Open Home Murders: A Novel

By Tom Kunkel

A small town is put on edge when Real Estate Agents start turning up dead. Kurt Banning is a successful real estate agent who has an on-again, off-again relationship with the local police lieutenant, Elizabeth Colburn. Kurt hopes his knowledge of local real estate will aid in the capture of the person responsible. The Hamilton police department is not so enthusiastic about Kurts meddling. Soon, he and Elizabeth come face to face with a vengeful killer. Will Kurts involvement help or will it result in his own death, or Elizabeths or both?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546218340

Tom Kunkel

Tom Kunkel has been a Real Estate Broker for almost two decades. He has combined his love of humor and suspense along with real knowledge of the industry to present Open Home Murders. This is his debut novel, introducing Kurt Banning. Tom lives with his wife and real estate partner in the suburbs of Chicago. They enjoy spending time with their four adult children and at their cottage in Michigan.

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© 2017 Tom Kunkel. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/16/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1726-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1725-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1834-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017917587

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

PROLOGUE

Henry Hank Pilcher was sitting at the kitchen table in his tiny one-bedroom apartment Friday morning reading the real estate section of the Tribune. Interesting, he thought, as he skimmed all the homes listed in the foreclosure section. Dozens upon dozens, even hundreds of available homes at bargain prices. Small cottage-type ranches right on up to million-dollar Tudors with beautiful views of rolling hills and woodlands scattered throughout the Chicagoland area, all to be had at a fraction of their original price. The poor slobs who had once occupied these homes—and some still did—filling them with memories of backyard barbeques and pool parties, were now probably living in cheap apartments or in their elderly parents’ guest rooms, or worse yet, in their musty basements. Having done everything they could to save their dreams, they had failed. Mortgages, second loans, and equity lines had led to the same results, only more slowly than if they had left the keys on the counter with a note to the bank and just walked out months earlier.

Hank’s apartment was located on the top floor of a three-story building in the crumbling section of Gilbert, Illinois. The kitchen window, one of only two windows in the entire apartment, looked out onto an alley where the trash containers for the building were stored. Every Friday morning, around six o’clock, he could hear the beeping of the backup horn on the large blue truck that had been contracted to pick up the decay of the thirty-six residents that called Humphrey Arms their home. The all-brick building had been built in the forties and had the same amenities now as then—boiler heat, gas stoves, and small bathroom with a tub-shower combination. People must have been smaller in the forties, because the tubs weren’t even long enough to stretch out for a bath, had anyone the thought of relaxing in a chipped porcelain tub with a rusty drain, bowed pale blue ceramic tile sides, and permanently mildew-stained grout. The other window was in the flea-sized bedroom. The seal had broken long ago, and the pane had fogged over with moisture. No loss, really. The view was of the backside of another brick apartment building, with air conditioning units sticking out like broken teeth of an old boxer’s smile. There was one living space in addition to the bedroom and kitchen. The carpet was so bare you could see the air underneath. A well-traveled pattern was formed from the television to the refrigerator to the bedroom. The upside was the plaster walls, which provided soundproofing between apartments. Hank had live in the Humphrey Arms for a little more than a year. He was on his second lease term and still had no idea who his neighbors were.

Hadn’t we all been told, Hank thought, that it was never a better time to buy, money is cheap, you can’t afford not to buy that new home now. He believed it then as well. And why not? He had had a good job. Good, not great. He was successfully employed at Pearson’s Plumbing and Supply as a salesman. In fact, he had even been sales associate of the month a dozen times in his eight years with the company. He knew the product line better than anyone else and had developed a strong and loyal client base of builders and homeowners alike. He had seen the trends move from shiny brass fixtures to chrome to brushed nickel. As the size and price of new homes continued to increase, so had the variety of luxury plumbing fixtures. No longer was a kitchen faucet merely a means of delivering water; it had become an artistic focal point in the kitchen. Dual- and single-swivel faucets had morphed into pull-out sprayers with multi-flow features. Extras now included soap dispensers and pot fillers with instant hot water. Bathrooms had become spas and were no longer just a place to shave, brush your teeth, and take a dump. Whirlpool tubs were still popular but were gradually becoming obsolete and were being replaced by state-of-the-art walk-in showers. Handheld spa heads, body jets, rain showerheads, and frameless glass hinged shower doors were all the rage. Hank’s top-selling, most expensive shower fixture was the double-handle thermostatic valve with volume control, diverter, and lever handles. Now that was a beauty. He smiled each time he rang one up as he figured the sales commission in his head.

