In Good Faith
A Real Estate Diva Mystery
Catharine Bramkamp
Good Faith - Bona fide; an act is done in good faith if it is in fact done honestly,
whether negligently or not.
- The language of Real Estate – John W. Reilly, fifth edition, Dearborn Financial Publishing, Inc. 2000.
In Good Faith
First edition copyright 2011 Catharine Bramkamp
Write Life, LLC Omaha, NE, August 2011
Revised e-book edition, Catharine Bramkamp March 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher and author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, some locations and incidents are products of the author’s fevered imagination or are used fictionally and are not be construed as real. Any resemblances to actual events, local organization or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Really. I have no idea where these people came from.
Hard copy cover design by Kristy Stark Knapp
e-book revised edition cover by Stacey Meinzen
Chapter 1
I found another body.
She was murdered.
This was an even less pleasant experience than both times before. The fact that I have found three bodies in the course of my lifetime must be more than a coincidence. But there was no context to make sense of it. To be completely honest, and I always am, I didn’t even want meaning. What I wanted then and now was quick closure and a nice glass of Shiraz. Perhaps tranquilizers.
What was my first reaction when I flung open that bedroom door? There were many options: horror, revulsion, sickness, shock, but no, my first reaction was, I do not need this.
My second reaction was perhaps I should switch from selling million dollar homes to focusing exclusively on the inexpensive condo market. Nothing happens during a condo purchase. First- time home buyers purchase condos. And first-time homebuyers are too busy working to pay their new mortgage to indulge in mayhem and murder.
For instance, the only thing my current condo client, Owen Spenser, inspired was aggravation, but not murder. Although, our last conversation brought me dangerously close to the latter.
After a year of condo scrutiny, Owen had announced that the last condo I found for him had cracks in the soil around the foundation.
“Yes,” I had explained. “There are cracks in the soil, it’s adobe, it shows cracks.” I’ve been selling real estate in Rivers Bend, California, long enough to be an authority on the solid adobe soil that covers most of the south end of town, I spoke the truth.
Mr. Owen Spenser, who has only been dabbling in real estate (as a perpetual first-time homebuyer) for the last seven years, was obsessed with buying the perfect condo for the perfect price - at the very bottom of the market. Yesterday he was obsessed with cracking adobe soil.
“Yes,” I assured him on a weekly basis, “I’m sure it is a good deal. And, no, you won’t be certain it’s a good deal until after you’ve missed the opportunity.”
I take that back. I’m not that happy with condo buyers either.
And how do I, Allison Little, know I was looking at a murder scene?
Well, I’m no expert, (I am not saying that to be modest, I am really not an expert of any kind, except for real estate – and am constantly faced with situations where I have no experience, but have to act as if I do, and it’s damn annoying) but I do know that after a person has been hacked into small pieces, and those pieces are scattered liberally around the master bedroom, the cause of death was not cancer.
Or suicide. We can rule out suicide and cancer.
Dark stains of brown and red covered the white (of course, white) bedroom walls in fat splotches and horrible arches of smears and drips. One gruesome arch reached to the ceiling. I didn’t search for the source of all that abundance, I didn’t want to.
The woman’s head was positioned in the precise center of the counterpane; the vicious stains had soaked wetly into the white bedspread. I couldn’t tell if the blood was dried or, well, damp. Not that I had any interest in approaching for a better look. Even from the doorway, where I stood frozen, I could see that her beautiful face still held an expression of complete surprise.
I gripped the doorframe and stared at the scene for what felt like an hour, enough time for all those trivial thoughts to flash through my addled brain. At least, it felt like an hour. My stomach finally reacted to what my eyes were seeing and began to heave. I had to move.
I uncurled my fingers from the doorframe and jerked back. I slammed the door closed for good measure, as if she was capable of pursuit (I watched a great many inappropriate-for-my-age horror movies, courtesy of my older brothers, so it could happen).
I stumbled into the guest bath. The master bath was accessed through the master suite; I did not want to be that close – to any of it. The master bath opened directly to the master bedroom, as if the couple living there rose at precisely the same time so the light in the bath wouldn’t disturb the other sleeping person. This master bedroom set up was really a suite for the single. Far too many homes up on this hill have this feature. I never point it out when I’m selling property in the Villas.
I think, in my muddled mind, I was afraid of discovering the murder weapon in the Master Bath. The killer could have very well rinsed off his weapon in the jetted tub and left it to dry on the heated towel rack. Why not? It made as much sense as anything else.
I found the guest bath and guest toilet without a moment to spare and threw up the last eight hours of meals starting with the General’s Chicken lunch special and ending with the Caramel Macchiato with too much caramel flavor this morning and too much again this afternoon.
It was disgusting. I needed to clean my mouth and find my phone.
The doorbell rang as I was searching under the sink for mouthwash. I rummaged through stacks of toothpaste, toilet paper and tissue boxes and found two, huge warehouse size bottles of green mouthwash shrink-wrapped together. Perfect, no one would notice if I took some. My mouth was a bitter mess. I spit into the sink.
