Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  As if the house weren’t enough to worry about, I was supposed to take my real estate agent’s exam soon, shortly before Thanksgiving. I’d figured a passing grade would give me something special to be thankful for. Between my usual duties and the renovation work, I’d have little time to study. I’d planned to cram over the next few days but, thanks to the fire, I’d be tied up with filing my insurance claim and dealing with an adjuster. The longer it sat there without a roof, the worse things would get. Raccoons or possums might make a home in the exposed attic.

  My cousin and I headed outside and parted ways at the curb.

  “Let me know how it goes,” Buck called before closing his door.

  I hopped into my SUV and headed in the opposite direction. After picking up my prescription at the pharmacy, I drove to the fast-food place next door and ordered an iced tea, downing the first of my pills right there in the drive-thru. Take that, infection!

  Though I was hopped up on sweet tea and antibiotics and ready for a battle, I knew it would be best to check with the Hartleys before making any rash decisions. I called Mr. Hartley’s cell phone and filled him in on my suspicions about Bobby and Mr. Dunaway.

  “I don’t mean to sound like I’m doubting you, Whitney,” Mr. Hartley said, “but Bobby’s been so reliable all these years. I find it hard to believe he’d put his reputation on the line for a few measly dollars.”

  “I had the same thought,” I told him. “But I also overheard Bobby speaking with someone on his phone the morning of the inspection. He took the call on the porch, but the window was open. Apparently he hadn’t noticed. I think he was talking to his bookie. It sounded like he was placing a bet on a football game.”

  “Well, shucks.” Mr. Hartley sighed through the phone. “I wonder if he got himself into some trouble.”

  “I asked Bobby about it this morning,” I said. “He didn’t admit anything flat out, but he sure acted squirrelly.” I took a deep breath. “In fact, that’s why I’m calling. I put every penny I had into that house. I’ve got nothing left for the insurance deductible. Bobby suggested I speak with Mr. Dunaway, see if he’ll cover it. I wanted to clear it with you two before I spoke to him. There’s a risk he’ll get angry and take his business elsewhere. Do you have any objection?”

  I heard muffled voices on the other end of the line as Mr. Hartley filled Mrs. Hartley in.

  “You go right ahead. We trust your judgment, Whitney. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. If Rick Dunaway paid Bobby Palmer to hide a problem with the house, we wouldn’t want him as a client anyway.”

  I appreciated their vote of confidence.

  * * *

  It was almost noon on Monday when I snatched a ticket from the machine at the entrance to the underground parking garage downtown. I drove in and circled the first level, which was mostly reserved parking for tenants. I passed a Mercedes that looked like Dunaway’s. A few spots down in a public spot sat a plain white sedan. It looked like the one that had been parked down the street the day Dunaway had offered me the house. Of course, all white sedans looked pretty much alike. The car was backed into the space. Like the one that had been parked on Sweetbriar, it bore no front license plate. Because the car was backed in, the rear plate was not in view. A sunshade had been erected inside the windshield. Odd, given that the car was parked in a covered underground garage. Then again, the driver probably put the shade up out of habit.

  I continued on, having to circle down to the deepest level before finding an available spot. As I rode the elevator up to the eighteenth floor, my stomach churned. I wasn’t sure if it was because of my lingering infection or because I was about to confront Rick Dunaway, one of the most powerful men in Nashville. Probably both.

  What would Mr. Dunaway say to my accusations? Would he admit that he’d bribed Bobby to falsify the inspection report? Would he fire Home & Hearth and find a new property manager? And even if he didn’t, would the Hartleys want to continue to work for someone so lacking in scruples? Would I?

  The only questions to which I had answers were the latter two. No, and no. If he admitted to bribing Bobby Palmer, Home & Hearth’s relationship with Rick Dunaway was over.

