Another Big Bust

by Diane Kelly

  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. It read 72. That’s odd. Didn’t I turn it down to 60 the last time I was here? I hoped I’d merely forgotten to adjust it when I’d left. I’d hate to think the HVAC system might be on the fritz.

  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.

  The thermostat adjusted, 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, a worn shag in the same greenish-brown hue as the hairballs Sawdust occasionally coughed up. Ripping out the carpet would give us no small pleasure. But 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 ‘til you see this!” 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 kitchen 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 time and money.”

  Buck stepped over and 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 stood 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 Walsh as the baker of the “Best Peach Pie” and “Best Peach Cobbler” at various fairs and festivals throughout the state. With my cooking skills, I’d be lucky to earn a participation ribbon.

  A hutch on the adjacent wall was loaded with more cookbooks than I could count. I eased over to take a closer look. One book was devoted entirely to potato recipes, another to casseroles. A quick glimpse inside a few of the books 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.

  “Let’s have Colette take a look,” he suggested. “She might could use some of these things.”

  While Colette 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 artifacts 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 peeling 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 onto 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. I let Sawdust take a quick and curious sniff before closing the lid.

  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. As we looked around, 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 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. The box was intricately engraved with hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs along the sides, and a fancy letter W on the lid. The lid was open, revealing two yellowed decks of playing cards nestled inside. The cards rested face up, the two jokers at the top of the decks grinning wickedly up at me as if they shared a sinister secret. 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 rusty washer and dry set and 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 Lillian’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 patted my leg and called for my cat to meet us on the landing. “Sawdust! Here, boy!” When Sawdust trotted up the steps, I reattached his leash to his harness and we headed out the door into the gathering winter dusk. With my hands full of keys and the cat’s leash, I left the tax-preparation ad hanging from the knob to be dealt with later. Buck and I agreed to meet at the house at noon the following day to take measurements and start on the demolition. House flippers don’t take weekends off.

  Buck raised a hand out the window of his van as he backed out of the driveway and drove off. I looked up at the house one more time, feeling heartened and hopeful. Yep. A fresh start.

  Paw Enforcement - Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Job Insecurity

  Fort Worth Police Officer Megan Luz

  My rusty-haired partner lay convulsing on the hot asphalt, his jaw clenching and his body involuntarily curling into a jittery fetal position as two probes delivered 1,500 volts of electricity to his groin. The crotch of his police-issue trousers darkened as he lost control of his bladder.

  I’d never felt close to my partner in the six months we’d worked together, but at that particular moment I sensed a strong bond. The connection likely stemmed from the fact that we were indeed connected then--by the two wires leading from the Taser in my hand to my partner’s twitching testicles.

  #

  I didn’t set out to become a hero. I decided on a career in law enforcement for three other reasons:

  1) Having been a twirler in my high school’s marching band, I knew how to handle a baton.

  2) Other than barking short orders or rattling off Miranda rights, working as a police officer wouldn’t require me to talk much.

  3) I had an excess of pent-up anger. Might as well put it to good use, right?

  Of course I didn’t plan to be a street cop forever. Just long enough to work my way up to detective. A lofty goal, but I knew I could do it--even if nobody else did.

  I’d enjoyed my studies in criminal justice at Sam Houston State University in Hunstville, Texas, especially the courses in criminal psychology. No, I’m not some sick, twisted creep who gets off on hearing about criminals who steal, rape, and murder. I just thought that if we could figure out why criminals do bad things, maybe we could stop them, you know?

  To supplement my student loans, I’d worked part-time at the gift shop in the nearby state prison museum, selling tourists such quality souvenirs as ceramic ash trays made by the prisoners or decks of cards containing prison trivia. The unit had once been home to Clyde Barrow of Bonnie and Clyde fame and was also the site of an eleven-day siege in 1974 spearheaded by heroin kingpin Fredrick Gomez Carrasco, jailed for killing a police officer. Our top-selling item was a child’s time-out chair fashioned after Old Sparky, the last remaining electric chair used in Texas. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.

  To the corner, little Billy.

  No, Mommy, no! Anything but the chair!

  I’d looked forward to becoming a cop, keeping the streets safe for citizens, maintaining law and order, promoting civility and justice. Such noble ideals, right?

  What I hadn’t counted on was that I’d be working with a force full of macho shitheads. With my uncanny luck, I’d been assigned to partner with the most macho, most shit-headed cop of all, Derek the “Big Dick” Mackey. As implied in the aforementioned reference to twitching testicles, our partnership had not ended well.

