“It’s the only thing I can think of.”
“Me too,” he agreed. “I’m calling Schultz.”
An hour later, Detectives Schultz and Burns were knocking on my door. “Come in,” I invited.
We went over our theory and they both nodded. “Jesus,” Detective Burns said when we were finished.
“Let’s go talk to them,” Schultz said looking at his partner.
“Wait,” I shrieked. “I don’t want Mr. Dawson knowing Mrs. Tuttle heard anything. How is this going to play out?”
“Okay, then we’ll talk to Hutchins first. If there’s a logical explanation, we’ll just let it go,” Detective Schultz agreed, understanding my concerns.
Jackson and I both paced the floor, each of us wearing grooves in the old wooden planks. “Jackson, I’m worried David Hutchins is going to see the detective car in my driveway and know I called the cops on them. This may not go over well.”
Jackson stopped his pacing and drew in a sharp breath. “I see what you’re saying.” He pulled his phone out and sent a text and then looked back at me. “I told them to make a big deal out of canvassing the neighborhood about Eugene Smith’s disappearance. They were doing it anyway. They just haven’t worked this far down the street. It’ll look like they made it as far as the Foster house before calling it a night.”
I breathed a small sigh of relief, hoping his explanation was a good enough excuse. Now I was extremely glad Jackson was staying here, but doubly worried about Mrs. Tuttle.
Periodically we stopped our pacing to peer out the window. The two detectives had gone inside, preventing us from knowing what was going on. It was an hour later before they finally came back over.
“Got your text,” Detective Schultz began with. “We spent all day talking to everyone on the street. We were only a house away from Hutchins when we’d called it a day. He would’ve been questioned tomorrow anyway.”
“Good,” I said, letting out a relieved breath.
“What did he say?” Jackson pushed.
“We acted like someone saw a prowler last night and thought it might be related to Eugene Smith’s disappearance. He said it was probably him. He admitted going over to Mr. Dawson’s.” He paused. “You’re not going to believe this, but he said Dawson’s heater was on the fritz. The unit is in the attic which is accessed from inside the garage. Hutchins, being a handyman, jerry-rigged the unit last Monday night when Dawson complained he couldn’t sleep in a cold house. He claimed he lost his footing coming down the steps and fell to the floor with a thud, which explains Monday night’s noise. Last night, around seven, FedEx delivered the new part. Hutchins wasn’t planning on installing it until the next morning, but Dawson called and insisted he get his ass over there and fix it right then because his house was cold. So, Hutchins got up in the middle of the night and installed the part. He said it was bulky and probably caused some noise. He said he helped Dawson load the old unit in the back of Dawson’s vehicle and they took it down to a dumpster and disposed of it and then they came back.”
“Wow,” was all I could muster. For sure I thought I had figured out Eugene Smith’s body had been in a freezer in Jarrod Dawson’s garage. Boy did I have egg on my face. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” I finally managed.
“Think nothing of it. It’s what we do,” Detective Burns said kindly to me. “It sure sounded like a plausible scenario.”
The guys chatted about the two falls and Eugene Smith while I brought out some hot chocolate. “Here you go,” I said, placing mugs in front of each of them.
“Thank you,” they all said simultaneously.
“You’re welcome,” I said, excusing myself to my bedroom, giving them some privacy because I wasn’t sure how forthcoming they might be if a civilian was listening in. To ease Mrs. Tuttle’s mind, I gave her a call and told her about the heater repair.
“My God, Rachel, I just can’t believe it. I thought for sure he had a dead body in there … possibly even Eugene.”
“You and me both,” I confessed.
“Well, I guess it’s good to know it was only a household repair. I’ll sleep better now.”
“That’s why I called. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Goodnight Rachel.”
As I was ending my conversation with Mrs. Tuttle, I heard the detectives telling Jackson goodnight. Being a polite hostess, I made my way back to the living room and apologized once again for my crazy thoughts about my neighbors and told them goodnight.
Once things quieted down, Jackson brought his equipment back out and set it up. “Hutchins had quite a story about the heater repair. Did you buy it?”