Hank had his regular builders and do-it-yourself home remodelers. The housing boon had been good for everyone. He was likable enough, knew what he was talking about and gave excellent customer service. His knowledge and sincerity were enough to keep them asking for Hank Pilcher when they called or entered the show room of Pearson’s Plumbing and Supply.

One of Hank’s new construction clients was Jackson Brothers Custom Homes. In fact, Jackson Brothers built a brand-new home in a brand-new subdivision for him during the height of the housing boom. Why not? Money was cheap and it was a great time to buy. Plus, his Realtor and his lender, First Family Bank and Trust, had told him so. They were the experts in real estate, just as Hank was an expert in the plumbing supply business.

Hank and his family had finally moved in during the spring of 2004. The Pilcher’s new two-story, four-bedroom, three-and-a-half bathroom home sat on a quarter-acre lot at the end of a premium cul-de-sac in Jordan Creek Estates. The creek was actually a small runoff tributary, but it had a name, and now so did the subdivision. Hank had even managed to have Jackson Brothers finish the lookout basement at cost. Yes sir, he had cut quite a deal. The American Dream was his.

The housing boom of the late 1990s continued right up until 2007, when everything came to a halt. The economy was showing signs of slowing. New home sales were stalling and interest rates were inching up. Hank had lived long enough to see these small blips on the radar before. It would surely pass by and regain momentum; it always had. His client list went from thirty builders to twenty-two the following year, and the year after that, down to seventeen. His commission checks began to get smaller and smaller at Pearson’s as their business began to mirror the economy. The company had to let six sales associates go during this declining period. But things would have to improve, wouldn’t they? They didn’t.

In order to stay current with his bills, Hank took out a line of credit, which helped temporarily. They had put a large amount down on the home, so it was really like taking a loan from himself, wasn’t it? He knew how to budget, but his family was another story. Lydia, Hank’s wife, had a love affair with credit cards. And she never denied their daughter, Samantha, ten, or their son, Tyler, eight, anything. Summer camp? Sure, why not. They deserved it. All their friends were going to camp. iPods, Xbox, flat-screen plasma TVs, computers for everyone, all the necessities to live in Jordan Creek Estates. Ten-year-old Samantha had even talked her mom into getting her a cell phone, for crying out loud. Many evenings, after Samantha and Tyler were tucked into bed, ended in arguments between Hank and Lydia about money.

Do we need a cleaning service every week? Hank would ask. Can’t we get through one more year before we need a new car? Why don’t you do my shirts instead of sending them out? No, we can’t afford a pool. We’ll take the kids to Florida for spring break next year. And on and on went the conversations. It was a struggle to keep up with the other families moving into Jordan Creek Estates, but Lydia was determined to have it all and then some. Image was a driving force in her life. Hank wondered how many other families in the new shiny subdivision were having similar late-night discussions. The money rift had spilled over into other aspects of their marriage. The lack of communication and affection added to the growing depressive atmosphere in the Pilcher household.

