Appraise her, p.1
Appraise Her, page 1
Appraise Her_2
Paula Priamos
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2021 by Paula Priamos
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design & Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.
For my late mother, Judy Burleson Priamos
Chapter One
The woman with whom I’d spent most of my morning is the third story on the evening news. She’s behind the black smoke of a big rig explosion shutting down all northbound lanes of the 101 Freeway and a water main break on Sunset Boulevard. She is my new client, an old childhood friend, and she is missing.
Things don’t quite add up.
How does one make it on the local news if gone for only a few short hours? She could’ve run out of gas and found her cell phone had lost its charge or signal for that matter. She could’ve just gone for a drive to clear her head and forgotten about the time.
Elise is not someone people would recognize, a losable face in the crowd, hard to spot in any convenience store surveillance tape, but that doesn’t mean she’s just anyone. She is the daughter of Hollywood royalty, the black and white Rat Pack kind, the reclusive Carson Davis, a legendary actor, eighty-one, three or four Oscars earned and countless nominations. A man who’s never been caught in anything more casual than a golfing polo and trousers out on the green. The rest of the time he’s been photographed either at dinner in a double-breasted suit or an awards event in a tux.
His handsome face fills the screen, upstaging his daughter even now when she is the subject the reporter is speaking about. Up until today when I met with his daughter to appraise some property, I too believed the reports that claimed he’s been spending the last year or so retired in a whitewashed villa off the coast of Spain. Word of mouth and a home in Carson’s name with high stucco walls to keep out paparazzi is all it took for the rumor to realize into truth.
But I saw with my own eyes.
The hospital bed. The ventilator. The body. The pump and hiss of air being forced into the motionless man’s lungs is with me now, in my head, like the sounds of a large city or a noisy casino a day after you’ve left it. Spain was, at the very least, a lie.
From the family room I hear a pot skid on a burner in the kitchen and I smell the meal my fiancé is preparing the two of us for dinner. Something Italian with sausage, spices and tomatoes. Typically, on Monday nights, Hugh gets here after nine and we forgo this part of domestic life. We might go out for coffee at Starbucks or stay in and catch a movie before heading upstairs for sex and sleep. The rest of the work week he stays at his studio apartment in Santa Monica. As a contractor, with a complicated multi-level beach house that he’s working on in Malibu, it only makes sense.
We will be each other’s second marriage. Hugh is a widower. I’m a divorcee’. There’s a difference of loss and failure between us. Even though we’ve been engaged for close to two months, I still can’t bring myself to ask him to move in with me.
The reporter is saying something more about Elise. How a shoe has been found in the driveway of her home, a suede beige kitten heel she’d worn when she showed me around her father’s mansion in Bel Air earlier today. Hardly enough evidence to call it an abduction. Some women choose to drive in their bare feet.
Yet it was proof enough to determine once she’d realized one shoe was gone why hadn’t she come back for it? I’d complimented her on those two-inch heels, not because I’d wanted a pair for myself. I wanted to make a lasting impression. She might refer wealthy people she knew to me, people who frequently bought and sold property almost like a sport and who always needed an appraiser to help them turn a profit.
Elise and I had been childhood friends, but we’d lost touch with each other as far back as middle school. For a few years, before Carson decided to uproot his family to Malibu, they lived less than three blocks away in a neighborhood in Toluca Lake, an eclectic mix of middle-class families and wealthier ones, not far from the TV and movie studios. Instead of a three-bedroom custom built home like mine, the Davis Family lived in a much bigger spread with a wrought iron fence and swinging ten-foot gates.
As kids we’d been fierce competitors on the tetherball courts, playing until the recess bell rang and the teacher threatened us with detention if we didn’t come inside. I still have the calluses just under the surface of my palms. We were each other’s first real challenge and maybe that was why she remembered me after all these years.
As adults we’ve reached out to each other now and then. She was in attendance for my first marriage, showing up briefly at the reception and generously gifting my new husband and me with a weekend stay at a five-star resort in Rancho Mirage, just outside of Palm Springs. I send her Christmas and birthday cards and she thanks me through friendly enough emails. We tenuously stay in each other’s lives because there is a tie between us that cannot be broken nor can it be tended to very often.
Or maybe what she and I share runs deeper and has to do with how well she knows I can keep a secret, letting it become part of me like bone and blood. Maybe asking me to do the appraisal is a way of reminding me of that fact.
When I asked how she’d heard I was an appraiser she said it was through a friend of a friend, brushing it off as if I’d asked her something so trivial she’d never bother answering. And maybe she was right that it didn’t matter. I get calls from real estate agents, loan workers from banks, and homeowners who find me in the yellow pages.
