by Diane Kelly
“No,” Flynn said. “I decided not to play my hand, to see if her lie might lead somewhere.”
Seemed like a good strategy. If Gayle knew she’d been caught in a falsehood, she’d put up her guard, be more careful. On the other hand, if she’d thought she got away with the misrepresentation, she might build on it, dig herself in deeper, create a house of cards that could be easily brought down.
“She showed me the box of cards,” he added. “The top was carved with a W for the last name Walsh. A small gift card was tacked inside the lid. It read ‘Welcome to Songbird Circle’ and was signed by both Gayle and Bertram. There were two decks of cards in the box, but they were facedown.”
The cards had been face up in the box when I’d snapped my photo. “So you can’t be sure they’re the same cards, then, can you?”
“Unfortunately, no. They’re old cards, but whether they’re the same decks, who knows? I told Gayle I’d have to take the box and cards and return them to you because you were the legal owner of all property remaining in the house on the date you bought it. Of course that explanation was only a ruse so that I could check the box for Nelda’s prints and look the cards over more carefully. The prints aren’t back from the lab yet, but the decks don’t appear to be marked.”
Gayle could have exchanged the original decks for others, so the fact that the cards now in the box weren’t marked didn’t exonerate her. She could, in fact, be a cheat, as Nelda had claimed. Or she could have taken the box because she knew it contained something besides the playing cards, too. Given that Gayle had misled the detective about the time of her visit to the house, I was inclined to believe there might be some truth to Nelda’s accusation. I’d be sure to keep a close eye on her at Friday night’s poker game.
“What about Mary Sue?” I asked. “Had she noticed anything unusual going on the neighborhood? Anyone casing the houses?”
“She said she’d seen some solicitors coming around, but that it was typical for their area. She hadn’t noticed anything that seemed out of the ordinary. I posed the same questions to the others. Nobody saw anything unusual. I told them there’d been an attempted break-in nearby, and that I was asking to see what I might find out for that separate case. I didn’t let them know I was really asking because it pertained to the Dolan investigation.”
“What about Dakota?” I asked.
“Dakota had nothing new to say. He stuck to his story that he didn’t see Mrs. Dolan in the house until he found you hovering over her.”
I finished for him. “And by then, whatever she’d been lying on was gone.”
“For what it’s worth, Dakota said he removed the advertisement from the doorknob when he arrived at the house.”
I exhaled in relief, glad to know my failure to remove the ad had little, if anything, to do with Nelda’s death. If Dakota was the killer, the fact that the ad had remained until he arrived had nothing to do with it. If the killer was a stranger seeking out vacant houses with an accumulation of advertisements, the fact that the ad had been removed on Dakota’s arrival should have told the killer that someone could be in the house. Either way, my conscience could be clear. “Good to know.”
“After I spoke with everyone, I ran criminal background checks on all of them. Everyone came back clean except one.”
“Dakota?” I asked.
“No. Bertram Garner.”
“Bertram? A criminal?” While I’d have been willing to believe the man-child had done something to get himself in trouble with the law, I found a hard time believing that the well-mannered man who’d hosted Nelda Dolan’s wake had a criminal record.
“He was arrested for assault and battery.”
“Really?” My mind spun in surprise. Like his wife, Bertram had seemed like a laid-back, affable guy. But I could be wrong. I could identify a dozen different wood varieties, but maybe I wasn’t as good at reading people.
“The arrest took place decades ago, in the late sixties. Mr. Garner was just twenty-two at the time. Nothing was computerized back then, and there’s only a minimum of information in the database on old crimes. I’ve had to request the file from archives. I won’t have the details for a few more days.”
“You only said he was arrested. Was he later convicted?”
“No. There’s no conviction listed, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s innocent. Any number of things could have happened. He could have been acquitted, or let go on a technicality. Or the district attorney might have decided there wasn’t enough evidence to pursue the case. I won’t know until I have the records.”
“So that’s the lead you mentioned?”
