For Sale in Palm Springs: The Henry Wright Mystery Series

For Sale in Palm Springs

  a Henry Wright Mystery

  by

  Albert Simon

  ISBN 0-976200-34-1

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2004-2010 by Albert Simon

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The Henry Wright Mystery Series:

  Springtime in Sonora

  Mystery on the Tramway

  Drama in the Mother Lode

  Coachella Valley Traffic Jam

  This book is for Berlynn

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday, April 12

  He loved the feeling of acceleration as he guided the big English car into the turn onto Sunrise Way from Highway one-eleven. The luscious Jaguar XJ12 and its velvety twelve cylinder engine purred as nicely as his mother’s old sewing machine as he put his foot on the accelerator. He let the steering wheel roll back through his hands as he finished turning. He enjoyed the feel of the smooth leather on his palms. He was really glad that he bought this model Jaguar before Ford Motor got their designer’s hands on it and ruined the way the car felt.

  The smooth acceleration and getting lost in the feelings that the car brought him made him exceed the speed limit ever so slightly after rounding the corner. He slowed it down and settled back into the big overstuffed Lazy Boy like seat as he headed for his appointment in the older part of Palm Springs. Sunrise Way’s straight four lanes stretched out in front of him, it was only mid-April but already he could see the shimmering heat waves rising off the asphalt in the distance from the mid-day heat.

  He stopped at the traffic light at Ramon Road and motioned at two teenage boys to finish crossing the street as his light turned green. They must have been late for class at Palm Springs High. The packs on their backs bounced as they ran, one of them smiled and waved thanks to him. Ah, he wasn’t sure who said it, but youth truly was wasted on the young.

  He was brought out of his daydream when the car behind him honked. He accelerated slowly this time. The gas station at the corner had left the sprinklers running and the water flooded into the intersection. The Jag was clean, he had it washed yesterday and he didn’t want to splash the water on it, he wanted it to look good so that his customer would be impressed. Besides, he had plenty of time, in fact, he was a little early, but that would give him time to open the house up, turn on the air and the lights. A bright house looked larger and hopefully his client would think it was bigger than the little cracker box it actually was. Yes, sir, after six years in the real estate business, Rex Thornbird was at the top of his game. One of the most successful agents in the entire Palm Springs area, Rex had the nice, showcase house up on the hill that he just finished refurbishing, the big imported cars and he was the envy of everyone in the Coachella Real Estate office. If only his wife hadn’t left two years ago with half of what he had then, he could have retired by now. Her greed slowed him down some, but after she took her half of the nest egg he carefully built up, and the divorce was final, he worked even harder to get it all back, and then some. This time, the houses, the cars, bank accounts and toys were his and his alone and he intended to keep it that way.

  But, even with enough money and toys, Rex wasn’t sure he wanted to retire. He was the top producing agent in his office, month after month. His picture was printed on For Sale signs on practically every block in this part of Palm Springs. Around town, he was known as the “mid-century specialist”, a reputation that he enjoyed and quietly encouraged. He grinned as he thought of the allure the local real estate industry had created with these so-called mid-Century homes. Anywhere else in the country, these would be described as older houses built in the ‘50’s, or “fixer-uppers” or “starter homes”. But here in Palm Springs, that 50’s style reigned supreme, and many buyers paid well to get to buy one of these houses. It was too bad that most of them were built quickly and cheaply and were certainly not up to today’s standards.

  He’d made a nice business of selling the little cracker boxes though; it was amazing what prospective buyers would overlook after he had his paint crew slap a fresh coat of white paint on the walls covering up tacky outdated wallpaper, or years of grime. He also had a carpet cleaning crew that he used all the time, they worked wonders with worn out wall to wall. All of the houses he sold looked great, but their beauty was only skin deep. Their typical 50’s style gently sloping roofs, covered with tar and gravel, didn’t allow for the insulation that was required in the heat of the Sonoran Desert. His prospects didn’t need to know that the air conditioner that they were going to install would run all day. Single pane windows in cheap aluminum frames did nothing to keep the desert heat out, or cool air in. The flimsy thin glass certainly wouldn’t block out the noise of the ever increasing traffic at the Palm Springs Airport. Rex made it a point to never show houses to prospective buyers while American and Alaska airlines were flying their jets in and out of the little airport.

