Traci Tyne Hilton - Mitzi Neuhaus 02 - Eminent Domain Page 2

  “Then we’re screwed.” Alonzo said. He turned and began pacing the foyer again.

  “Don’t be crass.” Mitzy said, but she was out of earshot.

  Alonzo paced back into the kitchen. “I think our bigger worry is that we just kicked the FBI out of our house and refused to cooperate with them. I don’t think they care that we want to get some money off of the old furniture.”

  “Okay then, back to the furniture,” Mitzy said. “We aren’t trying to get a little money from a garage sale. We have arranged with some of the best consignment shops in the nation, all the way in New York as a matter of a fact, and some of the best furniture restorers all the way down in Los Angeles.

  “We’ve got deposit money on some of it,” Alonzo said.

  “These guys are waiting for our incredible collection of pioneer history, Victoriana, and stylish mid-century classics as we speak. The proceeds of which will be well into the 5 figures but we could also fetch much more than that,” Mitzy went on, “And we agree, that that money is key. Without it we can paint and furnish a small hotel. With it we can fit out a destination spot that people will want to stay at. Carmella will know how important that $50,000 is as she tries to make a living renting out the rooms here.”

  “I’ll see the importance of what $50,000?” Carmella asked, tripping down the stairs in her five inch heels.

  Alonzo shook his head. “Our furniture,” he said.

  “Let’s just give them the papers. They can’t argue if we do that can they?” Mitzy said.

  “They won’t believe we’ve given them everything. They said they are going to strip the house. They intend to take it down to the studs.” Alonzo said, eyeing his plasterwork again.

  “We just plastered the walls!” Carmella groaned. “That was a lot of money! Who wants to take all that down?” She tapped the toe of her faux alligator shoe in aggravation.

  Alonzo took a deep breath. “The government seems to be interested in the paperwork we are finding through the house as we renovate. They think what we have is important to them and that they ought to come get it and take the time to look around and make sure they have it all.”

  “Then let them. We can show them everything we’ve got and where it came from. I think if we cooperate they’d be reasonable.” Carmella rested her foot.

  “They want all the furniture too,” Alonzo said.

  “What?” Carmella looked at Mitzy. “Why? We need that stuff.”

  “That we do,” Mitzy said, nodding. “We need it. But Carmella has a point. Why be difficult? They could come, we could hand over what we have and they could search the furniture. They left without any trouble today. We don’t have any reason to expect they won’t compromise.”

  “What happened to them being the KGB, Mitzy? Are they the enforcers of the evil empire or are they just some good ole boys?” Alonzo asked.

  “Is there a difference?” Carmella said. She flipped her thick black hair over her shoulder again. “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Al. I think we should try to work with them.”

  “Before you pick sides, answer this question. How does the FBI know that we have been finding papers of interest in the house while we renovate?” Alonzo’s eyebrows were pulled together over his deep black eyes.

  “Did you mention it on the morning show, Mitzy?” Carmella asked, her own eyes mirroring her brother’s.

  “No. I have talked about the inn though, both the location and the local history. But not the notoriety. I swear. I have said that it was over a hundred years old, that it was a Victorian gem with incredible, unique features. I have said that it was once the home of a retired Indian Scout who married a Russian Princess. You know, I told the romantic story of the house. But nothing about the papers or the Mafia connection.”

  “That was enough though, wasn’t it Alonzo? Anyone who is up on local news would be able to put that story together with the press from spring about you guys breaking in here and then how the police caught that Mafia guy.”

  “We didn’t break in! We both used our realtor key codes. It was for sale,” Mitzy said.

  “Well, the TV news said you guys broke in,” Carmella said.

  “So a local could make the connection between our historic inn, the incident in the spring, and the Russian Mafia, but how does the FBI find out and why do they connect all of that to Cold War immigration policy?” Alonzo asked the two women.

  “And are they really FBI?” Mitzy muttered, turning her eyes back to the kitchen window and the bright September day.

