The Family Plot (9 page)

“No, but we've barely started.”

Deflated, and still weirdly twitchy, Gabe relented. “Yeah, I know. But this afternoon, we should lock up the house when there's nobody inside. How many keys did Uncle Chuck give you?”

“Only the one. There's an Ace on the way into the neighborhood. Maybe I'll make copies, if that'll make you happy.”

She'd do it, if it'd set his mind at ease. She didn't figure it'd make the property more secure, not when there were broken windows and (almost certainly) unknown entrances and exits, but if a touch of security theater let Gabe sleep through the night, it was worth trying.

“Okay,” he said. “That'd be cool.”

Bobby pushed the front door open with his hip, declaring, “All we need is a tablecloth, and we can get this show on the road!” as he hauled the lunch offerings inside. “Dahlia, did you pack one?”

“Check the Bi-Lo bag by the mantel.”

Brad came in behind him, pulling the door shut. “You really
do
think of everything.”

“Do we have any chairs?” Bobby asked.

Gabe volunteered, “I saw two stacked in the pantry.”

“Dibs on one of them,” Dahlia called.

“No way,” Bobby started to argue, but she cut him off.

“Ladies first.”

“This ain't a sinking ship,” Bobby protested as he rooted around for the tablecloth. He found it, flapped it open, and dropped it over the big dining room table. “But since you're the boss, you can have one, and I won't fight you for it.”

She returned a moment later with a vinyl dining chair that had seen better days with more stuffing. Its metal frame was more rust than steel, but it didn't wiggle when she set it down, and it held her weight when she plopped onto the seat. She made grabby hands toward the Subway bag, and Brad passed it her way.

For thirty seconds, the room was loud with the crinkling of plastic wrappers, then it was quiet except for the sound of Brad bogarting the other creaking chair, and the happy chewing of people who've worked their asses off all morning.

In between massive bites of greasy tacos, Bobby said what Dahlia was thinking: “This isn't so bad. Maybe it won't suck after all.”

And she couldn't even argue.

 

4

T
HE AFTERNOON WAS
dedicated to excavating the first floor of the carriage house. When it was entirely emptied, the tally of salvageable items had risen by a pie safe, two sugar chests, a tangled stash of nineteenth-century birdcages, half a dozen oil lanterns with different colored glass lenses, two embossed metal fire extinguishers, a stick-style rocking chair, and some dented body parts for the vehicle downstairs.

As the last of the new items were sorted in the yard, Brad gestured up to the loft windows. “I want to see what's up there.”

Gabe agreed. “Me too. I'll go get the ten-footer from the truck.”

“Wait. Let's hold off on that for now.” Dahlia shaded her eyes with her hand, and stared up at the horizon behind the tree tops. It was after six o'clock, and a thin film of gray clouds spilled over Lookout's crest, seeping across the sky. “Let's load up the truck instead, and get this stuff someplace secure. We might get some rain before nightfall.”

“You think the carriage house roof's all right?” Bobby asked.

Dahlia pulled out her phone. “No, but one more night won't make any difference. Don't forget, when we're finished with everything inside, we're taking that roof with us. The copper will be worth a mint. We can probably just roll it up, stomp it down, and shove it in last, like a cherry on top of whatever else goes in the trucks.”

“It
does
smell like rain,” Gabe said, almost dreamily. “I like it.”

His father grumbled, “You won't like it if it catches us while we're working. Snap out of poetry mode, and bring the truck around. Keys are in the ignition.”

Dahlia checked the weather on her phone and saw nothing predicted for another couple of hours … but she decided to trust the lift in the breeze, the damp smell of leaves, and the roll of the cloud bank instead.

Upon closing the app, she realized she'd missed a call.

Gabe was almost to the truck when she called out, “Y'all get started without me. Dad called, but I didn't hear the phone, so I'm going to ring him back and see what he wanted.”

