By Wednesday evening, I was thrilled to hear from Carrie and take a break from my own thoughts to listen to hers.
“I need to talk about this, and you’re the only person I can talk to.” she said succinctly over the phone.
“We can meet at our wine bar.” I offered.
“No, I’ll come to your place.”
“I don’t want to be overheard.” She explained when she arrived, flopping down on my soft cushioned couch. I served her a Viognier in a Reidel chardonnay glass. I drank a north coast syrah in my Reidel, yes, Syrah glass.
Ben insists that the wine tastes the same, regardless of the glass. He once told me an Opus One would taste exactly the same when drunk from a jelly glass as it would from a burgundy glass, which is how they drink wine in France, and THOSE easily fit in the dishwasher. The jelly glasses. But I am not giving up my hobby, and he has not produced a bottle of Opus One (the retail value is rather high) to demonstrate his point. Besides, an obsession for specific items, assiduously circulated among my immediate relatives, often garners good Christmas gifts.
“This is nice.” Carrie sipped the white. It was a little fruity for this time of year. I‘m a big, bold girl. When it comes to wine.
I sank into my favorite chair, covered in beautiful, green leather with a matching foot rest. It is my TV watching, premium ice cream eating, sanctuary. “You attended the first board meeting for the Homeless Prevention League, how did it go?”
“We met at a restaurant because there wasn’t room to meet at the offices, which I thought was a little short sighted on the part of the board who approved the office lease. Anyway, we met at Ralph’s, are you familiar with that fifties themed place?”
“Not terribly elegant.” I agreed.
“Better than the pizza place, or the pub.” She said with some disgust. “This is suppose to be important and official; serious business.”
“You’ve always treated the board seriously at the Senior Center.” I put in. I sipped my wine and watched the night darken from black to impregnable. It was only six o’clock. At this rate I’ll be ready for bed by seven.
“That’s right, our board members at the Senior Center take themselves very seriously. I practically have to bow and courtesy as I hand them their perfect, hand stapled agendas on a silver serving platter.”
The image reminded me of the HPL staff, serving shrimp to the donors and guests. I shifted and folded my bare feet under me.
“No staff served you?” This time.
“No, they aren’t invited to the board meeting. Only official board members attend, and the president. And CEO.” she added, as if recently schooled in the title. “He’s a handsome man of course, quite commanding and,” she frowned, thinking of the afternoon.
“And?” I prompted.
She drank more wine and twirled what remained in her glass, which is what these glasses are built to do. Come on, think of wine as a contact sport, sure, many rules, but easy to win.
“I’m new.” Carrie explained. “I didn’t want to jump in and say, well, I’ve been here fifteen minutes and I have all the answers to all your problems because I read the brochure, and so this is what you must do.”
“But don’t all non-profits have systems in common? So you probably do know what to do.”
“Yes,” Carrie backed down at bit. “I do. The HPL has created a number of counter intuitive systems, which I don’t approve of, by the way. For instance, only the President knows all the pieces of how the organization fits together, the rest of us are left with half a picture. The financials we received at this meeting were incomplete, but no one seemed to notice. I asked for a schedule of the RVs locations, but apparently, there is a rule that the staff doesn’t disclose the Mobile Shelters’ locations, not even to board members.”
“Sounds pretty secretive.” I confirmed.
“They treat their information as a need to know situation.” Carrie said with disgust. She wrinkled her cute nose and took another swig of her wine.
“Then this Martha Anderson.”
“She of the tragedy of it all,” I interrupted.
“Yes, the tragedy of it all. During the meeting, Martha Anderson was all over me. When I asked a simple question about the financial statements for October, she gave me, me! This lecture all about how the shelter has this proud tradition of frugality, and helping the most people for the least amount of money - by the way, they’ve only been a 501 (C) 3 since 1989 so it’s not all that venerable - and she shook her finger, and told me that I should have FAITH in the staff and their systems, otherwise, I shouldn’t be on the board.” Carrie leaned back in the couch exhausted.