  Yet, of all the properties he had ever sold, only a couple of buyers complained to him afterwards. The continuously rising price of real estate and their investment’s quickly increasing value was a big part of that. Rex was convinced that some of these buyers were too embarrassed to come back and complain that they had received less than they paid for.

  Four years ago he started selling locally well-known architect designed houses. There are a lot of homes in the Palm Springs area designed by famous architects such as Richard Neutra. Some of these homes were built as commissions for famous celebrities or business moguls; others were expressions in Modernism by the architects, built by them on pure speculation of a buyer coming along. Rex’s first architectural listing was a small seventeen room motel on Farrell Street near the airport that was designed by another Modernist architect. He sold it to a young couple who wanted to turn it into a resort hotel.

  After the hotel he sold a couple of Alexander tract homes, and got lucky when he listed a Richard Neutra designed estate. When Rex discovered the premium prices these designer homes commanded, he started getting creative with the architectural attribution. He would casually mention an architect’s name while showing a house to a potential buyer, and soon he knew that he could ask for a hundred thousand more than the true value of the house. His tactics paid off handsomely, but it couldn’t last and it had run its course about the time his wife filed the divorce papers.

  Then, about two years ago, when there was a small slump in sales, he discovered that many of his potential buyers were intrigued by Palm Springs’ history as a getaway for entertainers and film stars and the legacy they left behind. Since the famous architect designed ruse was more or less passé, Rex moved quickly to make the most of his newfound marketing niche.

  In its heyday, in the 1930’s and ‘40’s, Palm Springs was the place where many of the Hollywood movie stars slipped away to for rest, relaxation, drying out, cosmetic surgery or illicit affairs. Most of these celebrities wouldn’t stay in a hotel with its public rooms and possibility of being recognized by vacationing fans. Instead, they bought a house, or borrowed one from one of their costars. These “celebrity homes” were now much sought after by older people wanting some of the luster of the golden age of Hollywood to rub off on them, or by the nouveau rich, who were trying to associate themselves with old money.

  Earlier this year he sold a house that once belonged to Bette Davis to a young entrepreneur who had flown down from Silicon Valley with IPO cash and was a Bette Davis fanatic. The young man had obviously overpaid, the house was small, had the original kitchen, was on a bu
sy corner and didn’t even have a pool. Although, as Rex had pointed out to the kid with stars in his eyes, there was room to have a pool installed. He grinned as he thought about it; sure there was room for a pool, as long as you bought it in the toy section of Wal-Mart. Bette Davis had never ever owned that house. He’d made it up, he knew that Bette visited Palm Springs, but she certainly never even saw that little house. Stretching the truth to make a sale didn’t matter to Rex and the buyer took his word for it, anxious to have something that had belonged to his idol.

  The house he was heading for now was rumored to have been owned by 1930’s singer and movie star Rudy Vallee. Had Rudy ever owned it? He knew he hadn’t, since he had been the one to start the rumor. Rex didn’t even know if the late Rudy Vallee had even been to Palm Springs. It didn’t matter though; Rex bought a small autographed photo of Rudy Vallee on eBay for eight dollars, picked up a cheap frame at Target over in Cathedral City and put it on the mantle of the house’s fireplace. Then he added fifty thousand to the asking price and told one of the clerks in the title company office that he just listed Rudy Vallee’s former house for sale.

  He also mentioned the Rudy Vallee house to Rosie, the manager at the Coachella Real Estate office, he knew that she would spread that to all the other agents, at the Starbucks and all her friends at the gym. Sure enough, about three days after he “quietly” mentioned it to her, one of the associates in his office asked him how he got so lucky with listing celebrity homes. He smiled as he explained to the youngster who Rudy Vallee was, and he realized his reputation in the office had climbed another notch.

