Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “Let me get something from the car,” he said. “Can you order a grande non fat latte, no foam, for me?”

  Ah ha, then he wasn’t thrilled with the calorie-ladened frappuccino family of coffee drinks. Then again I’ll be honest, he and I probably weighed about the same. In a wrestling match we’d be evenly matched and compete in the same category. On him, it looked good. I didn’t offer to wrestle him even though the image was more than a little intriguing . . . But to the point of the coffee, if I didn’t indulge in my favorite frothy drink (or two, or three) on a daily basis, I may look as trim as him. Or I may not. Never mind, not worth it.

  He returned and headed to a small table and set up a laptop. By the time our order was called up, he was typing away like a computer nerd. I was impressed, only because it seemed incongruous for a man in jeans, faded blue tee shirt and heavy work boots to be hovering over the latest sleekest laptop computer.

  I sat down next him and glanced at the screen.

  “Thefts of doors in the East Bay.” He said out loud. “Three reported. San Jose, two reported.”

  “We have a problem.” I said.

  “Yes.” He took a sip of his non-fat latte, no foam and frowned at the computer screen.

  “No one was hurt at the scene of the crime but many thefts seemed to have happened in broad daylight when the victims were at work.”

  “What about the distributors?”

  He ran another Google search, but all we came up with was a small newspaper report about a theft at Lowe’s in San Jose, the stolen items were not named.

  “That fits.” I pointed out. I paused, waiting for my mind to continue to work, it would work, I was confident on that, there was something.

  “Oh my god, my parents.” The foam went down the wrong pipe and I choked a bit. “I need to see my parents.”

  To his credit, Ben did not blow me off. He did not say, I have work to do, in fact he did have work to do, that bathroom. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “Yes.” I said simply.

  Southbound traffic was still backed up, but our northbound passage was relatively clear.

  My phone rang as I turned off one of the Novato exits.

  It was my loan officer. “Okay,” he said immediately, before I had a chance to say hello. “I can do this on her credit rating rather than his, which just went into the toilet with that boat deal, are they still in?”

  “They are still in – let me know.” I clicked off the call and took a deep breath as I rounded the corner to my parent’s house. There they were, those awful doors, thankfully still intact.

  I could only wave at Dad; he was already in the golf cart waiting to drive out to his first hole. He waved at Ben and me and briskly moved forward to catch his tee time. He executed a neat hairpin turn with the golf cart. Mom rushed to the door and greeted me with exaggerated parental joy, showing off for the guest. Even this early in the morning, she was dressed in a skirt and jacket, tan open toed Marc Jacobs shoes highlighted her professionally painted toe nails. My mother is always perfection on two legs.

  For a moment, I wanted to just throw her to the dogs, or dudes right there, but I resisted. What would my brothers say if they knew I killed their mother? Naw, I don’t really want to kill her. I probably drank too much caffeine. Is there such thing as too many Starbucks coffee drinks? I didn’t think so

  “We’re here to admire your doors again.” I said instead.

  “Yes, they are lovely aren’t they?” Mom said.

  “How many in this area?” I tried to sound conversational rather than completely panicked.

  “About three, then the store ran out, which is a shame, don’t you think?”

  But I know my mother; she didn’t think it was a shame at all. She loved having something that no one else had. My father is a case in point.

  “Any?” How do you say this delicately? Any more thefts? Anyone killed in the last 48 hours? Any additional Marin matrons whacked over the head, which seems to be the MO of these thieves. They were not all that violent. They just needed to get those doors and they needed to get the witness temporarily out of the way. They must either have a huge home with many front entrances, or they are creating an art sculpture and are up against a grant deadline. Oh wait, or they are building a multi doors to the world sculpture for Burning Man. If so, they are under deadline; Burning Man was held the last week of August.

  “Any unusual activity last night?” Ben finally asked.

  “Oh, no, unless you count Linda’s shower for her daughter, I had no idea they hadn’t married yet. The girl wants to have the baby first so she’ll look nice in her dress for the wedding, as if that was the only important thing.”

  She shook her head and glanced at Ben. “What do you think about a trend like that?”

  He shrugged. “I always thought getting married first was the better way to go.”

  “Aren’t you a lovely man?” Mom beamed at him. “So, can I get you some breakfast?”

  My mother has the same culinary skills that I do, which is to say, none at all. She wrapped herself in a bright yellow and blue Provence patterned apron, that looked to be brand new, just out of the box that held all the fabulous acquisitions from the Provence trip, and created her best meal: English muffins and scrambled eggs. She even had some cheese laying around to melt into the eggs. I was impressed; this kind of meal was usually reserved for high holidays. I hoped Ben appreciated the effort.

  He seemed to be eating at least.

  Mom was doing an excellent job quizzing Ben who naturally, would put up with that kind of thing from a mother, never from a peer.

  Where did his grandmother live? Ah ha, mom remembered that detail.

  Up north in the Dry Creek Valley.

  “Oh that’s lovely up there.” My mother crowed. She served him more eggs.

