Death at a Fixer-Upper

by Sarah T. Hobart

  “That’s right.”

  She rose to her feet in a graceful coordination of body parts and proffered her hand. Her nails matched her toes. We gripped hands briefly. In a passing fancy, I imagined that her fingers were dripping fresh blood.

  “Loretta Sacchi, PNI, Inc.,” she said. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course. Would you like to go back to my office?” I said, wondering what PNI, Inc. was.

  “This is fine.” She eased herself back down on the love seat, pinning her skirt to her thighs with her palms to keep it from riding up. She crossed her ankles demurely and rested her right hand on the armrest, her fingers extended as if holding an invisible cigarette. I settled into one of Everett’s cheap wicker chairs that made embarrassing noises under my cheeks and forced my spine into an osteoarthritic curve. Glancing down at my shoes, I saw traces of potting soil from Merrit’s greenhouse. “What can I do for you, Ms. Sacchi?”

  “Please, call me Loretta. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re not familiar with our company.”

  “Well, no…not exactly.”

  “Paranormal Investigations Incorporated,” she said crisply. “Let me assure you right up front that we’re not ghostbusters or publicity seekers. We’re a reputable Bay Area company dedicated to investigating and documenting paranormal activity. We have an array of sophisticated, state-of-the-art equipment we use to validate claims of a variety of phenomena. These things, Ms. Turner, can’t always be explained rationally.”

  “Sam,” I said automatically. “I—well, that’s really interesting.”

  She smiled. “I can see you’re a skeptic. This is a relatively new field of study in the scientific community. It’s only been in the last decade or so that equipment for isolating and recording paranormal activity has been available. These are exciting times for those of us in the spirit business, if I may call it that.”

  She could call it whatever she wanted, but I couldn’t foresee a paycheck in my future. “I guess I don’t understand what brings you to my office, Ms.—uh, Loretta.”

  “Ah.” She leveled a blood-red nail at me. “Let me explain. There’s a property on the market that’s of particular interest to my firm. We’d like to conduct a series of investigations there. Perhaps even base a documentary on our findings.”

  “Isn’t there already a cable show with a similar premise?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Charlatans. Manipulated data. Staged phenomena. Preying on the public’s desire to believe in something they can’t see.”

  I twitched a little at her words, which seemed especially apt, given the morning’s events. With a sense of inevitability, I said, “Which property is your firm interested in?”

  She consulted a slip of paper. “The address is 13 Aster Lane. Unsubstantiated reports of astronomical EMF readings—that’s electromagnetic fields—”

  “Of course,” I murmured.

  “—have spread even as far as San Francisco. This could break the field wide open.”

  “Even if that’s so, you realize gaining access to the house for your experiments is not something I can do in my role as a real estate agent. You’d have to go through the owner of the property, or possibly the probate attorney.”

  “You don’t understand. We don’t just want to film there; we want to buy the place.”

  My eyebrows must have climbed almost to my hairline, because she added, “An opportunity such as this one doesn’t come along often. Once in a blue moon, you might say.” She allowed herself a slight smile. “We want the exclusive right to conduct our studies there. Perhaps we’d even make it our headquarters.”

  “You want to cut out the competition.”

  “I’m glad you understand. Strip away the supernatural trappings and ours is a business like any other. You’ve got to stay one step ahead of the wannabes.” She flashed a hundred-watt smile, her teeth nearly blinding me. “So when can you show me the house?”

  “I—”

  “Is noon tomorrow available?”

  “Yes. That is, I’ll find out and let you know.” The thought of another call to Lois Hartshorne made my lips hurt.

  “Here’s my card,” she said, pressing a rectangle of paper into my hand. “You go ahead and set it up. Call me if there’s any problem. That’s my cell right on top.”

  I almost suggested I contact her psychically, but decided against it. She rose and gave my hand a quick clasp.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at the property,” she said.

  The door closed behind her and I sat for a minute, bemused. This day was shaping up to be one of the strangest in my short career.