  Rex made the left turn off of Sunrise onto Granvia Valmonte as he headed towards the mountains and Ruth Hardy Park. He loved the way the Mount San Jacinto came up straight from the desert floor and he never failed to be impressed by the mountains when he headed in this direction. He thought he could see the sun’s reflection off the upper station of the Palm Springs tram line, he had seen the light from here at night. Yes, this was a great street in the older section, and there were some really nice homes on this street, some of which he had sold, some of which he would sell in the future.

  He had a listing at the corner of Calle Rolph and Valmonte, but the owners still lived in the house and were hard to deal with, he’d had trouble selling that one. Perhaps when they returned to Alberta for the summer he would get in there and stage it for a quick sale while they were gone. He’d made the bulk of his money selling vacant homes for absentee owners; many of the homes were fully furnished including linens and silverware.

  Six months ago he sold a house with all the furniture and a 1988 Lincoln Continental in the garage to a couple moving to Palm Springs from Minnesota. When the husband found out the car had only twelve thousand miles on it, it clinched the deal. He probably should have set the asking price higher, but who knew that the car would push the old man’s button?

  Rex rolled the big Jaguar further up Valmonte, across Caballeros and gracefully eased the car to the curb. There was plenty of space for parking, and he figured he would have enough time to get the house ready before his prospect arrived. This old lady was a bit strange; he hadn’t met her yet which was unusual for one of his clients. Usually he spent a lot of time talking to them to see what their interests were before showing them a house. She called the main number in the office earlier in the week, asked for the “mid-century specialist” and the call was routed directly to his desk.

  He hadn’t been there at the time he was out showing someone else a property he had just listed in the Deep Well area of Palm Springs. She had talked with Rosie, the office manager, and when the message was relayed to him, the word was that she was a recent widow and wanted to move to Palm Springs to be closer to her sister who had bought a home from him earlier. Now that she was alone, she wanted to be closer to her only remaining relative. She was from somewhere out on the coast, he didn’t remember exactly where. Apparently, she heard that he sold a lot of celebrity homes and wanted to look at something that had been owned by a thirties or forties movie star.

  He thought the house with the Rudy Vallee pedigree would be perfect for her. The next time she called, she reached him on his cell phone, and he mentioned the house with the Rudy Vallee connection. She gushed and said she had a crush on Rudy as a schoolgirl. She insisted that he meet her at the house, she didn’t want to come out to his office, said she was driving from Cambria, or wherever, Rex couldn’t remember, and it was easier for her to go there directly.

  He usually preferred meeting clients in the office out on Palm Canyon and driving them over to the property in his big Jaguar. First they were usually impressed with the car, and he felt that the Jaguar showed that he had class and could be trusted. Second and more importantly, when he drove, he controlled the route that they took to the house. His route was the most advantageous to showing off the neighborhood, not always the shortest way to the house. He also made a point of driving by all the for sale signs with his picture on them.

  Rex looked in the Jag’s rear view mirror, he checked to make sure his hair was still combed neatly. He turned off the ignition as the big seat slid back from its memorized forward driving position to let him out of the car. He loved that creature comfort feature, though he didn’t really need it, he wasn’t a very large man, his driver’s license said he was five foot eight and weighed one-fifty-five, and both of those were generous. Rex opened the rear passenger door and carefully took his sports coat off its hanger and slipped it on. He was a little fussy about how his clothes looked and didn’t like the wrinkled look a lot of the other agents had and always took his coat off when he drove. He brushed a bit of lint off the sleeves, checked his shoes for their shine and looked up over to the house. The gravel roof didn’t look too good, but it would last another year or two in the desert climate that didn’t see much rain.

  Rex walked around his car and headed for the front door; he never parked in the driveway when visiting a house, always at the curb. He figured that parking on the driveway would mean that his client would have to walk around the car and that would make the space seem smaller. Rex noticed with approval that the gardeners were there in the morning as he requested. He knew how to show a house off to its best potential, making the yard look nice and freshly mowed and raked was important in the first impression a potential buyer had of the property.