Three grunts acknowledged her, and nobody argued or complained, so she hit “call back” and strolled toward the house. It was quieter up on the porch—nothing but the trees swaying and the old house creaking in the wind.

She leaned forward on the rail, ignoring the flecks of damp paint that brushed off on her sleeves.

Chuck picked up on the third ring. “Sweetheart, there you are.”

“Sorry I missed you, but we've been climbing around in that carriage house. Things have been noisy.”

“I bet. Did you find anything good?”

She gave him a rundown of the highlights, and added, “The guys are loading Bobby's truck before we get started on the second story. I think we're in for some rain.”

“And everything you just listed … that came from
just
the first level?”

“Correct. Maybe we'll poke our heads around in the loft after we eat, but we'll have to save the real work for tomorrow. So what'd you call me for, anyway?”

“Oh, I was just checking in,” he told her. “Wanted to make sure you got there okay, and everything at the estate was as-advertised.”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

She watched as Gabe awkwardly, but carefully, backed the truck past the little cemetery and up to the carriage house. “The mansion is a real piece of work. It's gorgeous, and Augusta Withrow is a liar if she says it can't be saved.”

“Now, honey … you're not there to save the house. You're there to save our family business.” He said it like he was joking, but they both knew better.

“No pressure.” She waved away the seeds of his lecture, even though he couldn't see her. “And we've had that talk before. I won't bore you with how badly I'd like to keep it. But I do think there's something funny about it.”

“Funny like what?”

“Funny like a bunch of resident dead people. Did Augusta say anything to you about a cemetery?”

The way he replied, “A cemetery?” was answer enough. “No, why? Did you find one?”

“Uh-huh. It looks like a little family plot, maybe, except … the whole thing is weird, Dad. The house, the offer…” Her voice trailed away.

“How big is the cemetery?”

“I counted about a dozen stones, but I wasn't looking hard—and there might be twice that many, buried in the overgrowth. I didn't want to burn too much daylight on it, not when we just got here. It's not like we're salvaging the headstones.”

“But it's really overgrown?” he pressed. “Nobody's been buried there recently?”

“Doesn't look like it. I didn't see any dates later than World War I.”

She heard a note of relief in his voice when he said, “That's a good sign. If it's just a small, private plot, it's probably closed. It shouldn't pose any problem to your demo.”

“No, I'm not worried about that. It's not in the way, or anything. Not in
our
way,” she specified. “But it might be a problem when you come with the Bobcat. That thing's trailer won't make it through the gate; it's too wide, too long. You'll have to come around to the side, and the cemetery's in the way.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Well, I eyeballed it. I might be wrong about the trailer, but I won't be wrong about the teardown crew coming on the fifteenth. It'll hold up
their
work, even if it doesn't hold up ours.”

Chuck was quiet for a minute. “You're grasping at straws. They won't stop the demolition because of an old cemetery.”

“Jesus, Dad. I'm not an idiot. I'm just throwing it out there. If the plot can be saved, the park service might be interested in it. Augusta's donating the land, isn't that what you said?”

“It's all going to the battlefield. But Lookout's a Civil War hot spot, with nothing related to World War I. I don't know if the Lookout Mountain people will give a shit. They may keep it, or they may relocate it. They may pretend it doesn't exist.”

“The people buried there must have relatives. I doubt they'd find that kind of solution very satisfactory, and they might object to everyone being relocated. So do you have a number for Ms. Withrow? Maybe I'll give her a call.”

He relented with a sigh. “I don't have one right in front of me. Give me a few minutes, and I'll text it to you when I find it. I don't know what you expect her to tell you, but if it'll make you happy…”

“It'll make me happy.”

“Will do, then. Love you, baby.”

“Love you too, Daddy. I'll let you know if we run into trouble, or find anything particularly cool.”

They said their good-byes and she closed the call, staring down at the small screen as if she could will it into producing that phone number on the spot. But her father wasn't a wizard, and the digits failed to magically appear. She'd have to give him time.