“One of them. I called Hitch-a-Ride to get the name and address for the driver who dropped Dakota at the house Friday night. His name’s Luis Bautista. He’s a college kid who drives in the evenings for extra cash. I swung by the guy’s apartment last night and spoke to him in person. I didn’t call first, wanted to catch him off guard.”
In other words, the detective didn’t want to give him time to concoct an alibi if he didn’t already have one.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“He seemed nervous and evasive. He couldn’t give me any details about Dakota, couldn’t even remotely describe him. He only had three riders Friday night, so you’d think he’d remember, but he claimed he doesn’t pay much attention to his customers, that they climb into his backseat and off they go. He said he didn’t notice anything unusual at the house where he’d dropped Dakota, but that he didn’t really take a good look. He couldn’t describe the house, either. Of course, he could be pretending not to remember anything because he thinks it’ll make him look less guilty. He might think if he acknowledges that he noticed anything about Dakota or the house, it might show that he was scoping things out.”
“How soon was his next ride after he dropped Dakota off? Did he have enough time to get in and out of the house before he picked up his next fare?”
“According to Hitch-a-Ride’s records, he accepted another ride seven minutes after dropping Dakota off. But during that seven minutes, his car was parked right around the corner from your flip house.”
“Meaning he had time to go into the house, run into Nelda, shove her down the stairs, and scurry off into the night.”
“Right. He claims he’d parked nearby to save gas until another job came in. From the records Hitch-a-Ride gave me, it was clear that tends to be his typical method. Drop a rider off, then wait nearby until another ride request pops up in the area.”
“Did their records show whether he’d returned to the house later?” If so, it could indicate he’d come back to snatch whatever had been trapped under Nelda’s body.
“No such luck,” Collin said. “He drove a couple more hours, then went off duty. The app doesn’t track the driver’s location when they aren’t in service.”
Darn. “Too bad you don’t have a mind-reading device.”
He sighed. “No kidding. I could use a dozen more hours in the day, too.”
I knew the feeling. Seemed nearly every job I worked on took twice as long as expected, especially when it came to the work on my own flip houses. There were always unanticipated issues, unavoidable delays. “Does Bautista have a record?”
“No,” Collin said. “Hitch-a-Ride won’t hire anyone with a criminal history. They don’t want the liability. But my gut tells me something about the driver isn’t on the up and up. I’m going to follow up with other people who’ve ridden with him recently, see if any of them have been burglarized. It’s possible the driver saw Dakota put the key back in the frog’s mouth after he unlocked the door, and used it to enter the house himself to see what he could steal. Nelda might have caught him in the act and grabbed whatever he was trying to steal out of his hands before he shoved her down the stairs, or the item she was lying on could have been a weapon he’d brought inside with him.”
The scenario was plausible, if coincidental. I was beginning to think I should not only change the locks immediately ev
ery time I bought a property, but that I should install security cameras immediately as well. “What about the two convicted burglars that live in the area? Anything pan out there?”
“One has a solid alibi. He was in jail Friday night. An officer caught him sneaking around another neighborhood, trying car doors.”
“Up to his old tricks, huh? What about the other one?”
“He claims he was home alone from seven o’clock Friday night through noon on Saturday. I asked him if anyone could substantiate his claim, but he couldn’t offer me any names.”
In other words, burglar number two was still a potential person of interest.
We wrapped up the call, and I headed to the flip house. I was disappointed the detective hadn’t solved the murder already, but I supposed it was unrealistic for me to expect an instant resolution. After all, there weren’t a lot of clear-cut clues, and nobody had stepped forward to confess. Crime solving, like home renovation, takes time and patience. Alas, both seemed to be in short supply for us right now.
CHAPTER 13
MISSION: DEMOLITION
WHITNEY
It was half past ten when I turned into Songbird Circle. Buck’s van was at the curb of our flip house, while Owen’s van sat in the driveway, a flatbed trailer hooked up to it. A large rental truck sat in the other side of the driveway. The back of the rental truck was open, the metal ramp in place, the bay ready to be filled. Good. The guys are already here. We had a long day of clearing and demolition ahead of us.
