More customers drifted in, and many asked after Charlie, as well as how soon Carrie would be back so they could get advice on knitting projects. Around four o’clock, just as Jo had bagged up a purchase of scapbooking supplies and handed them over, Dan called.
“Jo, we’re taking off for the day here. Have to pick up things for the bathroom that came in, before the place closes. Holt just called, but I don’t know from where. He wasn’t happy to hear we were calling it a day. But he said something about coming home to look over what we’ve done around six. You might be able to catch him here, if you want to try.”
“That would work out great, Dan. There’s no workshop tonight, and I can close at six. What’s the address?”
Jo grabbed a pen and scribbled down Parker Holt’s address. “I should be able to find that. Thanks for the heads-up. And wish me luck!”
From then on, Jo watched the clock impatiently. For a day that had been fairly busy, things suddenly quieted down, and the minutes dragged like a sable brush through a half-dried blob of paint.
Ina Mae called with Randy Truitt’s contact number. “It’s for Otto’s,” she explained, “that bar and pizza place over on Borne Avenue.” Jo knew the place. She had stopped in on one of her early days in Abbotsville, for a take-out pizza, and could barely communicate over the blare of a basketball game from the television. “Apparently,” Ina Mae continued, “Otto takes messages for Randy.”
Jo remembered seeing a handful of men at Otto’s bar that day, looking glued in place, each with a half full glass of beer before them as they gazed up at the television cheerlessly. Randy Truitt might have been one of them. Not a totally reassuring image, but Ina Mae wouldn’t recommend an incompetent. And it was a small job.
“Thanks, Ina Mae. I’ll give him a try.”
Jo punched in the number for Otto’s and asked for Randy.
“Not here,” a not-unfriendly voice barked into her ear. Jo heard droning motor noises in the background, and pictured a NASCAR race on the bar’s television, captivating – or perhaps hypnotizing - its patrons.
She left her message, and wondered when she’d hear back from Randy, grimacing over how her days seemed to be turning into on-going searches for men who uniformly kept one step beyond her. Hopefully Randy, with the promise of payment, would come within her reach.
Finally, after only one more customer stopping in - at five minutes before six, of course - Jo closed up shop. She pocketed the slip of paper with Parker Holt’s address written on it, clicked off the last light, locked the final lock, and headed for her not-so-trusty Toyota in the small lot next to her shop.
What exactly would she say to Holt, she wondered as she turned the key in her ignition and listened to the slow grind of the cold motor working hard to start. He might not be too happy to be cornered at his home. How should she begin, in order to put him in a more comfortable frame of mind and therefore more apt to answer her questions? Introduce herself first as a friend of Dan’s? No, that might put Dan in an awkward position.
The engine caught, and she let it warm a bit while she thought, then put the car in gear and headed out Main. She should probably be open with Holt as to her purpose for coming, but non-confrontational. Simply seeking information.
That was it. To the point and brief. And if Holt told her he had arranged with Max to buy her store’s building, and planned to tear it down so that she’d better start looking elsewhere for accommodations, so be it. She would nod, and thank him for his time, and leave.
And go straight home to cut her throat.
No, not quite, though the urge would definitely be there. But she shouldn’t think about that yet. First things first. And right now, she needed to concentrate on finding the house. The address Dan gave her was on Foxwell. Which, he had told her was off of Old Stagecoach Road. Ah, there it was. Okay, had Dan said take a right turn? Yes.
Jo turned, and drove down Foxwell, checking the numbers on the houses, which were spread apart and set much farther back from the street than the parts of town she was used to. Larger too. The address numbers were at the ends of their long driveways, on lighted pillars or artistically stacked rocks: 241, 239. There it was, 237. Jo stopped and looked over at the house.
