Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “How are your doors?” I asked tentatively.

  “Right here, I’m looking at them. I called the police but they said they don’t guard doors and I was being silly.”

  I admit that asking for a door guard wasn’t the most sane request. But I did consider what happened to Mortimer Smith during the door-jacking at his house. Mary Ann got off easy.

  “What are you doing today?” I asked carefully.

  “Golf at 3:00 and my club this evening.”

  “Dad?”

  “He’s in Washington again.”

  “And when is Dad coming back?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Okay, I have an open house tomorrow. I’ll check on you before I go and when I come back. But you should be fine.” I assured her.

  Mom drew a ragged breath. This really had rattled her. I thought she was impervious to any event that wasn’t directly affecting her. But perhaps I was wrong.

  “I’ll call you when I hear more about Mary Jane,” she promised.

  I hung up the phone and dropped my head in my hands contemplating my options.

  Even though Mark and Stephen didn’t seem to really care what I was doing with the house, Hillary cared, and she was convinced that open houses were the way to sales and riches. She mentioned that she read that very fact in an article somewhere. I’m sure it was in a doctor’s office while waiting for a touch up. But I’m just being bitchy.

  Hillary was all about open houses. And since whatever Hillary wanted, Hillary got, I had little choice but to follow with her regime. Even though Hillary was safely in Danville for the weekend, and I could have just pointed to the ad in the paper as proof that we held an open house. Even though I could do all those things, I still knew I’d show up and actually hold the house open. I had no choice, because if I say I’ll do it, I’ll do it.

  Except I would be doing it alone. And the Mortimer Smith house had just acquired new Gilberto doors.

  “You can look up the magnets on the Internet.” Rosemary emerged. “Was that a lead?”

  I shook my head to her question. “Hey. Can you sit with me on an open house tomorrow?”

  Rosemary narrowed her eyes, the only part of her body it was possible to narrow.

  “Where?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Marin.” I admitted.

  “That’s my not territory.”

  “Mine either,” I replied.

  I picked up a book off Patricia’s desk: Body Count, nineteen unsolved mysteries. I thumbed through it, but nothing on murdering for entry doors.

  I spent most of the afternoon trying to find help for the next afternoon. But no one could help me. It’s high season for the exuberance of open homes – so no one could leave and Katherine asked it I could sit on one of her homes, forgetting what I had just asked her.

  I even called Carrie.

  “I can’t, I volunteer at Forgotten Felines on Sunday afternoon, you know that.”

  “Oh of course.” I was tempted to tell her more about why I needed her help, but I didn’t want to scare her.

  “What are you doing for Forgotten Felines?” I asked, to keep the conversation going. The company phone, after delivering my mother’s hysterical call, was now silent.

  “We’re rounding up the cats.” Carrie said.

  “You actually round up cats?”

  “It’s harder than it looks.”

  I called Mom in the evening and again first thing in the morning, ostensibly to get an update on Mary Jane, but really to make sure Mom was all right. The scare ended at midnight, when Mary Jane’s condition was down graded from critical to just a bump on the head. But the police weren’t really saying anything about the doors, or the attack. No one mentioned my parents might be in danger. Since the police weren’t all that concerned, I thought the best thing was to keep calling Mom to check in.. I didn’t want to panic my mother. Could dad stay home for a while? Would they be willing to play a round of golf together? They never play golf together. I thought that was strange. Actually it was strange that I never noticed it before. See? We rarely assume our parents’ have their own lives.

  For this open house, I did all the tedious stuff we discussed earlier and for fun brought champagne to reward anyone brave enough to drive into deepest, darkest Belvedere and submit to viewing yet another beautiful home. I had new reading material, and was prepared for three hours of boredom. I already took apart the bathroom. I suppose I could check out the laundry room, pull back the sheetrock in there and see if Mortimer Smith had stashed a Picasso or a racy Gauguin behind the wall. But I didn’t have the heart for it.

  I squinted at the front doors. Mark had just replaced the Gilberto doors with more Gilberto doors. Hillary has protested the cost and there had been a lively discussion that I had not been part of, but heard Hillary’s version later. Mark did not come out well in the re-telling. I wouldn’t have spent the money either, but Mark, according to Hillary, had been adamant about it and she had to back down.

  I would have paid money to see that. But alas, I missed my opportunity to see Hillary capitulate.

  Doors and More must been doing land office business out here. These doors looked like mom’s, the carving was a bit different, but that would explain the individuality of the things.

  “See,” I could hear mom and her friends as they compared their recent purchases, “ On my doors the hibiscus carving is slightly to the left and a bit lower than the banana on your door.” Really, they discuss things like that. My life should be that simple.

  Actually, not that simple. Mary Jane’s doors were gone and Mary Jane was, I checked my phone, still fine. Mom promised to call immediately when Mary Jane was released from the hospital. Apparently, according to mom, Mary Jane did not remember what her attackers looked like.

  Which is a shame, I assume the police appreciate information they can actually use rather than the conjecture my mother was expert at producing.

  The varnish on the doors was slightly sticky even after 24 hours. And it still smelled odd, I still couldn’t identify the scent, but it wasn’t pleasant. So I stayed away from the doors.

