Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  “We can’t be high-and-mighty about it,” I replied. “I’ve got no solid proof they tried to mislead us.” Only a sneaking suspicion that I couldn’t completely shake.

  We pulled the extension ladder from the roof of his van and together carried it to the back of the house where I’d stacked the tarp and two-by-fours. As he finagled the ladder into place, the first scattered raindrops came down.

  Buck glanced toward the heavens. “The sky looks like it’s about to open up. We best get a move on. Hand me the tarp.”

  I handed the covering to him and he headed up the ladder while I held the bottom in place. When he reached the top, he climbed off the ladder and onto the roof.

  “Be careful up there!” I called. I’d dragged Buck into this. If my cousin got hurt on my account I’d feel horrible.

  While I watched from the ground, he shook out the folded blue tarp and spread it over the hole, occasionally disappearing from sight over the slope of the roof. A few minutes later, he peeked over the edge and reached an arm down. “Hand the boards up here.”

  One by one, I held the two-by-fours up and he took them from me, positioning them across the roof to hold the tarp in place. He finished in the nick of time. Drops of rain began to pelt us. He climbed halfway down the ladder and hopped off, his leap saving him the last few steps. He rushed to collapse the ladder and we each grabbed an end again and scurried to his van to fasten it to the roof.

  Darting among the raindrops, we dashed up onto the covered porch and went inside the house, heading to the bedroom to see how things looked from the inside. The tarp cast the room in an eerie blue shadow, but it seemed to be doing its job. No rain was coming through.

  Buck gestured to the walls. “We better get the wet drywall out of here before we end up with mold.”

  He and I retrieved cutters from our toolboxes and set to work, cutting the drywall out. As it piled up, Buck braved the weather and hauled the soggy scraps out to the garage. When we’d removed all the wet drywall, we went back into the bedroom with the damaged roof and evaluated how much wood we’d need to frame it. Buck whipped out his measuring tape and stood on my stepstool to get an estimate, calling numbers down to me. I jotted the information down on the notepad.

  When we were done, we locked the place up and headed out.

  * * *

  I was back at the house Tuesday morning, leading an insurance adjuster around the place. He was a dour, diminutive man in his mid-forties with pointy teeth, nose, and ears, like a goblin in wire-framed glasses and a cheap polyester sport coat. He said little as we took the grand tour, mostly grunting and tsking and hmming. While I was busy with the adjuster, the electrician and roofer looked about, too, determining how many workers their jobs would require and what would be needed in the way of materials.

  The adjuster snapped photo after photo to document the damage. He read over the fire investigator’s report and stopped in front of the hole she’d made in the drywall in the hallway. He took several more photos of the knob-and-tube wiring. When he was done, he turned to me. His eyes seemed to be narrowed, but perhaps it was just the rectangular eyeglasses making them appear that way. “There was no mention of knob-and-tube wiring in the report your home inspector sent us before we issued your insurance policy.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I told him. “After the fire investigator mentioned the wiring, I spoke with the inspector and asked him why he didn’t note it in his report.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That he must have missed it.”

  The man stared intently at me. “I find that hard to believe.”

  You’re not alone.

  The inspector continued. “But what I don’t find hard to believe is that a homeowner would mislead her insurance company to get coverage on a house with a dangerous defect.”

  It took me a few seconds to process the fact that the adjuster was accusing me—ME!—of unscrupulous behavior. My mind and mouth refused to cooperate with each other, their connection short-circuiting. “What? Me? Why…? You think I would … what?”

  “We see it all the time,” he said. “Homeowners slip some cash to an inspector in return for the inspector leaving a known dangerous condition out of the written report. That way, the homeowner won’t be refused coverage when something goes wrong.”

  My spine went perfectly straight. Finally, I had posture my mother would be proud of. “I would never do that!”

  Though the antibiotics and aspirin had taken care of my fever, the adjuster’s accusation reignited me with righteous indignation. I felt as if I were about to self-combust. I prided myself on my hard work and my integrity. How dare this man, who didn’t know me at all, make these baseless accusations against me?

