Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “Great.” She quickly and efficiently ran down the basics of the house (to her knowledge) and signed the agreements I needed signed with no fuss or wrinkling of her botoxed forehead and asking for more explanation about that paragraph or that boilerplate statement.

  I was happy to wrap it up myself; I had that big date at Ben’s house. An evening with him was my reward for having to spend Thanksgiving with my family.

  The police arrived in all their glory. Three cars pulled up with lights flashing, but thankfully by the time they reached the neighborhood, they had turned off the sirens. Although, the noise and lights could attract potential buyers right to the open house. That’s a thought. For a whole minute, I mused on how I could use a siren in my next open house, but I was distracted by the matter at hand and didn’t complete my mental plan.

  The Rivers Bend police were gratifyingly business-like and surprisingly concerned that the perpetrator could be still lurking in the house. I never remember to worry about that part.

  Ben arrived ten minutes after the police. He slammed the front door and bellowed my name. He was a wild man, his hair stood straight up from his head, as if he had covered his hands with glue then rubbed his fingers vigorously through his hair.

  I discovered later that was fairly close to the truth. He was repairing a chair with Gorilla glue, and after my phone call, he had agitatedly run his fingers through his hair.

  “There you are.” He looked at me and took a breath, as if seeing me calmed him. He squinted up at the stairs but didn’t move towards them. An officer was already stringing yellow caution tape across the upper banister, blocking off the second floor. I was glad the lilac paint was gone. It would have clashed horribly with the yellow tape.

  “She is up there?” He asked.

  “Yes. Ben.” I began.

  “Sir,” one of the officers interrupted me. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, only authorized personnel and next of kin are allowed.”

  He nodded. “It’s okay. I’m her ex-husband.”

  Chapter 4

  The two police officers moved aside for a third, a man not in uniform but dressed casually in tee shirt and jeans, looking as if his Thanksgiving football game had been interrupted. He quickly passed us without a word and raced up the stairs taking them two at a time.

  “I need to see her.” Ben lunged for the stairs in an attempt to follow the man. One of the police officers stepped forward to restrain Ben, but I reached him first.

  “No.” I put a hand on Ben’s arm. “No, you don’t.”

  He pulled against me, but I held on ready to dig in my heels, so to speak, but he didn’t resist further. Maybe, he sensed something. He squinted up the stairs. I kept my hand firmly on his arm, just in case.

  “Sir, that is a secured area. Come with us.” The young officer gestured with his head to the dinning room a few steps away from the “secured area” but still within sight of the stairs.

  Ben looked at me; I nodded and tried my best to look reassuring.

  “Please.” I pushed back the images that were burned into my own retinas. He did not need that kind of image burned into his memory. I was not aware if, during the divorce, he ever considered hacking up his wife. Many people fantasize about the worst thing that could happen to the ex- spouse. I did. Maybe Ben did. But he didn’t need his worst fantasies confirmed.

  “Come and sit.” I led him over to the dining room table, cleared of at least the dirty dishes, which reminded me of food, which reminded me of something he said a few months ago about a former relationship.

  “Ben.” I whispered. The same police officer was approaching again, armed not with his gun but with an official notebook.

  “Ben, was Beverley the one who sporked you?”

  He nodded. He has used that metaphor to describe a messy painful way of getting your heart ripped out of your chest. Not a knife, that was clean and tidy. A spork, the spoon and fork combination that one picks up in a fast food bin, between the napkins and the catsup. In Ben’s case, his heart had been mangled by a cheap plastic spork. If he described his past relationship with a spork metaphor, he did not need to see how his ex-wife had been murdered.

  She must have hurt him very badly. We hadn’t yet reached the point of discussing at length our past relationships. Hell, I was happy enough to see where he lived. And yes, I did peek in his medicine cabinet. The contents were unremarkable. He had no moisturizer or exfoliante, or enhancement drugs of any kind. Not a vain man, my Ben.

  The officer sat down across from us. Ben eyed him warily, already knowing what the young man would ask.

  I talked first, since I was first on the scene. I explained where I had been and when I found the body. I could be pretty precise, but I had no alibi to speak of, since I spent the night alone in my own house Saturday night.

  Ben stared at his hands, as I spoke, and absently picked off the last pieces of dried glue.

  “And you sir?”

  “I was at home alone last night. No witnesses.” Ben said carefully.

  The officer nodded and made notes on his notebook.

  “Don’t go anywhere.” The officer, his nametag said Robert Yarnell, counseled.

  Ben sighed. “Don’t worry; it’s the holidays. I don’t travel during the holidays.”

  “Do either of you have the names of the next of kin?” Officer Yarnell asked. They are so young, these police officers.

  Ben rubbed his face. “They are in Stanislaus.”

  “Do you have their contact information?” The nice, young man asked.

  “Maybe.”

  The officer regarded Ben, and so did I.

  “I don’t have much contact with them. Their name is Spader.”

  “Her name is Weiss.”

  “She took my name when we married and wanted to keep it. I took my mother’s name, Stone, after the divorce.”

  “You changed your name?” I shouldn’t poke the bear when he was effectively caged; it just popped out.