My phone. Where did I leave my phone? There was probably a phone in the bedroom. No, do not go back into the bedroom.
The doorbell rang again followed by a hello. I risked nicking my polish and ripped open the plastic shrink-wrap with my nails and wrenched the huge bottle from the packaging.
“Hello? Anyone home?” A voice called from downstairs.
I untwisted the hand-size top but the bottle slipped out of my hands before I had a chance to use it. The super sized bottle smacked on the floor and doused the bathroom with a fountain of green liquid. Now the bathroom smelled minty fresh.
“Hello?” Called the intruder.
Oh, that’s right. I was here in the first place because I was holding an open house. My efficient system, honed over the years, was to stop on my way to the client’s house and place the open house signs through out the neighborhood, so the directional arrows lead a buyer right to my listing. I had set up the signs before the advertised time of 1:00 PM. It wasn’t really the early bird’s fault, it was mine for being so stupidly efficient. But I could blame them more easily than myself.
“Hello?” A voice called, a little more irritated.
“Come on in,” I trilled.
I took a quick mouthful, spit into the sink, flushed the toilet, patted the beads of sweat from my forehead, and slammed the guest bath door. I stumbled as quickly downstairs as my high heels would allow. No sense landing in a heap
at this person’s feet.
I didn’t check to see if I had more minty-fresh mouthwash on my skirt. I bared my teeth at the couple politely waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“Welcome to our open house,” I managed to say. Muscle memory can be your friend.
The man and woman were dressed in matching sweatshirts and sweat pants. They both wore the popular, brightly colored gardening clogs: his in red, hers in shocking pink. Footwear that is both practical and ugly as sin. Neighbors.
“This is lovely,” chirped the woman. “I love the color of the living room. What do you think, honey?”
The man kicked at the floor. “I think our cherry wood is better, and look at those uneven jousts, someone did some sloppy work here.”
I tried to simultaneously smile and not breathe on them. “You must be neighbors.” I glanced around. My handbag shone bright red against the white carpet. God, that wasn’t a good reminder.
I swallowed and tried to keep my smile in place.
“Yeah, we saw the sign and thought we’d check it out,” he confirmed.
“Why is she selling?” The wife asked.
It was with great relief that I admitted I did not have that information.
“Do they have the same master bed set up?” the wife said. She turned towards the stairs.
“No,” I put out my hand to stop her. “I mean, probably. All these models are the same.” My brain was moving as fast as my mouth, which meant things were becoming more normal. Soon my mouth would overtake my brain, and all would be well.
“My client is still dressing.” I glanced at my expensive watch, and they noticed. Good. “We’re not really open for another fifteen minutes. You understand how it is, with the holidays and all.”
The woman nodded. The man looked perplexed, as if the term holiday did not mean twice as much work for a third of the fun.
They stood between me, and the front door. I couldn’t blurt out, excuse me, I have to call the police now, there’s dead body in the master bedroom, so I came up with another tactic.
“Are you thinking of selling your house?” I inquired with as much enthusiasm as I could. I stepped towards the front table that held a dozen of my business cards. I had to hold onto the edge of the table to steady myself, before I turned again with my card in hand.
“Here, take my card, and here,” I thrust out a flyer, “is a list of the surrounding homes so you can get an idea of the market.”
“Oh,” they were startled out of their peering, critical mode and quickly switched into survival mode. “Oh no, we don’t think… ”
“Of course you keep a close eye on the market daily, don’t you?” I continued. The husband, with his critical eye, struck me as one of those men who, because he had worked in installation for AT & T for the last thirty years, automatically possessed complete expertise in the real estate market, and construction as well. Joists my ass.
“I would love to meet with you and evaluate your home. It sounds as if you’ve installed quite a bit of upgrades, yes?” I pressed my card into the wife’s limp hand.
“Umm, that’s okay.” The husband began to back away, careful to not step out of his clogs. “We would never, I mean, no we’re fine, we don’t need to talk to anyone. We aren’t selling.”
“Of course, not right away, but keep in touch. Here, take a flyer on this house to give you an idea. You said your floors are in better shape?”
He nodded, now struck dumb by my torrent of helpful suggestions.
“Great!” I beamed at him. “We can discuss that, too.” Their newer floors meant nothing when it came to pricing a house, but my goal was to never see them again, not discuss their home. They were still standing between me and my phone.
“Would you be interested in signing the guest book? Can I get your name? I’ll email you later with a custom evaluation of your neighborhood and some statistics on the market.” I approached him like a stalking tiger and he, in turn, backed away slowly towards the door like a meerkat, or something. (Animal Planet, last Tuesday, the Tragic Life of the Meerkat, I wasn’t paying all that much attention to the show, and can’t give you more details).
“No, no, we’ll be moving along now.” He stuttered.
