“Do you know something?” She asked suspiciously.
“Me?” I tugged gently at the French fry, but she did not release it. The papers, for once, had left my name out of the article on Beverley Weiss’s death, because I am a possible suspect. After all, I did find her, and I had no excuses for the night before. I also have no motive since I hadn’t meet the woman before Thanksgiving week. On the other hand, I’m dating her ex-husband.
“Patrick and I were at the funeral because Cooper Milk is a major donor to the Homeless Prevention League and well, it looks good to support those things. I noticed that Ben was there, at the funeral.”
“Of course.”
“Ben?” She shifted her knife slightly, but didn’t quite release the fry.
I sighed and gave up. “Ben’s her ex-husband. They divorced years ago.”
She released the fry. “Ben Stone and Beverley Weiss?”
“The very same.” I popped the fry into my mouth before she could change her mind.
Carrie sat back. She had eaten almost all her blue cheese, bacon burger and some of her own fries. She doesn’t often eat that much.
“Ben and Beverley Weiss.” Carrie repeated. It was not seemingly to smile at the demise of a rival, but here with me, she could do it. I didn’t dare tell her I found the body.
“Dessert ladies?” Cooed our waiter.
We both nodded and ordered. Carrie was on a roll, and it was my turn to pay, so she didn’t hold back. I have a better job than Carrie. She is the secretary for the local senior center, practically a volunteer job.
“She was a snob, overbearing and not very nice on top of it.” Carrie blurted out.
“I didn’t think you knew her.”
Carrie picked up a piece of bread and began tearing it into tiny bits. “The Senior Center use to hold these joint fundraisers with the Homeless Prevention League. I worked with Anna, their marketing director, mostly. The Senior Center and the League had overlapping clients, so we tried to maximize what services we had. Sometimes I helped at the events, the wine auction and polo match, larger events. Beverley Weiss would sweep through wearing a spectacular hat or something and look right through the staff, as if you were nothing. You understand how that is?”
“Oh, I understand.” I reassured her. I did not mention that it was Carrie’s turn to sweep into a volunteer event, wear the magnificent hat and be as snotty as she wanted. We were discussing Beverley.
“Anyway, I never admired her attitude. Every one is a person and important, don’t you think?”
“Did she help out at all?”
“Doing what?”
“Oh, important activities: rounding up cats, pouring wine, feeding the hungry, that kind of thing.”
Carrie shook her head. “She wasn’t all that physically involved. The Homeless Prevention League is having a big party in her honor. The Executive Director, although he calls himself the President and CEO, when did all these executive directors decide to elevate themselves to CEO and President? Why can’t they be happy as an Executive Director? What is wrong with the title of Executive Director?”
She looked at me.
I looked at her, and took another French fry, as payment for her outburst. She can get quite passionate about the volunteer systems in Rivers Bend.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“The President and CEO, Steven, announced the event date at the funeral. I heard from Anne that Beverley didn’t even leave any money to them, not one dime.”
“She didn’t have much to leave.” I said, “unless there is a hedge fund she’s hiding somewhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“The house was mortgaged up past its value. Ben will be lucky to clear ten grand from the transaction, maybe less. And it appears much of her income went to the Shopping Network.”
“You have a lot of inside information.”
I took a deep breath, “I listed her house. And I still have the listing.”
“Ben still wants to sell?” Carrie made the immediate and logical jump. I do love that about her. She looks cute, adorable, and in the right light, completely innocent, but I have learned not to underestimate her. Ever.
“Yes, he does.” I admitted.
Carrie tapped her lips thoughtfully. “Beverley loved to talk about her things. I heard she couldn’t get through a conversation without mentioning how much money she had and all the high fashion items she was planning to buy. She and Cynthia, the ED, sorry, President and CEO’s secretary at the Homeless Prevention League were always talking about sales at Nordstrom and the newest designs at Tiffany’s. Cyndi wasn’t at the funeral. I thought those two might have been friends, but then Cyndi was merely a secretary. Beverley was a board member.”
“A secretary and board member can’t be friends?”
“What? Oh, God no.” Carrie said it with great authority, and I believed her. She knew more about the inner structure and social mores of a non-profit than I did.
“A lack of money does not prevent you from buying more stuff.” I pointed out. It was necessary to point that out to Carrie. She was naturally frugal, but she did it with style.
“Beverley’s credit cards were maxed out.” I continued, not that it was really public knowledge, but Carrie was my best friend. “She had no savings, no IRA, nothing.” I shook my head, as a single woman, that kind of attitude was financial suicide, what did the woman think was going to happen? That Prince Charming was coming in to sweep her off her feet and take her to live happily ever after in Mexico or Tahiti?
No Prince Charming will save you. Sometimes what Prince Charming really wants is a loan. Forget the prince; invest in your IRA.
“Patrick is a big donor, so we’ll have to be there.” Carrie broke into my thoughts, “at the tribute event.”
Our waiter, James, brought a crème brûlée for me, and a chocolate lava cake for Carrie.
