Death Revokes The Offer Read online

  All the works radiated with violence, even the small carved figure with an evil grin hunched in the foyer. That would have to go first, not the welcoming image we want for the home.

  No door and Mr. Smith dead when I arrived. What is that called, DOA? Dead On Arrival? I don’t watch enough TV to be conversant with the lingo. I do know that on TV the detectives are glamorous, have great hair, and a second after they discover the body, they get to enjoy a drink at the local bar. I was not that lucky.

  I could not get a drink; it was not that kind of day. I had to call Hillary, the oldest Smith child and owner of the only other number my mother gave me and tell her that her father was dead. Who else would do it? Call the daughter, not murder the father.

  It was the kind of day where I had to call the buyers in LA and tell them the deal was off, for now, and I’d see what I could do.

  “Yes,” I reassured them. “You are in first place, I have the dated offer with me. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I knew what I would do and I also I knew what they would do. They were looking at a place on Bainbridge Island listed for only 2.5 million. That property included a back deck cantilevered over the water. They will make an offer on that property and I’m going to assume that seller is still alive to accept. Oh well, I’ll get a referral fee. Enough money for shoes, not enough for a vacation. At least not the kind of vacation I had in mind.

  It was the kind of day that when the two police officers arrived; they walked through the house straight to the body and looked at me expecting I’d be holding the smoking gun.

  “How did you know the deceased?” The female officer asked. Her uniform looked a little tight as if she had gained a few pounds but wasn’t ready to acknowledge it by getting a larger size. Not yet, maybe a couple more weeks to take the weight off.

  I understood. I smiled my best smile.

  “I don’t know the deceased at all.” I pulled out my business card and handed one to her and one to him.

  Another van pulled up. Damn, no firefighters.

  My phone chirped the opening bars to “I’m in the mood for love.” I looked down, one of my mortgage brokers. I pressed a couple of buttons, slid the ringer onto vibrate and turned my attention back to the officers.

  “I’m Allison Little. I’m a real estate agent; I just arrived here to present an offer to Mr. Smith. And I found him here. Or rather, over there.” I pointed to the kitchen where Mr. Smith’s foot was just visible.

  The male officer, George, shook my hand. “Nice to meet you Ms. Little.”

  “There’s no sign.” The female officer looked at me coldly.

  “What?”

  “There’s no sign.” She eyed my purple linen Anne Klein suit and high heel purple Jimmy Choo pumps and wrinkled her nose. Hey, if she had wanted to make more money, she should have visited a different job booth during Career Day.

  “You said you have an offer, but there is not sign outside.” She repeated. Her tone indicated that I was under suspicion.

  “And there may not be.” I muttered.

  To her I said, “no, there wasn’t time, I had an offer almost as soon as I posted the listing.”

  “You can do that?” George asked.

  “Sell a property before it’s on the market? Of course you can.” I replied.

  She sniffed and scribbled in her black covered notebook. “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “It’s real estate.” I said succinctly. The second set of police officers carefully wheeled out the black body bag that was my former client. Fair indeed. But she was the officer; I was a civilian. I did not belabor the point and kept my mouth shut.

  Is this the moment where emotions over ride judgment and I become “involved?” Well sure, but I didn’t do it on purpose. Really. I had other listings, places to go, another Louis Vuitton purse to purchase. Shoes to acquire. An un-opened carton of Ben & Jerry’s called. Plus, I needed to berate my mother for getting me into this because these are her people, not mine.

  During my uneventful childhood in Marin, absolutely nothing happened and I grew accustom to that state of affairs. I’m not suited for the unexpected. My last big crisis was poorly applied acrylic tips.

  “Here is the daughter’s number.” I scribbled Hilary’s number per mom, onto the back of another one of my cards. “She lives in Danville.”

  Nancy, the officer in the tight uniform, nodded and took my card. All I could think was please don’t ever call me. But I could always refer Nancy to a Realtor I didn’t particularly like.

