Miss Julia Raises the Roof

by Ann B. Ross

  “What about Mrs. Osborne?” Mildred asked.

  He frowned, twitched his mouth, then said, “Thought I’d have a problem there, but worked it out. She’s signed, too, but she was ready to sue Ridgetop for undervaluing her property. Had to point out the can of worms that would open up, delaying the sale of her property and so forth. No longer a problem.”

  “And the Winsteads?”

  As quick as a flash, Mr. LaSalle revealed sparkling white teeth in a grin, then cut it off just as quickly. “Had an ally there in Mrs. Winstead—she wanted to sell. He didn’t. Until I made him a high market value offer. He’s happy now.”

  “How high a market value?” Mildred asked, not one to spend money carelessly.

  “I’d done my homework. Knew what their property was worth, and so did he. Didn’t overpay or underpay, which Ridgetop was trying to do. Now, ladies,” Mr. LaSalle went on, “on your authority, we’ll close on the Pickerell property Tuesday morning, the other two that afternoon.” He began dealing out two piles of papers. “Here are copies of the offers of purchase, the due diligence, a summary of the closing costs, and the amounts for each one. Sign and/or initial where indicated. Already got a bank account open in the corporation’s name with my name as the designated agent. I’ll need the stated amount deposited by noon Monday. Any questions?”

  “Is this all legal?” I asked, having never before had anyone do all the work for me.

  Another flash of teeth. “As legal as it gets. I’m using a local attorney as well, although I’m licensed in this state.”

  That relieved me until I wanted to know if it was Binkie he was using. “Ms. Enloe-Bates?”

  “No. Mrs. Allen suggested the Carson Hanover firm on the basis that Ms. Enloe-Bates is too closely associated with you. Two and two could be put together. My understanding was that you both wanted to remain anonymous. Was that incorrect?”

  “No, that was correct,” I said, wondering how I was going to explain to Binkie our failure to use her.

  Chapter 45

  For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, I was too restless to sit still, worrying over the fact that Mildred and I had committed ourselves to financial combat with Ridgetop Corporation. How would they respond to our sneak attack? And what would we do with three empty houses, none of which was the one we wanted? We still had time to call off Tom LaSalle and try another tactic—should we do it? It was now or never, for once money changed hands, there’d be no turning back.

  After checking the want ads again to see if I’d missed anything, I walked into the library, where Sam was resting with a cup of hot tea after his visit downtown.

  “Sam, honey,” I said, “how’re you feeling?”

  He cocked one eye at me. “About as well as you’d expect with a head cold that’s settling in my chest. But I’ve been waiting for you to settle down to tell you the latest from the Bluebird. There’re some real doozies floating around town.”

  “Well, hold on for a minute. I need to ask you something first. You know I told you that Mildred and I have been thinking of what we could do to keep Hazel Marie’s family from moving away? Remember that?”

  “I thought you were thinking of what you could do to move the group home.”

  “Same thing. Anyway,” I said, taking a deep breath and plunging in, “we’ve definitely decided to buy up everything on the block. Except the Pickens house, of course.”

  Up went the eyebrows. “Uh-huh, and the Cochran house, too?”

  “Actually, we’re hoping it’ll fall in our lap when Ridgetop can’t proceed with what they want to do—whatever that is. Anyway,” I said again, nervously rubbing my arm, “I’m feeling a little antsy about it. It’s all of a sudden moving along at a rapid pace, and it’s an awful lot of money—to be spending at one time, I mean.” Then I told him about Tom LaSalle and how I’d thought I’d have weeks but now realized that I had only days, even hours, to think about it.

  “So, what do you think? Could I be biting off more than I can chew? I know it’s a little late to have second thoughts, but I’d like to know what you think.”

  “Well,” he said, straightening up in his chair and putting his mind to the problem, “property in that area is a good investment, and you have the funds to buy it. But what’re you going to do with it when you get it?”