“Oh, come back, we can do a market analysis. Do you have financing for your next house? Where are you planning to move?”
He shot out the door and dragged his wife along with him.
“I love the carpets!” She called, as they hurried up the driveway.
I grabbed my phone from my bag and quickly scrolled down the contacts for the police.
The police dispatcher was friendlier than the one I called a long time ago (okay, this past summer) to report an unrelated incident that coincidentally involved the murder of another client, and I was, coincidentally, the listing agent. And I sold it, thank you. So, obviously, I’m good at the difficult sale.
This dispatcher and I passed through the pleasantries of who I was, who she was, holiday plans, that sort of thing. But as soon as I told her about the condition of the body, she geared into over drive and barked out so many cautions and procedural instructions I thought she was Rosemary, our most successful agent in the New Century office, in the middle of an escrow. Do this, don’t do that. Don’t touch. Don’t leave.
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me agree. My adrenaline had finally dissipated leaving me limp and strangely lethargic.
“Where are you located?” The dispatcher repeated.
“Just follow the open house signs,” I sighed.
Chapter 2
I collapsed onto the bottom stairs. These things are easier to take in cartoon form. Small brutal creatures eviscerate each other to happy nursery music; you’re familiar with those kinds of cartoons. Anyway, the seller’s bedroom now resembled the aftermath of one of those nasty skits. Not pretty or even satiric. It was no laughing matter.
Damn. I dropped my head into my hands and tried to think. I looked up and realized Beverley (the seller and now, murder victim) had actually painted her living room walls. Instead of the original lavender color, the walls were painted a clean off white, or eggshell depending on which brand of paint a person preferred. The point was, it was no longer purple. Good for her. She must have worked all day Saturday. Not the best way to spend Thanksgiving weekend, but it saved her money to do it herself; kept her out of the stores. Judging from my visit last Friday, Beverley Weiss was a woman who needed a break from unrelenting consumerism. She had enough stuff, more than enough.
For me, I needed more mouthwash. I needed lunch again. No, no lunch again. I needed to clean this up.
I slowly walked back to the front door and studied it. I know a great deal more about doors than I used to. To my now practiced eye, there was nothing wrong. No forced entry. On Friday, I had connected a lock box with a house key on the water hose faucet adjacent to the front stoop – but the front door was open when I came in this morning – I had walked right in. The murderer had not locked the door on the way out.
Was that surprised expression on Beverley’s face because it was someone she knew? Or had she been surprised that a stranger had a key?
I checked the driveway. No more visitors.
I stared at my phone, calendar (note, schedule nervous breakdown), cool apps, contact list.
I am nothing, if not generous. To share the pain, panic, and hopefully, the police questions, I called up Ben Stone, Rock Solid Service.
Yes, Ben and I are still an item – a couple of sorts. Our relationship is obvious enough that my best friend, Carrie, is convinced that the best way to celebrate my new relationship is to change.
“Have you thought about losing weight?” Carrie broached the subject last week, Tuesday, with the appropriate hesitation. But if your best friend can’t ask that question, really, who can?
“I mean,” she continued, emboldened by my silence, aided by the fact my mouth was full of bacon, chili cheeseburger, “I mean, this is a great opportunity to do something differe
nt, what with your new relationship and all.” She lingered on the word relationship.
Carrie, by the way, is one of those natural beauties who weighs in at an estimated minus 15 pounds and wears a size zero. I weighed more than she at birth.
I swallowed. “It’s not a big enough relationship to merit weight loss. Besides, I’m not ready to give up the favorite men in my life, Ben & Jerry.”
Carrie dropped the weight loss plan as quickly as she brought it up. It’s a heavy topic with me. All pun intended. And besides, my current “boyfriend” loves me as I am – many points in his favor.
“So, I need to find another cause,” Carrie said.
“You’re really off the board of Forgotten Felines?” She has told me she was planning to quit one of her pet philanthropies, choosing her current love – Patrick Sullivan of Cooper Milk, millionaire, philanthropist and damn cute – over her work with lost kittens, but I hadn’t heard the end of the story.
Carrie was devoted to the cause of saving lost kittens. That’s the kind of girl she was.
“I do enjoy the kittens and the rescuing and stuff,” she said slowly. “But board had devolved you know? It took us twenty minutes to agree on the next meeting time, and right before I left the last meeting, because I had to get back to my own job, the board members launched into another debate on what kind of donuts we should serve at the meetings. Some of those volunteers shouldn’t be eating any more donuts. And I had work to do, and I didn’t appreciate giving up my lunch for something so silly.” She took a drink of water.
“Sorry,” she finished, “I didn’t mean to burden you.”
I smiled. I was the burdener in this relationship; she was the burdenee. I think I have taken advantage of this kind, gentle woodland creature about a dozen times since we met. However, her new relationship with Patrick has given her some more nerve and even some attitude, and frankly it was looking good on her. I was impressed.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 1