Chapter Twenty-Nine

THE MATERIALS THAT SOPHIE HAD SENT her might not be a truckload, but they were definitely more than a backpack full. Kendall ripped off the packing tape and opened the box, taking out the heavy books two by two. Some of them were academic tomes on the history of the Arts and Crafts movement. Some were books on Craftsman furniture, Morris wallpaper designs, and the architectural variations of the style. And then there were a handful of catalogs from Christie’s and Sotheby’s auctions from the last several decades. How Sophie had managed to determine which ones were relevant, Kendall had no idea. Unless she’d actually gone through each and every one . . . which, knowing her former assistant turned designer, was entirely possible.

Kendall started with the architecture books, plopping on her bed and dragging one heavy volume after another onto her lap. Even just skimming the contents, hours passed before she got through them all without even a single mention of Jasper Green.

She blew a stray tendril from her face in frustration. She’d been banking on there being some information on him somewhere. She’d even take a photo of woodwork that was similar as a direction to start hunting down information. Architectural styles didn’t develop in a vacuum, after all.

For one mad second, she was tempted to call Gabe and ask him to come over and help her sort through the mess. But he’d made it pretty clear what he thought about her. Maybe he didn’t bear her any ill will, but he certainly wasn’t interested in her beyond her relationship to the houses and what their sale could mean for the town. She dumped the last heavy book off her lap and dragged the next one onto it.

She was about to call it impossible when she lifted a slim book—little more than a pamphlet, really—that she’d picked up at a conference in England long ago. It was poorly printed and bound, clearly the efforts of an antiques professional who had no publishing knowledge, but she remembered thinking that the information in it was solid. It was about the Art Workers’ Guild, a society formed in Britain to bring together practitioners of both the fine arts and the applied arts on equal footing—a little-known outgrowth of William Morris’s ideals, if not his specific tastes. Kendall found herself sucked into the history, half-forgetting what she was supposed to be looking for as she read about the early masters of the guild and their philosophies. And then, halfway through the pamphlet, she came across this passage:

        In the spirit of the guild’s philosophy that there should be no dividing line between art and architecture, many of its earliest members were both accomplished architects and fine artists. One member that clearly expressed the tension of the era was Jasper Green, a sculptor, decorative artist, and architect who defected from the Royal Academy because of their increasing hostility toward the applied arts.

Kendall’s heart rose into her throat, losing its rhythm for what felt like an eternity. She quickly skimmed the rest of the short book, this time having her eyes attuned only for the name, but Jasper Green never surfaced again.

But he existed. He was an architect, sculptor, and applied artist—the old term for what they now called industrial design. She knew he was once a member of the Royal Academy and the Art Workers’ Guild, which meant she’d been right about him being British. Of course, it still told her nothing about how he’d ended up in America, building houses with Carpenter Gothic exteriors and Craftsman interiors, but at least it was a start.

It was a confirmation.

Kendall jumped off the bed and lunged for her phone. At this moment, she no longer cared about her vow not to contact Gabe, not when she had a solution to their problems. She dialed his number and didn’t even wait for him to say hello. “I’ve got it, Gabe! Jasper Green was a member of the Art Workers’ Guild in London in the 1880s. That makes these houses significant both for the architecture and the age. We can apply to have them placed on the National Register of Historic Places.”

The line stayed quiet, and for a second, she thought he’d hung up on her. Then he replied, his voice careful, “And how long will that take?”

“It varies from state to state, but usually about ninety days. Why?”

He cleared his throat. “We don’t have ninety days, Kendall. They’re scheduled to be condemned in thirty.”

Twenty minutes later, Kendall and Gabe claimed a quiet corner table in Main Street Mocha, the decision to meet on neutral ground almost automatic. Ever since Gabe’s pronouncement, Kendall’s brain had been spinning. How could the houses be condemned, and why hadn’t she been notified as the owner?

No, that was far more coherent than what she was mostly thinking: Why? Why? How? Why?