  “If I’d known there was a problem with the wiring,” I said, trying my darnedest to stay calm, “I would’ve insisted the seller take care of it before I bought the house. I certainly would not have risked my cat’s life and my own by sleeping in a house that could go up in smoke.” I narrowed my eyes back at him. “Seems to me like you’re trying to get out of paying a legitimate claim. That’s breach of contract.” Stealing Dunaway’s tack, I added, “And wrongfully accusing me of insurance fraud? That’s slander.”

  The man and I locked gazes for a long moment, engaging in a stare-down. After a few seconds, my eyes began to water and I had to blink.

  He slid his phone into the breast pocket on his jacket. “I’ll need to talk with the fire investigator and your home inspector. I’ll get back to you.”

  “You do that,” I snapped.

  If Bobby Palmer hadn’t admitted anything to me, he sure wouldn’t admit anything to the insurance company. He could be charged with criminal fraud. But would his denial be enough? Would they pay my claim? Or would I have to hire a lawyer and take the company to court? If so, where would I get the money for a lawyer? Great. More things to worry about. As if I didn’t have enough already.

  The man headed to the front door and, despite how angry he’d made me, I remembered my manners and walked him out. As he drove away, I sat down on the porch steps and put my face in my hands. How had my dream of fixing up this house become such a nightmare?

  A woman’s voice came from my left. “You okay?”

  I looked over to see Patty positioning a festive stack of pumpkins on her doorstep, decorating for Thanksgiving. “Not really,” I called back. “The insurance adjuster’s being difficult.” But this would all be sorted out eventually, right? Sure it would. I had to stay positive. I forced a smile and stood. “But I guess that’s what they get paid to do, right?”

  She frowned. “He better come around quick. That tarp’s an eyesore.” With that, she went back into her house.

  The electrician and roofer gave me their written estimates as they left. I thanked them and snapped photos of the estimates with my phone, forwarding the information to the adjuster. Then I crossed my fingers and said a prayer to the god of home renovation that my claim would be approved, and soon.

  I also called Rick Dunaway on his cell phone. While I’d been upset he hadn’t issued me a check for the deductible yesterday afternoon, in hindsight it was a good thing he hadn’t. Because he hadn’t yet paid me, my legal claim against him had not yet been settled. His offer to pay my deductible might no longer be enough. If he didn’t up the ante, he risked me and Buck filing a lawsuit against him.

  Dunaway answered right away. I took that as a good sign. Usually I found myself routed into his voice-mail system with Dunaway returning my calls at his convenience.

  “The adjuster has accused me of misleading the insurance company,” I told him. “If the insurance company refuses to pay my claim, I’m going to have to consider other options for coming up with the repair expenses.”

  “Such as suing me, you mean.”

  “I didn’t say that.” I meant it, of course, but I hadn’t actually said it.

  “Attorneys can be quite expensive,” he replied. “You’d have to pay a retainer up f
ront.”

  He had to know that if I didn’t have the money for the insurance deductible, I wouldn’t have it for a lawyer, either. He was manipulating me, trying to make me feel helpless and desperate. But it wasn’t going to work. Not today.

  “Some lawyers take cases on a contingency,” I told him. “You’re one of the wealthiest men in town. Lawyers would line up for a chance to get into your pockets.”

  He chuckled. “You’re not the woman I thought you were, Whitney.”

  “Not a pushover, you mean?”

  He chuckled again, though the sound was mirthless. “The way I see it, I can either cough up the funds to pay you directly, or I can have one of my attorneys contact your adjuster and encourage him to pay your claim. I say we try option two first.”

  If his attorney could work things out, I’d take it. “I’d be okay with that.”

  “What’s your adjuster’s name and number?” he asked.

  I rattled off the goblin’s contact information.

