No Hiding Behind the Potted Palms! A Dance with Danger Mystery #7

by Barton, Sara M.

  “Does everything have to benefit you?” I shot back. “Does the world always have to revolve around you?”

  “Of course it does. I’m the boss. I pay the bills.” He glanced at the tiny bungalow under the sycamore tree. “The house has good bones – I’ll give you that. Why do you think this is a worthy choice for the price? It’s small.”

  I struggled to figure out a way to convince him that this house would be perfect for a flip, likely to sell quickly with new bathroom fixtures, new kitchen counters, and a few other cosmetic improvements. I’m a Ms. Fix-It, and there is nothing I love better than bringing an old wreck back to life. And I’m really good at it. I only wish I was as good at romance as I am at renovation.

  “I think we can get it all done in six weeks, Ned. I also think we can convince the owner to drop the price $20,000. After all, it’s been sitting on the market for almost eight months.”

  “The yard’s practically non-existent.”

  “Yes, but that’s the beauty of it. It’s a corner lot. I thought we could do a fenced yard with a brick paver patio in the back, landscape it so there’s no grass to cut, but with plenty of plantings beds. It would be very appealing. If we also take out the grass out of the front yard, add a parking area, a curved walkway and more planting beds, the new homeowner has a charming bungalow that’s practically maintenance-free — the convenience of a condo in a single family home. I thought it would be a good fit for a couple that’s ready to downsize or a single professional.”

  “How much are you talking, money-wise, to get this ready for the market?” my older brother asked. Experience had taught me he would offer me a whole lot less money to get the job done, on the expectation I would bust my fanny to cut costs, so we could maximize profits. I was glad I tacked on an extra $10,000 to the discretionary budget, because he was sure to whack at least that much off.

  “I was thinking in the range of $40,000. Some of the systems were upgraded within the last four years, including heating and electrical – there’s new wiring throughout the house, including cable and phone. The appliances were replaced three years ago. They’re asking $427,000 for the place. Other homes in the neighborhood are going for almost $550,000, but the lots are a little bigger.”

  “Upgraded is not the same as replaced or brand new. Bargain price? I don’t know. They might be motivated to negotiate. In terms of resale, what are you thinking?” he asked me.

  “Maybe $500,000. With it being the least expensive place in the neighborhood, we’ll get folks who want the chance to get their foot through the gate of Glengarry Court.” The fact that we were talking about a specific budget meant Ned was definitely interested. We were entering the danger zone. This is where I had to tread carefully, because if I underestimated the costs, it was likely to come out of my hide. But I thought I picked well. This subdivision was up and coming, hugging the skirts of Queensbury, the grand dame of Glendale, an exclusive enclave filled with expensive beachfront mansions. The property at 27 Glengarry Court Lane was three blocks to the beach, five blocks to the bay, on a tree-lined street just a six-minute walk from the train station that serviced the shoreline. It was perfect for the city rats who wanted a weekend escape.

  “You’d have to get it done in four weeks to make it worth my while. Walk me through, Suzykins.” From his light-hearted use of my nickname, I could see he was interested in buying the property. I led the way, knowing Ned couldn’t see my smile. I always tacked on extra time to the renovation plan because I knew no matter what I told him, my brother always shaved a few weeks off, feeling like he gave me an impossible challenge.

  I took him in through the original paneled front door of the portico-covered bungalow, currently painted a deep violet, pointing out that the previous homeowner had replaced the roof, winterized it, and added storm windows eight years ago. We stood in the cozy entry as my brother gazed around, studying the interior. There was a long green hallway straight ahead, with bedrooms and baths to the left. To our right was a double-wide archway, leading to the living room, and I encouraged Ned to follow me as I pointed out the period details, including its original oak floors and a working fireplace, which I hoped to convert to gas. He looked around, at all the dark woodwork and ruby-colored wallpaper.

