In the quaint community of New Osgood, Mark Waterman runs an estate agency for some very specific clients. The contracts are ironclad in this cutthroat market, but that doesn’t mean greed will be tolerated.
Mark Waterman slid two brochures and two contracts into his burgundy eelskin case, a gift from his last client. He ran his hands over the smooth leather and took a deep, satisfying breath. The latest prospects, a husband and wife from New York City, contacted him last night for his services. He had the perfect property lined up for them—a quiet, white bungalow two blocks from his own home on the edge of New Osgood, population eight hundred ninety-seven. A majority of that population Mark and his predecessor had expertly placed within the community.
He grabbed his keys from the entryway table and decided to walk to the showing. The day was bright and beautiful, no humidity, light cloud cover. He shrugged his shoulders to straighten his jacket and reached up with his free hand to straighten his tie. The heels of his vintage Berlutis clacked on the sidewalk. He waved at a passerby, one of his satisfied clients, and tried to clear his mind for his meeting.
Joel and Joyce Sorrell contacted Mark three weeks ago. He told them as soon as a spot became available, he’d let them know. The previous owners passed away four days after his initial contact with the Sorrells. Mark had snatched up the property with his own capital, earmarked for such occurrences in New Osgood, and sent notice to the couple. They were ecstatic.
Mark caught the faint scent of honeysuckle wafting from Mrs. Olson’s side yard. She was on her knees in the dirt, digging and tending to her roses. Her one-third acre lot was the brightest for several streets. Everyone thought she had the greenest thumb in the state. Mark knew better, though. Mrs. Olson’s late husband had hired Mark’s mentor as his realtor two decades ago under a single contract. According to the file, Barry Olson married Nancy for cover and her cooking.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Olson!” He waved to her.
“Same to you, Mr. Waterman!”
“How are you feeling these days?”
“Oh, a bit slower, a bit slower. But I guess that’s to be expected with old age.” She reached around and massaged her back.
“I guess it is.” Mark chuckled politely, Mrs. Olson turned to her roses, and he continued one more block down the peaceful street.
He had two more clients on the wait list, and only one property to close on this week. Mrs. Olson’s would probably be the next spot to open, but the old gal clung to life like it meant something.
He climbed the four stone steps to the bungalow’s front porch. The Sorrells hadn’t arrived yet, so he took a seat on the porch swing, listening as the loose ends of the chains clanked against the supports. He spread his arms out across the back of the swing, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. What a perfect day.
He tried to remember his first sale. His mentor explained to him some twenty years ago that niche markets like theirs took time and patience to cultivate. Mark almost quit a couple of times under the stress of it all, but quitting meant more than a simple career change. It meant changing one’s whole identity.
And niche markets like theirs also meant one never retired. As long as there is breath, there is the job.
He heard a car pull up and saw his clients eyeing the place through the rolled-down windows of their Mercedes.
“Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Sorrell!” This part he hated. The initial face-to-face. There are some things they couldn’t teach in realtor school. Either you relate to people or you don’t. Mark didn’t. Mark faked graciousness and generosity and understanding every day. Then he retreated to his own two-story sanctuary with his solitary hobbies, filling his emotional and mental cup for the next day’s duties.
The good-looking couple exited the car and stood on the sidewalk, taking in the view of the street and their potential new home. The blue Armani gave the gentleman an air of importance and intimidation. The lady wore a white sundress that reached her ankles. She pulled her sunglasses to the top of her head and shielded her eyes as she inspected the house.
Mark unlocked the front door and met them at the bottom of the steps. He stuck his hand out, expecting a firm handshake from Joel. He wasn’t disappointed. To Joyce, he held out his hand palm-up. She placed her hand in his, and he lifted it to his lips and kissed her in greeting. She blushed a little, which surprised him, given their profile.
Or she was as good at faking niceties as Mark was.
“Would you like a moment to inspect the outside, or shall we begin the tour?”
“Let’s go in, if you don’t mind,” Joel said.
