Read Online Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith by Catharine Bramkamp - Free Book Online Page B

painters transform the walls from Steven King to Danielle Steel. Everything was white and pristine. We call this “move in ready”. 
    The police never said if they found the murder weapon and not much was being said about the cause of death, at all. It was still being called  an accident. I shuddered.
    “The clothes bother you.” He observed.
    “ So much.” I mused.
    “What exactly does that mean?”
    “Sometimes, women need to shop because of the feedback they get. You are very important when you’re spending money, and your importance increases with the amount you spend. Even the store owner pays attention, if you spend enough. For the price of a good dress, shoes and a coat, you can be fawned over all day. You’ve seen the movie Pretty Woman? It’s like that.  A woman gets feedback, love, in a way.”
    My gaze wandered to half a dozen cashmere sweaters stuffed on a shelf by the bed. “Lots of attention.”
    “It’s how they get affection, too?” he did not sound convinced.
    “ Sure, it’s also how we nurture ourselves, by buying beautiful things, wrapping ourselves in luxury. Like that.”  I glanced up at him.
    He stared at me, uncomprehendingly.
    “It’s like buying fine wine.” Not a glimmer of understanding in his face. I tried again.
    “It’s like buying new power tools.”
    His expression cleared. “Oh, okay, I see.”
    The shear volume of stuff flowed from bedroom closet to the kitchen. Beverley stashed an incomprehensible amount of new goods in every cupboard (I spent a paragraph in the MLS on the storage in the kitchen).  Piles of holiday plates for every holiday were crammed into the pantry. A huge industrial grade mixer in pink for awareness sat on the panty floor. New looking Calphalon pots and pans swayed from a hanging rack above the range.
    I found blenders, another mixer, a regular sized Cuisinart mixer, a small Cuisinart blender, and the mini Cuisinart chopper displayed on a lower shelf in graduated sizes, they resembled the babushka dolls Katherine brought back from one of her trips to Russia.  A shiny espresso machine and matching coffee grinder gleamed on the granite counter. Every item represented the best of its breed. This was not a woman who was sitting at home watching the shopping channel.  I’ve been in those homes. Shopping Channel crap never stays put; it has a propensity to spill out of cupboards and storage bins, as if the sale items missed the spotlight of their most recent television appearance and need to always be admired.
    Beverley had the taste and the cahones to buy everything that was pricey and “valuable.”  Yet the coveted items were not neatly put away, or even used. It was if she opened the packages and abandoned the prize right where it was first unwrapped.
    I was reluctant to open the garage door, and I was right to be cautious, no heavy objects fell on me, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have. Carelessly stacked boxes, furniture, tables, more chairs, and loose collections of free gifts from name brand cosmetic promotions swayed precariously from the breeze I created by opening the door. The stacks and stacks of boxes were so high that a sneeze would topple them onto the late model Mercedes wedged between the living room chairs and stacks of papers and periodicals. 
    “ I’ll never shop again.” I said out loud.
    “Then our work here is done .” Ben said, with the first real smile I’d seen all day.
    But the questions still lingered, as well they may.  Ben rummaged through the paper and packaging strewn kitchen, randomly opening cupboards and closing them without much regard.
    “Why sell the art?  Why mortgage the house?”  It was a rhetorical question; I knew he didn’t expect me to answer.
    “ Drugs?” I suggested.
    “ Maybe, but she didn’t die of an overdose.”
    “ No, she did not.  Blackmail?” I offered up, anyway.
    “But why? It would be very, very difficult to really black mail a person now-a-days. A scandal