No Hiding Behind the Potted Palms! A Dance with Danger Mystery #7 (45 page)

“How much are you talking,
money-wise, to get this ready for the market?” my older brother
asked. Experience had taught me he would offer me a whole lot less
money to get the job done, on the expectation I would bust my fanny
to cut costs, so we could maximize profits. I was glad I tacked on
an extra $10,000 to the discretionary budget, because he was sure
to whack at least that much off.

“I was thinking in the range of
$40,000. Some of the systems were upgraded within the last four
years, including heating and electrical – there’s new wiring
throughout the house, including cable and phone. The appliances
were replaced three years ago. They’re asking $427,000 for the
place. Other homes in the neighborhood are going for almost
$550,000, but the lots are a little bigger.”

“Upgraded is not the same as
replaced or brand new. Bargain price? I don’t know. They might be
motivated to negotiate. In terms of resale, what are you thinking?”
he asked me.

“Maybe $500,000. With it being the
least expensive place in the neighborhood, we’ll get folks who want
the chance to get their foot through the gate of Glengarry Court.”
The fact that we were talking about a specific budget meant Ned was
definitely interested. We were entering the danger zone. This is
where I had to tread carefully, because if I underestimated the
costs, it was likely to come out of my hide. But I thought I picked
well. This subdivision was up and coming, hugging the skirts of
Queensbury, the grand dame of Glendale, an exclusive enclave filled
with expensive beachfront mansions. The property at 27 Glengarry
Court Lane was three blocks to the beach, five blocks to the bay,
on a tree-lined street just a six-minute walk from the train
station that serviced the shoreline. It was perfect for the city
rats who wanted a weekend escape.

“You’d have to get it done in four
weeks to make it worth my while. Walk me through, Suzykins.” From
his light-hearted use of my nickname, I could see he was interested
in buying the property. I led the way, knowing Ned couldn’t see my
smile. I always tacked on extra time to the renovation plan because
I knew no matter what I told him, my brother always shaved a few
weeks off, feeling like he gave me an impossible
challenge.

I took him in through the original
paneled front door of the portico-covered bungalow, currently
painted a deep violet, pointing out that the previous homeowner had
replaced the roof, winterized it, and added storm windows eight
years ago. We stood in the cozy entry as my brother gazed around,
studying the interior. There was a long green hallway straight
ahead, with bedrooms and baths to the left. To our right was a
double-wide archway, leading to the living room, and I encouraged
Ned to follow me as I pointed out the period details, including its
original oak floors and a working fireplace, which I hoped to
convert to gas. He looked around, at all the dark woodwork and
ruby-colored wallpaper.

“Won’t appeal to most buyers,” he
said matter-of-factly.

“I know. I thought I would strip the
wallpaper and paint all the walls in the house in a warm ivory
palette, with a soft green or blue here and there. Much easier on
the eyes. I’ll prime and paint the trim white in all of the rooms.
It will lighten up the whole place.” I led him into the dining
area, which was separated from the living room by a second
double-wide archway. The tiny windows had diamond-shaped panes of
glass and brought a unique charm to the room. There was
shoulder-high wainscoting in the dark oak finish that made the room
feel much smaller than it really was. The walls above were painted
in a deep indigo, with tiny silver and gold hand-painted
stars.

“I’ll also change the wainscoting
and wall colors in here,” I announced. “We’ll still have the period
details, but it will be much lighter.”

“Nice,” Ned decided. I smiled, ever
hopeful. I pointed to the galley kitchen, accessed by a very narrow
doorway.

“I’d like to open this wall up and
make the kitchen feel less closed off from the rest of the
house.”

“If it’s a load-bearing wall, that’s
going to be expensive, and you’ll have to add a new header. Why not
just leave it as is?”

“I’m not reconfiguring the kitchen.
Another three feet would make a big difference. It doesn’t require
moving any electrical outlets or plumbing. We’ll just cut a foot
and a half on each side and reframe the opening. It’ll be a couple
hundred dollars.”

