Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 05 - A 380 Degree View Page 2

  I spent the three-hour drive to Claim Jump indulging in whiny, obnoxious thoughts, plus a milk shake at Carl’s Junior, then a burrito at Jimmy’s Tacos. I hadn’t eaten much in January; I needed to make up for lost calories.

  March in the Foothills was capricious; it often snowed, so I prepared. I carried chains in the back of the Lexus and cute boots in my suitcase. I was not sure if Prue was ready for anything. How was she managing the back stairs to the garage? Even if she was not able to drive, was she driving anyway? How many other times had she slipped and neglected to tell me?

  We’ve all heard the stories of the sincere, yet befuddled, elderly driver who mistakes the gas pedal for the brake and pins a hapless pedestrian against a wall - mailbox - traffic cone. That would be Prue, and she hits the gas hard. It was only a matter of time and opportunity.

  The back yard was dark when I arrived. I parked to the side of the drive behind the house and made my way to the kitchen door, tossing the remains of my cranky culinary indulgences into the garbage as I picked my way over the broken cement pavers.

  The cement steps to the kitchen seemed narrower and the stair pitch more precarious than I remembered. I glanced at the greenhouse; a corner was just visible from the kitchen door. It glowed with the white grow lights. The greenhouse had attractive nuisance written all over it, I’m surprised there isn’t a directional sign - trouble here. So my first guess was she tripped in the greenhouse.

  “Have you been smoking your own product?” I greeted Prue as she opened the door to me. We are so careless with those we love the best.

  “Things have been a little stressful around here.” She widened her big blue eyes. Now, I’m not a mother (we went over that), but my friend Carrie pulls that kind of face when she wants something, and Carrie always gets what she wants.

  Prue must have read my expression. I’m excellent at negotiations in business, but in my personal life, I just blurt out how I feel, or worse, my open expression completely and accurately reflects how I feel. Ben claims he can read me like a book, which is why some distance from Ben was important right now. I did not want him reading into my expressions, or making assumptions or suggestions. Oh, we’re discussing my grandmother.

  Prue pulled herself up to her full height, which used to be five foot six. “I can do what I want young lady.”

  “I’m not mom, it’s okay.” I reassured her.

  “Right.” She turned away and gave me room to negotiate my bags into the kitchen. She hobbled slowly to the kitchen table, a sturdy affair made by hand during my grandfather’s craftsman furniture-making phase. He had mastered the techniques, created the table, then turned to other projects. This was his only piece of furniture. Probably for the best.

  “Okay, you’re right. Thank you for coming here so quickly. I need you to take me to the funeral tomorrow morning.” I noticed she did not answer my question. I let it drop.

  “Who died?” I suppressed the “this time.” At Prue’s age, attending a funeral was just as much as social event as Empire Club or the bi-weekly meeting of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men. Jolly occasions all.

  “Elizabeth Stetton. You knew her; she’s a member of the Brotherhood, a good one. She took over from the Sisleys as secretary. She kept really good notes through all this sale stuff.”

  “What sale stuff?”

  “Oh, you know, the library is for sale.” Prue moved some magazines aside, they were fashion magazines that she didn’t read but saved for her friend Mary Beth who used them for collages for the children’s hour at the new library. But if there was no more library, why were we saving five hundred pounds of magazines?

  I would not bring that up right now. I noticed that not much had made it to the garage where I had set up bins for all her savables: Children’s Festival, Brotherhood Christmas Bash, Empire Club, Fourth of July, parties, Children’s Hour at the Library.

  I calculated the geographic layers of junk. “How long have you been laid up?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  She was lying; there was more than a couple weeks worth of stuff-that-still-had-some-good-left-in-it lying in stacks up against the kitchen walls.

  “Okay, a couple of weeks.” I agreed, cooperating with the illusion. I leaned over and gathered up dozens of slippery periodicals and hefted the load into my arms.

