Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  Buck’s father and mine were brothers, and we cousins looked as alike as most siblings. Like me, Buck had light blue eyes and blond hair the color of pine shavings. But, unlike me, he bore a full beard. He was tall and muscular, years of carpentry work making his shoulders round and strong.

  I gestured to the house. “What do you think, cuz?”

  His eyes narrowed as he took in the place, scrutinizing it. “Can’t go wrong with a classic house like this. The yard needs some work, though.”

  “True.” Like many rentals, it lacked pride of ownership. The grass was sparse, the bushes patchy, and the beds devoid of flowers or ivy to add a splash of color and soften the look. “I can handle the landscaping myself. That part’s easy.” I enjoyed gardening and would have some fun planting fall flowers in the beds.

  I motioned for my cousin to follow me inside. He stopped at the door, staring into the face of the Green Man on the knocker. “It kind of feels like he’s watching us.”

  I chuckled. “I think your imagination is getting the best of you.”

  We proceeded into the house. Buck grimaced when he saw the doodles on the wall and grunted disapprovingly at the other signs of abuse. He also rapped on the walls, knelt down to run a hand over the floors, and opened the cabinets under the sinks to inspect the plumbing. When he finished, he said, “Far as I can tell, all the damage is cosmetic or easily fixed. Structurally, this place seems to be in good shape.”

  “Does that mean you’re in?”

  He raised his brows and cocked his head. “You really think we can spruce this place up for thirty grand?”

  “I know we can. Trust me. This is what I do for a living.” Of course, I usually made repairs with other people’s money. Still, I’d handled enough fix-up projects to become adept at estimating.

  Buck’s brows lowered back into place and he uncocked his head. “Thirty grand will clean me out, but you’re a smart cookie. You wouldn’t steer me wrong.” He stuck out his hand. “Thanks for bringing me in on this, cuz.”

  “Not cuz,” I replied. “Partner.” I gave his hand a firm shake. “You won’t be sorry.”

  When I released his hand, he glanced around again. “You got some ideas for the place?”

  “Sure do.” The instant Dunaway had offered the house to me, my mind began designing and decorating the interior. I had subscriptions to every decorating magazine in print, and spent my free time watching HGTV or the DIY network. I also perused home décor sites online. One of my favorite sites was that of designer Isak Nyström, a talented Swede turned Nashvillian. Capitalizing—literally—on his initials, he ran a company called INnovations, its slogan Why just renovate when you can INnovate? An eclectic, self-proclaimed dumpster diver and garage sale guru, he found rare and intriguing odds and ends that he incorporated into his design work as conversation pieces. But while he might pay next to nothing for many of his decorator items, his services didn’t come cheap. What’s more, he was in such high demand that he could pick and choose his projects, selecting only those properties he found personally appealing. But as much as I’d love to have Isak Nyström design the house, his rates were way out of our price range, if he’d even agree to work on the place.

  “Get Colette’s thoughts on the kitchen,” Buck suggested.

  Colette would be the perfect alternative to a professional designer, at least as far as the kitchen was concerned. “Will do. I bet she’ll have some good ideas.”

  As Buck left, I retrieved my phone from my purse and called my best friend, Colette Chevalier, to share the news. A chef at the landmark Hermitage Hotel, Colette worked mostly in the evenings and would likely be at home now. Her work would give her insights on how we could best fashion the kitchen here. After all, to many buyers, kitchens were the most important room in a house.

  My friend answered on the third ring. “Hey, Wh—”

  Before she could even get out her greeting, I cried, “Guess what!” And before she could guess, I blurted, “I’m buying a house!”

  “You are?” she asked with her New Orleans—or should I say N’awlins?—accent. “Congratulations! It’s about time you got out of that tiny pool house. How you’ve survived with only a minifridge and a toaster oven is beyond me.”

  My shed also had a microwave and a two-burner hot plate, but her point stood. The makeshift kitchen worked fine for someone like me who relied heavily on frozen foods, but it would never satisfy a professional cook like her.

