Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith

by Catharine Bramkamp

  I checked my phone. No messages. I switched it back from vibrate to ring.

  If Beverley was escaping the county to meet someone, and I assumed it was a man, why hadn’t he contacted her? Wasn’t he concerned that she hadn’t shown up to the rendezvous? They must have agreed on a rendezvous point, yes?

  Or, had Beverley’s phone buzzed and buzzed, but no one heard it? Many people who attend endless meetings keep their phones on perpetual vibrate. Where had I left her purse?

  Katherine called me as I snaked my way south through the worst of the morning traffic.

  “I’m quitting. I can’t diet at this pace. And those grass drinks really upset my stomach!”

  “You drank wheat grass?” I asked.

  “Rosemary suggested it.”

  “She also recommended the personal trainer, and you almost killed him.”

  “It would have been in self defense.” Katherine protested. “But at least I wouldn’t have cut him up into little bits.”

  “Don’t.” I protested.

  “Sorry, don’t tell Rosemary, I’m going to let her compete until St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “That’s noble of you.”

  I felt the universe was back in balance.

  The stop and start south bound traffic gave me time to think. Beverley must have had a phone. Everyone has a phone. And it followed that Beverley had the latest phone, the thinnest phone, the cutest phone, the kind of phone you can’t find in your purse until the last buzz buzzes, and the caller goes to voice mail and complains that you are never there to answer your phone. That kind of phone.

  I detoured to the Silverpoint property.

  I keep lock boxes on my listings until escrow closes, so it was easy to get back into the house. I shivered, the grey days had cooled the house too much. I flipped on the heat to take off the chill.

  The cell phone was indeed well hidden. It was tucked into a padded phone pocket on the outside of the Chanel bag. It was very easy to miss. I had missed it the first time, but I wasn’t looking for a phone the first time I went through her purse. Even now, I couldn’t even feel it when I squished the bag.

  I flipped it open, it was dead. I returned to those stuffed kitchen drawers and after a few moments, found the charger and plugged in the phone. After only a few impatient minutes I was able to scroll through the missed calls. Yes, here was the list, seventeen missed calls before the phone had gone dead. All the same number.

  I pressed the most recent missed call, but did not get a helpful ID, yet the call dialed through anyway.

  “Hello, hello!” A male voice. “Beverley?” ah, he had caller ID on his side.

  “You are late!” he continued without bothering to confirm that the caller was, in fact, Beverley. Was that arrogance or idiocy?

  “What happened?” He continued. “Where are you? Your stuff arrived by the way, where am I suppose to put all this?”

  I still didn’t recognize the voice, but I had my suspicions. “Yes, she is late, Mr. Bixby.”

  Silence.

  Got him.

  “Who is this?” At least he didn’t hang up.

  “Her Realtor, yours too.” I had represented the buyers for Mr. Bixby’s house, and the sale went through despite some last minute problems - like finding Mrs. Bixby floating face down in the hot tub.

  He dismissed my last comment. “Where is Beverley? She was supposed to sell the house, and join me, uh, here, by Christmas eve.”

  “How romantic. And you haven’t heard from her since Thanksgiving, weren’t you worried, say, three weeks ago?”

  “We agreed not to communicate until end of December.” He explained innocently. His easy admissions were astonishing. I could be an under cover agent, I could be FBI, I could be … someone who could actually do something about all this.

  But I was not. I did, however, have a question.

  “Did you kill your wife?” I had actually met his wife, Debbie Bixby – another Debbie, go figure – this one hadn’t fared well at all. I count myself lucky that Debbie’s was one of the few bodies I hadn’t personally discovered.

  “I didn’t kill her. She passed out in the hot tub. And I may have accidentally closed the lid, not realizing she was still in there.” He was even unconvincing over the phone.

  “That can happen to anyone.” I said sarcastically.

  “Where is Beverley?” He repeated.

  “I take you are somewhere warm with no extradition treaty with the US?”

  “Something in that category.” He agreed.

  “Beverley is dead.” I announced, brutally.

