The Grove Real Estate Agency was on East Main Street in the attractive New Jersey town of Mendham. Georgette Grove parked in front of it and got out of the car. The August day was unusually cool, and the overhead clouds were threatening rain. Her short-sleeved linen suit was not warm enough for the weather, and she moved with a quick step up the path to the door of her office.
Sixty-two years old, Georgette was a handsome whippet-thin woman with short wavy hair the color of steel, hazel eyes, and a firm chin. At the moment, her emotions were conflicted. She was pleased at how smoothly the closing had gone on the house she had just helped sell. It was one of the smaller houses in town, its selling price barely breaking the seven figure mark, but even though she had split the commission with another broker, the check she was carrying was manna from heaven. It would give her a few months’ reserve until she landed another sale.
So far it had been a disastrous year, saved only by her sale of the house on Old Mill Lane to Alex Nolan. That one had caught her up on overdue bills at the office. She had very much wanted to be present that morning when Nolan presented the house to his wife. I hope she likes surprises, Georgette thought for the hundredth time. She worried that what he was doing was risky. She had tried to warn him about the house, about its history, but Nolan didn’t seem to care. Georgette worried also that since he’d put the house in his wife’s name only, if his wife didn’t like it, she, Georgette, might be wide open to a non-disclosure suit.
It was part of the real estate code of New Jersey that a prospective buyer had to be notified if a house was a stigmatized property, meaning one that might be impacted by a factor that, on a psychological level, could cause apprehension or fears. Since some people would not want to live in a house in which a crime had been committed, or in which there had been a suicide, the real estate agent was obliged to make a prospective client aware of any such history. The statute even required the agent to reveal if a house had the reputation of being haunted.
I tried to tell Alex Nolan that there had been a tragedy in the house on Old Mill Lane, Georgette thought defensively as she opened the office door and stepped into the reception room. But he had cut her off, saying that his family used to rent a two-hundred-year-old house on Cape Cod, and the history of some of the people who lived in it would curl your hair. But this is different, Georgette thought. I should have told him that around here the house he bought is known as “Little Lizzie’s Place.”
She wondered if Nolan had become nervous about his surprise. At the last minute he had asked her to be at the house when they arrived, but it had been impossible to change the other closing. Instead she had sent Henry Paley to greet Nolan and his wife, and to be there to answer any questions Mrs. Nolan might have. Henry had been reluctant to cover for her, and in the end she had been forced to remind him, rather sharply, not only to be there, but to be sure to emphasize the many desirable features of the house and property.
At Nolan’s request, the driveway had been decorated with festive balloons, all painted with the words “Happy Birthday, Celia.” The porch had been draped with festive papier-mâché, and he also had asked that champagne and a birthday cake and glasses and plates and silverware and birthday napkins be waiting inside.
When Georgette pointed out that there was absolutely no furniture in the house, and offered to bring over a folding table and chairs, Nolan had been upset. He had rushed to a nearby furniture store and ordered an expensive glass patio table and chairs, and instructed the salesman to have them placed in the dining room. “We’ll switch them to the patio when we move in, or if Celia doesn’t like them, we’ll donate them to a charity and take a deduction,” he had said.
Five thousand dollars for a patio set and he’s talking about giving it away, Georgette had thought, but she knew he meant it. Yesterday afternoon he had phoned and asked her to be sure there were a dozen roses in every room on the main floor, as well as in the master bedroom suite. “Roses are Ceil’s favorite flowers,” he explained. “When we got married, I promised her that she’d never be without them.”
He’s rich. He’s handsome. He’s charming. And he’s clearly devoted to his wife, Georgette thought as she stepped inside and automatically glanced around the reception room to see if any potential clients were waiting there. From half the marriages I’ve seen, she’s a damn lucky woman.
But how will she react when she starts hearing the stories about the house?
Georgette tried to push the thought away. Born with a natural ability to sell, she had progressed rapidly from being a secretary and part-time real estate agent, to founding her own company. Her reception room was a matter of special pride to her. Robin Carpenter, her secretary-receptionist, was positioned at an antique mahogany desk to the right of the entrance. On the left, a brightly upholstered sectional couch and chairs were grouped around a coffee table.