Hank was in trouble financially and was the only member of the family who seemed to acknowledge that fact. They had bought in over their head. He even talked to his Realtor about the option of selling their four-year-old home without Lydia’s knowledge. Timing is bad, Hank was told. Not a good time to sell. Prices have fallen dramatically, and they don’t look like they’re going up anytime soon. In fact, the numbers suggest that you couldn’t sell it for what you paid for it. The timing was terrible. Not only had they paid a premium for the lot, but the house was loaded with amenities. Plus, Hank had paid to finish the basement (at cost, of course). And then there was the landscaping: patio, extra trees and bushes, sod instead of seed, hard scape, and fire pit. Lydia had gone all out on the window treatments. Holy God in heaven were drapes, curtains, blinds, and sheers expensive! How had this all happened? Hank agonized almost daily. While at work, on the drive to and from work, and worst of all during his restless nights, all he could think of was the building debt and how to get out from under the growing situation.

He didn’t know how to solve the problem. It felt as though a shovel of wet sand was tossed onto on his chest every time he let his mind wander to the bills. It was hard to breathe, as if someone was sucking the air out of his lungs with a vacuum hose. Waking up exhausted each morning did nothing for his mood. Lydia certainly didn’t want to worry the children or deny them anything, and it would surely be all right eventually. It wasn’t.

His bills equaled more than his income. Hank suggested that Lydia look for a part-time job. She worried what the other wives would think if they saw her going to work every day. This was not the marriage she had dreamed of as a little girl growing up in a well-to-do upper-middle-class home. After some hesitation and self-doubt about her qualifications, she hit the streets in search of employment. Not a career, just a job. Her skills were fifteen years old, and apparently being a supportive mother and spouse didn’t count for much to the outside world. Meanwhile, Hank’s list of builders dropped to eleven, and his commission checks were skimpy in comparison to his mounting debt. He was behind on credit card bill payments, barely making the mortgage payment, and to make things worse, he now couldn’t cover the repayment of his draw at work.

Hank also began to look for part-time employment to supplement his meager wages at Pearson’s Plumbing and Supply. Weekends, evenings, any spare time he could carve out was devoted to other employment opportunities. His only background had been in sales, and sales-oriented companies were not hiring. He tried other fields as well, but at age forty-two, his resume lacked appeal. Luckily, Lydia had found a part-time position at a local real estate office. She was guaranteed thirty hours a week as the receptionist. Her duties included answering phones, filing, making brochures, and doing any other tasks that the Realtors might need. The position offered flexible hours, slightly better than minimum wage, and proximity to home. Great news! No.

Six months into the new job, Lydia asked Hank for a divorce. It seemed her tasks involved sleeping with Thad Essington, managing broker and owner of Essington Realty. And Lydia excelled at that job. Seeing no future with a deadbeat plumbing salesman who was constantly in a sour mood, and tired of worrying about money, Lydia jumped ship and took the kids with her in the little lifeboat known as Thad.

Thad was infatuated with Lydia from the start. In fact, he had hired her with the subconscious idea of a little friendly flirting and maybe a short office romance. He fell head over heels in love with her. It didn’t matter that she was married or even that she had children. What they had discovered in each other were true passion and real love. As Lydia was not going to change her mind, after much pleading and even begging, Hank agreed to the divorce request and moved out and into an apartment, close enough to be near his children. The salt in the wound was when Thad Essington planted his sign in the front yard of Hank’s house two months later. FOR SALE. Not only had Thad taken Hank’s wife and children; he had stolen the American Dream from him, and now he was going to have to pay Thad a commission for doing so!

In Hank’s mind, Realtors and lenders were the causes of this whole mess. They drove up the housing prices, convinced people to overpay for homes, and got them into financial hardships. The lenders gave money away, often with no or little documentation for the loan. Who invented the no-doc loan anyway? Greedy lenders who were only after the fees and interest associated with creating mortgages, whether you were qualified or not! Who needed Realtors anyway? They drove around in fancy cars, opening front doors and convincing people to buy homes. And they got paid big bucks for doing nothing. Realtors were lowlife scum who slept with the money handlers, and neither served any worthwhile purpose in Hank’s mind. They had ruined his life. His home was sold for a pittance compared to what he had paid. After the sales costs and commission, and the split with his wife, he was left with a negative balance with his lender. First Family Bank and Trust had worked out a deal with Hank on the sale, which left him owning nothing but with no proceeds. The American Dream had become a short sale. No home, no wife, no money, no dignity.