  That’s why I was sitting here outside the chief’s office in a cheap plastic chair, chewing my thumbnail down to a painful nub, waiting to find out whether I still had a job. Evidently, Tasering your partner in the cojones is considered not only an overreaction, but also a blatant violation of department policy, one which carried the potential penalty of dismissal from the force, not to mention a criminal assault charge.

  So much for those noble ideals, huh?

  I ran a finger over my upper lip, blotting the nervous sweat that had formed there. Would I be booted off the force after only six months on duty?

  With the city’s budget crisis, there’d been threats of cutbacks and layoffs across the board. No department would be spared. If the chief had to fire anyone, he’d surely start with the rookie with the Irish temper. If the chief canned me, what would I do? My aspirations of becoming a detective would go down the toilet. Once again I’d be Megan Luz, a.k.a. “The Loser.” As you’ve probably guessed, my pent-up anger had a lot to do with that nickname.

  I pulled my telescoping baton from my belt and flicked my wrist to extend it. Snap! Though my police baton had a different feel from the twirling baton I’d used in high school, I’d quickly learned that with a few minor adjustments to accommodate the distinctive weight distribution I could perform many of the same tricks with it. I began to work the stick, performing a basic flat spin. The repetitive motion calmed me, helped me think. It was like a twirling metal stress ball. Swish-swish-swish.

  The chief’s door opened and three men exited. All wore navy tees emblazoned with white letters spelling BOMB SQUAD stretched tight across well-developed pecs. Though the bomb squad was officially part of the Fort Worth Fire Department, the members worked closely with the police. Where there’s a bomb, there’s a crime, after all. Most likely these men were here to discuss safety procedures for the upcoming Concerts in the Park. After what happened at the Boston marathon, extra precautions were warranted for large public events.

  The guy in front, a blond with a military-style haircut, cut his eyes my way. He watched me spin my baton for a moment, then dipped his head in acknowledgement when my gaze met his. He issued the standard southern salutation. “Hey.”

  His voice was deep with a subtle rumble, like far-off thunder warning of an oncoming storm. The guy wasn’t tall, but he was broad-shouldered, muscular, and undeniably masculine. He had dark green eyes and a dimple in his chin that drew my eyes downward, over his soft, sexy mouth, and back up again.

  A hot flush exploded through me. I tried to nod back at him, but my muscles seemed to have atrophied. My hand stopped moving and clutched my baton in a death grip. All I could do was watch as he and the other men continued into the hall and out of sight.

  Blurgh. Acting like a frigid virgin. How humiliating!

  Once the embarrassment waned, I began to wonder. Had the bomb squad guy found me attractive? Is that why he’d greeted me? Or was he simply being friendly to a fellow public servant?

  My black locks were pulled back in a tight, torturous bun, a style that enabled me to look professional on the force while allowing me to retain my feminine allure after hours. There were only so many sacrifices I was willing to make for employment and my long, lustrous hair was not one of them. My freckles showed through my light makeup. Hard to feel like a tough cop if you’re wearing too much foundation or more than one coat of
mascara. Fortunately, I had enough natural coloring to get by with little in the way of cosmetics. I was a part Irish-American, part Mexican-American mutt, with just enough Cherokee blood to give me an instinctive urge to dance in the rain but not enough to qualify me for any college scholarships. My figure was neither thin nor voluptuous, but my healthy diet and regular exercise kept me in decent shape. It was entirely possible that the guy had been checking me out. Right?

  I mentally chastised myself. Chill, Megan. I hadn’t had a date since I’d joined the force, but so what? I had more important things to deal with at the moment. I collapsed my baton, returned it to my belt, and took a deep breath to calm my nerves.

  The chief’s secretary, a middle-aged brunette wearing a poly-blend dress, sat at her desk typing a report into the computer. She had twice as much butt as chair, her thighs draping over the sides of the seat. But who could blame her? Judging from the photos on her desk, she’d squeezed out three children in rapid succession. Having grown up in a family of five kids, I knew mothers had little time to devote to themselves when their kids were young and constantly needed mommy to feed them, clean up their messes, and bandage their various boo-boos. She wore no jewelry, no makeup, and no nail polish. The chief deserved credit for not hiring a younger, prettier, better accessorized woman for the job. Obviously, she’d been hired for her mad office skills. She’d handled a half dozen phone calls in the short time I’d been waiting and her fingers moved over the keyboard at such a speedy pace it was a miracle her hands didn’t burst into flame. Whatever she was being paid, it wasn’t enough.

  The woman’s phone buzzed again and she punched her intercom button. “Yessir?” She paused a moment. “I’ll send her in.” She hung up the phone and turned to me. “The chief is ready for you.”