  He bent down to the lockbox to get the key to the front door, and saw that one of the other agents had been careless and left the box open. Rex never liked the combination lock boxes; he didn’t think they were as secure as the older ones that required a key. Some places were using electronic lock boxes, but they were expensive and none of the real estate agencies in the Coachella Valley wanted to spend the money.

  Joe, one of the agents in the office, told him he should be lucky that lockboxes were used. Joe said there were a lot of places in the country where you had to depend on the owner to provide the key to the house. Sometimes the only way to show a buyer a house was to get a key from the listing agent, a real pain. No, the lockbox system was better than no lockboxes at all, Rex reasoned, even if careless agents left the box unlocked.

  He pulled the key out of the box and opened the front door, he walked in and laid the key on the kitchen counter, he’d put it back when he locked up as he was leaving. The house was dark, dusty and a little stuffy, it was a good thing he was early. He walked to the patio door, flipping on lights as he went. He pulled open the drapes and slid the big door open. The house didn’t have any furniture in it; the owners were from out of town and after owning it for two years and never moving in, decided to sell. He checked the autographed picture of Rudy Vallee on the fireplace mantle, straightening it as he went by.

  Rex walked into the hallway, switched on the light, looked at the thermostat and turned on the air conditioner. This house had been renovated in the early ‘80’s and had air, though it couldn’t keep up with the desert heat on the worst days. It wouldn’t really cool off, especially with the patio do
or open, but maybe he could get rid of the stale smell before his buyer arrived. At that point, Rex realized that he didn’t even know her name; just that she lived in Cambria, Carpinteria, Camarillo, or somewhere, on the coast.

  Rex continued into the bedrooms and flipped on the ceiling lights. Walking into the kitchen, he turned on the fan above the stove; he figured anything to get some air moving through the house. He thought that she would be there by now. Maybe she got hung up in traffic on the way down. Perhaps she called the office to let him know that she was going to be late, perhaps it was a good idea to call in to see if there were any messages. His cell phone was out in the car, he never clipped it to his belt like the other agents, he had one of the older bulky ones and he just couldn’t stand the bulge it left under his Armani sport coats.

  Before he ran out to the car for his phone, he spotted the old fashioned wall phone above the counter, he remembered his parents had a clunker like that in their kitchen for years, he started dialing, yes, dialing his office, but there was no dial tone. Frustrated, he slammed the receiver back on the chrome hook and turned to head out to his car. What was that? He thought at the noise he heard coming from the utility closet in the hall. There must be something wrong with the aging air conditioner; it had to be ready to conk out, or maybe there was air in the cooling lines.

  Maybe he should turn it off before it made noises with the widow in the house, a noisy air conditioner would be worse than one that was not on. He could always mention that the house had an air conditioner, but that he had not turned it on yet. Perhaps he should take a quick check on the compressor located outside, it would probably be better if it was running when she was here, who knows, if he had working air, a picture of Rudy Vallee and a widow with cash in her bank account, he would surely close the sale on this place today.

  As he opened the door to the garage and took a step into the darkness, he heard the noise again, before he had a chance to turn around, he felt something heavy hit the back of his head. He lost his footing and slipped back and fell onto the hard floor of the kitchen. Whoa, this isn’t good, he thought, what will the widow think when she walks in and the mid-century specialist is on the floor instead of at the door?

  He tried to get up off the floor but his legs didn’t want to respond. He felt something warm and sticky running along his neck and onto the floor. Aw shoot, now I have to clean that up too before she gets here he thought as he kept trying to get up. Maybe he should rest for a minute, regain his breath and strength and then he could get his legs to do what he wanted them to do. He thought it looked like blood beneath his head, he hoped he could get it off the floor before the widow arrived, surely that would not make a good first impression.

  Worrying about the pool of his blood and the mess it made on the floor and the impression it would leave on the buyer would be the last thoughts that Rex Thornbird, mid-century specialist and top real estate agent in the Coachella Valley would ever have.