“After you.” He stepped into the grass so the couple could go ahead. Mark never turned his back on new clients.
The couple held hands as they crossed the porch and entered the front door. Mark was careful to keep his eyes on the back of their heads instead of where he’d like to look—at Joyce’s slender silhouette beneath her thin frock. That’s how Mark had inherited the New Osgood territory. His mentor had made the mistake of allowing his eyes to linger a bit too long on the frame of Grant Cook’s wife. And that was that.
He crossed the threshold into the front room. “I’d be happy to point out specifics, if you’d like. Or I can wait in the kitchen for you with some printed information and allow you to explore on your own.”
Joyce smiled at him and adjusted the sunglasses on top of her blonde head. Joel eyed the room and said, “I think we’ll be fine. If we have questions, we’ll ask.” They continued to hold hands as they explored the house. Mark wondered how much of that was genuine affection or for display.
“Sure thing.” Mark moved to the kitchen and began spreading out paperwork for the couple to inspect. He had two contracts for this case. He laid the trifold brochures on top of the paperwork. And on top of it all, he placed two brand new Visconti fountain pens. An ebony limited edition with platinum nib for the gentleman, and a gold-nibbed peach beauty for the lady.
Most couples signed one contract because, usually, one of the pair had no clue whom they’d married, and that came with an extra delicate dance during the showing and utmost confidentiality between Mark and the lead buyer. This was only the fourth time in all his years that a pair needed individual contracts. That meant they knew.
“Well, what do you think?” Mark asked as the couple came into the kitchen.
Joyce looked disappointed. “It’s quaint. Not quite what I expected for the money.”
“This is as good as it gets, dear. We can’t be too fussy.” Joel ran his finger across the countertop.
“Is there anything else in the area that is a little more… well, modern?” Joyce opened a cupboard above the stove.
Mark got this question a lot. His clients were accustomed to having the best of the best. With a relocation and a slower-paced lifestyle, sometimes they had a hard time adjusting. On the other hand, those same adjustment issues often led to vacant properties. “This is the only home in New Osgood that’s move-in ready at the moment. I have one in closing now, but it’s smaller and older by a decade.”
He thought about mentioning Mrs. Olson’s place, but held his tongue. He had too many details to work out before he could offer that property.
“I just don’t know. I was hoping for something more grand.” Joyce stood with a hand on her hip and tucked a curl of blonde hair behind her ear with the other.
Mark hesitated, then said, “I could put you in touch with the realtor over in Dover Junction, a sister community to ours, but that’s out of state quite a ways. I’m not sure what his fee is these days, either.” He only offered this because he could sense Joyce was going to be high maintenance.
“No, no. We need to be a little closer to the city for our work. That won’t do,” Joel said.
Joyce elbowed him in the ribs and whispered, “Ask him.”
He rolled his eyes and said, “On the way down the street, we noticed a home about a block back. The one with all the roses. Is that one available?”
“If all the houses are this old, the least we could do is find one with a beautiful yard.”
Mark nodded. He knew he should have dealt with Mrs. Olson months ago. “I know the property. The elderly lady there takes good care of it.”
Joel put both hands in his pockets, exposing the Glock pistol tucked in his waistband. “How much extra to make it available, say, by the end of the week?”
“Well, there’s the contracts that have to be redone and the–”
“Joel, please.” Joyce puckered her bottom lip and leaned into his chest. He looked perturbed, but put an arm around her.
“I was led to believe you’re the best realtor in this business, Mr. Waterman. Make it happen. No price is too steep for a little peace and quiet on the home front.” Joyce elbowed him in the ribs again.
Mark smiled and nodded. He packed away the pens and paperwork and said, “I’ll make it happen. You’ll hear from me soon.”
Another handshake to the gentleman. Another courtesy kiss to the lady’s hand. Mark locked up the empty bungalow, saw the Sorrells to their car, and walked the two blocks home. He had details to work out.
