Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith

by Catharine Bramkamp

  Ben drained his wine. Richard handed him a glass of the stuff from the pitcher.

  “I’m going in.” Ben plunged into the sweater wearing golf group. No man has done more for me.

  “So Richard, are we having the pirate gift exchange?” I held out my empty glass, and he filled it from the same pitcher.

  “Yeah.” He took a swig of his own martini and toasted me mockingly with his empty glass. “Debbie loves it, and says it’s a great holiday centerpiece, gives people something to do.”

  “How about conversation?” I suggested, but I was speaking to the wrong person, my brother was not in charge here.

  “When did it all change?” He said softly.

  “Moving Christmas to your house instead of the county club?” I said brightly. I have never held a serious discussion with either brother. I don’t think many sisters do. I patted his hand, and drifted to the hors d’ouvres table. I picked at the processed cheese and green olives. Each guest contributed a food item as part of the admission to the party. From the looks of it, not many women had discovered Trader Joe’s, (less a food market and more a magical place filled with racks of pre-made hors d’ouvres, the working woman’s friend). I snacked on a few of my own contributions; seven lay dip and tapenade, and worked my way down the table.

  I ended up next to Suzie Martin, a friend of Debbie’s from the Christian Friend’s Elementary School years.

  The two women probably don’t see each other as often as the used to, now that Debbie’s girls attend Rivers Bend High the only decent high school in town and, bonus, within reasonable walking distance of Richard’s neighborhood. Parents in this neighborhood, Richard and Allen among them, were quite smug about their choices. THEY didn’t have to drive their children back and forth to school, up and down from the Villas. The self-congratulatory feeling quickly dissipated when Richard discovered teen-age girls do not walk to school, no matter how close the location. Teenage girls are driven.

  “Hi Suzie.” I greeted the woman and simultaneously reached for the fudge.

  “Hi Allison.” Suzie gave me an obligatory stiff hug. I tried not to smear fudge on her Christmas sweater. Her sweater sported reindeer with real jingling bells. She jingled when we embraced.

  “So Allison, how is business?” Suzie asked.

  The long story of my business loomed up like the portly ghost of Christmas past. I couldn’t even begin to sort it out for myself, let alone cram a murder, an attack, condo searches and the Diet to the Death between Rosemary and Katherine, into a neat thirty-second elevator speech. Besides, I knew what she really wanted to hear was how the value of her own house was holding up in this market. Not well, but I never tell people that, at least not at a party.

  “Business is good.” I sipped at my drink, it carried the kick of turpentine.

  “You? How are you doing?” I finished off the block of fudge in one bite, and reached for another as she took a breath.

  “Oh, we are crazy, busy!”

  Activity is the social currency here in Rivers Bend. Those who are busy, or better, crazy busy, are wealthy in activity and worthy of admiration. In deference to the holiday, I put on a pleasant, expectant expression, as if I greatly admired busyness.

  Suzie revved up. “You know, we enrolled each child in traveling soccer. We just got back from a game in Fresno. We are painting all the rooms in the house, and are volunteering with the homeless shelters. Mike is coaching a home soccer team, we have the whole family over for the holidays, and my parents are staying for the whole month! Thank goodness they have the RV. My work schedule is just far too busy and the kids have piano, ballet and tutoring and of course the homework load is enormous, but we want to make sure the kids will get into the top colleges, Tiffany has taken the early pre- pre SAT and scored a perfect 1600 so we’re pretty confident.”

  “Really?” I said around my mouth full of fudge. I noticed there were bowls of clam dip (a holiday staple at my brother’s house which, I thought, probably counted in Debbie’s nostalgia theme for Christmas Day) and a large bowl of ruffled potato chips, But after the fudge, it didn’t look as appetizing, I picked up a tree shaped frosted cookie.

  I took another, tentative sip of my drink, it tasted better.