“That’s a little harsh.”
“I thought so, I brought up the same questions our board members ask at the Senior Center. The same questions I asked at Forgotten Felines. The same questions that any new board member asks at any non-profit. You are right, they’re not all that different.”
“Kittens and homeless people?”
“They are both lost and no one cares.” Carrie gave me a severe look.
“Don’t make that face too often; you will freeze into a Martha Anderson look-alike.”
“Gross.” Carrie massaged her features to make sure nothing was sticking. “But I have considerable background in non-profit operations, and Martha Anderson treats me like a bimbo girlfriend.” She scowled again despite my warning.
“Who is this Martha Anderson?”
“Remember Anderson Savings and Loan?”
“She’s the Anderson part of that title?”
“Her family started it, they sold it middle of last year. Martha is now focused on doing good in the community, no matter what it costs.”
“Maybe that would have been Beverley’s fate, as well.” I suggested.
Carried considered that idea. “Maybe her death was a blessing, if that was her future. But there was something about Beverley that would have prevented her from growing up to be Martha. Beverley didn’t have her own money for one, and you have to back up your assertions with cash, if you want to be a bully in the long term.”
I grinned at her.
“What?”
“You really do get it, don’t you? Patrick was right to ask you to do this.”
“We’ll see.” She still looked doubtful. Carrie is one of those women who doesn’t know her own strengths, that’s why I enjoy seeing her stand up for what she believes in, even when she believes I should diet.
“Tomorrow, the staff is taking me, and a couple of other board members, I don’t remember their names, and of course Martha, on a tour of the shelters. We’re only viewing the ones here, not the East Bay, or anything.”
“They operate in the East Bay?”
“All over.” Carrie assured me. “They have about fifty shelters. No, maybe thirty.”
“I thought Martha said thirty two.”
“Then, that’s the number. They do well on their budget, as least the part I looked at. They keep the web site all in house, and all the fundraising and advertising in house. It’s a pretty tight ship.”
“It’s been my experience that sometimes you should pay for outside help.”
“Sure, if you’re a for-profit company. Non-profits around here can’t afford anything extra. And speaking of which,” she poured herself more white wine. “Do you want to come to Cooper Milk party?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
I ran through the social calendar that fits easily in my short-term memory. The only thing I had planned was a date with my favorite chair and holiday cartoons. “I’d love to, but how on earth are you justifying my attendance?”
“I thought it would be good for your business, and Patrick said to bring a friend, since he’ll be busy. So I’m asking you.”
“Won’t his sisters be company?”
She drank more wine. “They are getting better, in that they aren’t as openly hostile, but it’s hard,” she acknowledged. “They are very protective of Patrick.�
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“That explains why he’s been single for so long.” I thought about what Anne said.
“It’s not only them, he got a little jaded over the years; so many local girls offered,” she rolled her eyes. “Well, you can imagine.”
“I can.”
“I happened to hit him at the right time.”
“Maybe, you’re the right person.” I said encouragingly.
“Maybe.” She leaned forward. “Come with me, I’d feel better if you were there.”
“Can I wear my velvet outfit again?”
“Wear leopard print spandex, if you want. I don’t care. It’s at the St. Marie winery this year.”
“Do you think anyone would have a lead there on Beverley’s killer?”
Carrie considered that for a moment. “The story is still that it was an accident, but I’ll ask around.”
“Be careful.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, what can possibly happen to me?”
The Cooper Milk Co-op, despite its humble beginnings, and strong reputation for giving back to the community, actually throws quite a party. Most of the residents of Sonoma County only read about the holiday soiree, it’s covered in the Rivers Bend Press, fewer are invited. I was looking forward to checking it out.
I picked up Carrie in case she wanted to go home with Patrick. For fun, I wore one of my great-grandmother’s minks. The mink coats are mine because my grandmother Prue wouldn’t be caught dead in dead animal fur and my mother likes her furs, more fresh. I wear them to look like I come from old money.
