by Diane Kelly
Hiding the recipe in a cookbook would keep it within easy reach. Of course, the possibility presupposed that the recipe was written down. Maybe Mary Sue was right. Maybe Lillian Walsh had committed the recipe to memory and kept it only in her head. Clearly, Lillian had wanted to safeguard the recipe, and memorizing it would be a sure way to prevent it from being discovered.
Flynn stood and walked over to the cabinet, noting the titles of the cookbooks Colette had brought home with her. After donning a pair of latex gloves, he removed the recipe box and cookbooks, flipping carefully through them. There were no recipe cards stashed between the pages of the cookbooks. “Nothing here.” He returned everything to the cabinet and pulled off the gloves, dropping them into our garbage can before turning back around. “Can you meet me at the house at nine o’clock tomorrow morning? I’d like to see if we can identify what’s missing.”
“Of course. Anything to help with the case.” The sooner the matter was resolved, the better.
“By the way,” he said, “the only fingerprints on the front doorknob were yours.”
The import of his words struck me. “So before I arrived Saturday morning, someone had wiped the knob clean?”
He nodded. “Ditto for the key in the frog. There wasn’t a print on it.” In other words, the killer had used the key from the frog to access the house, lock it back up, or both.
I pointed out the obvious. “Someone covered their tracks.”
“And covered them well,” Flynn said. “I need to determine who that someone was.”
My body buzzed and my mind whirled a mile a minute, like a well-oiled chainsaw. “Lillian hasn’t been gone long. Is it possible someone targeted her house because they saw her obituary in the paper? Obituaries normally list the deceased’s survivors. The fact that no husband was listed could have clued a potential burglar in to the fact that her house would be unoccupied. Or at least presumably so.”
“That type of thing has happened before,” Collin acknowledged. “Sometimes the survivors’ homes are targeted during the service, when the thieves know they’ll be out for a few hours.” He exhaled sharply. “It takes an especially horrible person to prey on people who are grieving.”
It also crossed my mind that if Nelda was killed by a random burglar, the burglar might have chosen the house because it had belonged to an elderly woman, who would be an easy target. The burglar might not have even known Lillian had passed away. He could have been someone who’d provided some type of service in her house—a plumber, an exterminator, the cable guy. He might have thought that if he waited a few months before returning to the house, he’d be less likely to be suspected of burglarizing it. I raised the possibility with Collin. “What do you think?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time that type of thing has happened, either,” he acknowledged. “Statistics show that most burglaries are committed by someone who lives within a two-mile radius of the home that was hit. Nelda could have walked in on a burglary in progress, have tried to save whatever she was holding when she fell. Or maybe the burglar dropped a weapon or tool, and Nelda inadvertently landed on it when she fell. The burglar might have later realized the weapon or tool was left behind, and returned to retrieve it. There are a couple of convicted burglars who live in the area near your house. I’m planning to pay them each a visit, see if they have an alibi for the night Nelda died.”
Maybe one of them had been the culprit, up to old tricks. Maybe this case would be solved quickly. I could hope, right?
The detective dashed my hopes almost immediately. “Of course, I’ve got other theories besides a botched burglary.”
“You do? What are they?”
His mouth formed a tight line as he nodded. “Often, when a person is killed, the guilty party is someone who was close to them.”
“Like a family member or friend?”
“Exactly.”
Yikes. Nelda’s family and friends were the very same people I’d just spent the evening with. They also lived on the circle where I’d be working for the next few weeks. The thought that I might unknowingly rub elbows with a killer caused an icy chill to creep up my spine.
“If the killer was someone who knew Nelda,” Collin added, “it stands to reason that there would have been an incident recently, something that finally pushed the killer over the brink. Otherwise, why wouldn’t the person have done away with her already?”
“What kind of incident are you talking about?”
“An argument. An insult. Some other type of slight, or maybe even a physical altercation. Anything that might have been a final straw.” Collin raised his hand, his small finger crooked. “Hold up your pinky.”
“Why?”
“Everything I’ve told you tonight is confidential. I don’t want anyone to be tipped off that Nelda’s death is now being investigated as a homicide. If they realize I’m running a murder investigation, they’ll clam up, lawyer up, or both. I need you to pinky swear that you won’t tell anyone the department considers the case a homicide.”
“Is a pinky swear official police protocol?”
A grin tugged at his lips. “Yes. Violations are punishable by fifty years’ hard labor.”
“Hard labor doesn’t scare me.” I flexed my arm muscles. “Heck, every job I have involves hard labor.”
“You wouldn’t be able to bring Sawdust to prison with you.” Detective Flynn sure was learning how to push my buttons.
“That would be a cruel and unusual punishment!” I cried. “Can I at least tell Buck? It wouldn’t be right to keep this information from him. He’ll be working at the house and will need to be extra cautious.”
“Can he keep a secret?”
“He never told my aunt Nancy about the time he caught me raiding her cookie jar in the middle of the night.” Of course he’d made me share the cookies with him, but that was a different matter.
“All right,” Collin acquiesced. “If you vouch for him that’s good enough for me.”
