“Apparently the last residents were renting the place, and although they moved out a week ago, the cleaning crew isn’t quite done. Normally we only list a property when it’s ready for showing, but calls were coming in even as the renters moved out. So the agent decided to go ahead and list right away. It went on the market twenty hours ago,” I added. Too much information?
He understood. “I’m signed up with a site for new listings.”
I appreciated that he probably had done his homework.
Coming from the sunny outdoors, the inside seemed as dark and dreary as a mausoleum. I quickly walked to the large window in what appeared to be the living room and opened the mini- blinds. Wow, the main wall had flocked wallpaper. Red.
“Someone liked red,” Greg Coste said, and we both laughed. I followed him around, not sure how to keep the conversation alive. And he certainly wasn’t much of a talker. I had to say something. Ask questions was the mantra taught to us newbies. If I could do that, I might get a better feeling about his degree of interest.
“Are you from Las Vegas?” I asked.
He blinked. “Vegas?”
“Uh, yes, you know, your license plate... it’s from Nevada.”
“Oh, that.” A smirk. “No, no. I picked up the car at the airport. I’m from California.” We were now in the kitchen, and in spite of the black, outdated appliances and a mild mildew smell, it was a pleasantly bright room. He walked around, opening and closing every door—to the garage, to the laundry room, to a closet.
“Mr... I mean, Greg, you have ten days to get a truly detailed inspection, if you decided to proceed with the purchase.” I put it out there and waited, aware that it was a bit premature.
I followed him to the master bedroom. “Monica, I’m looking for a home in a decent centrally located area for my stepmother and her sister. They live in a condo I own in the older part of downtown, and I think they both would be happier in a house with some grass and trees and singing birds.” His voice dropped an octave, and somehow I felt like he was describing a forever resting place rather than a happy home. But hey, I only sell houses. I don’t predict their future. So I kept quiet and followed him to the screened porch.
He pulled a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his hands. “What do you know about adult care homes?” Did he know Brenda? Was this a trick question? Stop it, Monica.
“Adult care homes? Can you be more specific?” I had to clear my throat. What was wrong with me?
“Monica, are you okay? Is it the smell of ammonia?” We now stood in the hall bath and if there was an odor of ammonia, I completely missed it. Too busy thinking of a conspiracy. Was I being tested? Maybe it was the ammonia thing, or maybe I was hallucinating. We went back to the living room with the flocked wallpaper. I had to take charge if I wanted to sell something. Had to.
“Oh, no ammonia. You’re going to think this is funny. Maybe not funny. Anyway, Brenda Baker, my uh aunt... she was... uh is a Registered Dietitian Nutrition Consultant and has spent most of her life planning menus for high-end adult living centers.” I stopped to come up for air.
And the way Greg Coste stared at me wasn’t a reflection of his admiration. More like concern about my state of mind? Then he relaxed. “I see. My question had more to do with zoning than food.”
Here is your chance to shine, Monica. Say something.
“Oh, I get it, you want to know if this house could be zoned for adult care, correct?”
“Something like that, yes. Of course, I can call the proper department and find out, but I’d like you to know what I’m looking for.”
Music to my ears, as Americans like to say. And my mind immediately thought of Dale Wolf. His brokerage specialized in office space and other commercial stuff. He had to know.
“Well, I’ll be happy to check on it and let you know. I believe the zoning has to do with the number of residents you are planning on welcoming. Any idea? Anyway, I will call you within twenty-four hours with whatever information I can gather.”
I locked up and decided to wait until after he went back to his car before returning the key to the lockbox. Better spend face time with my prospect. Still couldn’t work up the nerve to ask if he was planning on paying cash or if he needed a lender. Maybe I could do that when I called to share the zoning information.
All in all I drove away from the property on 8th Place with a feeling of accomplishment even if Mr. Coste hadn’t really committed to working with me... yet. Something nagged at me. He mentioned a house for his stepmother and her sister. Shouldn’t he have said my mother and my aunt? I would have. The listing was smack halfway between home and the office. It was just past noon, and I was hungry. I decided to take the 51 North.
By the time I reached Shea Boulevard, my mind had switched from Greg Coste to Tristan Dumont. Not that the two had much in common, even if I found both very interesting. One thing they shared was great hair, better than mine. At that point, the thought of Tristan and his unsettling amber eyes wiped away anything interesting about Greg.
I turned onto our street, and the first thing I noticed even from far away was Officer Bob Clarke’s patrol car parked in front of the house belonging to the over-perfumed widow who lived across the street from us. Not sure why he was there, although I had a pretty good idea. He wasn’t waiting for Brenda’s dinner; that was
