“I’ve been serving Sonoma County for years,” she cooed into the microphone, and repeated her phone number twice.
I squinted at her glossy lips. I recognized her. Oh my goodness, it was the Heather. She actually worked at our office for what, ten minutes. She was one of those bright young things who seems to have great potential the first week on staff, but ends up a bad deal by the second week. It turned out that Heather was not very good finding her way around Rivers Bend. I think she even got lost driving to her own house. As for years in the business, the only years Heather had already racked up was tenure in glee club.
I wished any and all of Heather’s insurance clients the best of luck. When Heather finally sat down, the group applauded politely but unenthusiastically.
I nodded to two other Realtors and they nodded back. I glanced at, but did not make eye contact with, the third member of my table. He was a self-proclaimed member of the Rivers Bend Sign Elimination Committee For the Betterment of Rivers Bend. Rosemary nick-named this group the Sign Nazis because of their draconian, and often illegal, sign removals. Self appointed, this group pretends they work for our local listing resource and as such they feel justified to take down any For Sale or directional sign that they themselves, deem unsightly. There were not many of us who had not lost a sign or two to this group because the sign wasn’t in the “right” location. It can get expensive. The Sign Nazis don’t return your signs; they throw them away. I focused on my coffee and did not look up again.
The meeting moved quickly forward; announcements, buyer’s needs, pocket listings, new listings not on tour.
I raised my hand, and the microphone and its handler made her way over to me.
“Hi, Allison Little, New Century Realty.”
“Allison, is this another house of death?” A cheerful voice called from the back of the room.
“REO? Or is it really a DOA?” Called another.
“Did you find another dead body?” That was from Heather, joining in the fun. I was momentarily distracted, as I considered how to take revenge for that comment.
“Are you now exclusive to accidents?” Another rude question.
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
“Allison Little, New Century Realty.” I repeated. “I have a new listing, not on tour.” I glared at the tables daring anyone to interrupt me. The group finally obliged. “It’s in the Villas. Priced.” I searched the room for the last agent who spoke. He should talk; his listing has been on and off the market for a year now.
“To sell.”
“Did you get the body out yet?” Called out Pete, from a competitive office.
“It’s a great property and a great buy.” I parroted. Stay on message. You’d be surprised how difficult that is when all you want to do is lash out at people.
I stood and endured two more witticisms and sat down. My coffee was cold. I couldn’t leave until we finished up with the tour sheets and the group all left to tour the open homes we had interest in or had clients for. It would look bad, even cowardly, if I slunk out now. And clearly I already looked bad.
I wasn’t in the mood to view the five measly homes on tour that morning. The holidays take a toll on home sales, always. No one wants to sell during the holidays, and no one wants to buy (but come on, a new house for a Christmas gift? A memorable gift, no?)
The rain had not let up by the time I hurried to the end of the parking lot. I didn’t pause to chat with any of my detractors; it was enough that I avoided eye contact with any and all Realtors plus the Committee for Betterment guy. He would probably rush to my listing to determine if my sign met their random and capricious criteria.
I got lost hunting down the Homeless Prevention League offices. The GPS voice had to recalculate many times, as I made U turns around and between one of the many business parks that blur the edges of Rivers Bend proper.
Driving during the holiday season in Rivers Bend is not pleasant. I understand why the onset of Christmas Day inspires frantic consumer activity, but I don’t understand the frantic driving. I love to shop, please understand, but it’s a sport best exercised by those of us who have trained for years, perfecting our craft and increasing our credit limits to astronomical amounts, not by weekend warriors who write out of town checks and forget their IDs.
In my family, we draw names for gifts. This year, I picked the same sister-in-law I was stuck with last year. Debbie, married to my oldest brother, Richard, was remarkably unimpressed by my gift last year. I would need to come up with something new and interesting, if I had any enthusiasm left. All families are annoying in their own way.
After half an hour of driving in circles searching for the Homeless Prevention offices, the GPS voice was finally satisfied, and I found myself in a wasteland of asphalt.
The Homeless Prevention League could probably park their homeless shelter RVs right in front of the business park, and no one would really notice. I wonder if the board of directors ever thought of that.
The rain increased as I dragged the box of clothes from the back of the car. I couldn’t manage the box of clothes and an umbrella simultaneously, so I balanced the stuffed box as best I could and dashed to the HPL offices that I thought were located to the right of the complex. No. I dashed down one courtyard, only to discover that the numbers stopped one digit short of my destination, so I scrambled back up through the courtyard, down a second courtyard, past a broken fountain, filling with rain water, and to the very back of the complex where I found the discretely marked office door. By then, my hair was lost to the ravage of rain, and wind. And it was only eleven in the morning.
I backed through the glass door, holding the now very damp box of clothing with both hands.
“Oh!” A woman was just descending the stairs. I set the box on the floor.
“You’re making a donation.” Her voice was high, on the barely tolerable side of grating. She was dressed in tight jeans decorated with studs and embroidery, and high heel boots. Her outfit was of good quality, but I couldn’t identify the designer. She wore an incongruous holiday sweater decorated with penguins of the more cartoon variety.