“I’m impressed.” I gazed at her chocolate dessert. No matter what I order, the other dessert always looks better.
“I’m celebrating.” Carrie poked her spoon into the surface of the dense pudding, and a small eruption of hot chocolate flowed down to the white plate. She toasted me with her chocolate- mounded spoon. “Patrick fired our personal trainer.”
Katherine and Rosemary should be so lucky.
There is nothing better than a three-hour lunch (with wine) with Carrie to revive my faith in the world. I floated into the office intending to be seen, then I planned to float out just as quickly, pretending I had a series of important appointments to attend. What I was actually planning to do was nap. There is not much else a person can do with the afternoon after consuming half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
My cell rang, and I foolishly answered, breaking up my euphoria and my immediate plans.
“Come with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t ask questions, say yes and come with me.” He repeated.
“To the Kasbah, to Hawaii, to Tahiti (once I mentioned it, it was on my mind), on a long cruise?”
“No, to the Homeless Prevention League dinner.”
“Why is it a League?”
“League sounds more official. They once wanted to call it a fleet, after the number of RVs for the homeless they have, but I suppose that was too pompous.”
“Or someone else already secured the URL.”
“That too,” he agreed. “So come with me.”
“When is it?” I fished out my calendar from the matching brief case.
Say what you want about electronics, I still haven’t mastered how to stay on the phone and check my calendar – also on the phone – simultaneously.
He had the decency to pause. “Uh, tomorrow?”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s a last minute tribute, they added it to an already scheduled event. More efficient that way.”
“Well I’m all for non-profit efficiency.” I pretended to spend time studying my calendar.
&n
bsp; “You are in luck, I happen to be free tomorrow tonight.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You’re impossible.”
“To warn you, they are planning to make a long speech about Beverley and bestow me with some God awful plaque or something, as the officially bereaved husband.”
“Ex-husband.” I helpfully supplied. “No family?”
“Her parents came to the funeral. But they won’t attend an event that’s so formal. They don’t drive at night.”
“They could stay over.”
“They don’t drive at night.” He repeated sternly. I wondered how long he put up with these parents. They didn’t sound very, flexible.
“I’ll meet you there.” I promised.
According to the beautiful, artsy web site, The Homeless Prevention League does very good and innovative work. The HPL developed the innovative idea that instead of homeless encampments or large group homes, they would provide RVs able to accommodate four to eight people (all the same gender and propensity) and move said RV around the community so that no one neighbor could cry “NIMBY” and claim the homeless, er, homes, were a blight on his neighborhood. Most of us in the business have asked the Homeless Prevention League, at one time or another, for a schedule of the RV parking – mostly for MLS photos or to make sure an RV isn’t parked next to a property during an open house. The staff at the Homeless Prevention League has never, in recent memory, been that forthcoming with information. All the staff members said the same thing: placement of the RVs is random.
According to their site, HPL owns about 35 RVs in all. A big operation.
I heard Patricia greet Katherine, as the door chime rang. I wandered out to the foyer.
Katherine limped into the office and waved at Patricia before the office manager could even open her mouth.
“I am exhausted. That woman is the devil incarnate. How does she keep clients if she is so demanding?” Katherine dragged her briefcase as if it held two computers and seventeen escrow envelopes, not her single sleek, red laptop.
“How did your session with your personal trainer go?” Rosemary popped out of her office and smirked at Katherine.
Katherine glared at her. “You said it was super slow.”
“That sounds benign.” I offered.
“It may have been slow, but after minute three, I thought I was going to die! My legs hurt so bad, I could barely get out of the Beemer.”
Rosemary grinned, “It’s good for you.”
“Maybe not.” Patricia piped up. “Josh said that slow is good for you and all, and it builds long term muscle mass, but I read in O Magazine that you need to work out really fast for quick weight loss.”
“Bursts of energy.” Rosemary nodded wisely. “It’s supposed to be good for your heart rate.”
“You’re suppose to mix up your routine, but your core program is extremely important,” Patricia countered.
Katherine paused and considered her briefcase. “I’m going to slowly lie down.”
“No one said it would be easy,” Rosemary said. Her tone was a bit too sanctimonious, even for her.
Katherine rolled her eyes and limped back out the front door.
“I knew she couldn’t do it.” Rosemary crowed.
“Isn’t Joanna a client of yours?” Patricia asked.
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Oh, nothing.” Patricia turned her attention back to her computer screen. The daily postings from the news (she prefers the awful and grotesque) kept her riveted.
“Did you hear about the winery worker who died while he was cleaning the bottom of one of those huge, stainless steel tanks?” She leaned closer to her monitor. “Damn, there’s no picture.”
If I had more time and energy, I’d be really worried about Patricia.
Chapter 5
That afternoon, I let Ben back into the house. He stopped in the living room and took it all in.
“I’m going to take care of this mess today.” I quickly reassured him. Either he wasn’t worried about the mess, or he was so accustom to the state of the house, he no longer saw it.
“She painted.” Was all he said.
