Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 3

"About us. Better postpone the new business arrangement. You be the primary on this one."

"What made you change your mind?"

"Roberta's a sharp cookie, with an intricate dilemma. Best leave it to you, the expert. I'll cut my teeth on something with less at stake."

"You're trying to distract me, aren't you, hoping I'll forget about the threat of Destiny's affair?"

"Who me?" she said, throwing up her hands to underscore her innocence.

Although Fran Green and Roberta Franklin had traveled in the same social circles for years, their paths never intersected until the week before, when they shared a table at a community function. Fran came back from the dinner with Roberta's card and told me that she'd found another client, which brought us to a crossroads in our professional relationship. For several years, Fran had sent clients my way and helped out as needed but consistently refused compensation or recognition. While we sometimes experienced power struggles, the loose-knit agreement generally had worked.

With this case, however, she'd asked if she could be the primary, with me a.s.sisting. I agreed immediately but insisted she take half the paycheck. We fought about that for hours, but I held my ground, and Fran eventually capitulated. We hadn't put the new arrangement into action, but I liked it, because in many ways it provided a more honest framework.

Six months ago, in order to focus exclusively on private investigation, id sold the marketing business I started at the age of nineteen. My comfortable office and steady source of income had gone to my sister, but I'd never looked back.

Almost never, anyway.

I didn't miss the payroll or deadlines, but I did miss my six employees.

Fran must have sensed this, because over the past few months, she'd moved more and more of her possessions into my one-story office on Sixth Avenue. The migration started with her favorite stapler, then an old computer from home, followed by a bulletin board, a two-drawer filing cabinet and a spare phone. Add weekly trips to the office supply store and the delivery of an oak desk and chair, and one day, it dawned on me as I shut off her bra.s.s lamp and unplugged her humidifier, that she was more at home in my office than I was.

With this new comprehension, I felt slightly tricked, but I also realized that Fran Green understood, perhaps better than anyone, the way to my heart.

Little by little, without pressure of commitment.

Once struck, our verbal partnership agreement made me feel less beholden, but I harbored a thread of fear that Fran's new position and power would change her.

In a way, they already had, at least in how she dressed. She'd arrived that day wearing pressed khakis and a starched white, short-sleeved shirt, an outfit I would have chosen myself except for the elastic waistband and breast pocket. She'd exchanged her customary sneakers for a pair of clogs, and while her walk was wobbly, I credited her with trying.

I couldn't let Fran throw away her first opportunity so readily. "This was important to you. You wanted more responsibility."

"Consider I've got it, on the Greaves case. Primary on that one. You don't lift a finger without my A-OK."

"Never," I agreed.

A lie.

I had no intention of sitting by idly. In fact, I'd spent sleepless hours the night before coming up with a plan.

As I lay next to Destiny, in a hyper-alert state, listening to the rhythm of her sleep, I'd made a few decisions. First, I would spend every moment I could wrench from Fran's scrutiny tracking Lynn's movements.

I had to stay one step ahead of her.

If Destiny was a victim of Lynn's delusions, I would fight for her.

Next, I would examine every one of Destiny's words, gestures and actions. I would split each breath she took to see what gave it life, and I would slice her days into minutes.

At the first proof of betrayal, physical or emotional, I would leave in the middle of the night, without explanation or fight.

For my own sanity, I'd promised myself that our relationship, nurtured through three years of struggle and ecstasy, could end in an instant.

Chapter 4.

Apparently, Fran caught my faraway look, because she looked at me shrewdly. "No meddling from you with Lynn or Destiny?"

"None, but what about the cash? "We can't keep ten thousand dollars. I'd rather work at McDonald's than keep her money."

"Worry about that later." Fran wiped sweat from her brow, checked her armpits for dampness and opened the front door. "Tell you what, any money comes into this joint ought to go toward central air. Hotter than a convection oven in here."

"You get used to it."

"Better upgrade the furnace, too. Colder than a meat locker last winter."

"We're not going to renovate this place when we're only leasing. You have to take half the Roberta money for yourself."

Before I could la.s.so Fran's agreement, a booming voice interrupted.

