by Diane Kelly
After we shared another hug, Mrs. Hartley got on her phone to call the seller and tell them she’d received an offer on the house.
I, too, placed a call. “Grab your toolbox, Buck. We’re back in business.”
Read on for an excerpt from
DEAD IN THE DOORWAY
the next installment in Diane Kelly’s new House Flipper series, available soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks!
WHITNEY WHITAKER
Click.
My breath fogged in the frigid January air as I stood on the cracked concrete driveway and snapped cell phone pics of the dilapidated white Colonial. Later, I’d look the pictures over and make a list of the repairs to be done and the materials needed.
Click. Click-click.
Sawdust, my sweet but spoiled cat, performed figure eights between my legs, wrapping his leash tightly around my ankles as if he were a cowboy at the rodeo and I was a calf he’d roped. Buck, who was both my cousin and business partner, stood next to me. Given that our fathers were brothers, Buck and I shared the last name Whitaker. We also shared a tall physique, blue eyes, and hair the color of unfinished pine. But while Buck sported a full beard, a monthly waxing at the beauty salon kept any would-be whiskers away from my face.
I slid my phone into the pocket of my coveralls, leaned down to extricate my legs from the tangled leash, and picked up my cat before turning to my cousin. “What do you think?”
Buck’s narrowed gaze roamed over the structure, taking in the peeling paint, the weathered boards, and the missing balusters on the front porch railing. Several shutters had gone AWOL, too. A wooden trellis stretched up the side of the house, looking like an oversized skeleton trying to scale the roof. Several of its slats hung askew, like broken ribs. The climbing roses that graced the trellis had withered in the winter weather, awaiting their annual spring rejuvenation.
The home’s former owner, a widow named Lillian Walsh, had lived a long and happy life here before passing from natural causes. Her fixed income hadn’t allowed for much upkeep, though, and her children had put the place on the market as-is rather than deal with the cost and hassle of repairs. That’s where flippers like me and my cousin came in.
Buck cocked his head as he he continued his visual inspection. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. But I don’t see anything we can’t handle.”
House flippers maximize their profits by investing not only their money, but also sweat equity, in their properties, fixing up the homes themselves rather than hiring the work out at a markup. As a professional carpenter, Buck had the know-how to spruce the place up. Having regularly helped out at Whitaker Woodworking over the years, I’d grown adept at carpentry, too. What’s more, thanks to my property management work and YouTube tutorials, I’d learned how to handle all sorts of repairs. If you need drywall patched or a sticky door re-hung, I’m your gal.
Looking back at the house, I felt hopeful. A new year means a new beginning, doesn’t it?
Buck and I sure could use a fresh start. Last year had been rough. I’d convinced my cousin to partner with me on our first house flip, certain we’d make a quick and easy profit. But after I’d invested all my savings in a stone cottage in the Belmont-Hillsboro neighborhood of Nashville, I’d discovered the seller had intentionally misled me about the property’s condition and value. Never mind that I’d worked for peanuts as his property manager and had provided him untold hours of uncompensated carpentry work. No good deed goes unpunished. Of course bad deeds don’t go unpunished, either. My cat had later dug up the man’s body in the front flower bed. That’s a morning I’d like to forget.
I took a deep breath and forced the thought to the back of my mind. My new year’s resolution had been to put the past behind me and look forward. To that end, I motioned for Buck to follow me. “C’mon. I’ll show you the inside.”
We ascended the crumbling brick steps to the front porch. A ceramic frog with a fly on his unfurled tongue greeted us from his spot next to the door. I could understand why the frog was smiling—he was about to enjoy a snack. But why the tiny fly was smiling was beyond me. He seemed clueless about his fate.
“Fancy door,” Buck said as he stopped before it.
Indeed it was. The door was made of heavy, solid wood with an ornate oval of frosted glass to let in light yet provide some measure of privacy. Once it was sanded and treated to a new coat of glossy black paint, it would really add to the curb appeal.
