The Family Plot Read online

  “Juggle away. I’ll sit on the check if you like, but you only have until the fifteenth to get the job done. That’s when the wrecking ball arrives, and your time is up.”

  “Two weeks is good. We won’t need half of that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Then, for the first time, she hesitated. “And I’m glad that the things which can be saved … will be saved. I don’t know. Maybe you’re right, and maybe it’s a shame to see the place go. Maybe I should’ve tried to find a buyer … Maybe I should’ve…” She looked at the folder on his desk, and the check in his hand. For a split second, Chuck thought she might tell him to tear it up—but she rallied instead. “No, it’s done now. I’m done, and the estate ends here. Believe me, it’s for the best.”

  Chuck handed over the check with two fingers.

  Augusta Withrow traded it for a set of keys, and thanked him.

  “No ma’am, thank you! And I promise we’ll do our best to treat the old place with the respect it deserves.”

  Her face darkened, and tightened. “Then you might as well set it on fire.”

  She left his office without looking back. The sharp echo of her footsteps rang from the concrete floor as she retreated the way she came—between the rows of steel shelving stocked with wood spindles, birdbath pedestals, and window frames without any glass. When she turned the corner beyond the row of splintered old doors, she was gone … and only a faint whiff of flowers, tobacco, and Aqua Net remained in her wake.

  Chuck took a deep breath and held it, then let it go with a nervous shudder.

  Forty grand was a lot of money, but he could swing it, he was pretty sure. He could rig up enough credit and cash to cover expenses for the next few weeks, until the Withrow stuff flew off the shelves and refilled those dusty corporate coffers.

  “It’s a gold mine,” he reassured himself, since nobody else was there to do it. “This is a good idea. We can do this.”

  “We can do what?”

  He looked up with a start. He wasn’t alone, after all. His daughter leaned around the doorframe, peering into the office. “The Withrow estate,” he told her.

  “What’s the Withrow estate?” Dahlia Dutton strolled inside and planted her ass in the same seat that Augusta had recently vacated. “Does it have something to do with that old lady who just left?”

  “Yup. That’s Augusta Withrow.”

  She gazed across Chuck’s desk. “You cleaned up for her. She must be rich. Hey, wait—is this that place James was going on about? The one in Chattanooga?”

  “That’s the one. You wouldn’t believe it—this lady’s just walking away from a gingerbread mansion with a carriage house and a barn. James said we could earn back a nickel on every penny.”

  Dahlia’s eyes narrowed. “How many pennies, Dad? ‘Estate’ is usually code for ‘expensive.’”

  “It was … a good number of pennies, yes. But it’ll be worth it.” He shoved Augusta’s folder across the desk.

  Dahlia picked it up and opened it. She flipped through the first few pictures, scanning the highlights. She let out a soft whistle. “Many, many pennies, I assume. Please tell me this is an investment, and not a calamity.”

  “Life is full of risks.”

  “And this house is full of furniture,” she observed. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s cheap shit, left over from yard sales and estate clearance.” He sat back in his chair. It leaned with a hard creak, but didn’t drop him. “We can take all that stuff, too—if we feel like it.”

  “This isn’t all cheap shit.”

  “Well, you’re the furniture expert, honey, not me.”

  She nodded down at the images in her lap. “Some of these pieces are good. If the old lady doesn’t want them, sure, I’ll take them. I could use some furniture right now. I don’t care if it’s old and dusty. I’ll clean it up here, and take it back to my new place.”

  Dahlia had just sold her house. It was part of the divorce agreement, since Tennessee is a communal property state—and neither she nor the ex could agree on who ought to keep it. Her new apartment was half empty, like it belonged to a bachelor or a college kid. In Chuck’s opinion, it was downright pitiful.

  She sighed. “Jesus, Dad. Look at this staircase.”

  “Chestnut.”

  “Is it? Oh, wow, that’s great…” But that’s not what she was thinking, and he knew it. She was thinking about the staircase in the house she’d lost, and how it had gleamed in the muted, colored light from the stained glass in the front door sidelights.