“Well, since the detectives believed it, I just assumed it happened.”
“I suppose it could be the truth,” Jackson said, giving the story the benefit of doubt. “But I know one thing … there wasn’t a FedEx delivery truck at their house last night.”
Chapter Thirty
Jackson
“I don’t know, Jackson, remember we watched some TV last night. It could’ve happened then.”
“Not around seven,” I argue. “We watched TV late. Remember, we caught the late news and then an episode of Forensic Files. I would’ve seen the FedEx truck.”
Rachel blinks her beautiful blue eyes and her full bottom lip is clenched between her teeth as she ponders the inconsistency. She knows I had my eyes glued on the Foster house most of the day. “Well, not long ago, Mrs. Jenkins needed a new washing machine. I ordered it for her and gave instructions for it to be delivered to the alley because bringing it in through the garage was closest to the utility room. So, you see, the delivery truck didn’t pull up out front.”
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. “I thought I had something.” It would be great if I could solve Eugene Smith’s disappearance, as well as those two fall cases. It would go a long way in a promotion from being an undercover cop and into the detective crimes section. “So, we’re buying Hutchins’ story?”
She shrugs. “I guess so. It made sense. We know Logan and David have been taking handyman jobs. For sure, Jarrod Dawson is the type of person who would’ve called David at midnight and told him to get his ass over there because he was cold. Remember, I told you about him barking at those movers. And just yesterday, he couldn’t be bothered when I passed out the Missing Person flyers. In fact, he handed it back to me. He’s a pushy, rude man.”
“Maybe it was only a heater repair,” I unwillingly admit. “But I’m keeping my eye on his house too.”
“Good idea,” Rachel agrees. “There’s something shady about him.” She pauses for a few moments and I can tell her brilliant mind is churning around. “You know, when I think about it, when I handed him the brochure on Eugene Smith, he told me he didn’t know him. If Mr. Phillips were correct about Jarrod Dawson trying to sell him an insurance policy, it stands to reason he does know him … wouldn’t you think?”
“Good point,” I allow. “However, the detectives have already asked Mrs. Smith if there was an insurance policy and she claims there wasn’t. And, even if Dawson tried to sell him one, with him going to every house in the neighborhood, including yours, he might not have specifically remembered Eugene Smith.”
She nods. “Do you think Mr. Smith would’ve been conned into buying a policy and then later felt so embarrassed about it, he couldn’t bring himself to tell his wife?”
I shrug. “Anything is possible. But my guess is, if we ask Dawson if he conned Eugene Smith into purchasing a policy, he’ll deny it.”
Rachel pinches her lips together as more thoughts roll around in that pretty head of hers. “If the police check to see if a policy was issued, will the Texas Department of Insurance provide the information?”
“I’m sure there would have to be a subpoena involved. But yes, they would comply with the request.” I can tell she is all wrapped up in whether there was any insurance or not. And admittedly, I wonder about it myself. From what Rachel portrayed, Mr. Phillips was clear on Eugene Sm
ith taking out a policy. What if he didn’t tell his wife? Then again, it seems logical he would have named his wife or his only daughter as beneficiaries … maybe his grandkids too, as I think about it. “I’ll ask Schultz about double checking on the insurance policy. And, while I don’t think the wife or daughter did anything nefarious, maybe there needs to be a more in-depth inspection into the son-in-law.”
“Thank you, Jackson.” Rachel looks happy for me to be taking her seriously.
While I watch the Foster house, Rachel continues to keep me company. Much to my happiness, we talk … really talk until it is late in the night. It feels like Rachel and I have worked past any awkwardness, and yes, even animosity, and now we are becoming friends. Hopefully soon, our friendship will blossom into a romance. Even though we can carry on a deep conversation, having sex with her is always at the back of my mind. Okay, it is also at the forefront of my mind. She is sexy as hell and I’d love to have my way with her.
