Killer Flip: A Home Renovator Mystery, #4

By M. E. Bakos

Flipping houses can be a KILLER!

Before the holiday festivities begin, Katelyn jumps at the chance to renovate a Tudor style home in fictional Crocus Heights, Minnesota. All the home furnishings, fine china, and crystal are part of the sale.

The catch? Nearly twenty years earlier, in the aftermath of a famous Halloween blizzard, a woman who lived in the quaint home was found dead in her towed car.

Katelyn discovers a cache of cold, hard cash and jewelry. Is it finders-keepers or losers-weepers? Who killed the beautiful, young, ambitious resident?

Did hunky Sheriff Don really propose? What is up with Olivia, his old flames offspring? Does Eddy really want to marry Katelyn again? Does Katelyn want to marry again?

Fans of cozy mysteries will love Killer Flip, the fourth Home Renovator Mystery, as Katelyn rehabs a house, solves a murder, and finds love. Each book has earned a five-star review from Readers' Favorite.

The entire crew is back; BFF Myra, Ex-hubby Eddy, hunky Sheriff Don, newlyweds Wayne and Gillie, and Boots, the best tuxedo cat ever. Buy now to continue Katelyn's journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. E. Bakos
• Release date: Dec 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215878088

M. E. Bakos

M.E. Bakos writes cozy mysteries about a house flipper, turned sleuth, in fictional Crocus Heights, Minnesota. The “delightful” series earns five-star reviews from Readers Favorite. Her mystery short stories receive kudos. She has published several short stories in SINC anthologies, and was a regular fiction contributor to national women’s magazines. If she isn’t plotting mysteries, she’s planning home improvements.  Mary lives with her husband, Joe, and spoiled pooch in Minnesota. Email: [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter 1

My name is Katelyn Baxter, and I am a home rehab specialist. Renovating distressed houses is my passion. Myra Alexandria Payten, BFF, is my muse. She cheers me on and sometimes finds the properties. Like the one we were touring now. It was a Tudor style in my desired area of Crocus Heights, Minnesota.

Tudors have a quaint grand manor style and were popular in the early 1900s. The cottage style Tudor was easy to spot, with a distinctive dark wood beamed front and cream exterior, a steep pitched roof, and an arched entry located on Jay Street. It was close to my last flip on Warbler and within striking distance of my rental property on Bluebird Street.

How did you hear about this house? I asked Myra as we strolled through the rooms.

I was friends with Theresa and Steve Miller, the owners. Their real estate lawyer is my lawyer. I called him with a question about my home, and we started chatting. I told him I knew a local Home Renovation Specialist who might be interested when he told me the house would come on the market. It’s full of household furnishings and not yet listed.

Okay.

He lent me the keys so that I could run it past you. The son wants to sell fast.

Nice. It’s good to know people who know people.

There is a bit of sadness with Theresa and Steve. Not necessarily with the house. She brushed back her highlighted locks and paused. Finished with viewing both floors, we stopped in the entry.

I braced myself.

Their daughter, Darlene, was married to Lyle Erickson. She was found dead in the back seat of her car the Monday afternoon following a blizzard. It was a sad day. Theresa, her mother, and I taught at the same school.

Death isn’t exactly a selling point, I countered. For once, I’d like to rehab a property that doesn’t have a dead body nearby or in it. What happened?

Long story short. The couple rented the upstairs from her parents. Darlene was upwardly mobile and worked for a major corporation. Her husband, Lyle, was a lot like her father, a jack of all trades, master of none. He worked temp jobs at the time Darlene died.

So not so stable in the income department. My mind was ticking away.

No, he wasn’t, she agreed. That night, according to Theresa, Lyle and Darlene went to a Halloween party. It was the year of that dreadful blizzard they still talk about on the news.

Ah yes. The great Halloween storm of 1991? I grimaced.

Yes. If you recall, the blizzard started that evening and went on for about three days, dumping over two feet of snow in Minneapolis.

I remember it well, I said, shaking my head. Schools and stores were closed, and companies were shuttered while the city dug out. It was a mess!"