  CHAPTER 16

  CHECKS AND BALANCES

  WHITNEY

  Ding. The elevator stopped on the eighteenth floor and the doors slid open. To my surprise, Rick Dunaway was standing right there in the hall, waiting for the car. Beside him stood Lance Abbot, the other half of Abbot-Dunaway Holdings, the silent partner who’d slid quietly into semiretirement. Now, instead of working for his money, Mr. Abbot had his money working for him.

  I’d seen Mr. Abbot only once before, when I’d come to the office to sign the property management contract all those years ago. Rick Dunaway had briefly introduced the two of us. I recalled my youthful exuberance, how I’d gushed about how wonderful it was to meet him. Mr. Abbot had responded by giving me a bemused smile and a barely perceptible nod in acknowledgment. I also recalled thinking it ironic that, while his last name was undeniably of Anglo-Saxon origin, his nose was one hundred percent Roman, with a pronounced curve and downward-sloping tip. Mr. Abbot had aged a little since then, his white hair a little thinner, the lines around his hazel eyes more pronounced. His nose was just as Roman, though, and he bore the same dignified demeanor I remembered, the kind that spoke of old money and manners and long-gone teenage years attending cotillions.

  While I recognized Mr. Abbot, there was no sign of recognition on his part. I supposed I’d been far more impressed with the millionaire real estate mogul than he’d been with the scrappy young woman trying to become self-supporting.

  But while Mr. Abbot had no reaction, Dunaway’s eyes flashed when they met mine and he jerked back slightly in surprise. He quickly regained his composure and offered a polite smile. “Hello, Whitney. I wasn’t told you’d made an appointment.”

  I put a hand on the elevator door to hold it open. “I didn’t. But I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but Lance and I are on our way out to lunch and my afternoon is fully booked.” He hiked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate his office down the hall. “Check with Presley. She has my schedule and can set something up in the next week or so.” With that, he attempted to step past me into the car.

  “No!” I sidestepped in front of him, putting my right hand up now, too, my limbs forming a human-sized X in the doorway. “There’s an urgent matter with the house on Sweetbriar. We need to talk now.”

  Lance Abbot raised a thick brow and looked at Dunaway.

  Dunaway chuckled, turning to his partner. “You can see why I hired her to manage our properties. She’s got spunk.” It was the same thing he’d told Thad Gentry days before. He cut me a look that said, despite the chuckle, he was not feeling jovial. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  As I stepped out of the elevator, Dunaway turned his attention back to his partner. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant in a few minutes, Lance. Have the server bring me a scotch.”

  Mr. Abbot nodded and stepped into the elevator. The doors slid closed without him uttering a word. He truly was a silent partner.

  Rick Dunaway and I strode down the hall and into his offices. He pushed the door open and held it for me to enter before him. It was a gentlemanly gesture, and I had to fight the urge to tell him not to bother, that I was on to him, that I knew he was actually a ruthless creep who’d nearly put an end to my life just so he could earn a quick and easy buck.

  Presley looked up from her desk, wearing another outfit straight out of a fashion magazine and greeting me with another not-so-warm smile. “Hello, Whitney.”

  She didn’t ask how I was doing, didn’t seem to care. I, on the other hand, remembered my manners. “Hi, Presley. How are you?”

  “Busy.” She swept her hand to indicate the pile of paperwork on her desk. Though she was replying to my question, her focus was on her boss, her response clearly intended as a nudge to Mr. Dunaway, a reminder of everything
she did for him. Not that he’d notice or care.

  Mr. Dunaway and I proceeded into his corner office. The windows offered a fabulous view of the Cumberland River, downtown Nashville, and the tree-covered hills in the distance. The trees were growing bare as winter approached, but a few orange leaves still hung on and a number of evergreens did their best to keep up appearances. Mr. Dunaway’s oversized, hand-carved desk spanned the space between the windows, a credenza and bookcase gracing the walls.

  He shut the door behind me. “Take a seat.”