  “Won’t appeal to most buyers,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “I know. I thought I would strip the wallpaper and paint all the walls in the house in a warm ivory palette, with a soft green or blue here and there. Much easier on the eyes. I’ll prime and paint the trim white in all of the rooms. It will lighten up the whole place.” I led him into the dining area, which was separated from the living room by a second double-wide archway. The tiny windows had diamond-shaped panes of glass and brought a unique charm to the room. There was shoulder-high wainscoting in the dark oak finish that made the room feel much smaller than it really was. The walls above were painted in a deep indigo, with tiny silver and gold hand-painted stars.

  “I’ll also change the wainscoting and wall colors in here,” I announced. “We’ll still have the period details, but it will be much lighter.”

  “Nice,” Ned decided. I smiled, ever hopeful. I pointed to the galley kitchen, accessed by a very narrow doorway.

  “I’d like to open this wall up and make the kitchen feel less closed off from the rest of the house.”

  “If it’s a load-bearing wall, that’s going to be expensive, and you’ll have to add a new header. Why not just leave it as is?”

  “I’m not reconfiguring the kitchen. Another three feet would make a big difference. It doesn’t require moving any electrical outlets or plumbing. We’ll just cut a foot and a half on each side and reframe the opening. It’ll be a couple hundred dollars.”

  Ned walked into the long, narrow space that was painted fluorescent orange. “It looks like a leprechaun threw up a rainbow all over this house.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “The paint colors are very vibrant.”

  “More than vibrant. Over the top. No wonder they haven’t sold it yet.” He glanced through the tiny window over the sink, noting how close the neighbors were.

  “City people are used to that,” I pointed out. “And we can always add some yews along the property line when we landscape, for privacy.

  “What work are you actually planning to do for the kitchen?”

  ”New counters, new flooring over the old, subway tile backsplash,” I explained. “I’m keeping the existing kitchen cabinets because they’re vintage oak. I’ll paint and antique them, and I’ll replace the seventies hardware with something more in keeping with the 1920’s style of the bungalow. I’ll replace the laminate tops with quartz.”

  “People like granite,” he countered.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t really work with the time period of the house. Marble would be more fitting, but that tends to be high maintenance. If I go with white quartz, it keeps the room feeling airy.”

  “Show me the bathrooms.” I knew the minute he wanted to see the bathrooms I had a chance to get this house. I led him down the hall on the other side of the foyer and held my breath. Wait for it, I told myself as Ned leaned past me to look at the miniscule aqua-colored powder room with barely enough room to stand at the sink or toilet.

  “Geez!” Ned shook his head. “You have got to be kidding!”

  “It’s tiny, I know,” I agreed, all too aware of the grimace on his face, “but it’s a guest bathroom, not the main one.”

  “I’d hate to be chubby and get stuck in here. The fire department would have to bust down the door. I suspect that the plumbing has to be replaced. When was this place hooked up to the city sewer?” He was looking at the antique faucets on the doll-sized sink basin and the old porcelain toilet with the original hardware. “This is a gut job and you’ll have to go small. That means a special order sink if we’re going to get something that doesn’t look like a spit sink in a dentist’s office. Caching! Why was the house put on the market?”

  “The owner disappeared almos
t three years ago for parts unknown. The family rented it for a while, hoping she’d return. Now they want to sell it.”

  “You make sure the sale is legitimate, Suze. I don’t want someone to claim possession after we start work. I don’t need those kinds of complications.”

  “The house is held in a family trust, so they have the right to sell it.”

  “I can see why the owner booked. This place needs some serious work. Charm or no charm, it’s too small and definitely outdated — there’s no room for expansion.”

  “But it can be a jewel. It’s in a great neighborhood.”

  “Well, Suzykins, if you want this little diamond in the rough, you’re going to have to work for it. I’ll give you $25,000 for the interior. You get what you need to get done with that, and we’ll talk about the exterior.”

  “You’re not going to give me a full budget?” Ned was changing the game plan on me. “Why?”

