Mystery at the Dead House

By C.L. Cutright

In, Mystery at the Dead House, Dee Minolta, a fair to passable real estate appraiser, tells the story of how she stumbled upon the dead body of a land developer during the routine inspection of a vacant home and why that led to the discovery of secrets buried almost 500 years before. She enlists the aid of her best friend and a fishing captain to help unravel an enticing mystery with roots dating back to the Calusa Indians and an early Spanish expedition to Florida, which proves to be a dangerous endeavor. Set against the backdrop of the Great Recession, the story Dee tells is an intriguing one involving murder, treasure and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543950458

Book preview

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Chapter 1

The road just north of the river winds past an odd mixture of old cracker style clapboard houses and newer, more spacious concrete block homes; most having been painted one of a hundred bland variations of the color tan. I don’t know why.

Aside from the obvious lack of designer touches (there isn’t a hint of cyan or yellow to be found anywhere) you can’t help but notice that what separates the residences, one from the other, are small citrus groves and irrigated vegetable fields surrounded by scrub pasture where Brangus cattle, a cross between a Brahman and Angus, graze.

While certainly some of the countryside is picturesque, most Chambers of Commerce intent on hyping all the high points of the Sunshine State wouldn’t consider it tourist-worthy, not by a long shot. There are no huge bodies of water, fantasy-inspired theme parks, 18-hole championship golf courses or raucous sporting venues located within a twenty-five-mile radius. However, it is essential to note from the outset that during the last real estate boom this land had become, of all things, downright pricey.

Though the hefty rise and fall of land prices played out in hundreds of other communities statewide, I consider this rural enclave unique. I think of it as such not because the terrain is exceptional (it isn’t), or the homes are extraordinary (they aren’t as I’ve just pointed out), but because just off this lonely stretch of road the mystery surrounding the dead house took shape. The story is an intriguing one and I’m relaying it now to the best of my recollection.

My name is Dee Minolta and I’m a Florida real estate appraiser. Let’s be honest here, this wasn’t my lifelong ambition as I would’ve much preferred embarking on a career as a chatty, over-the-top talk show host or at the very least, an anorexic supermodel. Unfortunately, I have neither the gift for gab required for the former nor the height, the facial bone structure and the inclination to spurn all things chocolate needed for the latter. No, a high-profile career was not in the cards for me.

If I were to take a philosophical approach to my career choice I’d say I became an appraiser because life has a way of sending all of us down unfamiliar roads for reasons we are unable to fathom at the time. But the truth is that back during the real estate boom in Florida, there weren’t enough appraisers, good or bad, to go around. So, I took the required two-week course (barely passing) while crammed into a small conference room at an aging Holiday Inn. Soon after I began earning my living by guessing what someone else’s property might be worth on the open market on any given day.

Make no mistake that’s exactly what real estate appraising entails. Appraisers can access all the industry software available and compile all the comps they want, and in the end, it still comes down to a best guess scenario. Frightening, but true. In fact, the appraisal business in those days was partly comprised of certified professionals who, within the span of a few harrowing minutes, could unequivocally price a home well above or just below one million dollars without hesitation.

I was both amazed and horrified all at the same time.

But then the boom came and went. Fortunes were made, and fortunes were lost. Some of those hit the hardest were developers who were caught up in the buying frenzy at the very height of the market and paid too much for the land. Many would never recover. It was this apocalyptic economic downturn that put in motion a most unlikely series of events that started at the dead house and ended, well, let’s just say it ended, but not as I would’ve liked.

It all began when residential real estate projects, undertaken by seasoned developers, began to implode forcing builders to desert partially built homes as they were unable to finish them for lack of bank funding or customers liquid enough to buy them.

New community recreation centers, once the backdrop of weekend open house parties replete with popular country bands and catered cookouts, now sat deserted amid hundreds of vacant lots. Over time, the thin sheets of plywood used to shutter their windows began to buckle; giving them a tentative, on edge appearance as if they were just waiting for the other awful shoe to drop.