  “You certainly are involved.” I said neutrally. Holiday cheer aside, I didn’t want to be too admiring; it feeds into the perception that constant, relentless activity is the best lifestyle to achieve and maintain at all cost.

  Besides, I could tell how she was. She was scrupulously slender, her tanned features were highlighted by her tight grimace of a smile pressed into service for this evening. All that crazy activity had left her brittle and hollow.

  “Oh my goodness yes, I barely have a moment to myself.” Suzie went on in a self-congratulatory way. She glanced at the table, realized there were no celery or carrot sticks, grimaced and took a sip of her club soda.

  “So what else are you doing?” I asked.

  “We were just at the Homeless Prevention League, I feel it’s important for the kids to see how the other half lives.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “It was for Hands Across the County, have you heard of that program?”

  I hadn’t, but it was easier to nod. My gesture helped move the conversation forward.

  “We volunteered to wash the mobile shelters. They were so nice! The staff there even took us around to each shelter, so we wouldn’t have to drive in the traffic. Wasn’t that nice of them?”

  “Oh very.” I took another cookie, a bell frosted with red frosting and decorated with those silver balls that are suppose to be bad for you. I think they’re made of mercury or something. I was happy to see them on the cookie. I bit into my cookie and encouraged her to continue by nodding my head.

  “We traveled to three different locations, that was all we had time for, and we washed the vehicles. They are not really permanent shelters, they are these nice big RVs, like my parent’s one. The RVs were donated by Harvest Ford.”

  “The largest dealer in the county.” I didn’t really know that to be true, but that’s what the TV ads say.

  “Anyway, apparently they have these mobile units all over Northern California, something like thirty six of them. We were only working on the ones here, in Sonoma County. But I did think it was pretty odd.”

  “Odd?” I said out loud. Odd was not a word in Suzie’s lexicon. I stopped chewing my cookie so I could hear her better.

  “I felt like we were washing the same RV over, and over. Isn’t that silly? I guess they’re all alike, but it was an weird feeling anyway. Oh well, we try to always support community events like that. Your sister is really lovely that way, so giving, she’s always volunteering for something. I can call you for the next one.”

  “Oh, thank you.” I didn’t have a really clever rejoinder to that offer. I gave her my business card.

  Suzie finished her club soda and I finished my cookie.

  “You’re life is certainly busy.” I said as a way to thanking her for the information. “I better see how Ben is doing.”

  “Who is Ben?”

  I searched the living room, Ben was still with Dad’s golf group. It was time to spring him. “Over there.” I gestured with my empty glass. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Wow. Well.” She had little to say, as sober as she was.

  I moved past a whole group of women complaining about the soccer coach, and past another group in the throes of plotting an overthrow of the PTA.

  “Hi Dad.” I walked into the middle of whatever they were discussing, and kissed dad on the cheek. “Hi guys, do you mind if I take Ben away to introduce him around?”

  The men toasted me and I pulled a grateful boyfriend from their happy clutches.

  “Thanks.” He said under his breath. “We spent twenty minutes on golf gadgets and sizing irons or something. One of the guys painted his golf cart with this new Flex paint that changes colors depending on how the sun hit it. Lovely, I did not realize there is a cu
lt of golfers who trick out their golf carts.”

  “You’d be surprised. Someday we’ll see low rider carts with rap music playing and fuzzy dice dangling from the rear view mirror.”

  He looked at me, and took my drink, smelled it, and returned it.

  “You are making no sense at all.”

  “Fine then, stay with me to make sure I’m okay, I’m heading back for the fudge.”

  * * *

  I don’t image it’s often that the weekend staff on small daily paper gets the scoop, but the skeleton staff of the Rivers Bend Press did that night. Steven, the handsome and apparently irresistible, President and CEO of the Homeless Prevention League, had skipped town. As a lovely parting gift to himself, he took a little over a million dollars directly from the coffers of the Homeless Prevention League.

  And the only person who knew anything about it was missing.

