Selling Murder House

Chapter 2 (Continued)

The house was like a museum, with a large, open foyer, shiny tiled floors and a double staircase that led to a balconied hall. The ceilings were tall and vaulted, and our heel clicks echoed throughout the room as we entered. It was cold, both literally and in perception. It had a morgue-like quality to it, it was all too clean, too sterile, with harsh fluorescent lights and sharp-lined architecture that casted strange shadows.

"Let's see how long it takes me to find the thermostat," Sofia said, shivering, and she left me to my work.

Thankfully, the moving company had placed the furniture in the correct rooms at least. I always provided a floor plan, labeled exactly where the furniture should be placed, but it was rare that it actually turned out that way. A big house requires big furniture -- that's one of the first things I learned when I started this job -- and big furniture is heavy. I'm stronger than I look, but I'm not strong enough to move a mahogany executive's desk up a flight of stairs.

Furniture-wise, I went bold. Someone who wanted a house like this had to be a little eccentric. The house was modern, but tucked away near a nature preserve outside of town. I envisioned a younger couple, or a single bachelor maybe, who liked to think they were outdoorsy but really they just liked eating brunch on the patio rather than in the dining room. For this, they considered themselves unique -- laid-back, down to earth, one with nature but not opposed to an authentic giraffe-hide ottoman.

This was one of my favorite parts of my job -- the personas. It wasn't even really a part of my job. It wasn't something Lilian asked of me, and I didn't even go so far as to write them down. Envisioning the type of buyer for a property was the first step of my design process. It's what helped me narrow the scope of the style, and guided me in every decision I made along the way. The best part was when I got to see the buyer of a property I had styled. I didn't always get to meet them or even see them in person, but based on the times I did, my accuracy was phenomenal. Sometimes I thought this skill might be put to better use in criminal profiling or something, but this was way more fun.

I spent the next hours shifting furniture, laying rugs, and hanging art. I took my time, making sure to get everything right in each room, down to fluffing pillows and making throw blankets look more, well, thrown. Sofia was around, taking calls and working on her laptop. She had changed into a pair of neon green flip-flops, I noticed with some admiration, she must keep them in her Prada bag for days like this. I wondered if she had come to the property early just as a favor to me, or if it was her habit to use empty houses as her personal workspaces.

Sunset showings weren't uncommon for the Larson Group, but they were reserved for particularly interesting homes, ones that might need a little more oomph to get buyers interested. It made sense that Sofia wanted this house shown at sunset. The way the light hit the windows as it set, filtered through the high grass and tall trees that bordered the house, it made the house feel warm and exotic. Showing a house at sunset also gave potential buyers a sneak peek into what they'd be coming home to at the end of a long work day. Plus, as the evening drew on and the sun set, there was a distinctly sensual, exciting vibe that made people want to call their financial advisors.

Soon, potential buyers arrived. Sofia greeted them at the door, while I stood awkwardly in the kitchen, watching through the doorway. She had changed back into her heels, neon flip-flops neatly stashed away. On the counter, Sofia had set out several flutes of champagne and some cute little cucumber sandwiches. I ran my fingers through my hair, which had almost certainly flattened from a day's worth of sweat and humidity, and put on my best smile.

"Are you the server?" a younger man asked when he entered the kitchen. He eyed the champagne and sandwiches distastefully.

"Uh," I started to stammer, when Sofia came up behind him, flanked by a group of several more house hunters.

"This is the lovely Mary Lately, she designed what you see inside the home," she said, smiling.

The group nodded appreciatively by way of greeting. The man who presumably wanted something from me gave me a short nod, then walked off.

"Everyone," Sofia addressed the room. "Thank you so much for coming tonight. Please grab some champagne and make yourselves at home. I'll be doing tours of the house and property in small groups, but feel free to take a look around."

I snagged a glass of champagne and a cucumber sandwich, then floated around aimlessly. I suppose I should've been observing Sofia, but being around so many people was overwhelming. I wandered into the living room where the fireplace was crackling. I stood by it, facing the flames, trying to keep myself from fidgeting with the pillows or straightening the books on the shelves. After being mistaken for the help once, I couldn't risk looking like the maid.

The champagne was good, and the sandwich had disappeared. It was tiny and I was starving, I realized I hadn't eaten at all that day, and the champagne was going straight into my bloodstream, making me feel falsely energized. I was about to sneak back into the kitchen for another sandwich, when a group entered the room.

"...Pretty much confirmed the rumor mill, then?" a woman was saying as they entered.

"I wouldn't say that. I heard from Jackie Halloway that someone said Henry Madsen was halfway to Mexico by the time the sun came up," a man interjected.

"I for one am relieved," an older woman said with feeling. "I know that sounds awful, but if he did what they say then I'm glad he's dead and not off wandering the streets!"

"So anyway," a man said, as if growing bored of the conversation. "That's pretty much all they reported. They made it sound pretty cut and dry."

"Those poor, poor neighbors," the old woman said, and she truly sounded sorry. "Can you imagine? I think I'd have to move!"

I heard their grunts of agreement, but they were moving away, onward to another room.

The Madsen House. They had to be talking about what happened in the Madsen House. Despite the heat of the fire, I shivered. I had been by there twice that day. Had something happened between the time I walked by in the morning, and the time with the reporter? Had detectives found the body of the killer in the house?

I thought about the strange woman I'd spoken to earlier that day, how she stared at the house with fear glazing her round eyes. Was she really out of her mind, or had she known something, something that scared her half to death?

She treated them all like her dolls . . .

I shook my head. The champagne was making me dizzy. I strode to the kitchen for another glass.

Sofia was greeting more guests at the door. When she started her next tour, I walked along with her. She was a natural. I had known she was good at her job, because I knew about her sales record, but I hadn't realized how much presence she had. The house was the star of the show, she was careful not to take too much of the spotlight, but she was an incredible host. In this setting, I didn't notice her kindergarten teacher voice. She hadn't changed her speaking pattern, but she was so thorough and natural in this setting that you couldn't help but listen and respect her. I realized, too, that Sofia was shorter than me, by a good three inches. Still, even with the high ceilings and the overstated furniture, the house didn't dwarf her. She wouldn't let it.

I enjoyed the tour, even though I'd seen every room in the house already. Listening to Sofia's soft voice tell me all about the amenities and features, I found myself losing my grasp on reality. For a moment, I thought I was house hunting, I thought I might put this house on my list.

Sofia was good. Or maybe I was just a little tipsy. Probably a bit of a both.