Darlene was nervous about the weather and left the party early. Lyle stayed behind. He didn’t worry when they hadn’t connected for a couple of days. He was too busy at the party house digging out and enjoying the extended Halloween bash. Lyle got home on Sunday. The parents hadn’t heard from them and expected that the two had stayed the weekend at the party. The night of the party, a Snow Emergency was called.

Okay, I prompted.

Lyle took a cab home from the party. When he arrived, there was no Darlene, and no car. They called friends and checked hospitals, with no result. That was when Lyle and her parents reported her missing.

Okay?

Lyle returned to the street where they had parked, and the car was gone. He went to the city impound lot to check if the vehicle had been towed, as it was a very common occurrence.

Yes. The city is very aggressive about towing vehicles. I’d had a few occasions to bail out my cars from the city’s lot. It wasn’t pretty, and it was expensive. The impound lot added daily storage charges to the ticket and tow fees.

The car was there, and Lyle paid the fine and found the car in the lot. He spotted a figure in the back seat, and begged the attendant to call the police and stay while he opened the car.

The towing company or impound people couldn’t see a body in the car? I asked, puzzled.

The back seat was cluttered, and she was a small woman. If someone was familiar with the car, they may have seen something amiss. But it was a Snow Emergency, and the city had towed hundreds of vehicles during the blizzard. It was overwhelming.

Okay.

That was where Darlene’s stiff body was found, in the back seat, she said grimly.

That’s horrible! Did she freeze to death?

That was the police’s first impression. She had had too much to drink, and lay down in the back seat to sleep it off and froze.

But that wasn’t the case? I asked.

No. When the detectives looked closer, they saw that the back of her head suffered trauma, along with neck bruises and marks from a rope or garrote. They deduced she had been hit with an object, likely to subdue her, then strangled. The medical examiner confirmed the cause of death by the petechia or hemorrhages in her eyes.

Horrific.

It was. Her expression was somber.

Her parents must have been devastated.

Theresa was never the same. It’s been almost seventeen years, and the murder was never solved. She cleared her throat and stated firmly, Darlene’s death had nothing to do with the house. And I know how you like Tudors.

Yes. I sighed. I do like them. My townhouse had the façade of a Tudor. The regal exterior housed four townhouse units. My two-bedroom townhome was the first unit in the central hall, Gillie’s was next to mine, then came Ariel Kominski’s old home (now belonging to newlyweds, Wayne and Gillie Hamer), and Wayne’s unit at the end. All had the same layout, and all had their individual personalities. Wayne’s was the most woodified, because of his love of wood; a semi-retired carpenter, and my helper in flipping houses.

Was there life insurance? My mind immediately went to the husband, the logical culprit for the premature death of a spouse.

Yes. There was insurance. She added, I believe Lyle applied for benefits, but he did not receive any of the proceeds because he was a suspect. They could never prove he was involved in her murder, but he wasn’t cleared. Last I heard, the policy was in limbo.

Ah hah! I crossed my arms.

He wasn’t charged either, she said. You’re innocent until proven guilty.

Hmm. I gazed at the interior. It’s a lovely home. Built-in bookcases bordered a wood-burning fireplace in the family room. Heavy drapes adorned the windows, lending a warm feeling to the rooms. I could do a lot with this place. My mind wandered to the vision of a renovated house ready for a new family. How much does he want?

According to the lawyer, they want... She named a figure.

That is cheap for a home like this. My eyes lit up. What’s the catch?

Everything goes with the house. Furnishings, window treatments, all the appliances and dishes, everything.

I blinked. Why? These are great items. There may even be some antiques here. I eyed a hutch filled with fine china and serving dishes.

The son wants out. He doesn’t want to deal with the house. He’s kept it up while his father, Steve, was in a nursing home with memory issues. Steve passed recently. Theresa died years ago, possibly of a broken heart. Bruce, their son, has always been a bit of an outlier.

Outlier?

He’s a survivalist. Not into money, wants to live a nomad kind of life, have experiences, not money. The sale will finance his lifestyle. She smiled brightly.

