Chapter 6. Quit Complaining

WHITNEY

At noon the following Wednesday, the real estate attorney called with both bad news and good news. "The bad news is the property taxes are several years in arrears. The good news is that Lorenzo and Giorgia Bottliglieri took advantage of the tax freeze program for senior citizens, so the amount due isn't as high as it could be. The city hasn't started the foreclosure process on the place yet. At any rate, you'll have to pay the delinquent taxes before you sell the place."

If we sold the fire station first, we could use the proceeds to pay the past-due property taxes on the townhouse.

"The good news," continued the attorney, "is that the title looks clear up to the point that the Bottiglieris bought the place. My assistant has prepared quitclaim deeds for each of their children to sign. I'll email them to you. You'll need to have them notarized."

Fortunately, I knew a licensed notary public—Presley Pearson, the manager of the Joyful Noise Playhouse. We'd met a while back, when she still worked for Rick Dunaway, a local real estate mogul who'd ended up dead in the flowerbed at the cottage Buck and I had bought from him to flip. While my relationship with Presley had gotten off to a rocky start, we'd since made amends. She'd even partnered with Buck and me on the motel rehab, chipping in the funds we'd needed to nab the place at the tax sale. She'd been more than happy to be a silent partner. She was in the real estate game for the profits, not because she had an interest in remodeling or design. The three of us owed our success to each other. Buck and I never would have landed the motel property without Presley, and she could never have afforded it or remodeled it on her own. The place had made a significant profit, been our big break. This townhouse could be another big break—assuming the Bottiglieri children were willing to sell. What if they aren't? Or what if some are willing to sell, but not others? I posed the question to the attorney.

"If you can get at least one to sign a quitclaim deed," she said, "you'd be part owner and thus have legal standing to sue for a partition."

Awhat now? "Meaning…?"

"Meaning that, if the others won't sell you their interests, you could force a sale of the property and bid on it yourself. But it would be up to the court to approve the sale."

"So, we could end up having to buy the others out for more than we're hoping to pay for the quitclaim deeds, or the judge could decide it should be sold to someone else entirely."

"That's the risk," the attorney said. "You have to decide if it's a risk worth taking."

Thus far, the risks Buck and I had taken had mostly paid off. I figured this was a risk worth taking, too. I thanked the attorney, ended the call, and immediately placed another.

"Hey, Whitney," Presley said, identifying me via caller ID. "What's up?"

"Any chance you and your notary seal are available this evening?" I told her about the townhouse, and our plan to buy it from the Bottiglieri children. "I'm hoping we can get signatures from at least half of them tonight. We can try the rest tomorrow evening."

"I'll make the rounds with you," she said, "if you give me a piece of the action."

"We'd be happy to cut you in." I knew I could speak for both myself and my cousin. Besides, if she could chip in the shortfall, I wouldn't have to dip into my retirement account.

We quickly worked out the details, and she transferred her funds into a joint account we'd set up earlier when working on the motel project. We arranged to meet at my house early that evening so we could visit the Bottiglieris together.

Once I got off the phone with Presley, I ventured up to the roof, where Buck was measuring the perimeter to determine how much we'd need in materials to complete the rooftop patio. "Good news," I said. "The lawyer said the title looks clear. Presley said she'd come with us tonight to notarize the deeds if we'd cut her in on the deal."

"You told her yes, right?"

"Of course." I mentioned my concerns about the Bottiglieri heirs, whether one or more of them might be holdouts. "If any of them refuses to sign, we'd have to go to court and force a sale. We'd get our portion of the proceeds, but there's no guarantee we'd get the property."

"We need to be strategic, then." Buck returned his measuring tape to his belt. "Let's go talk to Joanna, see which of the heirs she thinks will be easiest to deal with."

Buck and I headed out of the fire station and around the corner. As we stepped up onto Joanna's porch, Buck's toe caught a board that had come loose and stuck up a quarter inch higher than the others. He stumbled but quickly caught himself, and glared down at the board. "That board needs to be nailed down."

It would be easy to do. All that was needed was a hammer and a nail. Unfortunately, our hammers and nails were all back at the fire station.