  That’s expensive up there. I thought, more so than in Belvedere because there are fewer opportunities to buy land or a home. If he’s a good grandchild, maybe he could inherit.

  I glanced at Ben complacently eating his second round of eggs. I tried to subtlety get mom’s attention to give me the rest of the eggs. But she glanced at my plate and whisked the pan away and dumped the rest of the eggs into a plastic container destined for the refrigerator.

  “How old is your grandmother anyway?”

  “80. She still lives at home.”

  “Oh that’s wonderful,” she poured him more orange juice. “That’s what I want to do, live at home, be comfortable for the rest of my days, have my loving children beside me.”

  “May I have more juice?” I interrupted her.

  “Sorry, honey that was the last of it. And your parents?”

  “They are still alive,” he said shortly.

  And that was the end of the conversation because that was the end of breakfast. I was still hungry, but I refused to beg.

  Mom fortunately had more bridge this morning – hence the formal little suit - so Ben and I were left with each other and the doors.

  Ben regarded the doors on the frame. “There must be something more than just interesting carving,” he mused.

  “I agree.” The neighborhood was waking. In the distance I heard the satisfying whack of a 250 yard drive, the murmur of a foursome at hole behind the house. The pool sweep clicked on. Blue Jays cawed and scattered smaller birds from the pine trees.

  “Would your Mom mind if to took one of the doors down?”

  “If you did it, probably not. What do you have in mind?”

  He walked to his walked to his truck and returned with an impressively large toolbox. In no time he had knocked out the pins on the hinges and released the doors.

  “Here, let’s take this outside.”

  I helped him move the doors outside and held them up while he searched for sawhorses in my father’s immaculate garage. He found two folding chairs instead, extra for the holiday dinners, and managed to balance the doors on a total of six chairs.

  Now, I bet you think I
’ve forgotten about Carrie and her romantic challenges but passing out on the floor distracted me somewhat. To be honest, I didn’t think that much had happened since I last spoke with her. She was back at work; I was pretending this was work. But while Ben circled the door, I called Carrie.

  “Hey, how are you?”

  “How am I? You were assaulted yesterday and you didn’t even call me!”

  “How did you. . ? Never mind. Sorry, it was, complicated.”

  “Still seeing that contractor guy?”

  “I’m not seeing him.” I watched him as he squinted at the ends, or rather the bottom and top of the door. I don’t know the technical term for it, I haven’t spent that much time around doors, they open, you walk in, that’s all I know.

  Oh, sometimes you need to plane them down so they don’t catch on the carpet. A door has to open all the way, that’s good Feng Shui, okay, so I know a little about doors and enough about Feng Shui to be dangerous. I wondered how Joan was doing.

  I know A Little About Everything. No, that doesn’t work.

  “We went to dinner again Saturday night, but he didn’t talk to me at all! We just sat there and listened to his sisters complain about how restricted their lives were, what with the charity functions and dressing up and everything.”

  “River’s Bend is not San Francisco,” I pointed out.

  “Tell me about it. I don’t know. It was so awkward. Oh, sorry, got to go.”

  “There’s about an inch unaccounted for.” Ben said at the same time.

  I clicked the phone call off and focused again on our spontaneous handyman project.

  “What do you mean?”

  For me, personally, I have many inches around my torso that are mysterious and unaccounted for, like I can’t remember what I did or did not do to create them. But he wasn’t looking at my body. Damn.

  “The carving is thick, but not really thick enough to account for the weight and heft . . .” He took a screwdriver and poked at the top of the door.

  “hmmm. . . ” he made a soft noise.

  “What inspired you to go into contracting work?” I asked as he rooted around in his deep toolbox. I’d like to root around in his toolbox.

  “When I graduated from Stanford, there were no Vice President jobs open, so I started working with a friend in the trades. Liked it.”

  “You graduated from Stanford?”

  “Philosophy.”

  “Your parents must have been so proud.” I said sarcastically.

  He retrieved a cordless drill. “They recovered, as long as I was working and subsequently out of the house, they were happy.”

  “That was a goal back then, when did you graduate?”

  “June.”

  He took the drill and pressed it against the center of the door top. I looked over his shoulder, the door was made in three layers, it looked like there was a center core to the door about an inch thick, and the carving layers were pressed on either side of the layer, like an Oreo; the cookie was the carvings and the creamy center was, well wood. I didn’t see the big deal, but I’m not an expert.

  My phone rang and I took the call while he drilled. I kept one eye on the process which took less time than it takes to explain, and one half my mind on the conversation, which took less time to listen than it did to record it here.

  Norton opened his comments with, “Your Feng Shui expert is very interesting.”

  I could imagine. Joan would interpret her assignment as Feng Shui expert as an opportunity to dress up like an oriental table decoration. She probably swept into Norton’s candy colored house draped head to toe in black and red. I know she took the opportunity to wear a red hat. She owns nine red hats already because she’s turning 55 next year and she’s stocking up to join the Red Hat Society – and she probably carried a handful of small charms, crystals and candles to light up various corners of the house. I can always depend on Joan to dress the part.