"Are you two wrangling over my fee?" Roberta Franklin said, softening the accusation with a hearty laugh. I m sorry- Roberta extended her hand to cut short my apology. "Don't be. I didn't expect charity, although I suspect Fran Green's done a bit of pro bono in her day."

I almost gulped with surprise when I saw the look Roberta shot Fran, one of open admiration and l.u.s.t. This coming from someone who, to put it delicately, had been eligible for senior discounts for some time.

Roberta Franklin's slight stoop gave away her age, as did hundreds of wrinkles, which no amount of makeup could have concealed. Her face was a canvas of marks, artistic grooves that reminded me of the New Mexico desert. Bright pink lipstick and strawberry-blond hair, which fell in loose curls and cradled her face, softened an otherwise stern look. She wore a dark blue, short-sleeved mock turtleneck, white slacks and black flats, and her short frame could have held ten more pounds and still been considered slight.

Fran seemed taken aback by Roberta's overture, because I detected a hint of fl.u.s.ter as she offered Roberta the most comfortable chair in the office and dashed into the back to fetch refreshments.

Once we settled in, Fran and I at our adjoining desks and Roberta in front of the oscillating fan, Roberta began to speak. "There's no sense in beating around the bush. I have a chance to make a small fortune on a real estate deal, and I intend to use the profits from it as seed money for my dream development."

"Bert wants to build a retirement community for lesbians. First of its kind in the U.S. of A."

Roberta nodded. "The whole nine yards for folks who are getting on in years. All levels of care on one campus, built around a neighborhood center. I've waited twenty years for someone to bring this concept to the market, but no one has. Lesbians represent the ideal demographic. Most r us are childless and can't fool ourselves into thinking offspring will serve as caretakers. We have no children, which means-"

Fran jumped in, as if on cue, "No one's expecting an inheritance." The women with ample means, when they pa.s.s on, will leave a portion of their a.s.sets to the community. This, in turn, will allow us to provide housing and care for elderly or disabled lesbians in every income bracket."

I raised one eyebrow. "A ma.s.sive sliding scale?"

"Exactly," Roberta and Fran agreed, in unison.

"Count me in fifty years from now, but what's the deal that's the means to the end?"

Roberta sighed. "I've had my eye on a project on the corner of Twelfth Avenue and Pennsylvania Street. I fell in love with this building fifty years ago. When I had my first job at a law office downtown, I'd take walks on my lunch hour, and I always made it a point to stroll by the Fielder mansion. No other building has captivated me in such a way."

"You've got the fever," Fran said.

"More than you might imagine. I've had crushes in my day," Roberta said, flashing a look at Fran, "but none that has lasted this long. Over the years, the gutters have detached, the wooden pillars have rotted, and the masonry has crumbled in spots. Notwithstanding those factors, it's a remarkable piece of architecture, with a wonderful wraparound veranda and a mosaic driveway. You'll have to see it to appreciate it."

"You want to buy the mansion?"

"Possibly. I've offered half a million, which might be generous, given my contractor's bid of a million or more for renovation."

Fran let out a sharp whistle. "A million large?"

"That's what the contractor says it will cost to make repairs and convert the building into eleven luxury condos, flats such as one would have found at the turn of the century. I've paid to have an architectural firm perform an a.s.sessment, and despite its appearance, the building is sound. Its mechanical and structural systems are intact. Nonetheless, if I don't act soon, the building might not be worth saving. I've been told that, as with all vacant buildings, the roof could start leaking. If that happens, the decay and deterioration will accelerate rapidly, reaching a point where it becomes steeply more expensive to restore."

"I a.s.sume you've put in a contract," I said.

"A letter of intent. I've deposited twenty-five thousand in earnest money with the family who owns it, and I have thirty days to reach a conclusion. However, before I take the leap, I need more information, facts I'd rather not retrieve on my own."

"Say it, we'll do it," Fran offered.

"I have five concerns that demand your expertise. To begin, I would like to know the complete history of the house."

"Easy enough. Trip to the downtown library'll scratch that itch. Could do it yourself, save some dough."

