In the end the case was settled with three years of probation and a hefty fine. “You’re very lucky, young lady,” the judge had intoned, staring down at me after I’d acknowledged my crime. “This is your first offense—let it be your last.”
Of course, he didn’t know it wasn’t my first offense. Not even close. The first offense had been committed when I was six years old at my grandparents’ house, a classic Pittsburgh three-story brick house in the heart of Etna. As a child, I’d been free to wander anywhere in their home, enjoying the sound of the creaking old floors, playing with the hand-tatted lace doilies covering the tabletops, pulling out the ancient, musty books on my grandfather’s oak bookcase. I’d climb the carpeted stairs to my grandparents’ bedroom, sitting on the stool in front of my grandmother’s frilly vanity, with its round mirror and lace skirt, the glass top covered with pretty perfume bottles and a silver-plated toiletry set. One afternoon, I pulled open one of the dresser drawers and found a large green velvet box. In it was a sparkling mass of costume jewelry, and I remember crowing with the delight of a pirate coming upon a treasure chest.
I’d taken each piece out and arranged them on the cool blue comforter covering my grandparents’ bed and then I’d tried on piece after piece. Later, I’d gone downstairs with one of my grandmother’s satin nightgowns hanging off my shoulders, a matinee strand of pearls around my neck, a pair of dangly gemstone earrings clipped to my ears, and my face smeared with her lipstick and coated in face powder.
“Oh, look at the fine lady,” my gram said with a laugh, but my mother hadn’t smiled. She’d wiped the lipstick off my mouth and marched me upstairs, ordering me to take off what wasn’t mine and put all of that jewelry carefully away. In my haste, a small gold-and-black enamel bumblebee fell out of the pile and rolled onto the floor. My mother didn’t notice and after she’d left the room I’d pocketed the pin. It felt good to have this secret thing, it gave me a rush.
I’ve taken many items over the years, a bracelet from a friend at school, makeup from other people’s lockers, and candy or panty hose from shops. It’s not the value of the object that matters—I feel a little guilty if they’re worth much—although I do take things that I like. It’s the idea of it, the feel of it slipping into my pocket or purse. No one misses them, or if they do they’re easy to replace.
My job presents a special opportunity. I’m alone in homes so often, and I have to check each room in the houses that I list to make sure that they’re ready for a showing. After Erie, I’d vowed never to take anything again, but that promise lasted only a few years. The first time I took something from a client was when I listed the property of avid collectors in Ben Avon. I took a tiny porcelain Scottie dog that was literally one of hundreds of pieces decorating their home. The thrill came back as strong as ever, my heart racing as I slipped it carefully into the pocket of my blazer. They never missed it. After Erie, I was very cautious of cameras. No one since then had missed anything at all until the gun.
I’d found it almost a decade ago, tucked away in a small wood and metal box that was just waiting to catch my eye as I checked the master bedroom closet in one of my properties. The house belonged to George and Lois Duncan, retirees and snowbirds, who’d tasked me with selling their home while they were in Florida for the winter. They’d lived in their Pittsburgh home for over forty years and had managed to squirrel things away in every corner and crevice. Rooms were obstacle courses of furniture, every closet stuffed to bursting; the first time we’d met I’d advised them to clear out the clutter. This is advice I have to give to most homeowners. People want to imagine themselves in the house, I’ll say. Make the rooms look bright and spacious.
The day of the open house was bitterly cold and I arrived early to walk through the rooms one more time. The Duncans had moved some things into storage, but there was still that fusty feel to the place, enhanced by the dated wallpaper and wood paneling, and there was a musty odor in the basement. I opened every closet, because this was what potential buyers would do, pleased to see that they’d at least gotten rid of some of the mothball-clogged plastic bags with outfits last worn in the 1970s. That was when I spotted the box, sitting on the shelf in their master closet.
Snow was falling, soft and thick, outside. I remember looking out the window before I stood on tiptoe to touch the box with just the tips of my fingers, dragging it slowly forward until it toppled over the shelf and I caught it. The box was intricately carved, that’s what had caught my eye, and it looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. I’m not sure what I thought it would contain, but I remember recoiling when I pushed open the lid and caught sight of the small black handgun nestled in a gray foam bed, a row of copper-tipped bullets tucked nose-down in the foam alongside it. After a moment, I traced the gun’s clean lines with my finger, admiring its design. It was an interesting find.
How did I think that its absence wouldn’t be noticed? Two weeks after I’d tucked it in my purse, feeling that familiar thrill, George Duncan called to tell me that his son had informed him that something was missing from their home and had I, by any chance, seen it or let anyone “questionable” walk through the open house? I played dumb, expressing concern before finally asking what had been taken. I said I’d never touched a gun and wouldn’t, but I was concerned that someone else might have carried it out of their house. Was it possible he’d put it in storage? Or could it be somewhere else in the house? I did my best to erase his suspicion while also giving him the list of visitors to his home. We’d had a steady stream of potential buyers through the house. My palms were sweaty at the thought that he might try to involve the police.
George made a halfhearted attempt to search for the gun and I got the sense that he didn’t fully believe my denials. A few months later, when the house failed to sell, the Duncans didn’t renew their contract, quietly firing me as their Realtor. That happens; sometimes an agent can’t sell a place because the owner has set the price too high, but somebody has to pay for the wasted time and often it’s the Realtor.
That was the case with the Duncans’ house, too—they went with a competitor at another firm, but dropped the price by over $50,000. Not surprisingly, they sold the house soon after. So it might have been only that, the case of the football coach for the losing team losing his job, but I couldn’t help feeling that it had been personal, that George Duncan went with another agent because of the missing gun. I’d been stupid to steal it; it’s not like I was ever planning to use it. But a year later, once the Duncans were permanently in Florida, I had to do an evening showing at a house in an isolated area and on impulse I stuck the box in my purse. After that, I started taking the gun with me to all nighttime showings and open houses.
I never told Brian. Over the years he’d given me a small can of Mace, which is illegal, and a high-pitched security whistle, which I couldn’t see scaring away anybody but the neighborhood dogs. It wouldn’t have occurred to him to buy a gun; he thinks they’re dangerous and he’s squeamish about blood.