“I’m tired,” she says with a big yawn. “I’m turning in for the night.” She frowns at me. “You haven’t had much sleep. Would you like for me to nap for a couple of hours and then relieve you? I can watch the house and if anything happens, I’ll wake you.”
Right now, I want to hug her. She is the sweetest, most thoughtful person I have ever met. “Nah, I’ll watch until two or three o’clock and then I’ll crash on your couch.”
“If you change your mind, just let me know.”
“Okay, I will,” I tell her with a soft chuckle, recalling how soundly asleep she was last night when I needed a key. Shy of a tornado, I don’t think Rachel is waking to keep an eye on her neighbors.
She pushes up from her chair, rising from the table. “Well, goodnight then.”
“Goodnight,” I tell her, already feeling her absence. Though sexual thoughts have periodically occupied my brain all day, when I picture Rachel going to bed, those images of having sex with her multiply and come to life. My lust-filled eyes rove over her, absorbing every inch of her beautifully curved body. My eyes track her soft dainty strides down the hallway, causing me to wonder if she’s equally delicate in the bedroom. Does she prefer slow and caressing to a rougher and wilder style? I hope she isn’t the quiet type, or a lover who just lays there. How long before these unknowing questions are answered? The unresolved nagging thoughts leave me with unfilled desires that will hopefully soon be quenched. “Goodnight my sweet Rachel,” I whisper to myself.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jackson
Sitting in my chair and peering through the foggy windowpanes, I watch as nothing goes on at the Foster household. My thoughts are transfixed on that heater repair. If Rachel is correct, the delivery truck may have dropped the replacement part into the alley. It certainly makes sense if access to the attic was from the rear-facing garage. So why did I not believe Hutchins’ story for even one second? Although, imagining there being a body in a freezer was even more ludicrous. The reasonable explanation was probably more likely. Even so, I intend to keep a closer watch on Jarrod Dawson’s house. After all, I have the perfect vantage point.
Hours later, my eyes grow weary and my body aches from lack of stretching. Unable to bear it any longer, I must get some sleep. After closing the curtains (Rachel’s rule), I tiptoe down the hall into Rachel’s bedroom. It is sheer torture to pass by her bed where she lies sleeping and continue into the den where a lonely couch awaits me. Quietly I slip off my shoes, undo my pants and shimmy out of them. Next, I pull my sweatshirt over my head and toss it on the arm of the couch. I leave my T-shirt on and crawl under the sheet and pull it and the blanket up to my chin. This old house is drafty and, even though it is equipped with central heat and air, the warmth does not quite make it to the back room. While I have also left my socks on, in no time at all, my feet are like icebergs. Even though this room is weirdly accessed through Rachel’s bedroom, I haven’t closed the door because it will result in even less heat entering the room. With the door ajar, I have a direct view of Rachel’s bed. One of the window blinds in her room is stuck up, allowing a sliver of moonlight to enter. The moonbeam arrows across the darkened room and kisses her beautiful face, lighting up her perfect features. She looks like a sleeping angel and I fight the urge to slide myself under the covers next to her warm, curvy body. It is a desire squelched only when I imagine placing my cold feet against her, resulting in her coming alive like an angry hornet’s nest. Even so, as I listen to her comforting little panting sounds, I wonder if her wrath might be worth it.
I missed Rachel all day. She was out and about running errands, buying groceries and delivering food to Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jenkins. Then Mrs. Tuttle was here. And then the detectives were here. We barely ate together, and our visit later seemed to go by in a flash. I don’t know what is happening to me, but I find a lot of my thoughts centering on Rachel. And right now, they are screaming for me to join her in her bed. “No,” I mutter to myself. She has put her foot down in that regard. And so, I huddle, cold on a cramped couch, until my body gives way to desperately needed sleep.
