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save that decision for another day,” she whispered and headed across an Oriental rug to get to her massive L-shaped desk—the command center where she spent most of her time. She slid her briefcase under the desk and sank into her high-backed upholstered chair. There was nothing antique or low-tech about her desk or the tools it held. The computer, fax machine, laser printer, telephone and answering system were all state-of-the-art, although with technology changing so fast, she would probably be updating her equipment within the next year.
She checked her messages first and took notes. Of the six calls she’d received, three were from prospective clients, including the Davises, who canceled their four-o’clock appointment. One was from Carol Watson. Decision made. She would call Carol tonight and agree to sponsor the team. Another message was from Doris Blake, a retiree who had recently relocated to Welleswood after a career in real estate. She was looking for part-time work. Andrea wrote down her number, just in case.
The last message was from Jane Huxbaugh demanding to know the status of the proposed sale of the house she had inherited from her uncle, the late Anthony Clark.
Andrea tapped the eraser of her pencil on her notepad. Jane was not the most disagreeable client Andrea had ever had, but she surely ranked in the top ten. In all fairness, however, Jane had a right to be anxious. She had accepted a proposal to purchase from a prospective buyer, Bill Sanderson, early last week. To Andrea’s complete consternation, Sanderson had not returned a single one of her telephone calls or responded to any of her e-mails asking him to come in and sign the formal contract. She assumed he simply had been delayed in returning from one of the long-distance hauls he made as a truck driver. Not that Jane would care. She wanted the house sold. Yesterday.
Determined to see this resolved, Andrea pulled out the Sanderson folder and sorted through the paperwork. She set the CIS, Consumer Information Statement, aside. Operating a dual-disclosure agency, representing both sellers and buyers, required a strong set of ethics, and the law was very clear about her responsibilities to both parties. Beneath the proposal to purchase, she found the contract, lifted her phone and tapped in Bill Sanderson’s home telephone number.
“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed, 555-2608, has been disconnected.”
“Great,” she muttered, checked the number he had listed for his employer in upstate Pennsylvania, and dialed that number as she tried to keep her heart from racing.
“AAA Hauling. Henry here.”
She cleared her throat. “This is Andrea Hooper, with Hooper Realty. I’m trying to locate Bill Sanderson, one of your drivers.”
A snort. “You and the state police from here to Colorado. Feds got involved, too. Landlord called yesterday. Get in line, lady.”
“S-state police?”
“Sanderson left four days ago with a van loaded with computers and headed for Denver. Ain’t been heard from since.”
Andrea closed her eyes to organize her thoughts. “That’s terrible! He must have had some sort of…accident?”
Another snort. “Ain’t that wishful thinkin’! We got the van. Found that in Ohio. Empty, of course. I wouldn’t go wastin’ any hopes you got on that thievin’, sneaky—”
“Thank you,” she managed, and quickly hung up. Heart pounding, she leaned back and steepled her hands. So much for that deal. Exactly why Sanderson had gone to all the trouble of pretending to be serious enough to purchase a home here did not really matter. She had been in this business long enough to know better than to guess at the motivations of any of her clients, buyers and sellers alike, but she thought she was a fairly decent judge of character.
Apparently, she was not.
As for the check that he had given to her as earnest money, she assumed she would hear from the bank that it was not going to be honored.
She also knew for certain that Miss Huxbaugh was going to be rip-roaring mad.
At seventy-seven, Jane Huxbaugh was a fixture in Welleswood, well-known for her thriftiness and her gift for making snide remarks, which was almost as legendary as her temper. Andrea had no desire to light a match to that woman’s temper. It had burned her once too often. But unless Andrea came up with a buyer fast, she would be well-advised to tell Jane the bad news in person, rather than by telephone.
Andrea swiveled around in her chair, stared out the front window and twirled her pencil while she mulled over her options. She could wait until tonight and visit Jane at home. Or she could leave now and walk the two short blocks to see Jane at the hospital auxiliary’s thrift store, one of the last holdouts from yesteryear, where she volunteered weekday afternoons. Or she could…
She laid down the pencil, sorted through the folders for prospective buyers until she found the one she wanted. Cindy and Paul DiMayo were highly motivated buyers. They had a number of deadlines looming that had intensified their search for a new home. Paul was scheduled to start a new job at the end of September, their apartment lease ran out around the same time and they were expecting a baby, due August twenty-seventh, less than a month from now. Under all these circumstances, they were more than a little anxious to settle into a home before the baby arrived.
The young couple also had been prequalified, a decided benefit, particularly in this case.
Andrea wrinkled her nose. Sanderson had been prequalified, too.
She dialed the DiMayo’s number. When Cindy answered, Andrea let out a sigh of relief and checked her watch. It was only three o’clock. Maybe she had time to turn this day around after all.
On their second walk-through of the house, Paul paced the perimeter of the empty living room and nudged the sheer curtains that had fallen to the floor, along with the rods and brackets that had once held the curtains in place. “How long did you say it’s been vacant?”
“Nine months. The property is part of an estate,” Andrea replied, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.
Cindy poked her head into the kitchen and wrinkled her nose. “That red indoor-outdoor carpet has to go!”
“Careful! Don’t go in there unless Paul’s got a good hold on you,” Andrea warned as she approached her very pregnant client. “See the ripples in the carpet? It’s not safe.”
Paul escorted his wife into the kitchen and lifted a brow.
“It’s a throwback to the forties or early fifties,” Andrea admitted as she followed behind them.
Paul chuckled. “Early neglect is my guess. Just like the rest of the house. They pulled up the carpet in the bathroom and took half the tiles with it. Guess they decided not to try again in this room.”
“This way you can pick out your own flooring,” Andrea offered. No matter how she had tried, she had not been able to convince Jane to make a few minor repairs, like rehanging the curtain rods and curtains or tacking down the kitchen carpet. Turning on the central air-conditioning would have helped, too, but Jane was too busy watching her pennies to realize her thriftiness was going to cost her lots of dollars in the end.
“Poor little house,” Cindy whispered. “It just needs a little TLC.”
Paul groaned. “And lots of elbow grease.”
Cindy looked up at him and smiled. “You have great elbows.”
“And the price is right,” Andrea added. “In fact, there are a number of options we can explore together to help you get the extra money you’d need to do some cosmetic repairs. The house is sound structurally, and it’s a good starter house. You could settle quickly, too.”
Cindy beamed and rested her hand on her tummy.
Paul cocked his head. “How quickly?”
“Quickly enough to get you into the house before the baby is born. Why don’t we go back to my office where the air-conditioning is running, and go over the details?”
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