“Yes.” I confirmed. I tried to fluff my hair back up again, but the rain had soaked it beyond fluffing repair.
The woman watched me as I tried to save myself. Quickly bored, she marched over to the box, her high heels clicking in the silence of the empty building.
“Oh, these must be from Beverley,” she said, before I could even explain.
“I recognize the dress. Are you donating the shoes as well?” She craned her neck around looking for the bag of shoes that should, of course, accompany the clothing.
“I could, I suppose.”
“Do.” She nodded, vigorously. “That will make it easier to sell the clothes.”
“Sell? Don’t you give them away or something?” I asked. Judging from the roll of her heavily lined eyes, I had made an incredibly naive comment.
“What would a homeless woman do with silk?” She demanded. “They need blankets and food.” She thrust out a slender hip and eyed me, as if I were a total fashion moron, which I am not.
“We sell them to the Just As Good Store, and they mark up the goods for more than they paid and sell them to someone who can really use them. For women,” she eyed me, taking in my soaking hair, bedraggled trench coat, and second favorite boots, “who want a bargain. We both get what we need, cash for more important things.”
She gathered up the clothes and whisked them off to the back of the narrow office.
Unwilling to launch back into the rain. I looked around a bit. The stairs looked to lead to more offices. To my right was a small office, to my left, another identical, tiny, office space. Scarred, clearly used furniture buckled under the weight of the old, full-sized computer monitors. The staff was probably running on old Windows systems as well. Weren’t there non-profits devoted to helping those who work in non-profits? Clearly, there should be some kind of help.
I should mention that
to Carrie. She understands this side of life much better than I do.
“There.” The woman returned. She must have calculated the financial boon the clothes could bring, because she was much friendlier. She offered me a big smile in exchange for my donation.
“Bring in the shoes tomorrow.” She instructed.
“Oh.” I was a bit taken aback.
“What size?”
“What size what?” I was too distracted by her dramatic make-up which was appropriate for evening, but in the cold light of morning emphasized the tired lines fanning from her eyes.
“What size are the shoes?” She repeated patiently.
“Oh, ten.”
“Pity.”
“Tell me about it.” I didn’t have much to say after that. How’s business? So, what’s your ROI? Nothing came to mind, and she certainly didn’t invite more conversation now that she had her donation.
I pushed open the door, and it didn’t move. I pulled it back towards me – a gross violation of California fire codes. It wasn’t until I was safely back in my car that I remembered I needed a receipt for Ben’s taxes. I did not want to go back out in the rain.
I’d get it tomorrow. When I brought back the damn shoes.
The day did not improve, once I returned to my own office.
Inez, our manager sat stiffly at the head of the conference table. She was perfectly in tuned with the season, her red, wool suit matched her long red nails. I always admired her perfect manicure. She started the Monday office meetings at exactly 12:00.
“It has come to our attention that we’ve had a series of potentially dangerous incidences, and you all need to be aware of them.” Inez began doggedly, to an audience of three.
Rosemary and Katherine drifted in at 12:15 PM, each carrying a small lined bags with, I figured, their own diet focused lunch. Katherine was still limping a bit, but Rosemary looked hungrier.
So far, in the misery race, it was a tie.
Patricia walked in carrying a pink bakery box and set it on the conference table. Tom, another agent with no last name, carried in two large soda bottles and plastic cups.
The sandwiches, it turned out, were either vegetarian or chicken salad.
It’s December. Where’s the hot pastrami and roast beef? Or, if your holiday movie of choice is How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Roast Beast.
Where was my Roast Beast?
“The situation needs to be addressed,” Inez continued as I gingerly picked up a chicken sandwich.
“First off, you should no longer hold an open house alone.”
Rosemary and Katherine groaned out loud, so I didn’t have to. I bit into the chicken salad to keep from voicing any opinion.
“We’ve had two incidents of agents attacked or in harm’s way. We simply can’t afford it.” Inez picked at her vegetarian sandwich.
“I have three open houses this Sunday. I can barely find one person for each house, let alone double them up.” Katherine protested.
Only three? That is slow for Katherine. She usually has more homes on the market than that.
“I have two houses open this weekend.” Rosemary agreed. “What am I suppose to do, run back and forth?”
“We have agents who need the work and the contacts.” Inez was not a woman easily derailed. She stared down her two, ahem, largest producers. They blinked first.
“I’ll get my husband to sit with me.” Rosemary muttered.
“I’ll call a friend.” Katherine acquiesced.
They both started accusingly at me. I was still distracted by my puny sandwich and wishes for roast beast.
“Me?” I squeaked. “I have to find someone to stay in the house of death for Sunday, top that.”
“This is your fault.” They chorused. At last, something they agree upon - my perfidy.
Joan taught me that word.
“It’s not my fault that she died in her own house.” I protested.
“The papers say it was an accident.” Inez said firmly. “And I am making sure that during this holiday season, there are no more accidents.”
Inez glared at us. We meekly agreed, but not in so many words.
