The Barn Identity
Read the Excerpt
Chapter 1
Barn to Run
Whitney Whitaker Flynn
I was the conductor of the Underground Railroad for eight years, and I can
say what most conductors can’t say; I never ran my train off the track and I
never lost a passenger. –Harriet Tubman
On a chilly Monday in late March, I sat at the counter in my kitchen, watching my husband Collin prepare breakfast. “You have never looked sexier than you do right now working that toaster.”
He slid me a sideways glance. “That’s just your pregnancy hormones talking.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. After breakfast, let’s see how hot you look pushing the vacuum cleaner.”
He cut me another look, one that said he was on to my subversive plot to get him to do all the household chores. Can’t blame a girl for trying.
I sipped my orange juice. Folic acid was critical to the health of the itty-bitty baby growing in my belly, so I made sure to drink a glass each morning. My cat Sawdust, named for the color of his fur, lay on my lap. It wouldn’t be long before he’d have to share my lap with the baby, but I had no doubt he’d happily surrender some of his space. Sawdust was the sweetest kitty ever.
My cell phone buzzed with an incoming call. Sawdust looked up as I checked the screen, his curiosity activated. The caller wasn’t in my contacts and the number wasn’t familiar. I was in no mood for a sales pitch. I’d woken feeling nauseated. My baby might only be the size of a lemon, but my future offspring was wreaking havoc on my body.
I tapped the screen to decline the call and turned my attention to the avocado toast Collin placed in front of me. Collin was a homicide detective for the Metropolitan Nashville Police Department. I wondered if he’d still find time for his daily runs once the baby arrived, or if his physique would give way to dad bod. Maybe we could buy one of those fancy jogging strollers and he could take our child with him on his runs, giving me time for a long soak in a bubble bath. I also wondered if our son or daughter would have his dark hair and green eyes, or whether our child would be blond-haired and blue-eyed like me. Maybe our DNA would twist, and the child would have dark hair with blue eyes, or blond hair with green eyes. No matter what, I knew one thing for certain. I’d love that baby to pieces. I also knew I needed to do something about the callouses on my fingers. Baby skin was soft and supple. I didn’t want my child feeling my thick, rough skin and thinking mommy was some sort of monster.
I picked up a slice of toast and gave Collin a smile. “Thanks, Detective Daddy.”
He set another plate at the spot next to me, and slid onto the adjoining stool. I was one bite into the delicious toast when an image popped up on my phone’s screen, sent from the same number as the call I’d ignored. The photo featured an old, expansive horse barn with three cupolas atop the gambrel roof, as well as a long row of windows along the sides to allow light and air into the stalls. Atop the second floor was an open hayloft door with a protective roof or “hay hood” extending over it to keep out the elements and provide a place for anchoring the pulley system used to lift bales into the loft. The image was followed by a message: Hello, Whitney. I’m Gail Pittman. A real estate agent suggested I contact you about a possible rehab job on a livery stable.
Gail had me at rehab. I lived to breathe new life into old properties, to see dilapidated buildings be restored and renewed, or reborn as something else entirely. I swallowed the bite of toast and enlarged the photo to take a better look. Interesting.
I texted Gail back, asking for the property address, a convenient time to meet, and her asking price. She gave me an address in Leipers Fork, a small rural community southwest of Nashville named after either Hugh Leiper, an early land surveyor, or Captain James Leiper, who died in 1781 in the Battle of the Bluffs in what was then known as Fort Nashborough. Regardless of who the town was named for, tradition had it spelled without the possessive apostrophe before the S. Some say a mapmaker left off the punctuation long ago and the misspelling stuck, though some punctuation purists insisted on spelling the name with an apostrophe.
Gail asked if I could meet her at the barn the following day at 10:00, but she didn’t mention her asking price. No problem. If the barn looked like a good prospect for a flip project, we could work out the money later. I texted her back. See you then.
After I’d set my phone down on the counter, Collin asked, “Was that an old barn I saw on your screen?”
“A former livery stable, to be exact. I’m going to take a look at it tomorrow.”