  There was a house on 72nd street that Mitzy had so far failed to unload. It had been on her dock longer than anything in her whole career. She wanted to blame the problem on the owners. For starters, they had it in mind that the serious housing bust up that had been going on for the last few years didn’t have anything to do with them. For another, they had refused her advice on staging and prepping the house for sale. They were, right now, literally at the eleventh month. The house had been on the market for almost a full year without attracting a buyer. She had rushed straight from the run-in with the Feds to her office, where she planned on changing the Smythes’ minds.

  Mitzy wanted to blame them for the failure to sell. But she knew it wasn’t honest. She had been so tied up at the inn that she hadn’t given the problem house the attention that it deserved. She had sold dozens of her own listings, plus a quite a few others since this house came on the market. She knew she could sell this one as well.

  Determined to get the house sold no matter the effort, Mitzy sat with the Smythe family. She tucked them away in the private room of her real estate office. She had given them steaming cups of coffee. But they sat grim-faced, waiting to hear her plan. Dawn Smythe, a retired school teacher with curly grey hair and cat-eye glasses sat swirling the coffee in her cup with her spoon and watching the cream. She wouldn’t make eye contact with Mitzy. Dawn had tired, dark shadows under her eyes. She wore a rumpled cardigan and turtle neck with a long corduroy skirt. She looked like she had given up on both summer and her house selling. Her husband, Ronald, had a permanent frown creased into his face. Despite Mitzy’s best efforts to be cheerful, the atmosphere in the little room was depressed.

  Ronald tapped his index finger on the paper that lay on the desk in front of him. “This is outrageous. They have dropped the value of our property yet again. We’ve got to get it sold.” The paper was his tax assessment, and he was right, it had dropped $35,000 this year.

  “You are right on both counts, Ronald,” Mitzy said. “It is outrageous that it has dropped again and we’ve got to get something going on your house. But don’t let the assessment make your decisions for you. First of all, the tax assessor’s office is understaffed and overworked. They have dropped the value they assign for tax purposes for your home. That doesn’t mean they have applied the appropriate real market value to it.”

  Dawn put her coffee cup down and began to fidget with the stack of papers in front of her.

  “I will get to that, Dawn. I promise. What your house is taxed at this minute and what we will get it sold for do not have to be the same thing. You know what? Let’s look at those papers after all.”

  Mitzy was walking a thin line with her clients. She knew they were discouraged and in a tight spot. The value of their home had plummeted since they first put it on the market and their dream retirement plan was at risk. The stack of home comps was not encouraging. Not at first glance. Mitzy sucked a little air through her teeth.

  “I do want you to look at those. Those are the houses you can get in our general area for $250,000 right now.” She spread the sheets of paper across the table, giving each one its own space in front of Dawn and Ronald. She tapped the paper at the beginning of the row with her purple company pen. “This house is in your school district. It is in a new development. It has a custom chef’s kitchen and a master suite with jetted tub. It has a view of the city at night.”

  Ronald looked at the first paper without changing
his morbid expression.

  “Now this second house is in the next school district over and has half an acre of land,” she said, pushing a different fact sheet closer to them. Before they could comment she moved on to a third, “This home was built the same year as your home. It is two blocks farther away from a main intersection and it has 3000 square feet.”

  “If you want to tell us it is hopeless, just say it,” Dawn said under her breath. Elbow resting on the table, she propped her head on a fist.

  “I agree,” Ronald said. “I don’t know what the point of our coming in here was if you are just going to say you can’t help us.”

  “I would never say that. I can help you. I am the only one who can say with complete confidence that I can help you. You have a lovely home. It is 2,300 square feet, with three good sized bedrooms and three baths. You have a wine bar, an immaculately landscaped lawn, and a new privacy fence. Your property is very valuable.”

  “The county disagrees,” Dawn said.