That explains the exterior, I said. The lawn was overgrown, and with fall came a beautiful landscape of golden and red foliage. The trees were dropping leaves that needed raking to save the lawn from fungus and/or pest infestations. There was raking, pruning, and mulching shrubs to winter over. It was not my favorite fall activity, although I loved a long walk with the fall colors. The weather was cool, the scenery was gorgeous, and it was great sleeping weather. The season also brought out bulky sweaters and the promise of tucking in for the winter. 

Bruce isn’t a domesticated sort of guy, I said with a wry smile. I had always been an earth sign material kind of girl. I liked houses and all the stuff. It was a reaction to my spare childhood, with a hippie-style mother and a drill sergeant father. A lot of conflict and few possessions.

Yes. Bruce is into a natural landscape. Myra sighed.

I wonder how he evaded the city ordinances. You’re fined if your lawn reaches a certain height. I looked through the dusty glass of the entry door at the overgrown grass.

Eight inches for weeds or grass, she responded crisply. Myra would know. A gardener visited her Minneapolis home regularly. He probably hasn’t responded, she said. I’m sure there are assessments against the property.

Good to know. I winced and asked, The price includes all the inside stuff and the garage? With any luck, there would be a mulching lawn mower in the inventory. If not, Wayne would have an idea.

Yes.

Sold!

Chapter 2

It was a relief not to go through the auction routine, I reflected as I signed the paperwork at the lawyer’s office. Another benefit to bypassing the bidding process, was avoiding Sheriff Don Williams, my skittish love interest, at the courthouse.

Bruce Miller was friendly, albeit quiet in signing the papers. He was a handsome man, muscular, and wore his long hair and beard well. He wore ear buds, shorts, sandals, and a tee-shirt sporting the rock band logo of Guns and Roses. It was hard to tell his age with his Bohemian dress and hair bandanna. He stood up after the final signature and offered a beefy handshake.

Enjoy the house, he said, sidling to the exit.

Thank you. How can I reach you if I have questions?

Hey, yeah. You can call the lawyer. He gestured toward the attorney and left.

Bruce lives off the grid, the lawyer offered. Up north, near the Boundary Waters. The area was in the upper region of Minnesota and known for its wilderness and survivalist programs. It may be a challenge reaching him. He doesn’t have many good memories of the house, and he wants to wash his hands of his childhood home. And forget about his sister’s death. If he carries a cell phone, service is likely bad.

I didn’t mean to be nosey. Okay, I was being snoopy. I just meant if I found something that I thought he would want.

Like Bruce said, you can call me. He smiled blandly. It’s a sad tale of a dysfunctional family. I doubt you’ll find anything. Briskly, he handed over the keys. Good luck with the rehab.

I took the keys, muttering under my breath, I could write a book on dysfunctional families.

The lawyer, his brows furrowed, walked me to the door. Once I was in the hall, he hurriedly closed the door, leaving me a bit spooked. I took a deep breath and quelled my buyer’s remorse. He must have another appointment. I gripped the keys and headed to my new rehab in my newest ride, a snazzy little 2003 Ford Focus Hatchback, affordable, distinctive, and with great utility for my profession. It was canary yellow. The color had given me pause when I found it at our local used car lot. The price convinced me it was the car. Besides, I could have it painted.

I parked in front of the house and gazed at the façade. It was in good condition. The stucco was the traditional creamy façade, and the beams that decorated the pitched roof and dormer looked in great shape. Wayne, my neighbor, and handyman, waved from the front steps. I had called him before the closing and asked him to join me at the Tudor for a walk-through and estimate of what needed doing to make this jewel shine. His gray hair was back in a ponytail, and a cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth. He stamped out his smoke while I gathered my purse and notepad and joined him on the stoop.

Yo, Kiddo! Wayne had always called me Kiddo instead of my given name. It made me feel warm and fuzzy, younger than my thirty-five years.

Glad you could make it. I smiled. I was sure this renovation would go off without a hitch with his steady hand. The last renovation had been challenging, working on my own, but I was proud of the outcome. It had sold the week after they tossed the bad guy in jail.

How’s married life?

Gillie’s a dream. That’s for sure. It’s been great. She cooks, bakes, and the house is immaculate! A grin stretched across his weathered face.