A drop of water landed with a splat on the porch's handrail.

And now she had to give the guys a hand, as they loaded the truck. Between the four of them, it shouldn't take long—and it was either put it all away now, or cover it with tarps, so she hustled down the steps and went to go help.

By the time the rain fell in earnest, everything was packed away, secure and dry.

With Dahlia directing, the entire haul was jammed into about a third of one truck's available space—a task made easier when the small boat fell apart, and the pie safe collapsed into dust. Two big items were therefore checked off the list and left behind. It was unfortunate, but not a catastrophe.

A few of the other promising items were abandoned too, or returned to the carriage house for further evaluation later on. If the trucks were going to fill up this fast, they might have to prioritize, or wait to see how much would fit on Chuck's trailer when he finally got there. But it'd wait. It'd have to, for the weather and the late hour conspired to cast the whole estate in grim, gray darkness that would settle into a pitch-black cover in another thirty minutes.

“Come on, let's call it,” Brad begged. They all stood inside the truck's remaining cargo room, where the rain echoed nicely, but it was starting to get chilly. Everyone's words, coughs, and footsteps echoed in the metal container. “Please? I'm
beat.
”

“I'm hungry,” Gabe added.

Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Big babies, the lot of you.”

“Hey, don't lump me in with those two kids,” Bobby protested. “I could go another hour.”

Dahlia rolled her eyes. “You're only saying that because you know it's too dark to follow through. But you know what? I don't really care. We can go inside for sandwiches and Cokes—no more fast food today, we can't do that all week. After supper, we can drag out the ladder, maybe … if that offer of another hour's work still stands, and any of you want to take a peek at that second story.”

Gabe asked, “Sounds good to me; I want to see what's up there. Hey, is the house unlocked?”

Forgetting about her earlier promise to keep the place secured, Dahlia said, “It ought to be. Last one off the truck has to close the door and lock it. Mad dash in three … two … one!”

She leaped off the back bumper and landed square on her feet, at the very moment a text message hit her phone with a tinny chime. Her dad must've come through with Augusta Withrow's number.

She heard the truck's door rolling shut, but didn't look back to see who'd drawn the short straw. It wasn't raining so badly as it sounded from within the metal interior; and she wasn't so wet that she was in a real hurry. She ran anyway, back to the safety of the porch, and then into the house. She left the door open, and went to stand in the open living area with the double-wide fireplace and all their gear piled up where they'd left it.

She sighed.

The house sighed in return. The front door swayed back and forth, and closed on its own with a heavy clack.

Dahlia jumped. She didn't know why. It was only the wind—there was
plenty
of wind—and the boys were coming, so she ought to open the door. They'd complain if she closed them outside again, even though it wasn't her doing.

The knob turned in her hands and she pulled the door back just in time to keep Brad from knocking.

“Why'd you—?”

“A draft took it. Get in here.”

“I need a towel,” he declared with a shiver.

“Your bag's over there. If you packed one, you've got one.”

He was barely any wetter than she was, but if he wanted to be fussy about it, that was up to him. When Bobby and Gabe arrived together, moments later, they were more damp by far—so damp, you'd have to call them soaked.

A clap of thunder on the far side of the mountain said they'd just barely beaten the worst of the storm, so Dahlia felt better about cutting the day short. Well, tomorrow, they could run from breakfast to sunset proper, like it or not. They'd finish the carriage house and start on the barn … they might even
finish
the barn, if there wasn't much of value inside. Taking down the exterior chestnut boards would be hard work, but it wouldn't take all day.

Assuming the rain broke, at some point.

But on this first night inside the house, she could relax and explore, help herself to snack food, or make phone calls, while the others divvied up the bread and deli meat. From the kitchen, she heard the pop and hiss of soda tabs and the crinkle of trash bags. The guys were already busy, tearing through the supplies. Even if they heard her on the phone, they wouldn't pay any attention. They wouldn't ask why she was dialing up the woman who'd sold the house to be butchered.