Chapter 2: Trouble
1571 Words
Chapter 2: TroubleFour miles away, Louise French stood at the kitchen sink in a model townhome at SailPort Landing scrubbing her shoes.
Didn’t some character do this in a play? Out out damn spot. Or, no. That was hands. Louise’s hands were next in line for a stiff antibacterial scrub. Soon as she got the damn blood off her Manolo Blahniks.
The agents' tour was down the toilet, obviously. Her assistant had given everyone a quick look at the other two units, but how much could she accomplish with Emergency Rescue due any minute?
Thank God these were her colleagues and not clients.
Showing to prospective buyers, Louise preferred to wait in her car. Walk them up to the front door and stand back so they could enter first. It’s their dream home you want them stepping into, not yours, she’d explained to the officer who answered her call. He didn’t get it—didn’t listen, really. What does a twenty-something beat cop know or care about real estate? The tactics, the shoes, the Mercedes convertible. In her job, first impressions were make-or-break. In his job, she supposed they were usually a smokescreen.
Trouble. That’s what had hit Louise like a sledgehammer at Two Harbor Lane. Not bloody dead person on floor. By the time her brain caught up with her reflexes, she’d been inches from stepping on the deceased.
Behind her, through the open front door, she could see the first arrivals parking their cars, walking toward the slate-paved path. Quick, call 9-1-1. State her name, the address. Then hurry down the driveway with a smile and a wave: Welcome to SailPort Landing! Sorry, last-minute glitch, can’t get into the Ketch right now, but you'll love the Yawl and the Sloop.
Her assistant had taken over as tour guide. Louise retreated inside, locked the door, sent an urgent text, and prayed (successfully) that everybody would leave before sirens came roaring through the gate.
Thank God the media hadn’t followed them. Yet.
She'd glanced only one more time at the nightmare in the hall. As soon as the last car drove away, she hurried across the lawn to the Yawl, on tiptoes so her heels wouldn't sink into the sod. She had to get out of here. Erase the image in her head. Catch her breath before the police arrived full of questions.
What she should do was call Brad Gerber.
And her office. Louise French was legendary for turning lemons into lemonade, but there were rules about disclosure, not to mention a hyperactive local grapevine, and no way was she going to list a home where someone had just met a violent death.
"Just" and "violent" being the problem. In a village as old as Quansett, ghosts came with the territory. Louise had once sold a sagging sea captain’s mansion for 20K over asking to a pair of historians eager to share it with the widow who walked under the full moon.
But Two Harbor Lane was no antique. It was a brand-new townhome with stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, and an eco-friendly bamboo floor which almost certainly would have to be replaced.
“Louise.”
Walking toward her was Exmouth Police Detective Pete Altman.
“Pete. Thanks for coming over.” This might be OK. Louise had sold Pete and Jenna Altman their house as newlyweds. Now it was worth three times what they’d paid for it.
“Thank you for the heads-up. How you doing?”
“I’m OK.” Louise smiled up at him, small but brave in her stocking feet, wiping a spike heel with a dishtowel. “Not sure about these.”
“I’m so sorry. CIO's still in there,” Pete tilted his shaggy salt-and-pepper head toward the Ketch, "photographing and so forth. I'm afraid it'll be off limits for a while yet. You found her, is that right?”
She nodded. “Is she . . .?”
“Yeah. Beyond help. Nothing you could have done.”
“How did it happen?”
“That I can’t tell you. The medical examiner’s on his way.”
Louise put on her shoes. Pete steered her through a sliding glass door onto the deck.
“You knew her, did you? The deceased?”
Louise’s insides froze up. She nodded, but she couldn’t speak.
Pete went back inside for a glass of water. They rested their elbows on the wooden railing, side by side, looking out past the narrow fringe of woods to the salt marsh below which linked the SailPort Landing site with Fishhook Cove and Cape Cod Bay. Louise kept her eyes off the deck next door, draped in yellow crime-scene tape.
“Pete, do you think— Who could have done that? I know, you can’t tell me. But . . .” She shuddered. “Like an animal attack.”
“Try and put it out of your mind, OK? Help me with the facts. Was this lady a friend of yours?”
After a sip of water Louise answered, “She was a business acquaintance. Harriet Benbow. She—oh dear. She worked for GreenHome LLC. I really should call Brad Gerber.”