I noticed Bertram carrying his plastic recycling bin down his driveway. The morning was frosty, and he’d donned a heavy coat over his pajamas, his feet clad in fleece-lined slippers. Mosey moseyed along with him, rocking back and forth on his old, stiff legs. A glance around the circle told me everyone but Roxanne had put their bins out, too. Mary Sue’s bin next door was so full of newspapers she’d had to put a red brick on top of them to keep them from blowing away. The brick matched the ones outlining her flower bed. It must be an extra one she hadn’t used. I supposed I should check to see if the bin parked in the garage at the flip house contained any recyclables.
Forcing a smile, I raised a hand in greeting to Bertram as I drove past. He waved back with both hands and danced a little jig. What a ham. I wondered if he’d feel like dancing if Gayle was arrested, or if she’d want to dance if he was hauled off to the pokey. While some husbands or wives might be thrilled if their spouse was taken away indefinitely, Bertram and Gayle seemed to have a happy relationship, as far as I could tell from the limited time I’d spent with them. Why had Gayle lied to the detective? What happened during the incident that led to Bertram’s arrest for assault? I wish I knew.
Another possibility crossed my mind at that point. Maybe Bertram had been the one to retrieve the cards. Maybe he’d run into Nelda in the house and pushed her down the stairs. Maybe the odd look he’d cut his wife was because she’d covered for him, provided him with an alibi. After all, he’d been arrested once for assault and she might have feared he’d be the first person the police would look to. But what reason would he have to murder Nelda? Would the fact that Nelda had called Gayle a cheat be enough cause to kill?
I looked over at Roxanne’s house. A small white business card was stuck in the front doorjamb. It must be the one the detective had left. Had Roxanne missed it? Could be. After all, lots of people entered and exited their homes through the garage and rarely used their front doors. Then again, maybe she’d murdered Nelda, seen the detective’s card, and realized he could be onto her. She might have hopped on a plane and fled to Canada or Mexico. If I were her, I’d have opted for Mexico this time of year. With temperatures in the twenties in Nashville, a warm beach sounded darn good at the moment. Ironically, the detective’s card remaining in Roxanne’s door was just the type of clue burglars looked for when trying to determine if residents were away from their home.
After parking at the curb behind Buck’s van, I used the remote to open the garage door and climbed out of my SUV, surreptitiously keeping an eye on Bertram. One could never be too careful, right? The recycling bin sat in the back corner of the garage alongside the garbage can. Just like the house, it was full of discarded items left for me to deal with. Magazines. Junk mail. Beer cans. I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised.
The yellow advertisement for the tax-preparation service lay on top of the bin. As I picked it up, a small slip of paper sticking out from under a grocery store circular caught my eye. The top of the paper read FAST FUNDS PAWN SHOP. I finagled the pawn ticket out from under the circular. The ticket was dated one week prior and made out to Dakota Walsh, indicating he’d been advanced $150 for a “bird necklace.” Holy hammers! My head went light, as if my skull had filled with helium. Had Dakota pawned Nelda Dolan’s missing pendant? Had I discovered another lead?
In the words of Detective Flynn, Maybe, maybe not. As busy as the detective was, I didn’t want to send him down a rabbit trail if there was no rabbit to be found. I decided that after Buck, Owen, and I finished cleaning out the house, I’d swing by the pawnshop, see what I could find out. I tucked the pawn ticket into the breast pocket of my coveralls and carried the recycling bin out to the curb.
Bertram waited on his front walk while Mosey sniffed around the front yard, seeking the perfect spot in which to relieve himself. As I looked their way, a thought entered my mind. I can’t be a confidential informant if I don’t learn anything, can I? Before I could think things through, my feet carried me across the cul-de-sac. “You’ve got some great moves, Bertram.”
He chuckled and danced an encore performance of his jig. “Gotta stay warm out here somehow. Mosey’s in no hurry to do his business.”
His comment gave me an idea. “Evidently, I was in too much of a hurry this morning. I got pulled over for speeding on my drive over here.”
He gave me an empathetic shake of the head. “That’s a lousy way to start the day.”
