Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  I knelt down and opened the latches on my toolbox. Snap-snap! From outside came the sound of a car engine. Looked like the men were leaving. Good.

  Having worked at Home & Hearth for several years, I knew home sales could fall through for any number of reasons and, until all the is were dotted, ts crossed, and paperwork signed, this house would not belong to me and Buck. Still, I was too excited about the pending deal to do nothing. It couldn’t hurt for me to tackle some of the small, less costly tasks while I was here today. We’d handle the bigger projects once the house was officially ours. And, if the deal fell through, I’d be out nothing more than a few measly bucks and a few hours’ time.

  I strapped on my knee pads, slid on a pair of canvas work gloves, and knelt down on the floor to start sanding the stained spots with fine-grain sandpaper. I’d been on my hands and knees for a few minutes when a rap sounded at the door.

  “Knock-knock, partner!” Buck called to let me know it was him.

  I stood and walked over to unlock the door.

  He gestured to the expletive scrawled on the door. “What’s this?”

  I rolled my eyes. “The handiwork of the former tenant. At least that’s my guess.”

  “‘Watch your back’?” Buck said, his gaze moving from the words to my face. “That doesn’t sound good. You think he’s serious? Is this a real threat?”

  “Who knows?” I lifted my shoulders. “He could’ve done a lot more damage here, but he was either too lazy or too cheap to buy a can of spray paint. I can’t see him putting much effort into revenge.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.” Taking in the pads on my knees and the sandpaper in my hand, Buck said, “You at work already?”

  “Figured I might as well make use of this time.”

  “Good point. Time is money. Best make the most of it.”

  He stepped inside, tugged a hammer from a loop on his tool belt, and set about removing nails from the walls. I, on the other hand, applied the sandpaper to the front door and rubbed back and forth until all evidence of the nasty threat had been ground into fine dust. Of course some of the paint came off, too, but that was no problem. The door was scuffed and scratched and needed to be repainted anyway.

  Colette arrived a few minutes later, when Buck had moved on to the bedrooms. As I let her in, Buck stepped into the hallway and put one arm up on the doorjamb, holding the hammer in the other hand. “Hey, skinny Oprah,” he called to Colette. “Long time, no see.”

  Buck’s pet name for my friend was silly but fitting. With her loose curls, brown skin, and broad smile, she resembled the cultural icon, though, as the nickname indicated, my friend was thin rather than curvy. She was over three decades younger than the real Oprah, too.

  Colette returned his greeting and jest, giving a nod to Buck’s hammer. “Hey, poor man’s Thor.” Turning back to me, she raised the cardboard tray in her hands. It contained three large coffees. “A little housewarming for the happy homeowners.”

  I wasn’t about to point out that we didn’t own the home yet. Mama needs caffeine.

  She plucked a coffee from the tray and handed it to me. “Vanilla latte.”

  “You’re the best!” I said as I took it from her.

  She handed another to Buck. “Black coffee for the purist.”

  I wasn’t surprised my best friend knew how I took my coffee, but she knew how Buck liked his, too? I supposed professional chefs paid attention to people’s particular palates.

  Buck took the cup and raised it as if in toast. “Just what I needed this mornin’.”

  Colette pulled her cup from the tray and tucked the cardboard into the tote bag hanging from her shoulder. “Where’s the kitchen?”

  Buck pointed through the doorway at the back of the room. “That way. Have at it.”

  Colette blazed a trail through the living room and into the kitchen. Buck and I followed along behind her. She stopped in the center of the room and looked around, shaking her head at the destruction.

  Buck took a swig of his coffee. “You can see why we called you.”

  While my cousin set about measuring the cabinets and countertops, I picked my friend’s brain. “What should we do in here?”