  I turned on the lights, moved the furniture a bit, to “stage” it, which amounts to angling large pieces, like sofas and pianos on a diagonal to the room because it makes it - the room - look larger. The rooms in this house do not need help to look large; they are large. But I moved furniture around anyway. I took the classes, I had the certification, and I would Stage The Room, just as I promise in my brochures. I’m a woman of my word.

  I also checked my key program on my PDA, only four showings all week. All Marin numbers.

  The downstairs guest bath was still ripped up. Damn, I was hoping Ben would get to that yesterday, but I had to admit that taking the painting down to San Francisco took up most of the day. I glanced down at my phone; I had programmed his number into it, I listed him under my category of “Useful Persons”. I gazed at his phone number and name on my tiny screen. Did I want to call him? What kind of impression would that make, needy? Business-like? I didn’t know. How odd to be this indecisive about a service provider.

  Maybe the bathroom wasn’t an issue. Before I called Ben, I called the four agents who had viewed the house. Only two picked up. Both commented on the ravaged bathroom. Am I offering credit for the bathroom, say about $40,000?

  No, we were not giving credit back to the tune of $40,000. I’d rather give it to this Ben person who looked like he could use the cash.

  Now I’d have to call Ben after all.

  I took a deep breath and hit send. Fortunately he was out and I could leave a message that I hoped sounded business-like.

  “Hi, this is Allison again, I don’t know if I remembered to ask you, can you come in like, today, to finish the bathroom at 2389 Ocean View Court? Call me as soon as you can with your schedule. Thanks.”

  Business-like. He’s a contractor. I’m a Realtor, we are professionals.

  I opened up a bottle of the champagne took a s
ip to make sure it was okay. Then I settled down in the living room armed with three fashion magazines and a trade magazine to put on top if anyone really did walk in. I could see most of the driveway from my seat, and what I couldn’t see, I could infer. I just want to be ready for visitors. It was already 2:00 PM, which meant I only had two hours to go.

  I dropped the magazines and prowled around the living room. Would the thieves come back here? Had Mark purchased the doors for this house before Mom purchased her doors? Were the thefts executed in the same order as installation? Was this an inside job? It would have to be wouldn’t it? I just had that thought when a truck pulled into the driveway.

  Okay. I straightened my shoulders because I can take on anything. This is it.

  I looked out the window and watched my potential clients (because I prefer to be optimistic) disembark from a pockmarked Toyota truck. The driver leaned into the back and pulled something out, but I couldn’t quite see, and I didn’t want to stand at the window and stare, it puts people off. So walked towards the foyer to greet them.

  Warm bodies here to view the house! How great was that! And better – and this is the point of the open house exercise - I could report to Hillary that yes, there was some activity but not enough to need to hold another open house for at least a month.

  However, on the down side, these two men didn’t look like likely buyers, really. In retrospect, I wish I could say something like, they seemed a little shifty around the eyes, or they were skinny and nervous, but they looked healthy enough, like regular dudes from Marin or even Sonoma. Think of your best California stereotype, Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, cute in their own way, but their appearance and demeanor automatically excluded them from being potential buyers. Why? Because if you look that grungy and unkempt, the only way I will believe you have the where-with-all to buy a 3 million dollar home is if you are followed around by your equally grungy entourage. And these boys did not have an entourage.

  I know, don’t pre-judge, but I’ve been in the business long enough that actually, I can. But I’m not supposed to. At least not legally. So, I put my best face forward, good hostess that I am.

  I left the doors slightly ajar so it looked more welcoming. One young man pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold.

  “Hello,” I said warmly.

  He stopped leaving his friend standing outside.

  “Welcome, would you like to sign in?”

  “No,” he let his friend in, a young man who looked exactly like his friend. I smiled at the second friend, but just then something hard hit me, and the newly staged living room disappeared.

  I know I’m stubborn, sometimes hard headed. But I was out cold. Out cold, where does that come from - out cold?

  Cold or warm, everything went black.

  I must have swum around in that blackness for quite a while because the next thing I knew someone was cradling my head and whispering something. It sounded like “Allison wake up”.

  But I wasn’t late for school. I was pretty sure I was finished with school.

  My eyes fluttered. Oh please, really? I hoped they didn’t flutter like some hopeless, helpless, romantic heroine.

  “Tell me I didn’t faint.” I said out loud.

  “You didn’t faint,” assured the voice.

  “Tell me I’m finished with high school and I do not have to get up for that 8:00 chemistry class.”

  There was a pause. “No, you do not have to go to chemistry class. Can you move?”

  The tone wasn’t one of general joviality, which made me suspect that maybe I couldn’t move, so just to prove it – the voice – and myself - that I was in fine, fighting shape, I struggled to sit up and feel my feet or whatever it is you do when you’ve fallen. I think my brothers say something like that to their children after a fall. “Can you feel your feet?” But I think the question has more to do with making sure the child is not paralyzed for life and thus becoming a burden to the family than any expression of concern.

  I could move my feet. They looked good in the shoes, thank you.