  I sat down in one of his cushy wing chairs. Unlike the vinyl ones at Home & Hearth, these were real leather, probably from an endangered species.

  He dropped into the high-backed rolling chair behind his desk and got right down to business. “What’s so important you’re making me late for lunch?”

  “The house on Sweetbriar caught fire Friday night. With me and my cat in it.”

  His brows rose and his eyes went wide. “That’s terrible!”

  While his expression was what one might expect from somebody first learning about a fire, his verbal response was not. Yes, it had been terrible. But wouldn’t most people want to know more? What had happened? Whether the cause had been identified? Dunaway, though, asked no questions, as if he already knew the answers.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Aren’t you going to ask me about it?”

  He raised his palms again. “What happened? Did you forget something on the stove?”

  “No,” I replied. “The fire was caused by old, faulty wiring.”

  “Faulty wiring? Who determined that?”

  “An investigator from the fire marshal’s office. She said the electrical system had only been partially upgraded and that the older parts had become dangerous.”

  He was quiet for a brief moment before speaking again. “I can understand your concern, Whitney. But isn’t this something you should bring up with your inspector? If the wiring was faulty, he should have discovered that fact when he inspected the house and disclosed it to you.”

  “I believe he did discover it,” I said. “But he hid it from me.” I hesitated a moment this time, waiting for Dunaway to ask the obvious question an innocent person would ask. Why would he hide it from you? But, again, the question never came. “I also believe you paid him to keep the information from me.”

  He scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.” He sat up straight in his chair before leaning forward over his desk, keeping his voice low. “You might want to be careful before you go throwing accusations like that around, Ms. Whitaker. I could sue you for slander.”

  “And I could sue you for fraud.” Unlike him, I didn’t keep my voice low. In fact, I raised it. I had no idea what had gotten into me, but whatever it was, it was angry and rabid.

  He eyed me intently. “Did your inspector say that I paid him?”

  “Not in so many words,” I said, “but—”

  “But nothing,” he fired back. “As you know, Abbot-Dunaway Holdings owns seventy-eight residential properties. You think I know all the details about each one? Of course not. I had no idea the wiring was bad. Besides, rewiring the place would have cost a pittance compared to the discount I gave you. Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth! I had no reason to mislead you about that house. For goodness’ sake, I was trying to do you a favor!”

  He made a valid point. The discount he’d given me was in the tens of thousands of dollars. Fixing the wiring would have been a cheaper way for him to go, assuming there weren’t other defects with the property that I wasn’t aware of.

  Are there other defects? Or have I made a bunch of assumptions that aren’t true?

  He stared at me for a moment and seemed to sense I was wavering. I’d never been one who could hide her emotions. Darn my sincerity! “I sank all of my money into that house.” My voice was feeble and faint. “Even my emergency fund. Insurance isn’t going to cover all of the expenses to get things fixed.”

  Dunaway’s face relaxed. “You’re upset, so I’ll give you a pass on your outlandish accusation. Heck, I’d be willing to cover your deductible if you feel like you got a raw deal.”

  My gut unclenched for the first time since I’d woken in the tub to a dark room and the beeping of the smoke alarm. “You would?”

  “Of course, Whitney. I don’t want things to be bad between us. If it takes a few thousand dollars to make things right, I’ll do it.”

  It was a generous gesture, one that made me feel like a real nincompoop. First I’d accused Bobby Palmer of purposely falsifying the inspection report, and then I’d accused Mr. Dunaway of paying him off. I’d been hasty in my rush to judgment, hadn’t I? Nonetheless, this hasty nincompoop could use the money. “Thanks, Mr. Dunaway. I’d appreciate that.”

  “Happy to help. How much is your deductible?”

  “Five thousand.”

  I’d expected him to whip out his checkbook and take care of things on the spot. Instead, he said, “My lawyers will insist on a written agreement. I’ll have them draw something up and bring it to you with the check. I’ve got some business travel the next few days, but I could swing by the house Friday evening around six.”