I have relayed all this by way of providing background for what was about to happen. To understand what would come to pass, one must have an appreciation for the emotional and financial climate that permeated Southwest Florida at the time. That it was an unhealthy one goes without saying.

I remember well the ill-fated day the mystery began to take shape. I was assigned a home inspection for a piece of property referred to as ‘bank owned,’ which is a homogenized term used to describe real estate that’s been legally wrenched away from the previous owner through foreclosure or a process referred to as deed-in-lieu of foreclosure. Either way, the bank now owns the property, and in most instances, the prior owners have lost their entire investment.

Signage advertising real estate as ‘bank owned’ sprang up at an alarming rate on everything from modest, entry-level homes to commercial buildings and finally large tracts of land. But property moved so slowly in those days that the once brightly colored signs that cheerfully announced a property as ‘bank owned’ (like it was a good thing) fell into disrepair just as rapidly as the vacant homes and buildings they advertised. That these signs, many located out in the country, would occasionally be used for target practice was not unheard of and seldom thought to be a random act. People were bitter. Banks were determined.

Consequently, I found locating signage identifying real estate to be appraised outside the city limits proved to be problematic at best in those days. And so, on that one fateful afternoon, I drove up and down a lonesome stretch of road running perpendicular to the river looking for the entrance to a piece of property I was to inspect. Though my contact at the bank assured me it was well marked, it wasn’t, and I finally had to resort to calling her on my cell phone.

You can’t miss it, Dee, Sherry assured me. The sign is just to the right of the lane where you turn in, or no wait, maybe it’s on the left. Doesn’t matter, right or left - you find the sign you find the lane.

I’ve been up and down this road ten times and… hey, wait, I think I see it now. Sherry, what color is it? The sign I mean? Something is stuck down in the culvert and that might be it though I can’t tell until I get out and have a better look.

"Check and see if it’s one of our new red, white and blue metal signs, Dee. The powers to be in marketing put their over-payed heads together and decided the bank needed to project more of a patriotic look. They thought it would, you know, soften up our image a bit since the media coverage of the role banks have played in the recession has been brutal. Oh, yeah and I almost forgot, the sign says, ‘shoot us an offer,’ and of course has our phone number and logo at the bottom."

I parked my car at the side of the road, walked over to the culvert and peering down with my cell phone in hand reported to Sherry I had indeed found the missing sign; but apparently someone took the ‘shoot us’ suggestion too literally and in fact proceeded to do just that several times to the bank’s logo.

Hey, Sherry, you might want to have the elderly gentleman, who handles the bank’s sign maintenance, what’s his name - Roger? Have him come and replace this one.

You bet. I’ll ask him to get right on it.

"In the meantime, I’ll stand the sign back up as best I can, but it’s not in very good shape and I must tell you, I don’t think this is the patriotic look your marketing department had in mind. I mean really, the bank’s marketing and advertising gurus might want to consider changing the tag line from, ‘shoot us an offer’ to something a bit less confrontational. It says way more about the second amendment than your bank president might be comfortable with. Just a suggestion."

Understood. I’ll pass that along to the suits, but since you’ve located the sign does that mean you’ve found the lane?

Sort of, I mean there’s a lot of underbrush here by the road and I admit I’m hesitant to park by the culvert; so, I’m going to drive onto the property though I sure hope I don’t get stuck back there.

Take your time, Dee, because I’ve got to tell you I don’t know in what condition you’ll find that old driveway. I was beginning to wonder just that myself until I noticed the tire tracks.

It can’t be that bad, looks to me as though someone drove through here not long ago, at least since our last rain. Sherry was silent for a moment before adding, "No one is supposed to be back there without the bank’s permission. Are our ‘No Trespassing’ signs still intact?" I stopped half way down the lane and walked back to check the other side of the culvert before finding just one of the signs to which she was referring.

