I suppose this was his way of being sincere – I’m so sorry for your loss, kind of sincerity, but I was having none of it. I pulled my hand away, and when he turned to Hillary, I carefully wiped my hand on my skirt.
Every time an attorney gets his wings, another three-part form appears in my “IN” box. Every time a lawyer wins a frivolous lawsuit, I have another set of disclaimer and warning contracts to present to my buyers to sign. The disclosure statements for any sale currently weigh in at nine pounds. The paperwork includes important information like – remember - you may possibly live in an earthquake zone. Really. We all live in one big earthquake zone, but apparently there was enough legal discussion about the situation that there are degrees of earthquake. Just sign here.
So, I’m not a fan of attorneys. Sorry. If you are an attorney you can redeem yourself by purchasing 20 copies of this book. Tuck them into your holiday gift baskets. Share the love. Thank you.
But I seemed to be even less of fan of this particular attorney, which just shows that I am capable of seeing beyond my own stereotypes and can dislike a person based on his own merits.
“Is that what he spent a million dollars on?” Hillary’s voice warbled with distaste and distress.
“Of course he would, the art was all, remember?” Mark drummed his fingers for emphasis.
“So what do we do? Sell the damn thing?”
A million dollars disappearing out of your inheritance wasn’t something to calmly acknowledge and then shrug with an “it’s only money” attitude.
Because the term, its only money, is never true.
&
nbsp; Here’s what I know to be true. Dear old dad drew a million dollars of equity out of the house so the sale of the house would only net one million, which split three ways, isn’t something to be ignored – a person could buy a decent car, invest in more real estate or travel the world (if you leave out Antarctica). However, this amount wasn’t even close to the windfall these perpetually disappointed and angry children expected to inherit. It takes a lot of money to compensate for years of being ignored.
I had many interesting thoughts about murder while standing at the DRE customer service counter, but not idea was very good. The police had no clue either. At least they didn’t when I called again to ask about the progress on the case. (I had a lot of time on that highway going home).
“We will contact you Ms. Little,” the detective answered as patiently as she could. “But if I am always talking to you, how can I do my job?”
She had a point. But then again, I hadn’t called in 24 hours, just to give her a break. I made a note to check in on Friday.
“I think,” Mark, the man running early and often for Marin County DA, spoke directly to the attorney - I think the attorney’s name was Mr. Peterson, or it was Peter? A P word. There is a class through New Century on how to remember names but I keep forgetting to sign up.
“The weird stuff” Mark dismissed the art he could see and apparently, the art he couldn’t see. “We can give away or sell, whatever, that’s just dad. But this,” he gestured with his head to the large panel. “Could be a problem. Can we donate anonymously?”
Peter Peterson, Attorney at Law, nodded his head, but Hillary would have none of that.
“Anonymously? Are you crazy? Why wouldn’t you want your name and picture on everything you do? Hello, running for office, you need the exposure.”
Mark shook his head. “Maybe not this kind of exposure, Dad’s right, this stuff is pretty weird.”
“Mom always thought it was weird, his life-long thing about art.”
“At least Mom didn’t have to live through this.” Hillary snapped.
“Neither did Samantha.” Stephen pointed out.
“Did her family get anything?” Mark suddenly asked.
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