  Chapter 16

  This seems to be a theme at the League; volunteer for the board, take a few things, all the cash, for instance, then skip town. Is that what Cyndi had done as well? I hoped so, because if you didn’t skip town, the other choice for a Homeless Prevention League volunteer is to leave this planet in another, less salubrious way.

  The embezzlement story had that macabre quality about it that was difficult for the news outlets to leave alone: Christmas ruined, destitute clients, trust violated, missing woman last seen dressed as Philanthropy Barbie.

  I scanned the front page as I finished my second cup of coffee the morning after the party. Anne and Harold, the only HPL Staff left, had landed on the front page. In the photo, they looked appropriately shocked. Their quotes were of the “we had no idea” variety.

  Shelter Closed. Hundred’s Affected. The homeless have nowhere to turn. Salvation Army reports spike in cases. The tragedy of it all blared in huge font and capital letters.

  The professor, Marcel Von Drake, looking dapper and elegant, had posed for a photo in front of his shelter RV. He smiled happily. He had also obliged with an interview. He rattled off names of clients and offered comments about each one, their story and where they could be found. He insisted that he did not have the locations of the other mobile shelter units. He was appalled at the President and CEO’s behavior and hinted that if the board had been more diligent, then perhaps this wouldn’t have happened. Oh good, throw the board members under the bus. Or RV.

  Three other shelter recipients were eloquent in their praise of the place. One client interviewed by Chris Conner had listed the homeless members he knew personally: Elton, John, Bono, Michael, Stevie, and Ricky. Chris Conner had written every name down with no comment, and published same. That she didn’t even do it with some hint of irony was disappointing. Where were the intelligent reporters? Not here.

  The story continued on page five and featured a photo of the redoubtable Martha Anderson, who looked disgusted. Maybe it was because she had been relegated to page five, surely an insult.

  The non-profit offices were temporally shut down pending investigations. There was even speculation that the President and CEO himself was the serial killer and the missing Cyndi was his latest victim.

  Carrie did not take the news well.

  “I tried to tell someone, but no one, especially Martha Anderson, would listen.” Carrie could sit up today. She was swathed in a silk yukata Katherine had given me a few years ago, but it was too small, so I gave it Carrie.

  “How did the party go?” She asked me.

  “You were missed.” I said. “Oh, and you had a relapse and Ben and I had to leave right in the middle of the pirate gift exchange. I was forced to forfeit the brandy I brought. It was quite a blow.”

  “What kind of relapse did I have?”

  “Health related.” I grinned. My mother barely noticed my exit. I only heard about it this morning when she called to chastise me for not staying after the party and helping with clean-up.

  “How did Richard do?”

  “He too, left in the middle of the pirate gift exchange, but he went upstairs.”

  “Passed out.”

  “Safer than when he imagines he’s the life of the party.”

  She shook her head, both at Richard unattended problem, and at my lack of enthusiasm for holiday festivities. “Some people think the pirate gift exchange is great fun. Our seniors do it with home made gifts. Cookies are the most coveted.”

  I sank into the chair that Patrick usually occupied. “I’m tired of it all, isn’t there a better way to run this holiday?”

  “Well, you can get into the real spirit of the holiday, it will make you feel better. I need a favor.” She smoothed down the wrinkles in the kimono style garment. “Can you drop off my Christmas gifts to the Homeless Prevention League staff? And while you’re there, you can pick up that chinchilla coat you loaned me.”

  “No, you keep it.”

  “It’s not mine. You’ll find it on the kitchen chair.”

  I decided not to argue about the blue, fur coat. “But the office is closed because of the investigation.”

  “Don’t complain. I’m sure Harold and Anne stop by every day and a gift would cheer them up.”

  I agreed. I can’t say no to Carrie. She was still bruised.

  The Monday morning traffic had thinned by the time I reached Carrie’s small apartment. She lives in a granny unit perched precariously over a converted garage. Many people in the college section of town build attachments and additions for rentals. I was sure there were no permits for any of the work, never is.

