There was no destination address label stuck to the box, yet.
I tapped the box and considered. Where? The kitchen, was there a drawer? Most of what littered the kitchen was kitchen related equipment. But I knew that people tend to temporarily store important documents in the kitchen first before carrying the documents or the bills upstairs to officially file them. At least, that’s what I do.
Did I have permission to rifle though the private papers of the client? No. Did I do it anyway? Yes.
I pulled open a top drawer below the long granite counter. It only held silverware, something else to give away. Every time I walk into this house there’s something more to give away. I opened every drawer. The bottom drawer was jammed with paper and only opened about an inch or two. If a detective in a hurry came across this logistical challenge, he’d likely reject the drawer contents as unimportant, because they weren’t easy to retrieve. There were plenty of files in Beverley’s second guest room, enough for the police to rifle through and more than enough for Ben to throw away. This kitchen drawer would not be on anyone’s radar screen.
I slid a spatula into the drawer and pressed down on the pile. I gently pulled the drawer all the way open.
I heard a noise out on the back deck. I looked up. Nothing. My imagination, Bo Freeman wasn’t stalking me, that was silly, I hadn’t even left the house.
I pulled out a five-inch layer of papers. Recent credit card bills, Visa, Master Card, American Express, Beverley had them all. Cable.
The sound of a footfall. I stopped and listened, someone walking around in back? Another looky-loo, confident that the house was vacant? A vagrant? Bo Freeman returning to cage a warm night in an abandoned house?
I stood and cautiously walked to the back door. I flipped the dead bolt and the noise reverberated through the door notifying the interloper of my intentions.
I saw a shadow, and decided on the element of surprise.
I banged the door open and shouted, “what!”
“Oh, hi there.” An embarrassed Mr. McMurry stood in his rubber clogs and a faded sweat suit at the edge of the deck, on the verge of complete escape.
“Yes?” I inquired, with as much disgust as I could muster, considering how loudly my heart was pounding.
“I was checking the deck, for a friend.”
“You could have called.” I intoned. “You have my card.”
“Err, yes.”
“Have you been lurking around here every day?” I asked.
By his expression, I had guessed right.
“Good, keep an eye on the place, will you?” Better to hire your rivals, as they say. Or is it keep your enemies close? Well, at least they can watch the house.
He nodded and quickly ducked out to the front of the house and to the safety of his own yard.
“Give me a heart attack.” I made sure to bolt the door and returned to the pile of bills easier to sift through because they weren’t addressed to me. I finally found the Fed Ex receipts in the fourth pile. There were a couple of bills for boxes already shipped but the billing was addressed to Beverley here in Rivers Bend. The destination was cut off, perhaps saved somewhere else? Shredded? In the landfill?
Damn! I was so close. But, at least I knew her destination was warm, and the clothes were already ahead of her, traveling to where ever.
I had no doubt there was a person on the receiving end. Wouldn’t they wonder why the clothes had arrived before the woman?
I loaded up two of the empty boxes from the garage with armloads of clothing from the upstairs closets.
Carrie called while I was driving home. She was all worked up. I hadn’t heard her this agitated since the Humane Society decided to charge for spaying and neutering feral cats.
“Can you believe this? Cyndi called me and actually told me that the RVs were perfectly placed, and I didn’t need more than that as confirmation that everything is fine.”
“Fine is what you embroider on a pillow.” I said. “What promoted a call from the President’s secretary?” I stopped, then started, then pulled around the car in front of me who had decided to drive down the suicide lane with the right blinker cheerfully flashing red in the dimming afternoon.
“I asked about the RVs, where they are parked, and if there was a rotation, who knew about it, and wouldn’t that be a problem for the residents? Wouldn’t it be difficult to get to your job if your homes was always on the move?”
“Did she have an answer?” I dodged two jaywalkers.
“No! And that’s not the worst of it. I was also treated to a call from Martha Anderson.”