Speaking of ill-gotten fur, I had a surprise for Carrie.
“Here.” I pulled out Beverley’s sheared blue chinchilla jacket, and tossed it into Carrie’s lap.
It was too big for Carrie’s tiny frame, but I knew the color would make Carrie look fabulous.
“What is this?”
“I’m fairly certain it’s not made of kitten fur, so you’re okay.”
“It’s so luxurious.” She wisely did not refuse the gift, nor did she ask after its origins, but merely stroked the jacket fur like a lost cat all the way to the party.
And indeed, as we strolled to first open terrace of the St Marie winery, when Carrie tossed the fur over her narrow shoulders, she looked magnificent. I was happy to contribute to her new “it girl” status. She wore a slinky, jersey black dress she bought at Ross about four seasons ago, and clutched a glittery purse. The mink was the perfect, final touch.
“What is that?” I gestured to her hand. The walkway to the front of the winery was lined with luminaries, paper bags glowing from candles placed inside. The homemade glowing lanterns are a tradition from back when California was Mexican. The winery itself was built in the Spanish style, so it all fit. You don’t have to live in a winery to display the luminaries, some tract homes around Rivers Bend sport walk ways lined with small, glowing paper bags at Christmas.
Carrie lifted her purse to show me. “A Judith Lieber bag. Patrick’s sister Kathleen loaned it to me. We’re getting along better, as of today.”
She grinned, because when it came to Patrick’s sisters, small, incremental steps towards making things better was really a huge triumph.
She offered up the shiny, hard bag, covered in colored crystals and shaped like …
“It looks like a bunch of asparagus.” I stopped walking to look at it more closely. “It is a bunch of asparagus. You are carrying around a purse that looks like food.”
“It is not food. It is an expensive designer bag,” Carrie was as stiff as her hand-sized purse.
The purse was pretty, and shiny, even in the soft glow of the luminaries. The green crystals glittered, but I could help think: elegance on a stick.
“Does Judith make one in the shape of a hamburger?”
“Now you’re being silly.” She snatched the bag away from me, and marched through the entrance.
I followed her past the gift store, roped off for the evening, and back outside to another courtyard. Space heaters kept the temperature pleasant.
“I’ll greet a few people here, and then we can move to the caves.” Carrie gestured with the asparagus and I followed.
She seemed more confident tonight. Maybe, she was feeling more as if she belonged. I usually don’t have a problem finding her in a crowd, but with the bright blue mink jacket, she was a petite beacon in the night. I had opted for black myself, after I realized that I’d be in the dark for most of the party. I not only could blend in, if I spilled, no one could tell.
A waiter cruised by with a plate of hors d’ouvres. I picked up a real stem of asparagus, wrapped in prosciutto; it looked like Carrie’s purse.
Carrie greeted a few people, introduced me, but we didn’t stay to chat. We moved quickly to the main event: dinner in the caves.
The point of wine caves is to have the perfect environment, which means the perfect temperature, to store barrels of wines. These caves were natural, so natural that the mold grew thick and black on the walls. It’s not as gross as it sounds, but don’t lean against it.
Fairy lights strung throughout the caves gave off a warm glow. Candelabras filled with flickering candles were positioned along long wood dining tables. Instead of decorating the niches cut into the wall every few yards, with traditional greenery, or a tree, the arches were filled with winter white floral arrangements set on empty wine casks. The Sullivan’s not only knew how to throw a party, they knew how to throw a classy party.
“You look fabulous.” Patrick finally extracted himself from someone, it could well have been a former mayor, I wasn’t sure, and hugged Carrie.
“That’s an interesting piece.” He rubbed the mink and Carrie’s arm.
“Allison loaned it to me, isn’t it fun?”
He kissed her, hard enough so she’d have to reapply her lipstick, an enviable problem. “You look great in anything.”
“Thanks for coming Allison,” he finally noticed me, and put out his hand. I shook it politely. Our problem, Patrick’s and mine, is that we hear far too much about each other. Carrie talks to me about Patrick, and I’m sure she has described some of our exploits to Patrick, but the two of us haven’t exchanged much information directly. As a result, we end up keeping our face-to-face exchanges formal, and polite.