  Finally, I rose and returned to my desk. Gail still occupied the lone chair. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved as if in silent prayer. At the same time, she tapped the very top of her head briskly with the tips of her fingers.

  “What on earth are you doing?” I said.

  She moved her fingers to her forehead, eyes still closed, tapping away. “Affirmations. I’m accessing positive energy and releasing stress and tension.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. By smacking yourself?”

  “It’s called tapping. There’s a whole movement around it.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. Real estate is a high-stress occupation. Studies have shown that tapping promotes relaxation and increases productivity. You want me to show you how it’s done?” She tapped on either side of her nose until the skin turned red.

  “I’ll pass. But thanks. Everett around?”

  “Lunching with his accountant. What’d the lady want?”

  “Get this.” I sat down at the desk of another agent, Carl Stopowitz, who shared our office but came out only at night. “She wants to see the Harrington estate. She’s with a firm that may want to buy it for paranormal studies.”

  Gail’s eyes popped open. “I’ve heard about those people,” she said excitedly. “Don’t they have a show on cable?”

  “Not these folks. Honestly, Gail, it all sounded so screwy.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see the old house.”

  “Why don’t we tag-team? Noon tomorrow.”

  “Shoot. I’ll be at the dentist. One of my old fillings came out over dinner last night. I don’t understand it. I wasn’t crunching hard toffees, for heaven’s sake. Only scrambled eggs.” Her eyes grew wide. “You think it’s really haunted? Rumors have been flying around for years.”

  Yesterday I would have scoffed. I shook my head. “Not for me to say. I just want to sell the place.”

  “Now you’re talking like a real estate agent.”

  “God forbid,” I said, and we both laughed.

  —

  Gail left for home a few minutes later. I moved back over to my desk and picked up the phone. Lois Hartshorne answered in her rough voice, and I explained that I needed a second appointment at Aster Lane. “Noon, if that’s available,” I put in helpfully. Maybe if I sucked up a little she wouldn’t yell at me.

  “Tell me about your client. Another developer?”

  “No-o-o—more of, uh, a professional person. A scientist.”

  “What field?”

  I racked my brain to come up with something good, but my mouth didn’t cooperate. “Paranormal studies.”

  “Ye gods and little fishes. Look up the word ‘gullible’ in the dictionary, honey. Bet there’s a picture of you.”

  “Can I show the place at noon or what?”

  “Sure you can. Oh, that reminds me—there’s already an offer in. A strong one. I probably should have mentioned it earlier, but it slipped my mind.”

  Damn! I bit my lip. “Has it been accepted?”

  “Not yet. Just a matter of time.” She sounded even more cranky, if that was possible.

  “Then we’ll take the noon appointment.”

  Big sigh. “You’re penciled in. Say hello to Casper for me.” She hung up.

  I slammed the phone down and gave it the finger. Right on cue, it rang again. L
ois, calling me back for another round of insults?

  “Home Sweet Home,” I said curtly.

  “I say. Is this the real estate office?” The voice was pleasant, male, and slightly affected in style.

  “It is.” I grabbed a pen and adopted my professional demeanor. “Sam Turner speaking. How can I help you?”

  “Are you an agent, Ms. Turner?”

  I resisted the urge to say, “That depends.” “Yes, I am.”

  “Because a very strange thing has happened to me. I really am at a loss to explain it.”

  I rolled my eyes and braced for another journey into the paranormal.

  “I opened my morning paper,” he went on. “Right there on page one was a story about Arlinda and its Kinetic Sculptures. I can’t explain the effect it’s had on me. Arlinda sounds utterly charming. Tell me, have you seen the race? Can you describe it to me?”

  “Well, sure. I never miss it. It’s, well…” I searched my vocabulary. “Eccentric, I guess you could say. Downright crazy, to be honest. Lots of fun. The course is about forty miles long and takes place over three days.”

  “And the machines themselves? They’re human-powered, is that right?”