“I insisted.”
He nodded, “Good for you. She painted the walls in this dark burgundy when we first decorated the house.”
The idea of them decorating a house together gave me a sudden pang. How did she get to be so lucky? Who was she?
“She toned it down to lilac by the time I came on the scene.” I said.
“She thought of herself as very artistic.” He glanced up at the bedroom, then at me.
I nodded. I had already hired cleaning professionals of the more haz-mat variety. They had wrought a miracle with the walls and ceiling. The carpet was replaced by Wednesday afternoon. Everything else, the spread, mattress and all the clothing and shoes Beverley had left scattered around the bedroom floor, had to be thrown away.
I had no idea why Ben was drawn to that room, but that’s where he headed, up the stairs.
I trailed behind him on the carpeted steps. The one thing that kept me from falling head over heels for this man was that I was certain I’d end up the major breadwinner. He had a handyman business, Rock Solid Service, and he was good at what he did. But my income was higher. My grandmother says I’m crazy. Now my assumptions had been proved wrong. Now what do I do?
“I take it you have plenty of money.” I addressed his back which was easier than looking him in the eye. This was clearly not a subject of which he was terribly fond, otherwise he’d flaunt it like every other rich guy I came across, or God help me, dated.
He slowed on the stairs, but he didn’t turn around to face me.
“Does it matter?”
“Only that I may not need to support you.” I replied to his stiff back.
He nodded and continued to walk to, yes, the master bedroom. I followed him. He turned slowly around the bedroom taking in the bare walls and the new bed spread and pillows. (We couldn’t get everything out.)
“Where did you put the art?” He asked.
“What art?” I replied.
“You didn’t see any art when you viewed the house?”
“Not the first time.” I said. “I have the photos. They’re on the web if you want to confirm.” I had replaced the photos of the downstairs, but kept the photo of the unsullied master bedroom. And there was no art on the walls. Not now and not then.
“No, no.” His voice was quiet, hurt. “She must have sold the art. Why did she sell the art?” He said it more to himself than to me.
“How much art?” I asked.
He frowned at the walls, as if they had eaten up his investments. “We, she, had a pretty good collection. We bought much of it together.”
“Better to buy jewelry.” I said. “Take it with you.”
I wasn’t good at art. The two of us met over art and the controversy it produced. Who knew art was controversial? I’m of the school where art should be pleasant and match the living room furniture. I’m not on very sure footing when it came to a discussion about post-modern, modern or pre-post-modern painting.
Now, jewelry I understand. Carrie told me about the Romanoffs. She learned about them at one of her JC lectures. That family took all their jewelry and hid it in their clothes before their escape. Precious stones are easy to transport. All that jewelry did the royal family no good in the end. I’m merely pointing out that a few rings are easier to pack than a 5 foot by 10 foot canvas.
“She had jewelry, too,”
I stepped to the free-standing jewelry box, something Beverley probably bought through the Horchow Collection. The box was packed with baubles, all in a jumble, the same as the living room, the same as her bedroom. Most of her stuff was faux, but good faux, faux that still ran into the thousands for each piece.
Ben glanced into the box. “She certainly believed in being good to herself.”
“Or her boyfriends did.” I said automatically.
Ben winc
ed. “I suppose she would get gifts from them.”
I resisted picking up a piece or two.
“Do you know any of her girlfriends?” I asked.
“I didn’t see anyone at the funeral who could have been a girlfriend, who had that girlfriend look. Of course, they wouldn’t seek me out, would they?”
“Maybe she earned it.” I defended her jewelry, if only to protect the age-old contract women have with men. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.
“Maybe.” Ben stared at the empty walls. “All gone, as if they didn’t matter.”
“Did she have any siblings?” I walked across the room to the closet. Had the cleaning team worked this area over, so I wouldn’t be surprised? I held my breath and opened the door.
The closet was one of those walk-in styles. It was the size of Carrie’s apartment. And packed with clothes, so many clothes the poles sagged and more clothes were lumped up under the racks. Three pyramids of shoes were piled in the middle of the floor.
“Beverley was an only child.”
I heard him, but I was too distracted by the abundance before me.
“What about her parents? Would they want this?” I asked.
“They want nothing.” Ben confirmed, “I’ll give them that much. They are farmers; I think artichokes. They were angry that Beverley made such a big deal out of my trust fund and about how she needed alimony. They weren’t too supportive of her decisions.”
I picked my way through the tossed garments and separated one dress from the next and wiggled it out. It was a Gucci: silk, wild pattern, the real thing. I pulled out another designer dress, then another. All were in size eight, sometimes six. I looked more closely; some dresses still had the store tags. We could return them. But that would be a little bizarre. Donate them to the Hospice store? To the homeless? Look stylish as you beg for money? No.
I kicked over a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes. These were black pumps with sharp, weapon-like heels, and brand-new. The bright red soles, the Louboutin signature, were unmarked.
I held a shoe up to the light. Oh, to buy something this beautiful and not even wear it once. What a shame.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 5