It was old, but beautifully so, well maintained and full of character. Interesting, she thought, that a man who made his money erecting new, flashy, and according to some, flimsy structures, chose to live in a solid, stone-fronted, traditional home such as that. The landscaping, lit by outside lights and dusted with snow, was attractive and not overdone. No see-how-many-expensive-shrubs-I-can-afford extravagance, but tasteful, graceful arrangements separated by wide spaces of lawn.
Was this a good sign? Did it mean that Parker Holt was a man who would not ruthlessly ruin others for his own profit. Or was it, perhaps, simply a sign that he had married a woman with good taste, to whom he had given carte blanche. Jo hadn’t thought about a wife. Would Mrs. Holt answer Jo’s knock on the door and run interference for her husband just as his goalie secretary had done? Only one way to find out.
Jo drove up the driveway which split in two near the top, one part leading to a three-car garage, partially blocked by a silver Lexus, the other to the front of the house. Jo chose the front. She parked, and walked up the porch steps, admiring the look of the house, close-up. The front door was framed by sheer-curtained sidelights, through which she barely made out a wide, slate-floored foyer. She lifted the brass knocker and tapped it three times, then waited.
Nothing seemed to stir within the house. Jo checked the edges of the sidelights and found a door bell, which she pressed, hearing the musical chime play inside. Again, no response. Had she arrived too early and beat Parker Holt home? But someone’s car was here, possibly his, and the house was brightly lit. What should she do? She hadn’t counted on just being left at the door. She didn’t like it much, either.
Jo lifted the door knocker again, and let it fall heavily on its base, several times. When this brought no response, Jo stepped back off the porch, and looked up. No windows on the upper floor were lit, though most of the downstairs seemed to be. Then she caught sight of light glimmering through a basement window. Perhaps Holt was in the basement, checking on Dan and Xavier’s work. Maybe he couldn’t hear her knocks.
Jo looked over to where the silver Lexus was parked. Perhaps there was an entrance there? Maybe Holt would hear her if she banged on that one. She trotted over to that side of the house and saw it as soon as she rounded the house’s corner: a door, set next to the garage doors, with light showing through its high window. Jo ran over and knocked. Again, no response. She knocked harder, and this time the door eased open an inch, apparently not having been firmly shut. Should she go in? The cold wind whipped around the corner of the house, lifting her hair to chill her ears, urging her to go ahead. She pushed the door farther open and leaned in.
“Hello? Mr. Holt?”
No response.
“Hello?” Jo took one step in and called again. She spotted stairs over to the right, leading obviously to the basement, light coming from them. Was he down there? But it was quiet. So quiet. No sound of movement, or of Holt talking on his ever-present cell phone. Nothing. Jo felt a sudden chill, aware it wasn’t from the wind this time. Something wasn’t right.
She called out once more, and moved to the head of the stairs. Then she saw him
A man – Parker Holt? – lying head first at the bottom of the steps,.
Jo froze.
No sound came from him, no movement, no intake of breath. If this was Holt, she feared he was the late Parker Holt
Jo fumbled for her cell phone.
CHAPTER 4
Lights flashed from emergency vehicles, giving Jo a sickening sense of déjà vu, first Mike’s horrible accident in New York, then that bizarre death scene she’d encountered in her own shop only four months ago. Apparently that last one also came to the mind of Lieutenant Morgan when he arrived at the house and spotted her sitting in her car.
Jo managed a weak smile, her concern at the moment more for Dan, whom she’d called immediately after 9-1-1. Dan had arrived, grim-faced, shortly after the emergency responders and was in the basement with police at the moment. The man on the stairs, Jo had learned, was indeed Parker Holt, confirmed for her by several of the rescue personnel who recognized him.
How would this affect Dan’s remodeling business, she worried, with a homeowner dying in the work area? Had something been left so carelessly and in such a dangerous spot, that it somehow caused Parker Holt’s death? Jo could hardly imagine that. Dan was extremely meticulous, she knew that for a fact. He would never overlook anything deadly, especially knowing that Holt would be poking through the area later on. So how did it happen? Jo had seen a crowbar on the floor near Holt’s body. But what that had to do with anything she couldn’t begin to guess. From the position of his body, he seemed to have fallen down the steps. But why?
