Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith

by Catharine Bramkamp

  Ben moved restlessly outside the door. I reluctantly dropped the exquisite shoes. The closet was a riot of color: red, leopard, stripes, black, aubergine. The outfits wedged into the closet were all perfect for this season. I pulled out a severe St. John suit, very chairwoman of the board. I found a sheared, mink jacket, dyed bright blue. It was politically incorrect, but it was lush to the touch. I ran my hand over the fabrics, elegant party dresses, some beaded, some smooth and diaphanous; all were perfect for Christmas.

  I carefully backed away from all the temptation. It was a good thing I wasn’t Beverley’s size, or I’d be all over the holiday action on those racks.

  “Had enough?” Ben asked.

  “She must use another closet.” I said.

  “For what? That one is stuffed.”

  I gave him a withering look but declined to comment. I marched to the guest room – this was clearly used as a catch all. I recognized some of the tables from the living room. Random furniture and more clothes were piled around a double bed, decorated with a spread she bought in Target. I slid open the flat doors to the closet.

  The space was empty, not a sandal, not a pair of white pants, not a single linen suit in sight. It was completely empty.

  “She was going somewhere. And she was going somewhere warm.” I announced.

  “What?” Ben had followed me.

  “See? No summer clothes.”

  “Maybe she packed them away. It is winter.” He pointed out. In his world, that argument was completely rational. However, when it comes to our wardrobes, women are not always rational. Could the closet be the window to a woman’s soul?

  “God, look at all this crap.” He looked around as if finally remembering his life here.

  “We never did decorate this room. It was a guest room, but we had no guests.”

  “No friends? A gorgeous, gregarious guy like you?”

  “Not so gregarious.” He shook his head. “I had a lot of friends in college, but once I married Beverley … .” he trailed off. He pushed some magazines off the edge of the bed and sat down rubbing his face.

  He changed his name and sequestered himself with his grandmother. That’s a long time to nurse pain. It was like the scene in Lilo and Stitch, when Stitch realizes he doesn’t have a family, when he reads the story of the ugly duckling.

  I almost cried as I remembered that scene; it always makes me cry.

  Ben gathered himself. “You’re right. She kept her off season clothes in this room.”

  “And your clothes?” I prompted.

  “The other room. I kept them in the room I used for a study.”

  “Of course.” The woman couldn’t even share her closet. My, my. I was looking better every minute. Thank you, Beverley.

  Ben rubbed his shaven chin absently, as if stroking a phantom beard. He could be; we haven’t been together that long. I wondered how he’d look with a beard.

  “Beverley never operated alone; it wasn’t in her nature. She always had someone with her. She loved, needed, to have people around. She loved being loved.”

  “You loved her?”

  “Yes.” He rose and moved restlessly back to the master bedroom. I followed him, there was nothing more to see in the guest room.

  He ran his hand over the surface of the dresser. “Yes, I did. But I couldn’t now tell you why or even how. She needed me. I knew that, I enjoyed it.”

  She had cleared off the surface of the two chests of drawers, per my request. In fact, it was one of the few cleaning jobs she accomplished. The two bureaus had been packed with silver framed photographs and personal photos, all of which would have distracted buyers from the room. People tend to concentrate on the pictures of cute babies or wedding photos from the early 1970s, and forget to look at the wainscoting or the double hung windows. The photos were all gone.

  “It’s nice to be needed.” I offered.

  He opened the top dresser drawer and pulled out a dozen small, framed pictures.

  “Yeah, but I wasn’t the last to be needed.”

  He sorted through the photos as if he were dealing out a stack of cards. The frames clicked together in the silent room.

  “A different guy in each one. Cruise, benefit, cruise, benefit, benefit. Cruise. She loved cruises didn’t she?”

  “Do you love cruises?” I asked him. Did he miss her? Even after all these years? Or was being upset normal? Did he kill her? Oh, that’s ridiculous.