  Carrie’s place is no larger than Beverley’s closet. If anyone other than Carrie lived there, it would be dark and depressing. But it’s not. Carrie turned the single room apartment into a cozy retreat, bright green walls, chintz flowered day bed and curtains. I was tempted to stay.

  I found the Trader Joe’s holiday theme bag and picked it up. The coat was hanging neatly on the back of the other kitchen chair. The white, satin lining glowed in the dim early light. Carrie is remarkable. I wonder if Patrick even deserves her.

  I left the coat where it was. She’ll need something warm and soft when she comes home.

  The parking lot at the Homeless Prevention League was empty. The fog hovered overhead, and made the temperature, in the low fifties, feel colder. The door handle to the office had been replaced, but the door was unlocked and gave when I pushed it. The police string yellow caution tape around a murder scenes but not, apparently, around embezzlement sites. Maybe they should.

  “Hello?” I stepped into the tiny foyer. The computers were, of course on, but neither Harold nor Anne were in evidence. It was as empty as the last time I was here, and that was not comforting.

  “Hello?” I stepped around the corner – under the stairs- and checked the break room in the back. I tried the back exit door, it was locked from the inside. Over the door hung the sign with the admonishment to always keep this door unlocked during business hours.

  I thought of abandoning the bags on the empty desks, and bolting. But something compelled me upwards. I slowly took the stairs. The raw morning light barely penetrated to the upper hall. I approached the President’s office with caution. I gently pushed on the door. Nothing inside looked disturbed. Relieved that the only anomaly was a jar filled with deadly, pointed pencils, I stepped back out of the office and pushed open the door to what I remembered to be Cyndi’s office.

  Her office was dark; no natural light seeped in. So I flipped on the light, choked, and flipped it back off. Crap. And only two days until Christmas.

  There were no worries about how poor Cyndi was spending her holidays. She was spending them on the front page of the Rivers Bend Press as the lead story for the local news. She was about to be famous, but would not be able to appreciate it. The Homeless Prevention League was already news. This would make it even worse. And I was about to help.

  I called the police.

  At least this ended Carrie’s involvement with the Homeless Prevention League. Not a moment too soon.

 
“Hello? Who’s in here?”

  It was Anne, girl of all trades. I stood with my back to the door of Cyndi’s office/home. I hadn’t looked at much of the scene. But there was something different about the office room. Some dramatically different feature compared to what I remembered of Beverley’s bedroom. But I couldn’t look again to find out exactly what it was, sorry, I couldn’t.

  “It’s me, Allison Little, Carrie’s friend?” I walked down stairs to face Anne.

  “What do you want?” She demanded. Her hair was uncombed and fly away, as if she hadn’t conditioned, or even combed it over the last week, which could be the case. She wore jeans a size too small and a sweatshirt, advertising the local community college, which was two sizes too big. She looked more homeless than Cyndi ever did.

  “I was delivering some Christmas gifts to you, from Carrie.” I emphasized Carrie’s name, I certainly wouldn’t be personally bringing gifts to these guys.

  “Oh.” Anne moved back so I could step off the stairs.

  I heard sirens. I hear sirens a lot. That is not a good thing, in terms of lifestyle.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I’m getting my files and stuff.” Anne ignored the sirens. Of course, she didn’t realize they were for her. Ask not for whom the sirens wail … Joan, the literature professor, would be so proud of me.

  “Why didn’t Carrie come herself?” Anne asked.

  “Still in the hospital.” I said.

  “Why is she in the hospital?” Anne glanced around the office, she noticed the gift bag on her desk, but didn’t comment.

  “She was severely beaten and abandoned here.” I automatically gestured upstairs, bad idea, it called attention to the offices, where really, Anne should not go.

  “Why didn’t I hear about that?” She demanded.

  “It was kept out of the paper.” I explained.

  “Unlike the embezzlement.” Anne said bitterly. She hesitated, her eyes trained on the upstairs rooms.