  And speaking of dislike, why murder Mr. Smith? Especially when the kids were already on schedule to kill the man slowly and legally simply by shutting him in a strange environment away from everything he loves and acquired over his lifetime and pop in once a month to make sure he was gradually expiring of loneliness and boredom. It wouldn’t have taken long.

  When my own mother becomes old and decrepit, she’ll move with one of my perfect brothers, who will love and cherish her all the days of her life because that’s what you do when you are the perfect child. I, however, am not the perfect child. I’d put her in a home. In a minute.

  She may sense that’s my attitude. I don’t think I ever voiced it out loud.

  I was allowed to leave after the police traipsed through the house and deemed it secure. It was now officially a crime scene and I was officially not involved. I left peaceably. I drove carefully out of Belvedere and back north towards my own house but knew enough that if I did not inform Mom of Mr. Smith’s change of plans, I would never hear the end of it, and since she already worked from an extensive list of my transgressions, I didn’t need to add anything more. As I wound past smooth lawns artfully decorated with one or two leaves, I passed by three signs for Mark Smith – DA. It was a little early for political signs, but who was I to complain about advertising?

  The golf course glowed green and pristine; the crepe myrtle was full and brilliant pink. The temperature is always about ten degrees warmer here than up in River’s Bend (we have the ocean breeze) so it felt like true summer as I cruised towards my old house. I should have brought my bathing suit. But I also knew this wouldn’t be a relaxing visit. When I drop by the family home, it’s not about sitting around the pool and relaxing, it’s about listening to my mother talk.

  “What do you mean he’s dead? I just saw him yesterday!” My mother actually looked panicked, even concerned. Well, well.

  For a minute I sympathized, it was shocking and I didn’t really give her much time to warm up to the idea, so to speak.

  “I’m sorry mom. But I have even more bad news.”

  “Heart attack? He was so careful about cholesterol and he jogged as well as attended our Zumba class.”

  I wasn’t going to point out the futility of jogging, eating high fiber food that tastes like cardboard and the dubious benefits of eschewing all cholesterol at a time like this but I was thinking about all those hours, days and weeks Mr. Smith wasted to “stay healthy.”

  “He jogged, he kept healthy.” Mom chanted as she carefully walked out to the back patio and sank down under one of the five umbrellas that dotted the small area.

  “He liked art.” I chose one of the few seats in the sun. Ah, okay, as much as I like my own weather, sometimes it’s too windy and foggy on the coast.

  “Anything else you want to tell me? Why didn’t he want the kids to have the house?” I lifted my face to the sun.

  “It’s a lovely house,” Mom said absently. “He just got those new doors, Gilberto doors, his have the glass inserts, and they are just lovely. You’ll ruin your skin if you keep doing that.”

  “I know, tell me more about the doors.” I closed my eyes and saw only bright red. Just like those damn paintings in Mr. Smith’s living room.

  “Well, everyone has Gilberto doors because they are so unique. Mine are on order, they’re made in Columbia so the native population doesn’t have to sell drugs, they can carve these doors instead. We paid quite a premium – don’t tell your
father. But Mary Jane says they are so worth it, updates the entry and the front, so the house looks practically new.”

  I looked at her, not with the dawning horror that she probably spent three months of mortgage payments on one set of doors and not because I had not heard about these new must-have Gilberto doors and now was obviously behind on an up - coming trend. Actually I am constantly horrified and thus morbidly fascinated by my mother and her friends. I’m convinced that Marin is what happens when too much money and too much time collide: new political parties with green and freedom in their name are formed; large public art installations are approved sight unseen and suddenly the city is host to an installation in the public park that looks like a large single breast (think Woody Allen’s All You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex . . .) and is filled with real silicon implants. The long explanation by the artist was that the breast represented the disproportionate numbers of breast cancer cases in this county. The photos, published by every paper in the country, made the art look like, well, a large breast. At least it was bigger than mine. Anyway, that’s what can happen in Marin.