Depends on what you mean by ‘still intact.’ Someone has done a number on these too. As I slid back behind the wheel I heard her sigh deeply before she added, Peasants. Be careful, Dee. There’s no telling what you’re liable to find back there now. I heard the concern in her voice and replied, I’ll be fine, while sharply turning the wheel to avoid several deep ruts dotting the lane before it transitioned into the driveway.

The drive from the main road back to the house and outbuildings was difficult at best. Thick stands of bougainvillea had grown unheeded on both sides of the lane. Fed by the rains of several summers, the colorful bushes sprouted deep red blooms and seemed to have purposely grown together, almost touching in the middle of the lane as if to prevent all manner of vehicles from reaching the foreclosed property.

The sound of the bushes scraping against the sides of the SUV as I crawled down the drive was reminiscent of nails drug across a chalkboard causing me to curse under my breath. I didn’t have a good hunch about this and you could call it intuition or laziness and an aversion to working in less than ideal situations – whichever. I just wasn’t feeling it.

After reaching the end of the crushed shell drive, I stopped next to the detached two car garage and was rewarded with a magnificent view of the Caloosahatchee River. As tempted as I was to jump out of the car for a closer look, I hesitated. The past few years had taught me to become much more careful and aware of my surroundings. I grabbed the cell phone, took the form the bank wanted completed, attached it to my clipboard, swung a digital camera over my wrist and hesitantly began to inspect the property.

According to the county property appraiser’s office, the home had been built back in the 70’s and the design and exterior features bore that out. Just to the west of the house was an extensive patio area measuring 30’ x 30’ composed of Arizona flagstone and featuring a kidney shaped in-ground concrete pool, which appeared never to have been drained by the previous owners in their haste to vacate the property.

A greenish, slick moss covered a primordial soup consisting of dead frogs, mosquitoes by the millions, and something that at one time resembled a feral cat. I shuddered and kept on walking. It then occurred to me one job did exist in Southwest Florida worse than mine and it would be that of the pool cleaner who would soon get a call from the bank. I did not envy him and made a mental note to take several photos of the pool before I left to include in the report. Wait ‘till Sherry sees this, I thought to myself.

I could never quite shake the feeling of dancing on someone’s grave when inspecting properties that’d been vacated for so long. A chill ran up my spine as I walked over to confirm the measurement of the dated patio where an old rusty Weber barbecue grill was laying on its side having been blown over years before by a swift moving summer rain storm. Standing there for just a moment I couldn’t help but wonder how many lazy afternoons were spent out here by a long- forgotten family that thought they would never leave, couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

Hamburgers, steaks and shrimp would’ve been cooking on this very grill while the aroma of such wafted through the sliding doors into the house, beckoning those inside to come out and watch the sun set slowly over the brackish water. Boaters heading home in the early evening would’ve called to the kids sitting on the end of the dock, all reeling in colorful bobbers pushed back toward the seawall by the boat’s wake. It was all so sad really and I was left to surmise the obvious: the laughter of family and friends, so common in those days, had been finally silenced by a decimated job market and a ballooning second mortgage.

I approached the front of the house with caution and stopped before entering while listening for the hurried footsteps of squatters that’d become so prevalent in those days. I heard none and continued up the walk before realizing though the bank had supplied keys to the front door, I didn’t need them as it had been forced open. I would soon discover the back door had as well.

After taking a few tentative steps inside, I aimed my camera and took a photo of the family room and several of the adjoining kitchen, all capturing the drawers and cabinet doors standing open. The hall closet and pantry had been ransacked – not unusual for a home that had stood empty this long, but there was more, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. I had a sense the house had been tossed. The old carpeting had been pulled up to expose travertine floors in need of refinishing and the ceiling panel, which allowed access to the crawl space and trusses above, was missing. Random holes had been punched in some of the walls with what might have been a sledge hammer or equally heavy object and the refrigerator - while old, out of date, and clearly not worth stealing – had been pulled away from the kitchen wall, which bore yet another large gaping hole.