  Colette was quiet a moment, her narrowed gaze moving about the space before she walked over to stare down at the oven. “A new gas stove with a decorative vent hood is a must.” She turned and ran a hand over the adjacent countertop. “Deeper counters would be a big improvement. That’ll increase the space in the lower cabinets, too.” Glancing upward, she said, “Glass fronts in a few of the upper cabinets would be a nice touch. You know, for showing off crystal and china.” She stepped over to the rust-stained sink. “A wide farmhouse sink would look great. They’re handy for rinsing big pots and pans, too. A garden window would be great for growing herbs and letting more light into the room.” She turned around from the sink and strode across the empty dining nook, turning around at the wall and squinting into the space. “Is there room to add an island? Maybe a long, narrow one that could be used as a breakfast bar?”

  Buck measured from the sink to the wall behind her. “Yup. There’s room. Let’s do it.”

  We arranged for Colette to accompany us to the home improvement store after we closed on the house so that she could help us pick out appliances, cabinets, and countertops. As Buck and I walked her to the door, I spotted Bobby’s pickup through the living room window. He was right on time to begin his inspection. To my surprise, Rick Dunaway was still outside, too. I’d assumed he’d left when Thad Gentry had gone earlier. Bobby and Dunaway stood close, engaged in conversation, Dunaway doing most of the talking. A look of concern clouded Bobby’s face, but a moment later he gave Dunaway a small nod. Dunaway reached out to give the inspector a friendly pat on the shoulder before climbing into his Mercedes and driving off.

  We bade Colette good-bye, and Buck opened and held the door for her. As she went down the porch steps, Bobby came up them, tipping his hat to her. Like me, he arrived carrying a toolbox.

  “’Mornin’, Bobby.” I gave him a smile. “How’ve ya been?”

  “Fair to middlin’,” he replied. “That’s more than I can say for the Titans. They’re having a downright pitiful season.”

  Forever true to his team, Buck came to their defense. “Can’t win ’em all.”

  “Maybe,” Bobby acquiesced, “but they could at least beat the spread once in a while.”

  Other than presenting an opportunity to gather at home with family, friends, and yummy food, sports weren’t really my thing. Still, I had a vague understanding of what a spread was. Some kind of prediction by whoever set gambling odds of how many points the winning team would score over the one that lost.

  I introduced Buck and Bobby and the two men shook hands. “My cousin is going in on the house with me,” I explained. “We’re going to be partners.” Moving on to the matter at hand, I said, “I saw you met Rick Dunaway outside.”

  Bobby dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “He introduced himself.”

  “Is that all?”

  Bobby gestured toward the front door. “He warned me that some of the trim around the eaves might be rotten. Told me to be sure to take a close look.”

  “Oh.” That explained Bobby’s expression of concern. But Rick Dunaway was looking out for me? I felt a little guilty about the bad thoughts I’d had about him earlier, especially since he’d offered me such a good deal on the house. “That was nice of him to point it out.”

  Bobby made an mmm sound I took as agreement.

  I held up a square of sandpaper. “You don’t mind if Buck and I work on the floors while you’re checking things out, do you?”

  “Go right ahead. I’ll get started, too.” With that, he set his toolbox on the floor next to mine, retrieved a few tools from it, and got down to the business of inspecting the house.

  * * *

  Over the next few hours, Bobby made the rounds of rooms, checking doors and lights and windows and plumbing and the
insulation in the attic. While Buck worked in the back bedroom and I sanded the floor in the hall, Bobby eased around me to get to the bathroom. “That’s a nice claw-foot tub.”

  “Sure is.” I could hardly wait until the house was ours so I could take a long soak in it.

  He opened the cabinet under the sink. “Uh-oh. Looks like you’ve got yourself a leak here.”

  I sat back on my haunches and pushed my hair out of my eyes. “A plumber’s coming out to take a look.” While Buck, Owen, and I had learned from fellow contractors how to handle simpler tasks like installing drywall, we’d also learned it was best to leave plumbing projects to the professionals. One wrong turn of a wrench and you could find yourself knee-deep in water.