  “I’ll let you know how it goes,” Dunaway said, and click he was gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  TOSSED AND TURNED

  SAWDUST

  Whitney tossed and turned so much that night that Sawdust felt as if he were back in his carrier the night of the fire. Eventually he hopped down from the bed to sleep in the recliner. He wondered why Whitney wasn’t sleeping well. Was she afraid the ceiling demon would start screeching? He’d noticed there was one on their ceiling here, too. Unlike the ones in the other house, this one had never made a peep. It seemed to be mute. Good.

  He jumped up onto the recliner, curled up in the corner of the seat, and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 19

  LOOK WHAT THE CAT DUG UP

  WHITNEY

  The adjuster phoned me shortly after eight Wednesday morning. I was still in my parents’ pool house, finishing my breakfast of cereal and coffee.

  “I still have my doubts about your claim,” he muttered, “but after hearing from your attorney, we’ve decided to pay it.”

  The attorney was Dunaway’s, not mine, and my name hadn’t been cleared, but as long as the insurance check did I’d be happy. I threw a fist in the air and turned to Sawdust, lying on the top perch of his cat tree. When I held up my palm, he stretched out a paw to give me a high five.

  As soon as we ended the call, I phoned the electrician and the roofing company to let them know we could proceed. Of course I still didn’t have the deductible Dunaway had agreed to pay me, but the new flooring, drywall, and paint could wait until after he gave me the check Friday night.

  The next few days were a flurry of activity. While the contractors worked at the Sweetbriar house, I performed my usual property management duties and spent the evenings cramming for my real estate exam, boning up on market analysis, land-use regulation, and, ironically, property condition and disclosures. On Thursday, while I was at the Sweetbriar house checking on things, I spotted Jackson coming up the street in his pickup. He slowed as he neared the house. I stepped out from behind my SUV. When he spotted me in the driveway, saw me point at my eyes then at him to let him know I’d seen him, too, he raised his middle finger, floored his gas pedal, and sped off. What was he doing here? Planning to write another nasty message on the front door? Maybe I should look into installing a security system at the house.

  By Friday afternoon, things were looking up. The roofers had completed their work, and done a great job matching the shingles. If any birds had hoped to nest in the exposed attic, they’d missed their opportunity. The electricians weren’t quite done, but they expected to complete the job on Monday or Tuesday. Maybe the fire wouldn’t delay us as much as I’d feared.

  I arrived at the house at five, pulled an undamaged WHITAKER WOODWORKING sign from my SUV, and retrieved my dead blow mallet from my toolbox inside the house to hammer it into the yard. I’d used permanent marker to write my initials, W.W., on the handle. It prevented confusion as to ownership when I was on a job with my cousins or other contractors and we might be using and sharing similar tools. Good tools didn’t come cheap, and while I didn’t mind sharing them, I didn’t want them walking off inadvertently.

  Though it was fairly dark outside given that the sun set early this time of year and I couldn’t turn on the porch light without electricity, the streetlight down the road provided just enough illumination for me to see that the pansies were beginning to wilt in their flats. I’d managed to find time to fill the bed with the fresh garden soil, but that’s as far as I’d gotten.

  I laid the mallet on the porch step to free up my hands and retrieved the garden hose. The electricity might not be working yet, but at least I had water. I turned the faucet until a gentle stream flowed from the end of the hose and gave the thirsty flowers a nice drink. After turning the hose off, I used the flashlight app on my phone to light my way to the door and went into the dark house. Might as well make good use of the next hour until Dunaway arrived.

  I rounded up one of the battery-operated lights the electricians had brought with them, turned it on, and took it with me into the kitchen. After closing the blinds for privacy, I situated my real estate exam study guide on the countertop, plunked my rear end down on a tall stepstool, and went over the section on escrow accounts, occasionally checking my phone for the time. While the house had no light, the heat was gas, so though I sat in relative darkness, straining my eyes, at least I wasn’t shivering.

  I’d moved on to the specifics of time-shares when I realized it was 6:15 and there’d been no sign of Dunaway. Hmm. He was a busy man and had probably got hung up with something at the office or one of his commercial properties. Still, if he didn’t show in the next ten minutes or so, I’d check in with him. I wanted to sign the settlement agreement, get my check, and move on.

