Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  Did this Samantha have a family? History? Maybe her family had information about who may want to kill the lovely, if a tad uncoordinated, Mr. Smith?

  The attorney shook his head. “Nothing, just to you. Everything that’s left in the house.”

  Mark groaned, Stephen groaned.

  “Did she have any children?” I asked, you know, for fun.

  Peter Something shook his head. “She was childless.”

  “Child free.” I put in.

  “What? Oh.” But before he could even ask about my knee jerk correction Hillary turned the meeting back to her.

  “Do we have a buyer?” Hillary turned to the lawyer, who, I thought, was actually earning his money today. I’d charge these kids, what? $400 an hour just to sit in the same room with them.

  As if it would be any prettier with my own brothers and me. Worse. My lovely, domestically accomplished sisters-in-law would insist on being included, and that would make any tense situation, twice as painful.

  But Hillary had a fine handle on her siblings. Whatever they said, both men automatically looked to their sister to give the final blessing to their thoughts and words.

  “I don’t like it,” Hillary insisted. “It represents everything I hated about dad.”

  ”Oh he wasn’t that bad.” Stephen protested mildly.

  “Bad? You didn’t have any paintings in your room.” Hillary cried.

  “I had Cheryl Tiegs plastered over that weird bloody one.” Stephen serenely replied.

  “Dad must have killed you.”

  “Never went into my room.” Stephen grinned. Ah, he was the baby. Sometimes the baby does well in the line up. Sometimes.

  “Lucky you.” Mark said with a little rancor. “Oh, and speaking of twerps, where is the Polynesian figure?” Mark looked around, and then craned his neck to look down the hall.

  “The little devil of a guy?” Stephen asked.

  “I put him in the bathroom.” I said.

  “See of you can have an accident and make it go away.” Stephen said quietly. I smiled at him, thinking Ah; here is some spunk, someone with a spine.

  “Maybe we can sell the whole collection.” Mark suggested.

  Hillary glared at both brothers and they backed down. I was impressed; maybe she’d share her secret for dominance. But I realized that her authority came from years of absolute terrorism. If you began life taller and could reach the cookies first, if you could sit on your sibling’s head or smash your sister’s Stonehenge made of red and green wood blocks, it established you as the dictator for life. And I didn’t have the right background. In my family, I was the designated victim; I was the one who fit into the dryer. Not on purpose. Mom still doesn’t believe me.

  Now, since I don’t even fit into commercial size dryers, I’ve been upgraded from perpetual punching bag to “Poor Allison” usually when my sisters-in-law alluded to my unmarried state.

  “So, is that what he took the million for?” Hillary demanded.

  Peter, attorney-at-law-JD-esquire-something sighed and looked at me as if I had the answer and more, an interest in helping him out. I just looked at him with the same bright expectation as his clients.

  “He donated the million dollars directly to a museum.” Peter the lawyer reluctantly announced. “Anonymously.”

  The boys rolled their eyes in frustration while Hillary remained ominously silent.

  “Apparently, according to the museum executive director, the painting has been here for years.” The lawyer finished, his voice trailed off as he saw the furious expression on Hillary’s face.

  “The museum?” I asked.

  “Where was it hidden?” demanded Hillary.

  “In the guest bath.” I offered, “behind the sheet rock.”

  “So what do we do?” Mark asked. His hands had not moved from their position on the table surface. He appeared relaxed, immovable. I looked more closely at his hands; the fingertips were white around the edges. But his demeanor was calm. Maybe that’s what you need to be a DA, I didn’t know. My attempts at complete calm usually fail. Although, I did not kill anyone in Sacramento today, that should count for something in the self-restraint department.

  The $400/hour man cleared his throat. “You can donate it and defray the profit of selling the house for tax purpose.”

  “Is that what you would do?” Stephen may have been the youngest and had the least amount of hair, but in my opinion, he was the best behaved of the three siblings. Only three. It seemed like there were thousands of them, and they didn’t even move fast.