***
Mark traded his suit jacket and tie for a t-shirt and sweats, but not before he fastened the concealed-carry wrap around his midsection. He slid open the cylinder and spun it twice, checking for debris and snug ammo placement. He tucked the revolver into the pouch on the wrap, placed his dress shoes on the closet shelf and laced up his runners. After a quick microwave dinner, he headed back down the street toward the bungalow, passing Mrs. Olson’s home.
He could see the flicker of the TV through the lacy sheers blowing in the breeze. The evening air was crisp and fresh. Night would fall in another hour or so. He passed the empty bungalow, which would now house one Mr. Samuel Twain, no doubt an alias. Mark’s payday would be massive this week. He dreamed of ways to spend the cash. Or to invest it.
He’d already sunk loads of cash into his own abode. Newly renovated and updated rooms and appliances. The best of the best.
He rounded the block near the police station—another one of Mark’s investments in the town that was going very well. For the niche market to thrive, one had to have a solid, hand-picked police presence. Mark smiled. His mentor had taught him well.
He continued to run until he worked up a sweat, and timed it so that he’d be back to his block at nightfall. It really was a beautiful night. The lightning bugs floated from the well-manicured lawns like miniature hot air balloons. Crickets provided the background music.
A few more blocks to go.
Maybe a vacation to the city. Stay at the St. Regis, catch a ferry out to Liberty Island for an afternoon. Visit Times Square. He’d made his decision and smiled. He was close enough now to smell the honeysuckle.
He knocked on Mrs. Olson’s front door. He could hear the television in the background.
The old lady opened the door slowly and peeked her head out. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Waterman. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. I was wondering if I could speak to you for a moment. It’s about your roses.”
“If you won’t mind waiting. I’m in my nightgown. Just a moment.” She shut the door gently, and for anyone passing on the street who cared to look in the direction of the front porch, it appeared he was waiting patiently. But Mark now felt the weight of the holster and the gun against his skin. The anticipation of the event created more adrenaline and sweat than his jog had.
“Okay, I’m ready for you. Come on in.” She wore a lavender bath robe and carried a pitcher of lemonade. Two tall glasses with ice cubes waited on the coffee table. She showed him to the sofa and turned off the TV.
“Mrs. Olson – Nancy. Can I call you Nancy?”
“If I can call you Mark.” She grinned and handed him a sweaty glass of ice-cold sweetness. She stood in front of him and watched as he took a long sip and held the glass in his lap. The cold dripping from the glass onto his legs helped him to focus.
“I was wondering how long you’ve been tending those roses, Nancy. If I remember correctly, they were planted before you and Barry married.” He took another sip.
“Let’s cut this out, shall we, Mr. Waterman?” She poured herself a glass and drank half of it before setting it on the coffee table. She straightened herself and pulled a Ruger from her robe and aimed it at Mark’s head. “I’ve been wondering when you would come by to discuss more than the weather.”
Mark fumbled the glass, dumping lemonade and ice cubes onto his crotch.
“Stay seated, please, Mr. Waterman. Mark. Barry warned me on his deathbed about this day. About the contract he signed.”
“Now, Mrs. Olson, let’s have a rational discussion.” Mark put his arms up, adrenaline pumping. He could probably lunge and take her down and only suffer a flesh wound if she managed to get a shot off.
“We are having a rational discussion.” She was calm, as steady as any seasoned criminal client Mark had ever worked with. “You can’t have my home. I didn’t sign the contract. Barry did.”
“That’s not how it works, Mrs. Olson.” Mark stood and reached for his piece.
It was the last thing Mark Waterman did.
***
On a beautiful summer morning two weeks later, Mr. and Mrs. Sorrell took a jog down the block from their home in New Osgood. They paused to greet sweet old Mrs. Olson tending her roses.
“Good morning, Nancy!”
Nancy stood and brushed the dirt from her knees and hands. “Good morning!”
“Looks like you have a new addition to your rose garden,” Joel said.
She smiled and admired her freshly cultivated patch with new white roses. “How are you enjoying the old Waterman place, Joyce?”
“It’s grand. Just grand.” And the couple continued their jog.