I’m about to head into the kitchen to tell Hugh about my personal connection to the woman who’s just made the news. Hugh will listen intently, then call it a coincidence. I’m expecting to feel slightly deflated. Practical people take the energy out of any conversation.
“Dammit,” I hear Hugh say.
At first, I think he’s burned something, but there are muffled words after. He must be on his cell disputing something with his foreman about not enough sheetrock delivered or a permit that has not come through.
Possibly he could’ve lost the connection given the throng of trees that line either side of my property. Sometimes they block out the sun as well as the nearest cell phone tower which is why I still keep a landline number.
I decide to go outside and get the mail, the way I always do right before the sun is about to set. The metal box is a few yards from the porch. My small two-bedroom home is located in a quiet part of Laurel Canyon, off the curve of a narrow, paved road that turns into gravel and heads deep into thick live oak, shrubs and eucalyptus trees.
If I were to appraise my own home, it would sell for around 1.2 million. But I have no intentions of ever moving. Technically I’m in the woods yet not so far away from the city that I can’t hear the traffic, commuters on the boulevard who use this steep cut-off to get from the Valley to West Hollywood.
In early fall, the air is cooler and the sky gets darker sooner yet it still feels like a shock. From the mailbox I pull out a couple of household bills, a postcard from my mother who refuses to learn about the conveniences of social media and post pictures of her travels online. This one is stamped in Vienna. My mother travels alone, though she doesn’t usually stay that way for the duration of her trip.
She calls her male travel companions she picks up along the way “adventures.” At sixty-five, she reasons, she is too old to be called a slut. The photo on the card is of an empty black gondola bobbing on green water.
She uses my full name Catia on the card because she finds it insulting how everyone lops off the first syllable and simply call me Tia. “Your name is beautifully Greek,” she reminds me. “Like you. This nickname makes you sound like you should be in a bikini somewhere drenched in sun tan oil.” Because of my background as a former handwriting expert, she must assume a picture of herself in front of a landmark would reveal very little.
I’m able to detect much more about her trip by reading her script instead of her smile. But it doesn’t exactly work that way; there’s more to it and besides, I’m really out of practice. I want to be out of practice. That has not been what I do as an occupation for some time. I’m an appraiser now.
On my way back to the house I spot what looks like the corner of a flyer left under the front doormat. Another house painter looking for work or a teenager advertising yard work service. It wasn’t here when I came home nearly an hour before. I pull out the flyer that is actually a sheet of white copy paper, folded in half. One line is written in black felt tip on the crease.
Chapter Two
I don’t tell Hugh about the note. If I had it would’ve cut short the rest of our plans for the evening. Dinner would be put off while he took a look around outside, the fragrant red sauce simmering on the stove turned off, going cold and pasta sticking together as it drained dry in the colander.
A waste of time, of course. Whoever it was wouldn’t be just lingering on my property, waiting to get caught.
Hugh is intimidating enough, at six feet tall, with dark blond hair, graying at the temples, and lean muscled arms. He is weathered strong like so many beach homes he either restores back to sturdy shape or builds from the concrete foundation to the vaulted wood beams and tile rooftops. He’d question me about who I thought would do such a thing. A neighbor with a crush? A creepy client? What about my ex-husband, Kyle?
No surprise that Hugh doesn’t like Kyle. Most new fiancés don’t like the former ex-husband, all that shared intimate history to compete with that only time, a deeper love and better, more emotionally connected sex will fade away.
A satisfying second marriage is a slow, hard-earned win.
My divorce from Kyle is only eleven months fresh. Sometimes I’m not sure if I’ll ever fully get over what he and I lost because at times we’d been so happy. I could feel it off him too, when he held me close and repeated faintly like breath between us that I was his “Tia” as if my name alone meant more than any other words he could possibly come up with. We could be in a room full of people and it didn’t matter. It was always just him and me. Call it a lapse in judgment, but it had been a contentment I didn’t think twice about. There hadn’t been another woman that broke us up. It had been a far bigger prospect of a person, a baby. Kyle doesn’t want children and I do. Not children in the plural.
One child is all I’d asked for and we talked and talked about it until I finally grew too frustrated to continue. In the end, making a family was asking too much of my ex and his DNA.
Not quite touching forty, he’s one of the youngest Associate History professors at UCLA. He’s the type who prides himself on looking more like one of his students than part of the faculty. Kyle also moonlights as a real estate agent on the weekends. Saturdays are spent driving around LA in his leased brand new silver Mercedes Coupe, showing the kind of extravagant properties where the monthly mortgage alone is approximately his yearly professor’s salary. His ability to seek out valuable properties and get them for a relatively rock-bottom price helped us snatch up the two-bedroom in Laurel Canyon before it hit the market, a fixer-upper, with a chunk of money I came into after I turned twenty-five and was given the portion of the life insurance policy my father left me in his will. Later, after a particularly sizeable commission came in, Kyle was able to buy another property, a condo in a high-rise near the ocean.
