Selling Murder House

Chapter 5 (Continued)

Sofia's house was beautiful, like something out of a storybook village. It was on the smaller side, but I knew she'd paid a fortune for it, with its stone facade and large windows. Inside, the ceilings were high and vaulted, painted white so they looked even higher. It had a cozy, cottage-like feel, lots of natural woods and exposed stone. The best part was the sheer volume of the place, literally, Sofia's kids were shrieking with laughter as they chased each other through the living room and into the kitchen. There were primary-colored plastic toys, books, and stuffed animals littering the floor. Everything about it screamed home.

She greeted me with a hug and an apology: "Sorry about the mess," she said.

"No need to apologize. Your place is stunning," I said.

She guided me into the kitchen, where she had a spacious peninsula countertop flanked with cushy barstools.

"Wait here one second while I wrangle my beasts," she said.

I felt better already. In a place like this, blood and murder and trouble didn't exist. On the counter, Sofia had set out all the supplies for margaritas, and not just the sugary mix stuff you get at the grocery store. She had all the good stuff: fresh limes, orange liqueur, agave syrup, rock salt, and a beautiful, shiny bottle of tequila. My mouth watered.

Behind me, the kitchen flowed into the living room, and I turned to watch Sofia, with a giggling toddler under each arm, enter the room. She set the kids down in front of the curved flat-screen TV, then looked up at me.

"Ready to see some magic?" she said.

I raised an eyebrow and watched.

"Take notes. I don't know if you plan on having kids in the future, but there's one surefire way to get them to sit still while mommy has a few drinks with a friend."

She opened the built-in YouTube app on her TV, and selected a playlist of videos.

"This is absolutely bizarre to watch, almost like a psychedelic, surreal experience, with weird characters and songs that don't really make any sense... anyway, watch," she said.

The formerly rambunctious toddlers were now sitting still and quiet, eyes glazed over as they let the videos hypnotize them.

"That's amazing," I said, laughing.

"Right? They'll pretty much sit like this until they have to pee or something," Sofia said, then joined me in the kitchen.

We made small talk while we made drinks. Sofia's margaritas were strong, savory, and a little spicy, which is exactly the combination I needed to get my head out of its funk.

"So," she said, "How's everything going with work?"

I think she'd sensed there was something I wanted to talk about. It wasn't everyday (in fact, it was never) that I hit her up out of the blue like this.

"It's... not going so well, honestly," I said, and my throat felt tight. I coughed.

"Oh, sweetie," she said, and suddenly I felt like one of the toddlers, like maybe I should go in the other room and let the freaky baby show hypnotize me.

It all came out then, and with slightly fewer tears than I'd anticipated. I came clean about not having any contacts, about how I thought Leo was sabotaging me with my Saddlebrook assignment, and finally about how I'd gone door-to-door there earlier in the day. I didn't mention my money struggles or the incident with Leo... that felt like it could stay my secret.

Sofia was furious in an instant.

"Leo's not even helping you get started?" she said, incredulous. "That's fucking absurd, Mary. Let me talk to him tomorrow and tell him how it's gonna be..."

"Please," I interjected. "Please don't. Don't tell anyone I told you this either. It's just... complicated. I don't know. I guess I just wanted to vent to someone."

She frowned, but didn't press further. She made me another margarita.

"You're not driving are you?" she asked.

"No, I Ubered here," I said.

She poured me a double.

I told her about hitting up the Madsen House, how I'd spoken to Paul Madsen, some relative of the family that was murdered there. I told her about how he was cleaning the crime scene.

Sofia's face came alive. I thought she was going to be appalled by the bloody rag, but her eyes were alight and she was smiling.

"Mary, you spoke to him long enough to get his full name?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"Mary, listen. From what you're telling me, I think you have him," she said. "He's going to find the phone number you left, and he's gonna call you."

I shook my head.

"What? How do you know?" I said.

"Nobody ever agrees to put their house on the market in the first meeting," she said. "You put the thought in their head, you talk to them for a bit. Later, that idea starts to sound better and better..."

"I don't know. He was pretty against it," I said.

"Trust me. This whole thing is a dance, and you made all the right moves today," she said. "A young guy with a creepy old house? One that he's cleaning by himself? He's going to call you. Trust me."

***

It wasn't a late night at Sofia's, less because of her kids' bedtime and more because of the tequila. We were both ready to fall asleep by half past ten.

And thanks to the tequila, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. It was a black, dreamless, incredible sleep.

I woke up late the next morning, close to 9 a.m., as if I'd forgotten to set my internal alarm clock. This was the bright side of being mostly unemployed at that moment, I had slept in and I wasn't scrambling to get out the door.

I reached for my phone. It was bunched inside a tangle of bedsheets where I must've left it in my drunken state the night before. The battery was nearly dead, I'd forgotten to plug it in.

The next thing I noticed was a missed call and a new message in my voicemail box. I didn't recognize the number, but the area code was the same as mine. I held up the phone and listened.

"Uh, hi, Mary, this is Paul Madsen. Listen, I thought about what you said earlier today and I... I'm ready to sell. If you'll have me. Uh, please call me back at this number. Thanks."

Something was coming up my throat, something that felt equal parts like vomit and a glass-shattering scream.

I replayed the message to make sure I'd heard correctly.

"... I thought about what you said earlier today..."

Earlier today? I thought. I checked the timestamp on the voicemail. Paul Madsen had called me at 3:36 a.m.

I shook my head. I had assumed, having woken up late, that he'd called me in the morning, and I'd missed it sleeping in. Listening a third time, I heard a slight heaviness to his voice, his words slurring. He'd called me in the middle of the night, drunk. My hope shriveled a bit, imagining returning his call: Oh hi... yeah, I'm sorry to bother you. I actually really can't sell...

There was something else, too, something in his voice beyond intoxication.

Was it my imagination, or had Paul Madsen sounded absolutely terrified?