“Right now?”
“No silly, this week.” She waved her hand in the same gesture Beverley used to dismiss everything she didn’t want to address or deal with. “Sometimes, anytime. Come over when you can, yes?”
“Of course, have you seen dad?” Ben asked.
“Oh, your father.” She glanced around as if she may have set the man down next to the mushrooms, but he wasn’t resting on the buffet table. “Well,” her eyes fluttered over my face, “lovely to meet you.”
I bent my head in a royal gesture of acknowledgement.
“See?” Ben whispered as his mother floated away. “She makes your mother look like a laugh riot, all warm, fuzzy and cuddly with her loving family.”
“I am not ready to nominate my mother for sainthood.” I said, and would have said more but I was interrupted.
“Ben and Allison.” The Executive Director, Doctor Fischer, enveloped us in the obligatory friendly hug of more than acquaintances. We gingerly hugged back. Ben patted Fischer on the back twice and released him as quickly as he could.
“Thank you for coming.” Fischer had purchased a number of canvasses from one of my clients and now owned one that was enormously controversial and thus, popular. But he still wasn’t sure about us – how well could we keep the secret about his father? Well, we had no reason to expose the sad history of Mr. Fischer’s father’s past and his attempt to right what he saw as a long festering wrong. No reason at all.
I tried to smile but I was still recovering from Ben’s mother.
“My pleasure.” Ben was more relaxed in this environment and I noticed that he didn’t shrink from the Fischer or from the occasional woman who recognized him from years past.
“It’s a lovely building.” I said.
“Yes, we’re very proud. Did you see the panel? I may have a lead on the second.”
“I thought the other two were destroyed?” The panel in question was one I happen to find hidden in a house in Marin. The painting that got the owner killed. It’s a long story, but this work, by an artist named Guerra, did end up being saved and displayed.
“No, apparently there are two more, maybe other curators didn’t have the heart to destroy good art, either.” He paused awkwardly then asked the perpetually awkward seasonal inquiry, “you two have plans for the holidays?”
“Family.” We said simultaneously.
“My mother hosts Christmas dinner.” Ben explained. Fischer automatically glanced around for Ben’s mother.
“We usually have dinner at the Club,” I supplied, as if he asked.
“Well.” Fischer tugged at his French shirt cuffs and glanced around the room.
“We were just heading to the buffet table.” Ben said helpfully, giving Fischer way to escape. He did not want to insult us by leaving our conversation so soon, but he had many other donors to attend to.
“Excellent, we have lovely donated food.” He left with relief and we headed towards to the food to make good on our stated intentions.
Ben took about three steps with me, but was distracted by another patron. I left them to their conversation and continued to head towards the food. I had met his mother. I had done my part, now it’s Miller Time.
I stuffed three slices of Mascheo cheese into my mouth, poured more wine from the bar – at least it was Kendall Jackson, rather than Charles Shaw, and wandered into the crowd. Most of the guests were milling in the main space, admiring or pretending to admire, the art.
I poked my head into the women’s rest room. Ben had apparently not only designed and installed the new bathrooms, he had also donated the materials. I wondered how Ben managed to do the work without engaging the Plumbers Union and all the other unions in this town, but I supposed it didn’t really matter. I admired the block of undulating sinks with the shallow basins that flowed into one another. The unused water washed behind the sink into a kind of waterfall, instead of down a pedestrian drain. Very elegant and museum-like.
I walked back toward the stairs again. A freestanding poster had been shoved to one side; I passed it by.
I did manage to find our “lost” panel. It looked more impressive here in a gallery setting than where I found it, hidden behind sheet rock in a little used powder room. The colors were bright, the woman painted at the center of the panel was clear and her skin was beautifully rich brown. She clutched a long stream of water in one hand, choking it off, and in the other hand was a bundle of wheat, held so tightly the artist had made the lower half of the wheat black, as if there were no more oxygen or water molecules in the state left for growing any food.
Political? Very. That’s why in 1939 the painting was considered too controversial for display, and so, lost. The painting’s original fate was to be destroyed.
Dr. Fisher was lecturing so I joined the group. “The WPA did a great deal of good, hiring artists and writers to do what they do best. But some of the results weren’t exactly what the government officials had in mind. Much of what was originally created and paid for was hidden. That’s what we are trying to recover, the lost art, most of the work from that time period of course, but anything else that’s been hidden or rejected because the artists needed or felt compelled, to reveal the truth.”
“Isn’t that biting the hand that fed you?” A young girl asked.
“That’s the risk with artists,” he acknowledged.
“It looks like a cross between Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo.” Someone said.
“Yes, it does, but they did not collaborate.” Fischer said with confidence.
“And it’s not as personal like Kahlo, it’s more political.” Offered another guest.
“I’ve seen a modern artist who has this same kind of style.” A handsome man with dark, swept back hair, and dark blue eyes, commented.
“But he’s not dead,” someone pointed out.
“Still, I think one of his work went for something close to $100,000 at a gallery opening I attended. Huge works, quite impressive, but really, nothing I’d hang in my living room.”
“I know what you mean.” I said under my breath.