  “Because, little sis, I suspect that money won’t go too far. I don’t want you tearing up the yard with landscaping projects if it turns out that the plumbing all needs to be replaced and there are any other major headaches we can’t see coming.”

  “$30,000,” I said defiantly.

  “No.” One word. And that word said there would be no negotiation.

  “Bastard,” I muttered. Could I do it with the money he offered? Maybe. Probably not. I would have to scramble.

  “We won’t offer a penny over $375,000. This place needs too much work to pay more than that, especially if we have to replace water and sewer pipes on the outside.” Ned was watching me with careful eyes. I bit my tongue, taking a breath before speaking. If he was going that low on the budget and talking about digging up the old pipes, it meant he was serious about the sale. Ned is a systems guy. When he sells a house, he loves to say things like, “It was a complete renovation, right down to the sewer line. We tore up the yard and replaced everything.” It also usually meant he was willing to do more than just cosmetic work, so there would be a home warranty included in the sale.

  “Show me the other bathroom and the bedrooms,” he commanded. I led the way to the back of the house, down the lime green cupboard-lined hallway, with its built-ins. “Is there room for a desk here?”

  Ned and I paused by an uninterrupted stretch of shelving. I took out my tape measure and checked.

  “Four feet. We could leave the upper shelves here and make a custom desk below, with a file drawer. We’d have to add lighting and an electrical outlet or two, but it would be a good use of space.”

  “Just enough clearance for a desk chair that’s not too bulky. The hallway is wide enough.” I could see Ned was starting to get excited. I just hoped he didn’t get too fired up, or I’d lose control of the project when he stuck his big, fat feet in my way. “Let’s see that bathroom.”

  “Right down here,” I replied. I opened the door on my left into a room painted golden rod yellow. Nate blinked hard, trying to shield his eyes. The original clawfoot tub sat on one side of the large room. An ancient wall sink, stained with years of endlessly dripping water, its enamel deeply eroded, hung on the opposite side, with what seemed to be a toilet from the forties. The floor was linoleum, like the kitchen. Ned took a deep breath before heaving a deep sigh.

  “You’re not planning to keep that old tub, are you?” he asked, with a warning note hanging in the air.

  “No,” I shook my head. “It needs more than just refinishing. I actually thought I’d tear everything out of here, go right down to the floor boards, and start fresh. Big walk-in shower stall, small soaking tub, tall sink vanity with storage, new toilet, small linen cabinet.”

  “You’re talking at least fifteen grand, Suze!”

  “Not really,” I shot back. “Bobby and I can do it ourselves once the asbestos guys get through. I’m talking about very basic stuff, Ned. I’ll tile the walls myself after the cement backer board goes up.”

  “I don’t want to go with cheap materials on this, Suzy. Not in this neighborhood.”

  “Fine, I won’t use the typical contractor-grade tiles. I’ll go to Henley Distributors. They’re bound to have something new that’s unique and appropriate at a discount in the backroom.”

  “You’re missing my point. If you need to remove the asbestos in the bathrooms, in addition to replacing all the fixtures, the budget won’t take you far, even if there is nothing else wrong with the place.”

  “Fine, we’ll skip the soaker tub. Or I’ll do the tub instead of the shower stall.”

  “Still too risky.”

  “Please?”

  “Suze, I love you, but this is a money pit. If the plumbing pipes are as bad as the bathroom fixtures they’re hooked up to, we are talking about $50,000 just for the interior. I’ll be losing money on this place.”

  “Come on, Ned,” I cajoled him. “Consider the possibilities. Maybe we can start a blog about the project. People love these little bungalow redos and they can follow along as we go. It’s great publicity for Dawkins Builders.”

  There it was, my trump card. As owner of one of the area’s best renovations company, Ned was a flipper with a reputation for quality work, and there was nothing he loved more than tooting his own horn.

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “It’s a great chance to show everyone what you do.”

  “You mean what you do,” he pointed out. “You and Bobby are doing this project.”