  “No, I vacation in the Sierra Foothills.” He lifted his head and offered me a ghost of a smile. I smiled back. We “vacationed” in the Sierra foothills this last September. It took us weeks to recover from our time off.

  “It was all about dressing up and showing off for her. She needed to be seen. Thus, the men.” He tossed the pictures back into the drawer. I heard glass crack but didn’t point it out to Ben. It didn’t matter.

  “Did the police have any ideas?” What I really meant was did they share anything with him? I looked around the room. The new carpet was soft and cushy under my feet; new padding, always buy the best. I hired painters transform the walls from Steven King to Danielle Steel. Everything was white and pristine. We call this “move in ready”.

  The police never said if they found the murder weapon and not much was being said about the cause of death, at all. It was still being called an accident. I shuddered.

  “The clothes bother you.” He observed.

  “So much.” I mused.

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “Sometimes, women need to shop because of the feedback they get. You are very important when you’re spending money, and your importance increases with the amount you spend. Even the store owner pays attention, if you spend enough. For the price of a good dress, shoes and a coat, you can be fawned over all day. You’ve seen the movie Pretty Woman? It’s like that. A woman gets feedback, love, in a way.”

  My gaze wandered to half a dozen cashmere sweaters stuffed on a shelf by the bed. “Lots of attention.”

  “It’s how they get affection, too?” he did not sound convinced.

  “Sure, it’s also how we nurture ourselves, by buying beautiful things, wrapping ourselves in luxury. Like that.” I glanced up at him.

  He stared at me, uncomprehendingly.

  “It’s like buying fine wine.” Not a glimmer of understanding in his face. I tried again.

  “It’s like buying new power tools.”

  His expression cleared. “Oh, okay, I see.”

  The shear volume of stuff flowed from bedroom closet to the kitchen. Beverley stashed an incomprehensible amount of new goods in every cupboard (I spent a paragraph in the MLS on the storage in the kitchen). Piles of holiday plates for every holiday were crammed into the pantry. A huge industrial grade mixer in pink for awareness sat on the panty floor. New looking Calphalon pots and pans swayed from a hanging rack above the range.

  I found blenders, another mixer, a regular sized Cuisinart mixer, a small Cuisinart blender, and the mini Cuisinart chopper displayed on a lower shelf in graduated sizes, they resembled the babushka dolls Katherine brought back from one of her trips to Russia. A shiny espresso machine and matching coffee grinder gleamed on the granite counter. Every item represented the best of its breed. This was not a woman who was sitting at home watching the shopping channel. I’ve been in those homes. Shopping Channel crap never stays put; it has a propensity to spill out of cupboards and storage bins, as if the sale items missed the spotlight of their most recent television appearance and need to always be admired.

  Beverley had the taste and the cahones to buy everything that was pricey and “valuable.” Yet the coveted items were not neatly put away, or even used. It was if she opened the packages and abandoned the prize right where it was first unwrapped.

  I was reluctant to open the garage door, and I was right to be cautious, no heavy objects fell on me, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have. Carelessly stacked boxes, furniture, tables, more chairs, and loose collections of free
gifts from name brand cosmetic promotions swayed precariously from the breeze I created by opening the door. The stacks and stacks of boxes were so high that a sneeze would topple them onto the late model Mercedes wedged between the living room chairs and stacks of papers and periodicals.

  “I’ll never shop again.” I said out loud.

  “Then our work here is done.” Ben said, with the first real smile I’d seen all day.

  But the questions still lingered, as well they may. Ben rummaged through the paper and packaging strewn kitchen, randomly opening cupboards and closing them without much regard.

  “Why sell the art? Why mortgage the house?” It was a rhetorical question; I knew he didn’t expect me to answer.

  “Drugs?” I suggested.

  “Maybe, but she didn’t die of an overdose.”

  “No, she did not. Blackmail?” I offered up, anyway.