  Mitzy reached for their assessment letter and crumpled it in one fist. “Don’t let the government dictate your quality of life. We have the house listed at $250,000 and it is getting some interest. But what are people saying about it? I had conversations with everyone who came to the open house and I can tell you what they said. But first I want to tell you what these comp sheets say. They lie. These comp sheets are just slowing down the process. That is all.”

  Ronald crossed his arms on his chest and looked away.

  “I mean it. These homes are listed at a price intending to get a buyer to look at the house. They have nothing to do with what the bank will accept on the home. What the home is taxed at has almost nothing to do with the price. All three of these homes are short sales. The only price for those homes is what the bank will accept. Do you see what I am saying?” She paused and drank her coffee while Ronald turned back to the comp sheets.

  “I think this will clear things up all the way.” Mitzy pulled another stack of sheets out of her folder. “These are from the tax assessor’s site. You’ll see in the left column the purchase prices of all of the homes. These two were purchased less than six years ago. Purchase prices? $420,000 for one and $375,000 for the other.” She stopped talking to let the numbers sink in.

  “So we’ve got to drop our price a hundred thousand dollars too?” Dawn asked.

  “No. That’s not what I’m trying to say,” Mitzy said. “The banks won’t accept a price cut that drastic on these two homes. They will never take $250,000. Families will put offer after offer on homes like these and come away empty-handed every time. When they are tired of losing they will see your home, see the quality, see that it is updated, energy efficient, in a good school boundary, near a park, and quite large. They will see all of that and they will buy your house.”

  “Well they haven’t yet,” Ronald said frowning.

  “And what about the third house? The one in our neighborhood but bigger?” Dawn asked, tucking her fingers into the wooly cuff of her sweater.

  “I couldn’t find a sales price on it because it has been with one owner since it was built in 1965. But I think it is a terrific comp and a great starting place for us. Look at the details in the picture.” She put tax assessor’s pages down and picked up the fact sheet in question. “Look at the windows.”

  “Aluminum.” Ronald said.

  “That’s five thousand dollars,” Mitzy said. “And it needs a new roof as well. That’s another five.”

  “Our roof is new,” Dawn said.

  “Exactly. And so are your windows. I went and visited the house. It is unoccupied and not updated. Old carpets. Old wallpaper. Old water heater. The back yard is in shambles and is smaller than yours,” Mitzy said. “To be perfectly honest, the lots are the same size but your home makes much better use of it. This house in your neighborhood is going to cost some buyer almost $100, to update. The bigger the space, the bigger the cost of updating.”

  “But it is so much bigger.” Dawn sighed. “People will want the square footage.”

  “Not if they can’t afford to heat it because of inefficient systems and bad windows. If you have just a few more minutes to spare me I have a plan that will get your house sold.”

  Ronald stood up and began pacing, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I don’t want to drop the price of the house,” he said.

  “I think you mean you want to make a specific profit on your house,” Mitzy said.

  “Yes. I want to make the profit that we planned on making,” Ronald said. “No price drop.”

  “Right now we are listed at $250,000 and we agreed in advance we would be willing to pay the buyer’s closing costs, right?”

  Dawn nodded, and sniffled into a handkerchief.

  “We also agreed that we would be willing to negotiate down to $245,000. Correct?”

  They both said yes.

  “We were looking for a sum total that would pay off the remainder of your small mortgage. That’s about $85,000, correct? And we want a profit of $150,000. Do I have that all right?”

  “Yes. That was the plan,” Ronald said.

  “Okay. The key is to pay off $85,000 and walk away with $150,000. This new plan will do that,” Mitzy said.

  Mitzy scooted all the fact sheets to one side of the table and laid a paper with an outline in front of Dawn. Ronald sat down again with his wife and looked at the outline.

  “First, I would take your home off of the market and repaint it. I suggested that months ago and you told me you would think about it. If you didn’t want to do the work yourself I have a friend—a professional—who would do it, including paint, for $1,200.”

  “A flat bid? Not hourly?” Ronald turned to Mitzy as he spoke.

