Lady Justice and the Mystery Mansion Page 3

  I thought for a moment. “Maggie tells me that one of the previous owners was shot to death right here in the foyer. I’m guessing that dark stain is probably where he bled out.”

  “Geeez Louise!” Jerry exclaimed, jumping back. “That’s almost like walking on a man’s grave. Not cool!”

  “My goodness,” the Professor said, “the previous owners certainly left a lot of valuable antiques.”

  “Yes,” Maggie replied. “As I understand it, everything in the house is just as it was ten years ago when Albert Briggs was shot and his son, Jason, was taken into custody.”

  “This roll top desk,” the Professor said, pointing “is definitely a collector’s item.”

  “And it still works,” I said, rolling the top back. “Whoa! What’s this?” I pulled a thick manuscript tied in a roll with a black ribbon out of one of the cubby holes. “It’s an abstract. Probably of this property.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Maggie gushed, looking over my shoulder at the document.

  “What’s an abstract?” Jerry asked, puzzled at the significance of the find.

  “An abstract of title,” the Professor said, “is the condensed history of the title to a particular parcel of real estate, consisting of a summary of the original grant and all subsequent conveyances and encumbrances affecting the property and a certification by the abstractor that the history is complete and accurate.”

  “In other words,” Maggie said, “that’s a complete history of the property from the day this house was built, including everyone who owned it and how much they paid for it. I can’t wait to get it home and delve into the history of this beautiful old home.”

  At that moment, we heard a blood-curdling scream from the kitchen.

  Our little group had spread out through the house, each with a flashlight, exploring the nooks and crannies, wondering what surprises they might find.

  The scream was from Bernice. She evidently found a surprise she hadn’t anticipated.

  We all rushed to the kitchen and found Bernice standing in a shooter’s pose with her little .32 pointed into a dark corner. Several years ago, she and Dad took a concealed carry class. Now she carries her revolver strapped to her ankle everywhere she goes.

  “Bernice! What’s going on?”

  “Rat!” she muttered, pointing the .32. “Over there. The sucker was as big as a small dog.”

  We all shined our lights into the dark corner.

  “Bernice! That’s not a rat. It’s a possum.”

  The furry creature bared his teeth and scampered into a hole in the wall.

  “Another minute and he’d been a dead possum,” Bernice declared holstering her gun.

  “Looks like our first call should be to Jake the Bugman,” Maggie said. “It appears some extermination is in order.”

  While the rest of our party was exploring the interior of the house, I wandered outside to take a look at the old carriage house in the back.

  I pushed open the door and almost wet my pants.

  A man was stretched out on a sleeping bag on the floor. I don’t know which one of us was more surprised.

  I spoke first. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “Who are you?” he replied, obviously wary.

  “I’m the new owner of the property and I’m guessing you’re a squatter.”

  “Yeah, I am,” he replied. He started rolling up his sleeping bag. “I’ll go.”

  As he approached carrying his bed roll, I thought he looked familiar. I was about to say something when Mary walked up.

  “Art? Is that you?”

  I turned to Mary. “Do you know this guy?”

  “Sure do. That’s Art Cranston. He used to live at the hotel.”

  Then I remembered where I had seen him. He had been one of my tenants.

  “What are you doing squatting in this dump?” Mary asked.

  “I lost my job,” Art replied. “I didn’t have the forty bucks so I had to move out. I haven’t been able to find any work so I’ve just been sleeping wherever I can. This place looked abandoned so I didn’t think anyone would mind. I’ll leave.”

  A thought had been going through my mind. “Hang on a minute.” I turned to Mary. “Tell me about Art.”

  “He was a good tenant,” she replied. “He never caused no trouble and paid on time.”

  I turned back to Art. “What kind of work did you do?”

  “I was part of a construction crew. My boss had a heart attack and went out of business. Seems like nobody wants to give a sixty-year-old carpenter a chance.”

  “Do you want a job?”

  His eyes lit up immediately. “Sure! Doing what?”

  I pointed to the mansion. “We’re restoring this old dump. I’ll bet there’s all kinds of things you could do in there. Besides, once we start bringing in building supplies, I’ll want someone here on site. Building materials have a way of disappearing overnight. You can stay here and I’ll pay you ten dollars an hour when you work. What do you think?”

  He grabbed my hand and a tear rolled down his cheek.

  “Thank you. You won’t be sorry. What do you want me to do first?”

  “Let’s go inside. The place is full of old furniture, some are antiques. I want everything cleaned and polished and ready to sell. Hopefully, we can sell some of those old pieces to offset the remodeling costs.”

  We went inside and I introduced Art to our little crew.

  I knew that restoring the old mansion was going to be a long, laborious journey. Hiring Art Cranston was just the first step, but it was a start.

  CHAPTER 7

  I opened my eyes and rolled over planning to give my sweetie a good morning kiss, but she wasn’t there.

  I plodded into the kitchen and found her at the table studying the old abstract I’d found in the roll top desk. There were copious notes on the computer paper that was strewn about the table.