A grin played about his lips. “Sounds like a project you can’t say neigh to.”
I held the toast poised at my lips. “Are you trying to make me even more nauseated with your bad puns?”
His eyes danced with amusement. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”
He took a sip of his coffee and I nearly groaned in jealousy. I miss caffeine.
Collin set his cup back down on the counter. “Gonna drag Buck out to the barn with you?”
“Yeah. Might as well pretend he’s got a say in things.”
My cousin Buck and I had rehabbed seven properties so far, including the cottage Collin and I now lived in, a colonial, a roadside motel, a country church, a houseboat, a fire station and, most recently, the headmaster’s house at a defunct boarding school. Buck was the brawn of our operation, while I was the brain. I designed the remodels and handled the financial matters, while he did the heavy lifting, literally. As a skilled carpenter, I performed some of the labor, too, but my relatively smaller size and strength sometimes hindered me. Now, with a baby on the way, I’d be even more limited. Better I not inhale fumes from turpentine, paint, or wood stain. Still, I wouldn’t pass up a good rehab opportunity. We could always hire subcontractors, or simply take our time with the project.
I picked up my phone and texted the photo and information to my cousin. I knew he’d agree with whatever I decided on the project. He trusted my business acumen as much as I trusted his ability to make a perfect dovetail joint.
Collin finished his breakfast and took his dishes to the sink, where he rinsed them and placed them in the dishwasher. After I polished off the last bite of my toast, he carried my dishes to the sink, as well. I might feel tired and queasy, but being pregnant had its benefits. Collin had been pampering me since the home pregnancy test had resulted in double lines. He’d even rubbed my feet with lotion last night and, trust me, steel-toed boots don’t make for pretty toes.
Once Collin had given me a goodbye kiss and left the house, I settled on the couch with a new mystery novel. Sawdust hopped up onto the cushion next to me and nestled against my thigh. The two cats Collin had brought into our marriage, a gray tabby named Copernicus and a black and white tuxedo cat named Galileo, preferred to lounge on the carpet-covered cat tree in the front window, where they could keep a vigilant eye on the squirrels and street.
On most days, when I wasn’t working on a flip project, I helped my uncle Roger in his carpentry business. He was wrapping up a major kitchen remodel, though, and my help wasn’t needed with the finishing work today. It was just as well. Though all I’d done so far was climb out of bed and walk to the kitchen, the progesterone flooding my system made me feel like I’d climbed every peak in the Smoky Mountains—twice.
I’d finished only one page when an incoming call drew my attention back to my cell phone. It was my mother with her daily check-in. She’d always been a worrier, but my pregnancy had taken her anxiety to new heights.
“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Do you need anything? I can come over if you need me.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Collin made breakfast and I’m just lying on the couch reading.”
“Good. I don’t want you straining yourself. I have to admit, I’m glad you haven’t taken on another flip project.”
She’d be none too happy to learn I was considering another remodel. But no sense putting the cart before the horse—or the horse stable. If Buck and I decided to flip the horse barn, I’d tell her about it. Otherwise, it was best to stay mum. “My doctor says a reasonable amount of physical activity is good for the baby.”
“That’s the problem,” Mom said. “You think laying a new floor is a reasonable activity.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue with her, so I settled for rolling my eyes.
She wasn’t done badgering me yet. “Did you take your prenatal vitamin this morning?”
“I did.” She reminded me every day. I’d be more annoyed if I didn’t know it came from a place of love. “I took it with orange juice.” Maybe she’d award me bonus points for the juice.
“All right, then. If you need anything, anything at all, call me and I’ll be right there.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
We ended the call and I turned back to my book. Despite the story’s complex and creative plot, within minutes I found my eyelids drooping. No sense fighting it. My body was clearly telling me what it needed. Sleep. I placed the book on the coffee table, pulled a throw blanket over myself, and cuddled Sawdust to my chest. He activated his purr, softly vibrating against me. In seconds, I was out like a light.
#
Tuesday morning, I donned my coveralls and work boots, kissed Sawdust on top of his head, and gave the other two cats a quick goodbye scratch under their chins. I strode out to my red SUV and aimed for Leipers Fork. With rush hour over, the roads were relatively clear and I arrived in just two minutes shy of an hour.