Setting Sawdust down on the porch, I unlocked the door and the three of us stepped inside, stopping on the linoleum landing of the split-level house. To the right of the landing was a coat closet with a rickety folding door that was either half closed or half open, depending on how you looked at it. But optimist or pessimist, you couldn’t miss the smell of mothballs coming from inside. So many dusty jackets and coats were squeezed into the closet that the rod bent under the weight, threatening to break. The outerwear shared the lower space with a mangled umbrella and a hefty Kirby vacuum cleaner circa 1965, complete with attachments. The shelf above sagged under the weight of a reel-to-reel home movie projector, around which mismatched mittens, scarves, and knit caps had been stuffed. Lilian’s family had cleared the house of everything of value, leaving the worthless junk behind for the buyer—yours truly—to deal with. Sigh.
After closing the front door behind us, I unclipped the leash from Sawdust’s harness, setting him free to explore. Noting that the house felt warmer than expected, I checked the thermostat mounted next to the closet. 72. Huh. Hadn’t I turned it down to 60 the last time I’d been here? I supposed I’d forgotten to adjust it when I’d left. I reached out and gave the lever a downward nudge. The three of us wouldn’t be here long. No sense paying for heat nobody would be needing.
I swept my arm, inviting Buck to proceed me upstairs. “After you, partner.”
We ascended the steps with Sawdust trotting ahead of us. On the way, Buck grasped both the wall-mounted railing and the wrought-iron banister and gave each of them a hearty yank, testing them for safety. While the banister checked out, the wooden rail mounted to the wall jiggled precariously. One glance at the support brackets told us why.
“It’s got some loose screws,” Buck said. “Just like you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ha-ha.”
He circled a finger in the air. “Put it on the list.”
“Will do.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and snapped a photo of the loose bracket as a reminder to myself.
As we topped the stairs, Buck came to a screeching halt, one work boot hovering over the carpet as he refused to step on it. “Yuck.”
Couldn’t say that I blamed him. The carpet was hideous, an old, worn shag in the same greenish-brown hue as the goo that coated the hairballs my cat occasionally coughed up. Ripping out the carpet would give us no small pleasure. Still, I wasn’t about to let some ugly, balding carpet spoil my enthusiasm. I gave my cousin a push, forcing him forward. “Go on, you wimp. It’s not going to reach up and grab you.”
“You sure about that?”
To our left, the living and dining areas formed a rectangle that ran from the front to the back of the house. The master bedroom and bath mirrored the layout to the right. In the center sprawled the wide kitchen.
“Wait’ll you see the kitchen!” I circled around Buck and pushed open the swinging saloon doors that led into the space.
Buck proceeded through them and stopped in the center of the room to gape. “What is this place? A portal back to 1970?”
Between the harvest gold appliances, the rust-orange countertops and the globe pendant light hanging from a loopy chain, it appeared as if we’d time-traveled back to a much groovier era. But while the kitchen was hopelessly out of date, it was also wonderfully spacious. Plus, the cabinets would be salvageable if the outdated scalloped valances over the sink and stove were removed.
“Replacing the appliances and countertops is a no-brainer,” I said. “But look at all this space! And the cabinets just need re-
facing. They’re solid wood. That’ll save us some time and money.”
Buck rapped his knuckles on the door of a cabinet. Rap-rap. Satisfied by the feel and sound, he nodded in agreement.
The counters bore an array of Lillian’s cooking implements, including a ceramic pitcher repurposed to hold utensils. Cutting boards in a variety of shapes and sizes leaned against the backsplash. A recipe box nestled between an ancient toaster and a blender. A quaint collection of antique food tins graced the top of a wooden bread box. Hershey’s cocoa. Barnum’s Animal Crackers. Arm & Hammer Baking Soda.
As Buck and Sawdust took a peek at the plumbing under the sink, I walked over to the end of the cabinets and spread my arms. “Let’s add an L-shaped extension here.” An extension would increase the counter space and storage and, after all, kitchen renovations were the most profitable rehab investment.
Without bothering to look up, Buck agreed. “Okey doke.”
