The Family Plot (3 page)

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

B
RAD FIDDLED WITH
his phone, alternately pleading with—and bitching at—Siri. “Chatta
noo
ga,” 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 sweater 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.”

“True. I ought to have them all killed off before I'm forty. But no one said anything about you being a loser.” Because she wondered, she bluntly asked, “Do you
feel
like a loser, working at Music City?”

“No,” he insisted quickly. “I'm grateful for the gig. Your dad gave me a chance, and I know I'm not the sort of guy he usually brings on board. But … honestly? This job is only tangential to my field—so I feel like I've gone a little … offtrack. I thought I was destined for tenure and a foxy grad assistant, not … not…”

“Power tools and rust. I get it. You don't have to explain yourself.”

“I'm not the puss you guys think I am.”

“No one said you were a puss, either.”

“Not to my face, so thanks for that.” He wiggled his toes some more, then realized what he was doing and stopped before Dahlia had to make him. “I know I'm not part of the tribe.”

“You're not part of the family. Right now, that's a point in your favor.” The last bit came out with a grumble.

“Yeah, what's up with that, anyway? Chuck said you and Bobby grew up close, but you obviously hate each other now.”

She took a deep breath that turned into a sigh. “It's not … we don't … we don't
hate
each other. Exactly.”

“Well, you're awful pissed at him.” For a guy with a fistful of degrees, he sure sounded corn-fed when he put two syllables in “pissed.” Maybe he kept the accent out of pure defiance, a stalwart middle finger to the academic masses who looked down on it. Or maybe he couldn't shake it, not for trying.

“You're right about that. You want the short version?”

“Short, long. Surprise me.”

“Okay, then you can have the middle version: I got divorced this year. My ex-husband is Bobby's best friend, and Bobby picked sides. It's the same old bullshit as always. He's always had this …
knack
 … for choosing the wrong company, and being a little too dumb to keep himself out of trouble.”

“I know his wife's in jail. Office gossip, you know.”

“She went away for identity theft and fraud charges,” Dahlia supplied. “Yeah, Gracie's a piece of work. I never liked her, and Bobby finally divorced her about five years ago. He got the car, and she got Gabe, plus a fat stack of IOUs instead of child support. He was unemployed back then.”