  “It’s up to you.” Mr. Peter O’something said sanctimoniously.

  People don’t pay other people $400 an hour to finally hear, “its up to you.” They are paying you to be the expert and to TELL them what to do. For instance, I do not have a problem telling my clients what to do. They are enormously grateful for the advice and I’m often right.

  “Can we get the million dollars back?” Stephen asked.

  The lawyer shook his head.

  “Which museum?” I whispered.

  “Lost Art.” Peter Something, something, the third, whispered back.

  Hillary dropped her head into her manicured hands. “Oh God.” She groaned. First her dad wants to sell the house to disguise the fact that it was mortgaged to the hilt, and then she discovers that the big secret hiding in the house was art she couldn’t use and apparently didn’t like.

  “And you.” She shot daggers at Mark. “You should be the most upset.”

  “I am.” Mark said. He slowly dragged his hands across the table, as if those white edged fingertips were suction cups. He finally managed to move his reluctant hands into his lap.

  “I am very upset.” He said more quietly.

  What next? There was no what next. Her father had been murdered. But apparently that was not as important as the house and he loathsome art. Perhaps that was the best way to cope for now.

  “When is the funeral?” I asked apropos of nothing. Well, to them it was apropos of nothing; to me it was a logical course of my mind. Have you ever seen a wonderful cartoon, Pinky and the Brain? Brain is a serious lab mouse with an enormous head that plots nightly to take over the world. Pinky is Brain’s side kick whose own head is filled with little more than non-sequesters of which he only utters the very last part so there is no way you, the audience, can follow his odd train of thought. I love the show because everyone is so focused on his or her goals. If you haven’t seen the cartoon, then never mind.

  “The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. Come.” Said Mark said, suddenly the generous politician. As if a funeral was an opportunity for business. I gave him a look and he met my eyes frankly. Yes, it was an opportunity; he knew it and so did I.

  “I may.” I replied. I had no offers on this house, I had no firm, written offers on my three other listings, and one listing needed a price reduction - always a tricky conversation with clients. So it was not a good week for me work-wise. Do murderers attend their victim’s funerals or was that something I read or saw on TV? Okay Maybe I watch more than just cartoons.

  Don’t judge me.

  Chapter 4

  The day of the funeral was sunny and warm, like summer. I love our weather. Mostly. But because Marin and Sonoma counties are on the coast, we don’t get long hot weeks of summer. We get summer days randomly. A beautiful 77-degree day in January. A heat wave in March. And freezing fog filled mornings in June. I like to think it’s our way of living on the edge. Northern California – land of the microclimate.

  Today was like August. The temperature gage in my car flashed 90 degrees. I parked as close to a shade tree as I could yet greeted the clear blue sky and ubiquitous golden hills up my upturned face and spread arms. I sucked in the hot air. I had a few minutes before I needed to appear at the grave side. So I took a minute and lowered my eyes and expectations and I pretended I was outside on a hot, breezy green hill in the country and had nothing on my agenda but a nap in the warm air. The fantasy did not la
st very long. I soaked in the sun until another car pulled into my section of the lot. I dropped my arms and tried to look harassed and cranky because of the hot weather.

  Unlike the natural state of the landscape at this time of year, the hills at the cemetery rolled up from the parking lot in artificially green mounds and valleys. The grass was the same cheerful improbable shade as the grass that covered the eighteen-hole course at the Marin Country Club. I suppose it made sense that the greens should match – same people, same demographics; just some underground, some still upright in a golf cart.

  If I lifted my head just slightly I could catch more than a glimpse of the slow moving freeway traffic. I wondered if die-hard commuters actually requested the sites that overlooked the freeway, just to remind them that they didn’t have to be on the road anymore. Their children could visit the gravesite; look out over the traffic and say. “Mom always tried to leave exactly at 6:45 because that was best time to miss the worst of it.” And now she overlooks the freeway, secure in the knowledge that she never has to brave the 101 corridor again.

