Four-Alarm Homicide
Read the Excerpt
Chapter One
A Hot Property
Whitney
I reached out a hand and clutched the cold metal pole, giving it a firm shake. It felt sturdy enough. Still … I glanced up at the bolts on the ceiling above. All four remained in place, though the plate they were attached to showed signs of rust. I hadn’t slid down a pole since the playground in elementary school. Of course, that pole had been six or eight feet high, at most. This one was much longer. The floor of the garage below seemed miles away. I turned to my cousin Buck. “I dare you to slide down the pole.”
He stroked his full blond beard and narrowed his blue eyes. Crossing his muscular arms over his chest, he stared me down. “Darers go first.”
He has me there. I can’t back down now! Taking a deep breath, I clutched the fireman’s pole with both hands and leaped into the void, grabbing the pole between my thighs. I was strong enough to dangle for only a second or two before gravity claimed me and my descent began. “Weee!” The well-worn cotton fabric of my coveralls produced little friction as I slid down from the upper story of the 1930’s era fire station to the concrete floor of the garage below. I bent my knees to absorb the impact as my steel-toed, rubber-soled work boots hit the cement with a thud.
Buck gazed down at me through the hole. “It sure is a long way down there.”
I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered up at him. “Chicken!” I crooked my arms into wings and flapped them. “Bawk-bawk!”
“Chicken?” He scoffed and grabbed the pole with his hands and legs, looking as if he were riding an invisible carousel horse. Wasting no time, he slid down at warp speed. I barely had time to back away lest I take a hit from his size thirteen boots. Releasing one hand, he spun around the pole in a showy manner. “Who you calling a chicken now?”
“Not you, cousin. That’s for sure.”
Our childish competition completed, we turned from teasing each other to the business at hand. I glanced around the space. While no fire trucks were currently housed in the old building, the oil stains their leaky engines had left behind told a story of a once bustling firehouse. Several years ago, however, the outdated building had been replaced by a modern facility a few blocks south. The building had been saved from the wrecking ball by a historic preservation group that purchased it from the city. That group had since put the station up for sale with the provision that it would be sold only to someone who’d maintain as much of the original exterior as possible.
Buck and I were in the house-flipping business. So far, we’d remodeled two houses, a motel, a country church, and, most recently, a houseboat. We’d turned the motel into luxury condominiums, and the church into a live music and theater venue. The church’s parsonage had been remade into a restaurant, which was operated by Buck’s wife Colette, a professional chef.
In search of our next project, Buck and I came to take a look at the old fire station after Wanda Hartley called me to tell me about it. Wanda and her husband Marv ran a real estate brokerage and property management company called Home & Hearth Realty. I’d worked part-time for them for several years as a property manager, while also helping my uncle in his carpentry business. When the house-flipping gigs became profitable enough that I could support myself, I resigned with their blessing. Their niece had needed a job and took over for me. At any rate, when this unusual property popped up as a new listing in the MLS, Wanda knew that Buck and I might be interested and had called me to tell me about the open house.
Glancing around, I imagined the possibilities. “What do you think? We could turn this place into a boutique hotel, or a theme restaurant where everything on the menu is a flambé.”
“It’s already got a stripper pole.” Keeping one hand on the pole, Buck hooked a knee around it and swung in a circle, arching his back in a poor imitation of an exotic dancer. “Maybe we should lean in and turn it into a gentlemen’s club. It could be called the Hooker and Ladder.”
I rolled my eyes. “You get a hard no from me on that. But I agree with the leaning in.”
Rather than transform the fire station into something entirely new and unrecognizable, it would be far more fun to embrace its history and incorporate interior design elements that celebrated its past. Besides, it would be more fun to turn it into a private residence than a commercial property, which buyers generally customized to their own particular needs and specifications anyway. I’d hate for all of our remodeling work to be undone by the next owner.
I motioned Buck to come closer and whispered, “The more of the original architecture we agree to preserve, the greater chance we have of landing this property.” I pointed up through the hole. “The station already has a kitchen, living area, two bedrooms, and a complete bathroom.” Firefighters lived at the station during their twenty-four-hour shifts, after all, so the place had been designed to serve as a home of sorts. “Let’s update the cabinets, appliances, and fixtures and sell it as a single-family home.”