The home’s design was in a traditional ranch style, so it was thankfully, just one story, which meant I didn’t have to traverse any creepy stairway. I took photos of all three bedrooms still sporting faded, peeling wallpaper and dirty Berber carpeting. Built before master suites and split bedroom plans became popular with buyers, the home’s bedrooms were laid out side by side down a long hall with a full bath located at the end. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom had been pulled loose from the wall, and rain had blown in through a broken window over the tub leaving a long dirty trail of sludge over the old robin egg blue tile.

Obviously, the walls needed to be patched and the house painted inside and out. The roof, carpeting and old jalousie windows needed to be replaced and the kitchen and bathrooms would require major renovation. But the house had been well built and even though it had stood empty for years, was in surprisingly good shape all things considered. Best of all, the home was situated on an oversized, private lot which fronted the river and was surrounded by green space. The renovations, though extensive, would be worth it, of that I was sure.

After exiting the house, I stopped to lock both the front and back doors before walking the perimeter of the home where I took photos of its exterior. I also noted the condition of the custom-made Bahama shutters, one or two of which were laying on the ground.

The lock on the garage door had also been jimmied as had the door of the gardener’s shed, and so it was with some trepidation I opened it and stepped inside, just long enough to take a photo of the shed’s interior and whatever rodent I sent scurrying to the back corner. The inspection was going better than I initially thought it would and the inspection form, almost completed, could be forwarded with the photos to the bank in the morning along with my invoice.

The last exterior feature to be inspected was the dock. So, I walked around to the south side of the house and made my way down to the river’s edge. Though it was still standing, the dock, which jutted 20 feet out from the seawall was in disrepair. I gingerly tested it before putting my full weight on the first board. I added a notation on the form that a few boards were in bad shape and two were missing altogether, but the pilings appeared to be solid. Since the structure had been grandfathered in by the Corps of Engineers, whoever was to buy the property could do so with the knowledge that at least the dock could be kept and repaired after applying for the requisite permit to do so. I took a few photos of the broken boards to include with the inspection report and because the skies had cleared, I cautiously stepped out to the end of the dock to take one or two photos of the river for my own use.

A new picture was needed to grace the front of the Christmas Card I always mailed to a host of business associates, who like me, worked daily within the confines of a toxic real estate market such as bank and mortgage company reps, real estate agents, attorneys and appraisers. I thought a nice, uplifting river shot might just do the trick. The cartoon of Santa lounging on the beach in his underwear, which I’d used the previous year, was getting about as stale as the beer he was hoisting under the caption, "Here’s a holiday toast to all of you not yet in a 12-step program."

Convinced I’d taken enough photos, I turned to the last page of the inspection report where any condition that needed to be addressed immediately was to be notated on a checklist. The list, compiled by the bank, consisted of ten conditions which included: a collapsed roof, the strong, unmistakable smell of gas, and vagrants living (squatting) in a vacant home. The real estate appraiser or inspector was to indicate all that applied.

I first checked the ‘None of the Above’ box at the bottom of the list, but then went down a bit further on the page and checked the ‘Other’ box. On the appropriate line, next to that box I wrote the report’s final notation and underlined it for effect: ‘Dead Body in River by Dock. Needs to be removed A.S.A.P.’

Chapter 2

Did you touch anything? Detective Rodriguez asked me in what I took to be his all business and very official voice. Are you kidding? Do you not see this place? It’s filthy. Oh, wait – you meant touch anything since I recognized this as a crime scene? No, no I didn’t touch anything even before I knew someone had been iced here.

How do you know the victim was killed here?

I don’t – I mean I assumed he was – wasn’t he… killed here I mean?

We’re still in the middle of a murder investigation, Ms. Minolta, so I’m not sure exactly what happened and when, however, we will need and expect your full cooperation while trying to determine what transpired here today.

You’ve got it as long as you’re not looking for a tearful confession from me, Detective.