Ned walked into the long, narrow
space that was painted fluorescent orange. “It looks like a
leprechaun threw up a rainbow all over this house.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “The paint colors
are very vibrant.”

“More than vibrant. Over the top. No
wonder they haven’t sold it yet.” He glanced through the tiny
window over the sink, noting how close the neighbors
were.

“City people are used to that,” I
pointed out. “And we can always add some yews along the property
line when we landscape, for privacy.

“What work are you actually planning
to do for the kitchen?”

”New counters, new flooring over the
old, subway tile backsplash,” I explained. “I’m keeping the
existing kitchen cabinets because they’re vintage oak. I’ll paint
and antique them, and I’ll replace the seventies hardware with
something more in keeping with the 1920’s style of the bungalow.
I’ll replace the laminate tops with quartz.”

“People like granite,” he
countered.

“Yes, but that doesn’t really work
with the time period of the house. Marble would be more fitting,
but that tends to be high maintenance. If I go with white quartz,
it keeps the room feeling airy.”

“Show me the bathrooms.” I knew the
minute he wanted to see the bathrooms I had a chance to get this
house. I led him down the hall on the other side of the foyer and
held my breath. Wait for it, I told myself as Ned leaned past me to
look at the miniscule aqua-colored powder room with barely enough
room to stand at the sink or toilet.

“Geez!” Ned shook his head. “You
have got to be kidding!”

“It’s tiny, I know,” I agreed, all
too aware of the grimace on his face, “but it’s a guest bathroom,
not the main one.”

“I’d hate to be chubby and get stuck
in here. The fire department would have to bust down the door. I
suspect that the plumbing has to be replaced. When was this place
hooked up to the city sewer?” He was looking at the antique faucets
on the doll-sized sink basin and the old porcelain toilet with the
original hardware. “This is a gut job and you’ll have to go small.
That means a special order sink if we’re going to get something
that doesn’t look like a spit sink in a dentist’s office. Ca-ching!
Why was the house put on the market?”

“The owner disappeared almost three
years ago for parts unknown. The family rented it for a while,
hoping she’d return. Now they want to sell it.”

“You make sure the sale is
legitimate, Suze. I don’t want someone to claim possession after we
start work. I don’t need those kinds of complications.”

“The house is held in a family
trust, so they have the right to sell it.”

“I can see why the owner booked.
This place needs some serious work. Charm or no charm, it’s too
small and definitely outdated -- there’s no room for
expansion.”

“But it can be a jewel. It’s in a
great neighborhood.”

“Well, Suzykins, if you want this
little diamond in the rough, you’re going to have to work for it.
I’ll give you $25,000 for the interior. You get what you need to
get done with that, and we’ll talk about the exterior.”

“You’re not going to give me a full
budget?” Ned was changing the game plan on me. “Why?”

“Because, little sis, I suspect that
money won’t go too far. I don’t want you tearing up the yard with
landscaping projects if it turns out that the plumbing all needs to
be replaced and there are any other major headaches we can’t see
coming.”

“$30,000,” I said
defiantly.

“No.” One word. And that word said
there would be no negotiation.

“Bastard,” I muttered. Could I do it
with the money he offered? Maybe. Probably not. I would have to
scramble.

“We won’t offer a penny over
$375,000. This place needs too much work to pay more than that,
especially if we have to replace water and sewer pipes on the
outside.” Ned was watching me with careful eyes. I bit my tongue,
taking a breath before speaking. If he was going that low on the
budget and talking about digging up the old pipes, it meant he was
serious about the sale. Ned is a systems guy. When he sells a
house, he loves to say things like, “It was a complete renovation,
right down to the sewer line. We tore up the yard and replaced
everything.” It also usually meant he was willing to do more than
just cosmetic work, so there would be a home warranty included in
the sale.

