Fatal flip, p.1
Fatal Flip, page 1
Fatal Flip
A Home Renovator Mystery
by
M. E. Bakos
Copyright 2017 by M. E. Bakos
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
For information: email mebakos@yahoo.com
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By M. E. Bakos
Dedication
For my husband, Joe Sebesta, | and Chipper
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
KATELYN’S HOME IMPROVEMENT TIPS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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Also By M. E. Bakos
About the Author
For Joseph Sebesta and Chipper
For my husband, Joe Sebesta,
and Chipper
CHAPTER 1
I stood on a rung of the stepladder, looking into a black hole of the attic access in the closet of the house I was rehabbing.
“Dang it! Dang. Dang,” I said, sputtering, my heart racing.
“What?” My best friend, Myra asked, puzzled, as she waited for me. Myra Alexandria Payten was nervous about heights, even six-foot stepladders. She wasn’t a fan of peering into remote areas of homes under renovation and waited while I inspected the attic.
“It’s a body,” I said, gasping. “A body that hasn’t moved for a while.” My legs quivered, and my knees buckled. Gingerly, I stepped down the ladder to face a flabbergasted Myra.
“You have got to be kidding!” she said, each word short and clipped, staring at me openmouthed. Myra always used proper English, even under stressful conditions.
“I kid you not.” Dread settled in the pit of my stomach. “I hate it when that happens.” When faced with panic-inducing situations, I can be understated, stoic.
“We must call the police immediately!” Myra gasped; her hazel eyes wide.
“Yep,” I replied resolutely. “We must.”
I felt badly about the body we’d just found in the attic. The poor soul could have been there a while, but any smell was held at bay in the cool Minnesota spring. The heat was off in the house, and the body was well-preserved—for a dead person.
The dread in the pit of my stomach was terror about my present finances. This was my job now; I was a house renovator. Just a step up from a slumlord.
My name is Katelyn Baxter. I am thirty-five years old. I admit to twenty-eight, because twenty-nine is a cliché. I’ve been married twice. Once divorced, from my high school beau, Eddy. Now widowed, from the love of my life, Jake.
My business card says I am a Home Renovation Specialist. I love anything related to home repair and renovation. So much so, when I was dismissed from my position at a mega medical organization, I decided to become a house flipper.
A year earlier, my boss, Michael Preston Ness, chief communications officer, had summoned me to his office. Someone in marketing was going to take a hit for the team, a demotion to ‘records coordinator.’ I was the one selected to take the hit.
“No!”
He glared at me from across his desk, his face turning an impressive blotchy red, a blue vein bulging in his forehead.
“What!”
“Hell, no!” My face felt hot, and was likely as red as his.
By the end of the day, Janice from Human Resources and Michael Preston Ness marched to my cubicle, took my key and employee pass card. In a final humiliation, I was told not to talk to anyone at the hospital. I presumed, that meant friends, as well.
That evening, while calling everyone I knew, I finished a fresh bottle of chardonnay. My hangover lasted a day. The rest of the week, I lay on the sofa, watched cartoons, and ate Doritos.
I will refrain from naming this goliath company in the event they could sue the heck out of my penniless soul, and I am somewhat paranoid.
This is how I came to renovate the house on Bluebird Street in Crocus Heights, Minnesota. It was in a “transitional” neighborhood where streets were named for birds––Robin, Hawk, Jay, etc. The neighborhood had seen some decline, but was becoming fashionable again, with close proximity to amenities, public transportation, established parks, recreational areas, and jobs. Massive oaks, willows, maple trees, established lawns, hearty hydrangeas, and gardens invited new homeowners to the area.
The house was a sturdy model from the mid-sixties that the previous owners had started to update. The taupe-colored, wood siding was solid. In a breath of fresh air, the owners had replaced the roof with the insurance money they’d received after the last big storm.
I had bid on the house at auction and bought it for a sum firmly under market price. It was a contradiction in the economy. Cheap housing, but with no jobs, who could afford even a cheap house? Now, besides a list of rehab projects, I was in a quandary about why and how a dead body was in my attic.
After much angst during our ten-minute wait, Myra and I greeted the sheriff on the stoop. I led him through the entry, walking on drop cloths, past paint buckets to the step ladder under the attic access tucked in the main floor coat closet. The attic, where we’d found the dead man, was part of the weatherization and insulation aspect of rehabbing the house.
“I would think the inspector would have seen a body in the attic,” I whined to sheriff Don Williams, as he climbed the ladder, stretching his long, muscular body through the access panel in the closet. In one graceful movement, he hoisted himself up to a sitting position on the edge of the loft’s opening.