Sometime later, a gratifying smell wakes me. I sniff the air, immediately recognizing the smell of bacon, which Rachel bought for me … especially for me. The scent of coffee brewing adds to the tantalizing aroma. Daylight is filtering through a crack in the curtains covering French doors out to the backyard. I crawl from under my quilt and peer outside. The sun is making a huge effort today for the first time in at least four days. A light frost blankets the ground, creating a thin gleaming layer of sparkling tiny diamonds against the early morning sunrise. Gazing downwardly, I take in the lack of a landing off the French doors, finding it to be at least a drop of five feet to the ground. Escaping a fire would be dangerous and I am sure this is a code violation. It will also hinder my plans of using my telescope for stargazing and putting some romantic moves on Rachel.
Hopping around to put my jeans on and then my shirt, I pad through Rachel’s bedroom, where I see she has made up her bed, and then I go into the bathroom to pee. From there, I head for the kitchen where I find Rachel stretching out slices of crispy bacon on a paper plate, covered with a paper towel. I lean against the doorframe and watch her. She is wearing a white terry cloth robe and her hair is pulled into a falling-down ponytail. She must sense my presence because she turns in my direction.
“Good morning,” she says with a sweet smile. And though she is void of makeup, she looks positively beautiful.
“Good morning,” I echo. “Is that bacon for me?” I ask, knowing damned well it is.
“Duh,” she says with an even bigger smile. “Would you like scrambled or fried eggs this morning?”
“Fried,” I decide.
“Good, I wanted the same,” she responds.
“Then you shouldn’t have even asked. I’m not here to make your life harder. In fact, I really appreciate you cooking breakfast for me … and the roast … and the chicken last night.”
“I didn’t cook the chicken,” she reminds me.
“You know what I mean,” I say as I move up behind her, desperately wanting to touch her. For a moment I calculate the risk involved in giving her a thank-you hug. I chicken out and divert to the coffee pot and pour myself a cup.
She makes perfect sunny-side-up eggs and while I slice us some tomatoes – which I find Rachel has a fondness for – she pulls the biscuits and divvies up the food. Together we go into the dining room and take what has become “our spots,” my heart warming at the thought. Being here with her is like a dream come true. My God, what is happening to me? I am a lone wolf. I need to get these domesticated thoughts out of my head and concentrate on my goal. Rachel is a notch in the bedpost, and nothing more.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Rachel
Jackson was very complimentary over my cooking and he did the dishes while I showered and dressed for the day. Then he took his turn, barely taking five minutes before he was back in his observation chair. “You can use my hairdryer,” I offer, noticing his
long, stringy hair was dripping, the moisture causing darker lines of wetness against the back of his sweatshirt.
“Oh, I never dry it … my hair will eventually handle the task on its own.”
I frowned, thinking he could put forth a little effort in his appearance. I wondered if he was generally a lazy person, or just didn’t care about his presentation. “Well, if you change your mind, you’re welcome to use it,” I hinted, also wishing he’d trim his bushy mustache, at least enough so the hairs didn’t hang down over his top lip.
Without further comment, I began working on my bookkeeping tasks, putting aside my tax return documents, at least for today. It was Saturday and frankly I would’ve rather gone for a walk or relaxed on the couch with a good book. But it was coming up on April 15th which was every tax preparer’s worst nightmare. Most of my tax business stemmed from elderly folks living in my neighborhood and they had already dropped off their information. Other clients, younger and techier, had emailed their documents to me. Some had personally dropped off their paperwork, while a few packages had arrived in the mail. Together, it amounted to a mountain of work. But at the same time, I couldn’t neglect my bookkeeping duties. So today I was entering purchase orders and expense items into an accounting program.
Several hours later, I took the last of the soup over to Mrs. Jenkins to check on her. Stepping into the bright sunshine, I lifted my face to the rays and enjoyed the warmth. It was still jacket weather, but what an improvement.
“Hello, Rachel,” she greeted. “Come in.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jenkins.” I pulled the door closed behind me and waited for her to shuffle out of the way. “How are you feeling today?”
“Much better now with the sun warming things up. Those cold-weather days caused every bone in my body to ache.”
The curtains were open, and her rocking chair was dragged closer to the window, giving the impression she had been admiring the bright sunshine from underneath her self-crocheted afghan.
The House Across The Street Page 13