  Bobby’s phone burst into song, Kenny Rogers’s classic “The Gambler.” He pulled his phone from his pants pocket, greeted the person on the other end with “Hold on a minute,” and eased past me again to head outside and take his call on the front porch. He probably thought going out front would give him some privacy, but with the windows cracked to air out the place, I could hear every word he said. Not that I understood all of those words. He said something about a “teaser” and an “under-over,” neither of which meant anything to me. The only thing I knew was that, whatever they were, it was none of my business. Still, when he mentioned the Falcons, the Lions, and the Panthers, my curiosity was piqued. Is Bobby placing a bet on the weekend’s football games? Is that his bookie on the phone?

  A moment later, his tone changed, sounding strained. “I always come through, don’t I? I’d hate to think what would happen if I didn’t.” He chuckled, but it sounded humorless.

  What is he talking about? Money?

  Bobby ended his call and came back inside, easing past me again to return to the bathroom, where he began testing the faucets.

  Four hours later, the worst of the spots on the hardwood floors had been addressed, my elbow and shoulder ached, and Bobby had finished his inspection. He held out a hand to help me up from the floor.

  After Buck joined us, Bobby gestured around the house. “There’s a few issues, but overall you’ve got yourselves a solid, well-built house here.”

  “That was our take, too,” I replied. “Glad you’ve confirmed it.”

  Bobby led me and Buck around the house, pointing out some of the problems, most of which we were already aware of. Kitchen cabinet doors gone AWOL. Missing doorstops and cracked switch plates in several rooms. Closet doors that had jumped their bent tracks. He pointed to the single smoke alarm, which was positioned on the hall ceiling by the bedrooms. “There’s no battery in the smoke detector,” he said, “so I wasn’t able to test it.”

  Jackson or his fellow tenants probably removed the battery to use in another device. Then again, a couple of black holes on the wood told me someone had ground out cigarette butts on the floor. Maybe they’d removed the battery to keep the alarm from sounding when they lit up.

  “You best get some batteries in the unit,” Bobby continued. “I’d recommend getting a couple more smoke alarms, too. You can’t ever be too careful.”

  “True. Anything else?”

  He gestured for us to follow him out front, where he pointed out several rotting boards along the eaves. “See this wood?” He poked at a piece of trim with a long Phillips-head screwdriver. The end easily punctured the rotten wood. He pulled it out and used the tool to indicate the entire length of the board. “This whole piece will need to be replaced.”

  He proceeded to point out several other rotten boards. While replacing the wood would be an additional expense, it shouldn’t cost much. Besides, I’d already been thinking about repainting the outside. The white paint the house currently bore was plain. A pale gray would bring out the nuanced tones in the stone and give the place a more elegant look.

  Bobby showed us another rotten board out back, and noted that the handrail for the back steps was loose. “That’s a safety hazard, but all it needs is to be screwed in tighter at the wall. Maybe add a little epoxy.”

  Our rounds complete, we returned to the kitchen, where I made out a check for Bobby’s inspection fee. As I handed it to him, I said, “I can’t thank you enough for coming out so quickly. I’m really excited about the place.”

  He cocked his head. “You’re not planning to live here, right? Mr. Dunaway said you were going to flip it.”

  “That’s right. But I’m excited anyway. If this goes well, maybe Buck and I can do more flips.”

  “If you do,” he said, “you’ll give your favorite inspector a call, won’t you?” He shot me a wink.

  Chuckling, I said, “I sure will.”

  I held out my hand to shake Bobby’s. Buck did the same.

  As we walked Bobby out, he turned to look back over his shoulder. “I’ll get your official report written up right away. And don’t forget about those smoke alarms.”

  “I won’t,” I promised. “I’m planning to buy some supplies at the hardware store this weekend. I’ll add them to my list.”

  “Good. You two take care now.”

  CHAPTER 7

  FACE YOUR DEMONS

  SAWDUST

  The cat lay in the sunny sliver on the rug, stretched long to soak in what was left of the morning light. It was cold outside today, the glass panes in the door doing little to keep out the frigid temperature. Luckily, Whitney had turned the heater on. The warmth dried out the air and made his nose itch a bit, but it was better than being cold.