I caught Myra watching the sheriff’s acrobatics with a coy smile. She flashed me an innocent, ‘who me?’ glance with an irrepressible sparkle in her eye.
“He would have, if the body had been here.”
“Aww, jeez.”
My mind raced back to the auction while the sheriff stepped down the ladder.
“You mean, someone could have left him here after the inspection? I’ve been painting and cleaning, and all that time he’s been here?” The thought made me a little panicky, and I could hear a hint of hysteria in my voice.
“Can’t say. We’ll know more after we get the results from the medical examiner’s report.” The sheriff’s cool, blue eyes held mine for a moment longer than felt comfortable. Don Williams was taller than average, with a little stockiness that said he liked a good meal. He exuded a masculinity that said he liked women.
Oh, and no wedding ring. Not all men wear rings, and not every man wearing a ring, wears it well. You’ve seen those guys twisting their rings.
I’d met the sheriff at a couple of foreclosure auctions before buying the solid, ranch-style house. He had intense, clear blue eyes. The fact that a ring was absent made those cobalt-colored eyes inviting, and much more interesting.
At that moment, I was covered in dust. My jaw was tense and set in its stubborn position. My hair was uncontrollable as I’d forgone the latest goo from the beauty supply store that promised to tame hair. I wore a gray sweatshirt with the logo of a tourist location from a long-ago trip with Jake, faded blue jeans, and tennis shoes.
Self-consciously I brushed back my dark mane, cursing my appearance, as the sheriff talked. I attempted to focus. After all, I was single. And, although I had a corpse in the attic, I hadn’t killed the man.
“Now, what do I do?” I knew I wouldn’t like my options.
“Now, Katelyn,” he spoke deliberately, “we’ll have to close the house while our crime scene investigators process the house.”
“Perfect.” I sighed, and winced. The time frame to recoup my investment just got a whole lot longer. “For how long?”
“We’ll let you know,” he said in a measured tone. He glanced over at Myra where she stood beside me. Her expression was impassive, except for one arched brow.
“Any chance the guy wanted a place to crash? And the door was open?” I ventured, a glimmer of hope.
“Won’t know anything until the medical examiner sees the body.” His voice was firm.
“Okay.” It was a long shot.
“Say, didn’t they just demo that house across the street last week?” he asked, and removed his hat. Silver strands of hair shined against blond locks, as he idly rubbed his head, then settled his cap.
“They did,” I said. The local fire department had done a controlled burn the Friday before as part of a training exercise for the firefig
“Oh, yow! Maybe he was dead and left in the wrong house?” I asked, and gasped. The idea seemed incredulous, but no more so than where the body was now.
“Seems like it could be a clever way to get rid of something somebody didn’t want,” he said. “Except firefighters search buildings before they do a training burn.”
“Oh,” I said. “Guess not.” I was searching for a quick solution. Something that would put my life back on track. Fast. It didn’t look like that would happen.
The sheriff stared me down. About to leave, he said, “I can’t discuss this with you. It’s an open investigation. Don’t touch anything. I’ll get back to you.”
As he headed outside, I couldn’t help but notice his muscular build under his uniform. Myra and I exchanged glances, and I fluttered my eyelashes in our private joke. He glanced back, narrowly missing our expressions, adding, “You’ll have to vacate the premises while my people do their work.” We followed him outdoors to the cool fresh air. Pausing, on our way to my car, we saw that the sheriff’s department had already taped off the outside of the house.
We watched the activity in front of the Bluebird Street house while seated in my latest jalopy, a faded green, Ford station wagon. I’d bought the car at a salvage yard, thinking it would come in handy for hauling supplies. I was still finding its quirks. After running out of gas with a gauge that said half full, I now watched the odometer closely. I’d replaced a dented hood that wouldn’t latch, and carried an open box of baking soda in the back-seat to eliminate stale cigarette odor. Myra, bless her soul, never smoked a day in her life but didn’t complain about the residual scent. Myra had been silent while I talked to the sheriff. Now, she appeared as discouraged as I felt. “The bright spot in this mess, is that it doesn’t appear the sheriff thinks you had anything to do with this,” she offered.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I muttered, remembering how the sheriff’s eyes panned over me while he studied my face.
We kept watch as the crime scene people went in and out of the house.
I sensed Myra was feeling somewhat responsible for the sour direction, this “change your life, and follow your bliss mode” had taken.
“What kind of mess did I get myself into?” I murmured. I wasn’t trained in crime solving. Just nosy, with a steely determination and plucky persistence to get to the bottom of this predicament.
Myra and I inhaled deeply, as two of the sheriff’s people toted a gurney out the front door. I shuddered, and a chill went up my back. Seeing the body on a stretcher in daylight made it all too real. I started the car, maneuvering into traffic past gawking neighbors. I couldn’t watch anymore.
