Crime Machine

13

RANDALL WISHART WAS ON THE PHONE with a young couple named Jessup. The wife was at home, but Randall had set up a conference call with her husband, who was in Toronto on business. Every so often two of them would speak at the same time and there would be audio dropouts, leading to confusion and repetition.

Randall was underlining the importance of presentation—you had to make a place look both homelike and yet depersonalized so that people could imagine themselves living in it—when his wife and her father pulled up in the parking lot. He had a sudden panic that they knew about Sam, but they waved to him as they got out of Mr. Carnwright’s Mercedes, both smiling like crazy.

“I’m sick of fluffing,” the wife said. “We’ve been fluffing the place for weeks.”

“And you’re doing a great job,” Randall said. “Trust me, Brenda, all your hard work is going to pay off. Now I told you I want to list it low. I’m thinking two eighty-five.”

“Two eighty-five!” Mr. Jessup had been mostly quiet until now. “That’s ridiculous. Out of the question.”

“I know, I know,” Randall said in his most soothing voice. “It’s a shock to you because you know and I know that it’s worth quite a bit more than that.”

“A bit?” This from the wife.

“A significant amount. And you’ll get it. Trust me, this is the smart way to go. We’ll hold an open house, and that low price is going to get people bidding against each other. Once that starts happening— …”

“Yeah, but what if it doesn’t?” Jessup said. “We have to sell, we’re moving in two weeks, but we can’t take any two eighty-five.”

“It’s much less than Thatcher’s Realty was suggesting,” the wife said.

“Well, then they’re wrong. They may be used to a different market—they take on properties we wouldn’t touch. By all means go with them if you think they’ll do a better job. But I’m telling you, a lowball asking is the way to go. You’ve got a charming house, beautifully cared for, and a sizable lot. I’d hate to see you take any other route. I’ve gotta go. You think about it, and let me know your decision.”

That was good; you didn’t want to look like you cared too much. He got up and crossed the reception area to Lawrence Carnwright’s office. His father-in-law was standing with his back to the window. He was not a big man, but he had an authoritative manner that made him seem so, and today some triumph was making him look particularly tall. Laura was sitting in a wing chair, blond powerhouse in blue pinstripe.

“What’s up with you two?” Randall said.

“Tell him, Laura.”

Laura was a woman who prided herself on her ability to keep cool, a considerable asset in her daily dealings with the stock market. But now she jumped up and grabbed Randall by the biceps. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said. “The Conservatives want me to run for office.”

“You’re kidding.” Randall found he was grinning, although he was not at all certain this was good news. “That’s great.”

“We’ve just come from Bob Sloane’s office,” Carnwright said. “He approached me last week and asked me what I thought Laura might say, and I said I didn’t know but I thought she might be pleased.”

“Bob Sloane? You’d be running for federal office?”

“For MP,” Laura said. “Isn’t it fantastic?”

“It is. It really is. Congratulations, honey.” He hugged her tight. She didn’t usually like to be rumpled, but she hugged him back. “Wouldn’t you have to be in Ottawa all the time?”

“Part time. And that’s only if I win.”

“She’ll win,” Carnwright said. “I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life. You’ll win.”

“But I can’t sell Algonquin Bay real estate from Ottawa.”

“You could do a lot from there,” Carnwright said. “And you and I have to talk about this, something I’ve been mulling for a while now.”

“Dad’s been thinking of expanding. Opening offices in other cities.”

“And why not start with Ottawa?” Carnwright said. “Listen, Randall, you’re the only agent I’d trust with something like this. And of course it could mean a lot more money for you. But you and I’ll talk. It’s Laura’s day, and you two have to sort out how you feel.”

“I know how I feel,” Laura said. “I’m pumped.”

Randall could see this was true, and it touched him to see his wife—normally beautiful but ungirlish—alive with almost adolescent high spirits.

“We’ll have to be on our toes,” Carnwright said. “Absolute top of our game, all of us. No parking tickets, know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean,” Randall said.

“And it wouldn’t hurt if you produced a couple of grandkids along the way.”

“Dad, they’re hardly going to want me to run if I’m pregnant.”

Carnwright put his hands up in instant surrender. “I know, I know. I’m just thinking long-term. Thinking big. Did we take that sign down out at the Schumacher place?”

“I drove out there, but it was already gone.”

“Good. It burns me up to see our name every time they show a clip from the crime scene. Talk about bad PR. Ten to one they’re going to want to unload that place after what’s happened, and you know what?”

“We shouldn’t handle it,” Randall said.

His father-in-law cocked a well-manicured finger at him and said, “Right on, pardner. Anyway. Whatever you two decide to do, I think this calls for a toast.” He opened a Bombay Company sideboard and pulled out a bottle of Macallan eighteen-year-old, something he hadn’t done since two years previously, when Randall had sold the local senator’s house for two hundred over asking.