  “Yes, a flat bid. That’s half of his usual rate for a single story. It’s a screaming deal. Keep that number in mind, $1,200. We are in the middle of September right now. He could have it painted in two weeks. Then I’d put it back on the market. New picture, new price.”

  “We don’t want to drop the price,” Dawn said, her voice just above a whisper.

  “Hang in with me. We drop the price to $247,000. That’s a $3000 drop. That and the paint is $4200. We agree still that we want to give you a profit of $150,000 okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” Ronald said with impatience.

  “We now negotiate down to $245,000, but no lower. And we set a cap on how much we will pay in closing. If the buyers closing costs were going to be about $10,000 then we know that we don’t want to pay the whole thing,” she pointed to the numbers on her outline as she spoke, “When we get to negotiations we agree to pay $5000 towards their closing costs. That is reasonable.”

  “But what if they don’t have money for closing?” Dawn asked.

  “Then you can offer them the house at asking price and pay the closing for them…that would just be them financing their closing. People do it all the time.”

  Ronald nodded. “Dropping $3,000 will get people to offer on our house?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Mitzy said. “That and the pictures of the new paint and staging. The new price will make it appear in a new pricing category. New people will see it.”

  Dawn whispered to her husband, but Mitzy couldn’t hear her.

  “The number one selling feature of your house is that it is not a short sale. The family that decides to buy your house will move into it thirty days after they offer on it. That is not true of the active comps I brought to the table. It is vitally important.” Mitzy sat back and smiled. It was so simple and sure to work.

  “Last year we could’ve gotten $350,000 on it,” Ronald said, his frown a deep trench in his face and his chin buried in his shirt collar.

  “I’m sorry Ronald. But the bubble burst in 2008. And you all didn’t have it in mind to move then. I can get you all the price you need for your home if you are willing to paint it and relist it. What do you think?”

  “I think we should go home and talk about it,” Ronald said.

  “Oh
, Ronald let’s just do it. We want to get out of the house. We want to live in our beach house. I don’t want to be stuck in town for the rest of our lives just because we didn’t try,” Dawn said, her voice finally loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Your beach house is waiting Ronald. Let me do this and sell your house. Be debt free, enjoy retirement listening to the ocean, eating chowder and going clamming.”

  Ronald sat in silence for a few moments. “Let me call your painter. Then we’ll see.”

  Dawn offered a weak smile to Mitzy and took the painter’s card. “Do you really think this will work?” she asked.

  “It always does,” Mitzy said. She hadn’t come close to exhausting the ways to sell the 72nd Street house. But they had to get into action now.

  Neuhaus New Homes Realty only had three homes on the market right now. The town was flooded at the moment with desperate short sellers. The deeper home prices dropped the worse the buyer’s market got. At first, a year ago, no one believed her when she had predicted it. Banks were saying no to offers left and right. They seemed content to foreclose. She had two buyers right now waiting on homes; one had been waiting almost a year to hear from the bank. It was the buyer’s dream home so they just waited, living in an apartment. The other buyer had just put out offer number 17. That offer was no more likely to be accepted than any of the previous offers. But it was the listed price on the home. This buyer wanted a dream home for a song and was determined to keep trying until he got one.

  The lack of action, real-estate wise, wasn’t a problem for Mitzy. She was branching out and making her team branch out as well. Her personal assistant Sabrina had finally consented to getting her own real estate license and was sitting classes this moment. Ben, the graphics guy, had gotten a city contract from the work he had done for the Gala fundraiser in the spring. Mitzy was more than happy to let him do city stuff at her office, so long as he used his own paper and ink. She liked a busy office.

  Joan was upstairs in the Neuhaus Stagers office. Construction was complete and she was finishing the design. She was also working the design for Miramontes Construction, which had the largest upstairs suite in the Neuhaus building. Joan said she was doing the Miramontes job “on spec.” Truth be told, she was doing it while Miramontes himself was out of office. Barb, his secretary, thought it was a great joke.