“Sorry,” Myra said, adding, “What a mess.”
“Not your fault,” I answered.
“I can float you a loan. It’ll take time to sort all this out.”
“Thanks, Myra.” I sighed. “I’ll be okay.”
I drove Myra to her lake home nestled in the heart of the city. Minneapolis has a three-lake chain of lakes in the area. Her home overlooked the “couple’s lake” as it was called by residents. Another was known as the “single’s” lake; the third was branded the “family” lake.
Her home dripped elegance. It was a colonial style with dormers and classic shutters that set off red brick. The grounds were newly mowed with lush green grass that resembled a soft velvet fabric. Topiary bushes were groomed to represent different shapes of animals, birds, and a pair of deer.
I was out of my element driving my economy cars up the steep winding driveway next to the stately home. It never appeared to bother Myra getting out of one of my clunkers.
“We’ll be in touch,” Myra said, giving the car door an extra shove as it didn’t catch the first time.
“I’m sure of it,” I said, and watched Myra stroll to her front door. Her entry door was decked out with an immense spring-themed wreath adorned with daisies, twigs, greenery, and a large decorative bow.
I made the tight turn in the driveway, coasting back onto the parkway along the lake and waved goodbye.
Little did I know how soon, and where, we would meet next.
CHAPTER 2
The next morning, I sat at my kitchen table studying my checkbook, wearing my standard uniform of sweatshirt and blue jeans before leaving to check on the house. I sipped a cup of strong Colombian coffee and calculated my balance. It wasn’t pretty.
Chewing my bottom lip, I pondered getting one of those survival jobs that I’d taken to get through college. I was starting to question my sanity about telling my old boss that hell no, I wasn’t going to be a file clerk.
My phone rang, and before I could say ‘hello,’ Myra asked, “How are you?”
“Peachy,” I lied, and tugged a bill from the stack next to the checkbook.
“That good, huh?” Myra could always tell from the tone of my voice if I was telling the truth. Another reason she and I are friends.
“Outside of needing a job selling widgets until I can get to work on my house, and this dead body thing is figured out, I’m fine,” I insisted, bracing myself for what Myra would say. Sure enough, it came––a light rebuke. “I told you I could float you a loan.”
“You know that saying about lending money to friends? How it makes problems for people. And how you shouldn’t lend money to friends or relatives, unless you consider it a gift?”
“Yes...”
“I wouldn’t take money from friends or family, unless I was dead. Then, I wouldn’t need it.” I bit my bottom lip and stopped, hearing how gruff I sounded. I was relieved when after a long pause, I heard Myra’s laugh.
“Okay,” she said, chuckling.
“I know, I know, it’s silly. But I don’t like owing people anything. In particular, money,” I added, tossing the electric bill aside.
“That’s okay. Just remember it’s an option,” she said, trying to soothe my ruffled temper.
“Thanks. I’d better go.” I gave a sigh of relief as I hung up. I cursed the damned work ethic I’d been raised with. An ethic I shared with Myra. I’d rather eat peanut butter sandwiches for months than admit I needed a loan. But the checkbook was saying cut back on something, anything.
Myra and I had met a dozen years ago, at a local home improvement store during a Do-It-Yourself class. I was a fresh-faced, twenty-three-year-old, newly divorced from my high school boyfriend, bad boy Eddy. I hadn’t met Jake yet.
The workshop was on faux finishing. Her rag-rolling technique appeared to be the professional deal.
“Eek,” I said, as I stood back, observing the panel with my technique. It was as if someone left their toddler to clean the wall with a dirty rag.
“Eek,” as I studied the result.
Myra turned to me with a tight smile, saying in a cultured voice, “It’s all about the proper lighting.”
“Oh sure,” I countered. “Maybe no light at all would be the best presentation.”
She burst out laughing. “You have spunk,” she said, sizing me up.
“Maybe spunk, but no talent for this.” I wanted to add texture and dimension to my walls, without hanging wallpaper, like the class promised.
“Perhaps color is more your thing,” Myra suggested, adding, “You can add texture to a room with different patterns and materials in furnishings and carpeting. There’s another class on selecting colors after this. How about joining me?”
“Yeah, that might work, because this is downright pathetic.” Thus, our friendship was born. I think Myra saw me as a project. I reminded her of a younger Myra. She thought she could tame the undisciplined, messy side of me. If she only knew.
During DIY classes, I learned more about Myra. She was a home economics teacher in a local high school. Her husband, Marvin, held a safe, unexciting job as an accountant in the state’s tax collection’s department.
Myra’s father had owned a construction company; construction was part of her DNA.
Marvin was an heir to the owners of the oldest and largest department store in town.