We rapped on Joanna's door. To my surprise, Gideon answered. After greeting him, I said, "Is Joanna around?"

He jerked his head. "She's in the kitchen fixing lemonade. Come on in." He stepped back and allowed Buck and me to enter before calling to Joanna. "The fixer-upper folks are here!"

As we stepped inside, my nose detected the faint scents of cigarettes, the morning's coffee, and the seafood Joanna and Gideon evidently planned to have for lunch. Two shrimp cocktails sat on the coffee table, served in glass bowls with red sauce for dipping. An ashtray with three butts in it sat next to them, along with a crystal candy dish filled with strawberry hard candies in cellophane wrappers. The TV was on, playing the theme song from the popular soap opera The Young and the Restless.

Gideon glanced at the screen. "Joanna and I watch this soap every day. Some of the stars have been in their roles for decades. At some point, they'll need to rename it The Old and the Arthritic."

We shared a chuckle. As he took a seat on the sofa, Joanna came out of the kitchen with two glasses in her hands. "Hey, you two." She raised the glasses. "Care for some lemonade?"

We only planned to be here a brief time, but the cold drink looked wonderfully refreshing, especially for two people who'd been sweating it out in a warm fire station all morning. The building's air conditioner definitely needed some work. "I'd love a glass."

"Me too," Buck said.

Joanna handed us the glasses she'd already prepared and scurried back to the kitchen to get two more for Gideon and herself. When she returned, she handed one to her neighbor, set the other on the coffee table, and turned to me. "Did you hear from your lawyer? Is it good news?"

I gave her an update, letting her know what the attorney had told us and that we'd found a third investor who'd helped us raise the funds to make the offers. "We need to be strategic in our approach. Which of the Bottiglieris do you think would be the most agreeable to signing?"

Before Joanna could respond, Gideon said, "Benedict. That boy was always looking to make a quick buck." He picked up one of the bowls from the coffee table, took a shrimp by the tail, and dunked it into the red sauce before tearing off the meat with his teeth.

"That's right." Joanna's head bobbed. "But only if that quick buck was also an easy buck. Benny was always asking the neighbors if we had any odd jobs he could do for cash. He never wanted to work hard, though. He'd get tired or bored, quit halfway through a job and expect to be paid a portion of what had been agreed on. He mowed half my lawn one time, then quit because he said it was too hot. This is Nashville. Of course, it's hot! I had to go out there and finish the mowing myself. I refused to hire him after that." Joanna leaned to the left and looked past me, out her front window, her face clouding in concern. "What are Macy and Holden doing home this time of day?"

Gideon glanced out the window, too, and shrugged. "Looks like we're about to find out."

I turned and looked through the glass to see a white pickup truck parked at the curb in front of Gideon's building. A couple headed our way from across the street. A blonde teen in form-fitting black spandex shorts and a striped tank top trailed after them, looking down at her phone, her thumbs working the screen. Also with them was a small, scruffy mutt, as much mop as dog. The man and woman appeared to be in their mid to late thirties, just a few years older than Buck and me. Holden had brown hair and the type of thick mustache that had been popular decades ago, especially with police officers and porn stars, and that had recently come back in vogue. He wore navy pants and a long-sleeved ice-blue shirt with some sort of logo on the left side of his chest, what appeared to be a work uniform. Macy wore tan wedges and a bright red dress with a ruffled skirt that ended just above her knees, casually stylish. As they ascended the steps onto the porch, I could see that her blonde hair hung in perfect loose curls over her shoulders and her makeup was impeccable, though not overdone. The girl and the dog scampered up after them.

Joanna went to the door and opened it as the family stepped up onto the porch. Gideon stood and followed her over, the two of them effectively blocking the doorway.

"Is everything okay?" Joanna asked. "Why aren't y'all at work?"

Though Joanna and Gideon now blocked my view of Macy, her voice came through loud and clear. "We've got some exciting news!"

Gideon gestured back into the townhouse. "Want to come in and tell us over shrimp cocktails? We've got plenty."

"No, thanks," Macy said, a teasing lilt in her voice. "Women are supposed to limit seafood intake… when they're pregnant."