  He had the courtesy to pause, and I head sounds of coughing and choking. “What? How? How can she be dead?”

  “I don’t think it was easy. Check the Internet. You do have the Internet where you are?”

  “It’s difficult, all dial up,” he said absently.

  “Have a good life.” I clicked off.

  He was not anywhere he could be reached. I knew that, he knew that. Got rid of his first wife, lost his future second wife. Perhaps that means he lost? Was the President of the Homeless Prevention League with him? Had Steven escaped to the same warm island? Maybe they worked out something together.

  I regarded the slender phone in my hand. Now, my fingerprints were all over Beverley’s phone, and this most recent call could be traced of course. That didn’t look good. I scrolled through the names – men, women, I couldn’t tell who was important, and who was not. She had all of Ben’s numbers, and a home number with the San Francisco area code, probably Ben’s parents.

  It was a pretty phone – the latest model. I suppose the numbers can be traced and another call would garner Bixby’s location. But would that drag Ben back into the fray? Bixby did not kill Beverley, he merely ran away with some - not all, apparently- of the Homeless Prevention League monies. And ran away from another completely unrelated murder.

  I hefted the phone, a shame really. But it would guarantee that Ben and his family would be haunted by this for years to come. I walked to the largest Cuisinart, dropped in the phone and punched the chop button.

  Don’t try this at home.

  Carrie’s admission into the private shadows of the Sullivan compound was a good news, bad new scenario.

  “I feel I’m that Japanese princess who enters the royal palace, and never comes out.” She said over the phone.

  “Is it that bad?” I asked.

  “No, But Patrick is feeling very paranoid and responsible, and won’t let me out of his sight, and since it’s almost Christmas and I’m on medical leave anyway, I figure, I may as well enjoy my rest.”

  “So, it could be worse.” I said.

  “The Senior Center is fine. I asked Linda from accounting to take over the front desk, but with no staff at the Homeless Prevention League, I’m worried about the clients. I was suppose to drop off some blankets to the RVs. Martha is in charge of bringing the Christmas turkeys to each mobile unit, and I’m in charge of the blankets. I would hate to have her get there before me.”

  I did not say anything. I knew what was coming, then again, Carrie would be meeting Martha at every event she attended, if she looked irresponsible now, she would never hear the end of it.

  “We personally deliver to a shelter of our choice, to keep the board members involved in a hands on way.” She was unconvincing.

  “But you’re not staying on the board, remember?” I pointed out.

  If someone can sound severe and judgmental over the phone, my friend can. “That’s beside the point, people are cold. They need their food and blankets. I would help them even if I was fired from the board.”

  The whole world needs about a million more editions of Carrie Eliot. “So you want me to bring the blankets to the shelter.” There was no way I was avoiding this. “Okay, where are they?”

  She knew I meant the blankets. “Probably at Target.”

  “I have to buy them as well?” I shrieked. Target on Christmas Eve? A massive florescent lit monolith p
acked with men desperately searching for that special, last minute, obligatory gift item for their loved ones? Cars honking, people yelling. The whole holiday snafu?

  I was the Grinch. I really belonged on top of a mountain, not down in the chaos of the Who-ville. Stealing the blankets from the homeless would be more in keeping with my holiday spirit.

  “How many blankets need to be delivered?” I said in complete defeat.

  Have you visited Target on Christmas eve – well, afternoon? Don’t. Run far away and save yourself. Go to a nice island and hang out with felons. But, don’t shop the day before Christmas. It occurred to me that this was probably a big reason why my grandmother opted to live in Claim Jump. Maybe, that’s why Emily lived in Northern Sonoma. Maybe, I have more in common with these elderly ladies than I thought.

  The revelation did not cheer me.

  I found the blankets, and marched into line behind a tall man dressed in khaki slacks and white tennis shoes. Something tugged at my memory, had he come to a recent open house? Not at Silverpoint, I knew that.

  He looked back at me, and smiled.

  I automatically smiled back. His cart was stuffed with toys and a blanket similar to the ones I clutched to my chest.