"I appreciate your concern for my pocketbook, Frances, but I spend enough time crouched over books in a library. I prefer to rely on your knowledge. You know the history of the area-"

Fran chortled. "Heck, I am the history."

"I'll count on Kris to synthesize the facts and summarize them in a quaint story. I'll want to include a brief history of the Fielder mansion in my marketing materials and sales presentations."

"Kris can do that, hands down," Fran boasted.

"Please, Fran," I protested, but secretly I was excited at the chance.

"I imagine she can," Roberta said. "The other a.s.signments are a bit more challenging."

"Can't wait! Bigger the ballbusters, the better."

I shot Fran a sideways glance, which she ignored as she stared at Roberta, enthralled.

"I have two potential rivals who could scuttle the deal. One is a real estate developer, Philip Bazi, who plans to tear down the house and build a high-rise. He's already acquired six lots to the south and paid premium prices. I want to know more about him."

"Bazi, the one who rebuilt the performing arts complex?" Fran asked.

"The same. Apparently, on average, in the past twenty years, not a month has pa.s.sed in which the family hasn't been contacted by someone who wanted to buy, lease, partner, consult, invest in or do something with the house. Philip Bazi is a man of great influence in the development community, a formidable foe."

Your other compet.i.tor?" I prodded.

Elvira Robinson, and she, too, is a force in her own right. She's the head of the historic organization, Save Our Denver, SOD. Her group has come to the conclusion that the best, highest use of the landmark is for it be refurbished as a single-family home."

"You disagree?"

"The risk is too great for the slim profit margin, and the market for buyers of a single-family home of that size and quality doesn't exist. Anyone with three million dollars will move into Cherry Creek North and buy a new home with high-tech wiring, a great room, gas fireplaces, jetted tubs and walk-in closets."

"No big deal for you to include those," Fran pointed out.

"No, but I can't very well clean up the blocks surrounding the mansion that are rife with drug-dealing, vandalism and graffiti. I envision the flats selling to adventurous urban dwellers who feel comfortable paying two hundred to four hundred thousand dollars, with the carriage house commanding five hundred."

Fran paused in her meticulous note-taking and glanced up. "Check out Philip and Elvira. Got it. What else can we do to pleasure you?"

"This may be overstepping my bounds, but I'm concerned for the owner, the matriarch of the family. Hazel Middleton's ninety-one, and she lives alone in the carriage house. Through discreet inquiries, I'd like to ascertain if her daughter Nell is acting against her wishes."

"Railroading the old coot?"

I flashed Fran a sharp look, a warning to ease up on the jokes, but Roberta Franklin didn't seem to find the remarks inappropriate. In fact, she laughed louder with each one, as if tipsy from Fran's influence.

Roberta said with a half-smile, "The mother has signed over power of attorney to her daughter, a prudent move at her age and one that gives me no legal standing to interfere. Nevertheless, I would feel more comfortable with the owner's blessing."

"Fair enough," Fran said, slapping her notebook closed. "We'll get right on this. Got the contract, Kris?"

"Hold on," I said, scanning the tasks I'd recorded on a legal pad. "You'd like us to research the history of the building, investigate the opposition of Philip Bazi and Elvira Robinson and obtain a.s.surance the elderly owner approves of the sale. That's four lines of query. What's the fifth?"

Roberta viewed me with increased respect. "She's as sharp as promised, Frances."

"Told you, Bert," Fran agreed, but with the reddening of her cheeks, I could tell she felt chagrin at having missed the tally.

"My last request calls for extreme caution and delicacy."

"Caution's our motto, delicacy our tagline."

"I'm almost embarra.s.sed to bring it up. Normally, I don't respond to rumors of this nature."

"I'm sure whatever it is, we can address it," I said mildly.

Roberta hesitated. "Usually, I'm more concrete in my thinking."

"Spit it out, Bert!" Fran exclaimed.

"I need you to find out-"

"If there's a ghost in the house," Fran interrupted with a gale of laughter, and I joined in, certain the chorus would include Roberta.

It didn't.

Lips turned downward, Roberta Franklin frowned deeply and said in a somber whisper, "I need you to ascertain, beyond a reasonable doubt, if the house is haunted."

Chapter 5.