Hank moved on with the life he had been dealt, but not without an inner rage that gave him perpetual red-rimmed eyes, taut jaw, and slumped shoulders. He often found his hands clenched into fists. Most days he didn’t bother to shave. When he went to work, which was now as a part-time salesman at Pearson’s Plumbing and Supply, his shirts looks as though he had slept in them. The once colorful ties were dulled with age and frayed at the tips. The fresh crease down the front of his trouser was long gone. He drove his beater of a car, a 1998 Chevy Malibu, to work three days a week and did his best to budget what little money he did bring home. Thankfully, Lydia and Thad had agreed to not pursue the delinquent child support payments. He hadn’t been able to pay in over six months, and the future didn’t look much different. He stopped seeing his children on a regular basis. There was no room in his one-bedroom apartment for Samantha and Tyler to sleep over on weekends anyway. Plus, they seemed thrilled with their new life.

When he went to pick up the kids, pulling into the driveway of his ex-wife’s new home, which she shared with Thad Essington, destroyed any remaining self-worth he had. Well, at least Lydia had the lifestyle she had always wanted, and then some. The new Mr. and Mrs. Essington, along with Hank’s children, lived in a five-thousand-square-foot Tudor that had been built seven years ago in a tear-down area of Gilbert. The old section of town, where there once stood modest single-family homes, ranches, split-levels, and Cape Cods, had slowly transformed into an upscale Mecca of the nouveau rich. The four-car driveway was laid with distressed red paver bricks. The front door was encased in a two-story turret, with lead glass windows. When he went to pick up the kids, Hank never made it much past the spacious foyer with its travertine tile from Mexico, and nor did he want to. He heard plenty about the house while he and his children discussed their lives. He would take them out for a lunch or a big breakfast at the pancake house that had been his family’s favorite in happier times. He still took the kids there, but it seemed like an entirely different restaurant now. The conversation eventually turned to Samantha’s bathroom paradise, or the theater room in the finished basement, or the pool party for Sam’s thirteenth birthday party. It made Hank sad and angry behind his fatherly eyes and plastic smile. Well, he would have his revenge.

The phone on the dingy yellow kitchen wall rang. It was 10:30 on Friday morning. As Hank got up to answer, the Tribune fell from the table to the floor. The pages of the real estate section floated to the grimy, cracked linoleum. Circled in red were two scheduled open houses for Sunday.

1

CHAPTER

The victim’s name was Sara Donoghue. Thirty-four years old. Wife, mother of two boys: Bryan, age seven, and Nicolas, age five. Real estate agent for three years. She went back to work to supplement her husband Brad’s income as a sixth-grade school teacher in District 38. She lived in a northern suburb of Chicago and worked for a large national real-estate franchise. Last year’s production was eleven homes, and she had hoped to increase that to seventeen this year. Her main business was holding open houses for other agents on weekends. She had procured a bounty of buyers with this method and had even sold one property during an open house last year. Her current year was off to a fast start thanks to an early spring and cooperative weather.

She was a perky five feet five (five three without the Prada knockoffs) and 133 pounds. Short, curly brown hair worn in a flyaway style, and always smartly dressed, very professional. She put together her wardrobe from discount stores, accessorizing with expensive jewelry to create a high-fashion look without the price tag. Sara drove a ten-year-old four-door Lincoln Town Car, which she bought from her dad at a bargain price. It floated down the highway like a large boat. Given Sara’s stature, it often looked as though no one was driving. She gave it love and care and regular maintenance, keeping it looking practically new. Black exterior with gray cloth interior, low mileage, terrible on gas. A very big trunk, plenty of room for her Open Home event signs.