“For sure. But I suppose a ticket’s better than getting arrested and going to jail.” I eyed him closely as I prodded him with my next question. “I wonder what that’s like.”
A cloud seemed to pass over his face. Before he could answer, the recycling truck rumbled past the end of the circle on its way down the main street, its contents clinking and clanking, the brakes hissing. Mosey raised his snout and barked, a furry, four-footed David trying to scare off the enormous metal Goliath.
Bertram turned away. “I better round up Mosey before he goes after that truck and tries to sink his teeth into a tire.”
Darn. I’d hoped the question would be a natural segue into Bertram’s arrest. Looked like I’d remain in the dark for now. “Have a good day, Bertram!” I called as he shooed Mosey back up the porch.
He raised a hand. “Do the same.”
I returned to the flip house, entering through the garage. I found my cousins in the laundry room, wrangling the rusty washing machine onto a dolly. Owen, who was a couple years younger than Buck, resembled his brother in nearly every way. He, too, was tall, blond, and blue-eyed. But rather than a full beard, Owen sported no facial hair, opting to forego current trends and remain clean-shaven. His daughters had complained that his beard was too tickly. He might not be the most stylish man, but he was a darn good daddy.
Buck glanced my way. “About time you got done, dimwit.”
I ignored the epithet, realizing the purported insult was actually an odd term of endearment. Men and their emotional immaturity. Sheesh. “Pipes froze at a rental property.”
When Nashville had its first freeze forecast weeks ago, I’d sent an e-mail reminding all the tenants to take precautions, such as detaching all garden hoses, opening cabinet doors so that heat could reach the pipes under the sinks, and leaving the faucets dripping. Evidently, the couple with the busted pipes had ignored my advice. But that was water under the bridge now—or should I say ice under the bridge?
Putting one hand on top of the washing machine to hold it in place, Owen tipped the dolly backwa
rd. “I’ll roll this out to the truck.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, I turned to Buck. “I just spoke to Detective Flynn. He’s following up on some new leads.”
“Let me guess,” Buck said. “He thinks Carl Dolan killed his wife.”
“That’s still a possibility.” Carl could indeed have killed Nelda. Often the police didn’t have to look far for the culprit when a spouse ended up dead. Some people considered ’til death do us part as a suggestion for how to quickly and efficiently end a marriage. It was cost-effective, too. A funeral was cheaper than a divorce. Even so, Carl hadn’t yet emerged as the prime suspect. “The detective’s focus right now is on the driver from Hitch-a-Ride and the Garners.”
Incredulity caused Buck’s voice to raise an octave. “The Garners? Never would’ve guessed that. They seem like nice, normal folks.”
“I thought so, too. Until I found out Gayle lied to Detective Flynn.”
His mouth gaped. “Say what?”
I told him how Gayle had misrepresented when she’d come into the house to take the playing cards. “That’s not all. Bertram has an arrest on his record for assault and battery.”
“Boy howdy!” Buck said. “Guess I’m not a good judge of character.”
“Collin doesn’t have all the details,” I explained. “He’s waiting on the paperwork from archives. The assault took place back in the sixties.”
“The sixties? Shoot. That’s a long time ago. Bertram wouldn’t’ve been much more than a kid back then.”
“He was twenty-two.”
“Like I said. Not much more than a kid. Kids do stupid things sometimes. I know I did. Remember those jeans I bought with the shiny silver studs on the back pockets? Paid over a hundred bucks for ’em. Thought I’d look like Keith Urban. Instead, I looked ridiculous.”
Buck had a point, both about the jeans and Bertram Garner. Even if Bertram had assaulted someone, did a violent act committed by a young man mean that same man would commit murder decades later? Bertram had no arrests in the interim, nothing to indicate he was habitually violent. “Dakota might have some explaining to do, too. I just found a pawnshop ticket in the recycle bin. He pawned a necklace for a hundred and fifty dollars. It might have been one Nelda Dolan claimed to have lost here in the house. I’m going to swing by the pawnshop later to take a look.”