Dead as a Door Knocker Read online

  Seeing the two titans of real estate in a direct confrontation made me curious. Unfortunately, the glass prevented me from hearing their conversation, and their practiced poker faces gave no clue as to the topic of their discussion, either.

  Dunaway turned to the house and caught me watching them out the window. But rather than hide like the neighbor had done when I’d spotted her, I raised a hand and offered a forced smile. Dunaway turned back to Gentry and concluded their conversation before heading across the yard and storming up the porch.

  I met him at the front door and extended my hand. “Hello, Mr. Dunaway.”

  He ignored both my hand and my greeting. Instead, he looked past me into the house, his eyes flaring. “It looks like they held a rodeo in there! How could you let this happen?”

  My ire rose, my body temperature rising along with it. He seemed to have forgotten that I’d advised him against renting to college students, even if he could charge them more collectively in rent than a single family might be willing to pay. But he’d ignored me, choosing short-term profits over long-term stable income.

  “As soon as the rent was late,” I reminded him, “I took action. I did all I could, as quickly as I could, while complying with the law.”

  “The law,” he scoffed, waving a hand with a telltale pale strip around his ring finger where his wedding band used to be. “If I’d been the one handling things, these boys would have been on their way weeks ago.”

  And I wouldn’t have to stand here and listen to you belittle me. Even so, I couldn’t very well share that thought with him. Landing Rick Dunaway as a client for Home & Hearth had been nothing short of a coup. I’d heard through the grapevine that Abbot-Dunaway Holdings was looking at outsourcing management of the company’s residential investment properties, and I’d decided to take a chance. After all, the worst he could do was say no, right? I’d put together a proposal that included bios for Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, the owners of Home & Hearth, as well as one for myself. I’d used the skills learned in my college marketing classes to sell our services, promising that if he chose our humble real estate firm to manage his residential properties, he’d be our number one client and receive top-notch service, his calls answered 24/7. The pitch had worked. He’d chosen Home & Hearth over a dozen other contenders, all larger firms with more impressive portfolios.

  Dunaway walked into the house and stalked into the kitchen, noting the dripping faucet, the missing cabinet doors, the broken window held together by duct tape. He stomped back across the living room and into the bath. Like the window, the toilet seat had been patched with duct tape, and so much mildew had grown on the shower curtain it appeared to have a five o’clock shadow. At least the claw-foot bathtub appeared undamaged. The classic fixture looked deep and inviting. Someday, when I had a house of my own, I’d have a tub like this installed.

  Dunaway opened the cabinet under the bathroom sink, revealing a plastic bucket lodged under the P-trap. Murky water filled half the bucket. Looked like the pipes had a leak. The boys hadn’t submitted a repair request. Not surprising. They probably hadn’t wanted me to come by and discover the damage they’d caused. I emptied the bucket into the tub and stuck it back in the cabinet.

  The bedrooms had fared no better. The folding shutter-style doors on the closets were missing slats and had been pulled out of their tracks, and the blinds on the windows hung askew. The switch plates in two of the rooms were cracked. All of the doorstops were gone, allowing the inside door handles to punch holes in the drywall.

  When Dunaway finished his not-so-grand tour, he threw up his hands, the shiny Rolex watch on his wrist giving off a glint as his shirt cuff slid back. “I’m done!”

  Uh-oh. Is he firing me? Ending his management contract with Home & Hearth? I gulped to clear the lump of fear in my throat. “What are you saying, Mr. Dunaway?”

  He turned to face me full-on. “I’m saying I’m putting this place up for sale.”

  “Selling the house?” My hand reflexively went to my chest in relief. “That’s all?”

  His brows drew inward. “What else would it be?”

  I shrugged sheepishly. “I thought you were firing me.”

  He bellowed a laugh. “As hard as you work, Whitney? I’d be a fool to get rid of you.”