I held up a crooked pinky. “I swear.”
He curled his warm pinky around mine and gave it a little tug. “There. You are now bound to secrecy.”
The ritual was simply his goofy way of letting me know the importance of discretion in this case. It would be wrong to read more into the gesture, right? Still, sitting here alone with him in my kitchen, the touch felt oddly intimate. It also felt oddly nice. Like Andy Walsh, I worked long hours, leaving me with little time for perusing the dating apps or hitting the singles bars. Maybe this investigation would provide me the opportunity to get to know Detective Collin Flynn better.
He released my finger and raised his steaming mug as if in salute. “Now I’m off the clock.” He took a big sip. “Mmm. That hits the spot. You’re quite the bartender.”
“I can’t take any credit,” I said. “It’s my roommate’s recipe. She’s a professional chef.”
“It must be nice to have a roommate with skills,” he said. “The only thing Copernicus and Galileo are good at is shedding on my couch.”
Copernicus and Galileo were Detective Flynn’s cats. I’d seen photos of them tacked to the bulletin board in his office when he’d questioned me in another case. His pets weren’t as cute as Sawdust—no cat ever would be—but they were darlings nonetheless.
My mind returned to the events earlier that evening: the short memorial service, the jovial wake. “You came to the memorial service to spy, didn’t you?”
“Guilty as charged. Nobody seemed very upset. With Nelda’s death being a surprise, you’d think it would have hit everyone harder.”
“That thought crossed my mind, too. Nelda Dolan seems to be have been tolerated, but not liked.” I told Collin about Carl’s nonchalant demeanor in the hallway after the service, and repeated Becky’s comment about the suffering her mother had caused. I’d heard there were five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Carl seemed to have reached stage five, acceptance, in record time. Becky still seemed angry, tho
ugh her anger was directed at her mother, not fate. I pointed this out to the detective.
“That’s not unusual,” he said. “People feel abandoned when someone they’re close to dies. They often become angry at the deceased.”
He could be right, but Becky’s anger seemed to have originated prior to Nelda passing. Becky wasn’t the only one who appeared angry at Nelda, either. “That neighbor I mentioned? She also said Nelda called her a hussy behind her back and accused Gayle of cheating at cards.”
He arched a curious brow. “What’s this neighbor’s name?”
“Roxanne. I don’t know her last name, but she lives in the circle.” I bit my lip. “She has long fingernails.” I left it at that, letting him draw his own conclusions.
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “What else did Roxanne tell you?”
“That the other ladies put up with Nelda to keep the peace, but they didn’t consider her a real friend.” I repeated what Gayle had said, too. We’re all friendly folks—at least now, anyways.
He was quiet a moment as he appeared to absorb the information. After a moment pondering, he looked me in the eye. “Be careful when you’re working at the house. Keep all the doors locked and your phone within reach at all times. Whoever killed Nelda Dolan seems to have gotten away with whatever they were after, or to have at least made a clean getaway, but if the killer thinks you might stumble upon a clue, they might decide to do away with you, too.”
There’s a happy thought.
“Better yet,” he added, “install a security system.”
“Good idea.” Buck and I hadn’t budgeted for a house alarm, but under the circumstances we’d bite the bullet. Luckily, prices had come down and many of the systems were easy to install. Some would even send alerts to your cell phone, and send photos or video if someone rang the bell or a door or window was breached.
“Speaking of spying,” Flynn said, “I could use your help. This isn’t my only case and I can’t be everywhere all the time. If you could keep an eye on things in the neighborhood for me, let me know if you see anything suspicious or unusual, I’d appreciate it.”
“You’re deputizing me?”
“No, I’m asking you to be a mole.”
Despite the fact that moles were cute little creatures, being referred to as a rodent wasn’t exactly flattering. “Let’s call me a ‘confidential informant.’ That has a more exciting ring to it.”
“Tomato, to-mah-to,” he said. “But I’ll call you whatever you want if you’ll feed me information.”
“You got it.”
Flynn tossed back the rest of his cider and stood. “I better get going.”
I walked him to the door. Sawdust trotted along with us. Polite little pussycat. “Goodnight, Detective.”
“Goodnight, Whitney.” He looked down. “Goodnight, Sawdust.”
I locked the door behind him and wondered what the morning would have in store for us. Will we figure out what Nelda had been lying on and who had—literally—stolen it out from under her?
CHAPTER 11
I SPY
WHITNEY
Wednesday morning, I pulled my SUV into the driveway of the flip house and pushed the button on the remote to raise the garage door. As before, it squeaked and squealed on its way up, loud enough to wake the dead. Rounding up the can of WD-40 from my toolbox, I slid out of my seat and walked into the garage, aiming the spray at the track. After slicking it down well, I returned to my car and pushed the button again. The door descended with hardly a sound. At least I can cross one thing off my to-do list.
Not wanting to venture inside alone, I waited in my car and sipped warm coffee from my extra-large thermos as I kept an eye on the neighborhood like a good mole would. There was nothing to see except the ceramic frog who watched me from the porch, unblinking, his extended tongue seeming to taunt me. You thought you’d get rich flipping houses, but that’s not gonna happen. Neener-neener!