  I looked around. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle, and nothing looked out of place. I could see down past the foyer from where I sat, but I really didn’t need to strain much to see what had happened.

  “The doors are gone aren’t they?”

  “Yup.” Ben said.

  Ben. I stifled a groan because heroines in novels are constantly stifling something.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He grinned. “I’m rescuing you. How am I doing so far?”

  I rubbed my head. “Pretty good especially if you have some Aleve or Advil on you. And why are you here?”

  “You didn’t pick up. I know from experience that when a real estate agent wants work done, they pick up. Morning, noon and night.”

  For him, I bet they do pick up. But I wasn’t so far gone that I said that out loud.

  “So I figured something was wrong and I was in the area, so I popped by.”

  “You popped by Belvedere? No one pops by Belvedere, it’s a destination. It’s not on the way to anything.”

  He gave me a level look. “It was on my way.”

  “Oh.”

  “How’s your head?”

  Hurt like a son-of-a-bitch but that wasn’t the most lady-like sentiment and since I was already into the damsel-in-distress identity what with the stifling and all, I thought I might as well run with it and for once, try not to swear, attempt to put off reality.

  “Very painful.” I said, “Do you have anything?”

  He shook his head.

  “Can you get my purse? It’s under the kitchen counter.”

  He retrieved it, winced at the weight and brought to me.

  I spent as little time as I could rummaging through the contents and pulled out my tiny bottle of Aleve. I popped two and swallowed without any water.

  His eyes bugged out a bit – it’s my best parlor trick. I smiled beatifically and relaxed, even though I was sitting on the floor and couldn’t remember if the living room had been vacuumed after the dry wall extraction. That dust attaches to everything.

  I was afraid to stand, I was wearing a burgundy colored silk suit. Even a little dust would show. Damn.

  “Do you want to go the hospital?”

  “No. My mother would find out and freak out.”

  “Okay then, I’ll take you to my doctor just to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

  “I don’t have a concussion.” I retorted.

  “Look into my eyes.”

  Looking deep into his eyes would be a very bad idea considering my vulnerable state, but I was compelled to do it, as if he was his own force of nature. His eyes were deep blue, dark, not girly, and intelligent. More intelligent that your average contractor to be perfectly frank, since I had, on occasion, gazed into the eyes of semi-professional and sometimes semi-successful contractors, his look hit me simply like a semi.

  “No, you pupils are the same size, you’re probably all right.”

  Thanks.

  He waited a beat. I held my breath.

  “And they are a beautiful color green.”

  I let out the breath and thanked him more sincerely.

  He just grinned.

  “So, what do you want to do?”

  I glanced at my watch – the one he mocked me about the day we met, but I’m not bitter - it was 4:00 PM straight up. I am so out of here. But what about the doors?

  “The doors,” he said out loud. “Well, we can’t leave the house unattended, there are still things in here.”

  “The painting?”

  “It’s down stairs in the wine cellar and I locked the cellar door for good measure. So our thieves are really stealing doors not paintings,” he mused.

  “They didn’t seem all that bright.” I commented.

  “You saw them?”

  “Well, they walked inside in order to hit me.” I retorted.

  “What did they look like?”r />
  “They looked like they couldn’t afford the asking price.” I said shortly. The Aleve hadn’t kicked in; I was not ready for interrogation.

  “Okay, kind of short, kind of tall?”

  I smiled. “He look-a like a man,” quoting the nail salon character on Mad TV.

  “I’ll quiz you later,” he promised. “Right now, we need some doors.”

  “Don’t you have some laying around?”

  “What? Oh, no, I buy them new from the store. My clients like their doors fresh.”

  “So what store?”

  “Where did these,” he gestured to the open gap in the foyer. “Come from?”

  “Doors and More in San Rafael.” I looked out through the empty gap. Hillary was going to shit bricks. And I’m not even sure that’s a metaphor. After all the cash Mark put up to replace the damn doors and now they’re gone again? Not good. Not good for me.

  I wondered if I could get Mr. Rock Solid Service to make the call. No, now I was just being a chicken shit.

  But hey, my head hurt, cut me some slack.

  He nodded. “I know it. They specialize in imports, very high end. Very,” he waved his hand to encompass the house, the view and the hidden narrow driveways that made up the hamlet of Belvedere, “from around here.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  We ended up calling my mother anyway. I did not explain that I had a growing bump on my head and was seeing double (only a few times, not worth mentioning). I did not explain that I suffered the same fate as Mary Jane because I wanted mom to focus on our problem at hand and not go off on a tangent on what she thought her friend should be doing as opposed to what her friend was actually doing. .

  And I wanted mom out of her own house. Right now.

  “I have a problem here, can you come down and help me out?” I asked.

  “I have bridge at 7:00, it’s our monthly pot luck. I’m bringing that casserole that your brothers always liked.”

  Macaroni and cheese, the one casserole mom doesn’t burn.

  “That’s great, can you do us a favor, we are at Mortimer’s house. Can you come down and watch an open house for me?” I repeated. I got silence for my trouble.

  “Only for a half hour or so.” I amended.