A rich hipster would snatch up the place in a heartbeat, especially if we added a rooftop patio and upgraded the large bathroom into a spa-like space. From this site north of downtown, the buyers would have a fantastic view of the capitol building and the long, wide green of the Bicentennial Capitol Mall. They could also see the limestone towers of the carillon bells. The towers surrounded a court with three stars symbolizing the three regions of the state—eastern, middle, and western—and anchored the north end of the park. The bells played state classics such as the “Tennessee Waltz” and “Rocky Top” at the top of each hour. The sound of the bells would add even more charm. What’s more, the popular Germantown location meant we’d get top dollar for the property when we sold it.
Germantown included eighteen city blocks, bounded by Hume Street on the north, Rosa Parks Boulevard on the west, Jefferson Street on the south, and 2nd Avenue North on the east. One of the neighborhood’s most famous former residents was distiller George Dickel, maker of Tennessee whiskey. An early Nashville suburb established by European immigrants, much of Germantown had fallen into disrepair prior to the district’s designation on the National Register of Historic Places in the late 1970’s. Rediscovered and reborn in recent decades, the neighborhood contained a number of repurposed historic properties. The Elliott School was a former educational institution turned into luxury condominiums. The Neuhoff Project transformed a former slaughterhouse along the Cumberland River into a mixed-use property.
Of course, the great location close to downtown and Nashville nightlife meant we were not the only rehabbers with eyes on the property. The woman from the historical preservation group was currently upstairs with two other potential buyers, showing them around. One of those buyers was Thad Gentry, a local real estate magnate known for unscrupulous business practices. He and I had crossed paths before, and let’s just say it hadn’t been pleasant.
Buck sauntered over to a metal box mounted on the wall. A green button at the top read START, while the red button under it read STOP. “Is this the alarm?” He reached out a finger, hovering it over the START button. “I wonder if it still works.” Before I could stop him, he’d pressed the button. A deafening alarm rang out, echoing in the bay. He quickly jabbed the STOP button. “Damn, that’s loud!”
“Duh,” I said. “It’s supposed to be.” Back in the day, the bells of the firehouse had been rung to summon firefighters. These days, the alarm was a warning to those in the vicinity to steer clear so the fire trucks could get quickly on their way after exiting the bay. “Let’s go back upstairs,” I suggested. “See what the other potential buyers are saying.”
Buck returned to the pole and made a show of attempting to climb it to the second floor. I rolled my eyes once more. “Go that way if you’d like, monkey man. I’m taking the stairs.”
I headed over to an ugly but functional metal staircase on the left side of the garage and made my way upstairs, moving as quietly as I could in my boots. Buck gave up on the pole and followed me. We stepped through the open door and stopped in the empty living area. The president of the historical society had a name that, befittingly, sounded as if it came from an earlier era—Betsy Peabody. She leaned against the kitchen counter, her lips pursed as she listened to Thad Gentry expound on his plans for the property.
Gentry was short and stocky, as solidly built as this old building. His hair and goatee were dark with gray streaks like the fur of a wolf. Like his lupine lookalikes, the man was a skilled predator, though he preyed on property owners rather than deer or rodents. He’d bought out older Nashville neighborhoods for next to nothing, razing family homes and building McMansions, office buildings, or high-dollar residential high-rises on the land with little regard for any concerns other than profits. The former homeowners were left feeling exploited, and the neighborhoods lost their unique personalities and appeal. I believed in progress, but I also believed in preservation.
Gentry shared his plans with Peabody. “With the large bay downstairs, this building would make a perfect auto parts store and repair shop, or maybe one of those express oil change places. All I’d have to do is install a couple of lifts. The upstairs would be used for retail, storage, and administrative offices. We’d leave the exterior as is, other than adding a sign.”
Though I was no fan of Thad Gentry, I had to admit he’d come up with a reasonable plan for the building. Even so, I could tell the woman wasn’t thrilled by the thought of this historic treasure being turned into a place that smelled of stale coffee and petroleum.