  “Those are for…” Prue took a breath ready to launch into a long dissertation on the library, the project, who was running the project and how they felt about it, how their children felt about it, how …

  “The library.” I stopped the flow of information hoping to get at least this stack to the barn before sun set. “ I’ll be back.”

  By the time I finished with clearing the kitchen. Prue had composed herself and created an adequate story for me concerning her current situation that was so innocuous and patently false that even my mother would believe it.

  Friday morning I woke to the sound of gunshots. The sound was too distant to make me feel we were in immediate danger, but the staccato sound echoed around the street and through the house. I buried my head under the rumpled covers. Great, now my safe haven has the sound track from the Wild Wild West.

  I pulled on my Chico State sweatshirt and sweat pants and padded barefoot downstairs, computer tucked under my arm.

  The kitchen was a hive of activity. Raul, Toulouse Lautrec look-a-like and permanent guest was hovering over the coffee maker. Prue was already up and dressed in one of her more eclectic black ensembles. I couldn’t tell what was more disturbing, her huge black foot brace or her contrasting red rubber garden clog gracing her good foot. She had tossed a bright knitted scarf in yellow and red alternate stripes over the whole affair you know, to make it an outfit.

  Often my grandmother is mistaken for a bag lady, and this would be one of those times. Need I mention that my mother, she of only-pressed-cashmere-twin–sets-are-appropriate –to-wear-to-the-club set finds my grandmother’s lack of sartorial focus infuriating?

  “You look, um, awake?” I offered.

  Raul jumped when the coffee maker beeped.

  “All I Son!” He loved to draw out my name in his indistinguishable accent that he claims is Russian, but I’m not convinced.

  “Allison, here is coffee for you too! Yes, so good to see you.”

  He gave me a big hug and nestled his face in my breasts.

  “Ahh, you are so lovely.” His voice was muffled.

  “Thank you. For the coffee.” I disengaged him from my bosom and reached for the coffee mugs. “What else have you and Brick been doing to help Prue?”

  Raul and Brick have been living, for free, in my grandmother’s guesthouse since I was a teenager. I don’t even remember exactly when they moved in and I’m sketchy about their reasons. I’m even less certain as to why they continue to stay— probably because my grandmother’s guest-house is a low cost housing solution for the two of them. Prue finds their company amusing and that’s often enough for her to postpone discussing monthly payments.

  Raul stepped back and put his hand to his heart, or the general area where his heart was likely to be.

  “Allison. We have helped, have we not?” He glanced over at Prue, but she studied her cup and did not look up.

  “I even installed a webcam in the bathroom so we could be sure Prue did not slip.”

  I dragged my hand over my face. I carefully set down the computer and opened the refrigerator for the milk. It was too old to use.

  I took a deep draught of the black coffee and waited for the caffeine to take some effect. “Take it out.”

  “But it is to help Prue!” Raul protested.

  “Take it out now!” I wouldn’t mind so much if it were Prue’s best friends, Pat and Mike, but Raul? I am not sure on which side Raul stands, and I’m not good at detecting these things in the first place. But, just to be sure. I glared at him. He delivered a comical wiggle of his thick eyebrows. He is round and short, an unlikely leading man, but those realities did not stop him from being
a tremendous flit.

  “And you can take out the cam in my bathroom while you’re at it.”

  “Oh, Allison I would never…”

  I looked at him; he looked at me as guilelessly as possible and then caved. “I will take it down.”

  “Thank you.” I took another sip of the mild coffee. I would need a Starbucks run before we headed down to a funeral.

  Raul scrambled for the kitchen door.

  “No.” I grabbed his arm and easily hauled him back into the kitchen. “Now.”

  I did not shower and change until Raul removed the tiny cam from just above the shower-head, all the while muttering about paid websites and the size of my breasts.

  I don’t blame him for making the attempt. But if someone is going to make money on my breasts, it better be me.