I’d been to the small community of Leipers Fork before, to hear one of my favorite local country artists perform an acoustic set at a casual, intimate venue. Though the village was relatively unpopulated now, Leipers Fork had been the hub for commerce in Williamson County back in the day. It was situated on both the Natchez Trace, a vital trade and travel route for Native Americans and early American settlers, and the Leipers Fork of the West Harpeth River. The community was just a hop, skip, and jump from the bustling town of Franklin, the site of a monumental Civil War Battle and the current commercial center for the county.
As I made my way down Old Hillsboro Road past the outskirts of Franklin, I came upon large swaths of cleared farmland dotted with grazing horses or cattle, enormous country estates owned by popular country artists or record studio executives, and signs offering large undeveloped parcels for sale. Utility poles lined the road, bringing electricity, cable, and phone service to the rural area.
I slowed down, rolling past a newly constructed open-air shopping center. Though the look of the place was rustic to fit in with the rural landscape, its tenants were decidedly upscale. The center featured a day spa, a fancy coffee shop, a French bakery, a women’s workout studio called Gym Femme, and a combination bookstore/gift shop called Stories & Such. Several of the spaces were vacant, with signs in the windows advertising them for lease.
A Dodge Charger Hellcat was backed into a parking spot near the road. With its bright red paint, the dual heat extractors on the hood, and vicious cat logo, the modern-day muscle car demanded attention. Like many police departments, the Metro Nashville PD had bought several Chargers for use as patrol vehicles. Collin had been assigned a Charger when he’d still been a beat cop, and he’d loved its power, performance, and style. The plain sedan he’d been provided for use in his detective work was good for stakeouts, when he needed to be inconspicuous, but the car was not particularly appealing.
A large blond man sat at the wheel of the Hellcat, sunglasses on and windows cracked to let in fresh aire. He was probably waiting for his wife or girlfriend to finish shopping, or maybe he’d grabbed an espresso at the coffee place and decided to enjoy it in his car before getting back on the road.
As the voice coming from my phone directed me to turn, I came upon a tall grain silo. Painted on it was a World War I-style poster featuring Uncle Sam holding a hoe. A man and woman tended rows of vegetables in the background. Alongside the silo was a restaurant building. The two-story wooden structure resembled an old farmhouse with its wide, covered porch, metal roof, and narrow red-brick chimney, but it was clearly of recent construction. A sign mounted on the porch identified the place as the Victory Garden Farm-to-Table Restaurant.
I turned between the restaurant and the shopping center onto a dirt road so overgrown as to be barely discernible among the dried grass and weeds. A sign that read Private Property – No Trespassing was posted next to the road. Just beyond it stood a wooden utility pole, thick wires connecting it to another farther up. I rolled along slowly and cautiously, my SUV bouncing in the ruts and exacerbating my morning sickness. When my mother had called earlier, she’d been glad to hear I was feeling nauseated. “That mean things are going well!” Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one fighting to keep the contents of her tummy down.
To my left behind the Victory Garden restaurant stood two enormous tunnel-shaped greenhouses, each one nearly as big as an airplane hangar. Past the greenhouses was a large pasture planted with cool-weather ryegrass. A scarecrow family of three grinned at me from their wooden posts. The female scarecrow had long cornhusk hair, and wore a burlap hat and denim overalls in a shade of blue similar to my coveralls. Her left arm was raised in greeting. Her straw-stuffed husband stood beside her, his hand on the shoulder of the child standing before them.
A few sheep and a couple of pigs moved about in large pens in front of a red barn, while a variety of chickens strutted and pecked outside the fences. Their feathers ranged from white to black, with reds, golds, and grays in between. One of the colorful birds sat atop a post, as if keeping a lookout.
Four black and white Holstein cows lazily chewed their cuds nearby. A fifth cow with a bright pink collar and a cowbell around her neck rubbed her hindquarters back and forth against the trunk of an oak tree near the back corner, using the rough bark to give herself a nice scratch. The cowbell gave off a soft clang-clang-clang with each twist of her hips.