“And she was on the property to do what?” Pete gazed down at the marsh, green and gold and russet in the September sun.
“I don't know. I suppose . . . This is a difficult weekend for them. Brad and Rosalie. His daughter. They're hosting a memorial service tomorrow for his late wife, Lanie, Rosalie's mom. I suppose Harriet probably came by to check on the townhomes.”
“She didn’t live here?”
“No. Nobody lives here. These are three model condos they offer to prospective SailPort Landing buyers. We’re in the Yawl. That one is the Ketch, and the smaller one next door is the Sloop.”
“Who is Brad Gerber?”
“The CEO of GreenHome. The project developer? You’d recognize him—big blond guy. Golfs every Thursday at the Yacht Club. Harriet was his business manager. She started out as Lanie's assistant when her cancer came back. So sad! I’ve known them forever. Lanie and Brad and little Rosalie. Not so little anymore. Anyhow. After Lanie passed, Brad told me GreenHome might rethink SailPort Landing. In fact it was Harriet Benbow who said Brad wanted to explore the option of selling off the three model townhomes.”
“So you came over to show them to a buyer?”
“Oh, no. This was an agents' preview. I offered to bring in some of the top producers from our sister offices, get their reaction.” At Pete’s inquiring look, Louise explained: “SailPort Landing was planned as twenty-eight units: nine groups of three, like this one, and a clubhouse. GreenHome's had the land for ages. But when values shot up, so did wetlands restrictions. Lanie was sure once they got these first three units through, the rest would follow. Brad wasn't convinced. I think he hung on through all the legal wrangling mostly for her sake. Now she’s gone . . .”
“Can’t beat the location.” Pete shaded his eyes to peer through the glass door. “Alarm system?”
“Oh yes. Automatic lighting, and CCTV, and you saw the gate out front.”
“So nobody should have been in there.” He faced her. “What about this unit here and the other one?”
“Also empty. With the open house, naturally we checked them all top to bottom.”
“You call this empty?” He waved a hand. “Electricity, water—?”
“You can’t show a home without lights, Pete. Or running water. Believe me.”
“But, furniture? Pictures on the wall? Towels in the bathroom? Pots and pans on the stove?”
“Staging. Buyers respond best if it looks cozy but classy. You know? Walk right into your perfect new life.”
“Sounds like Goldilocks.”
That brought back Louise’s smile. “If Goldilocks read House and Garden.”
“Any idea how Harriet Benbow got in?”
“There’s a key in the lock-box on each front door. She'd just punch in the passcode.”
“Do you have the passcode?”
“Sure.” Louise repeated what she’d told the officer who was first on the scene. “What I do is, I always ring the bell first, even if I know it’s empty. Open the lock-box, take out the key, unlock the door. ‘Hello?’ It was dark inside after the bright sun, so I didn’t see— I could only see there was a shape on the floor. Until . . .”
She stopped. Pete Altman waited.
“You think your eyes are playing tricks. I didn’t scream or anything. I thought, Omigod, there’s people right behind me. So I called 9-1-1, and my assistant: Get over here quick! I was pretty sure, you know, what you said. She was beyond help. I didn’t try— I went back out, locked the door, and sent everybody to see the other two units.” She looked up at Pete. “I need to call Brad Gerber.”
“Leave that to me.” He patted her shoulder. “You done good, Louise.”
“They always say, don’t touch anything.” She gave her head a vigorous toss as if to shake out the memory.
“That’s right,” said Pete. “One last question. You’ve been in that townhouse before? When was the last time you went upstairs?”
“Oh, gosh. We finished the staging around ten days ago, and then the cleaners . . . Earlier this week. Wednesday? Tuesday? I like to check personally before anyone else sees it. Upstairs, downstairs— It’s a funny thing. Women always want to start with the bedrooms, and men want to start with the basement. Why do you ask?”
Pete Altman's phone pinged. "Excuse me." He looked at the screen; pressed a key. “The medical examiner’s here.” He ushered her back inside, through the open living area and out the front door. “Thanks, Louise. You take care now.”
She waved goodbye from her car. Altman walked across the freshly sodded lawn to meet the van and see if the Criminal Identification Officers could answer his next question: Who’s been sleeping in Papa Bear’s bed?
- Writer