Sara was in charge of planning her parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary celebration. Her two sisters lived out of state and just couldn’t help with local arrangements. The big surprise party was to happen exactly twelve weeks from her Sunday open house.

The Donoghue family were outdoors people. They loved to go for bike rides and hiking, and they took camping vacations in the days before the boys were born. Real camping, with a tent, no Winnebago for Sara and Brad. A day at a nearby forest preserve was more exciting than a trip into the city. It was simple and pure, a day filled with laughs. Sara was the soccer mom who brought juice packs and homemade cookies, not for just the team but for the coaches and the other parents as well. Each three-by-five-inch juice carton had one of Sara’s business cards taped neatly in place. After all, these people might someday want to sell or buy a home. Why not mix business with pleasure? Sara had read in a real estate book—purchased at last year’s annual conference in Springfield—that success was based on self-marketing. Every chance you have to put your name in front of someone, do it.

Welcome. Come on in. My name is Sara. Are you familiar with the neighborhood? No. Well, let me tell you a little bit about the local parks, shopping, and where the schools are located. Do you have children in school? This is a four-bedroom Cape Cod with two and a half baths. Wait until you see the potential for finishing the basement. Follow me.

Sara was sweet, informative, and naive. Her unassuming nature was part of her charm. It was no act for Sara to be open and overly friendly—it was who she was, and it served her well in the real-estate business.

Brad Donoghue had reported his wife missing when she failed to return home late on Sunday, well after her scheduled open house should have ended. He and his sons spent a terrifying twenty-four hours waiting for news of their beloved wife and mother. He drove by the house where Sara was to have held her open house, but there was no sign of her. The managing broker of her office as well as several concerned agents drove to the house, but no one did a thorough search. No one even checked the garage until the police decided to pop the trunk of a late-model Lincoln the next day. Everyone assumed that the previous owner was storing the car there or that a neighbor had permission to keep an extra car out of the elements. No one thought it unusual that a vacant home had a car parked in the garage.

And so Sara Donoghue was found in the trunk of a ten-year-old black Lincoln Town Car, parked in the garage at 1214 Mission Hill Court, the site of her last open house. Neighbors reported seeing the light on through the windows of the garage door. This was odd, as the previous owners had moved out months earlier. The bank was foreclosing on the house. The Robbins had simply said their goodbyes to neighbors, packed what they could in a rental moving truck, and left the right after the first of the New Year. It had been important to Mr. and Mrs. Robbins to spend one last Christmas together in the home where their four children had been born. It was a sad, cold day in January when the six Robbins drove away down the street—a two-vehicle parade of minivan and a rental truck.

Local Glenburg police had come to investigate. Looking through the window of the garage door, they saw the car and ran the Illinois license plate. It came back as registered to a one Sara Lynn Donoghue. The stench was powerful when they opened the trunk and found the decaying body of its owner. Her light-blue oxford-cloth blouse with the Peter Pan collar was unbuttoned and spread wide. Written on her chest, over her heart, in the same rose-pink lipstick she had put on fresh the morning of the open house, was the word LYER. Her lips, no longer pink, were caked with a dried powdery white substance. Taped across each eye was one of Sara’s business cards. A picture of Sara—smiling, as though a bright future lay ahead of her—stared up at the policeman from the floor of her trunk: Call Sara—I make dreams come true. The patrolman on the scene gaped at the stark difference between the smiling image on the cards and the waxen, bloated body of Sara Donoghue.

2

CHAPTER

Congratulations, Kurt.

A good marriage gone bad. I don’t actually believe there is such a thing. I hear it all the time from friends describing other friends’ divorces. They were a fun couple, just a good marriage gone bad. Gee, they seemed happy—minivan, kids, and that big, loveable dog. What a shame—a good marriage gone bad.

Don’t know how you stayed sane for a decade.