  I would have preferred to leave his office with a check today, but it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. Men like him didn’t do anything without running it by their lawyers first. This was the best I could hope for. “Okay.”

  The matter resolved, he stood, came around his desk, and opened the door for me. He gave me a nod in good-bye.

  I stepped into the doorway and said, “See you Friday at six.”

  We exited his office to find Mr. Abbot standing by Presley’s desk.

  Dunaway stopped short. “What are you doing back here, Lance?”

  Abbot lifted the black umbrella he held in his left hand and pointed it at the window. Though he’d said nothing, his actions spoke for him. He’d seen the clouds gathering outside and realized he’d forgotten his umbrella in the office. The gathering clouds might have told Mr. Abbot to grab an umbrella, but they had a message for me, too. Buy an extra-large tarp, and quick!

  CHAPTER 17

  ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT

  WHITNEY

  After paying the parking attendant, I drove to a home improvement store and parked in a sea of pickups and flatbeds and cargo vans. Pulling out my phone, I placed a call to Bobby Palmer. He’d been the one to suggest I approach Rick Dunaway to recoup my deductible. I supposed it was only right to give him an update, especially now that my suspicions were in doubt. When he answered, I told him that Mr. Dunaway had agreed to cover my deductible. “He’s coming to the house Friday night at six to give me a check.”

  Bobby exhaled in relief, the breath audible over the line. “Good. All’s well that ends well, right?” he said with what sounded like forced joviality.

  “I’m gonna have to disagree with you there,” I told him. “This adds a lot to the work my cousins and I will have to do on the house. The delay means we’ll have another mortgage payment or two to make, and we won’t be able to take on other projects we’d be paid for. Mr. Dunaway might be covering my deductible, but I’m going to be eating peanut butter sandwiches until the house sells.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “I’ll take you out for a nice meal after the next inspection.”

  The man must have a screw loose. And if he did, I wasn’t willing to tighten it for him. “There’s not going to be another inspection, Bobby. Not for me, and not for Home and Hearth.”

  He exhaled again, but this time it was a huff of indignation. “One minor oversight and you’re going to find another inspector?”

  His oversight had hardly been minor, and the consequences had been disastrous and nearly deadly. Still, I could understand his reaction. He performed nearly every inspection for Home & Hearth. Without our business, he’d stand to lose around $25,000 a year in fees.

  “Sorry, Bobby,” I said.

  “Sorry’s not going to pay my bills!” He hung up without another
word.

  Ironic how the house that was supposed to produce a nice profit now seemed to be bankrupting everyone involved.

  I texted Buck to meet me at the house in a bit. Rain’s coming. We need to get a tarp on that roof. I slid my phone back into my purse, headed into the home improvement store, and bought the largest tarp they had, as well as several two-by-fours. I knew diddly-squat about roofing, but I’d observed that two-by-fours were often used on roofs to hold temporary covers in place. I also had three extra keys made for the contractors. Finally, I made my way to the garden department, where I bought several bags of soil and three flats of purple pansies. While the inside of the house was a mess, I could focus on the landscaping.

  Back at the house, I sat on the porch and called contractors I’d worked with, trying to find someone who’d be able to get to work on the house ASAP, meaning as soon as the insurance company approved the repairs. I was in luck. Winter was the slow season for roofers, and they could come out as soon as Buck and I could replace the framing. An electrician could come out with a team as early as Thursday to start rewiring the place. Both could send representatives out tomorrow morning to prepare estimates while the insurance adjuster would be here. Buck, Owen, and I would handle the drywall and flooring once the others finished their work. More ducks had obediently gotten in the row. Quack-quack.

  Buck arrived as I ended the call with the electrician. He climbed out of the car, looked up at the roof again, and heaved a fresh sigh. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

  “At least Rick Dunaway agreed to cover our deductible.”

  “It’s hush money,” Buck spat. “The stuff of presidents and porn stars.”