  “Just about finished,” she said, holding up a finger.

  “Finished with what?”

  “There!” she said, laying down her pen. “All done. I went back to the very beginning and traced the ownership of our property from its first occupants up to now.”

  “Very impressive,” I said, looking over her shoulder.”

  “The home was built in 1903 by Matthew Matson at a cost of $50,000. I looked it up and fifty grand back then would be equivalent to a million and a half in today’s money. Matson spared no expense when he constructed the place. Come! Look! I’ve created a timeline showing every owner.”

  “Let me grab a cup of coffee,” I said. I figured Maggie’s dissertation of the home’s lineage might take a while.

  “Like I said, Matthew and Eunice Matson built the home. They owned it from 1903 until 1919 when they sold it to Angelo and Catrina Rossi. The Rossi’s owned it until 1935 when it was sold to Theodore and Marjorie Weston. The Weston’s sold it to Gerald and Sophia Baldwin in 1960. The Baldwin’s sold it to William and Janice Lawton in 1975. The Lawton’s sold it to Albert and Susan Briggs in 1995.

  “It was 2008 when Albert was shot and his son, Jason, went to prison. In 2014 Bruce Wheeler bought it for back taxes but lost interest in restoring it when his wife died. It’s almost like a family tree and now we’re the next branch. I’m so excited.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I replied. Actually, I wasn’t, but Maggie was so excited I didn’t want to be a wet blanket and dampen her enthusiasm.

  “So what do you have planned for today?” she asked.

  “I figured with all the spiders, possums and other creepy crawly things that probably live there, I’d give Jake the Bugman a call.”

  “I’m for that! Have you thought about a contractor?”

  “Actually, I have,” I replied. “I was thinking of Don Duran. He’s done good work for us before. He’s a general contractor so we’ll only have to deal with him. He’ll hire subcontractors for the electrical, plumbing and heating and be responsible for the scheduling.”

  “Good
. I like Don. He’s a good choice.”

  “So what are you doing today? Do you have appointments?”

  “Nope, my schedule is clear. I’m going to spend the day finding out as much as I can about all the previous owners of the property. I’m sure there must be some fascinating stories. After all, that home was one of the finest in its day. The people who lived there must have been very wealthy and were probably prominent figures in Kansas City’s upper crust. I’ll find what I can on Google then go to the library and look through microfiche of the Kansas City Star. If I can find enough information, I’d like to put together a scrapbook of the stories of the previous owners to give to the person who buys the place when we’ve finished.”

  “That’s quite a project.”

  “I know,” she replied. “I can’t wait to get started.”

  I gave Jake the Bugman a call and arranged a meeting at ten o’clock. Maggie and I had used Jake for our termite inspections for years. He was a crusty old guy, but honest. If he said there were termites, there were definitely termites. I always loved his slogan. “If it crawls, it falls. If it flies, it dies!”

  We pulled up in front of the Gladstone property at the same time.

  When he saw the house, his mouth dropped open.

  “Wow! What a derelict. Who’s the moron who bought this dump?”

  “Uhhh, that would be me.”

  “Seriously? I though you were retired. Why in the world would you take on a project like this?”

  “I am retired, and believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”

  “Ahhh, Maggie!” he said, knowingly. “I can see that. She’s a dreamer.”

  “More like a nightmare,” I replied. “Well, let’s take a look. It’s been vacant for ten years, so no telling what’s taken up residence during that time. Spiders for sure and one fat possum that I know of.”

  Just as I was unlocking the door, Art Cranston came around the corner from the carriage house. I made the introductions and the three of us stepped inside.

  “Yuck!” Jake muttered. “It smells like ass-crack in here.”

  That was one of Jake’s favorite lines. I had heard it more than once when entering a house that had been closed up for a long time.

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” Art replied.

  I have to admit I’m not an authority on the subject, but if two guys agree, it must be true.

  “I’ll take a look around,” Jake said, clicking on his flashlight.

  I turned to Art. “So how have you been getting along?”

  “Just fine,” he replied. “Come take a look.”

  He led me into the study. “You said you wanted to get some of the old furniture polished up and ready to sell, so I’ve been working on that.”

  He pointed to the old roll top desk where I’d found the abstract. “This one’s ready to go.”

  I was amazed. The old desk that had been scratched and covered with dust was now in pristine condition.

  “How in the world did you do that?”

  “When you folks were here the other day, I had a talk with Willie. I knew him from when I lived at the hotel. I told him what I needed and he brought it over. I hope that’s all right.”

  “All right! It’s more than all right. You did a great job.”

  “It turned out okay,” he replied, modestly. “It’s a beauty. You can probably get fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand for it.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “I had a part time job cleaning up evenings and weekends at an antique store --- until the place went out of business. I learned a lot just looking around at the stuff in the store. There’s more,” he said, leading me into the dining room.

  I followed him into the dining room where he proudly pointed to an old sideboard.

  “This one took a while longer. Lots of scratches.”

  “Art! It’s beautiful! I’m amazed at what you’ve accomplished if just a couple of days.”