  “We haven’t thought that far.”

  Sam laughed. “Empty houses deteriorate, you know, but the owners might want to rent them back.”

  “Mildred thinks we should tear down two of them.”

  “Really?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows. “As much as she likes to redo and redecorate?”

  “The problem with that,” I said, “is if we restored them to resell, we’d be right back where we are now—unable to control who buys them. For all we know, Ridgetop could slip back in and buy them from us. If they wanted them bad enough.”

  “They want them pretty bad now,” Sam said, cocking one eyebrow. “I really got an earful down at the Bluebird today. Word is that they’re planning to build something like a boutique hotel.”

  “A boutique hotel! What in the world for?” Of all the harebrained ideas, that took the cake. “And what makes a hotel boutique, anyway?”

  “As far as I know,” Sam answered, “it implies small, expensive, and exclusive. The rumor is that it’ll be one story of lobby, meeting rooms, and spa and two upper floors of luxury rooms and suites. And an upscale restaurant on the roof for the view.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” I said, “what view? Mr. Pickens mowing his lawn? And what kind of people would come to Abbotsville for a luxury vacation? Hikers and bikers and backpackers?” Then I answered myself. “Not likely.”

  Sam smiled in agreement. “Sounds a little far-fetched, doesn’t it? But Joe Higgins—you know him? He heard they’ll plant mature trees all around the block so there’d be treetop dining.”

  I rolled my eyes at the thought of having dinner with squirrels, birds, and a few bats and mosquitoes. “And what about parking? That’s a large block, but not that large, even with every house on it bulldozed to the ground.”

  “Well, there’s a rumor that they’ll petition the commissioners to close off the side streets and extend the block that way. If they did that and got rid of Pickens, they’d have plenty of space for whatever they wanted to do.”

  “And who are they?” I asked, springing to my feet in agitation. “That’s what I want to know. And where’s the money coming from for something like that? I mean, who is Ridgetop, anyway?”

  “Well, according to your friend Callie, and from what I heard today, it seems that Pete Hamrick is in it up to his neck.”

  I could attest to the truth of that, but chose not to, not wanting to reveal where and how I’d come by the information.

  “And,” Sam went on, “I’m guessing a whole lot of small investors—all with fingers in the pie from the sound of it—with one or two outsiders with deep pockets. Maybe a hotel chain as a primary backer.”

  I whirled around to stare at him, struck by one possibility. “Small investors? Like the county commissioners?”

  Sam nodded. “Could be, and possibly a few Bluebird customers who were unusually quiet today.

  “Julia,” Sam went on soberly, “I don’t want to throw cold water on your plans—it’s your money and you can use it as you please. But you and Mildred should be aware of what you’re up against. From what I heard today, this Ridgetop outfit is looking at a multimillion-dollar enterprise that’ll certainly fit the bill as being in the public interest. A case can easily be made that it’ll raise the commercial value of the surrounding area, as well as having huge job potential both during and after construction. The future of Jackson Street could be as a secondary Main Street, full of shops, gas stations, and minimalls. A lot of people will see that as a public benefit and fight you tooth and nail.”

 
“Well, a lot of people have eyes bigger than their stomachs, too. It’s plain foolishness to think that a so-called boutique hotel will revitalize that area, much less the whole town. As far as I’m concerned, Mildred and I will be doing a public service by keeping that historic area as it is.

  “Except, of course,” I said with a sigh, “the Cochran house as a group home.”

  * * *

  —

  Sunday afternoon, and I had taken myself up to the guest room to finish wrapping Christmas gifts, hoping that doing something constructive would have a calming effect. Not only was I anxious about buying three houses out from under a few possibly major players, my mind was still churning with what Sam had learned at the Bluebird. If even half the rumors were true, Mildred and I were up against some heavy lifters, and all we had was skinny Tom LaSalle. But also, I encouraged myself, a sneak attack scheduled for Tuesday afternoon, when we would become owners of the desired properties. But I knew that there could be many a slip twixt cup and lip, and all I could do was hope for the best. But if we could hold on till then, Ridgetop would have to fold their tents and look for another town to ruin. Because a ruination was what their plans would create. In a few years of fewer and fewer guests—I mean, what did Abbotsville have to offer luxury overnighters?—a boutique hotel would be lucky to end up as a Motel 6.