“You shouldn’t give out your cell number.” I finally made it to the freeway on ramp. The traffic was moving at a sensible clip of seven miles per hour, but at least there were no stray pedestrians dashing into the middle of the road.
“It’s on the board member list – those are coveted lists, let me tell you, everyone’s home number. Martha Anderson called to warn me about fraternizing with the shelter’s clients.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“That’s what I said!” She shrieked. “Do you know what she said to me?”
“No, I don’t.” The choked freeway was decorated with streams of bright red tail-lights, very festive.
“She said,” Carrie continued at an unusually high pitch, “You probably don’t know this, being so young. But you don’t want to get too familiar with the clients.”
“Familiar?” I inched forward, and out of the goodness of my heart, let in a monstrous SUV who had been driving for miles on the right hand shoulder to pull ahead of seventeen cars. Normally I hate that, but he’ll have his own bad karma to deal with later. During the holidays, Karma turns around pretty quickly.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I knew what she meant,” Carrie said, a bit more calmly. “But it was such an odd warning. Who dates the clients of a non- profit for heaven’s sake?”
Since Carrie was determined not to end up poor and on welfare, the very idea of her “marrying down” was ludicrous. But Martha Anderson would not be aware of that.
“She said that there had been instances of some board members spending too much time with some of the clients.”
“And that means?”
“Well, she refused to say more than that, she was trying to warn me off and be terribly discreet at the same time. So I had to back Anne into a corner after the tour and get more of the story. Apparently, Beverley and the professor were friendly. He was giving her advice on something, but no one could tell me what.”
“That’s a little bizarre.” The professor didn’t strike me as a man who owned a gold American Express Card. And Beverley only dated men with the ability to pay her way.
“Funny, Anne seemed relieved that I was asking about Beverley.” Carrie’s voice calmed down a bit.
“She was relieved you were asking about a murder?”
The news had finally hit the papers announcing Beverley’s link with the two women in the creek. Yet, all the details reporters revealed were that Beverly’s death was similar, no more than that. A picture of restraint, our Rivers Bend Press. Too bad there isn’t a prize for that.
“Yeah, go figure.”
When I arrived to work Monday morning, the office was in an uproar because Rosemary was in an uproar, and she needs to share.
“What is going on?” I paused at Patricia’s desk, not really wanting to go much further. I had heard Rosemary’s voice as soon as I exited my car in the parking lot.
“The Rivers Bend Sign Elimination Committee For the Betterment of Rivers Bend called. They gave Rosemary a warning,” Patricia said. “Hey, another girl was murdered! They think it was the same guy who killed the creek women.”
“Yes.” I acknowledged, there was no point denying the murder.
“What they’d get her for?” I cowered at Patricia’s desk. At least the Rivers Bend Sign Elimination Committee For the Betterment of Rivers Bend was a safer subject than Beverley’s
new, upgraded status as the murder victim of a serial killer. Still at large.
“Brookwood.” Patricia replied. “That house we saw Monday on tour. It’s at the end of that long driveway.”
I nodded. Rosemary had placed the For Sale sign on the street at the top of the driveway, otherwise, no one would see that the house was for sale. In our industry, that For Sale sign is the second most effective marketing tool we have.
“Off the street? They want it off the street, and only in front of the house? Why don’t I put it in the back yard for good measure? We wouldn’t want to let anyone KNOW the house is for sale!” Rosemary’s voice echoed down the hall.
My phone buzzed. “We are on a mission.” Carrie said.
“A mission from God?” I was slightly distracted.
“I have an idea.” Rosemary continued at full volume. “Why don’t I paint For Sale on the side of the house in orange spray paint? That will increase the value of the surrounding neighborhood properties, that will add to Rivers Bend’s God damn betterment.”
I could barely make out Inez’s conciliatory tones.
“No, not that kind of mission. I want to find those shelters.” Carrie said.