  “Last minute shopping?” I asked, casually.

  He regarded the pile in the cart. “I am behind, work was a bitch this week, didn’t have time for anything else.”

  “Who is the blanket for?”

  “Oh, my wife.”

  I glanced at my soon-to-be-purchases; they were the cheapest I could find. It was one thing for a homeless recipient, quite another for a loving, well considered, holiday gift for your wife.

  I glanced at my watch. I didn’t have that much time, but for heaven’s sake! “No.” I told him. “You are not giving that blanket to your wife, come with me.”

  No good deed goes unpunished, I remembered that, but I couldn’t let him give such a cheap gift to his wife. I felt if I didn’t help, I would be violating the secret pact of the sisterhood: prevent crummy gifts at all cost and keep the holiday peace.

  I said as much as we cautiously made our way back through the choked store. I avoided the baby strollers packed with product, the baby nowhere in evidence.

  “But she wouldn’t know how much it cost.” He protested.

  “Yes, she will. We always know how much the gift costs.” I guided him back to the blanket aisle.

  pulled down one of those deep, lush, throws in dark eggplant. “If you must present your wife a blanket, at least give her something that feels luxurious.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” He dropped the cheap blanket on the shelf and picked up the boxed throw and set it carefully on the cart.

  “Maybe a friend of mind is rubbing off on me.” I admitted.

  “That would be Carrie Eliot?”

  I dropped the blankets and backed into the hard, metal shelves. They rattled, but held.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Detective William Morris, Bill. I’m working on the Weiss murder, as well as the assault on Ms. Eliot.”

  “And you’ve been following me.”

  He was not a potential client at all, a stalker of sorts, but at least not the murderer.

  “Not really in a serious way. I wanted to keep an eye on things. You were a suspect of course, but not a very convincing one. I decided to switch from catching you, to keeping you safe. You take a lot of chances, don’t you?”

  “Hazard of my profession.”

  He rearranged his cart. “It would seem so.”

  “Then who is the main suspect?”

  He placed his hands on the throw. “Wow, that is nicer, thanks!”

  “You’re not going to answer my question.”

  “It’s not your boyfriend.”

  I gathered my own blankets.

  “Do you think she’d want one of those watches with jewels?” He asked.

  “I’m sure she would.”

  “Look, we haven’t arrested anyone, yet. So be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  “No, you’re not. Happy holidays.” He pushed the cart around the corner and disappeared.

  “Am too!” I called after him.

  I was due up at Ben and Emily’s for Christmas Eve dinner. I was even invited to spend the night, by both of them, which was a compliment I took to heart. Maybe I could get on Emily’s good side after all? I hoped so.

  Distracted by that thought, and worried Emily wouldn’t like the four red wine goblets I found for her gift, I pulled around the back of Target to the only RV I knew about, where the professor lived.

  My phone buzzed as I was exiting the car. I pulled back in and answered.

  “I think I want to buy that last condo.” It was Owen.

  “The last condo?” I said, trying to buy some time, which condo? We saw so many, which one?

  “You remember,” he said, a bit belligerently. “The one with the deck out back. I want that one, what do I do?”

  “Meet with me on the 26th, and we will write up an offer.” I said. It was almost too good to be true and so, I wasn’t going to get all worked up about it, not yet. Owen and I have been down this path before, and the path always seems to be marred by an unacceptable crack in the pavement.

  “First thing?” He said.

  “Ten o’clock at my office, Owen.” I promised.

  “I don’t want to lose any time.” He reminded me.

  I wrote a note in my day planner to stop by the office on my way to Richard’s house, and print out the purchase agreement.

  That would a good treat, two houses sold during the traditionally worst time of the year to buy or sell a house.

  Go Team Little.

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and stared at the RV. In the light, it looked copper, then a little green. Very pretty, it was probably that Flex paint. Ben told me that the golf club loved their Flex paint jobs because the cart changed colors depending on where you stand. The cart can look green, or blue, or copper colored.