  At 6:28, a thud from out front drew my attention from my book. What was that?

  I climbed down from the stool, walked to the front door, and peered out the peephole. With the porch light out, I could see nothing but darkness. I stepped to one of the windows and peeked out through a slat of the blinds. The glass reflected the portable light from the kitchen and again I saw nothing. I supposed I could turn off the light and come back to take another look, but it seemed pointless. Dunaway would knock when he arrived, and that thud had probably only been someone closing a car door down the street.

  I returned to my stool in the kitchen and waited impatiently for a few more minutes before dialing Dunaway’s cell number. After three rings, the call went to voice mail. “Hi, Mr. Dunaway,” I said. “This is Whitney. I’m waiting for you at the Sweetbriar house. You said you’d swing by around six and it’s well past the hour by now. Hope to see you soon.”

  Seven-thirty came, then eight, then eight-thirty. I left him a second message at nine. “I don’t know what’s kept you, but I’m going to head home now. Call me as soon as you can.”

  What’s keeping him? Why hasn’t he returned my calls?

  I packed up my things, turned off the portable light, and used my cell phone to light my way out. To my surprise, as I opened the door, a large manila envelope fell into the foyer. It must have been leaning against the door outside.

  I picked up the envelope, unclipped the metal brad, and pulled out the contents. Inside was a document entitled “Confidential Settlement Agreement.” Rick Dunaway’s signature appeared on the final page. The space for my signature was blank. There was also a check in the amount of $5,000 made out to me on the Abbot-Dunaway Holdings, Ltd., account. Rick Dunaway had signed the check, too. There were no instructions, though I suppose it was clear what I needed to do. Sign the contract, make a copy for my records, and return the original to Dunaway. The check, of course, would be deposited in my bank first thing in the morning.

  But why had he left the contract and check on my doorstep? It seemed odd that he would leave such a large check. And what if someone had taken the envelope and read over the confidential settlement agreement? It wouldn’t be confidential anymore. Hm
m. Maybe he’d tried the doorbell and, because the electricity was out, it didn’t work. But wouldn’t a person try the knocker, too? Besides, my car was in the driveway. He had to have known I was here.

  A silver Mercedes was parked at the curb between my house and Patty’s. Is that Dunaway’s car? I couldn’t be sure. In a nice neighborhood like this, luxury cars were fairly common and, unlike Thaddeus Gentry, Dunaway didn’t have identifiable vanity plates.

  One way to find out.

  I made my way down the walk and circled around the car so as not to startle Mr. Dunaway if he was sitting inside. I needn’t have bothered. The car was empty.

  I squinted to peer through the driver’s window. There was nothing inside that pegged it as Dunaway’s car. No business cards in the console. No monogrammed dress shirts in a bag from the dry cleaners.

  I stood up and pondered the situation, coming to the only conclusion that seemed to make sense. The car wasn’t Dunaway’s. He’d swung by the house in a hurry and dropped off the envelope. Probably he had a charity event or some fancy dinner to attend with a business associate. Maybe he didn’t knock because he was running late. Or maybe he’d had a local delivery service drop the envelope by and the courier hadn’t bothered to ring the bell or knock. I supposed it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that I had my check and could move on.

  * * *

  Saturday dawned bright and sunny, the rain having moved on to other parts of the state. I donned a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt for extra warmth under my coveralls, loaded my cat into his carrier, and we were on our way.

  Buck planned to sleep in. That would give me time to finish up the flower beds before he arrived. Sawdust would enjoy having some time outdoors. Of course I’d keep him on a harness and leash. Didn’t want my precious baby wandering off and getting into trouble.

  A half hour later, after making a quick detour by the bank to deposit Dunaway’s check, I turned onto Sweetbriar. A small tractor was in the yard of the house on the corner, the one to the right of mine. The Infiniti with the vanity license plates was parked at the curb. Thad Gentry stood behind it, speaking with two men in hard hats. Why is he here today?