Mount Pleasant by Don Gillmor Page A

Prescott to steal Dad’s money. I wonder if he’s smart enough. And August is probably too ethical.”
    “August has cancer. He must be eighty. He’s on his way out.”
    “Which isn’t exactly a motive.”
    Left unspoken was the fact that Erin didn’t really need the money. She was still venomously angry that Dixie had gottenall of their father’s furniture, but Erin could easily afford to buy whatever she wanted, and wouldn’t have had room for any of it, anyway. Whatever her husband, Ty, did, whatever dark corner of the banking world he inhabited these days, it was clearly profitable.
    “Erin, I think we have to make an attempt to find out what happened.”
    “What, you mean hire someone, a detective? Don’t you think the money is long gone, Harry? If there even was any. He wouldn’t be the first person who lived beyond his means.”
    Harry absorbed this subtle assault. “What if there is money, Erin? There might be $8 million floating around out there. Even if it’s just $2 million …”
    “You could afford a divorce, Harry.”
    If there really was no money, it occurred to Harry, they might need to sell the house. It had been the first of his investments to disappoint. Real estate was supposed to be the bedrock, but his house had proved to be the foundation of his debt. Every detail of the house’s inflated price, ongoing disappointments and lawsuit-threatening renovations was etched in his mind. Harry had stayed awake and brooded over it for years, off and on, replaying his decisions. The first problem was that he and Gladys had bought at the top of the market. Perhaps it was the day the market peaked. They had paid $522,000 back in 1989, far more than they could afford, but the reasoning was that, at the time, the housing market was going up between six and nine percent annually. “Your house is your savings account,” the real estate agent had said. A trim, petite woman, Del drove a BMW and wore flared dress pants and heels. “This is land. They’re not making any more of it,” she said. “In history,historically, land goes up. A dip, maybe, but up, always. Harry, I pride myself on knowing what my clients are
not
saying. And what you’re not saying is,
I love this place!
” This was partly true. Harry loved the southern exposure, the light it spread through the house. He was nervous about the electrical system and the ancient furnace. And he was fearful of the bidding war that would surely take place. He had already lost six bidding wars, and it was emasculating, and Del had a real talent for subtly reinforcing this idea and suggesting—without actually saying anything—that Harry was wasting her time with his small-dick offers.
    The house was listed at $458,000. There were five bidders. Because of the interest, there would be no house inspection report, no handsome binder that told you whether the house had termites or corroded lead pipes that leaked dangerous chemicals into your drinking water, causing irreparable brain damage. They had to take their chances. Del gave him The Talk. “Harry, you have to understand what this house means to you. I don’t mean bricks, parking pad, breakfast nook, whatever. I’m talking about its meaning. Because that is what you’re buying. You try and put a dollar figure on that meaning. What it is. And that dollar figure is based on what, Harry? People think it’s based on what they can afford. And they live with that regret every day of their lives. Twenty-five years ago, this house sold for $27,000, and some poor immigrant and his wife, they looked at each other and said, ‘Jesus, we can’t do this.’ And now its listed at $458,000, and it’ll go for more than $500,000. There are four other people out there, Harry. And some of them have already lost. They haven’t even put in their offer and they’re gone. They think, Well, why not go a few thousand over asking? It’s worth a try. Not in a field of five. They’ll go two, five, maybe ten. They