“Or chalk the frigging side walk, how about that? For sale written up and down the block. Can we get these people on restraint of trade charges?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because, something is wrong.”
“But you just saw them.”
“Rosemary.” Inez finally made her voice loud enough. “Have you eaten?”
“Did you tell the staff what you want to do?” I asked Carrie.
Carrie didn’t even pause, “I asked Cyndi about it, but she was pretty vague. I asked about the other trailers, and she said they are, and I quote, around.”
I eyed Rosemary as she stomped through the lobby to her office. I only nodded in Rosemary’s direction, it was not wise to engage any of us when we’ve been hit by the Rivers Bend Sign Elimination Committee For the Betterment of Rivers Bend.
“That’s it, that’s their tightly organized system? Homeless shelters that are - around?” Carrie’s voice rose in sarcasm.
Rosemary was bellowing something about placing a directional sign on every block to retaliate. I love those red arrows signs. They show the way to unknown possibilities accessible through seductive, tree-lined street. I hoped her idea worked, as a blow for justice for all of us.
“That’s it? The shelters are “around”? We are going to find them. Are you with me?” Carrie asked.
“I’ll pick you up at three.” God knows I’ve dragged Carrie around on wild chases, and sometimes the chase didn’t end all that well, although we survived. According to the Pirate Code of Friendship, it was my turn.
Carrie was ready and standing outside the Senior Center at exactly three o’clock. She hopped into my car, a Lexus with leather seats. Carrie drives a used, slightly battered, Honda with worn seats. I don’t even want to sit in her car, let alone be seen climbing out of it. But it works for Carrie in that it’s paid for.
“I made a map of where they told me the five RVs are parked.”
“Didn’t they give you a map in the first place?”
Carrie shook her dark head. “No, we weren’t given maps. I told you, I couldn’t get the locations or a list or any information at all. And I’m on the board. The web site has vague language about the where-abouts – to protect the residents, they claim. I’m surprised they didn’t blindfold us during the tour.”
So we drove around, taking the short cuts to the places on the hand-drawn map. According to the papers, especially our own local harbinger of doom – the Rivers Bend Press - all retail stores were reporting low numbers, shopping is down, things are looking terrible. Judging from the cars zipping in and out of the big box centers, cars making left hand turns into traffic, cars slowing to make right hand turns into the Do Not Enter driveways, the hundreds of drivers out on the streets this afternoon, had not read this morning’s edition.
“Wow.” Carrie gripped the door handle as I braked to let the last left hand turn car go across me, even though my light was green.
“Damn amateurs.” I growled.
She ignored my vocalize editorials. “It was to the right, behind the Target store.” She directed me to a place next to the creek.
“See? There is it. That’s one.” She squinted at the RV in the low afternoon light.
“What?”
“I could have swore the one here was a copper color, but this one is greenish.”
“The light maybe?” It looked like a regular RV to me. Boxy and top heavy, the greenish color did help it blend in with the high bushes, and thick, un-pruned trees that grew up from the creek bed. The parking lot was half full, probably used for overflow parking.
“Okay, that’s the one where we picked up the professor.” Carrie said. “So now, let’s find the one over by Wal-Mart.”
I dutifully pulled back into the fray and we drove, crawled, stopped and swerved down the few blocks to the next site.
“It should be at the end of the parking lot, sort of behind, watch out!”
I avoided a battered VW bus packed with people, and inched my way past the front of the store. Business was so busy, the store probably had needed to hire more greeters. A job for the homeless?
“Does Wal-Mart hire the homeless as greeters?”
“No, but I have seniors who are greeters, gives them a reason to get up in the morning.”
“Well, we all need that.” I agreed.
“Around here.” Carrie confirmed on her map.
We squinted at the site. A worker dragged out a huge can of trash, glanced at us, but didn’t stop.
“It was right here.” Carrie peered out the windshield. It was getting dark, but a vehicle as large as a RV, even a green one, doesn’t fade into the shadows all that easily.