The pause following her big reveal was as pregnant as Macy. After hearing Joanna express affection for Alyssa the day before, it seemed she'd be thrilled to learn she'd have another grandchild. Instead, she tossed up her hands and let out a wail. "No! You can't be pregnant!"

"I know!" cried the teen, the only one of the three I could see through the window. "The thought of my parents having sex is totally disgusting." She shuddered. "Ew! Ew! Ew!"

Macy judiciously ignored her daughter. "I can be pregnant," she told her mother slowly and firmly. "And I am."

Joanna's head shook in denial. "But you had so many problems last time! Preeclampsia. Gestational diabetes. High blood pressure. We nearly lost both you and the baby! You were only eighteen then, too. The risks will be much worse at the age you are now!"

Macy groaned. "Every pregnancy is different, Mom. Just because I had trouble last time doesn't mean I will again. Besides, thirty-five is not that old. You were only three years younger than I am when you gave birth to Lane, remember? Lots of women have babies in their forties now. But in an abundance of caution, the doctor put me on bed rest until we see how things go."

"Bed rest?" Joanna put a hand to her forehead, as if suffering an intense headache. "If you'd listened to me and gone to college, you'd have a cushy office job where you could sit down and you wouldn't need to go on bed rest. Instead, you're on your feet all day in the salon!"

Macy sighed. "How many times do I have to tell you? I love my job, Mom. I help women feel good about themselves. And need I remind you that I have never been out of work? Some of my friends who went to college have been laid off and had to go on unemployment. That's never happened to me."

"You'll lose your clients! They'll find a new hairdresser and where will y'all be then?"

"Relax, Mom," Macy said. "You're blowing this out of proportion. We can get by on Holden's salary for a few months until the baby comes and I go back to work. We're fine."

"That's what you think," Joanna muttered.

Macy huffed a frustrated breath. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Rather than answer her daughter, Joanna turned her head to focus her tirade on her son-in-law. "How could you be so stupid, Holden? Why didn't you take precautions?"

A timid male voice responded. "We took precautions, ma'am. They don't always work."

Macy came to her husband's defense. "Don't blame Holden, Mom. It takes two to tango."

"Ew! Ew! Ew!" Alyssa cried again.

"Besides," Macy continued to address her mother, undeterred by her daughter, "you're one to talk about health risks. I've been begging you for years to quit smoking!"

"I have quit!" Joanna insisted, though she then contradicted herself in a quieter voice. "More or less, anyway. I'm down to just two cigarettes a day."

Gideon cocked his head, looking askance at Joanna, his expression skeptical.

Buck and I exchanged a glance. It felt awkward to overhear what should have been a private family conversation. Then again, Gideon hadn't excused himself, and he wasn't family. He seemed to be a close friend of Joanna's, though. Having received the information we'd come for, I quickly downed the lemonade and set my glass on the coffee table. Buck followed suit. We stepped up behind Joanna and Gideon. "We'll head out now," I said. "Give y'all some privacy."

Gideon stepped back to allow us to exit. As we did, I cast a surreptitious and supportive smile at the couple on the porch. Though I could understand Joanna's concerns under the circumstances, the last thing her daughter and son-in-law needed now was her causing them more stress. Besides, medicine was constantly evolving. There might be new techniques that could lower Macy's health risks. I hoped her pregnancy would go smoothly.

Up close like this, I could see that the logo on Holden's shirt featured a smiling snowman. One of the snowman's twig arms curved over the top of a blue dolly from which hung several pointed icicles. I could also see that Macy had her mother's hazel eyes, and the skin around them crinkled as they narrowed, taking in me and Buck. Clearly, she hadn't realized that we had been in Joanna's home. Her dog wagged his fluffy tail and sniffed our boots as her cheeks pinked with embarrassment. "Mom!" she snapped. "You should have told us you had company!"

Macy and Holden's daughter took advantage of our departure as an excuse to skedaddle, too. "I'm out. Later!"

At seven o'clock that evening, I turned into a decades-old apartment complex in an Antioch neighborhood. Buck, still in his coveralls like me, sat in my passenger seat. Presley sat in the back, stylishly dressed, as always, tonight in a fitted sleeveless dress and heels, perfectly accessorized with shiny gold jewelry. She looked like a TV news anchor.

