“Don’t shoot the messenger,” said the realtor and I was immediately wary. When someone begins a phone call with “Don’t shoot the messenger” it is never a good sign.
“I assume this is bad news,” I said morosely. The realtor is handling the sale of my sister’s house and the only time he calls me is with bad news mainly because he’s terrified of my sister. So he calls me a lot.
The realtor cleared his throat. “It’s not bad news,” he said, with a little, mirthless chuckle. “Well, not ‘bad’ bad news.”
I was going crazy. “Just tell me,” I said.
He cleared his throat again, “It’s just never easy to give bad news to a client,” said the realtor. “Some of them get really upset. They yell. They scream. They threaten legal action ……”
“Jerry….” I said.
“Fine, fine, fine,” he said hastily. “I hate to even ask this.” I didn’t say a word. “But I have to ask this,” he said. I was silent. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask this,” he said. I was still silent. “It’s my JOB to ask this,” he said lamely.
“Jerry,” I said; “for God’s sake…”
“Fine,” he said. “Fine fine, fine.” He cleared his throat again and now I did want to inflict bodily harm. “I’ll just ask.”
“I wish you would,” I said shortly.
“Was anyone ever murdered in your sister’s house?” he asked.
Of all the potential questions I was expecting that was not on the list. “WHAT?” I said in a tone a bit higher than my usual manly baritone. “WHAT?” I said again. He repeated the question and for a moment I was speechless. I considered my next statement carefully. “Why do you ask?” I said.
Jerry’s explanation took way longer than mine will: A very nice lady had put down a deposit to buy my sister’s house. Earlier that day the lady went out to lunch with a friend and after lunch they drove by the new house. The friend used to live in the neighborhood and said, essentially, “Nice house. Did you know that someone was murdered there in 1996?” At which point the buyer completely freaked out and called Jerry to yell and scream and threaten legal action.
I was honestly confused. “Does she want a crime scene discount?” I asked Jerry.
“No,” he said miserably. “She wants to get out of her contract. She says she can’t live in a haunted house.”
“The house is not haunted,” I said shortly, “and no one was ever murdered there.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Jerry and I sighed.
“My sister has lived in the house for over 10 years,” I explained. “And before that my other sister lived across the street for another 10 years.” I paused, and added that my sister’s next-door neighbor, Mrs. Davis, has lived there since 1967. “If there was a murder in the house we would know.”
Jerry was not convinced. “The buyer’s friend found a newspaper article that says there was a murder at that exact address in 1996.”
“Send me the article,” I said, and I hung up.
Jerry emailed me the newspaper article within minutes and it gave a lurid description of a domestic tragedy at my sister’s exact street address. Jerry called right back.
“That article said there was a murder at that address,” he said triumphantly.
“Yes, it does,” I agreed. “It is the exact same address. But it’s in Pompano. My sister’s house is in Fort Lauderdale.”
Jerry said nothing.
“Fort Lauderdale,” I repeated. “Not Pompano.”
Jerry cleared his throat. “It’s amazing how similar Florida addresses can be,” he said.