The truth about 696 Apple Hill Lane was a carefully preserved secret.
And it had been Annette’s main goal to keep it a secret. No way she could broker a transaction if anyone knew about what had happened. Even her husband, honest and trustworthy Roman Best, had agreed there.
They wouldn’t share details about the house’s history until they had a buyer in hand. Someone genuinely interested.
As Annette and Quinn stepped into the foyer, Annette couldn’t hold back her surprise. The condition was…bad. Without having entered it before now, she could have only surmised how bad. This was worse.
Sure, she’d seen the exterior. Every day of her life for the past few years, now. But wow. A smile ever plastered to her face, she whipped around to Quinn, who gazed steely eyed about the crowded, dank space. Annette forced herself not to plug her nose. “It’s a project,” she sang out.
Quinn must have been breathing through her mouth like Annette.
She had grace. That couldn’t be argued. “It’s…a big house,” Quinn commented as her eyes crept up and over the towering furniture, the piles of stuff. They landed back on Annette, and though there might have been trepidation there, she added, “A yard sale might be in order.”
Annette’s smile brightened earnestly. Quinn Whittle, whoever she was, was her kind of gal. “Potential. Potential out the wazoo, I assure you. And yes, you might get a little cash for some of this.” She waved her hand around, indicating the mess left behind.
They both took in the sights of the place once again.
The county had come in to assess property value and look for assets to be sold on behalf of the previous owner’s estate. Annette hadn’t known him—Carl Carlson.
Carl Carlson.
A funny name for an odd, secretive old man. It made sense, in actuality, that he’d have a phony name. Had to be a cover-up, Annette suspected.
Since Mr. Carlson had had no living kin come forward, they’d leveraged his remaining assets against the debts. At least, this was Annette’s weak understanding of the matter, which she’d put together based on the small brokerage fee she and Roman would earn out of the transaction—assuming it came to pass. Praying it came to pass. Best on the Block had missed out on a few listings lately. Two in Crabtree Court alone, in fact. The sellers wanted a company that was more accessible. This made no sense to Annette, and Roman was useless in decoding it, too.
“Comes with the furniture,” Annette offered Quinn, running the pad of her index finger along the back of a wood-trimmed Queen Anne sofa. A puff of gray dust dissipated into the air when she rubbed her thumb against it and grimaced inwardly.
Quinn tugged open the drawer of one of two filing cabinets, then shut it and wiped her hand on a little white handkerchief that had materialized from the woman’s purse. How quaint. “It’s a lot of work,” Quinn confessed. Her mouth lay in a flat line.
“But it’s a great deal,” Annette assured her.
“That’s what you said,” Quinn replied.
Annette took her cue to explain. “Harbor Hills is one of the safest neighborhoods in Michigan and contends for the same title nationally. We’re family-friendly. Property values are higher than average. We recycle here, too.”
“I can see that,” Quinn answered, lifting a decrepit newspaper from the top of a leaning stack of others. The editions that sat on the bottom of the tall heap were obviously yellower, like a sad, putrid rainbow of history. A homage to all the things that made the news in little Harbor Hills.
Annette allowed a light chuckle, though she had a strict personal rule about never making fun. Who knew what poor old Carl Carlson was going through? Not her.
They continued the tour, and Annette did her best to point out the redeeming features of the Michigan colonial. Four rooms on the first floor (one bedroom). Four on the second (two bedrooms). The layout was compartmentalized, as were most of the houses built in Harbor Hills at the turn of the century. If it was Harbor Hills Quinn wanted, then she was getting a lot of house in a nice area for a low price.
“So, what brings you to our little hamlet, anyway?” Annette asked as they left the second-floor bath—its clawfoot tub, though overflowing with musty towels and linens, seemed to be of particular interest to Quinn.
She smiled a sad sort of smile. “Family. I, um, I have family nearby.”
“In Detroit? Or—” Annette looked her client up and down. The structured black blouse fell to the tops of her thighs. Firm, slender thighs sheathed by fitted, cropped white jeans. She’d fit in on Apple Hill. Better than Carl Carlson, God rest his soul. Annette shook her head at her own awfulness. “Rochester?” she added. Rochester was far more probable than Detroit. Then again, the woman was purchasing a foreclosure. Annette pursed her lips again at herself. They were compulsive, her judgments. Compulsive.
“My ex is in Birch Harbor. I have some relatives on Heirloom Island, too.”
Birch Harbor was a stone’s throw from Harbor Hills. In fact, Harbor Hills was named after the little waterfront town on the shores of Lake Huron. Heirloom Island was a small chunk of land that floated just out past Birch Harbor.
“Ex as in ex-husband?” Annette pressed.
“Yes.” Quinn’s confidence was unshakeable. They paused on the second-floor landing, having examined each of the bedrooms and the bath. “That’s how I found out about this house, in fact. I was in Birch Harbor at a family event. Met someone there who knew of a fixer-upper. Something in my budget but…with potential.”
Annette nodded. “Right. Judith Carmichael.” Judith, who also lived on Apple Hill, had referred Quinn to Annette, apparently. Judith had given no details, however. All she’d said was that she’d met someone interested in a good deal. That was it. The rest of the magic would have to come from Annette’s showmanship or businesswoman skills or…Quinn’s desperateness, perhaps.
“Anyway,” Quinn went on, letting out a slow sigh, clearly leading to the fact that the tour was over and there was little more to be added. Little more to be said of Carl Carlson and his hoard. “What’s next?”
Annette took this as a good sign and grinned. She propped a thin folder on the bannister as she flipped it open.
Inside, she’d taped the two keys. In each pocket of the folder was tucked the necessary paperwork to satisfy the details of the transaction. However, one loose page hung from a small paperclip in front of the right pocket. “Next,” Annette declared with a smile, “you sign here.”
Annette bit her lip in anticipation as Quinn’s eyes swept the page. A disclosure, required by county ordinance.
The sort of thing that could ruin the sale.
And these days, even if the sale was a softball lobbed to them by First Regional Bank, Annette and Roman Best were just one sale away from the worst.