by Diane Kelly
Although the arrangement was a sham, it was understandable why Santos felt forced to resort to it. Tuition and living expenses weren’t cheap, and with a drug-related felony on his record he might not be eligible for a federally guaranteed student loan. “Do you think he tried to burglarize this house? To steal something he could sell for money? Could he have killed Nelda during the process?”
Collin’s eyes crinkled in skepticism as he gave his head a slow shake. “Santos might have been impersonating his friend to make a buck, but he gave me no reason to believe he’d come in here and killed Nelda Dolan. Gaming a system to earn a living and burglarizing a house are two very different things. My gut says he wasn’t involved.”
“Your gut was right before, when it said something was up with the driver.”
“Let’s hope it’s right this time, too. I’m going to feel really stupid if I had a killer in my grips and let him go.”
“Are you going to charge him with fraud?”
“No,” Collin said. “At least not yet. I’ve told him to in no uncertain terms to stop driving for Hitch-a-Ride immediately, and to transfer the car back into his name. I also put him in touch with a group that helps offenders find work. The longer he keeps his nose clean, the less likely an employer is to consider the Ritalin offense a deal breaker. I told him as much.”
“I hope things work out for him.”
“Me too.”
We wrapped up, and after enlisting Buck and Dakota to help me, I headed over to Mary Sue’s with the window tucked under one arm, my toolbox in my hand, and my cousin and new employee on my heels. Although law enforcement and the crime-scene team were gone, Roxanne and Gayle remained, keeping their frightened friend company.
Despite the early hour, the ladies were sipping wine. Roxanne picked up the near empty bottle and tilted it to and fro. “All that shattered glass called for a bottle of shard-o-nay!” She dissolved into giggles, telling me she’d had more than her fair share of the libation. How her liver hadn’t yet given out was anyone’s guess.
Gayle groaned. “If you keep up with those puns, Roxy, I’m going to have to run home for one of my painkillers.”
Buck, Dakota, and I donned heavy work gloves and got right down to work. We crowded into the powder room, removing the old broken window and carefully placing it in a trash bag lest a sharp edge rip a hole in the plastic. Buck and I explained the process along the way, and showed Dakota the tools we used. Might as well make it a learning experience for our new apprentice.
Oddly, the point of impact seemed to be near the bottom of the window rather than the middle. I was no expert on window-smashing, but I had done demolition work. It would have been more efficient for the intruder to aim for a spot in the middle of the glass, closer to the lock that would have to be opened for entry into the house. But I supposed people who burgled houses for a living weren’t generally the sharpest tools in the shed. Besides, maybe this one was short, a kid even. I’d heard of teenagers breaking into houses, especially when they were out of school on summer break and people were gone on vacation.
I borrowed a whisk broom and swept up the broken glass, wiping the floor with a wet paper towel afterward to ensure I’d picked up even the tiniest fragments. I turned on the flashlight I kept in my toolbox and shined it about, checking to see if we’d missed anything. Nothing reflected light back. Looks like we’ve got it all cleaned up.
Buck unboxed the new window. After using my caulk gun to apply a layer of the sealant, Dakota helped me wrangle the new framed glass into place. I handed him my electric drill. “You can do the honors.” I gave him step-by-step instructions on how to install screws using the drill. When he finished, I gave him a thumbs-up with my work glove. “Good job.”
He beamed. “This is fun. I’m learning all kinds of new stuff.”
“There’s a shortage of contractors and handymen,” I told him. “If you learn how to handle tools, you could make a decent living doing this kind of work.”
When we finished, I rounded up my tools and toolbox, and called Mary Sue in to inspect our handiwork. Her friends followed her, all five of us crammed into the tiny space.
Mary Sue slid the window up and down and tried the lock. “It’s perfect! Thanks Buck and Whitney!”
“Dakota helped, too,” I said, wanting to make sure credit was given where credit was due. These ladies had sold him short. Heck, I had, too, at first. I wanted them to know he wasn’t as useless as they’d thought. “He seems to have a knack for home improvement.”