  I do not care about the means, just the end.

  “What did she say?” I asked as casually as I could.

  “She’s very interesting. We’re having coffee later this week.”

  Oh great, everyone is getting some except me. Am I cursed? Yes, I suppose so. I glanced at Ben who was carefully drilling into the top of the door; he seemed to be going at it rather gingerly.

  “And what did she say?”

  “I never knew that Navaho White was an auspicious color for selling.” He mused.

  “I’ve heard it’s ideal for selling, very auspicious.” I confirmed.

  “And I need to get the rugs cleaned and she told me how to move around the furniture, but she’ll help me with that once the painting is done.”

  “And when will the painting be done?” I prodded.

  “The painters are coming tomorrow.”

  “Marvelous.” I said.

  “Damn.” The drill pressed through the wood then suddenly pressed all the way through the wood to the hilt, as if nothing was there to stop it.

  “Got’ta go, I’ll call you about an open house date and a good time to take new pictures.” I signed off quickly.

  “Hollow door?” I asked Ben.

  “Not for the weight of the thing. I thought it would be completely solid.” He reversed the drill to pull it out. It slid out quite easily, along with a stream of white powder.

  The two of us looked at the stream of powder for a full minute, the crystals glinted in the morning sunshine.

  Very pretty.

  “Call the police,” he said.

  Chapter 7

  Unfortunately, mom returned from bridge a minute after her precious doors were confiscated by the police but far too many minutes before Ben could return from another trip to Home Depot loaded with replacements. This unfortunate configuration of events found me as the guardian of the yawing empty space in the front of her house as well as the woman who had to explain to mom that her doors were more than just ugly – they were a felony.

  I was grateful that when the police did show up, it was not in the guise of the woman I dealt with in Belvedere, different city. I was more than grateful I wouldn’t be connected with the doors twice.

  We did look in the garage first to see if the old doors were miraculously propped up somewhere in the back. But my mother does not save anything, a reaction; I’m sure, to my grandmother’s propensity to save everything including magazines and paper bags. I understand the dichotomy. I save everything because in my business, it pays to save. Clients not only regularly forget what they said; they often forget what they said they wanted. So I found it best to save all notes, comments, and conversations on either paper or on computer.

  My notes look like this:

  November 21st 5:05 PM - informed client that if they don’t drop the price of their house they will lose the option on the new house they have in escrow.

  November 21st 5:09 PM Client refuses to drop price. Quote, “hell no.”

  November 23rd 12:00 PM Client loses house, escrow falls though.

  November 24th 11:05 Client withdraws his listed house from market.

  November 24th 11:09 Allison is out about $1,500.00.

  December 20th, Client and family blame Allison because no one could make up their mind in time to either sell or buy.

  That’s when I submit the phone logs. It slows down the buyers and sellers somewhat, and protects me. And why do I need protecting? Well, the average person is completely stupid and the average lawyer is completely devious, and as much as it’s a profitable combination for both of those parties, it’s potentially disastrous for me. So I keep the logs.

  I wonder if the door thieves have a lawyer on retainer. I would, if I were stuffing doors with kilos of coke.

  I do not keep a running log of conversations with my mother. Too long.

  “What happened to my doors? Allison.” Mom slammed the door of her Mercedes and gave me that look; the one that immediately blames me for whatever situation has surrounded me, by accident or not. Like the time
my brothers hid in the garage leaving me standing next to the arrow implanted in the living room wall, and holding the bow because Richard asked me to. I remember I immediately pointed out that at least it missed mom’s favorite painting. But that hadn’t helped my cause. Nothing ever did. But it was great sales training for my future.

  “There was a problem with the doors and the police had to take them away – material evidence,” I explained.

  “Material evidence? They’re doors.” Mom emphasized the noun.

  “But very special and unique doors.” I reminded her.

  “Allison, tell me now, why did you let them take my doors!” Mom placed her hands on her slender hips and stared at me.

  “The police took them.” I explained again. “I can’t obstruct an investigation.”

  “What kind of crime can be committed by doors?”

  One of taste?

  “Mom.” I took a deep breath. And fought down years of resentment and history so I could respond to just the single question between us. It doesn’t do to bring up half a dozen slights or perceived slights (I admit that) when there was really only a single question to be answered.

  “We found cocaine hidden in your doors. The police had to take them away.” I said as simply as I could.

  She paused, waiting for the punch line.

  “If it’s any consolation,” I continued. “Your friends are getting their doors taken as well.”

  Mom let that sink in for a moment.

  “How was bridge?” I asked.

  “But they were so unique!” Mom wailed. “Where am I going to find doors like that?”

  I hope the answer was: nowhere. But I kept my mouth shut. Rare for me.

  “And where is your lovely friend? Did you scare him off?” Mom quickly recovered and returned to her favorite activity, attacking me.

  “No, I did not scare him off.” I retorted. I swatted at a wasp hovering under the porch roof. Maybe it will come into the house. Maybe it will sting my mother. Nature has a way of getting even on our behalf.

  The wasp drifted across the street. Stupid wasp.