  Thank goodness! I exhaled in relief. Dare I tell him I’d be taking my real estate exam very soon and ask him to give me the listing? Or would that be taking things too far?

  My mind performed some quick math computations. Smaller properties in the Belmont-Hillsboro neighborhood sold for around half a million dollars on average. If I could snag the listing, I’d be entitled to 3 percent of the sales price as the seller’s agent, or at least fifteen thousand dollars. Whoa! It took me six months to earn that much as a property manager. Houses in this neighborhood moved fast, too. With its prime location and historic appeal, the house would practically sell itself—especially if the interior were renovated to provide modern conveniences while preserving the charming midcentury details. Go for it, Whitney. “I’ll be getting my real estate license soon,” I offered tentatively.

  “You want it, then?” Dunaway asked.

  “The listing? Of course!”

  “No. Not the listing. The house. I want to get out from under it right away and I’m in no mood to waste time or money fixing it up. Thad Gentry bought the house next door and just offered me four hundred and fifty grand for this place, as is.”

  So that’s what they were discussing outside.

  “I’d rather not sell to him,” Dunaway added. “Gentry’s been a thorn in my side since I got into this business. He’s outbid me several times, cost me some good deals. If you want the house, I’ll let you have it for four hundred. You could work your magic and flip it for a nice profit.”

  My mouth gaped. I’d been excited about the prospect of earning $15,000 on the house, but if I bought it at the discounted price he was offering, I could net an easy seventy grand or more after fixing it up. Besides, the fact that Thad Gentry had been interested in the house said a lot. Everything that man touched seemed to turn to gold. “This seems too good to be true!”

  “Chance of a lifetime,” he concurred. He stared me in the eye. “Look. I like you, Whitney. You’ve got grit and gumption. Heck, you remind me of myself at your age. Besides, I need some ready cash. My wife’s divorce attorney is taking me to the cleaners. My attorney is, too.”

  My mind spun like a circular saw. Still, as much as I wanted to jump on the offer, there were several ducks to get in a row first. Financing. Insurance. An inspection to make sure I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. An old house like this could become a money pit if it had latent problems. Not that I expected any. Despite the cosmetic issues, the house appeared to have good bones. I’d also need to run the proposition by Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, the owners of Home & Hearth. They hadn’t bought and sold houses on their own account in the past, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t want to seize this opportunity themselves.

  “How long can you give me?” I asked.

  “Twenty-four hours,” Dunaway said. “Then I’m putting it on the market. Drop an earnest-money check for two grand by my office today. It’ll need to be a cashier’s check. I need to know you’re serious.”

  “I am,” I said. “I’ll get right on it.”

  I stuck out my hand again. This time Dunaway took it, sealing our deal with a firm shake.

  CHAPTER 4

  CALLING IN FAVORS

  WHITNEY

  I walked Mr. Dunaway out onto the porch and bade him good-bye. Halfway down the front walk, he glanced down the street and paused in his tracks. My gaze followed his to a white sedan sitting on the other side of the street a couple houses down, parked in the shade of a sprawling tree. The driver’s side window was rolled down, an arm clad in a white shirt resting crooked on the frame. Whoever was sitting in the car was obscured by the open newspaper in his hands. Huh. I didn’t think anyone got their news from actual newsprint thes
e days.

  I wasn’t sure if the car had been parked down the street when I’d pulled up earlier. I’d been too distracted by Gentry next door and the mess in the yard here to notice. Besides, the vehicle was plain, not the type of car to catch a person’s eye. It bore no front license plate—the state of Tennessee didn’t require them—so I couldn’t verify whether it was a government-issued vehicle, but it looked like the type of car driven by building inspectors, undercover cops, and the like. The driver was probably someone from the city waiting to meet up with a contractor at Gentry’s place.