Lieutenant Morgan disappeared into the house, then other, non-uniformed, people arrived. A portly man wrapped in a heavy dark overcoat emerged from a black Lincoln and blustered in along with a younger man, both unchallenged by police. Was that Warren Kunkle, the mayor of Abbotsville? Jo had seen only photos of him in the Abbotsville Gazette, but she thought it might be. What would the mayor be here for, she wondered? But before she had time to consider, another car pulled up and a woman wearing high-heeled boots and fur-trimmed coat and hat got out. She conferred briefly with an officer, then hurried to the front door.
Jo hadn’t seen her face, but the manner in which the woman had entered the house told Jo it was her own, that this was Parker Holt’s wife. Jo’s heart instantly went out to her. She understood better than most what she would be going through on hearing the devastating news that her husband was dead. The memory of her own experience flashed once more, and Jo sucked in a deep breath, then opened her car door and got out. Better to move around, even in the cold, than sit alone with painful memories. She went up to a patrolman standing beside his car.
“I was asked to wait so Lieutenant Morgan could talk to me. Any idea how soon that might be?”
“No ma’am. They’re probably still working the scene. Did you want to wait inside the patrol car?”
“No, but thanks.”
Jo’s cell phone rang. She knew who it was before checking the caller ID. “I haven’t heard anything more yet, Carrie,” Jo said, answering, and stepping away from the red-nosed patrolman.
“Jo, I’m just so worried. And it’s awful of me, I know, for feeling worse about what this means to Dan – and us - than I do about that poor man.”
“Carrie, you’ve never even met Parker Holt, right? Of course you should feel that way. But try not to, anyway. I mean, don’t worry. We don’t know what exactly happened yet. Holt might have simply tripped on his own shoe laces. Or maybe he had a heart attack. Do you know if he – oh, wait.” Jo caught sight of someone heading to the garage side entrance. “I think Xavier’s here. Youngish, with a mustache, wears a dark baseball-type jacket?”
“That sounds like him. Poor Sylvia. She’ll be worried to death. I should give her a call.”
“Why don’t you do that.” Jo knew Carrie would wring her hands less if she focused more on Sylvia. “I’ll call you if I learn anything.”
“Mrs. McAllister?”
Jo turned to see a sandy-haired uniformed officer. “I’ve got to go,” Jo said to Carrie and hung up.
“Lieutenant Morgan would like to talk to you.”
Jo pocketed her cell phone, and followed the officer into the house. He led her through the foyer, turning left, and Jo trailed behind, glancing over at the living room on the right. She saw no sign of the woman she’d assumed to be Holt’s wife but did hear muffled voices coming from somewhere farther back, possibly the kitchen. Agitated voices.
The living room, from her quick look, had exuded an air of quiet opulence – polished cherry, brocades in bright colors. The door that the sandy-haired officer opened for her, however, led to a smaller room with a cozier feel. Plump armchairs flanked a round table that held a reading lamp and a small pile of books. Built-in shelves were filled with more books, framed photos, and a small television. A Queen Anne style desk took up one end of the narrow room, and behind it sat Lieutenant Morgan, looking, Jo thought, less than comfortable on the delicate chair.
“Mrs. McAllister,” he said, greeting her with a half-rise, “please have a seat.”
With her only choice one of the oversized chairs, Jo took the nearest one and tried to perch on the edge of its puffy cushion to meet Morgan’s gaze in a business-like way. The chair’s softness, however, swallowed her and she sank backward ungracefully.
“Sorry about that,” the lieutenant said, as Jo struggled. “This was the only available room with privacy.”
Jo nodded, and found that once she gave into it, the chair was amazingly comfortable. Images of it replacing her own broken-springed sofa ran wistfully through her head.
Morgan got down to business. “Tell me how you happened to come here tonight.”