  “Honey, chestnut’s a whole lot better than great—and there’s a bunch more sitting out back, from the old barn. There’s a carriage house, too. Both of them have been locked up since before Ms. Withrow was born.”

  Her face brightened. “Seriously?”

  He’d figured that little tidbit might distract her. “That’s what she said.”

  “And she must be ninety, if she’s a day. Let’s round it up to a hundred years, then. What did those buildings hold, a century ago?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to guess … carriages. And barn stuff.”

  Dahlia tapped her finger on the folder’s edge. “We could pry open those doors and turn up anything, or nothing.”

  “You’ll find out when you get there.”

  “Hell yes, I will. What’s our time frame like?”

  “Two weeks.” He cracked open the top desk drawer, and slipped his checkbook back inside it.

  “We won’t need that long.”

  He grinned. A child after his own heart. “I know, but I expect we’ll need more time than you think. We’re talking four acres, with several outbuildings. The house is some 4,500 square feet. And … I hate to mention it, but I can’t spare much in the way of manpower or resources right now. I’m counting on you, kid.”

  “T&H? The dick joint?”

  “Neither one of them’s paid up. But,” he said fast, “Barry’s got a lawyer up their asses, and they have until the end of this week, or we’re suing them.”

  “Dad…” She sighed.

  “I know, I know. It’ll be tight for a month or so, that’s all. But once you get the Withrow house gutted, I’ll fire off a flashy press release, then we can sit back and watch the money roll in. These places don’t hit the market every day of the week—you just watch, we’ll have designers and construction guys coming out from both coasts, and Canada, too.”

  “I hope you’re right. Because if you’re wrong…”

  “I’m definitely right. We just have to hang on until we get the stock back here, sorted out, and tagged for sale,” he promised.

  She might’ve believed him, or she might’ve just been resigned to her fate. He couldn’t tell which when she said, “Then I’d better work fast. Who’s coming with me?”

  Now for the fun part. He didn’t want her to bite his head off, so he started out easy. “You’d better take Brad, for starters.”

  “Has Brad ever actually done a salvage run?”

  “Ask him. He might have. You’ll want to keep one eye on him when he’s using the power tools; but he knows his shit on paper, and he might be useful if you run into permission problems. The place is right outside Saint Elmo, on Lookout Mountain … and the historic zoning folks might get ideas about what belongs where. Supposedly this ain’t any business of theirs, but that doesn’t mean you won’t hear from them anyway, when they see you pulling the house apart.”

  “Fair enough.” She slapped the folder back down on his desk. “Who else?”

  Next he proposed his great-nephew. “Gabe’s done a couple of jobs, now.”

  “Gabe’s just a kid.”

  “He’s a big-ass kid—that boy can swing a sledge like Babe Ruth. Best of all, he adores you, and he’ll do whatever you tell him.”

  “All right, Gabe’s in. Who else will I wind up babysitting on this gig?”

  Chuck hemmed. He hawed. “Well, James is out picking in Kentucky this week, and Frankie’s got to work the floors.
I have to hang around and play manager—and that’s my least favorite thing, so you know I don’t have a choice. Melanie’s got the register and phones … and that’s everyone we have on deck, except Bobby.”

  Dahlia stopped smiling.

  Chuck squeaked, “Baby?”

  “Of all the idiots…”

  “He’s not an idiot. You’re just mad at him.”

  “I judge him by the company he keeps. Besides that, he’s lazy as hell, and you know he won’t take orders from me.”

  “If he won’t, he can pack it in. This is a business, not a charity.”

  “Bullshit. You never could tell your sister no.”

  Chuck threw up his hands. “All right, fine—it’s bullshit, but he’s in a bind, and I don’t care how well he gets on with Andy. I’ll have a talk with him before you go. He’ll behave himself, Dolly.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Dahlia. He’ll work his ass off, and he’ll answer to you—or he’ll answer to me. He needs the gig, now that Gracie’s gone, and he’s got Gabe to think about.”

  “You say that like she’s dead.”

