Lust, Loathing And A Little Lip Gloss. Kyra Davis
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honor. The effect was disconcerting because instead of making her seem vulnerable, the pride she seemed to have in her own grief made her appear stronger and maybe even a little bit unnatural. She reached a hand out to Scott and he was instantly by her side as she whispered, “I knew he wasn’t well, but I thought he had more time than this. It was a…natural death, wasn’t it? No one did him harm?”
“I think it was natural,” Scott said quietly. “Venus, why did you come here?”
But before she could answer, the police and the paramedics came down the stairs. The paramedics went out to the ambulance to fetch a stretcher while the police officers stayed to talk to us. “It was most likely a stroke or a massive heart attack,” Sergeant Pepper explained after establishing Anatoly’s and Venus’s identity and collecting all of our phone numbers and addresses. “We’ll need to do an autopsy, but there’s no evidence of homicide here.”
“Someone needs to tell his son,” Venus said. “Poor Kane will be devastated. I don’t believe he’s ever even recovered from the death of his mother.”
“Do you know how we can reach Mr. Crammer’s son?” the female cop asked.
“I have his number stored in my cell phone.” Venus glanced down at her hands as if expecting to find the cell there. “I must have left it in the car.” She gestured toward the door and a moment later she had Scott and both officers escorting her to her parking spot.
“So if Scott isn’t your real-estate agent, why did you come here with him?” Anatoly asked as we stepped aside to allow the paramedics to come in with a stretcher.
“He was the agent representing the open house I went to this afternoon,” I said once the paramedics were upstairs again. “It was a total coincidence.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question, Sophie.”
“He told me about a house that just went on the market this morning and when he described it I knew I had to see it. I mean, look around you! This place is so me!”
Anatoly scanned the living room with disinterest. “Real-estate agents usually don’t give tours after dark.”
“He wanted to show me the house before anyone else and I agreed because he said that if I made the first bid I might be able to get it for nine-eighty.”
Anatoly’s head snapped in my direction. “This house is worth a million-seven easy.”
“Oscar wanted out of the house.” I walked over to the bookcases and fingered a hardbound edition of Jean-Paul Sartre’s plays. It was the most contemporary of all the literature held by the mahogany shelves. “He said it was haunted.”
Anatoly snorted. “Didn’t Scott tell him to up the price?”
“My guess is he was planning on making the suggestion, but probably not if I was the prospective buyer. Apparently Scott grew a conscience in the ten years since our divorce and now he wants to make up for all the wrongs he’s committed against me by setting me up in my very own Ashbury Heights three-bedroom.” My voice faded off at the end of my sentence. I had been so disturbed by the discovery of Oscar’s body I hadn’t yet thought about how his death was going to affect the deal. This house now belonged to Oscar’s son. What if he didn’t want to sell it? And even if he did, he probably wouldn’t want to do it for only $980,000. My hand moved from the book to the bookshelf and I clutched it so hard my thumb began to cramp, as if I could make this house mine if I just held on to it.
“It’s for the best,” Anatoly said, correctly reading my thoughts. “If you were to buy this place it would come with strings attached. By not convincing Oscar to sell at market, Scott was giving up on at least $20,000 of commission. Men don’t make those kinds of sacrifices because they want to make amends for the past. Those kinds of sacrifices are only made when men think they will be repaid with power or sex.”
“Well, obviously.” I spun around to face him. “That’s what makes my possible inability to buy this house all the more painful. How fabulous would it have been if I had been able to cheat Scott out of a huge commission and then turn around and reject him? Do you have any idea how much I wanted to inflict that kind of pain and suffering on that bastard? He used my distress over my father’s death as a way to worm his way into my life and then he screwed me over in every way you can think of. Do you know that he sold a diamond pendant my father gave me to a pawnshop just to keep some bookie from breaking his legs? And the bookie’s name was Vinny! Everybody knows you’re not supposed to borrow money from bookies named Vinny! He was not only a bastard, but he was a stupid bastard!”
Anatoly opened his mouth to respond, but then abruptly closed it when the paramedics reappeared. They were carrying Oscar on the stretcher and his body was covered in a white sheet. With his face hidden, the corpse took on an anonymity that scared me. The body being carried down the stairs could have been anybody. In fact, my father’s body had looked just like that when they put a sheet over him and carried him out of my parents’ house twelve years ago.
That isn’t my father, I reminded myself. I pulled up the image of Oscar’s countenance and held it in my mind as Anatoly and I watched the stretcher go out the door. This was the body of a stranger who had been foolish enough to rearrange all his heavy furniture despite his age and reportedly bad health. No wonder he had a stroke.
My eyes moved to the couch. When I had first seen it all, I could think of was how unstylish it was. But I hadn’t thought about its mass.
I walked over to the armrest and threw all my weight into trying to push it forward. It moved, but only a half of an inch.
“What are you doing?” Anatoly asked.
“I couldn’t move this,” I said slowly. “Not by myself.”
“So don’t,” Anatoly wisely suggested.
“I won’t, but Oscar did. He had to have had help.”
“Excuse me.” Sergeant Pepper was standing in the doorway looking bored and irritated. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave the house.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it’s not yours,” he said. “If you stay you’ll be trespassing.”
With that statement my potential loss hit me with renewed force. I had already fallen in love with this place. I wanted it, and I wasn’t good at walking away from things that I wanted.
3
One of the unfortunate side effects of my medication is that it hinders my ability to act crazy.
—The Lighter Side of Death
“HE DIED OF A HEART ATTACK. WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL?” DENA REACHED around the wood pole that held the yellow oversize umbrella above our outside table and handed me back the obituary that I had brought along for her to look at during our lunch date at MarketBar. She took a moment to peel off her fitted leather blazer before continuing. “You know you’re just obsessing over this to distract yourself from the fact that you might not get the house.”
“Bite your tongue,” I muttered, even though I knew she was partially right. It’s not that Oscar’s death hadn’t actually affected me. It had. I had seen Oscar’s pale, dead face in my dreams on more than one occasion since I’d found him. The cameo, the smell, the photographs…it all came together to create a scene that was as harsh as it was ominous. But I had seen worse and I had learned how to tuck my fears away into the dark corners of my mind that I rarely explored. But the house…that house had dominated my thoughts ever since I had laid eyes on it.
In a few minutes Scott would be here to tell me my future. Would I be buying the home of my dreams from Oscar’s son, Kane, at a price I could afford or was I fated to buy some $1.4-million-dollar rat hole on a fault line? I had called Dena and asked her to join me for lunch before this pronouncement of destiny, and to stay with me during its actual telling. My reasons for this were obvious to both of us. I needed my best friend for