  He sighed, the pain, so long ago, still shimmered inches below the surface. He had not been very good at placing the past to rest.

  “Beverley wanted to cut a swath through Rivers Bend society, and I was not interested in bobbing in her wake, so I took Grandma’s name, and retreated.”

  “That doesn’t sound typical of you.”

  “Well, I’ve matured some since my twenties, and you have to admit, Ben Stone, Rock Solid Service got your attention.” He managed a small smile, a faint copy of the real thing, barely legible.

  “Are you saying it was worth it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “But this.”

  “This.” I gestured to the house (and all the stuff) that surrounded us. “Is now yours. Unless you signed something in the last twenty-four hours.”

  I stopped talking. Beverley assured me that she would have her ex stop by and sign off on the listing agreement. Had he?

  “Did you?” I regarded him. His usually brilliant blue eyes were clouded. Lines I had never noticed before were etched in his forehead and on either side of his mouth. He clenched his jaw, and I could see the strain in his neck muscles.

  “No, I haven’t signed anything. I’ve been listed on the house so long I don’t even think about it. Beverley let me write off some of the repairs and part of the mortgage on my taxes, but that was it.”

  I regarded the door, the intact door still on hinges. “You didn’t stop by.”

  “And kill her? No.” He rubbed his hands over his face again. “No, I have more sense than that. After the divorce, I became much smarter at recognizing cause and effect.” He looked upstairs, as if she could hear him.

  “High maintenance, you’re familiar with the term?”

  “I’m familiar, yes.” I wasn’t sure if I too, was high maintenance, so I didn’t say anything more.

  “You know she had a second and third on the house.” I said.

  “Probably.” He agreed. “She was a consultant, but I think it was the kind of co
nsulting that involved too many cocktail parties and not enough income producing seminars. She spent a lot of money. She was excellent at that.”

  “Do you still support her?”

  “Alimony.” He agreed.

  I must have made a face, because he smiled wanly at my expression. “I take it you don’t agree with alimony?”

  “Only if the husband dumps his wife for a much cuter secretary after the wife raised the children to be model citizens, attended all the sporting events alone, and put the husband through medical school by moonlighting as a street dancing Chicken McNugget, then yes, I think alimony is fair, as well as child support. But if everyone works …” I shrugged, and his smiled widened.

  “You are an independent woman aren’t you?”

  “You already knew that.” I gazed up at the ceiling; it was painted white, fresh paint. I finally focused on the living room and dining area. It was still hopelessly messy. When I arrived this afternoon, I had been too determined to pry the homeowner out of the house, to be distracted by the mess.

  “You’ll get maybe $10,000 when it’s all done.” I had to point that out right away.

  “Less your commission?” He grinned.

  I looked up the stairs at the closed doors of the master bedroom. “I already earned my commission and then some.”

  “Pretty bad?”

  “Ben.” He’d find out from the police. I glanced around, only the police. No media? I’d at least expect the Rivers Bend press to monitor police calls. Where were all the amateur photographers, bloggers, people on the spot? No one. But if I didn’t tell him, he’d eventually find out on an Internet posting or read about it in the paper. Our office manager Patricia lived for these kinds of incidents, she would tell him and show him photos if she could find them.

  I wrenched my attention from the lack of interested bystanders and forced myself to look at him. “Someone hacked her up.”

  “Why?” He barely got the word out. I understood his revulsion. I was still reeling from my own.

  “I didn’t know her.” I finally said, a lame answer.

  “I did.” He closed his eyes and sagged back into the chair, but he made no move to go upstairs. I was relieved.

  The police took care of the – pieces - and I moved Ben from the Eclectic Living Room into the Spacious Gourmet Kitchen with Double Convection Oven and Wolf Gas Range to prevent him from seeing the grisly procession down the stairs and out the front door. There were still no reporters. And no neighbors. Maybe using sirens to attract buyers wasn’t such a great idea after all.

  Did the police load her into one big bag or a collection of small bags? This is why we weren’t watching.

  When the front door opened, I could hear the conversations from the gathering of now interested neighbors outside. Ah, there they were. Perhaps there was media as well, which was not good. I wasn’t going to say anything.

  I heard my looky-loos holding court out on the driveway explaining their version of events in loud, and impressively authoritative, tones.

  “We were just in there, we walked right in. Didn’t look as if anyone broke in. Maybe it was the Real Estate agent. You can’t trust them, you know. Six percent, how do they get away with that kind of money?”

  “Thanks very much.” I said under my breath.

  “The carpets are lovely.” The wife chimed in.

  “Those are the McMurrys.” Ben cocked his head and listened to the running patter outside. “He hasn’t changed. Thinks he’s an expert on everything and loves to regale anyone unfortunate enough to be caught outside, with details of his latest discovery. When we moved in, he came right over, pointing out every flaw in our new house, because he watched it being built.”

  “Great, I’ll have to disclose about the neighbor.”

  “No, he’ll lay pretty low until the house is sold.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “All these homes were sold in the week we moved in, it was during one of the booms.”

  “You all bought high.”

  He nodded. “That was eleven years ago. He won’t want to spook the market right now. He wants you to get top dollar to keep his own value up. He’ll behave.”