  Chapter Two

  I didn’t realize it at the time, but this would be the first of a number of funerals I would attend in the weeks to come. I had convinced myself, through various methods of justification, that I was only staying the weekend and only helping for this one funeral event. As as result, I was not attuned to dire portends of the future. Besides, in the grimmer (or realistic) portions of real estate training, funerals, wakes, memorial services, etc, are actually hotbeds of potential clients. I felt downright virtuous driving Prue down to Auburn for the nine o’clock funeral. I could claim that it was in the service of client solicitation, should Inez call and ask.

  The members of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men a group that claims to be 150 years old with their clear ancedent in their title, filled the church basement. The ladies seemed to be the principal mourners as well. I recognized many of the members, most widowed, most active and most ready for any action that came their way, even though most of their activities seem to be limited to attending each other’s funeral services.

  Suzanne Chatterhill stalked over to us the minute I helped Prue clear the basement steps and the tricky threshhold.

  “Allison, how nice to see you. Come up to take care of your grandmother?” Suzanne does not have an indoor voice, and her tone implied “it’s about time”, inspring many people turned to stare at us. I waved my hand to them in greeting and focused on Suzanne losing my grip on my grandmother in the process.

  Mrs. Chatterhill is the president of the Brotherhood of Cornish Men and has been since her husband passed away. Suzanne was not especially big, but her bosom was. It overpowered every other body part and my eyes were reluctantly drawn to her chest and her single strand of swinging pearls. She carried herself with the aplomb of a prizefighter ready for his next round. I lumped Chatterhill in the same scary category as a local philanthropist in Rivers Bend, Martha Anderson. Both women were formidable and both women were intent on doing good no matter who gets hurt. Suzanne and Martha give me a creepy feeling that if I don’t watch myself, I’ll grow up to be just like them. I shuddered at the thought and greeted Suzanne as cordially as I could.

  “Suzanne.” Prue, the one I was so well taking care of, stumbled and clutched at my arm to keep her balance. “Did Louise have a stroke?”

  I steadied Prue while keeping my eyes on Suzanne.

  “No, they think she died of smoke inhalation. The fire took half the house with her in it.” Suzanne shook her head; her tightly permed white curls bobbed with the effort, the pearls flapped back and forth. “I told her time and time again to stop smoking, and look what happened, just as I predicted.”

  “Then it really is tragic.” Prue looked around the basement. “Is this a dry reception?” I took the cue and propped Prue against a bland beige wall and hustled off to retrieve, yes, a cup of non-alcohlic punch.

  When I returned Prue and Suzanne were still discussing the situation. “I feel so badly about Elizabeth, where is her daughter?” Prue said.

  Suzanne gestured to a woman who was about 46 years old. I consider that a very young age to lose your mother. Prue made a move and I grabbed her arm to help her negotiate through the three clusters of Brotherhood members.

  “But you better catch her quick.” Suzanne counseled as she followed in our wake. “She says she has to go back to work.”

  The comment caught me off guard. Work is good. Now a day’s, work is everything.

  I glanced at Suzanne, clearly puzzled. “Of course she has to work. What else is she suppose to do?”

  “Investigate the accident, greet all her mother’s friends. Write a few thank you notes. Honestly, she can’t take one day off to devote to her mother’s memory?” Suzanne put her hands on her ample hips and glared at me, daring me to defend working a mere job against this primitive set of social obligations that were written in stone and stored somewhere mysterious and secret because I’ve never found these rules and I’ve never read them. Next Suzanne will be instructing me on how long the poor woman will have to wear black.

  Suzanne glanced back at Elizabeth’s daughter, then abruptly dismissed the situation. “We’re all going out.” she said in a low voice for my ears alone. “To that new restaurant, the Monkey Cat. You’re welcome to bring Prue.” She nodded to Prue. “Since she doesn’t drive.”

  This was the kind of help that made a person feel more depressed than bolstered. It was the kind of intention that paved the road to hell. No wonder Prue called me in.