  “These were new doors?” I did not share that the famous doors were missing.

  “Yes they were. He spent a good, what?” She thought about it for a moment. “Ours cost $10,000 and our house is smaller than his, so he probably spent about $15,000.”

  “On doors.” I did not dare open my eyes. Did Dad know? Probably, he also probably didn’t care.

  “Gilberto Doors,” Mom corrected.

  “You’ll never get that back in a sale,” I pointed out. “Bathroom remodels yes, front doors, no.”

  “It enhances the feel of the entry way.” Mom repeated diligently.

  “Okay, unique doors.” I conceded. I had to remember to whom I was speaking. Mom once booked a tour of France that was specifically focused on shopping in Provence for those colorful yellow and blue and red pattered tablecloths and napkins. The stores in those tiny villages also apparently carried quilted purses, headscarves, full quilted skirts, tea cozies and large travel bags in which to carry it all home. Mom insists to this day that she saved money by traveling to France to get her Thanksgiving tablecloth set. But here’s the kicker, everyone in her tea club went, they all bought the same linens, and so, they all match. Scattered across the country club neighborhood are homes filled to the brim with Provence napkins and soft jackets.

  And now, I suspected, every home in the county club now sported Gilberto Doors.

  “And who or what is this Gilberto?” I finally asked. I opened my eyes to a slit against the sun. Mom sat perfectly composed under the shade of the umbrella, not a drop of perspiration marred her almost smooth brow.

  Mom shrugged. “We order them through Doors and More down in San Rafael, they are the exclusive importer.”

  “Well,” I said brightly. “That’s great! Except there are no doors on Mr. Smith’s property, they are gone.”

  I waited, but she didn’t really react.

  “So you need to call his daughter and tell her she needs doors.” I prompted.

  “You call her, you’re the agent.” Mom replied back.

  I shook my head and stood my ground or rather continued to sit where I was and not lunge for my phone.

  “My client’s dead.” I pointed out, a little brutally I know, but sometimes my mother needs help cutting through the trivial. “I don’t have a client. As a close friend of the deceased, you may want to call the daughter.”

  “I’ll call her.” Mom said heavily. But she delivered her infamous look that said you are not off the hook yet. “But maybe they want to sell?”

  “They can sell, if they inherited the house. It will be a while before it all gets cleared up.” I replied easily, since it still wasn’t my problem. My problems were up north in another county in another town where people do not spend ten grand on front doors. In fact, most people don’t spend ten grand unless it’s for a car. In fact, some people (clients, I’m not telling you their names) did just that. While they were still in escrow for a house they assured me they loved and wanted, they went out and bought a new car. Their loan officer was wild-eyed about it and calls me every other hour to confirm it’s true and to also confirm that these people are really that stupid.

  Of course people are really that stupid.

  “Do you know anything else about him besides his cholesterol levels?” Okay, maybe the sun was a little warm. I moved into the shade of a nearby umbrella. But no closer to my phone, thank you.

  “He’s originally from New York. His first wife passed away about ten years ago and he just lost the second last year.”

  “Children are from the first marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Children from the blended family?”

  “I’m not sure, he doesn’t talk much about the second wife, but he was devastated when she passed away. I met him right after her death, so I don’t know much about that part of his life.”

  “So the children get everything.” I summarized. “Did he donate money?”

  “Yes he did. You know, I can’t remember what he said he used to do, most of us are retired, our old careers don’t seem to matter anymore.” Mom mused.

  Well, it wouldn’t hurt to see if there was a CRT to be negotiated or a sale on behalf of the children.

  “I’ll call the daughter about the door.” I said finally.

  Mom beamed, and for about five minutes I was the favorite child.

  “What a dump.” Hillary Smith- Rodriguez marched into her father’s house, hands on hips, righteous anger in her eyes.