  Mr. Dunaway continued on to his Mercedes, climbed in, and backed out of the driveway, heading off in the opposite direction. As soon as he was gone, I locked up the house, hopped into my car, and drove to the Home & Hearth office, located on the east side of the Cumberland River in the Lockeland Springs neighborhood. Home & Hearth was a small mom-and-pop operation. I was their sole employee.

  I’d first met the Hartleys years ago, just after I’d graduated from college with a business degree. One of their real estate clients hired Whitaker Woodworking to install a built-in entertainment center in a house they’d purchased. When the Hartleys swung by to bring their clients a houseplant to welcome them to their new home, they’d seen our superior handiwork and asked for our business cards. They’d subsequently recommended us to clients who needed carpentry work done on their homes.

  While Whitaker Woodworking had enough business to keep my uncle and cousins busy full-time, it was only an occasional gig for me. I had been on the lookout for another job to fill in the gaps. One day, Mrs. Hartley mentioned that their property management work had become more than she and her husband could handle and that they were looking for part-time help. When she asked if I knew anyone who might be interested, I said I knew someone very well who’d like the job. Me. Despite my lack of property management experience, she’d hired me on the spot. She knew from the feedback she’d received from our mutual clients that I was punctual, personable, and paid attention to detail. She and Mr. Hartley had spent a week training me on the ins and outs of property management, then cut me loose. The employment arrangement worked to everyone’s benefit. The Hartleys could focus on their clients looking to buy or sell houses, while I could help out the clients who leased their properties. Plus, I could toss even more business to Whitaker Woodworking, and refer carpentry clients to the real estate agency. It was a win-win-win situation.

  I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hartley looked up from their desks, positioned side by side in the single room. The two were in their early sixties, pleasantly plump, and gray-headed, but while Mr. Hartley’s thinning hair struggled to cover his scalp, Mrs. Hartley’s thick, loose waves cascaded past her cheeks. The two greeted me with warm smiles and I returned one of my own.

  “Eviction go okay?” Mrs. Hartley asked as I headed to the coffeepot on the corner table.

  I refilled my travel mug with fresh brew. “The boys grumbled a little and left a bunch of trash and damage behind, but there wasn’t too much drama.” No sense telling them Jackson had threatened me. It would only upset them, and it had probably been an idle threat, the twerp’s way of getting in the last word. I perched on one of the cushy Queen Anne chairs that faced their desks. “Mr. Dunaway has decided he wants to sell the property.”

  Mrs. Hartley’s face perked up and she sat bolt upright in her chair. “Did you tell him you’ll be getting your agent’s license soon? That house could be your first listing!”

  “Actually,” I replied, “Rick Dunaway offered to sell me the property at a big discount. I was thinking maybe I could fix it up and resell it.” I said nothing more for a moment, letting the information sink in, eager to see how the Hartleys would respond.

  Mr. Hartley spoke first. “Sounds like a good opportunity for you, Whitney.”

  His wife agreed, her face bright. “It’s a great idea! I know how much you like rehab projects, and you’d get a sale under your belt, too.”

  I looked from one to the other. “So you’re okay with me doing it on my own?”

  “Of course!” Mrs. Hartley said.

  Her husband agreed. “We’d be pleased as punch if you turned a profit on that place. You certainly deserve it.”

  “Y’all are the best bosses ever!”

  We stood and exchanged hugs, an inappropriate gesture in most work environments, but not at Home & Hearth where we treated each other like family.

  Having obtained my bosses’ blessing, I took a seat at my desk in the back of the room. Time to call in some favors.

  My first call went to a loan officer at a mortgage company that had financed many a deal for Home & Hearth’s clients. After I explained to the woman that I needed a mortgage pronto, she agreed to expedite my application and work on getting me a preapproval letter ASAP. “Send me copies of your most recent pay stub, the last two years’ tax returns, bank statements, and a list of all your debts and assets.”

  I jotted a quick list. Rounding up the documentation would be easy. As for assets, I owned my SUV outright and had forty grand in savings. Luckily for me, I had no debts given my inexpensive living situation and lack of interest in designer apparel or other high-dollar items. My money tended to go to carpentry tools and an occasional new pair of steel-toed boots or coveralls.