I glanced around the place. The buildings suffered from poor maintenance, the metal railings rusting and the wood trim rotting. Likewise, the cars in the parking lot were older models, many with dings or scrapes or missing hubcaps. The few people milling about looked down on their luck, too, their expressions vacant or scowling.

Buck ducked his head to better see the numbers on the buildings. He pointed to a unit ahead. "There it is."

I pulled my SUV to a stop in front of Benedict Bottiglieri's place and cut the engine. Like many Catholics, Lorenzo and Giorgia had named each of their children after saints or people from the bible. Benedict. Matthew. John. Peter. Judith. Tabitha. Mary Ruth.

Presley sat in the back seat, sorting through the file folder on her lap, looking for the deed with Benedict's name on it. She fished one out and held it up. "Here we go."

We climbed out of the van and walked up to Benedict's unit on the second floor. The sound of a television came through the door. Judging from the squealing tires and gunfire, the program was an action movie or cop show. I raised a hand and rapped three times. A male voice from inside called, "Whatever you're selling, I ain't buying! Go away!"

I leaned into the frame and called, "We're not selling anything, Mr. Bottiglieri! We're here to make an offer on your parents' house."

The door jerked open so fast I nearly fell through it. Benedict Bottiglieri stood there in a too-tight T-shirt and a pair of loose-knit shorts, the elastic waistline of which curved under his basketball-shaped belly. His salt-and-pepper hair was washed but messy, as if he hadn't bothered to comb it after taking his shower today, but had merely run his fingers through it. The smell of pizza emanated from his apartment, along with the odor of garbage funk. A look over his shoulder revealed a living room decorated with a cheap end table and a recliner, the faux-leather seat stretched and worn. The walls were bare. A bottle of Pepto Bismol sat on the kitchen counter, along with a bottle of vitamins designed for the fifty-plus consumer. The place was clearly a bachelor pad for an aged bachelor. Though Joanna and Gideon had referred to Benedict and his siblings as the Bottiglieri "children," this man was anything but a child. He appeared to be in his late sixties. His eyes gleamed. "What's this about buying my parents' house?"

Buck said, "We'd like to make an offer for your one-seventh interest."

Benedict snorted. "You've seen the place, right? It's a dump."

Buck, Presley, and I exchanged glances. His parents' place might need some repairs and updating but, if anything was a dump, it was this apartment.

Fortunately, Benedict had given me an opening. "The townhouse needs a lot of work," I agreed. "Paint. Carpeting. New fixtures and appliances. Landscaping. The whole nine yards. But we think we can get it back in shape."

"We fix up houses for a living," Buck elaborated. "In fact, we've bought the old fire station right around the corner from your parents' place. We're gonna remodel it into a single-family home."

I reached into the breast pocket of my coveralls, removed the check I'd tucked there, and unfolded it. "We're willing to pay you twenty-five thousand for your share in the townhouse."

"Sold!" He reached for the check.

I pulled it back, just out of reach. "We'll need your signature on a legal document first."

Benedict motioned for us to come inside, and led us to the kitchen. He pushed aside a pile of fast-food wrappers and dirty dishes to clear a space. Presley lay the deed on the counter and held out a pen. Benedict grabbed it in a flash and signed the deed with a flourish. When Presley asked for his ID, he scrounged up his wallet from the pocket of a pair of rumpled pants hanging over the back of a kitchen chair and handed her his driver's license. She filled in the requisite information in her notary notebook, brandished her seal, and worked her notary public magic, making everything official.

Benedict's signature obtained, I handed him the check. "Thanks."