Gentry seemed to sense her unease. He cast a glance at my cousin and me, frowned, and returned his attention to Peabody. “I’ll beat any other bid you receive by ten percent. That’ll put more money in your group’s coffers for buying other historic properties.”
Her pursed lips shifted, pointing to one side then the other as she pondered his offer. “We could definitely use some new funding …”
“No!” The word was out of my mouth before I could choke it back. “Don’t sell to him. At least not until we tell you our plans for the place.”
She turned to look at me, her expression annoyed. “And what are your plans?”
Buck and I exchanged a glance. We didn’t want Gentry using our ideas. I turned back to her. “May we discuss them in private?”
Gentry scoffed. “As if I’d steal ideas from two amateurs like you.”
The first time I’d gone head-to-head with the guy was when I’d bought the stone cottage in which I now lived. I’d purchased it from one of his competitors and he’d been none too happy to lose the sale to me.
“We’re not amateurs,” I snapped. Not anymore, anyway. “Surely, you’ve heard what we did with the Music City Motor Court? And the Joyful Noise Playhouse?”
Gentry scowled, but Peabody’s mouth formed an inquisitive O and her eyes glazed with excitement. She looked from me to my cousin. “You two were behind those projects?”
“Yep.” Buck held up his hands. “Got the callouses to prove it.”
I raised my equally calloused hands. As I did, the diamond on my engagement ring caught the light and sparkled. It was a small stone, all my fiancé Collin Flynn could afford on a police detective’s salary, but its modest size made it no less beautiful to me.
Her mouth curled up in a smile. “You’re gaining quite a reputation for your creative projects.”
Gentry snorted, drawing our attention back to him. “I was wondering if this property was too small potatoes for Gentry Real Estate Development, and this conversation has convinced me it is.” He flapped a dismissive hand at Buck and me. “You two can have this old heap.”
As if it’s his decision to make. Sheesh.
The sour look on Peabody’s face said she, too, was put off by Gentry’s arrogance. Without bothering to bid the woman goodbye, he turned and headed for the stairs. Is it wrong of me to hope he trips and tumbles down them?
There was no telltale sound of the man somersaulting down the steps but, seconds later, we heard the exterior door slam downstairs. With the entitled developer gone, the three of us resumed our discussion. My cousin held out a hand, deferring to me. “Whitney’s the brains behind our business. I’m just the muscle. She’s in charge of design. She tells me what to do and how to do it.”
Peabody chuckled. “If only all men were so willing to take direction.” She eyed me, waiting to hear what I had in store.
Before coming here today, Buck and I had driven around Nashville and taken a look at some of the older fire stations, including the Holly Street Fire Hall, which had been completed in 1914 by the first city architect, James B. Yeaman. It was the first fire station in the city made to accommodate motorized fire trucks, and was designed to blend with the surrounding neighborhood. The station was still in use. When I told Peabody that we’d toured other stations, she appeared impressed. “You’ve certainly done your due diligence.” She cocked her head and arched her brows. “What might you do here?”
I shared my thoughts. “The exterior could be retained almost completely, though it would be a good idea to replace the windows with energy-efficient double-paned models.” The current windows were single-paned and drafty. “Buck can get the dents out of the existing roll-up bay door.” Some of the stone quoins on the edges of the building were chipped or cracked, as were some in the stringcourse that ran underneath the windows on the upper story, delineating the juncture of the two floors. I assured her we could repair them. “We’ll find matching stone at a quarry or stone supply. Buck can use his sander to shape them as needed. Matching masonry could be used to cover the cracks.” I gestured to the pole. “We’ll replace the pole with a spiral staircase. Or maybe we could install the staircase around it and leave the pole in place.”
She let out a little squeal and clutched her fists to her chest. “That would be absolutely charming!” She lowered her arms. “Of course, it’s not just up to me. The plans and bids will have to be run by our committee. As soon as you have them drafted, e-mail me. We’ve received four other proposals already, and we’ll be voting at our meeting next Monday.”
“Then I’d better get right to work.”