He glanced at me and favored me with a blindingly polished smile. It tugged at my memory. I smiled back because I always smile at handsome men.
“I think we may have one of those.” Fischer directed his group to the next painting. I hung behind.
“I’m Roland Bentley.” The handsome man introduced himself as the group broke ranks and wandered towards the next enormous canvass.
“Allison Little, New Century Realty.”
“And are you interested in art?” Roland asked.
“Only where it ends up.” I answered truthfully. “I’m here with Ben Stone.” I glanced over the crowd to find the infamous Ben Stone.
“Ben Stone, wasn’t he married to Beverley Weiss?” Roland said immediately.
“You knew her?” I searched a bit harder for Ben, he’d want to meet this man. Then I realized that maybe, maybe, he did not want to meet former boyfriends and lovers of his ex-wife. I hadn’t considered that.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I asked.
He laughed, “or shall we head to the open bar?”
“We could do that, too.”
Roland turned out to be as helpful as he was handsome. We poured ourselves more wine and repaired to a quiet bulge in the wall of the gallery, there didn’t seem to be a single ninety degree angle anywhere in the building.
“I was acquainted with Beverley, we even dated for a month or so. We met at one of the fundraisers here, or rather at the old museum. Anyway, she was fun, but really needy. I couldn’t give her enough.”
“Gifts?” I guessed.
“That,” he agreed. “But also myself, she even resented my work, she wanted my attention 24/7. And what she needed if I wasn’t there, were more gifts to remind her of me.”
“Then why did you keep coming back?” I asked reasonably.
“I didn’t.”
Ben walked up behind me. “Hello, I’m Ben Stone.”
“Roland Bentley.”
The two shook hands.
“She had a picture of you in her bedroom.” Ben said. That’s where I had seen him, in one of those banquet – happy-at-the-table photos.
“Really? After all this time? I’m flattered.” He didn’t look sad or particularly upset over losing Beverley. But he hadn’t heard she was dead. Apparently they had dated for only a short time, a long time ago. All that was left of the relationship were the necklaces and bracelets for her, a perpetual visa bill payment for him.
I couldn’t ask the next question that came to mind. What was it about Beverley that prompted such largess on the part of her beaus? Not even Ben was showering me with gifts – ice cream and wine to be sure, but that was a direct exchange for a happy Allison and thus more sex and thus a happy Ben.
Oh.
“It’s been interesting to meet you.” Roland shook my hand, shook Ben’s hand.
“And you.” We echoed.
“That was good.” Ben watched the man move only five steps before he was stopped by more guests.
“Thanks, I recognized him, couldn’t place him. So I stopped him to talk anyway. Any luck for you?”
He sighed. “I found a couple of people who heard about the sales of our art and they gave me some names, but most of the buyers are either on vacation or golfing in a warmer place that this. I may not talk to them until after the holidays.”
“It’s not difficult to know why Beverley sold the paintings, she was leaving town for good, taking all her cash and traveling to some out of the way place.”
“With whom?”
“Not O’Reilly, he is still in town. Not Roland Bentley. Perhaps another man who merited two photos instead of one?”
Chapter 11
I asked Ben to hang out with me during my open house. I was mindful of Inez’s wrath if I didn’t at least try to get someone to protect me from the Sonoma County serial killer. I left a message with Carrie to that effect as well. Carrie declined, she had silent auction and brunch to attend with Patrick. Ben had to fix his mother’s bathroom. My only orders were to make the calls, say the words and then look innocent when Inez asked – did you get someone to stay with you?
I would say something fatuous about how nothing bad happens in the Villas; it’s too snooty, overpriced and filled with careful people who hire Mexican immigrants to remove three leaves from the lawn using a gas powered blower. But obviously something bad DID happen in the Villas and I was here from 1:00 to 4:00 to fend off the crowds of curious sensation seekers – Come see the Murder House – who only wanted to peer under the bed for the weapon, smell the minty clean guest bath (it still smelled of Scope mouthwash even after the cleaning team worked through, my bad) and otherwise make completely nuisances of themselves.
But, just when I through prurient interest would drive the day, the momentum was lost. Not single person stopped by in the first two hours.
I suppose the driving rain didn’t help much.
Perhaps I was giving off bad vibes, a common mantra from both Rosemary and Katherine, who, it may well be noted, weren’t exactly bundles of positive energy themselves of late. Dieting, especially during the season of eggnog and homemade fudge, can makes a girl(s) cranky.
It took a great deal of self-restraint on my part to not tackle clearing out another of Beverley’s stuffed closets. Ben had thrown out gallon garbage bags of papers and junk, and then, to clear out the rooms, shoved everything else into the closets.
I wanted to pull it all out and get ride of more.
But big black bags of garbage clearly dropped from the stairs do not look good during an open house. So I resisted the urge to clean and clear. Instead I perched on the couch and flipped through old Vogue and Baazar magazines, played a few games of solitaire on my phone and watched the rain fall into the deck immediately off the dining room.
As usual, I called my grandmother at 2:00 PM.
“How is your new house of death?”