  The event began in the narrow rooms of the funeral home. We were competing against a beloved mother resting in room five. And an uncle – friend too all, in room one. Smith’s funeral guests were gathering in room seven towards the back. I found it, signed the guest book propped up next to a studio portrait of Smith as a much, much, younger man and strolled in.

  “Oh Allison, you came.” Hillary bustled up. She was dressed impeccably in a Chanel suit of navy embellished with white piping; she even wore the de-rigueur gold chains to match her gold chain belt. Her bare feet were smashed uncomfortably into navy pumps. I can say uncomfortably because really, you need pantyhose with pumps, it just feels better.

  But I didn’t feel that sorry for Hillary.

  “You must meet the girls.” Hillary said.

  I was sure Hillary meant her own daughters, and I had no interest in meeting them, but many people are so attached to their off spring they think that once you meet the kids, you’ll fall hopelessly in love as well. I glanced around for my own mother who rarely worries about introducing me to her friends. She had assured me she would attend dear Mortimer’s funeral. She was talking to a man and woman who I recognized as regulars at the club and golf course (still upright). Mom didn’t see me, yet so I couldn’t use my mother as an excuse to not meet Hillary’s offspring. I dutifully followed Hillary to the front of the room. A spray of white lilies covered the lower half of the coffin and three arrangements marched behind the coffin, roses, carnations and a mixed collection; all were embellished with the banner “Dearest Father.” I assumed there were not a great many pre-printed banner choices.

  “These are my children.” Hillary announced.

  At one point Hillary’s triptych of girls must have looked like a perfect set. It was easy to visualize the three little girls dressed in their annual red velvet outfits for the Christmas card photo and they probably all dressed as fairy princesses for Halloween and of course, they wore Easter dresses in yellow, purple and pink for the spring season. I wondered if Hillary also made the girls wear hats and carry tiny purses. I know my mother gave it a try.

  But the perfect matching, the idea of perfect girls was all over – Hillary may have complete control and authority over her brothers, but it was clear, even to me, that the home regime was slipping.

  “Girls,” Hillary gestured to the three disparate females. They glanced at their mother and reluctantly stepped forward. I could see that despite, clearly, their mother’s best efforts, their own personalities were beginning to show through. The oldest girl was stuffed into a miniature Chanel suit that probably looked just like Hilary’s, on the hanger. The child had pulled the skirt down over her bony hips, pushed up the jacket sleeves and embellished the outfit with an ancient White Snake tee cut off right below her small breasts. Her stomach was fantastically smooth, one of the perks of being fifteen.

  I resisted pointing out that her window of opportunity to enjoy that flat stomach was a narrow one. She had the right to enjoy it while she could.

  Hillary merely glared at her eldest.

  “This is Allison Little. She is the realtor for Grandpa’s house.”

  “Nice to meet you.” The girls mumbled as a unit, they ducked their heads and glanced over at the coffin.

  The youngest wore a purple and green striped Rugby shirt under her short navy jacket and had hiked her skirt up to reveal enviable narrow toothpick legs. She didn’t shake my hand, but instead sniffed conspicuously, as if a sudden surge of grief would excuse her from performing social duties.

  “Jackie?” Hillary raised an eyebrow.

  Jackie, the oldest, handed over her limp hand and I shook it. We both mumbled something insincere.

  The middle child shifted her weight, tugged at her skirt and glared at me. I smiled back. These young ladies gave me hope for my own tightly organized nieces. The girls do mature, and they bite back. How delicious.

  I glanced around for Hillary’s better half, but he wasn’t immediately apparent. No husband? No, her left hand was weighed down by a two carat wedding ring set. She didn’t volunteer to introduce me to her husband, or even find her husband. He probably could take care of himself.

  I pulled away to survey the group, thinking that somewhere a contrite or gleeful murderer was lurking, but I was interrupted as soon as I broke free of Hillary’s grasp.