  “I’m not buying the house for myself,” I clarified. “Buck and I are going in together. We plan to flip it. It needs some work, but it’s in a good area. We think we’ll make a nice profit.”

  “If anyone can do it,” she said, “you and Buck can.”

  My friend’s vote of confidence further buoyed my spirits. “Any chance I can convince you to help design the kitchen?”

  “No convincing required,” Colette said. “That sounds like fun!”

  She agreed to come by the following morning, and we spent another minute or two catching up before ending our call.

  I hopped into my SUV and headed downtown to the office of Abbot-Dunaway Holdings, Ltd. Their space was in one of the poshest signature buildings downtown, the tallest in Tennessee, what locals referred to as the “Batman Building” due to the dark façade and the two pointy antenna towers at either end of the roof that resembled bat ears.

  As I stepped through the door, Dunaway’s administrative assistant looked up at me. Presley was around my age, late twenties or early thirties. Dressed in a flattering autumn-gold dress, a print scarf bearing the Versace Medusa logo, and black gladiator heels, she had far more style than I. With mocha skin and dark hair cut short on the sides with a triangle of long bangs angled across her forehead, she was the epitome of Southern chic. A leather Givenchy tote bag leaned against the file cabinet beside her. My mother had a similar one she’d paid a small fortune for. How Presley could afford designer clothing and accessories was a mystery. Though she served many roles at Abbot-Dunaway Holdings, working as the firm’s receptionist and bookkeeper, I presumed Mr. Dunaway was as stingy with his employees as he was with his contract workers like me.

  “Hello, Whitney.” Presley gave me a tepid smile. She had never seemed to like me. As far as I could tell, the feeling was professional rather than personal. She’d been processing rent checks and handling some of the routine residential property management matters before Dunaway had decided to outsource the work. He’d told me that Presley had asked to be put in charge of the residential portfolio, but he’d turned her down because he didn’t want to spend the time training her. His decision to hire me had prevented her from advancing her career, and no doubt she resented me for it. I’d feel the same way if I were in her expensive, ambitious shoes.

  I held out an envelope that contained a cashier’s check in the amount of $2,000. “I’ve got a check for Mr. Dunaway.”

  She took it from me. “Which property does it relate to?”

  “Sweetbriar Avenue.”

  Her perfectly waxed brows lifted in question. “The tenants finally paid their rent?”

  “If only,” I said. “It’s a cashier’s check for earnest money. I’m buying the house.”

  “Wait.” Those perfect brows now angled inward, perplexed. “Are you saying Mr. Dunaway is selling the property?”

  “Yes. The tenants trashed it. He doesn’t want to fool with repairs.”

  “And he offered it to you?”

  “Yes.”

  The twitch about her eyes told me she was irritated that her boss had left her out of the loop. Her mouth then said it outright. “He knows I want to learn the business, that I want to start investing in real estate. Why didn’t he offer it to me?”

  I wasn’t sure if she expected a response or whether the question was rhetorical, and I felt a little bad suggesting a possible answer, but I hoped it might make her feel better. “I don’t know what he pays you, Presley,” I said, though I was pretty sure it wasn’t near what she was
worth given her dedication. “But maybe he assumed you couldn’t afford it. It’s in an expensive area.”

  She reluctantly, and resentfully, acquiesced. “You’ve got a point. I don’t stay in this job for the money. I’m doing it for the experience, trying to learn a thing or two before I venture into the market.” She tilted her head and eyed me. “I know what we pay Home and Hearth, and it’s not much. How can you afford the house?”

  “Only because I still live with my parents.”

  She snickered, but I couldn’t much blame her. My living situation was a little pathetic. There was no denying it.

  “Thanks, Presley,” I said as I turned to go. “Have a good day.”

  She didn’t return the sentiment, but at least she gave me a nod.

