Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [54]
“No, I ate, thanks. Sorry I took so long. My phone didn’t stop ringing.”
“Who called?”
“The world.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, my world is small but chatty.”
“Humph. I see. Well, here’s a check for the plumber. And the keys. I really appreciate you doing this. Just get a bill from him so I can enter it in my books. I always worry about being audited. Besides, this is not one of my houses. I just manage it.”
“No problem. Then what? You bill the owner?”
“Are you kidding me? I deduct it straight from their share of the rent! If I wait around to get paid from all these people with their second and third and fourth houses, spending their winters jetting down to Palm Beach and out to Aspen or Arizona and wherever the hell they go to give their happy place a little scratch, you’d be sending my deposit slips to the Pearly Gates!” Her arms were whirling around while she spoke.
“You’re too funny!”
“Listen to me.” She wagged her finger at me. “I’m gonna tell you something and don’t forget it. Ever!”
“Okay?”
“The poor people don’t pay their bills because they don’t have the money. But the rich people don’t pay their bills because they don’t want to!”
“You might be right. But wouldn’t you consider yourself to be rich, too?”
She harrumphed again. “I’m nice and comfortable and that’s all. You mark my words! Awful! Rich people are awful!”
Evidently my sweet old Aunt Daisy, who was as rich as cream, had rolled out of her bed on the wrong side.
“Well, come on now, not all of them. I think you’re pretty nice! Anyway, give me the address of the house and the plumber’s number in case he doesn’t show and I’ll go take care of this.”
Aunt Daisy looked at me and sighed, smiling at last.
“It’s such a comfort to have you here, Cate. You just don’t know.”
I knew I was witnessing a master manipulator at work but I didn’t mind it at all. Wasn’t manipulation how a lot of things got done in this world? Besides, maybe I’d learn a thing or two. I blew her a kiss and left.
The Jolly Buddha was on East Arctic Avenue right where Aunt Daisy said it would be. I knew this place from my childhood. It was a small house up on stilts with red doors, not to be confused with Elizabeth Arden. Classic Folly Beach—two-million-dollar rustic, charming, inviting, sort of a house you’d never find in Palm Beach. But Palm Beach attracted a different kind of resident, who in all likelihood would not be found on Folly anyway unless they were shipwrecked.
The plumber was nowhere in sight. Big surprise. This was like déjà vu all over again, like Yogi Berra says. I guess there was no escaping this part of life when there was property to manage. But dealing with workmen was in the sweet spot of my limited skill set. I pulled out my cell and tapped in his number. He answered right away.
“Hull-low,” came the deep voice.
“Hi! This is Cate Cooper calling. Daisy McInerny’s niece? Is this Lou?”
“You got him.” Brooklyn. I would’ve bet my life on it. “I’m on the way now. Had a backed-up sump pump that wouldn’t cooperate this morning.”
“No problem. About how long will you be?” I used my mother voice, the one that’s stern but not rude.
“Fifteen? Twenty minutes? Depends on traffic. I’m downtown. Seems like I spend half my life fixing sump pumps downtown.”
The water table in Charleston was so low that after a big rainfall you could almost make yourself believe you were in Venice.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. Well, don’t worry. I’ll just wait.”
We hung up and I thought, you know what Lou the Plumber? You’ve got a phone, use it. Tell me you’re running late. That’s all. Simple courtesy. But nooooo. Make me chase you, right?
Tradesmen were notorious for making you wait because they were out saving your world and their time was more important than yours. Unfortunately, at this particular moment, his time was worth more than mine by around a hundred dollars an hour. So I checked out the bathrooms and sure enough, the water