Why should I? Do you have something to confess?

Of course not, I meant that as a joke of sorts, you know, that reference to confessing.

But timing’s everything in life and just as I uttered a half chuckle under my breath, a team of EMTs pushed the coroner’s gurney bearing the still dripping wet body of the deceased within a few feet of the two of us. We were standing in the gravel driveway that was, by that time, full of emergency vehicles of every type: police cruisers, fire trucks and one lone ambulance. It was about then that Detective Rodriguez gave me one of those looks that is rarely used in decent company except when someone passes gas in church or swears out loud in a day care center.

This is not the time for jokes, I get that. I said as apologetically as I could muster.

No, it’s not, Ms. Minolta, but if you have something you want to tell me, now would be a good time.

You’re still talking about confessing, right?

Call it what you want.

Wait, now that you mention it, I do, but it involves the doorknobs.

What?

"You asked if I touched anything and I did. I confess I touched the doorknobs."

That’s not a confession.

"I admit I touched the doorknobs."

Still not what I’m looking for.

Sorry, but I have no idea who did this, you know, terrible killing thing.

It’s called cold blooded murder. This was not an accident, not suicide, but murder.

I know, but I just can’t say it out loud right now. Tomorrow maybe, but not, you know, today.

Ms. Minolta, did you see anyone else on the property while you were inspecting the premises?

No, and I sure wouldn’t have gotten out of the car if someone had been here I wasn’t told to expect by our client in advance. We’re very careful about that sort of thing and I do mean careful. All the appraisers are because you never know what you’re walking into, especially when it comes to inspecting property that’s facing foreclosure. I nodded to the gurney as if to make my point. I mean, you know, people - that is to say the owners - are downright pissed off sometimes and they tend to associate us with their loss. The detective scribbled something on his pad and then continued.

Did you pass anyone on the road who might have been leaving the property as you arrived?

Nada, I said while shaking my head. But who would walk out here? I waved my hand erratically as if to make a point before adding, Really, there’s no place to go. It’s all pasture and sod fields mixed in with a few older riverfront homes.

The killer might have walked up from some undisclosed location, the detective suggested.

I guess that’s right, I just hadn’t considered it.

What’s the exact address here? Detective Rodriguez asked while glancing up and looking in my direction.

Who me? You’re asking me for the address of this house, the um, uh, dead house? Let’s see, I can’t remember, and your people have my paperwork. Wait a minute, it’s something, something, Road, really that’s the best I can do without my, you know…

… your paperwork.

"Exactly, nor can I complete the inspection report that is due tomorrow without the forms attached to my clipboard, which is, unfortunately, attached to one of the deputies. Is there any way you can see your way clear to at least let me have that back? Detective Rodriguez considered my request for a moment and then he nodded and signaled to one of his men to hand him the clipboard. The officer complied and passed it to the detective who briefly glanced at it before returning it to me along with his card. If you think of anything else, call my office number and one more thing, Ms. Minolta, don’t leave the area without contacting me first."

OMG. You people really say that? I thought that was just dialogue from an old Magnum re-run.

Not only do we say it, the detective said while turning to walk back to the house, but we mean it. And I believe he did.

* * * * *

Of course, I don’t know who it is and I’m not sure I want to know, I told Sherry while standing front and center by her desk at the bank the next day. I emailed the photos and the report to Bert at, oh, I don’t know, maybe 2:30 this morning. I haven’t had any sleep and couldn’t sleep, even if I wanted to because a very determined, which is just a nice way of saying overly zealous, Detective Rodriguez keeps calling me asking if I can remember anything else and by the way, do I want to wager a guess as to why I just happened to stumble upon this floater. Oh, oh, wait - he also asked who I thought the ‘perp’ might be and I’ve tried to explain to him discovering dead bodies is really out of the scope of work for most appraisers, even in this economy.

"Gee, that sounds, you know, awful, Dee, but can you keep your voice down because my head is really killing me. I may have overdone