I should be grateful Kyle loves being around so much money. Agreeing not to take part of his real estate business in the divorce is what gave me the home in Laurel Canyon and half interest in the condo in Marina Del Rey.
My sister thinks I’ve made the kind of profound mistake I can’t take back. Hugh is too old for me. To her, a man barely in his fifties somehow substitutes boxers with Depends and gulps down grainy glasses of Metamucil at every meal. It’s all about the numbers with Laney. She’s a mother of three young boys, her husband, a minor league baseball coach is her same age, thirty-eight. They live in a four-bedroom home in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon. Each of their children is roughly two years apart. “If only you’d just thought about it and stopped taking the pill,” she’d recently said on the phone with me. “Women are expected to deceive their husbands when they’re spooked about becoming fathers. Kyle would’ve learned to live with it. How do you think I got pregnant with Wyatt?” she asks me. “Dan wanted to stop at two. He loves them all. You’ve heard him. He balances the boys on his lap and calls them his Three Little Bench Warmers.”
But Hugh doesn’t need to be tricked. He already enjoys being a father to his eighteen-year-old daughter, a freshman at Washington State University in Seattle. Since his wife died nearly five years before, he’s proven he can be enough of a parent to be the only parent.
If I’d shown Hugh the cryptic message I’d found on the front porch, he’d make me worry about something that is probably just a stupid prank. I wouldn’t be lying in bed in the dark right after sex the way I always do now with my knees bent as he settles on to his side and snores slightly beside me. I wouldn’t be lying here in this same position in the hopes that this time he and I are finally forming a connection in my womb. We’ve been trying for sixteen weeks, not enough time to suspect something is wrong with either of us but enough time to feel the possibility strengthen in my throat like a silent scream.
The twin screw diesel yacht had six bedrooms, a large Jacuzzi on deck that could accommodate an entire cheerleading squad, a dining room that seated twelve and a half staircase that lead down to a lower level sitting room that overlooked the stern of the ship. A monstrous water craft easily worth nineteen million. And it was docked temporarily at a small wedge of a marina at Dana Point in Orange County.
The owner, a sixty-eight-year old oil tycoon celebrating the one-year anniversary to his fourth wife, was throwing one hell of a bash, a party that began mid-afternoon, only to pick up even more energy by dusk.
Trays of top shelf champagne and neatly crafted hors d’oeuvres sliders made with corn muffins and shredded barbecue beef were generously passed around, a skinned swine was cooked and impaled on a spit in the corner of the deck. A waiter dressed all in black stood nearby with a sharp blade to slice long pieces of flesh from the animal for hungry guests.
Everyone connected to the Texan mogul was invited, from members of the city council, to the mayor of Los Angeles who made a brief appearance and fellow business investors, bank workers, and me.
Over the last few years I’d appraised several homes for him in the LA area, raising the numbers, and, as a consequence, more than doubled his profits on several of them. Some appraisers didn’t do enough groundwork. They assessed the home and the two or so near it.
But I did much more.
There were the dynamics of the affluent neighborhoods to consider, the low crime rates, and the fact that there were virtually no foreclosures in the immediate area to drive prices down. Many times, a wealthy neighbor would hear of an owner getting behind in payments and purchase the home outright just to avoid it going up for auction. I’d factor in years of market stability in my assessments.
By sunset the spacious luxury yacht became more cramped with drunks. Most of the people I knew were clearing out. Even on the deck the smell of alcohol overpowered the salty ocean breeze. Girls that barely looked eighteen in string bikinis were climbing into the Jacuzzi. I spotted wife number four in a red thong, playfully splashing another woman’s wet chest.
Things were about to get out of hand.
It was time for me to leave.
That was when Hugh approached me with his teenage daughter.
He was dark blond and attractive in a way that most men I came across weren’t. If the deep-nicked wrinkles at the corners of his light blue eyes were any indication, he was a middle-aged man who’d spent his life showing his expressions, not keeping them in. His skin was tan, thickened from the sun, so I immediately pegged him as in construction even before he told me what he did for a living. But he cleaned up nicely, standing before me in a button down white shirt, jeans and charcoal gray sports jacket, ostrich cowboy boots. He had a man’s build, unlike Kyle who never seemed to grow out of his boy’s body.
Hugh introduced himself and his seventeen-year-old daughter Ashley, then apologized for approaching me in the first place.