I was contemplating smashing the insolent frog with a hammer when Detective Flynn’s unmarked cruiser rolled into the cul-de-sac and pulled to the curb behind me. We exited our vehicles and met on the walkway.
“’Mornin’,” he said.
“’Mornin’.”
He followed me up to the porch. I unlocked the door and led him into the house, where I nudged the thermostat up a few degrees and pointed up the staircase. “The master bedroom is on the upper floor.”
We climbed the steps, both of us treading lightly on the landing as if not wanting to disturb Nelda Dolan’s ghost in case it was lurking about. At the top of the staircase, I turned right and led the detective into the bedroom.
I stopped next to the bed. The jewelry box remained where I’d last seen it, next to Lillian Walsh’s shoes and dresses. I pointed. “The jewelry box is still there.”
“Has it been moved?”
I tried to visualize how it had looked the last time I’d been in the room. “I can’t say one way or the other. I didn’t pay much attention. But the pictures can tell us.”
I retrieved my cell phone from my purse and pulled up the photos I’d taken in the bedroom on Friday, holding the phone up so the detective and I could compare the items in the pictures to the current contents of the room. We leaned in to take a good look, our heads nearly touching. Up close like this, I could smell the crisp, clean scent of the soap and shaving cream he’d used earlier that morning. That meant he could probably smell the WD-40 I’d sprayed on the squeaky garage door. Lovely.
“Looks like the jewelry box is in the same position.” Collin whipped a latex glove from a package in his jacket pocket and slid his hand into it. He carefully used the tip of one finger to open the box. “You said you didn’t take a good look inside the other day, but give it a try anyway. Can you tell if anything is missing?”
I peeked inside. As expected, I was uncertain about this, too. Like before, the box seemed to contain a random assortment of colorful beads and baubles in a style that was now vintage but had been popular decades ago. My own grandmother had a similar collection of brooches, bracelets, and necklaces, most of which contained fake gemstones made of colored glass. “I’m sorry, Detective. I can’t say whether anything is gone.”
He took my words in stride. “That’s okay. If the shape on Nelda’s body was the corner of a box or some other sort of container, the killer would have probably taken the box or container with them even if what they were after was inside it. Criminals generally try to be quick. It would’ve taken time to open a box, remove an item, and put the box back under her.” He pulled a penlight from his pocket and shined it on the box, leaning in to take a closer look. “I can tell this jewelry box hasn’t been wiped clean. There’s light smudges on the wood.”
Given that the doorknob and key had been wiped clean, it seemed the killer would have wiped clean any other potentially incriminating item left behind, too.
Collin stood up straight and shrugged. “Still, it can’t hurt to take it in and have the lab see if there’s any questionable prints on it.” With that, he carefully picked the box up in his gloved hand and slipped it into a plastic evidence bag. Turning his attention back to me, he said, “Let’s take another look at your photos.”
We scrolled slowly through the pics, our gazes moving between the screen and the room. It was like playing a modified game of I Spy.
“Everything seems to still be here,” I said.
He dropped to his knees and used his flashlight to look under the bed. “Any chance you and Buck looked under here on Friday?”
“No,” I replied. “Our focus was on the renovations.”
He stretched his hand under the bed and pulled out a flat plastic storage box. He removed the top to reveal a spare set of sheets for the bed. He pushed the box back under the bed, put a hand on the spread, and levered himself to a stand. “What about the closet?”
“I didn’t take any photos inside.”
“But you did take a look?”
“Yes.”
He stepped over and pulled the door open. “Anything noticeably different today?”
I stood in the doorway and stared into the space, willing myself to remember exactly what the closet had looked like on Friday. There were some books stacked haphazardly on an upper shelf, but were all the books that had been there on Friday still there? I couldn’t say. “I don’t know if anything is missing from this closet,” I admitted, “but do you think Lillian could have had a valuable first edition? Dakota told me that Lillian and the other ladies had an informal book club. They’ve all lived on the circle for years, so I assume they’ve been meeting since way back when.”
“It’s something to consider,” Collin acknowledged. “With all the books on her nightstand and in here, it looks like she was a bookworm.” He stepped closer and ran his eyes over the titles, taking several down to consult their copyright pages. “Some of these are old and probably out of print. I have no idea if they’re worth anything, though.”
He returned the books to the shelf and we continued on, going through the master bath. Nothing there had changed.
We moved on to the kitchen. He, too, noticed Lillian’s blue ribbons on the fridge. Hard not to notice when there were so many of them. “Wow. Looks like Lillian Walsh knew her way around a baking pan.”
“The neighbors miss Lillian’s pie more than they miss Nelda.”
“Makes sense. From what you’ve told me, Nelda was crustier.” He gestured to my phone. “Got a photo that shows the cookbooks?”
I pulled one up and handed him the phone. He flicked his fingers against the screen to enlarge the image, and stepped over to the hutch to compare the titles on the books in the picture to the ones that remained. After running his gaze over the shelves, he said, “The only cookbooks missing are the ones your roommate took to your house.”