“Dead.” thought I saw a shadow of movement on the front walk. I stood and continued to talk as I checked the door to make sure it was not locked.
“Is Debbie still bent on an old fashion home made Christmas?” Prue tends to get to the heart of things rather quickly. She says she’s too old for bullshit, but I work with many people older than she who love bullshit. I think Prue came this way.
“Yeah, she’s tired of the Club, says it’s too impersonal.”
“It is too impersonal.” Prue asserted. “We had a good time celebrating here at my house.”
“Until Richard found the liquor cabinet.” I pointed out.
“True.”
“And Allen found the matches.”
“Ah, there is that,” she admitted. “The change in venue should be interesting,” she offered brightly.
“I take it you’re not interested in participating in the grand experiment?”
“The atomic bomb was a grand experiment. And I didn’t need to attend the detonation. I’ll read about it later.”
Detonation was not a great word to describe our upcoming holiday experiment. Debbie was stubbornly oblivious to Richard’s drinking, and as a result never fully appreciated my mother’s attempts to control what sometimes could be a volatile situation by always meeting in public spaces. I really wanted my grandmother with us, but she was adamant about her living her own life. This independence, coupled with she and my mother’s thinly veiled animosity, increased exponentially with each passing day of Advent.
I dropped the subject. We chatted about the new person on the Claim Jump City Council. Prue has lost by a handful of votes to a woman named of all things, Debbie. Grandma was still mad. Lucky Masters, one of the more prominent developers in town, was offering homeowners rebuilding packages after the fall forest fire. All he needed was approval by the County Planning Commission.
“The project would give a lot of people jobs.” Prue concluded. “Raul offered to set up web cams in the trees to monitor construction. But even that idea didn’t appease this Debbie, she’s dead set against Lucky’s proposal. Can’t say I really blame her, no one trusts Lucky.”
Raul was a video artist. I often visited his web cam trained on grandma’s street, you know, to check on things. And the idea of setting up a web cam wouldn’t be that outrageous, Lucky Masters was known to cut corners in his buildings. So far no one had proved anything, so there was nothing more to say on that subject.
I assured grandma that Ben was fine, because she always asks, and we signed off.
I finally had a visitor at 3:30 PM.
“Hello?” A man opened the front door and poked his head in.
I struggled up from the one couch left in the living room. “Hello, come on in!”
He stepped in and slid off his rubber clogs.
His long grey hair was bound back in a ponytail with a rubber band from the morning paper. He wore a faded tee shirt that originally hailed from an upper end store but, judging from its condition, it had been worn once, and rejected as no longer cool and consigned to the second hand shop.
An out of date tee shirt seemed to be a fine wardrobe statement for this sixty year old.
He smiled. His teeth were dark, stained.
“Hi, just looking – I saw this on the Internet - Craig’s list.”
“Yes.” Patricia had placed it for me and kept up the listing every week.
He stepped into the foyer, hands on his narrow hips- he was too skinny. I would guess the speed/meth/coke diet, but didn’t want to judge.
“What an amazing price! It this accurate? What’s wrong with it?” He surveyed the front room.
“Nothing.” I said immediately. The pest report was clear. The roof was new, Ben really did take care of his things, and his ex-wife’s house was no exception.
I was suddenly aware of all Inez’s warnings – which is unusual for me. My visitor did not look like a neighbor. He did not look as if he was from around here at all. He actually looked more like a tran
sient. I edged away from him and closer to the front door.
“There must be something wrong to merit such a low price for this area.” He turned and walked towards the kitchen. I followed him, because that’s what I do.
“All the appliances are top of the line.” I said.
He opened the cupboards, I held my breath willing the contents to stay put. We still hadn’t cleared out the cupboards. He studied the flooring.
“Is the floor hardwood?”
“Yes,”
“Bamboo is more sustainable.” He said.
“This was built before the bamboo craze.” Because how environmental was it to rip out perfectly good wood floors in order to replace them with “better” floors? Not at all. Maybe part of being green is to make due with what you already have.
He rubbed his hand over the counter tops and the cabinets. I hovered in the kitchen doorway. He wandered around the lower floor and I followed him, not trusting him much. But upstairs I allowed him to enter each room while I stood in the hallway. Don’t let yourself be boxed in a room with no escape except past the creepy (but with buying potential) visitor.
He exited the master bedroom. “Didn’t I read something about this house?”
“Yes.” I said straight out. “There was a death here. Umm, recently.” The saying goes: the only buyer who sues is a surprised buyer. Disclose everything, and in this house, Beverley’s death would need to be disclosed over and over. But at this point, it was being reported as an accidental death, not a violent crime. I was happy to perpetuate the myth.
He nodded, “I thought so.”
“Is that a problem?” I tried to keep my voice from squeaking because he unnerved me. He could have climbed straight down from the ridge above Claim Jump, where the reprobates, drug dealers and aging hippies escape from reality on a regular basis and grow the means to do so. It was not a reassuring picture.
He had nothing, but I’m not an idiot. He also may have a relative who did have means and wanted - desperately wanted – him to leave their living room couch.
I understood.
“No worries. I can get a cleaner here to take care of the bad energy.”
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 12