He flipped pages in a notebook which, Jo was sure, held the information she had already given to the first responding officer. She hadn’t seen Morgan for several weeks, and once again it unnerved her how the sight of him brought flashes of Mike to mind, though there was little actual resemblance between the two men beyond their dark coloring and build.
Jo remembered having spotted the lieutenant during a break at the Country Club’s craft show last fall. She had watched him then, meeting an attractive woman for lunch and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. What did that kiss indicate, she had wondered at the time, and continued to wonder. Was this woman still in his life?
Jo suddenly became aware of how she must look, knowing how she tended to run her hands through her own dark hair under times of stress. And her nose, she was sure, must be as red as the patrolman’s outside. But as Lieutenant Morgan looked up expectantly, and a bit impatiently, Jo straightened up, annoyed with herself for letting her thoughts wander so frivolously. This was not, after all, a social visit. She launched into her answer to Morgan’s question, explaining about her unsuccessful attempts to reach Holt all day, and finally coming to his house.
“So he wasn’t expecting you?”
“No. I thought my chances of talking with him were better if I caught him by surprise.”
“But Dan Brenner knew you would be coming.”
“Yes, as I said, Dan gave me the address, and told me when Holt would likely be here.”
“Did Mr. Ramirez also know you were coming?”
Jo thought it an odd question. “I don’t know. He might have heard Dan talking on the phone to me, I suppose. Or Dan might have mentioned it to him. Why?”
“Tell me what you found when you arrived at the house.”
Jo described knocking at the front door, and eventually spotting light at the basement window.
“You didn’t see or hear signs of anyone in the house at that point?”
“No, which is why I went around, looking for another entrance. I thought maybe Mr. Holt hadn’t heard my knocking on the front door if he were in the basement.”
“Uh-huh. And then what?”
Jo told about the side door moving open at her touch, then walking in and seeing Holt at the bottom of the stairs.
“And did you go down those stairs?”
“No. I called 9-1-1. On the slim chance he was alive, I didn’t think I should try to do anything in case moving him at all would be dangerous. But he looked dead.”
“Yes, I guess you, better than some, would pick up on that.”
Jo had been expecting a comment like that. In the past she might have bristled, but now she searched for a glint of humor lurking in the lieutenant’s eyes, and found it.
“Believe me, it’s not something I’m happy to have expertise in,” she replied. “What happened? Did he trip? Hit his hea
d? I didn’t see blood.”
“We’re still looking into that.” The veil of officialdom slipped back down, covering the glint, and Morgan returned to his notebook. “Well, that about covers everything, Mrs. McAllister.”
“You can call me Jo, by now. I’d say it’s been long enough.”
Morgan opened his mouth to respond, when a patrolman stuck his head in the door after a single knock.
“Excuse me, sir, but the mayor wants ---”
“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
Morgan stood and came around the desk, and, as Jo worked at climbing out of her soft chair, held out a helpful hand.
“I thought I recognized that man as Warren Kunkle,” Jo said, taking Morgan’s hand gratefully and pulling herself upright. “What does the mayor have to do with this?”
Morgan guided her out the door.
“Thank you for your help,” he said, adding with a small smile, “Jo.” He opened the front door for her and stepped back. “And Mrs. Holt is Warren Kunkle’s niece.”
“Oh,” Jo said, as the door closed behind her.
<><><>
Jo left the Holt property with some difficulty, maneuvering her Toyota past the clusters of vehicles clogging the drive, grateful that the simplicity of the Holt’s landscaping allowed her to veer onto the hard, snow-dusted ground as needed. Once back on the street, she sighed with relief, glad to pull away from the flashing lights and crackling radios, wondering how those whose job it was to regularly function under such conditions could bear it. The lieutenant seemed as calm and in control as he always had, which in the past had often been maddening but tonight felt comforting. It brought back memories of how Mike had been able to soothe her far simpler worries with his usual reasonableness.
String of Lies Page 3