  “Right. No fossil fuels or electricity. Usually they’re built from bicycle frames welded together and then decorated with all kinds of junk. But they have to be road-worthy. There’s a sand stage out in the Martin’s Crossing dunes on the first day. Second day is the water stage, in Grovedale, so the contraptions need to float, too. And then a road stage down to Bovington on the final day, finishing up in the middle of town. Basically, they need to be designed for every kind of terrain you might find out here.”

  He breathed into the phone heavily. “How absolutely wonderful. Well, I’ve made up my mind. I want to assure you, Ms. Turner, I’m a completely rational man in all other respects.”

  Here it comes, I thought.

  “But I saw that story and said to myself, ‘That’s a place I’d like to live.’ And then I thought, Why not? I have no close ties to bind me to the Sacramento area. I’m comfortably off, with more than enough savings for a down payment. Small-town life by the sea holds a great deal of appeal for me. The air is bracing, I imagine?”

  “Straight off the Pacific. Never breathed by man.”

  He sighed. “Sounds like paradise. Well, Ms. Turner, I’ll be driving up tomorrow. Perhaps we could meet.”

  “Why don’t you give me your email and I’ll send you some listings?”

  “That’s a grand idea. Though, as a matter of fact, I’ve already spotted a property on the Internet that’s captured my fancy. Perhaps we could start there.”

  My pulse revved a little. I could really use a quick sale right now. “What’s the address?”

  “Now, that’s the funny thing. There was no address listed. Here, I’ll read you the advertisement. ‘Victorian mansion in need of tender loving care. Two point six acres—’ ”

  I almost groaned aloud. “You can stop. That’s 13 Aster Lane.”

  “You’re familiar with the property, then?”

  “Just walked through it this morning.”

  “Marvelous! I’ve called exactly the right person, I can see that. How soon can we take a look? I’m free tomorrow around one o’clock.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Listen, Mr., uh—”

  “Carleton-Hughes. Raymond Carleton-Hughes.”

  “—I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr. Carleton-Hughes, but in my opinion the home needs quite a bit more than tender loving care. A new roof, for starters. A coat of paint. Carpentry. Mold remediation. Probably foundation work. And that’s just off the top of my head.”

  “Oh, but really, it’s all in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it? I don’t mind rolling up my sleeves. It would be a labor of love.”

  “There’s another thing—an offer’s already come in.”

  “Oh, I say. I don’t like that. You mean it’s too late?”

  “Not necessarily. There’s some competition is all.”

  “Well.” I could hear him draw a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what, Ms. Turner—let’s put an offer in right now. Over the phone. Can we do that?”

  My heart began to thump so hard I wondered if Mr. Carleton-Hughes could hear it through the line. Was he serious? Then I thought of the commission on a $600,000 sale, three percent of which went to yours truly—minus Everett’s sizable split, of course. “I don’t see why not. And I’m not trying to be discouraging. I just want you to have all the facts.”

  “I appreciate your frankness. You must think me completely mad. All right, walk me through the process, if you would be so kind.”

  I spent a few minutes on the line giving him instructions and collecting information. After we hung up, I pulled up a purchase agreement on the computer, filling in the blanks as best I could, and emailed it off to him.

  Then I gritted my teeth and called Lois Hartshorne again. She recognized my voice.

  “Who is it this time, dear? Little green men?” She chortled into the phone, delighted with her own wit.

  “I don’t know his story. Just that he wants to see the place at one o’clock. And I’m sending you an offer.”

  In vain did I wait for her exclamations of delight. Instead, there was a long stretch of silence.

  “Lois?”

  “Let me just sum it all up,” she said at last. “You’ve got a developer who can’t develop, a ghost hunter, and a sight-unseen offer from God knows what kind of nut job. All to brighten the day of little ol’ me. I don’t know when I’ve felt so special. Is it my birthday?”

  “Could you just check the showing schedule?”

  “What kind of financing are we looking at? A wish and a prayer?”

  “Conventional mortgage. He has cash saved up for a down payment.”