  Mark sidled up to me and insisted I meet his brood too. I sighed and wished for some distraction to prevent further juvenile introductions, but there were none to be had. The minister or preacher or whomever, was nowhere in sight. I didn’t particularly want to stand next to mom, she was busily speculating on Mortimer’s untimely (turned out he was 85) death and I didn’t want to stand too close and feign innocence about said untimely demise. I looked around the bare hall, the gray folding chairs and single podium adjacent to the coffin; a spray of gladiolas in white decorated the podium base for that festive touch.

  I wondered if it was too late to join up with the Catholics or even the Episcopalians, some religion where there was more pomp and circumstance for the last goodbye. I don’t know how mom would react to that wish. But both of us would be dead at that juncture so maybe it didn’t matter.

  Mark steered me to his own group of upstanding young citizens. He had produced three sons; all of whom were broad shouldered and sported “Smith for DA” buttons on the lapels of their ill-fitting jackets. As children of a politician, they were far more skilled at the meet-and-greet than Hillary’s. Score one for Mark.

  “And your wife?”

  “Wife?” Mark glanced around much the same way Hillary had. “She’s probably in the ladies room.”

  “A campaign is a lot of work.” I commented. “I suppose she helps you quite a bit.”

  Mark was still scanning the room but I sensed it wasn’t to find his lovely spouse to introduce us. “She is critical to my work.” He said absently. “Excuse me.” He headed off for some new arrivals, all men.

  “Have you met my kids?” Stephen waylaid me before I too, could sneak off to the ladies room. If all the wives were huddled in there, that’s where I wanted to be. You hear a great deal in the ladies room, almost as much as you hear in the grocery store check out line.

  “No,” I said brightly. “Do you have three children?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  He led me across the room to meet his brood of little darlings.

  “A political campaign is a lot of work.” I repeated to Stephen.

  He patted his hair and looked at me a big strangely. “Yes it is, you mean Mark and Hillary?”

  “Mark and Hillary?”

  “They were always a team, Mark is three years older than me, but only year younger than Hillary so they were in high school together. They were always campaigning for student body officer or prom queen or some damn thing. I remember they would hole up in Hillary’s room to strategize. I played outside.
Here they are.” Stephen gestured to his children as if they were prizes won at the school raffle.

  His were a mixed group of two boys and a girl all jumbled together. Each child sported peeling red swatches of skin across the bridge of their nose. Each exuded the glow of excessive sports activities. Each child announced the results of their last soccer game as I was introduced.

  “We beat the Zip Drives 82-9”, said one small sturdy child. A few feet away, I could see Hillary’s oldest roll her eyes. Admittedly these three probably weren’t the most cheerful group at holiday time. With little in common, they were probably reduced to spending their hour at the children’s table tossing peas into each other’s milk and tormenting the youngest or smallest.

  “Lovely,” I murmured.

  “I need to greet some people I suppose. But they have that pretty well in hand as well.” Stephen glanced at his siblings.”

  “What about Mark’s wife? Doesn’t she help with the campaign?”

  “Karen? She’s around here. She usually keeps to her self. She and Hillary never did get along.”

  “Jealously?”

  Stephen gave me a look of surprise. “That was pretty astute of you. Yes, Hillary was always jealous of anyone Mark dated. Poor Karen.”

  He shook his head and wandered off, finished with me. Fair enough, during a funeral I think it’s wise to cut the immediate family members some slack.

  I would have liked to talk to Stephen more, but I had to remember that I do not get involved in the family dynamics, I am just a realtor, and in fact, I didn’t really need to be here at all. But I was. And now I felt somewhat at a loss.

  I backed into the entrance, and for a time took over the job of greeting people.

  “Yes, it was sudden.” I commiserated. “Won’t you please sign the guest book?”

  I may have recognized a few people, either from the club – Mortimer Smith’s friends and acquaintances – or reporters from the local paper. Mark greeted the reporters with hearty enthusiasm and quickly dropped his eyes after that initially loud greeting and tried to appear chagrined and saddened by the necessity of them meeting this way.