Three Bedrooms, One Corpse

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My thanks to Atlanta-area realtor I broker Joanne Kearney, who provided me with much helpful information. If I have misused it, the fault is mine.

My career as a real estate salesperson was short and unofficial, but not uneventful. It started in the lobby of Eastern National Bank at nine-thirty on a weekday morning with my mother glancing at her tiny, expensive gold watch.

“I can’t make it,” she said with controlled savagery. A person who couldn’t manage her appointments was inefficient in my mother’s estimation, and to find herself coming up short in that respect was almost intolerable. Of course, her dilemma was not her fault.

“It’s those Thompsons,” she said furiously, “always late! They should have been here forty-five minutes ago! Late for their own house closing!” She stared down at her tiny elegant watch as if she could change its reading by the force of her will. Her slim crossed legs were jiggling with impatience, one navy pump-shod foot swinging back and forth. When she got up, there might be a hole in the bank’s ersatz oriental carpeting.

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