Chapter 5: Lunch, Anyone?
59.25 Hours
(12:45 p.m. Saturday)
Before I inherited The Madam she had been in Jad’s family for over a century, owned most recently by his Aunt Hattie. At the age of sixteen, Hattie had secretly married her high school sweetheart on the eve of him leaving to become a fighter pilot in World War II. His plane was shot down, devastating her. Despite having had many suitors, at least the way she told the story, she had never remarried.
It had always been understood that Jad would inherit The Madam one day. Hattie and I were friendly while Jad was alive and became even closer after his death. She was kinder to me than my own family. Whenever I had needed to get away from Faith and the memories, I’d always had a place to stay. I had felt like a fraud, leaning on Jad’s great aunt for support, but I thought that Hattie understood how things had been between Jad and I and hadn’t cared. After Hattie’s death, a little over a year ago, no one had been more shocked than I to learn that she had left me the house. Hattie’s only directive in the will regarding The Madam was to “make her live again.”
I often wondered if that sentiment was directed at me and the house was only a means to that end. I can’t deny that I quit living after Jad died. Hell, had I ever really lived, even when he had been alive?
But I was trying to change that. I stopped in front of the gate, looking at The Madam with pride. The half-acre yard that wrapped around the front and side of the house was mostly grass, dotted with several large shade trees. My beautiful three-story (not including the basement) Victorian house took up the other half-acre of the enormous lot—enormous for modern-day Dallas standards, anyway. I thought the unique house with its many porches and large yard in an urban setting would make The Madam successful as The Whine Barrel. Every dog owner wants a place to go drink wine with her dog, right? Please, God.
Along with the large house and the even larger yard came astronomical property taxes. Luckily, Hattie had left me some money too. If I didn’t turn The Madam into a paying business and ate only every other day, the inheritance might pay the taxes on her for about ten years—maybe twelve, if I moonlighted at a job involving a pole.
I had surrounded the house and yard with a four-foot-tall picket fence painted creamy white, with a chain-link fence snuggled up behind it. The combination fence had cost a pretty penny, but I couldn’t take the chance that a visiting dog might escape.
A beautiful wooden gate topped with an oval arch beckoned people and their pets inside. When (if) I received final approval, I’d hang a sign made from the top of a wine barrel, with The Whine Barrel painted in cursive script. My brother Monty had built the gate’s arch so that the sign would hang gracefully inside it.
I passed through the wooden gate, giving the latch an extra tug to ensure it was secure. Taking a second to eye the small six-foot by six-foot chain-link enclosure that customers would have to pass through before entering the yard, I determined that it was ready for inspection, too.
I pulled the second metal gate firmly closed behind me, the loud clang ratcheting my headache up a notch. In sympathy, my stomach rolled. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths until the nausea passed. I sent up a prayer of thanks and walked the fifty feet from the gate to the broad front steps of The Madam. My misery eased further when the cool shade of the porch enveloped me. Large, natural-wicker chairs with plump cushions covered in durable lilac canvas were placed at intervals along the porch. They looked so inviting that I considered easing myself onto one to wait for Bill and the inspector.
However, before I reached the front door, the low growl of Owen’s classic El Camino alerted me to his approach. Bo’s head stretched out of the passenger window, her big, silly, pittie grin covering most of her face.
I dropped my overnight bag between the front porch and the shrubs. I really didn’t want Owen to see it and start asking questions.
Just as Owen parked in front of The Madam, Bill and Inspector Williams pulled up. Bill drove a battered red Chevrolet truck, while the inspector was in a white Ford pickup with City of Dallas Code Compliance displayed proudly on its side. What was it with Texas and trucks? Even Owen, who did his best not to fit into the Texas male stereotype, drove an El Camino, which was just a hipster pickup in disguise. I couldn’t throw stones, though, as I drove a truck myself.
As I made my way back to the street to greet everyone, I saw that Owen had released Bo and she was happily welcoming her visitors. Bo, short for Bodacious, is a white and brindle spotted American Staffordshire terrier mix I rescued from the high-kill city animal shelter. She was incarcerated there when she became homeless on the mean streets of Dallas. If Bo could tell the story, I’m sure it would involve high drama and assertions that SHE saved ME. Bo was quite the diva, hence the name Bodacious.
I hoped she would behave herself, but I wouldn’t bet money on it. She was so excited about the people there to see her—in her mind—that she hadn’t greeted me. In fact, if I hadn’t known better I would have thought that she was purposely keeping her distance from me.
Owen leaned against the El Camino, his worn cowboy boots crossed at the ankles. He had figured out the code inspection situation and was hanging back so that I could handle it. His ever-present man purse, or murse, as he and I jokingly called it, hung from the strap that crossed his chest. I couldn’t help but smile. Owen was an anomaly. One day he wore old-school Converse high tops and the next day battered ropers. Lanky and just shy of six feet tall, with hair and eyes the color of dull copper pennies, he’d come across as a nondescript nerd when we first met. That had probably been his plan, since he’d been interviewing for the web designer position at The Whine Barrel. I had hired him on the spot.
