The Family Plot (2 page)

He sorted through more promising photos.

Four columns held up the side porch … he wondered if they were wood, or carved limestone. They weren't pre-war, but if they were stone, they were worth thousands. If they were only wood, they were still worth thousands, but not as many. He said, “I want to take it
all
.”

“Then you'll need a forklift, at least.”

“Good thing I've got one. Now, in these pictures, the house is still furnished. I assume all that's been cleared out by now?”

“Some of it. Some remains, but I won't kid you about its value. What's left is too cheap or too broken to pique the appraisers' interest. You can have it, if you like. I know your representative said you preferred to work piecemeal on projects like this, but my offer is all-inclusive. I don't have the time or energy to go through the place and put a price tag on every damn thing, if you'll pardon me for saying so. Anything, anywhere, on the four acres that make up the estate is yours for a check and a signature.”

Yeah, but she wanted that check made out for forty thousand dollars.

It was the most Chuck had ever paid out for a salvage opportunity, by a long shot—and he was still waiting for Nashville Erections to come collect (and pay for) a haul they'd reserved three months ago. It probably served him right for tying up twenty grand in a company named for somebody's dick, but he knew they were good for it. Eventually. And T&H Construction still owed him for another thirteen grand's worth of room dividers, bay windows, and a turn-of-the-century door with sidelights and surrounds. Chuck had graciously let them take that batch on credit and a handshake, so it wasn't even on the floor anymore.

Because sometimes, Chuck was an idiot.

All right then, fine. Sometimes, Chuck was an idiot. But this was the haul of a lifetime, and it could skyrocket the company back into the black within a couple of months.

Or it could be the nail in its coffin in a couple of weeks.

But what a nail.

Cash was low—
perilously
low—but the stock at Music City Salvage was stagnant. Pickers hadn't brought in anything interesting in months, and a haul like the Withrow estate would be something worth advertising … a landmark Southern estate, relatively untouched for generations. He could take out a full page in the paper. They'd have customers out the door, rain or shine; they'd come from hundreds of miles around. It'd happened before, but not lately.

The pictures sprawled across his desk, glossy and bright.

Ms. Withrow's offer wasn't too good to be true, but it
felt
too good to be true, and he couldn't put his finger on why. He was dying to whip out his checkbook and shout, “Shut up and take my money!” But something held him back … something besides the fact that he didn't actually have enough dough sitting in the corporate account right that moment. In order to sufficiently fill 'er up, he'd have to take money against a credit card. Or two. Or all of them.

It'd be the biggest gamble of his life.

He looked up from the photos, at the woman who sat with her legs crossed just below the knee. She'd scarcely moved since she sat down. She did not look tense, or sinister, or deceitful. She looked like a fancy old lady with good taste who had one last piece of business to take care of before she retired to Florida or wherever fancy old ladies go when they're finished with Tennessee.

“Do you have any questions?” she gently prompted.

He closed the folder and rested his hands on top of it. “Just one, I guess. Why me? I know at least two salvage crews in Chattanooga who'd be thrilled by a haul this size. Why come all the way out to Nashville?”

“It's only a couple of hours' drive, Mr. Dutton—it's not the Oregon Trail. But since you asked, I visited them both first. Out of pure convenience, let me be clear—I don't mean to imply you're third string, or anything of the sort,” she said smoothly, that highbred accent purring. “Scenic Salvage is closing this year; the owner is retiring, and she declined to pursue my offer. As for Antique Excavations … well. Let's be honest. They don't have the supplies or the manpower for this job. They were, at least, direct enough to confess it.”

“Judy Hanks told you no?”

“She's the one who suggested I try you. I understand you know one another.”

They did, but it wasn't entirely friendly. He didn't really like her, and as far as he knew, the feeling was mutual. “Sure. I know her.”

“She said you were an ass, but you ran a competent ship—and you'd have the resources to take care of an estate this size.”

Ah. That was more like it. “Not a
good
ship?”

Augusta Withrow withdrew another folder from her bag. “You should settle for ‘competent.' It's high praise, coming from her. High enough that I've already arranged the paperwork, based on the details James and I discussed—and I've brought it with me. None of this faxing or e-mailing nonsense. I prefer real ink to dry on real paper. I find it reassuring. So, Mr. Dutton?”

“Ms. Withrow,” he stalled.

“Going once, going twice—forty thousand dollars, and you can pick over the remains of my family estate. Do we have a deal?”

He swallowed. He felt the fat stack of pictures beneath his hands. Forty thousand dollars was a lot of money, but the Withrow house was a gold mine. Maybe even a platinum mine, once he got that carriage house open. There was literally no telling what might be inside, if it'd been closed up for what … seventy years? Eighty?

But, but, but.

But the company budget was so tight, it squeaked. But the stock was getting stale. But Barry would kill him, if for no other reason than if it didn't work … he'd probably be out of a job. For that matter, they'd
all
be out of a job. The business would have to run on fumes until the Withrow estate started to sell. Paychecks might bounce. Lights might dim. Doors might close for good.

But, hell, in another year or two they might close anyway. A family business was a fragile thing, and Music City Salvage was on shaky legs.

But chestnut. But marble. But stained glass and built-ins and heart of pine. But the big locked box of the carriage house, and everything that might be waiting inside. The magical crapshoot of rust lust tugged at him harder than fear, harder than Barry would. Harder than caution, and harder than common sense, perhaps.

But what an
opportunity
. What a Hail Mary pass.

He stood up and reached for his coffee mug full of pens. While he rifled around for one that definitely worked, he declared, “Ms. Withrow, we've got a deal.”

“Excellent! Shall we summon your finance fellow, for approval?”

“Nah. He works for me—not the other way around.” Until the first paycheck bounced.

She rose to her feet, papers in hand. “You
are
the boss, after all.”

“Damn right, I'm the boss.” He took her papers and signed where indicated. He produced a checkbook, started writing, then postdated the check by several days. “I'll need to juggle some funds,” he explained. “I hope that's all right.”

“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?”