“Am I being clear?” Inez repeated. She did not move a muscle.
“Yes.” We grumbled.
“Good, now eat your lunch.”
It was not my fault. I happened to find a dead body after I listed a house, but that was in Marin, different county. This last body was just a fluke, could happen to anyone. Shouldn’t happen again.
“It better not happen, again.” Rosemary muttered, effectively reading my mind. “Or we’ll be completely shut down.”
Chapter 7
The HPL dinner immediately followed Beverley’s funeral. And I suppose at this late date, the League couldn’t just cancel the annual dinner, these events are important for donor appreciation, or so Carrie tells me. I began my day at the Hyatt, with an embarrassing breakfast meeting. I could finish my day in the same ballroom, feasting on dried chicken filet. Full circle of fun.
I stared at my closet and felt, uninspired, not to mention a little full around the waist. Bland chicken salad must have expansive qualities. After much consideration, I finally pulled out something purple. I wasn’t really ready for the evening, but once I saw Ben, I had nothing on him.
The accumulation of the funeral, facing all Beverley’s financial maneuverings and losing his art must have caught up with him. At first, he assured me it was no problem, he was sad, but there was no problem. However, from the additional lines on his face, and his haunted look, he was clearly losing sleep. It was very much a problem.
“I don’t think I can take much more of this.” He said under his breath as he absently kissed my cheek.
“Come on, one more night.” I tucked my arm under his and led him into the crowd milling around the closed ballroom doors.
“Everyone talked about her, but I don’t think anyone really liked her or understood her. Maybe, I didn’t either.”
“I’m sure you did, otherwise, how would you know they didn’t?” I squeezed his arm. The only thing I could do was support him. Obsessing about the past was not going to help me, or him, at all.
“I’ll be right here with you.” I assured him.
And it was a good thing.
Ben was spotted as soon as we stepped into the cocktail reception area.
“Mr. Weiss?” The formidable, and infamous (based on Carrie’s impersonations over the years), Martha Anderson bore down on Ben like a cruise liner hitting four knots.
“You are so kind to attend our little soirée after your tragic loss.” She bellowed. Her voice was loud and projected so well, half the guests in the lobby paused to hear what she would say next. Her voice was a result of practice, rather than being, ahem, naturally loud.
Ben allowed her to take his hand and shake it vigorously. As if that contact wasn’t enough, she pulled him into a bear hug. He almost disappeared.
“It’s Ben Stone actually.” He managed to blurt out when she finally released him.
“Ah, that’s right. I met your grandmother. Lovely woman, lovely. She’s a Geary, I understand, quite a philanthropist in her own right?”
“She supports the arts mostly.” Ben smoothed his hair, tousled after the affectionate ambush. “We all have our pet projects.”
“Ah, well, then let me tell you a bit about what we do. After all, I couldn’t very well speak of the HPL during poor Beverley’s funeral? It was such a tragedy.”
“She was so young.” I put in.
“Yes,” Mrs. Anderson echoed, seriously. She looked at me, apparently did not find what she was looking for, dismissed me and continued to address her remarks exclusively to Ben.
“Well, we do so much good. Were you aware that we maintain and support over thirty movable shelters that house over seventy of the chronically homeless? We are located in seven counties. Because of our work, many of our clients are able to move on to jobs and subsidized apartments of their own. We have quite a
track record of success, one of the best in the country.”
She beamed at Ben, then as a gesture of good will, smiled at me.
Ben was mute.
“That’s wonderful.” I interceded.
She waited for Ben to produce some sound of understanding, or an indication of how impressed he was with her facts, anything, really.
Ben actually looked a little dazed. Maybe he lost some oxygen in that hug.
“Mr. Stone is so overwhelmed right now, what with the funeral and the holidays. You can imagine.” I drawled out the end word, for emphasis. I took his arm and gave him a little shake, so he’d look more animated.
“Oh, of course.” Mrs. Anderson took a step back as if to give Ben the physical as well as emotional space he would need to make an informed philanthropic decision.
“He is taking everything into consideration.” I explained. I did not tell her that as he helped extract me from his truck, he commented that he had half a mind to donate $10,000 to the charity with the best graphics on a dinner menu. He wasn’t feeling too focused right now.
I do not blame him in the least, particularly since he was an arts guy, and Beverley’s philanthropic works focused on health and human services. Those two endeavors were very different.
We were left alone for a minute, but only for a minute. I sipped my wine and looked over the crowd.
“Most of these people are from the funeral.” Ben finally said. Oh, he lives! He moves! I kept my opinions to myself.
“Patrick said he’d be here with Carrie.” Ben knew Patrick only casually, I knew more about Patrick because of what Carrie told me, but that did not matter. Ben needed an ally, and Patrick was his man.
“I’m not very good with direct service charities.” Ben muttered. “My mother worked with the homeless when I was a kid. She discovered a couple of her clients were rather good artists and she made a good commission promoting their art. She plowed most of it back into the shelter, but she stopped volunteering there and switched to supporting the arts. I’m more comfortable with the arts.”
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 7