In the months since, his love for Bo had moved him up in my esteem from competent contract employee to dog sitter and, lately, sounding board for my ideas for The Whine Barrel. I’d also noticed that he was a lot more attractive than he had first appeared. If he didn’t constantly pester me about my personal life, he would be the perfect employee.
I joined Bill and Inspector Williams by the code inspector’s truck.
I smiled at Don Williams, but he only glared at me in return. The gigantic, pearly white smile that usually beamed out of his dark face was nowhere to be seen today.
The Madam was in Don’s assigned area. He had inspected several of Bill’s projects and the two men always got along well. In fact, Don had stopped by the house several times and given Bill pointers to make sure things would be up to code. Being called into work on a Saturday must have been aggravating, but his attitude seemed to be directed specifically at me.
Bo sensed the tension and used her paw-on-the-leg trick on Don. I mentally crossed my fingers that she could work her charms on him. He reached down to scratch her ears, still glaring at me. “I just want to go on record that I need my job, so I will do what I am told. I don’t have to like it or agree with it, though.”
“Okay,” I said, puzzled. “Don, I am sorry that you had to come out on a Saturday, but this wasn’t our doing.”
“Wasn’t it?” he sneered. “Well, I got a call from my boss, who I guess got a call from his boss, and so on up the chain. Someone with some pull wants this inspection to take place today. It must be nice to have friends in high places. That said, they can make me be here, but they can’t make me pass you. No job is worth my integrity.”
My heart dropped. Gunning for me was right.
“Don, I won’t lie. I’m glad you’re here. We need to get the work inspected so we can open The Whine Barrel on time. But we aren’t the ones who put off the first inspection, and we aren’t the ones who scheduled this one.”
Don held my gaze for several seconds. He seemed to make up his mind about something and gave a slight nod. “Let’s get this inspection started, then.”
He took his clipboard from the truck and walked into the yard, looking at the exterior of the house and taking notes as he went. My heart stuttered when he stopped in front of the shrub that concealed my bag, but returned to its normal rhythm when he moved on.
As Bill and I trailed behind him, I noticed that Bill seemed uneasy.
“Bill, tell me the truth. Did you call in any favors on this?” I whispered.
Contractors of Bill’s caliber were hard to come by. He was only doing my renovations because of the weight Jad and Hattie’s last name still carried in Dallas. Otherwise, renovating The Madam into The Whine Barrel would be small potatoes for him. I knew he and Bernie had butted heads on jobs before. Nothing would bring Bill more satisfaction than to complete an end-around on Bernie.
“No, Laramie. I swear,” Bill said tersely.
“Are you nervous Don will fail us?” I asked, still confused by Bill’s demeanor. Why was he so distracted?
“Look, right before I pulled up I got a call from another site. I hate to leave you here by yourself for this, but I have to go.”
What the hell? If anyone could smooth over things with Don, it was Bill. And if Don had questions about any of the work done, Bill had the answers, not me. Bill had been with me every step of the way; he wouldn’t walk away now if it wasn’t important. Would he?
“I’m going in,” Don shouted back to us as he walked up the front steps, Bo on his heels.
That was when I noticed the front door was ajar.
I never left the door unlocked. I tried to remember, step by step, leaving the house the night before. I had been in a hurry and had been reeling from the meeting with Bernie and Tom. I must not have pulled it closed behind me.
Bill’s phone buzzed. He grimaced when he looked at the screen. “Look, Laramie, I’m real sorry to leave you in the lurch like this, but I have to go.”
“Okay.” I wanted to tell him no, but I couldn’t form the word.
Bill climbed into his truck, pulled away from the curb, and was gone. I couldn’t help but envision a rat swimming away from a sinking ship.
Owen pushed off the El Camino and came over, looking after Bill’s truck. “What the hell was that? Why is Bill leaving when the code inspection is just starting?” He looked as perplexed as I felt.
“At this point, Owen, you know just as much about it as I do.”
Short, sharp barks came from inside The Madam. Owen and I smiled at each other. Don wasn’t giving Queen Bo the attention she felt she deserved.
Owen walked with me as far as the front door. “I’ll wait here on the porch. Unless you want some help in there?”
“No, but be on standby. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Owen smiled encouragingly and gave me a thumbs up. I squared my shoulders and entered The Madam.
From the door, I could see a good deal of the first floor because of its new, mostly open floorplan. The expensively restored grand staircase was the first sight that greeted visitors. To its right lay a large room that Owen laughingly referred to as the saloon. Bill had created it by combining a parlor and a formal dining room. A wine-tasting bar stretched along the back wall, its wood chosen and finished to match the dark walnut of the staircase. I had to agree that the bar and the glass shelves behind it brought to mind an old western saloon rather than a wine bar. Despite that, I wouldn’t change a thing about it.