  He opened one eye, just slightly, to glare at the demon in the back corner. As usual, the demon dozed like the dead during the daytime. It only came to life for twenty terrifying minutes each evening when it scurried about, sucking up crumbs and dust and cat hair for its daily meal. What kind of creep eats dust and cat hair? And if the monster ate cat hair, it would want to eat the rest of the cat, too! The demon looked weird, too. It was round and flat and dark, with no legs or paws. No ears or nose that Sawdust could make out, either. All around its body were short hairs that twitched when it moved. It had one big eye on top, though it kept the eye closed when it wasn’t hunting. The demon’s mouth was on its underside.

  Sawdust was a runt. He knew it. His two siblings had squeezed him out when he tried to suckle from their mother alongside them. He’d had to settle for eating their leftovers once they’d finished. By then, their mother would be tired of being chewed and kneaded on, and would give him only a few quick minutes to get his meal in. He was tired of feeling small and scared. He was tired of the bad way that nasty demon made him feel. Today, he would muster up all the courage he could and check out the demon up close and personal. He opened both eyes. Slowly, quietly, he reached out one paw and rose to a crouch. Look out, demon. Here I come!

  Slowly he crept, step by step, paw by paw toward the demon, stopping on occasion to make sure the horrific beast hadn’t woken from its deep slumber. Sawdust knew that, without legs and paws, the demon couldn’t climb. Thank goodness! But if he ended up facing the demon on its turf, the floor, he wasn’t sure if he’d survive. Still, he’d had enough of this torment. He was going to get to know this devil monster so that, one day, he could conquer it.

  As the cat crept across the floor, he felt his fur rise. Some of it was due to fear, but the rest was static electricity. He had no way of knowing that. He only knew that his fur seemed to have a mind of its own when the heater was running. Sawdust stopped a few feet from the demon to listen. There was no whirr, and the monster’s eyeball was dark, unseeing. The cat took another step and stopped again. Still no signs of life. The demon was in a deep, deep sleep. He crept forward until he was mere inches from the demon. Bravely, he stretched out his neck to sniff the beast with his tiny pink nose. ZAP! YOWLLLLL! The evil demon had shocked him! And it hurt like the dickens!

  Sawdust slashed at the beast and scrambled away, inadvertently performing a backward somersault in his haste. He leaped up onto the bed, and from there onto his cat tree where he curled up into a tight, quivering ball on the upper
perch, hoping the demon wouldn’t open his single eye and search for the feline who’d dared to interrupt his rest.

  CHAPTER 8

  DIRTY DEEDS

  WHITNEY

  As Bobby and Buck returned to their vehicles, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number on my screen, but the area code told me it was local. It could be related to my work for Home & Hearth. I tapped the screen to accept the call and put the phone to my ear. “Hello, this is Whitney.”

  “Hello, Ms. Whitaker.”

  The male voice on the other end of the line sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Thad Gentry.”

  My entire body went rigid. Thad Gentry was a powerful man. No doubt he was about to pull a power play with me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Gentry?”

  “You can sell me that house on Sweetbriar once you own it. I’ll pay ten percent over your price. You don’t have to do a thing to it. I’ll buy it as is.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I know Rick Dunaway’s giving you a special deal. I offered him more than what it’s worth and the man wouldn’t bite. He’s yanking my chain. Needless to say, I don’t appreciate that. No point in me trying to negotiate with him when I can put money in your pocket instead.”

  As nice as easy money sounded, it would not sit well with Mr. Dunaway if I turned around and sold the house to Thad Gentry after Dunaway had refused his offer. Besides, even though I’d yet to wire any funds to the mortgage company, I’d already used up six dollars in sandpaper and felt invested in the house emotionally. My mind had pictured how beautiful it would look after Buck and I fixed it up. I’d already called in favors, made arrangements with other contractors. Of course, our discussions had been preliminary and nothing had yet been finalized. But nope, there was no going back now.