Roxanne gave the boy a nod. “That’s good to hear.” She took another sip from her wine glass and turned to Mary Sue. “Maybe you should think about adding burglar bars. Maybe we all should.”
“But they’re so darn ugly,” Gayle lamented.
I chimed in. “They make ornamental ones now. They’re much prettier. There’s some with fancy scrollwork, leaf patterns. They even come in different colors. Black. White. Gray.”
Gayle wasn’t budging. “Every time I see burglar bars on a house, it makes me think the neighborhood isn’t safe.”
Roxanne arched a brow. “One of our neighbors was pushed down the stairs and died from a broken neck. Another had a break-in. That ship has sailed.” With that, she tossed back the last of her wine. “Mary Sue can stay with me for a while. Anyone tries to break into my place, I’ll blast them with my shotgun. Shoot first, ask questions later. That’s my motto.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be comforted or terrified by her words. I directed my next question to Mary Sue. “Any idea what the prowler used to smash your window?”
Mary Sue shrugged. “His fist or his foot, I suppose. Maybe a flashlight. The detective didn’t find anything outside.”
“Too bad,” I said. “It might have provided the intruder’s fingerprints.”
“Speaking of prints.” Mary Sue pulled the hand towel from the rack and rubbed it in a circle on the glass, cleaning off the fingerprints Dakota and I had left behind. When she finished, she rehung the towel and looked up at me. “What do I owe you for the window, Whitney?”
“Nothing.” I shot her a wink. “It’s on the house.”
Gayle groaned again. “I knew I should’ve run home for that pain pill!”
CHAPTER 29
SUGAR AND SPICE AND EVERYTHING NICE
WHITNEY
My mother called and gave me an earful. “Your aunt Nancy says the lady who died at your flip house was murdered!”
Her shriek was so shrill my eyelids fluttered of their own accord lest my eyeballs explode.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she screeched.
To avoid exactly what’s happening right now. That darn Buck and his big mouth. If my mother knew the house next door had been targeted now, too, she’d probably try to ground me. “We’ve installed an extensive security system,” I assured her. “I keep a big wrench in my pocket, and Buck and our new assistant are always here with me.” Well, almost always, anyway. “I’m not here at night.”
“I still don’t like it,” she said. “You should take that agent’s exam.”
“Real-estate agents show houses to virtual strangers all the time,” I said. “They hold open houses where anyone can wander in. I don’t see how that’s much safer.”
My argument backfired on me. “Then come work in your father’s practice,” she insisted. “He can always use extra help in the office.”
How many times would I have to tell my mother that I needed to make my own way in the world? “That doesn’t interest me, Mom.” Knowing I had to offer her something more, I said, “I’ll make you a deal. If I get murdered in the flip house, you can say ‘I told you so.’ Okay?”
“That’s not funny, Whitney.”
“Look, Mom. There’s no reason for whoever killed Nelda Dolan to come back here. The house is empty. There’s nothing to steal. And if they came here intending to kill her, they accomplished their aim. It’s done.” Even as I said the words, I wasn’t entirely sure I believed them. The
case felt like an incomplete story, a novel dog-eared at one of the later chapters, waiting to be picked up and finished.
“You’re so stubborn sometimes.”
Gee, I wonder where I get it? I got lucky and she received an incoming call from my father’s office, ending our standoff for the time being.
Dakota did another outstanding job on Wednesday, adding a second coat of paint to what used to be his grandmother’s guest bedroom and laying down the first coat in the sewing room, laundry room, and hallway. He’d left no discernible brushstrokes, the paint smooth and even. He even helped Buck install the cut tiles around the outer edge of the kitchen floor.
“That flooring looks fantastic,” I said when they finished. Potential buyers would love the timeless, classic look.