A collie mix with a coat of cream and reddish-brown ran in circles around the cow, yapping up a storm, trying to herd her back with the others. Like the cow, the collie wore a pink collar. The maverick continued to rub her butt on the tree, paying the furry, fervent dog no mind.
The collie must have decided she’d have better luck herding my SUV. She sprinted across the pasture to the wooden fence, barking up a storm as she ran along the perimeter, trying to get me in line. I unrolled my window and called out, “Good morning, doggie!” She wagged her tail and issued an arf-arf in response.
Eventually, the dog reached the end of the pasture and had to give up her pursuit. A gravel road extended off to the left of the dirt road and ran along the outer perimeter of the pasture’s back fence. The road appeared to be an easement of some sort, probably for the utility companies. To the right side of the road was another wood utility pole. My eyes followed the wires through a stand of tulip poplar and dogwood trees to the livery stable from the photo Gail Pittman had texted to me.
I continued on, passing a crumbling dry-stack stone wall that stood four feet high. The walls were built without mortar, hence the word “dry” in their name. Rather than relying on mortar to hold them together, the stones were sculpted and carefully placed so that their weight and surface friction would hold them together. Fairly common around Nashville and used to delineate roads or divide pastures, many of the walls had built by Irish or Scottish immigrants, who had brought the techniques with them from their homelands. They hadn’t built the walls alone, though, hence the reason the walls were often referred to as “slave walls.”
I drove through a wide opening in the wall and pulled up to the dilapidated livery stable to find two cars parked side by side. On the left was a small gray Nissan Versa, one of the least expensive cars on the market and an older model at that. The other car was its polar opposite, a shiny blue Genesis luxury sedan. The drivers of the vehicles were nowhere to be seen. I parked next to the Nissan, noting a placard hanging from the rearview mirror that identified the driver as a member of the press. Why would a journalist be here?
I cut my engine and glanced around. One of the barn doors was slid fully to the side, while the other hung cockeyed from the track, its hardware having come loose. From the hayloft door above, a pair of mourning doves kept watchful eyes on the activity below, probably trying to decide whether the loft would make a good nesting site or if they should seek a more hospitable spot to raise their young. One issued the sorrowful coo-ooh-ooh sound that had earned the birds their name.
As I climbed out of my car, a white van with the Whitaker Woodworking logo on the side turned onto the dirt road and headed my way. Buck, right on time. The dog repeated her process, running along the fence and barking at Buck. Like me, he unrolled his window and called out a greeting to the dog. Humans and animals might not speak the same language, but we could still communicate pretty darn well. Sawdust had taught me that. Buck pulled his van up next to my SUV, and climbed out. He greeted me with a lift of his chin and a “hey.”
We donned our scuffed yellow hard hats. I’d decorated mine with daisy decals, partly to make it cuter, but also to make it easily distinguishable on job sites, where tools and gear could easily get mixed up. Voices drew our attention to the barn doors as two people emerged. The first was a tall woman of around sixty with brown skin, dramatic eyebrows, and soft pewter-colored curls. The second was a fortyish Asian man with just a hint of white creeping in around his temples.
The woman motioned us over then extended a hand, her demeanor businesslike but not unfriendly. “You must be Whitney Flynn. I’m Gail Pittman.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, taking her hand. Buck shook her hand, too. “Buck Whitaker, Whitney’s business partner.”
She held out her hand to indicate the man beside her. “This is Tyler Yee.”
Tyler wore chunky black glasses along with a pair of khakis and a basic white button-down shirt. Though his pants and shirts weren’t wrinkled per se, the soft edges said they’d been simply removed from the dryer and promptly hung up rather than being ironed and starched. His hiking boots appeared to have traversed hundreds of miles, probably in search of breaking stories. The straps of a gray backpack hung over his shoulders. A black camera hung from his neck alongside a lanyard bearing his press credentials.
He, too, offered both a hand and an explanation of his presence. “I’m a journalist. I’m doing a story on the barn.”