Moving Can Be Murder by Susan Santangelo Page A

good old Charlie
Brown saying, “I knew I’d have to look through a million valentines
before I found the right card for you….. Because you’re one in a
million.” We’ve never been into giving each other mushy greeting
cards. This was as close as it got.
    “Good one, Carol. What’s this inside?”
    “Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said, raising my
wine glass. “Here’s to the rest of our lives. May they be long,
healthy, and full of new adventures.”
    “Are you sure about this?” asked Jim,
holding the listing agreement and good old Charlie Brown in a death
grip. “I’m not forcing you to move. I know how much you love this
house.”
    “I’m sure I want to start having new
adventures with you as soon as possible,” I said, neatly
sidestepping his question. “It’ll be fun to fill in the details as
we go along. Now, sign.” I held out a pen. “I already did.”
    After a romantic dinner and a delightful
interlude in our Jacuzzi – I don’t have to tell you everything! --
I called Nancy to tell her it was official. We were listing the
house for sale.
    And that’s when our troubles really
started.
     
     



Chapter 9
     
    The first time a man got into trouble,
    he put the blame on a woman.
     
    “I thought you loved our house,” I said to
Nancy. “All you’re doing now is finding things to criticize about
it.”
    “You’ve got to stop thinking about this as
your house, Carol,” said my crackerjack real estate agent and
former best friend. “I was afraid you’d be like this. That’s why I
was hesitant to take this listing. You’ve got to let go and let me
do my job. Which, in case you’ve forgotten, is selling your
house.”
    It was a few days after Valentine’s Day.
Nancy and Marcia Fischer, the “staging expert” from Superior
Interiors (“Your Home, Only Better”), a local upscale furniture and
design studio, were going through my house from top to bottom,
scrutinizing every room, opening every closet door, and taking
copious notes. Marcia was also photographing each room with her
digital camera.
    I felt like I had been invaded.
    Lucy and Ethel followed us from room to
room, probably checking to be sure Marcia – whom I disliked on
sight for no reason other than the fact that she rolled her eyes at
Nancy every time we went into another room – wasn’t swiping
anything.
    “You need to remove all these personal
photographs,” said Marcia, surveying my beautiful living room and
its built-in bookcases with obvious disdain. “Buyers have to be
able to imagine themselves in a house. No one wants to look at
pictures of someone else’s family.” She looked at Nancy, who nodded
in agreement.
    “The dogs will definitely have to leave when
we have the open house on St. Patrick’s Day,” Marcia continued. “As
a matter of fact, they should be out of the house for at least a
week before the open house to get rid of that awful doggy odor.”
She wrinkled up her nose in distaste. “No agent’s going to show a
house to a potential buyer with this stench.”
    Stench! What? No way. I was a meticulous
housekeeper. Now I was really angry.
    Before I hauled off and slugged her, Nancy
intervened. “Marcia’s right, I’m afraid. You’re just so used to
living with dogs that you don’t notice it. But believe me, a
potential buyer will.
    “It never bothered me, though,” she added,
trying to soothe me. “You know how much I love the girls.” To prove
it, Nancy reached down and gave each of them a scratch on their
silky heads.
    I was momentarily pacified. I guess I knew
in my heart that Marcia and Nancy were right. But I also knew I
couldn’t stand hearing my beautiful house criticized so
ruthlessly.
    “Nancy, you’re my best friend. I trust you
to do your job,” I said, trying to convince myself that I really
meant what I was saying. I didn’t say a word about Marcia, though.
I’m not a complete hypocrite.
    “The dogs and I are going to get out of your
way. You figure out what