  “Let’s hope so.” But I wasn’t too sure about the McMurrys.

  By two thirty we were asked to vacate the premises. I failed to point out the lock box on the faucet bib to the nice policeman, Robert. A small oversight on my part.

  It was the shortest Open House I ever held, and the longest. Ben said nothing about the state of the house, that it was still choked with crap. I was sure that the bedroom downstairs and the second bedroom upstairs were packed with even more stuff. This was the sloppiest Open House I ever held. It was embarrassing, but I couldn’t go about cleaning right now.

  I checked my phone on my way out. I missed my grandmother’s call. I always call her at 2:00 on Sunday. It was a great time to chat, either to fill in a long Sunday afternoon or to while away an open house time.

  What exactly was I going to tell my grandmother when she asked about my day?

  The coverage in Monday’s paper was more discrete than I would have given the fourth estate credit for, ever. The reporter had not been allowed in Beverley’s house. The neighbors claimed they heard nothing, saw nothing. She was a quiet neighbor. The article devoted most of the column space to what Beverley had contributed to the community. The President/CEO of the Homeless Prevention League as well as two staff members of United Way were quoted. Her terrible accident was only mentioned briefly. In Chris Connor’s daily column, Beverley’s good works were highlighted in glowing terms. I suppose that was the right approach. I do admire the new trend in reporting, where the media does not give the random terrorist or disturbed gunman too much publicity, as it seems to play directly into the person’s reasons for the action in the first place.

  The funeral was scheduled for Wednesday, and there were only twenty-one more shopping days left until Christmas.

  I scanned the paper again. Sometimes I read too fast. I’m so accustomed to already knowing most of what I read: standardized forms, the same financial news, the same war reportage, the same disclaimers from politicians, that I skim right over the words and sometimes miss something. Accident?

  I did not attend the funeral, figuring the new girlfriend attending the ex-wife’s funeral was tacky.

  I knew Ben took Emily, and no, I did not get any feedback from him as to his grandmother’s reaction or impression of “yours truly”. I didn’t expect the man to have a heart to heart talk with his grandmother, nor did I expect him to express his feelings. I’m not that naïve. A word, an acknowledgment, a brief “Emily through your shoes were nice and you have nice teeth”, would have been helpful. But it was not to be.

  The obituary in the paper was as effusive as Connor’s article and listed all of Beverley’s good works with direct quotes about how lovely and giving she was. Some of the quotes were lifted directly from Chris O’Connor’s article. The cause of death was not included in the obit.

  “It was tragic.” Carrie waved her hand in an excellent impersonation of Martha Anderson, one of the big, and by that I mean an even larger circumference than me, philanthropists in Rivers Bend.

  “It was ALLL so Tragic.” Carrie drawled. “The whole funeral was all about the,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “tragedy of it all. She was so young.”

  Carrie was on a roll, and I had to give her credit. She imitated the second most formidable woman in town with a certain panache.

  I leaned back and surveyed the restaurant. It was a Thursday afternoon, and not terribly crowded. The windows of the enclosed patio opened to the vineyards. A few tenacious leaves hung to the bare twisted vines. The vines were beautiful in a stark, artistic way, even in the low light of December. That’s why guests are so willing to pay the high entree prices at this restaurant; it’s beautiful.

  “Are you and Patrick taking acting lessons or something? That was really good.”

  “No.”
She lowered her voice to her normal tones. “Since we quit the personal trainer nonsense, we’ve been looking for something to work on together that we both can agree is a good use of our time.”

  Carrie won Patrick Sullivan in a fair fight; actually there was no fight at all. Once the young Mr. Sullivan, scion of the Cooper Milk fortune, took one look at Carrie Elliot of the less-said-the-better-Eliots, he was a goner. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer man.

  “What about those lectures?” I asked.

  She sighed and picked up her hamburger, allowing me to snag a half dozen fries. “I was getting kind of fond of those JC lectures, but they don’t schedule them during the holidays.”

  “People are busy.”

  “Well, I guess we’re busy. We have a bunch of parties to attend from now until Christmas, I have your sister-in-law’s party on my calendar, should I bring Patrick? How is Richard holding up?”

  “Yes you should, he can slum for one evening. Richard is fine, so far. Thanksgiving was pretty calm. Richard won’t over indulge at the club, he meets too many old high school friends there.”

  She nodded. “What do you think will happen during Christmas?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I have no idea why Debbie insists on organizing a home grown family Christmas.”

  “Maybe she’s tired of the country club scene.”

  “I have to admit, the country club is a good way to keep things civil.”

  “You’re lucky to have civil.” Carrie said curtly.

  I didn’t need to answer her. I knew about her family. They are a long back-story. Carrie works hard to leave her past behind, so I help her by not bringing it up. It’s part of our Pirate Code.

  “You will do fine this holiday, you have Patrick. Why the glum face?”

  “I heard rumors about Beverley’s Weiss’s death. That it wasn’t an accident.”

  “They said it was an accident at the funeral?”

  “That was the assumption, yes. According to the papers. Why?” She narrowed her eyes and abruptly stopped another theft of her fries with a stab of her knife.