"Thank you." He chuckled and shook his head. He walked us to the door, closing and locking it quickly behind us, as if expecting us to change our minds and demand he return the check. Either he was simply happy to have someone hand him thousands of dollars with no effort required on his part, or he knew something about the house we didn't. I hoped it wasn't the latter. Because we hadn't obtained a traditional mortgage, we hadn't bothered with a professional inspection, instead relying on the once-over we'd given the place. Even so, we'd assumed there could be unexpected expenses beyond the repair needs we'd noted, and the price we were offering the siblings reflected this uncertainty. I chose to consider our encounter with Benedict as a good omen. With this one-seventh ownership interest, we now had legal rights with respect to the townhouse and could force our hand if the other siblings didn't cooperate. I certainly hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Our next stop was at Judith's house, a small, older ranch model on an acre south of the city, in the town of Thompson's Station. With deep lines etched on her face, Judith appeared a few years older than Benedict. Unlike her brother, who couldn't sign the quitclaim deed fast enough, the thin platinum blonde said, "I'm not signing until you show me your appraisal."

"We didn't get one," I explained. A mortgage company would have required an appraisal before making a loan, but since we didn't get a mortgage, we hadn't sought an appraisal. "Appraisals cost several hundred dollars, and it seemed like an unnecessary expense. But I looked at comparable real estate listings in the area and deducted the expected cost of the rehab to come up with our offer price."

"No appraisal, huh?" Her eyes narrowed. "I'll take a look for myself." She whipped out her phone and searched for Germantown listings. After scrolling through them, she snorted. "There's not a three-bedroom townhouse in Germantown under six hundred grand. You think you can buy me and my siblings out for less than a third of that? What do you take us for, morons?" She went to close her door, but I stuck my steel-toed boot inside the frame to stop her. She looked down at my foot, then up at me, her eyes burning in outrage.

"We don't take you for morons," I said, which was true. "We take you for people who are stuck with an asset they can't afford to maintain and can't agree what to do with. We're offering you a reasonable price and a solution for your impasse. Hear us out." I gestured to the folder Presley was holding. She riffled through the folder and pulled out the cost estimate I'd prepared. I handed it over to Judith, pointing out the numerous items on the list. "It's going to cost us over a hundred grand to fix the place up. What's more, there's tens of thousands of property taxes in arrears that we'll pay off for you."

Judith's rigid stance softened. She appeared to be wavering, but not entirely convinced.

Buck took a more direct approach. "Look, Judith. This is a fair deal for you and your siblings. If y'all aren't willing or able to pay the taxes and remodeling costs yourselves, your only other option is put the place on the market as is. Once the taxes were deducted from the proceeds, you'd probably end up with less in your pocket than what we're offering you right now. You'd have to pay a real estate commission, too. And that's if someone is even willing to buy the place. Not many people are willing to take on a project this big."

Judith sucked her lower lip into her mouth and gnawed on it, her head cocked.

Presley also weighed in. "If you do nothing, the townhouse will continue to deteriorate, and the tax office will eventually foreclose and sell it for peanuts. If that happens, you're likely to get nothing at all. It would be foolish not to accept our offer."

Judith took a second look at my estimate. "You've built in a big profit for yourselves."

Buck shrugged. "It's comparable to what you'd pay in labor costs if you hired someone to do the work. We've got to earn a living. We've got bills to pay, same as you."

Judith called back over her shoulder. "Hey, hon? Come here a minute."

A moment later, a tall man in boots, jeans, and a Western shirt joined her in the doorway. He lifted his chin in greeting. "What's going on here?"

She told him who we were and showed him the cost projection I'd prepared and the listings she'd found online. "Bennie's already accepted a check from them for his share."

Her husband mulled things over for a brief moment before saying, "I don't see the harm. The house is just sitting there not doing any good for anyone. We don't want to deal with it. Our plate is full keeping up our own place."

Her head bobbed. With her husband on board, she was now, too. "All right. I'll sign."

Judith signed the deed, Presley notarized it, and I handed over her check.

As we headed back to Buck's van, he said, "Two down, five to go."

We aimed for Peter's house in Mount Juliet. At around fifty, Peter was the baby of the family. He and his wife invited us to join them at their kitchen table while their two sons, both in their late teens, played a video game on a large screen television nearby, the sound turned up to a deafening volume.

Peter looked over the paperwork before shouting over the music and sounds of the game coming from the TV. "How much did you pay Benny and Judy?"

"Twenty-five thousand!" I hollered. "Same as we're offering you!"

Peter's wife shouted at the boys to turn the volume down. Once we could hear ourselves think, Peter lay the pen on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "I want thirty grand."