My cousin and I had an implicit understanding. He left the design details up to me, while I gave him control over the structural aspects of the renovations.
While he continued his inspection, I meandered around the kitchen, snapping several more pictures before stopping at the fridge. A dozen blue ribbons were affixed with magnets to the refrigerator door, proudly proclaiming Lillian as the baker of the “Best Peach Pie” and “Best Peach Cobbler” at various fairs and festivals throughout the state.
A hutch on the adjacent wall was loaded with more cookbooks than I could count. I eased up to take a closer look. One book was devoted entirely to potato recipes, another to casseroles. A quick glimpse inside told me the recipes were as likely to clog the arteries as fill the tummy. Some of them sounded darn delicious, though.
I returned the books to the shelf and turned to find Sawdust traipsing along the countertop, while Buck peered into the drawers.
My cousin pulled out what appeared to be a caulking gun, along with a heavy metal lever-like tool with a rubber-coated handle. The latter resembled an airplane throttle. He held them up for me to see. “What the heck are these gadgets for?”
“You’re asking the wrong person.” While I loved working on kitchens, I didn’t particularly like working in them once they were complete. Boxed mac-and-cheese marked the pinnacle of my culinary skills.
“Have Colette take a look,” he suggested. “She might use some of these things.”
My best friend worked as a chef and, unlike me, loved cooking. As her roommate, I was the lucky beneficiary of her skills. Colette kept our fridge stocked not only with raw materials, but also with finished meals to share. While she already had an extensive complement of kitchen equipment, this room contained items that probably hadn’t been produced in half a century or more. If nothing else, she’d find these relics intriguing.
Having fully explored the kitchen, Buck and I moved on to the master bedroom. Like the kitchen, the room was dated but spacious. The walls bore lima-bean green wallpaper in a flocked fleur-de-lis pattern. Only the bed and a night table remained, all other furniture having been removed from the room. A stack of books towered on the night table, some hardcover, some paperbacks. Sawdust hopped up on to the bed to inspect the random items that had been placed there. Several pairs of ladies’ shoes. A stack of Sunday dresses still on the hangers. A small jewelry box. A quick peek inside told me it contained only a few pieces of what I assumed to be cheap costume jewelry.
We continued into the master bath, which featured a once-fashionable pink porcelain tub, toilet, and sink. Wallpaper in a gaudy yet charming rose pattern adorned the walls. Fresh, if faded, towels filled the under-sink cabinet, along with an assortment of medications and beauty products. A tin box sat next to the sink. The top was open, revealing a trio of pink soaps in the shape and scent of roses.
Sawdust leapt up onto the edge of the tub and circumnavigated it with the ease and agility of a tightrope walker.
I snapped a pic before turning to Buck. “Let’s replace that old bathtub with a walk-in shower, and add a jetted garden tub over there.” I pointed to an open space under the window.
He pulled out a measuring tape to size up the space and, satisfied the tub would fit, issued an “mm-hmm” of agreement.
Having completed the tour of the master suite, we made a quick pass through the living and dining rooms, which contained only a slouchy velveteen sofa, a framed still life painting depicting a bowl of assorted fruit, and a glass-top coffee table that bore the sticky tell-tale fingerprints of spoiled grandchildren. A small wooden box sat atop the table, its cockeyed lid revealing two yellowed decks of playing cards nestled inside. Sawdust seized the opportunity to sharpen his claws on the couch before following us downstairs.
Creak. Creak. The bottom step complained under my weight, then Buck’s. Looks like we’ve got a loose tread. Sawdust stepped soundlessly down, too light to elicit a response.
Other than a couple of wire hangers on a rod, the laundry room was empty. The guest bedroom contained a full-sized bed covered in a crocheted afghan and a basic bureau with three empty cans of Budweiser sitting atop it. They appeared to be only the latest in a long series of beers enjoyed in the bed, as evidenced by a pattern of ring stains roughly resembling the Olympic symbol. I wondered who Lilian’s beer-guzzling guest had been.