  Washing the same RV over and over.

  I suspected I only needed to deliver blankets to this one RV, and I would have the whole program covered.

  I took a deep breath, called forth my latent philanthropic traits, gathered up the blankets and walked up to the RV. The air was damp and heavy, more rain was on the way. I hurried up a two-step metal stair pushed up against the side of the vehicle. It served as the gracious entrance and porch. I wobbled on my heels and knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” A voice called out. Were there roommates? I wasn’t sure.

  “My name is Allison, I’m here from the Homeless Prevention League. I have your Christmas gift.” There, a little mystery is always helpful. Open the door, take the blankets, and I’ll be on my way, my good deed carefully executed.

  The professor, Marcel I think, jerked open the flimsy door and looked me up and down as if I were the derelict, and he was the righteous volunteer. I wore a beautiful velvet skirt and my favorite boots - finally discovered at the back of my closet - I was certainly not dressed as a derelict.

  In honor of the holidays, the professor was clad in a dirty tee shirt that stretched over his ample stomach, and a shiny, worn, suit jacket. He was barefoot.

  It started to rain. I twitched as it settled on my hair, but held onto my blankets and made a mental note to be careful and not slip on the metal steps when I was finally allowed to move.

  “Blankets!” He did not bother to hide his disgust.

  “It was the best they could do.” I was defensive on the HPL’s behalf. Honestly, the way people complain about free stuff boggles my mind.

  He sighed with exaggeration. “Come in, set them over there.”

  I complied. The interior was pleasant enough, the lights fixed under the tiny kitchen cabinets lent a soft glow to the whole room - kitchen/dining/living/study/formal dining and entertainment center, all within arm’s reach.

  I dropped the blankets on th
e built in banquet, and straightened up. I filled the small room and as a result, I was not comfortable. Cozy, in this case, translated to cramped.

  But something stopped me. What was that smell? It was faint, but still horrible, and distinctive. Oh God, Oh God. I swallowed and composed my face.

  I turned slowly to face the professor and to re-orient myself to the door, there was only one exit from the space. It was to my left, one big desperate lunge away.

  “It was a great story.” He said conversationally, looking me in the eye. “The homeless mother from a wealthy family, it can happen to you, kind of angle.” He said with some satisfaction. “I finally got something on the front page.”

  “Good, then you got what you wanted, yes?” I stepped towards the door with confidence that I did not feel at all. Get out, I thought. Don’t turn your back. Don’t hesitate. Just get out. I didn’t need to do any more than that, no one would expect any more than that.

  The survival song reverberated in my head like bad tune that won’t go away. Get out, get out.

  “The television news picked it up right away. I’m sure it was because of the children, and all those family photos. We are now such a visual culture, photos are absolutely essential. I should have thought of that sooner. Of course, I had to take them myself, another miscalculation.”

  I swallowed. The portly, professorial, gentleman morphed into someone far more menacing that I had ever thought possible. He smiled happily at me. He had all his teeth, but they were yellow with age, and his smile did not help mitigate the over all impression of a mind gone awry.

  “Yes, they did.” I acknowledged more calmly than I felt.

  I took a small step to the left. I could almost reach the door. “That should make you happy right? Mission accomplished?”

  He took a step towards me, and I had no choice but to take a step back, away from the door, so tantalizingly close. I tried to remember where my car was parked. Had I locked it? Where were my keys? In my pocket.

  I said the first thing that came to mind. “I don’t have children.”

  “That’s okay.” He acknowledged pleasantly. “Still, you are tremendously newsworthy. I recognize you from the tribute to poor Beverley. You are an excellent victim, especially if you’re killed during an amateur investigation, doing your part to expose Beverley’s killer. The current girlfriend helping the dead ex-wife. Very interesting angle, in addition, you have notoriety, I read about you in the paper all the time.” He casually picked up a knife, a large triangle shaped knife (no, I did not recognize the brand, it was large and looked very sharp) and waved it in my direction. I arched back, but did not move, the space was too small for much dodging or ducking.