Sue Grafton - T Is For Trespass

“I’m not sure Mr. Vronsky understands how much this place is worth. I happen to have a client who’s in the market for a property of this sort.”

“What sort is that?” Solana’s first impulse was to disparage the house, which was small, outdated, and in bad repair. Then again, why give the agent reason to offer less, if that’s what she was getting at?

“Are you aware that he owns a double lot? I checked with the county assessor’s office, and it turns out when Mr. Vronsky bought this lot, he bought the one next door as well.”

“Of course,” Solana said, though it had never occurred to her that the vacant lot next door belonged to the old man.

“Both are zoned for multiple-family dwelling.”

Solana knew very little about real estate, never having owned a piece of property in her life. “Yes?”

“My client’s here from Baltimore. I’ve shown everything currently listed, but then yesterday, it occurred to me…”

“How much?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“You can give me the figures. If Mr. Vronsky has questions, I can let you know.” Wrong move. Solana could see the woman’s uneasiness return.

“You know, on second thought, it might be better if I come back another time. I should deal with him in person.”

“What about tomorrow morning at eleven?”

“Fine. That’s good. I’d appreciate it.”

“Meanwhile, there’s no point wasting his time or yours. If it’s too little money, selling is out of the question, in which case it won’t be necessary to bother him again. He loves this house.”

“I’m sure he does, but being realistic, the land is worth more than the house at this point, which means we’re talking about a tear-down.”

Solana shook her head. “No, no. He won’t want to do that. He lived here with his wife and it would break his heart. It would take a lot to get him to agree.”

“I understand. Perhaps this is not a good idea, our discussing…”

“Fortunately, I have influence and I might talk him into it if the price is right.”

“I haven’t done the comps. I’d have to give it some thought, but everything depends on his response. I wanted to feel him out before I went further.”

“You must have an opinion or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I’ve already said more than I should. It would be highly irregular to mention a dollar amount.”

“That’s up to you,” Solana said, but in a tone that implied the door was closing.

Mrs. Snyder paused again to marshal her thoughts. “Well…”

“Please. I can help.”

“With the two lots together, I think it would be reasonable to say nine.”

“‘Nine’? You’re saying nine thousand or ninety? Because if it’s nine, you might as well stop right there. I wouldn’t want to insult him.”

“I meant nine hundred thousand. Of course, I’m not committing my client to a dollar amount, but we’ve been looking in that range. I represent his interests first and foremost, but if Mr. Vronsky wanted to list the property with me, I’d be delighted to walk him through the process.”

Solana put a hand to her cheek.

The woman hesitated. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. You have a business card?”

“Of course.”

Later, Solana had to close her eyes with relief, realizing how close she’d come to blowing everything. As soon as the woman was gone, she went into the bedroom and unpacked her bags.

Driving home from work on Friday, I spotted Henry and Charlotte walking the bike path along Cabana Boulevard. They were bundled up, Henry in a navy peacoat, Charlotte in a ski jacket with a knit hat pulled down over her ears. The two were engrossed in conversation and didn’t see me pass, but I waved nonetheless. It was still light out, but the air was the dull gray of dusk. The streetlights had come on. The restaurants along Cabana were open for happy hour and the motels were activating their vacancy signs. The palm trees stood at parade rest, fronds rustling in the sea wind coming in off the beach.

I turned onto my street and snagged the first parking spot I saw, sandwiched between Charlotte’s black Cadillac and an old minivan. I locked up and walked to my apartment, checking the Dumpster as I went by. Dumpsters are a joy because they cry out to be filled, thus encouraging us to rid our garages and attics of accumulated junk. Solana had tossed the bicycle frames, the lawn mowers, long-defunct canned goods, and the carton of women’s shoes, the weight of the trash forming a compact mass. The mound was almost as high as the sides of the container and would probably have to be hauled away before long. I pulled my mail out of the box and went through the gate. When I rounded the corner of the studio, I saw Henry’s brother William standing on his porch in a natty three-piece suit with a muffler wrapped around his neck. The January chill had brought bright spots of color to his cheeks.

I crossed the patio. “This is a surprise. Are you looking for Henry?”

“Matter of fact I am. This upper-respiratory infection has triggered an asthma attack. He said I could borrow his humidifier to head off anything worse. I told him I’d stop by to pick it up, but his door’s locked and he’s not responding to my knock.”

“He’s off on a walk with Charlotte. I saw them on Cabana a little while ago so I’d imagine they’ll be home soon. I can let you in if you want. Our doors are keyed the same, which makes it easier if I’m out and he has to get into the studio.”

“I’d appreciate your help,” he said. He stood aside while I stepped forward and unlocked the back door. Henry had left the humidifier on the kitchen table, and William scribbled him a note before he took the apparatus.

“You going home to bed?”

“Not until after work if I’m able to hold out that long. Friday nights are busy. Young people revving up for the weekend. If necessary, I can wear a surgical mask to prevent my passing this on.”

“I see you’re all dressed up,” I said.

“I just came from a visitation at Wynington-Blake.”

Wynington-Blake was a mortuary I knew well (Burials, Cremation, and Shipping-Serving All Faiths), having dropped by on previous occasions. I said, “Sorry to hear that. Anyone I know?”

“I don’t believe so. This is a visitation I read about when I checked the obituaries in the paper this morning. Fellow named Sweets. No mention of close relations so I thought I’d put in an appearance in case he needed company. How’s Gus doing? Henry hasn’t mentioned him of late.”

“I’d say fair.”

“I knew it would come down to this. Old people, once they fall…” He let the sentence trail off, contemplating the sorry end of yet another life. “I should call on him while I can. Gus could go at any time.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s on his deathbed, but I’m sure he’d appreciate a visit. Maybe in the morning when he’s up and about. He could use some cheering up.”

“What better time than now? Raise his spirits, so to speak.”

“He could use that.”

William brightened. “I could tell him about Bill Kips’s death. Gus and Bill lawn-bowled together for many years. He’ll be sorry he missed the funeral, but I picked up an extra program at the service and I could talk him through the memorial. Very moving poem at the end. ‘Thanatopsis’ by William Cullen Bryant. You know the work, I’m sure.”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“Our dad made us memorize poetry when the sibs and I were young. He believed committing verse to memory served a man well in life. I could recite it if you like.”

“Why don’t you step in out of the cold before you do.”

“Thank you. I’m happy to oblige.”