  I spent the rest of the day dealing with tenant repair requests, processing rent checks, and reviewing applications for prospective tenants. In between my usual property management duties, I gathered paperwork to start the mortgage process and called in favors from contractors with whom I’d done business over the years. By the end of the day, I had commitments from a plumber and a window guy. Buck and I could refinish the floors again ourselves. We could repair the drywall, replace the closet doors, and handle the painting, too.

  At two minutes before five, the loan officer called.

  “How’s the paperwork look?” I asked. “Do you have good news for me?”

  “Your down payment is sufficient,” the woman said, “but the underwriter is concerned about your ability to make the monthly payments given your limited income.”

  “I’ll only need to make one or two payments before the loan will be paid off,” I reminded her. “The house will be sold as soon as we finish fixing it up.”

  “Even so,” she replied, “houses don’t always sell as quickly as expected. The underwriter won’t issue the loan without a cosigner. Got anyone who’d be willing to be on the hook?”

  Buck would do it, wouldn’t he? Sure. In for a penny, in for a pound. “My cousin Buck plans to help me with the renovations. I’m sure he’d cosign.”

  “All righty. He’ll need to provide the same documentation and information you gave me.”

  “I’ll call him right away.” I had to. The twenty-four hours Rick Dunaway had given me would be up by mid-morning. No way would I let Thaddeus Gentry steal the Sweetbriar house from me.

  As soon as we ended the call, I phoned Buck. As expected, he agreed to cosign the loan. Although he owned three wooded acres north of Nashville, his payments on the land and single-wide trailer he called home were easily affordable on a skilled carpenter’s income. I gave him the loan officer’s e-mail address. “Thanks, Buck. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Neither do I,” he teased before hanging up.

  My mind spun like a socket wrench. With any luck, this venture could be the first of many. Dare I dream I could become a professional house flipper?

  CHAPTER 5

  QUITTING TIME

  SAWDUST

  Sawdust sat on the floor, staring out the French doors. He couldn’t read a clock, but the fact that it was now dark outside told the cat that Whitney should be home by now. So where is she?

  If she didn’t get home soon, she wouldn’t be able to protect Sawdust from the terrifying demon that came to life early each evening and made its way across the floor, searching for prey.

  Across the backyard, Sawdust could see Whitney’s parents inside their lighted kitchen, eating dinner. Whitney’s mom sipped that dark liquid she liked so much. He’d sniffed at her glass once while visiting and the stuff made his nose crinkle. Humans drank and ate some pretty yucky things in his opinion. That red swill. Bananas. Sauerkraut. Of course some of the things they ate and drank weren’t so bad. Rice. Cereal. Whitney had left a stick of butter out on the kitchen counter once and Sawdust had licked that. Butter tasted good.

  From the back corner where the demon hibernated came a telltale sound. Whirrr. Sawdust bolted across the floor, leaped up onto his cat tree, and scrabbled to the highest perch, putting as much distance as possible between him and the demon as it blindly went about its hunt. He crouched and trembled on the platform. Where are you, Whitney? Please come home!

  CHAPTER 6

  DEAL OR NO DEAL?

  WHITNEY

  Sawdust met me at the door, mewing and mewling and stretching up on my leg as if he thought I’d abandoned him. “Sorry I’m late.” I bent down to scoop him up in my arms and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. “Did you miss me as much as I missed you?”

  He rubbed his head on my chin, telling me that yes, my absence had been pure torture for him. Or perhaps I was just flattering myself.

  “How about a tuna treat?” I asked, reaching for the canister on the counter.

  The cat issued an excited chirp. After hand-feeding him a treat, I set about making my own dinner, a gourmet peanut butter sandwich.

  I’d just settled into my recliner to watch the late news when my phone buzzed with an incoming call from Rick Dunaway. Sawdust leaped up into my lap, nearly causing me to spill my mug of hot chocolate as I accepted the call.

  “So?” Dunaway asked without preamble. “Are you going to be able to swing the deal on the Sweetbriar house?”

  I glanced at the clock. Technically, I had another ten hours before I had to give him an answer, but no sense reminding him of that fact.

  “Yes,” I told him. “I’ll be able to do the deal.”