I believe there are good people who are good their entire lives and go on to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary surrounded by their children and grandchildren. Balloons covered in gold spray, an overly rich three-layer cake with old farts on top, and thoughtful but meaningless gifts to the happy couple. A celebration of commitment and love, honor and thoughtfulness, celebrated in a sterile rental hall.

Nice job, Kurt. Keep it up.

Then there are bad people who should never have gotten married in the first place. Even in the early stages of dating, when we’re all on our best behavior, the signs are evident. Physical attraction should be taken for what it is—lust! Lust won’t last, because it costs too much.

Where would you like to go for dinner?

Chin’s House of Rice would be nice.

Again? We just ate there last week.

You asked. I’m hungry for Chinese.

Well, I’m not.

Fine.

I’m going down to Larry’s Pub for a burger and a beer.

Have a good time. Don’t wake me when you come in.

No lust, just lost.

These were my thoughts as I contemplated the demise of my own marriage more than twelve years earlier. My ex and I were neither good nor bad, although at the time I was certain we were both good. I found out it was just lust. Over our fourteen years together, we became complacent and compromising and uninvolved with each other. The marriage had served its purpose, and there was nothing left. It wasn’t a good marriage gone bad, just lust lost.

That was the road that brought me to my current station in life: Kurt Banning, Realtor extraordinaire. I may be taking some liberty with the extraordinaire part, but in my little part of the world, I was making a comfortable living fulfilling other people’s dream of home ownership. I was considered successful by my peers.

The accolades continued as I sat in the small cubicle I called my office. Ten minutes earlier, we had been cramped in the small kitchenette in the back of the office. Ten balloons were tied to the back of an aging card-table chair, one of four that serviced the four-by-four-foot card table. On the plaid vinyl-covered tabletop was a store-bought sheet cake. Too much butter cream frosting hid the chocolate cake beneath. Powdered-sugar rosettes were planted at each corner. Rope lettering squeezed out of a tube said, Thanks and Congratulations. Below that was a huge number ten. No candles. We had long ago given up the tradition of blowing out candles on cakes celebrating a variety of accomplishments at the office. A few years ago, when we were celebrating Marge Linkus’s eightieth birthday, her bottom denture flew out as she blew and landed in the center of the zero. Too many hackers and sneezers spreading their cold-and-flu-season germs, SARS, bird flu virus, and so on. Marge Linkus ended a century-old tradition. Not surprisingly, since the no-candle policy went into effect, a lot more cake was consumed during company events.

It was ten years ago today that I jumped into a career that I knew very little about, with the exception of my own previous home purchases. Real estate had and still does intrigue me. It is an interesting fact that before the technology boom and the likes of Microsoft, Google, Amazon, Facebook, etc., 90 percent of America’s millionaires made their fortunes in buying, selling, owning, or having rights to dirt! It is a simple yet complicated process of risk and reward. That’s where I come in; I simplify the risk-reward proposition for clients and reap a portion of the reward. I am certain that mine is an honorable profession, but not all participants are honorable. Some are just lustful.

Way to go, buddy, Mark said as he walked behind me. His attempt at a pat on the back resulted in bumping my chair, causing a rogue wave of lukewarm, hour-old coffee to splash over the lip of my cup and on to my littered desk and freshly pressed slacks. Thank you for cold coffee and dark brown pants. I swiveled in my chair to give Mark a deserved ugly face, and I struck my knee on the inside second drawer of my genuine Steelcase desk. And I do mean steel case. I had been sitting at the same desk for ten years, and at least once a day I would slam my left knee into that damn drawer.

You see, although we guide people through the vagaries of buying that first home or upgrading their family domicile, we aren’t high on the professional food chain. At last ranking, we were still above lawyers, car salesmen, and insurance agents, but I doubt we’ll ever come close to the firefighters, doctors, teachers, and police, and nor should we. Although, I suppose that depends if your house is on fire or you need to have a fire sale on an overpriced home in a down market.

As a Realtor, I sell homes, land, and multi-family buildings. I assist hardworking folks in getting a good deal on the perfect home, whether