Delia looked between them curiously when she set down their drinks, but she didn’t interrupt. Kendall ignored the peppermint mocha and pitched her voice low, below the buzz of the coffeehouse. “So what do you mean my houses are being condemned?”

Gabe pulled out a folded piece of paper, which looked like it had been crumpled and then smoothed out again. “Burton delivered it to my office as a ‘courtesy,’ which really means that he wanted to gloat about it. Apparently he found out that we have the original plans for the houses and that there have been changes made to them. There aren’t any permits on file for the changes. That, combined with the foundation issues . . . you’ll have a notice tacked on the door by the end of tomorrow, if it’s not there already.”

Kendall sat back, stunned. “I don’t understand. How did he find out so quickly? We only just found the plans today.”

“My guess? Mike ran into him and bragged about finding the plans. I’m sure he didn’t think it could hurt us, but he underestimated what Burton was willing to do to get the property.”

“Burton has been threatening something like this from the beginning, I just didn’t understand the hints.” Kendall kneaded her temples, forcing herself to think rationally despite the surge of adrenaline flowing through her body. There had to be a way out of this. “I thought homeowners could make changes themselves without permits?”

“Well, we have no evidence it was done by the homeowner. Actually, it’s very unlikely that it was. And if the work was unpermitted and done by someone other than Connie or Jonathan Green, then it can’t be grandfathered in. Basically, Burton is claiming that the houses are unsafe because of unpermitted work and deferred maintenance, and we’re being given thirty days to demonstrate that we can bring them up to code or they’ll be condemned as a public safety hazard.”

Kendall stared at Gabe, horrified. “How can he possibly do that? They haven’t even looked at the houses to know what’s been done or if they’re actually dangerous.”

His tone soured. “Best guess? Burton has someone inside the county government.”

Her mouth dropped open. Of all things she thought she would face up here—bureaucracy, the slow pace of small counties, resistance to change—corruption was not one of them. “So you think—” she lowered her voice when it came out much too loud and the neighboring patrons turned toward her—“he paid someone off?”

“I don’t think it was anything that blatant. I think it was more like a well-placed word to someone that his project will bring in a lot of money in permits and property taxes to the county and he has a legitimately legal way to make that happen.” Gabe slumped back in his seat, looking defeated. “He’s not wrong. That’s the way the county code is written. Though I’d be surprised if it’s ever been used to demolish homes to pave the way for a commercial project.”

“Yeah, it makes eminent domain look like it’s on the up-and-up,” Kendall said bitterly. “But wait. You said we have thirty days to demonstrate that we can bring them up to code. Not that we actually have to do the work in thirty days. Right?”

Gabe nodded. “That’s correct. We need to respond to the notice, file all the requisite permits, etc.”

“So we do that, then. Easy.”

“Not so easy, Kendall. These things take money. Not to mention if you manage to save them, you still have to return them to their original plans in order to get them listed on the registry.”

Now it was Kendall’s turn to slump back in her seat. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Yeah. Neither do I.”

“What I don’t understand is how he could condemn the houses and get them demolished, but I still own the land.”

“Which is now worth significantly less without the improvements on it. He doesn’t have to pay you what the houses are worth, just the lots. Given the price of property up here, that’s much less. And it doesn’t do you any good to hold on to empty, barren land.”

Even through a sudden surge of blinding rage, she had to admit that Burton was smart. He’d worked through every angle. He’d warned her. And since she had made it clear she wasn’t going to cave to his initial offer, he was starting to apply pressure.

Completely unethical, but entirely legal.

Gabe was staring into space now. She peered into his face. “Gabe, are you okay?”

He focused on her, but the wry twist to his mouth said that whatever he was thinking about wasn’t pleasant. “I might know someone who could help us.”

Kendall blinked at him. “You do? Why have you waited so long to contact him, then?”

“Because I said I’d never speak to him again, and I’ve kept that promise. But now I may have no choice.” Gabe rubbed his hands over his face wearily. “I have to call my father.”