There, while clients sipped coffee or soft drinks or a glass of wine in the early evening, Georgette or Henry would run tapes showing available properties. The tapes provided meticulous details of every aspect of the interior, the exterior, and the surrounding neighborhood.
“Those tapes take a lot of time to do properly,” Georgette was fond of explaining to clients, “but they save you a lot of time, and by finding your likes and dislikes, we can get a very good idea of what you’re really looking for.”
Make them want it before they set foot in it—that was Georgette’s game plan. It had worked for nearly twenty years, but in the last five it had gotten tougher, as more and more high-powered agencies had opened in the area, their young and vigorous brokers panting for every listing.
Robin was the only person in the reception area. “How did the closing go?” she asked Georgette.
“Smoothly, thank God. Is Henry back?”
“No, I guess he’s still drinking champagne with the Nolans. I still can’t believe it. A gorgeous guy buys a gorgeous house for his wife for her thirty-fourth birthday. That’s exactly my age. She’s so lucky. Did you ever find out if Alex Nolan has a brother?” Robin sighed. “But on the other hand, there can’t be two men like that,” she added.
“Let’s all hope that after she gets over the surprise, and has heard the story of that house, Celia Nolan still considers herself lucky,” Georgette snapped nervously. “Otherwise, we might have a real problem on our hands.”
Robin knew exactly what she meant. Small, slender, and very pretty, with a heart-shaped face and a penchant for frilly clothes, the initial impression she gave was that of the air-headed blonde. And so Georgette had believed when she applied for the job a year ago. Five minutes of conversation, however, had led her not only to reversing that opinion but to hiring Robin on the spot and upping the salary she had intended to pay. Now, after a year, Robin was about to get her own real estate license, and Georgette welcomed the prospect of having her working as an agent. Henry simply wasn’t pulling his weight anymore.
“You did try to warn the husband about the history of the house. I can back you up on that, Georgette.”
“That’s something,” Georgette said, as she headed down the hall to her private office at the rear of the building. But then she turned abruptly and faced the younger woman. “I tried to speak to Alex Nolan about the background of the house one time only, Robin,” she said emphatically. “And that was when I was alone in the car with him on our way to see the Murray house on Moselle Road. You couldn’t have heard me discussing it with him.”
“I’m sure I heard you bring it up one of the times Alex Nolan was in here,” Robin insisted.
“I mentioned it to him once in the car. I never said anything about it to him here. Robin, you’re not doing me or, in the long run, yourself any favors by lying to a client,” Georgette snapped. “Keep that in mind, please.”
The outside door opened. They both turned as Henry Paley came into the reception room. “How did it go?” Georgette asked, her anxiety apparent in the tone of her voice.
“I would say that Mrs. Nolan put up a very good act of seeming to be delighted by her husband’s birthday surprise,” Paley answered. “I believe she convinced him. However, she did not convince me.”
“Why not?” Robin asked before Georgette could frame the words.
Henry Paley’s expression was that of a man who had completed a mission he knew was doomed to failure. “I wish I could tell you,” he said. “It may just be that she was overwhelmed.” He looked at Georgette, obviously afraid that he might be giving the impression that he had somehow let her down. “Georgette,” he said apologetically, “I swear, when I was showing Mrs. Nolan the master suite, all I could visualize was that kid shooting her mother and stepfather in the sitting room years ago. Isn’t that weird?”
“Henry, this agency has sold that house three times in the last twenty-four years, and you were involved in at least two of those sales. I never heard you say that before,” Georgette protested angrily.
“I never got that feeling before. Maybe it’s because of all those damn flowers the husband ordered. It’s the same scent that hits you in funeral homes. I got it full force in the master suite of Little Lizzie’s Place today. And I have a feeling that Celia Nolan had a reaction like that, too.”
Henry realized that unwittingly he had used the forbidden words in describing the house on Old Mill Lane. “Sorry, Georgette,” he mumbled as he brushed past her.
“You should be,” Georgette said bitterly. “I can just imagine the kind of vibes you were sending out to Mrs. Nolan.”
“Maybe you’ll take me up after all on my offer to back you up on what you told Alex Nolan about the house, Georgette,” Robin suggested, a touch of sarcasm in her voice.