Uh huh? She doesn’t mind you working? No big plans to be snow birds again this year? It was late September, with winter fast approaching. I rarely rehabbed in the fall and winter months. I enjoyed starting projects in the spring with the arrival of fresh tulips, daffodils, and new grass. Heating and cooling bills were minimal. Tucking in for the winter was more appealing than drywall and painting. With any luck, I could be done with this house by the first of the year. It wouldn’t be the best time to market the house, but I’d take my chance on buyers wanting a fresh remodel with a new year.

I put the key in the lock and twisted. It didn’t move. I tried the spare key, same thing.

The attorney must have given me the wrong set of keys. Puzzled, I kept working the lock.

Here, let me. Wayne grunted as he tried the lock. Yep, looks like you’ll have to go back and switch keys. These aren’t right.

Great. I dragged you out here for nothing. I grumbled, Waste of time. I stepped away from the front door and hit the screen with the side of my hand, frustrated.

No problem. I can keep you company. Or,—he shot me a mischievous glance— I can see if my tool set will work.

Tool set? Oh. I smirked, and shrugged. I own the house; have at it. He had picked the lock at the townhouses one other time. His skill set was top-notch.

Within a couple of minutes, he had jimmied the lock, and we burst into the front foyer.

RRRRRAAAAAAAA! RRRRAAAAAA!

We gasped as the house alarm blasted. We stood frozen, looking at one another.

You got a code? Wayne looked over his wire-rimmed glasses at my stricken face. He covered his ears.

No! I followed suit. I’d forgotten about the alarm. Myra had taken care of it on our tour, and I thought the company would cease operation when I purchased the house. I’ll call the attorney if you can find a number for the alarm company.

You got it! He scoured the white box that housed the alarm inside the entry. There had to be a number for the alarm company somewhere.

Frantically, I left my hearing to the mercy of the alarm and dug in my purse for my cell phone to call the lawyer. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty. I should have called when I discovered the keys didn’t work.

I heard sirens as I searched for the attorney’s number through my contacts. Finding the number, I punched it. Groaning, I heard the voice on the other end. Your call is very valuable. Please hold while we assist other patrons, or leave a message, and we will return your call. Still rummaging through my messenger bag, I answered the loud rap at the door.

When I looked up, it was into the deep cobalt blue eyes of Sheriff Don standing in the entry, one hand at his firearm. I gulped.

What are you doing here? His eyes sparked.

Why are you here? I countered. A hint of snark escaped, and I bit my tongue. 

Protecting the community! He glared. I was driving past and heard the call. Thought I’d save a deputy the trouble of responding.

I am not a threat to Crocus Heights! My gut dropped. It warmed my heart to see him, even under these conditions. His gaze softened, and he relaxed, asking, Okay, Katelyn. What’s going on?

I own this house; just closed on it this morning.

The alarm continued blaring. Let’s go outside and sort this out. He motioned to the front stoop.

Hi, Wayne. Don turned his attention to the handyman, and waved him outside. The three of us stood on the top stoop. The blare of the alarm receded, and he pivoted to the handyman, Great wedding.

My face flushed red, remembering Don’s proposal. Was it a real proposal? It had been a month, thirty long days. I’d picked up the phone several times to call him, and couldn’t bring myself to make contact. Too many questions swirled in my head. Had I misheard? No, Eddy Pascal, my ex, and Myra had heard too, and asked me about the sheriff. Was I ready to get married again? For the third time! It was too complicated.

The past month, I’d devoted myself to my career, seeking new properties to rehab. Myra had a front-row seat to my quandary, and that may have been why she found this house, to get my mind off Don.

Yo. Happy you made it. Wayne beamed. That was some ceremony. Great surprise, getting a ghostbuster and a reception to boot! Me and the missus will have you over to look at the wedding pictures.

That’d be great. So, the alarm was triggered? Don asked, reminding me of why he was there.

I must have gotten the wrong keys at the closing! I blurted, adding, I jimmied the lock. He didn’t have to know Wayne had done the deed.

You need to call the real estate company.

Trying to call the lawyer now. Exasperated, I added, They aren’t answering.

Do you have the papers? he asked, a hint of a smile on his mouth.

In the car! I huffed.

"Don’t get touchy. I’m sworn to uphold the law. While you get the papers,