When I returned home at half past six, I was greeted at the door by my sweet little cat and what appeared to be a full bushel of ripe nectarines that both smelled and looked delicious. My mouth watered in anticipation. I gave my cat a scratch under the chin and my roommate a bear hug. “That peach pie is going to mean so much to the ladies of Songbird Circle. Especially now.”
She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“There was an attempted break-in this morning at the house next door.”
Her mouth gaped. “The killer came back?”
“The police don’t know for certain, but it sure would be a coincidence if it were someone else. What are the odds two houses that sit side-by-side would be hit by different burglars so close in time?”
She bit her lip. “I’m worried about your safety. Can’t you and Buck put off the renovations for a while? Get back to work once the police solve this case?”
My roommate was sounding a lot like my mother. Maybe I should start listening to them. “I wish we could. But I’ve got payments due on the mortgage note to the Hartleys, and the longer we hang on to the house the more of this year’s property taxes we’ll be responsible for. It’ll cut into our profits. Besides, things are always slow for Whitaker Woodworking this time of year. People tend to schedule their home improvement projects before the holidays so their houses will look good for guests. It’s always quiet for a few weeks afterward.” In other words, my uncle didn’t need me or Buck helping in his carpentry business right now. He was doing all right with just Owen’s assistance. My only source of potential income at the moment, other than my paltry pay for my part-time property management duties, was the income the sale of the flip house would generate. Buck and I had to keep forging ahead.
“At least we’re not there overnight,” I said. “That seems to be when it’s the most dangerous in the neighborhood.” I turned to the basket of nectarines and picked it up to carry it to the kitchen. The thing was darn heavy, about fifty pounds if I had to guess. Good thing my carpentry and rehab work had helped build my muscles. I inhaled deeply. “These smell so good.”
“I know.” She offered a contrite cringe. “I have to confess I’ve eaten three of them already.”
“Don’t blame you one bit.”
She followed me into the kitchen. “How many pies do you want me to bake?”
I placed the basket on the breakfast bar and performed a quick computation on my fingers. “One for us to share at Friday night’s poker game, and one each for the Garners, the Dolans, the Walshes, Mary Sue, and Roxanne.”
“Six pies?” She scoffed. “That’ll keep me busy all day Friday. You’re pushing the limits of friendship.”
“I know, I know. It’s a lot to ask. How about if I repay you with that pasta-drying rack you’ve been wanting?”
“I’m not above taking a bribe.”
“Good. I’ll order it right away.”
She picked up a nectarine and tossed it in the air, catching it before tossing it up again. “There’s enough fruit here for a dozen pies. I suppose I ought to bake one for us while I’m at it. One for Buck, too. If Lillian’s peach pie is as good as those ladies say, we’ll be sorry we don’t have our own.”
“You’re a peach yourself.” I gave her a grateful hug. “You busy Friday night?”
“No,” she said, returning the nectarine to the basket. “I’ve got the night off and don’t have any plans.”
“Why don’t you come to the poker game?” I suggested. “The more, the merrier.”
She cut me a dubious glance. “You said one of these women could be a killer. You’ve already asked me to bake them pies, and now you’re inviting me to play cards with them?”
“When you put it that way, it sounds kind of crazy.”
“It is kind of crazy, Whitney!”
“Well, they can’t all be the killer,” I said, as if that was somehow better. “Probably none of them are. Buck thinks it was Carl Dolan. It could even have been a random intruder.”
Colette tilted her head in thought. “Even if one of those ladies did kill Nelda Dolan, I suppose they wouldn’t try to kill the entire group at once. That would be darn near impossible, I suppose.”
“They’d have no reason to want to off the others, either. They’re a fun group of women. Besides, if you come to the poker game, it’ll give you a chance to see how they respond to the pie.” Colette liked to see how people responded to her culinary creations.
“All right,” she acquiesced. “After all the trouble we’ve gone to, I would like to see how much they enjoy it. I haven’t played poker in ages, though. I might be a little rusty.”
“No worries,” I said. “They don’t take it too seriously. Playing cards just gives them a reason to get together.”