  “She’s dead to him.”

  She yawned, and didn’t try to hide it. “Jail is temporary.”

  Chuck stared helplessly at his only child. More gently, this time, he tried another approach. “Look, I know Bobby’s not your favorite cousin right now, but it’s only for a few days. Let’s say four days, all in—including me and the Bobcat on the Doolittle. I’ll come up for the last day, and help load up the big stuff.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “Five days, and it’s a big house. You two will hardly have to see each other, and Gabe will be glad to have you around. You’re the responsible adult he’s always wanted.”

  “He’s a good kid,” she grudgingly granted. “I can work with him. And Brad’s not so terrible.”

  “Brad’s not terrible at all, he’s just not a handyman—but we can fix that. He’s a quick learner. He just needs the guidance of an experienced professional like yourself.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, and Brad’s a quick reader. That’s not the same thing as a quick learner. Now I’m supposed to provide on-the-job training, too? Maybe I need a raise.”

  “Think of it as an upgrade to a supervising position.”

  “One of those promotions that doesn’t come with any money? Yeah, thanks.” Then she warned, “If Brad cuts off a thumb…”

  “Then our insurance premiums go up, and Brad types his thesis a little slower. Now it’s settled,” Chuck declared. That didn’t make it so—but a man could pretend. “You’ll head out tomorrow, and take the two twenty-six-footers; that’ll get you started. I’ll drive down on Friday with the forklift, and then we can take down the exteriors.”

  “You think the trucks will hold it all?”

  “I hope not. I hope and pray we fill ’em both up to the brim, and when I show up with the one-ton trailer, I hope it barely holds the rest—and then we have to rent another one. Or steal one. This score’s on a shoestring, honey.”

  He shouldn’t have emphasized that part. He knew it by the pair of vertical lines that appeared between her eyebrows.

  “Daddy, how much money did you pay out for this? Tell me the truth.”

  “Forty.” It came out hoarse. He cleared his throat, and said it stronger. “Forty grand, that’s all. Drop in the bucket, on a project like this. A nickel for every penny, just like James said.”

  “Forty…,” she echoed the figure. “Do we even have that much money right now?”

  “Well…”

  “Christ, Daddy. This’ll be the death of us, won’t it?”

  “Think positive, baby.”

  “All right, I’m positive this’ll be the death of us.”

  “No, no it won’t. You have faith in me, and I’ll have faith in you. I’ll make the money work, and you’ll bring home the golden goose.”

  She sighed hard. “So you’ll do the math, if I’ll do the heavy lifting. Got it.”

  “Atta girl.” An idea sprang into his head, and he let it fly before he could talk himself out of it—and before Dahlia could second-guess him. “Speaking of heavy lifting, I’ve got an idea. Since we’re hanging by a thread until the Withrow loot starts selling … why don’t the four of you go camping.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You saw the pictures of the big house; it’s furnished, sort of. The contract says the power stays on through the fourteenth, so we can run the equipment, no problem. There’s no central heat or air, but that’s all right. It’s cool enough now that you won’t need the AC. If it gets too cold at night, there are seven fireplaces in that old behemoth. One of ’em must work.”

  “Dad…”

  “Otherwise, we’re talking four or five nights in a hotel. Three rooms, and that’s because I’m willing to bunk with you when I arrive. It adds up, darlin’. It’s an unnecessary expense, when you’ve all got sleeping bags and we’re running short.” He talked faster as he warmed to the thought. “You can wake up in the morning, make yourself some coffee, and get started. Head on down to Saint Elmo for meals, and charge it all to Barry’s AmEx. Minimal interruption, minimal downtime. Just start in the rooms you aren’t sleeping in—work from top to bottom, maybe. Better yet, start with the outbuildings, and work your way in.”

  “Dad,” she said more firmly, cutting off his sales pitch. “It’s okay. I’ve done it before, remember?”

  “That’s right—you stayed at the Bristol joint last year. But that was only an overnight.”

