DEATH AT LAMPIER
M. ALEX HARRIS
COPYRIGHT 2011 M. Alex Harris
Dedicated to the memory of Captain Ryan Anderson
Chapter 1
“This economy hit Arizona hard and Yavapai County even harder. Houses were selling slow and at lower prices than ever before. There is a prediction that there will be another big drop in the coming year.” Frances Pitcher expounded on the financial condition of the real estate market as she ate dinner with her best friend, mortgage broker Lisa Wood.
“But you have a lot of listings for bank repos, so you will be okay. Right?” Lisa inquired as she took a bite of her steak.
“You never know. One week you’re flying high and the next week you’re borrowing money from family just to survive.”
“But, you got all the listings for State Bank. They were heavy into small ranches. People from California made up most of their clientele. There are literally hundreds of houses in foreclosure and you have all of State’s. Some of those houses originally sold at half a million and even with the problems with the foreclosures, you’ll be listing them at a quarter of a million.” Lisa, ever the optimist, was looking for the horse in the room full of horse manure.
“Well I do have quite a few on the list of foreclosures and we’re waiting for the renovations on about eight more. Things will start looking up if I can just get two or three into closing.” Frances sighed and took a sip of wine. Her composure returned as she studied her dinner. Her short, curly blond hair belied her years, as did her Jones New York suit tailored to perfection.
Frances had made her living as a Realtor in Yavapai County for more than 35 years with a focus on small ranches in the outlying areas. She and her husband had put the kids through college, paid off the family home, and even put aside a nice retirement, before he passed away nine years ago from cancer. The hospital bills ate up the retirement and the bankruptcy that followed took the family home. All Frances had left was her car, a 2004 Toyota, an investment condo she and Tom had purchased years ago, her little rat terrier, Jackie, and a garden plot the size of a postage stamp. Frances took everything in stride trusting in her faith in God and belief in people to get her through in tough times. The current downturn in the economy was, for her, just another storm to ride out. She cut coupons, shopped at resale/consignment stores, and pinched pennies twice in order to stretch the meager earnings she received now from foreclosure sales.
Lisa Wood had worked for years in banking and when the opportunity came to switch to mortgage banking as a branch manager for American Mortgage in Prescott, she jumped at the chance. Lisa owned a condo in the same complex as Frances. Her husband of 12 years, Phil Mason, was a ner’ do well, who spent more time on the golf course than at home, and went through every penny she made until she closed out her bank account to prevent him access.
Frances and Lisa shared a common friend, Summer Bear. Summer, the matriarch of four generations living at Bear Ranch, stood tall--6 feet-- just a little taller than her daughter, attorney Marlowe Sharpe, and granddaughter Detective Oriole Wolfe. Summer taught classes at the community college, raised a garden every year that produced hundreds of quarts of vegetables, managed a ranch of multiple critters and provided a home for her great granddaughter Anders Chalcedony Wolfe--Chalcey for short.
The three friends, Summer, Frances and Lisa would routinely get together to cuss and discuss life in Prescott. Summer was to have joined them for their monthly dinner, but had to beg off because of the recent death of Joyce, Rod’s wife of Crimson Ranch.
“Have you heard what Rod’s going to do with Crimson Ranch?” Lisa asked.
“Summer said he was going to put it on the market. I’m meeting with him later this month after the funeral and he’s had an opportunity to process everything. I feel so bad for him. I know he is just lost with everything he has to do. Summer and I are going to go over and help him figure out what to do with all of Joyce’s things. Their son didn’t want any of her stuff, so we’re calling around to see if any of the clubs or societies can use it in a rummage sale or something.” Frances explained the future for Rod.
“When is the funeral?”
“Next Thursday. It’s going to be a memorial service and wake. Summer is hosting it at Bear Ranch. She figured given the length of time Rod and Joyce lived here, there would be lots of folks coming to pay their respects and anyway, Summer and Rod have both been hit with vandals so they figured better not to leave either ranch unattended.”
The remote ranches presented perfect opportunities for thieves. And the stuff the thieves would steal would curl your hair-water troughs, feed barrels, pole fencing, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down, screwed down or too heavy to carry off. In fact one rancher had come upon thieves stealing his water tank, boxed them in with his tractor, pulled his 30-06, held them at bay until three hours later the sheriff’s deputy showed up.
“Well, I’m off. I have to see what Phil is up to. He’s thinking about studying to be a stock broker. He figures he’d make a lot of money. It can‘t come soon enough for me. I‘m going to have to make some hard decisions soon.” Trouble etched its way onto Lisa’s face as she paid her portion of the bill in cash and kissed Frances’ cheek in goodbye.
Frances looked after her long time friend, shaking her head at the idiocy of Phil ever finding a job or if finding one, keeping it. But Frances Pitcher loved her friend Lisa and all the ups and downs of their 30 year friendship. She would support Lisa’s decisions, add her two-bits when and if asked, cry with her over disappointments, laugh with her over silly mistakes and always be by her side. Summer took on a different role with the two friends, more of a leader, organizer and guide. During the long friendship, the three had stood elbow to elbow in marches, burned their bras and bought new ones, climbed mountains and hiked the Grand Canyon.