She eyed me intently. “Think we’ll still be friends when we’re in our eighties?”
“I know we will.”
She smiled. “I know it, too.”
She strode over to the glass front cabinet, opened it, and retrieved the recipe box with Lillian’s blue-ribbon recipes in it. She pulled out a card before returning the box to the cabinet. She glanced down at the card and turned back to me. “This recipe for the peach pie says it’s best served warm.” She suggested we pack the pies in the insulated carrier she’d used for catering gigs in culinary school. “That’ll keep them from cooling off.”
“Good idea.” I could hardly wait to see the ladies’ reactions, especially Mary Sue’s. She’d had a tough few months, losing her best friend, a neighbor, and now suffering a break-in. She’d be tickled pink when I showed up with Lillian’s prize pie!
* * *
On Thursday morning, I rolled into the circle to see everyone’s recycling bins standing sentinel at the curb next to their driveways. Had it really been only a week since I’d found Dakota’s pawnshop ticket in the recycling bin in the garage at our flip house?
It seemed like so long ago. So much had happened since. Dakota had gone from being a prime suspect in Nelda Dolan’s murder to a solid subcontractor for me and Buck. Sawdust had discovered Lillian Walsh’s revised will and award-winning recipes hidden in the secret compartment on the stairs. Carl had wasted no time sitting on his newfound freedom and had begun dating Dulce. Becky had used her share of her mother’s life-insurance proceeds to buy herself a new car, and one for her twins as well. The driver from Hitch-a-Ride had been arrested, identified, and released. Roxanne had broken down in sobs, finally showing some heartfelt emotion over the feud she’d had with her murdered neighbor. Mary Sue’s window had been smashed, presumably by the killer, returning to burglarize another home on this circle of senior citizens.
As I climbed out of my car and rounded up my toolbox from the cargo bay, my gaze seemed to move of its own accord to Mary Sue’s recycling bin. Mary Sue might have slept at Roxanne’s last night, but she’d remembered to put out her bin. Just like last week, it overflowed with newspapers, the red brick sitting atop the stack to hold them in place lest the wind pick them up.
Hmm. Something niggled at the back of my brain, something my mind couldn’t seem to fully grasp at the moment. What is it about those newspapers?
Before I could give it much thought, Wayne Walsh
’s minivan rolled up to the curb and Dakota hopped out, proudly sporting his new coveralls.
“Looking good!” I called.
“I’m going to be extra careful,” he said. “I don’t want any paint getting on ’em.”
Pristine coveralls were a sure sign of a renovation rookie. But no sense telling him that. He’d learn over time, probably even in a short time, when Buck inevitably teased him about the clean, spotless garment.
After we went into the house, I armed the security system behind us and ventured downstairs to install new tile in the guest bath. As I worked, my mind wandered aimlessly about, coughing up random images and snippets of conversations that had taken place since I’d found Nelda’s body. At last Friday’s poker game, we’d discussed the night of Nelda’s death and the questions the detective had later posed to the people he’d interviewed. Becky had noted that the only thing she’d heard between going to bed that fateful Friday night and the detective coming to their door Saturday morning was a few barks from Mosey around three and Mary Sue’s house alarm going off in the early hours. Mary Sue had said she’d forgotten to disarm the alarm when she went out to get her newspaper.
Wait.
Hadn’t I seen Mary Sue’s newspaper lying under her bushes after I’d arrived at the house that morning? I’d almost swear to it. Then again, I’d been so discombobulated by finding Nelda’s bent and broken body that I couldn’t entirely trust my memory. Besides, even if the newspaper had still been lying under her bushes, it could mean Mary Sue had abandoned her mission when she’d inadvertently activated the alarm, forgetting why she’d gone outside in the first place. She’d said she was getting forgetful. Ironically, I remembered that part for sure. Or maybe she’d simply decided it was too chilly to go outside at that early hour and decided to round up her newspaper later in the day. She was retired, after all, not in any hurry or bound to a particular schedule.