  “I have to get back home and do some work of my own.” I said quickly, before my grandmother had a chance to respond. “You know, we are a terrible generation, have no idea how to do the right thing, right?” I nodded to Elizabeth’s wayward daughter, who, to her credit, looked exhausted. Done-in is a phrase my grandfather would have employed.

  Suzanne reeled back at the word work. I smiled. “But I’ll take good care of Prue. I’ll be up here for a while.” I lied.

  “Of course.”

  I leaned over and touched Suzanne’s arm. “I knew you’d understand.”

  I offered my arm to Grandma who got the hint and exaggerated her limp as we made our way over to the daughter to express out condolences, which, I believe, is the right thing to do, written in stone or not.

  Prue sank into the leather seat of my car and I switched on the heat.

  “Thank you for driving, I just didn’t want any more of the Brotherhood today. Suzanne’s been holding extra meetings to discuss the sale of the library and who will take the archives and all that, plus this accident with Elizabeth has put us all on edge, can you imagine dying in your bed?”

  “I thought that was the goal.” I couldn’t resist.

  “Peacefully Allison, peacefully in our own beds, not go up in a premature pyre.”

  “Okay, that is not a good way to go. It was an accident wasn’t it?”

  “It all just makes me tired. The pain medicine makes me tired.” She gazed out the window at the green, waterlogged, view. “This whole thing is making me feel very old.”

  There is nothing to say when a seventy-year-old plays the age card. She wins. I shut up.

  The phone buzzed. I glanced at Prue who was concentrating out the window and picked it up.

  “Allison!”

  It was Patrick, who never calls me except when he can’t find his fiance and my best friend, Carrie. Since if she’s not with him, she is usually with me, it was usually a good guess.

  “Is Carrie with you?” His voice sounded ragged.

  “No, I’m up in Claim Jump. Carrie is with you.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s not picking up her phone, she not answering my voice mail, e-mail. She’s not at her place, I just called there.”

  You may think this is a bit hysterical, even for the CEO of the largest milk production company in Sonoma County, but Carrie has a tendency to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The last time Patrick and I couldn’t get hold of her, she almost died. Patrick has some justification for panic.

  “She may be in West County and out of cell range.” I suggested.

  He knows that, he contracts with dairies out in that part of the county.

  “Oh.”

  “Loo
k, it’s early, as soon as I hear from her, I’ll call.”

  He paused.

  “And you call me.” I added.

  “Oh, yes, certainly I’ll call you. Where could she be?”

  “For once, I don’t know.” I hung up the phone and passed a slow lumber truck.

  “Carrie okay?” Prue asked.

  “I’m pretty sure.” I replied. “She’s under some pressure from the engagement and the wedding of course, but it’s everything she wanted in life.”

  I cleared the truck and with one hand, scrolled down on my phone to find Carrie’s number.

  “Sometimes getting everything you want in life can be just as stressful as not getting everything you want.” Prue commented.

  “Did you read that on an embroidered pillow?” I asked. I hit call and listened to the ringing.

  “Not everything I say is a platitude you know.” She shot back. “Speaking of platitudes, you looked a little wane in the Town and County photos of Carrie’s engagement party.”

  I was dumped into voice mail.

  “You don’t read Town and Country.” I pointed out.

  “Pat and Mike bring me their copy when they are finished. You looked a bit pale.”

  I left a quick message for Carrie to call because Patrick was annoying me and hung up.

  “It was New Years.” I countered. “My Christmas had not been that restful.”

  “Oh, you think?” She retorted.

  While I keep a few things from my immediate family, I don’t keep that much from my grandmother. She was conversant with the details of my last adventure that included a dismembered client, a turkey used as a blunt instrument and a face to face with a murderer. Not necessarily in that order. Christmas had been more difficult than usual and I wasn’t sure I had fully recovered. I couldn’t get over that I almost lost Carrie as well (between the dismemberment and the turkey), and clearly neither does her fiancé. He had convinced Carrie to quit her job at the Senior Center and now she was casting around for something meaningful to do with her time.