  “Goody for him. The house isn’t loanable.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  She hooted with laughter. “You have a letter from his bank, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll get one.” Sparring with Lois was giving me a dull ache in my stomach. Probably another muffin would help settle things down.

  She muttered something and dropped the phone with a clatter. Moments later, she came back on the line with a mix of heavy breathing and ear-jarring crackling noises. “I can get you in at two o’clock.”

  “He requested one.”

  “Sorry, sweet cheeks, but one is taken. Believe it or not, you’re not the only agent in town.”

  I drew a hand down my face, suddenly weary. “Two is fine. I’ll send the offer over in the next five minutes.” Dropping the receiver on its cradle, I wondered if a round of affirmations would clear the knot of tension that was building in my neck. I was a long, long way from accessing my positive energy.

  I played a few rounds of clock solitaire while I waited for the phone to ring again. It did, not six minutes later.

  “Mission accomplished,” Raymond Carleton-Hughes said. “Do you need a check from me now?”

  “That can wait until your offer is accepted.”

  “Very good. Now, then, I’ll see you at the property, one o’clock sharp, Ms. Turner. I tell you I’m fairly trembling in my shoes.”

  “Oh, about the time—”

  “Yes?”

  “No big deal. One o’clock was taken. So we’re in at two.”

  There was a silence. “Are you certain?” he snapped. All traces of his warm manner had vanished.

  “Pretty certain.”

  “Two o’clock, then. Very well.” He hung up abruptly.

  I spent a few minutes doodling on the blotter and replaying the conversation in my head to see where it might have been off. Nothing leaped out at me. People did experience sudden attractions to unsuitable properties, just as they did in selecting partners for a lifetime…or an hour.

  Funny, though, his voice had seemed vaguely familiar. I tried to place it and couldn’t. He’d been somewhat put out, I thought, at the change in showing times—disproportionately s
o, after having been so charming up to that point. Maybe the later time conflicted with his afternoon tea.

  I shrugged. The worst that could happen was I’d simply be wasting my time.

  The offer was waiting in my in-box. I printed it out and looked it over. Five hundred and seventy-five thousand, thirty percent cash down. Take that, Lois Hartshorne. I fed it into the fax machine a sheet at a time. When I was sure all twelve sheets were humming through the phone lines toward Hartshorne & Associates, I breathed a sigh of relief. Time to get moving.

  Chapter 4

  I took the short walk to my car. On the verge of heading home, it occurred to me I could hit the ground running by picking up a copy of Edsel Harrington’s will at County Records in Grovedale, a mere seven miles south.

  The bus fired right up, always a good omen, and I merged onto the 101 heading south. Salmon Bay stretched to my right. The surf today was the color of weak coffee, topped by foamy whitecaps like steamed milk. Because of the curve of the highway I could see Grovedale six miles ahead, with the particleboard plant on the horizon just behind it spewing clouds of sawdust-laden steam. Garish billboards marred the view every quarter mile, advertising everything from get-out-of-jail bonds to discount vasectomies to grab-’n-go breakfast sandwiches drooling liquid cheese and saturated fat, offering hungry travelers a quick trip to the land of hardened arteries. It was a wonder no one had taken a chain saw to the billboards years ago. I’d have been tempted myself if I weren’t such a law-abiding citizen.

  I crested the bridge over a murky slough and descended into Grovedale. The 101 rolled right through the heart of town, bisecting it into a historic waterfront district to the west and a residential neighborhood of stately Victorian homes to the east. With architecture like this, one might expect a populace of old established families, prosperous owners of businesses catering to the tourist trade or individuals comfortably entrenched in county government jobs with the full benefits package, including dental. And there were quite a few of those. But the people who frequented the 101 corridor or perched atop weathered stoops smoking cigarettes and watching the cars whizz by were hollow-eyed and gaunt-faced, perpetually down on their luck, who awaited their next fortified beverage and court date with the same air of patient resignation. Grovedale could be a scary place.