The other bedroom had been converted to a sewing room and appeared untouched. A white Singer sewing machine sat on a table, while a bookshelf to the right sported a selection of thread and rickrack, as well as a pincushion in the quintessential tomato motif. A plastic box filled with spare, shiny buttons sat open on one of the shelves like a miniature treasure chest filled with gold. Swatches of fabric draped over a quilt rack.
After a quick trip to the garage, the tour was complete. The bottom step creaked again as we made our way back up to the front doorway. There, I shared my overall vision for the house. “Classic black and white tile in the baths and kitchen. Paint in robin’s egg blue for the walls.” The look would be neutral and timeless, and would tie in well with the exterior colors. “Black hardwood floors would be a nice complement, too.”
“Works for me,” Buck said.
After noting that the thermostat reading was on its way down, I reattached Sawdust’s leash to his harness and we headed out the door into the gathering winter dusk. Buck and I agreed to meet at the house at noon the following day to take measurements and start on the demolition.
He raised a hand out the window of his van as he backed out of the driveway and drove off. I, on the other hand, looked up at the house one more time. Yep. A fresh start.
* * *
Too excited to wait until noon, I arrived at the house at nine the next morning. I’d need Buck’s muscles for the heavy lifting later, but for now I could get started on that hideous carpet. I set my toolbox down on the porch. Cradling Sawdust against my chest, I unlocked the front door and went to push it open. It barely budged.
What the heck?
I pushed harder, putting my shoulder into it this time. The door opened an inch more but that was it. Something inside was blocking the doorway.
Unable to see anything through the small gap, I cupped my hand around my eyes and put my face to the frosted glass. Though I could see something lying on the landing inside, I couldn’t make out exactly what it was. My eyes could only distinguish several blurred colors. Had the coat closet’s overburdened rod or shelf given way? It seemed so. It also seemed any effort to get through the front door would be futile, so I pulled the door closed and relocked it.
Sawdust looked up at me. Mew?
“Something’s blocking the door,” I explained. The fact that he couldn’t understand me was no excuse for ignoring his question. “Let’s try the garage.”
Returning to my SUV, I retrieved the remote and jabbed the button to raise the bay door. I ducked under it as it squealed and rattled its way up. Once inside the garage, I strode to the interior door and pressed the doorbell-style button to send it squealing and rattling back down again. A squ
irt of WD-40 should do the trick. I had a can in my toolbox, which I’d left on the porch. I’d grab it once I got the front door open.
I set Sawdust down and unclipped his leash. “There you go, boy.” I ruffled his head, tucked his leash in my pocket, and headed after him into the house.
From the bottom of the staircase I could see a pile of mixed fabrics on the landing. Looked like I’d been right. Either the coat closet rod had broken or the shelf had collapsed. Maybe both. The list of repairs keeps growing.
The bottom step creaked as I stepped onto it. Above me, Sawdust hopped up onto the clothing heap, climbing down the other side. As I ascended the stairs, my eyes spotted something white and fluffy among the fabric. Had the stuffing come out of a torn coat? As I drew closer, my foot involuntarily stopped and hovered over the final step, much as Buck’s had done the day before.
That’s not stuffing. That’s hair!
What’s more, the hair was still attached to a head—an elderly woman’s head. Her head was bent at an unnatural angle. The rest of the woman was bent at odd angles too, as if she were playing a solo game of Twister and giving it her all. She lay on her stomach, her right cheek pressed to the floor, her right arm crooked out of sight under her belly. Her eye was closed, thank goodness.
There’s no way the woman could still be alive.
Still, what kind of person would I be if I didn’t make sure she was truly beyond hope? Taking a deep breath, I bent over her and pressed my hand to her neck to feel for a heartbeat. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”
The lack of response along with the cold, stiff skin and absence of a pulse told me the woman was anything but okay. My mind went woozy, my vision tunneled, and my heart and stomach fought to see which could occupy my throat first. Who is she? What happened? How did she end up dead in the doorway of an unoccupied, locked house?
Sawdust, on the other hand, was unfazed. With feline curiosity, he poked the woman’s cheek with his paw.