“Can I take her away?” He asked, conscious I was here to make sure Carrie wouldn’t be alone in the first place.
“But of course.” A waiter carrying a tray of sparkling wine carefully walked by and I grabbed a glass. “Go, talk amongst yourselves.”
I, in turn, wandered around the party appreciating the mixture of the very best of Rivers Bend society and production line workers from the milk processing plant. Cooper Milk did all the manufacturing right here in town. Pretty much have to, that’s the way milk is.
Because of the thick natural walls of the cave, sound didn’t bounce around much, so the party atmosphere had an intimate feel, and it was easier to ease drop on other conversations. I wandered past tiny knots of guests (there wasn’t a lot of room in the caves) and munched on another delectable treat, something wrapped in filo pastry, and drank more wine.
“I heard her house is for sale.”
I paused immediately outside a little indent at the wall.
Another voice, male, joined in, “I heard this wasn’t the first time she found a body in one of her listings.”
“I don’t think that first one was her fault.”
“Doesn’t matter, she’s bad luck.”
Bad luck? My stomach clenched. I was not bad luck. I carefully backed away from the voices. I swallowed down more sparking drink and tried to calm myself. I knew it was about me, and normally I’m thrilled when the conversation is about me, but not tonight. I needed more listings, hell, we all did. But a label like bad luck could tank my career.
I looked around for a friendly face, but I couldn’t even spot Carrie in the dark halls. The black mold looked more ominous than a few minutes ago. I couldn’t breath very well. I hustled outside to
the cool air. A waiter passed by with a tray of fresh sparkling wine. I stopped him and set my glass on his tray.
“Can you tell Patrick Sullivan that Allison had to leave?”
He nodded, and I escaped.
I hunkered down for the remainder of the evening with my Nightmare Before Christmas DVD and a pint of Imagine Whirled Peace. Bad luck, my ass.
I decided not to call Ben and harangue him about – well, anything at all. He too, had enough to worry about.
Saturday morning I slept in because the night did not go well. I was restless and uncomfortable. The extra two hours in bed did not help, I woke feeling ill at ease, cranky and I had bad hair. The only reason I didn’t waste the whole day and night with a good book was I had to dress for the New Century Regional Holiday party, at the Hilton. How much dried chicken breast must a girl endure?
So I swung into action and worked desperately to live the life of a diva. It did not go well. Instead of a long bubble bath, I ran out of bubbles and had to shower. The hot water ran out. My hair refused to succumb to the curling iron, which in turn, died a smoking death half way through the process.
I wrapped up my hair in a twist (plan B) and squirted myself in the face with the hair spray because the nozzle was apparently clogged. At least the random spray set my mascara, it was clumping and I had no time to call my Mary Kay consultant for more. I mean, she does house calls, but with fifteen minutes notice?
I squirted the hairspray around my head, shooting the mirror, the bathroom sink, all the towels and some more of my hair. What I really needed was a big can of Aqua Net. I miss my Aqua Net, but it wouldn’t do to have some greenly inclined client smelling it on me. Really, people do get so in a twist about these kinds of things. My hair is important, but not worth burning through what’s left of the ozone layer.
My first choice, a beaded dress, wouldn’t fit. If I sat down in it, not only would the beads be uncomfortable, but so would the seams. I tried it on with a stretch Spanx - the new girdle - then with control top pantyhose, then with both, but I couldn’t breath. I pulled out the back up holiday dress which was a velvet and lace skirt and matching jacket. Feeling perverse, I teamed the whole thing with a tightly fitted – yet stretchy – red bustier, you can imagine, and red high heels. So I gained some weight, it was the holidays. Maybe, Rosemary and Katherine could give me diet tips. No, that was not a good idea. They were on the cranky girl diet. I had no interest in alienating friends and family in order to reduce my waist circumference by an inch.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 14