  “But why? It would be very, very difficult to really black mail a person now-a-days. A scandal wouldn’t necessarily decrease your stock in society. It would probably elevate you to notorious, always a desirable status in this culture.”

  He opened the high cupboard over the stove, a popular place for liquor that is not often used, as was the case with Beverley. He pulled down an ancient bottle of Kahlua coffee liquor and a huge bottle of industrial grade vodka, half full.

  “A scandal barely makes the local paper. No one really cares after the first conversation, and nothing stays on the front page for very long.” He held up both contents to the light. “I swear these were here when I moved in.”

  “Not much of a drinker?”

  “At least not alone.”

  “So why did she sell?” I asked him. I thought it was obvious, but he had to come to his own conclusion. I was in no position to denigrate a recently dead client.

  “A quick get away? Liquidate all the stuff and leave the country?” He dumped the liquor down the sink and tossed the empty bottles into the recycling.

  He put his hands on his hips and glared at the door leading to the garage. “Should I clean that up before we show the house?”

  He looked tense, and I had learned quickly that he was a man of action, taking his stress or energy and channeling it into outward focused activities. His expression told me he was ready to tackle something big, some huge distracting project, and in every home, that meant cleaning the garage. It meant tossing out things that had some good left in them, tossing out all those things you may need some day. I meant chaos.

  “Do you think she was planning to escape to some place warm?” I asked. I edged closer to the door connecting the kitchen and garage to protect the contents from his well meaning administrations.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Remind me not to underestimate you in the future. That’s a good possibility. I’ll call the bank.”

  “They won’t tell you anything.”

  “Yes, they will. I’m still on her accounts.”

  “That makes you appear even more suspicious” For instance, he told me he hadn’t stopped by to sign the listing papers, but his signature was there on the agreement.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” He agreed, matter-of-factly.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Have you been talking to the police?”

  He sat down at the kitchen table, it wobbled when his elbow hit it. It was not the best quality. Maybe she was a patron of the shopping network after all.

  “I already talked to the police. They were kind enough to inform me that I’m their number one suspect. Don’t leave town, person of interest, and all that.”

  “Loved ones usually are.”

  “Or screwed over ones.” He ran his hands through his hair, but at least there was no glue to make his hair stand on end.

  “I’ll have to disclose the death and the murder when I show the house. At this rate, I’ll get a reputation.” I pointed out.

  “Undeserved.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  He rubbed his face and smoothed his hair. “My first guess is something out of the Orient Express, and everyone did it. Every one of those guys in the pictures probably gave her something; jewelry, gifts, at the very least, dinner. And what did they get? Nothing.”

  I disagree, they probably got something, but it was not my place to bring that up. Besides, I was too distracted by the idea of each man taking …

  “You think each took their own little, piece.” I said.

  “Sit down.”

  I sat down and tasted my hazelnut latte for the second time this morning. But I couldn’t sit still for long.

  “We could start with all those pictures, and ask the men who dated her.”

  He gave me a pained – a very pained – look.

  “Okay,” I drummed my fingers on the table. I needed to do something, besides the difficult and daunting task of marketing “Murder Mansion”. The clothes, I could do something about the clothes. The Homeless Prevention League would be the best option, since Beverley supported it. I’d take over a car-full on my way back from the Broker’s Open tomorrow morning.

  I wandered over to the kitchen counter.

  I rifled through her paper work in the kitchen; most important paper work starts in the kitchen. I found the listing agreement in a basket next to the LAN line phone. I flipped to page six.

  “You signed the listing agreement.” I pointed out.

  “Did not.” He contradicted mildly.

  “Did so. Is this your signature?” I brought it over to him.

  He glanced at the page. “No, but it’s good enough, Benjamin M. Weiss.”

  “What does the M stand for?”

  “Manly.”

  I did not take the bait. “She said you’d be happy to sign.”

  “I’m sure she did, and I’m sure this wasn’t the first time. All those loans against the house? I probably happily signed for those, too. She was clever.”