  * * *

  —

  “Knock, knock,” Lloyd said, rapping on the door and bringing me back to the present. “Can I come in?”

  “Wait a minute,” I called, hurriedly covering the gift I was wrapping. “Now you may. Come on in.

  “What’s going on, honey?” I asked, knowing that when he sought me out, something was on his mind.

  “Well,” he said, “you know Freddie Pruitt? He’s having a hard time ’cause he can’t study at his aunt’s house. She’s got a bunch of little kids, and he’s like me—he needs a quiet place to study. So he was kinda looking forward to moving in next door, but now he’s worried about studying with a bunch of big kids living there, too.”

  “Oh, dear, I couldn’t study under those conditions, either.”

  “No’m, me, either.” Then, with a somber look on his face, he said, “You know, Miss Julia, it doesn’t seem fair that I have two rooms to study in and he doesn’t have even one. When one gets too noisy, I can always move to the other one, but he can’t.”

  How in the world could I justify to this child the inequalities of life while the do-gooders of the world clamored to level all the playing fields? And to do it in spite of the fact that when it had been tried before with completely leveled fields and everybody equalized, their efforts had ended up with no one having anything?

  “I know, honey,” I said, “and I, too, occasionally worry about having more than a lot of people do. But when something comes along where a lot is needed, I’m awfully glad to have it.” I thought of the properties Mildred and I were buying in order to save the home of people I loved, including the boy sitting across from me.

  “Yes’m, I guess so. It’s just that Freddie said he’d like to sleep in a room all by himself just once in his life.”

  “He will,” I said, as a nebulous plan solidified in my mind. “I’m sure of it. You just remind Freddie that every time he opens a book to study, he’s getting that much closer to a room—and a whole lot more—all his own.”

  * * *

  —

  “Sam?” I asked after Lloyd had left and I’d gone downstairs, where Sam was dozing in a wing chair. “How do you feel about going into debt?”

  “What?” He came fully awake, sitting straight up. “You don’t need to go into debt.”

  “No, not me. I mean you.”

  He laughed. “Depends on what for.”

  “Come take a ride with me. If you feel like it, I mean.”

  “I feel fine,” he said, standing. “Let me get a coat. I can’t wait to see what you’re up to now.”

  So I showed him what Lisa Hudson had come up with. We drove across town and turned at the high school onto Wilson Avenue, a street lined with two- and three-story Victorian houses. Some of the houses had been converted to offices for lawyers, CPAs, and doctors, as attested to by numerous signs. Others had been divided into apartments, and two smaller ones housed offices for nonprofit groups.

  I pulled to the side of the street, the car still running for the heat, and pointed to a three-story gray house with white gingerbread trim, a front porch, and a turret. The front yard sloped to the street, but the house itself was on level ground and there was a huge tree in the backyard. A FOR SALE sign was out front.

  “That one,” I said. “Let’s buy it.”

  “How much and what for?”

  “They’ve reduced the price—it’s too big for most uses. And it’d be for the Homes for Teens.”

  Sam started laughing. “Julia,” he finally said, “you’re too much. You’ve been trying to run Madge and her crew off, and now you want to put them in a house like that?”

  “It’s perfect, Sam. It has a new furnace. The roof is only five years old, and, as you can see, the area’s zoned for it. There’s plenty of room for the boys to have rooms of their own without having to climb a ladder to get in a bunk bed. Besides, it’s near enough that they can walk to school. And besides that, Binkie says I need a tax write-off.”

  “And you want to go into debt?”