  “Good,” he said. “Send me the preapproval letter from your mortgage company.”

  Uh-oh. “I’ll have that for you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? I offered you a fantastic price. I thought you’d got moving on it right away. What’s the holdup?”

  “I’ve got the down payment, but the mortgage company wants a cosigner since my income wouldn’t be enough to cover the mortgage long term.”

  “In other words,” he snapped, “you might not come through.”

  I sat up straight, sloshing hot chocolate on my leg with no help from my cat this time. “I’ll come through, Mr. Dunaway. I’m a woman of my word. In fact, I’ve already scheduled the inspection. The guy’s coming out at nine in the morning.” I fought the urge to tell him we could move even faster if he’d agree to a seller-financed arrangement. Better not push my luck, huh?

  “Gotta go,” he said. “An important call’s coming in.” With that, he was gone.

  Despite Dunaway’s doubt, I knew the mortgage would be approved as fast as the loan officer could process the paperwork. Like the inspector, she was a reliable sort.

  I set my phone aside and ran a hand down Sawdust’s back, igniting his rhythmic, diesel-enginelike purr. RRRurrr-RRRurrr-RRRurr. “We’re going to get rich, boy. Rich! What do you think of that?”

  My cat looked up at me, blinked, and opened his mouth in a wide, fish-scented yawn. He reached up a paw and softly touched my cheek as if to tell me that as long as he had his treats, a cat tree to climb on, and me to love him, he’d be happy, rich or poor.

  “You’re lucky to be a cat.” He didn’t have to worry about deadbeat tenants or mortgages or taking the real estate agent’s exam. All he had to worry about was rolling over to make sure he was always lying in a sunny spot on the rug. Must be nice to live such a simple life.

  * * *

  At eight thirty the next morning, I turned onto Sweetbriar Avenue. Rather than my business attire, today I sported my paint-spattered denim coveralls and well-worn work boots. Bobby wouldn’t be here for another half hour to begin his inspection, but I figured I’d get a jump start on measuring the rooms for the renovations and sanding the wood floors.

  As I drew near the house, my eyes spotted Rick Dunaway’s silver Mercedes parked in the driveway. At the curb sat Gentry’s Infiniti.

  “What the heck?” I murmured to myself. Why are Mr. Dunaway and Thaddeus Gentry here? There was only one explanation. Rick Dunaway changed his mind and is going to sell the house to Thad Gentry!

  I braked to
a quick stop, sprang from my car, and yanked my toolbox from the cargo bay. I scurried up the porch to find WATCH YOUR BACK followed by the B-word scrawled in ballpoint pen on the front door. Jackson’s doing, no doubt. I supposed I could call the police, but why take up their valuable time with such a petty crime? Nothing appeared to be permanently damaged, and this could be a one-time thing. Maybe the boy would be satisfied with his little act of revenge and move on. I certainly hoped so.

  Stepping inside, I found Dunaway and Gentry in the living room. They stopped talking and looked my way. I plunked my toolbox down on the floor as if staking my claim. Thunk. If I were a cat like Sawdust, I’d have raised my tail and sprayed the place, marking it as my territory. My hands reflexively fisted and went to my hips in preparation for the hissy fit I was about to throw. “What’s going on?”

  Dunaway chuckled. “No need to get worked up, Whitney. I’ve told Thad the only way he’ll own this house is over my dead body.”

  Gentry grunted. “The place is a dump, Rick. You’ll change your tune when things fall through.”

  Before I could stop my mouth, it snapped, “They won’t!”

  Gentry tossed me a patronizing look before turning back to Dunaway and talking about me as if I weren’t there. “Is she always like this?”

  “She can be a spitfire when she needs to be,” Dunaway said. “That’s why I hired her to manage our residential properties.”

  Without so much as a good-bye, the two men stepped past me and went outside. I closed and locked the door behind them, the gesture more symbolic than for security. Moving to the windows, I raised them each a few inches to air the remaining beer and boy odors from the room.