  “So? Everything was fine. It’s no big deal. We can start early, work late, and get the job done fast. We’ll turn off the power and bust out the generators when you arrive, then take the windows and fixtures last. It’s totally doable.”

  She gave the photos in her lap another pass, shuffling them around until her eyes caught on this detail, or that fixture. “What a beautiful place,” she said softly. “The bones look great, but maybe that’s just the pictures. Did that woman even try to sell it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it needs too much work. Maybe it’s just not worth it, to her, or anybody else.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Wait until you see it in person,” he urged. “You might change your mind. For all we know, the foundation is shot, and the walls are full of termites and rats.”

  “You want to change my mind about sleeping in this place? Keep talking.”

  “Oh Dolly-girl, my Snow White child,” he teased her, like when she was small. There was a children’s book he used to read her about a little girl who got lost in the woods. Even these days, they knew it both by heart. “The rats will give you gifts, and the bugs will give you kisses. The bats will stand guard as you sleep, and the owls will keep watch from their tree.”

  She tried to muster a smile, and almost succeeded. “So it’s always been, and may it always be.”

  2

  BRAD FIDDLED WITH his phone, alternately pleading with—and bitching at—Siri. “Chattanooga,” he enunciated, trying so hard to rid the word of his Georgia accent that he formed a newer, more bizarre accent in its place. Siri didn’t recognize that one, either.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Dahlia told him from the driver’s seat. “It’s a straight shot on the interstate from here. We won’t need directions until we hit Saint Elmo, and I doubt the phone will be any good when it comes to finding this house. From the way Dad talked, its road isn’t really paved.”

  “Then how are we supposed to find it? Did he draw you a map, or something?”

  “Yes,” she lied. Chuck had given her directions, but she wasn’t overly confident she could read them. His handwriting had never been any better than chicken scratch, so her real plan was to (a) take her best crack at translating them, and then probably (b) ask around once they hit the historic district. Somebody, somewhere, was bound to know the spot.

  Brad stuffed the phone away in his sweate
r pocket, put his feet up on the dash, then pulled them down again. He opened the glove box, and shut it again. He tapped his knuckle on the door’s built-in cupholder.

  “If you’re going to fidget like that all the way to Lookout, you can ride in the back with our gear.”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just nervous. This is … this is weird, isn’t it?” He turned to her, eyeing her through spectacles that might’ve been for show. Bless his heart, he wasn’t dressed for demo. He was wearing khakis and a pullover, and a pair of Converse sneakers, as a nod toward some latent hipsterism he should’ve outgrown a decade ago. He was thirty, but he sure as hell seemed younger.

  “What do you mean, weird?”

  “Sleeping in the house, while we’re breaking it down. That’s weird, right?”

  “I’ve done it before. It’s not that bad, and it saves a lot of money. So it’s definitely not weird.”

  He played with his watch. It was a nice one. Expensive, with a retro design. He had no business wearing it to a salvage site, but whatever—he’d learn the hard way. “We’re going to be there, like … a week. Does it always take a week?”

  “No, but this is a big job and we’re short-staffed. Try to think of it as a week of on-the-job training.” She smiled grimly, and stared straight ahead at the road.

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Try not to sound so excited. Dad warned you, this gig isn’t indoor work with no heavy lifting, so a little manual labor shouldn’t come as a big surprise.”

  “I’m not surprised. I’m…”

  When he didn’t finish the thought, she flashed him a glance. “Disappointed? Your résumé says academia. So do your hands.”

  “Is that an insult?”

  “No, and don’t take it like one. I always wanted a few letters behind my name, myself. But I only survived two years of college before giving up and coming home. I figured out I could learn more from the warehouse than a textbook, and it didn’t cost me thousands of dollars a semester. I got paid for my trouble, instead of going into debt.”

  She didn’t get paid enough to go back and finish. She left that part out.

  Brad put his feet back up on the dash. His shoes squeaked on the underside of the windshield as he pressed his toes against it. “Yeah,” he said sadly. “It’s a lot of money. And unlike us credentialed losers, you won’t be paying your student loans until social security kicks in.”