  “Yes, but you’re the brains behind the operation. You could explain what goes into renovating a place like this, the hidden dangers of taking on a project without knowing the full extent of the issues, the money traps, how to cut costs. You’re the expert, right?”

  As the little sister, I had had years of sucking up to my big brother, feeding the enormous ego and convincing him that he would get the grand prize. I learned a long time ago that if I was going to get what I wanted out of life, I had to show the guy holding the wallet that he got a bigger piece of my pie.

  “Who’s going to set it up and manage the blog?”

  “You leave that to me, bro,” I insisted confidently. “I’ll handle the heavy lifting.”

  Who knew that I would nearly lose my life because I picked this little bungalow to renovate? At that moment in time, I was just so thrilled to get my hands on the Glengarry Court bargain, I felt like a winner.

  Chapter Two —

  “Let’s see the bedrooms,” Ned demanded.

  “Does that mean yes?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  I opened the door to the smaller of the two bedrooms. Just over ten feet square, it was painted deep purple, with carpet to match. Its only saving grace was the fact that it actually had a pair of decent-sized closets. That’s because the previous owner had chopped off square footage in favor of storage space.

  “It’ll do,” Ned decided. “What’s the master like?”

  We stepped back out into the hall and I opened the next door. Bigger, with a window overlooking the backyard, the royal blue master bedroom also had an old, step-down sun porch attached, currently used as a walk-in closet.

  “Well, it’s not horrible, Suze. It’s got some potential. Is this porch winterized or do we have to insulate?”

  “Insulate, but at the same time, we could add some shelving along the exterior walls and build it out a bit, to offer more storage, so it’s a true walk-in closet. The windows are new enough. It’s unheated, but I thought we might be able to add a small radiator. Or we could build up from the current floor, which would allow us to some radiant floor heating if we go with tile.”

  “I’d rather turn it back into a sun porch. Let’s do a wall-length closet in the bedroom. We lose three feet from the master, but we regain some decent storage space. I’d like to install a set of French doors that lead to the porch. Can it be accessed from the kitchen, too? That would be useful.”

  We spent another half hour going through the house. Ned decided that we could do some improvements in the base
ment, too, since it was dry and offered room for storage and laundry. I could tell he was already imagining himself in that reno blog. My lips curled up as I realized my big brother was about to open up that Fort Knox of a wallet of his.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s buy this place and then we’ll sit down and hammer out what gets done first. I might be willing to put a little more money into the place after we get Sid Lowame to inspect it.”

  “Great,” I grinned.

  By five in the afternoon, we had sent over an offer for the property and it was just a matter of waiting until we heard back.

  “Want to hit the Low Down for a drink?” Ned asked.

  “Rain check?” I glanced at my watch. What I really needed was a three-mile run through the park.

  “Suit yourself. But I hope you’re not trying to run into Jasper, because that’s really needy.”

  “No, smarty pants. I need some exercise.”

  “I’m just saying you shouldn’t throw yourself at the guy. He’s already rejected you, so tuck your tail between your legs and move on.”

  “Gee, thanks. Whatever would I do without you, Dear Abby?”

  “I’ll call you when I hear back from the listing agent,” he shouted after me. I waved in response, already in my little silver streak. Throwing the 2000 Mazda Miata in reverse, I gunned the engine a little more enthusiastically than was good for it. Ned still had the knack of getting under my skin when he gave unsolicited advice on love.

  I took a left down Windsong Boulevard, shifting gears and feeling a faint shudder in the gear box. It might be time for a transmission check. I hated the thought of giving up my convertible. There was nothing sweeter than the wind in my hair as I zipped along the open road. Hopefully, I could keep the silver streak going, given its sentimental value. It had been my Declaration of Independence. I bought the car six years ago, right after Jay moved out of the apartment, two weeks shy of our wedding. The memory caused me to sigh. What was it with me and men? I could catch them, but I couldn’t keep them. This was starting to irritate the life and love out of me.