  “No-o, not really. I don’t know how much ready cash you have, so I was thinking more like you going in debt.”

  “Oh, you were, were you?”

  “Well, since I’m buying those houses on Jackson, I thought you might want to, well, help out with this one. I’m not sure I can do it without selling something, and you know how I hate to do that.”

  “What’re you thinking? Renting to Madge or giving it to her? I mean, to the group?”

  “Whichever you and Binkie think best, but I’m not sure I want to just give it away—especially to a group of people with as little foresight as they’ve exhibited so far.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said, leaning over to survey the house again. “I’ll come over tomorrow and have a look inside. It looks fine from here, but you never know. If it passes a close inspection, what about the two of us going in together? Wouldn’t you like to have our picture in the paper as donors of a suitable house for the Homes for Teens?”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” I said, recalling that miserable intervention where I’d been vilified for not supporting Madge’s enterprise. Our being acclaimed for good works ought to shame every one of them. “I’ve never been inclined to seek publicity, as you know. In this case, however, I might not be averse to a little recognition. But, Sam, if we donated it, I’d want to be able to specify a few things Madge would have to agree to, and the main one is for little Freddie Pruitt to have a room of his own. I was thinking the top floor of the turret would be perfect. He could both study and sleep in peace and quiet in his own room.”

  “Then we’d better rent it to them, with specific requirements spelled out in the lease.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do, and we’ll make the lease absolutely airtight. Although I doubt Madge would have it any other way.”

  After a little further thought, I said, “Sam? Let’s forget about having our picture in the paper or of being publicly recognized in any way. We’re not even supposed to let our left hand know what our right hand is doing, much less let the whole town know.”

  “Suits me,” Sam said, and yawned. “I never take a good picture, anyway.”

  I laughed. “Me, either. Besides, if it became known, we’d be flooded with requests from every nonprofit in town and in the county, too.”

  Chapter 46

  Sam was as good as his word, contacting Lisa Hudson, the listing agent of the house on Wilson, the following morning and driving over to do a close inspection of the interior. While he
was gone, I arranged funding of my share of the Great Dane Properties bank account, which Tom LaSalle had opened, checked in with Mildred to reassure myself, then sat back to await the outcome of our plans.

  On his return, Sam reported that the big Victorian could stand some updating. “But,” he went on, “it’s certainly usable as it is. If Madge hasn’t been too heavily influenced by HGTV restoration programs, she should be thrilled with it. Besides a kitchen, a living room, and a dining room, there’re two rooms and a bath downstairs that could be a private space for the houseparents and a small parlor across from the living room off the front hall that could work for Madge’s office.”

  “She’ll love that.”

  “And,” he went on, “four large bedrooms and a bath on the second floor, and three rooms and another bath on the third. It’ll easily accommodate seven boys—more if they double up.”

  “I don’t care how many they take in, just as long as they’re not next door to Hazel Marie.”

  “Then, if that’s what you want to do, I’ll make an offer this afternoon.”

  “But,” I said, “is it what you want to do?”

  “Why not?” Sam said, as if he bought huge houses every day of the week. “It’s for a good cause, and the location makes it a good rental investment if Madge’s group folds, or a nice rebuild site in the future. Because, honey, if we do this, we need to look ahead and not lose control by giving it away. You may not know it, but statistics show that the majority of start-up nonprofits fail within the first six years.”

  “What? You mean I’ve worried myself sick over the Cochran house and it’s likely to close up on its own?”

  “No, not exactly. What usually happens is that the volunteers run out of steam and the funding dries up. The idea person moves on to other things after a year or so. So they’ll hire a professional director who’ll serve as their fund-raiser, as well as hiring an assistant director, a secretary or two, and probably a coordinator of volunteers. Then, as more and more money is required to pay salaries and raise funds, less and less is used for the stated purpose. That’s when somebody’ll have the bright idea of turning the whole project over to a state or national organization and washing their hands of it.”