Buck snorted. "That wouldn't be fair to your brothers and sisters now, would it?"

"I don't care," Peter said. "I'm not signing unless you pay me more than you paid them."

Obviously, some sort of sibling rivalry was going on here. Buck rolled his eyes, opened his wallet, and pulled out the bills, thirty-eight dollars in total. "Does thirty-eight bucks sweeten the deal enough for you?"

Apparently, it did. All he wanted was to best his siblings. It didn't matter by how much. Peter picked up the bills, folded them, and tucked them into his pocket. "Where do I sign?"

After obtaining his signature, we returned to my SUV. It was late by then, so we gave up our mission for the night. It had been a long day, and I was glad to get home to Sawdust. After I climbed into bed, he curled up on my pillow and licked my cheek, giving me sweet, sandpapery kitty kisses as I stroked him. I looked forward to marrying Collin and coming home to him and his kisses at night, too.

The following evening, Buck, Presley, and I went on to obtain signatures from Matthew, Mary Ruth, and Tabitha. We had a much easier time with these three. Each seemed relieved to be rid of what they considered a burden rather than an asset, and they were thrilled to have the unexpected windfall fall into their lap. Twenty-five grand would go a long way toward their own mortgages. Tabitha said she might even spend her share on a backyard pool.

"Six down." Presley brandished her notary seal. "One more and it's ours."

Our final visit was to John. The stocky septuagenarian crossed his arms over his chest, just like Peter had. "I'm not signing. That place was my childhood home. I've got a lot of happy memories there. You can't expect me to just hand over my ownership share for next to nothing."

Twenty-five grand was hardly next to nothing. Given what I'd heard about the Bottiglieri family, I suspected he didn't truly have a meaningful attachment to the place, but was instead using emotional blackmail in an attempt to get us to raise our offer.

He cocked his head. "I might be persuaded to part with my share if you doubled your offer."

"That's not gonna happen," Buck snapped, his patience gone after a long evening traipsing all over Nashville and the surrounding areas. "We already own six of the seven shares. We can force a sale. You'd never get fifty grand for your interest in its current condition. If we move ahead and fix it up, we'll ask the court to make you reimburse a portion of our costs."

John snorted, indignant. "You can't make me pay to improve a house I don't own!"

"If you don't own the house," Buck said, "then why should we pay you anything at all? We'll tell the court you disclaimed ownership, and you won't get anything."

"You can't cut me out!" John shrieked. "Part of that house is mine!"

"Make up your mind," Buck snapped. "Do you own an interest in the house or not? You're contradicting yourself, talking out of your a—"

"Out of both sides of your mouth," I interjected, sending Buck a disapproving glance. I turned back to John. "Excuse us just a moment." I waved for Buck and Presley to follow me over to a tree. Once there, I whispered, "If we have to go to court, we'll end up with several thousand dollars in legal fees." John was worse than Peter with his juvenile sibling rivalry, and I hated to feed that ugly monster, but it would be more efficient to pay him a bit more and get on with things than go to court. "Let's offer him another five hundred and see if he bites."

Presley nodded in agreement with the plan. Buck frowned, but nodded, too. We walked back to the door. "We'll offer you another five hundred dollars. Final offer. Take it or leave it."

He jerked a shoulder in a shrug. "I'll leave it."

"All right," Buck said. "We'll let the judge decide."

Buck turned and strode back to his van. Presley and I followed. We'd all climbed in, taken our seats, and fastened our belts when John eased down his steps as if his feet were in control. Buck started the engine. He'd begun to pull away from the curb when John threw himself in front of the van, putting his palms on the hood as if he could stop it.

Buck snorted. "Who's this guy think he is, Superman? I've half a mind to punch the gas."

We remained in our seats while Buck unrolled his window. John circled around to it. "Okay. If you give me another five hundred, I'll sign. Can't say I appreciate your aggressive tactics, though. I feel coerced."

"What you feel is disappointment," Buck said. "If anyone is guilty of coercion, it's you."

"No sense arguing," I said. "It's a moot point now. Let's just get his signature on the deed, give him his check, and get out of here."

We did just that and, finally, with the sweep of the pen, the townhouse was all ours.