Tables dotted the open room for guests who wanted to enjoy a glass of their favorite Texas vintage inside, away from the hordes of dogs (hopefully) and their owners enjoying the outdoors. Several small rooms, which could be used for overflow or for intimate events, opened off the saloon.
To the left of the grand staircase, large glass doors opened into the gift shop. I had already picked out boutique-style dog, cat, and (of course) wine accessories to sell. Customers could also buy cases of wine to carry out or be delivered to their homes. The restrooms were behind the gift shop, their entrances underneath the staircase in the saloon.
Unseen to guests, but equally important to the business, were my office, a storeroom, and a kitchen. The Madam’s original kitchen had been renovated and would be more than adequate to produce light fare for private events and the bed and breakfast guests, when I got that part of the business up and running.
Don exited one of the bathrooms, finally beaming his usual Don smile.
“Laramie, y’all have done good with this job. Real good,” he said before catching himself. “The inspection isn’t over, so this isn’t a pass yet. I’m just commenting on the work. I am impressed with what I see. Cheryl and I have been looking for a place like this to spend lazy Saturday afternoons.” His face hardened at that, probably thinking about how today’s lazy Saturday afternoon had gone off the rails. But he continued, “The fact that we could bring Buck with us and let him run around while we try some new wines is a huge bonus.”
Don scrolled through pictures on his phone as he talked and held it up to show me an image of himself and a woman who wore a smile almost as big as his. A small white poodle posed regally between them.
“Buck?”
“Yep,” Don said. “Don’t let the small size fool you. He has courage as big as Texas and the swagger to match.”
I smiled back, sharing a moment between dog owners who viewed their dogs not just as pets, but as family members. I relaxed. Everything would be fine.
Bo ruined the moment with a burst of barking.
“She must be in the kitchen,” I said, frowning. Bo rarely wandered too far from people who might rub her belly, and she wasn’t usually a barker, either.
“Good thing I’m the code inspector and not the health inspector,” Don said, smiling conspiratorially.
“Yeah, good thing,” I answered, smiling over my shoulder at him as I walked towards the kitchen.
“I might as well come with you. I need to inspect the kitchen, and I was specifically ordered to check the dumbwaiter to see if I think it’s a hazard.”
“The dumbwaiter? Order from whom?” I asked.
“Passed along by my boss when he told me to come out here today. I’m not sure who it originated from.”
I was pretty sure I knew who the order came from, but I kept the thought to myself. “Bill and I have both expressed our concerns to you. We think that with the locks we put on every door of the dumbwaiter shaft, we should meet the code requirements.”
Wanting to retain as many of the historical features of the house as possible, I had kept the dumbwaiter system. Its original purpose was to carry trays of food to the upper floors and then transport the empty dishes back down to the kitchen. However, overworked maids had quickly determined that baskets of clothes and linens made the trips between the floors just as easily as trays of food. Basically, it was just a small wooden elevator about two-and-a-half feet wide by three feet tall. There was an opening on each floor, covered by an ornate sliding door.
That the dumbwaiter had been used during prohibition times to shuttle cases of moonshine from the cellar was rarely discussed, at least not in polite society. Now it would come in handy for bringing up wine from the cellar.
I walked through the swinging door into the kitchen and held it open for Don. I wasn’t a cook, but I still felt a swell of pride. The industrial appliances and countertops, all surfaced in shiny stainless steel, had somehow integrated well with the old wood of The Madam’s original kitchen.
Bo stood on her hind legs, her front paws on the counter below the dumbwaiter. She looked at us, then back at the dumbwaiter, and barked sharply.
“Bo! Off!” I commanded sharply. It was bad enough she was in the kitchen, but I knew the sight of her paws on the counter wouldn’t help my cause.
Bo ignored me and whined, her attention focused on the dumbwaiter.
Don joined her and said, “Laramie, there isn’t a lock on this door.”
“I know,” I responded. “I didn’t see a need to put the locks on until we opened for business.”
Don tried to slide the door open. It didn’t budge.
“Come on, Don,” I said with a laugh, “put your back into it.”
Bo’s back paws scrabbled on the kitchen floor as she tried to reach the dumbwaiter’s door. I grabbed her collar and pulled her back to stand beside me. Don braced his legs and gave the door a good heave. It held for a moment and then slid open with a loud bang.
A body fell out of the dumbwaiter, rolling onto the kitchen counter and practically into Don’s arms. Don flailed backward and the body rolled off the counter and landed with a sickening thud on the floor.
Even with his face twisted into a gruesome mask, I had no trouble recognizing the dead guy.
It was Bernie Wallach.