“It’s not here.” She sat back, defeated.
“Okay, how about the third one?” I did not want to linger in the oil stained parking lot, both the cars and the customers made me nervous.
She directed me north on the freeway, because it was the fastest way, most of the year.
“Did you take the freeway on the tour?” I asked, stopping and starting.
“Yes, with about as much speed.”
But we eventually made it to the final destination. And found: no RV.
Carrie pursed her lips and shook her head. She grimaced, sat up straighter and pulled out her phone.
“Cyndi, this is Carrie Eliot, one of the Directors?” Her voice was lower, all business.
“Thank you, yes. I am over here at the Grocery Outlet, and can’t find the RV I toured yesterday. Do you have any ideas?”
Carrie listened. “Oh, I see, well, thank you.”
“What?”
“They move the trailers right after a tour, so the board members don’t accidentally give away the location.”
“But the one behind the Target store is still there.” I pointed out.
Carrie leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes.
“I understand no one wants to be adjacent to, or close by, something as disturbing as a shelter. We don’t care to be reminded how close we are to becoming homeless ourselves.” I suggested helpfully.
She nodded, but didn’t respond.
Maybe, this market will change a few minds. Maybe we’re looking at a few potential homeless as we speak. But that’s another, loftier conversation.
“Don’t you think this attitude from the staff is a little vague at best, and at worst, wrong?”
“Yes.” I responded cautiously. “But is it your battle to fight? The HSL is pretty well respected. Plus, some pretty prominent companies support the cause, including your future in-laws if all goes well. It’s Christmas, you don’t want to bust a non-profit at Christmas, the paper will go nuts. And you don’t have anything more than a huge body of previous experience and a bad feeling.”
“You don’t think I’m qualified t
o ask questions?” She demanded.
“Don’t be defensive, I’ll back you on whatever you think. I have no opinion. But I don’t want you running off in the wrong direction and hurting people if its not absolutely necessary.”
“Okay, okay. It’s difficult, this moving around of shelters. You for instance, you don’t want these things next to any of your listings, or in a nice neighborhood, or marring a country road. No one will buy a house next to a homeless shelter, no one will live close to a shelter. It’s not as if these are bad people.” She shot back.
This is our political line in the sand. She is of the help-the-poor- at-any-cost via a benign government school of thought. And I am of the free market- rising-tide- lifts-all- boats school of thought.
We never agree. We rarely discuss it.
“Frankly, it’s easier to sell the site of a murder.” I admitted.
“You’re right, I get upset on their behalf.” She agreed, without rancor, for which I was grateful. I did not want to argue with my best friend.
“Life isn’t fair.” I confirmed. I pulled away from the parking lot and plunged back into afternoon traffic to take Carrie home.
“Your car heater works.” Carrie commented. “That’s nice.”
“What do you want for Christmas?” I asked her as I pulled up to her driveway. She slid out of the car.
“The usual would be wonderful.”
I usually give her a big basket from Harry and David. I fill it full of food she can’t afford to buy herself but loves. I buy the largest basket they have, and add a few more things myself.
Before I went home, I headed up to the Silverpoint property and loaded up another two boxes of clothes and put those in my car. I filled four more garbage bags with junk and papers, and stuffed those into the gray garbage bin as well as the blue recycling bin and dragged both bins to the curb.
I planned to drop off the boxes to the Homeless Prevention League in Carrie’s name, to take the sting out of her phone conversation with Cyndi. I hoped to pass off the donations directly to Cyndi. Carrie could use some help in the PR department.
When I entered the HPL office first thing the next morning, Cyndi was there to greet me. She wasn’t specifically waiting for me; she was simply already at the office. I admired her shoes and she responded warmly with a long narrative of her trip to Nordstrom in the City. Rivers Bend is too small to support a Nordstrom, not that women such as myself, and Cyndi, wouldn’t give our last pair of Anne Klein pumps to convince a store to locate here.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 16