Sue Grafton - T Is For Trespass

I left for the office at 8:35 that morning and I didn’t see her again for six days. So much for dinner.

Late Saturday afternoon, I joined Henry and Charlotte for the tree-trimming festivities. I declined the eggnog, which I knew contained a stunning quantity of calories, not to mention fat and cholesterol. Henry’s recipe called for a cup of superfine sugar, a quart of milk, twelve large eggs, and two cups of whipping cream. He’d made a non-alcoholic version, which allowed his guests to add bourbon or brandy to taste. By the time I arrived, the Christmas-tree lights had been threaded through the branches, and Rosie had already been there and gone. She’d accepted a cup of eggnog and then she’d left for the restaurant, as her dictatorial presence was required in the kitchen.

Henry, William, Charlotte, and I unwrapped and admired the ornaments, most of which had been in Henry’s family for years. Once the tree was trimmed, William and Henry had their annual argument about how to apply tinsel. William was of the one-strand-at-a-time method, and Henry thought the effect was more natural if the tinsel was tossed and allowed to form picturesque clumps. They settled on a little bit of both.

At 8:00 we walked the half block to Rosie’s. William went to work behind the bar, which left the table to Henry, Charlotte, and me.

I hadn’t paid attention to how much either had had to drink, which may or may not explain what followed. The menu that night was the usual strange assortment of Hungarian dishes, many of which Rosie had determined in advance would be our free choice for the occasion.

While we waited for the first course, I turned to Henry. “I saw lights on at Gus’s so I’m assuming you and Melanie connected this morning after I left for work.”

“We did and I found her most forceful and effective. She’s accustomed to dealing with the hassles of life in New York so she knows how to get things done. We were at Rolling Hills by nine fifteen. Of course, there was no sign of the attending physician and no way to get Gus released without the doctor’s official sanction. Somehow Melanie managed to hunt him down and get his signature on the form. She orchestrated the process with such efficiency, we had Gus out of there and back at his place by eleven ten.”

“She found a place to stay?”

“She checked into the Wharfside on Cabana. She also did the grocery shopping and ordered a wheelchair from a rental company. She had it delivered and was out pushing Gus around the neighborhood this afternoon. The attention worked wonders. He was really quite nice.”

I was about to make a comment in response, when Charlotte spoke up. “Who built that row of houses on your block? They seem very much alike.”

Henry turned and looked at her, faintly disconcerted by the change in subject. “Not so. My house and Gus’s are direct images of one another, but the house just past the vacant lot and Moza Lowenstein’s place, which is one more door down, have a very different feel. They might have been constructed around the same time, but with the changes people have made in the intervening years, it’s hard to tell what the original floor plans were like.”

Henry and I exchanged a quick look that Charlotte didn’t catch. Sure enough, she’d steered the conversation around to real estate. I hoped her question was idle, but she was apparently pursuing a train of thought.

“I take it none of them were designed by a name architect?”

“Not that I know. Over the years, a series of builders bought up the lots and threw together whatever was easy and cheap. What makes you ask?”

“I was thinking about the restrictions on houses over fifty years old. If a house has no historical significance, a buyer would be free to demolish the structure and build something new. Otherwise, you’re more or less limited to the footprint, which reduces the potential.”

“Why is that relevant? None of my neighbors have expressed any interest in selling.”

She frowned. “I understand there hasn’t been much turnover, but given the advanced ages of home owners in the area, some of these houses are bound to come up for sale-Gus’s being a case in point.”

“And?”

“What will happen when he dies? Melanie won’t have the first idea how to market his place.”

I flicked another look at Henry, whose face was now carefully composed. In the seven years I’ve known him, I’ve seen him lose his temper a handful of times, and his manner was always unfailingly mild. He didn’t quite look at her. “What are you proposing?”

“I’m not proposing anything. I’m saying someone from out of state might misread the situation and underestimate the market value.”

“If Gus or Melanie should raise the question, I’ll give them your business card and you can rush right in.”

Charlotte looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t realize you were here to cultivate clients. Are you planning to farm the area?” he asked. He was referring to the real estate practice of working an area-sending out flyers, calling on the residents, planting the seeds in hopes of harvesting a sale.

“Of course not. We’ve already discussed the subject and you made it clear you disapproved. If I offended you in some way, that wasn’t my intent.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t, but it does seem callous to be estimating home prices predicated on the deaths of people I’ve known for years.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Henry. You can’t be serious. There’s nothing personal in this. People die every day. I’m seventy-eight myself and I think estate planning is important.”

“Doubtless.”

“You needn’t take that tone. After all, there are tax implications. And what about the beneficiaries? For most people, a house is the largest asset they have, which is certainly true in my case. If I don’t have a clue about property values, how can I determine a fair division among my heirs?”

“I’m sure you’ll have it calculated down to the penny.”

“I wasn’t speaking literally. I’m talking about the average person.”

“Gus isn’t as average as you seem to think.”

“Where in heaven’s name is all the hostility coming from?”

“You’re the one who brought it up. Kinsey and I were discussing something else entirely.”

“Well, I’m sorry to interrupt. It’s clear you have your nose out of joint, but I haven’t done anything except express an opinion. I don’t understand what you’re afraid of.”

“I don’t want my neighbors to think I endorse solicitors.”

Charlotte picked up her menu. “I can see this is a point on which we can’t agree so why don’t we leave it that way?”

Henry picked up his menu as well and opened it. “I’d appreciate that. And while we’re about it, perhaps we could talk about something else.”

I could feel my face flush. This was like marital bickering except these two weren’t that well acquainted. I thought Charlotte would be embarrassed by his tone, but she didn’t bat an eye. The moment passed. The rest of the dinner conversation was unremarkable and the evening seemed to end on a pleasant note.

Henry saw her to her car, and while the two said good night, I debated about mentioning the clash, but decided it wasn’t my place. I knew what made him so touchy on the subject. At the age of eighty-seven, he had to be thinking about the financial aspects of his own demise.

After Charlotte pulled away, we fell into step, walking the half block home. “I suppose you think I was out of line,” he remarked.

“Well, I don’t think she’s as mercenary as you implied. I know she’s focused on her work, but she’s not crass.”

“I was irritated.”

“Come on, Henry. She didn’t mean any harm. She believes people should be informed about property values, and why not?”