  “I’m just glad you gave me the chance. I want to be worth my keep.”

  “Well, you certainly are.”

  “There’s one more thing upstairs,” he said.

  I followed him up the circular staircase and into the master bedroom.

  “I got this one ready too,” he said, pointing to a marvelous old bedstead.

  I was absolutely elated, but my euphoria was short-lived.

  Jake entered the room, dusting off his trousers. “Congratulations, Walt. You’ve got termites.”

  Actually, I wasn’t surprised. It would have been a miracle to find a house one hundred and fifteen years old that hadn’t been attacked by the little buggers.

  “How bad?”

  “No structural damage. I found evidence of a treatment years ago. Just say the word and I’ll get busy on the rats, spiders, termites, and possums.”

  “Have at it. The quicker you get through the quicker I can get the contractor to work.”

  I turned to Art. “Great job. For now, just keep at it. I’ll have Willie bring over boxes. Box up all the loose stuff and I’ll call the Salvation Army for a pick up. We’ll need to get the place cleared out so the contractors can go to work.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  When I got home, I shared my news with Maggie.

  “With the antiques Art got cleaned up, we should be able to cover the termite treatment and extermination with plenty to spare.”

  “That’s a good start,” she replied. Now let me tell you what I found out today. Matthew Matson who built the house was a cowboy --- sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “The stockyards in the West Bottoms were established in 1871 and for the next eighty years it was the Midwest hub for livestock exchange. Apparently, Matson made a fortune buying cattle out west, bringing them into Kansas City, and selling them to the slaughter houses such as Armour and Swift.

  “After amassing his fortune in cattle, he built the Gladstone mansion for his family in 1903. Matthew and Eunice Matson had two sons, Gerald and Philip. Unfortunately, both were killed in World War I at the Battle of Amiens in August of 1918.

  “Distraught over the loss of their sons, they sold the house to the Rossi’s in 1919 and moved somewhere out west.”

  “Tragic story for the first chapter of your scrapbook.”

  “Yes, it is. Maybe the next chapter will have a happy ending.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I spent the next few days contacting antique dealers until I found one who would take my pieces on consignment.

  After the antiques were removed and the Salvation Army had picked up the boxes Art had packed, the place was empty. It was time to give Don Duran a call.

  Like everyone else who had seen the old mansion, the contractor just stared in disbelief.

  “Walt! What were you thinking?”

  I sighed. “That seems to be the first question in the mind of everyone who’s seen the place. In my defense, this wasn’t my idea.”

  “Ahhh, the little lady in your life. Maggie has always been able to get past the rough exterior and see the goodness that lies beneath. Marrying you is a case in point.”

  “Thanks! If you’re through giving me a hard time, shall we look inside?”

  “Lead the way.”

  Once inside, he gave a low whistle. “I can see why Maggie was taken with the place. It was once quite elegant.”

  “According to the research she’s done, it cost fifty grand to build in 1903.”

  “I’m not surprised. The detail on the woodwork alone must have cost a fortune. Let’s take a look in the basement.”

  After roaming around in the basement with his flashlight, we returned to the first floor.

  He gave me a long look. “Walt, you’ve been in the business a long time so I’m not telling you something you don’t already know. We’re talking new wiring, new plumbing, a new heating system with air, and that’s just the start. No telling what we’ll find when we start tearing into things.”

  I held up my hand
s. “I know. I know. I gave Maggie that speech before we bought the place, but ---.”

  “But it didn’t matter. She had her heart set on the place and you couldn’t tell her no.”

  “Something like that. Are you interested?”

  “For you, of course. I’ll need a deposit to get things started.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand should get the ball rolling. I’ll let you know in advance when I’ll need more.”

  My hiney puckered when I heard fifty thousand. It was like going to the dentist. You knew in advance it was going to hurt, but you didn’t know how much until he started drilling.

  “I’ll write you a check, but hold it until tomorrow so I can transfer some funds.”

  “No problem. I’ll get started pulling permits. I can have a crew in here day after tomorrow.”

  At that moment, Art walked in.

  “I thought I heard voices. Figured I should check it out.”

  “Art, this is Don Duran. He’s the general contractor for our little project. Don, this is Art Cranston. He’s staying in the carriage house out back. I’ve hired him to do odd jobs for me and keep an eye on the place so that our building supplies don’t walk off during the night. Feel free to use him for clean up or anything else. Just keep track of his hours. I’m paying him out of my own pocket.”

  “Sounds good,” Don said, as the two men shook hands.

  Operation restoration was underway.

  A few days later I drove to the Gladstone house.

  Two forty-yard roll-off containers were in the driveway and men were bustling in and out carrying debris.

  As I walked up the sidewalk, I met Jake the Bugman coming around the side of the house. He was carrying a wire cage with a very frightened little possum.

  “Finally got him,” he said, proudly.

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “I’m going to take the little fellow to the wildlife conservation area and turn him loose. He’ll be just fine there. It’s probably a good thing. If he hung around the city he would have eventually wound up as road kill.”