“Show me the other bathroom and the
bedrooms,” he commanded. I led the way to the back of the house,
down the lime green cupboard-lined hallway, with its built-ins. “Is
there room for a desk here?”

Ned and I paused by an uninterrupted
stretch of shelving. I took out my tape measure and
checked.

“Four feet. We could leave the upper
shelves here and make a custom desk below, with a file drawer. We’d
have to add lighting and an electrical outlet or two, but it would
be a good use of space.”

“Just enough clearance for a desk
chair that’s not too bulky. The hallway is wide enough.” I could
see Ned was starting to get excited. I just hoped he didn’t get too
fired up, or I’d lose control of the project when he stuck his big,
fat feet in my way. “Let’s see that bathroom.”

“Right down here,” I replied. I
opened the door on my left into a room painted golden rod yellow.
Nate blinked hard, trying to shield his eyes. The original clawfoot
tub sat on one side of the large room. An ancient wall sink,
stained with years of endlessly dripping water, its enamel deeply
eroded, hung on the opposite side, with what seemed to be a toilet
from the forties. The floor was linoleum, like the kitchen. Ned
took a deep breath before heaving a deep sigh.

“You’re not planning to keep that
old tub, are you?” he asked, with a warning note hanging in the
air.

“No,” I shook my head. “It needs
more than just refinishing. I actually thought I’d tear everything
out of here, go right down to the floor boards, and start fresh.
Big walk-in shower stall, small soaking tub, tall sink vanity with
storage, new toilet, small linen cabinet.”

“You’re talking at least fifteen
grand, Suze!”

“Not really,” I shot back. “Bobby
and I can do it ourselves once the asbestos guys get through. I’m
talking about very basic stuff, Ned. I’ll tile the walls myself
after the cement backer board goes up.”

“I don’t want to go with cheap
materials on this, Suzy. Not in this neighborhood.”

“Fine, I won’t use the typical
contractor-grade tiles. I’ll go to Henley Distributors. They’re
bound to have something new that’s unique and appropriate at a
discount in the backroom.”

“You’re missing my point. If you
need to remove the asbestos in the bathrooms, in addition to
replacing all the fixtures, the budget won’t take you far, even if
there is nothing else wrong with the place.”

“Fine, we’ll skip the soaker tub. Or
I’ll do the tub instead of the shower stall.”

“Still too risky.”

“Please?”

“Suze, I love you, but this is a
money pit. If the plumbing pipes are as bad as the bathroom
fixtures they’re hooked up to, we are talking about $50,000 just
for the interior. I’ll be losing money on this place.”

“Come on, Ned,” I cajoled him.
“Consider the possibilities. Maybe we can start a blog about the
project. People love these little bungalow redos and they can
follow along as we go. It’s great publicity for Dawkins
Builders.”

There it was, my trump card. As
owner of one of the area’s best renovations company, Ned was a
flipper with a reputation for quality work, and there was nothing
he loved more than tooting his own horn.

“Why would I want to do
that?”

“It’s a great chance to show
everyone what you do.”

“You mean what you do,” he pointed
out. “You and Bobby are doing this project.”

“Yes, but you’re the brains behind
the operation. You could explain what goes into renovating a place
like this, the hidden dangers of taking on a project without
knowing the full extent of the issues, the money traps, how to cut
costs. You’re the expert, right?”

As the little sister, I had had
years of sucking up to my big brother, feeding the enormous ego and
convincing him that he would get the grand prize. I learned a long
time ago that if I was going to get what I wanted out of life, I
had to show the guy holding the wallet that he got a bigger piece
of my pie.

“Who’s going to set it up and manage
the blog?”

“You leave that to me, bro,” I
insisted confidently. “I’ll handle the heavy lifting.”

Who knew that I would nearly lose my
life because I picked this little bungalow to renovate? At that
moment in time, I was just so thrilled to get my hands on the
Glengarry Court bargain, I felt like a winner.