  I had hoped, as we scheduled this meeting for the very next morning, for the devastated daughter, the sad-eyed child, the distracted newly-made orphan. Hell, I’m 35 and I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my own parents this early (I would miss my dad).

  Maybe it wasn’t too early for Hillary. She was older than me by about seven years. She didn’t really look that much older, in fact she looked quite lovely, so smooth and even that it was clear she had lots of work done. I’d say she had her breasts hoisted back up to pre-pubescent levels a couple years ago. If mine were lifted that high, I’d suffocate.

  Hillary was not one of those women who denied her own comforts for the good of the family. Or maybe in her family, there was plenty of comfort to go around. In any case, I couldn’t remember if mom mentioned Hillary’s husband, perfect children, anything like that. Did Mortimer-Smith not keep a thick album of grandchildren on his person like some grandparents we could mention? Guess not.

  Hillary marched into the house trailing the latest look. She was dressed in tiny yellow Candie’s slides, white Capri slacks and a tight yellow tube top that displayed her latest investment to full advantage. I braced myself for the invariable look that thin, well molded women give me when we meet, the look that says you are a clearly a food slut and obviously can’t control yourself and I am all about control and extreme sports and I am superior to you in every possible way.

  I got the look, I returned it with my best dumb blond look, because if anything, I do spend a considerable amount of cash on my hair, so I feel justified appropriating the persona. I am a Salon Blond. Smart enough to pay for the look myself; smart enough not to let on that I am smart.

  And we were off.

  “I can’t believe Dad let this place go, what’s in the kitchen?” She didn’t so much as glance at the devil mask collection. She was intent on more practical concerns. “Whirlpool? Not even a sub-zero? Honestly, how did he expect he could ever sell it?” She opened the refrigerator and sighed. “Look at this, five cartons of Cooper ice cream. He promised he was on a low cholesterol diet!” She shook her head and closed the door. “He was always sneaking around like that.”

  Yes, but it wasn’t the ice cream that killed him in the end was it? To my credit I did not say that out loud. But it was kind of funny. Mom mentioned his healthy habits as well; how he ate low fat, exercised and in public, ordered the low calorie alternative dishes. Made me wond
er if my own mother wasn’t snarfing down raw cookie dough in the middle of the night. No, if she did, she’d have hips like mine.

  Instead I said. “I have buyers, are you still interested in selling?”

  She shook her head. “No, tell them to go away. We’re keeping the house.”

  Damn, double damn.

  ”I see,” I said as smoothly as I could. “And you plan to buy out your brothers?”

  She continued to prowl around the house. After finding the ice cream, she abandoned the kitchen cabinets and moved on to search around the rest of the first floor. She peeked into the hall closet, examined the hardwood floors, lifted the edge of each hand knotted rug scattered around the cavernous great room (the one with the view of the City). The rugs matched – to a certain degree – the wild reds in the big painting on the far wall.

  “No. Yes,” She kicked the rug back with her tiny, French pedicured foot, “I will be able to buy them out. But not yet.”

  “What about this art? Are you going to divide that up?”

  She laughed, short and brittle, as if her vocal chords had some work done as well and were tightened to make them look younger.

  “Keep the art? Dad would have never approved of that. These,” She gestured to the devil masks, the living room art and possibly everything else upstairs. “Are here to keep then out of the public eye. He thought violent art was a bad influence. Can you believe that? Even my stepmother thought so, helped him hunt down some of this crap. Damn, if she were alive she could take care of this but nooo.” She contemplated the rug. “We’ll sell the damn art, one more thing for me to do. The rugs might be worth something.”

  “Okay, well good.” I nodded. “Then you don’t need me, I’ll just get out of here.” I carefully placed about three of my business cards on the table in the foyer, reproduction French, didn’t fit the décor at all. Hillary continued to peek behind the paintings in the living room and tried to look behind the large cabinet.