  My second call went to Bobby Palmer. Home & Hearth hired Bobby regularly to inspect houses for its clients. I often met him at the houses to let him inside. At sixty-three, he had thousands of inspections under his belt and knew his stuff. If there was anything wrong with the house on Sweetbriar, no matter how minor, Bobby Palmer would find it.

  After exchanging the usual niceties, I asked, “Any chance you can squeeze in an inspection tomorrow?” I crossed my fingers. Bobby was in big demand and was usually booked days in advance.

  “You’re in luck,” he said. “I had a cancellation tomorrow morning. Financing fell through. I can be there at nine.”

  “Perfect!”

  Next, I checked the balances in my savings and investment accounts. Still being single when I was pushing thirty hadn’t exactly been my plan, but the fact that I was single and had no children meant every penny I’d earned was mine. My hourly pay wasn’t much to brag about, but I’d managed to save quite a bit of it given that my parents would accept only a pittance in rent for the converted shed. Even so, while I had enough to swing the standard 10 percent down payment on the house, there’d be nothing left to cover the fix-up expenses.

  What’s a young woman to do? Hmm …

  My mom and dad would spot me a few thousand if I asked, but I wanted to do this without their help, to prove myself. I wasn’t above hitting up my cousin Buck, though. Heck, as close as the two of us were, he was more like a big brother.

  I pulled Buck up in my contacts list and placed the call. He answered on the third ring. A saw whined in the background like a monster-sized mosquito. Looked like my cousin was at a job site. “Hey, Nit-Whit,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Want to make some quick money?”

  “Always. You got a job for me?”

  “No, Buckaroo. I’ve got a house for you. Well, a house for us.” I went on to tell him about the property, what a great investment it would be.

  “How much we talkin’ ’bout makin’ on this deal?” Buck asked.

  “Seventy grand, more or less. It’s been a rental so it needs some work, but it would take us only a month or two to complete the renovations. I don’t have enough money for both the down payment and the rehab expenses. I thought you and I could go in together, as partners.”

  He sounded equal parts incredulous and intrigued. “You’re tellin’ me we could each net over thirty thousand dollars? In just a couple of months?”

  “It sounds crazy, I know, but Dunaway wants to move it quick. He offered me a special deal because I’ve worked hard managing his properties. He said he sees himself in me.”

  My chest swelled with pride, at least until Bu
ck brought my ego back to earth.

  “Sees himself in you, huh?” He snorted. “Should’ve plucked that mustache like I told you to.”

  I treated him to a raspberry in response. Pffft.

  “I suppose I should take a look,” he said, intrigue trumping incredulity. “After all, you and I have always managed to work all right together.”

  It was true. During our early teen years, my cousins and I earned enough money making birdhouses out of scrap wood to keep us in comic books and candy all summer long.

  “What’s the address?” he asked. “I’ll swing over and take a look.”

  I gave him the address.

  “Sweetbriar Avenue?” he repeated. “I’m not far from there now. What say we meet there in half an hour?”

  “See you then.”

  Things were moving at warp speed. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?

  I bade the Hartleys good-bye and drove back to the house. As I waited for Buck, I cleaned up the yard. After yanking the cobwebs from the porch railing and tossing the plastic cups and novelty gravestones into the trash can, I made my way to the flower bed. The plastic skeleton was only partially covered in the loose dirt, as if he’d been buried there and was rising from the dead, like a zombie. The skull stared up at me, its hollow eye sockets seeming to lock on mine. A creepy sensation slithered up my spine. It’s just a goofy toy, I reminded myself. I pulled it out of the dirt, and shook it off, the plastic bones rattling, the skull lolling to the side. I was wrangling the bundle of bones into the garbage bin when Buck pulled up in his van and slid out of his seat.