Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

The old red-brick five-and-dime store towered above its neighbors, five stories tall, filling half a block. At street level, its display windows were soaped over, filled with crudely lettered signs. FINAL DAYS! GOING OUT OF BUSINESS! EVERYTHING MUST GO! From the shabby look of things, everything had gone. A long time ago.

A few windows in the second story still had glass in them. The upper stories were completely closed up, rows of gabled windows blinded with weather-stained plywood panels, eyeless and forlorn.

“Dynamite,” Puck said grimly.

I glanced at him.

“Four sticks. We plant one at each corner, blow this baby into a big-ass brick pile, truck her to a landfill, and start over.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad.” A major difference between us. Eyeing that relic of a building, Puck saw nothing but head-aches. I saw a big-budget remodeling job that would keep my construction crew working indoors through the winter. Assuming the old brick monstrosity didn’t come crashing down on our heads the first time somebody sneezed.

A new SUV pulled to the curb behind my pickup truck. A woman climbed out. Big woman. I’m six foot and she looked almost as tall. Dressed in denim, matching jeans and jacket, fashionably faded. So was she. Late thirties, easing into forty. Raven hair showing a few flecks of gray, careworn eyes. But still a very handsome package.

Puck and I joined her on the sidewalk.

“Mr. Shea? I’m Olympia Belknap. Pia, for short. Thanks for coming.” We shook hands, looking each other over. I was wearing a sport coat over a flannel shirt, jeans. Work boots. Hadn’t shaved for a day or two. North-country business chic.

“Sunday’s a down day for us anyway, Mrs. Belknap. This is my foreman, Dolph Paquette. Puck, to his friends. And everybody else.”

“Ma’am.” Puck nodded. A long speech, for him.

“Have you looked over the floor plans?” she asked.

“I checked them, but Puck hasn’t. Why don’t you run the project past us?”

“All right. Simply put, Central Michigan University plans to build a satellite campus on the far side of the river. Six thousand students. I want to convert this white elephant of a building into off-campus housing. The ground floor will be subdivided into four units of commercial space. I already have options for two of them, a Borders bookstore and a Radio Shack. They’ll supply their own requirements once the building is up to code. The other two units are to be prepped for rental: cleaned, carpeted, wiring and lighting brought up to commercial standards. Are you with me so far?”

“You haven’t scared us off yet. Go on.”

“I want the four upper floors converted to condominium-sized apartments, eight per floor. Each unit will consist of three bedrooms, two baths, full kitchen facilities. In addition, each floor will have its own laundry room, fitness center, tanning salon, and a communal game room with large-screen televisions and state-of-the-art Internet hookups. How does that strike you?”

“Like a place I’d like to live but couldn’t afford.”

“I meant as a project, Mr. Shea,” she said impatiently. “Is it something you’re interested in doing or not?”

“I don’t know yet. It depends on the condition of the structure. If the building’s solid, then the project should be feasible. Can we do a walk-through?”

“Certainly. This way.” She set off at a pace so brisk I had to trot to catch up. Puck didn’t bother, taking his time, looking things over. Pia Belknap unlocked the dime store’s front doors first. Rundown counters, grimy linoleum-tiled floors, fluorescent tubes hanging on rusty chains from the high ceiling. About what I expected. A mess. But fixable.

“Do you have a timetable in mind?” I asked doubtfully.

“It’s mid October now. Ideally, I’d like the first floor finished by Christmas, the apartments above prepped and ready by next July. Is that possible?”

I glanced the question at Puck.

He nodded. “Structure looks sound. The guys who did the original brickwork were craftsmen. Building must be a hundred years old, should last another hundred easy. Some of the bearing walls have been knocked out but the jack posts are still in place. Rebuild the partitions, level the floor, rewire everything from the ground up. Having the first floor ready by Christmas shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Okay,” I said. Puck Paquette is a rangy, wind-burned Canuck who moves slow and talks slower. Impatient people assume he’s lazy or even stupid. He’s neither. He’s a deliberate man.

Like me, he learned this trade from the business end of a hammer. He’s good with machinery and men, not so hot with figures. Puck couldn’t price out a job like this if his life depended on it. But he definitely knows whether a project is doable and what it’ll take to make it happen.

“Shall we continue?” Pia Belknap asked.