  “Apparently not that clever.” I pointed out.

  “The police said she liquidated everything, all her accounts, and obviously, she sold the art. I wonder to whom?”

  I reviewed the listing price. “How am I going to explain the murder?” I said out loud.

  “Accident?”

  “They said that in the papers.”

  He nodded. “That detective? The one who raced up the stairs?”

  “Yes, I thought he was the coroner or something.”

  “Doesn’t matter. At the station, the detective told me they didn’t want to release the details of the murder, so the confessions would be easy to cull out. Apparently, there are a number of people happy to confess to murders.”

  “Gets them on TV.” I confirmed.

  “Exactly, and when they don’t get on TV?”

  “It must piss them off.” I concluded, “but wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

  “What, pissing off a psychopathic murderer? The police don’t think he’ll strike again, and they went to great lengths to tell me they thought this was personal.”

  “About as personal as you can get.” I agreed. “Listen, what about reducing the price?” I suggested tentatively.

  “Of course. How much do we need to sell it for?”

  “Not too low, I want to give you a bit of wiggle room.” I suggested.

  “Drop it to the bare bone minimum, enough to cover the commissions and the loans if that’s possible.”

  I calculated. “It’s possible.” I glanced up at him. “Thanks.”

  “I always pay people for their work.” He said seriously.

  Chapter 6

  Thursday was not shaping up into a fun-filled day. First off, it was raining, not unusual, but it did contribute to the general atmosphere of gloom and despair for the day. To make the 8:30 MLS (Multiple Listing Service) and Broker’s meeting, I had to get out of bed earlier than my usual time. There was no Ben to comfort me or cajole me or otherwise entertain me in the dark morning, which left me feeling flat and uninspired.

  I groped around in the shower for my shampoo and banged
my elbow. Because it mattered, my hair didn’t cooperate. I couldn’t find my favorite Charles Jordan boots, and was forced to settle for my second favorite pair of Anne Klein boots, which were brown not black, which necessitated a whole new whole outfit. To add insult to injury, the skirt that matched the boots didn’t fit, and I had to come up with yet a third option.

  I hit every red light from my house up to the Hyatt and had to circle the parking lot twice before finding a space big enough to prevent the doors of the Lexus from getting dinged.

  A two-story Christmas tree overpowered the lobby. It festooned with enormous red bows that gradually decreased in size as they reached the top. A red draped angel with a tiny gold trumpet hovered over the fake pine tree. Hark and all that. I turned to the greeter. She nodded, as I approached the table with the Rivers Bend Realtor Association Sign prominently displayed.

  The cost for breakfast is eight dollars, says on on the sign. I pulled out my wallet and found two, one dollar bills.

  “Will you take a check?” I asked her.

  “Allison,” Mary Beth (from CPS) looked at me with pity in her eyes. “You are aware the hotel asked us to take only cash. If you ever came to a Board Meeting you’d know that.”

  “I’m on the Board? I’ll have to owe you.” I threatened. My hand hit my phone as I rummaged around for a pen to write an I.O.U. I pulled it out and turned the ringer to vibrate.

  She looked at me. I looked at her and tried not to tug at my skirt because this one was fitting pretty snuggly as well.

  “Oh, promise not to eat anything.” She grumbled.

  I took a breath right before I walked in. I surveyed the crowd for a friendly face, found none, and slunk to a table. I grabbed a cup of hot coffee on my way. No matter how long I work in this business, there is something very intimidating about the weekly MLS meetings. I always feel like a theater major stepping into cheerleading camp. This from a former cheerleader.

  I missed the opening announcements. Agents were now grabbing the mobile microphone to announce community holiday fairs, the coat drive, and where we could drop off new un-wrapped toys for Toys for Tots. A new Farmer’s Insurance agent was introduced. She stood, licked her shiny, glossy lips, and proceeded to waste three minutes describing how she saved this hapless Realtor money with her fabulous insurance services and she, Heather, can do the same for any of us.