Dyed and Gone to Heaven (Curl Up and Dye Mysteries, #3)

by Aimee Nicole Walker

  “I’m the man for every job,” I replied smugly.

  “Just tread carefully, Sunshine. Chaz is your best friend, and you don’t want to ruin your relationship due to well-meaning meddling.”

  “I got this under control,” I promised Gabe. “How was your day? Make any progress that you can’t talk about?”

  “A little maybe,” he replied. “What do you know about the proposed casino a few years back?”

  “Well, it was a big fucking deal,” I told him. “It was nearly a fifty-fifty split of those who opposed and approved it. The people who were for it wanted the jobs for our area and the ones against it worried that it would bring a lot of crime and destroy families. There were a lot of heated debates. Husband versus wife and religion over prosperity kind of discussions.”

  “Anyone mad enough to kill over it?” Gabe asked. “Who was the strongest proponent for the casino and who hated it the most?”

  I gave his question a lot of thought. Tempers ran high when it was a county issue, but became downright fevered when it went statewide. Regardless of our individual feelings about the casino, we collectively hated that the entire state of Ohio got to decide if the casino was built practically in our back yards.

  “The strongest supporter was the landowner of the property the casino investors wanted to buy. I heard rumors that they offered him ten million dollars, so I guess you could say he had ten million reasons to be angry when it didn’t happen,” I told Gabe.

  “And who hated the casino the most?” he asked.

  “That would be your boss and Sheriff Tucker. They said that crime would go through the roof and destroy our safe community,” I replied, earning a snort from Gabe. I could tell he was thinking about the rising body count in the past year.

  He got quiet for a few minutes, and I knew he was processing and analyzing what I’d said. I didn’t mind when Gabe checked out to think because he always came back to me. Like always, his eyes focused on me when he finished, and his smile was a beautiful reminder that I was his universe.

  THERE WERE TIMES THAT Josh projected such confidence that I could temporarily forget how mightily he’d been damaged by careless cowards who weren’t brave enough to love all that he had to offer. Then scenes like the previous night happened and I was reminded how close I came to being one of those fucking morons. Had I not discounted him outright when I first saw him because he didn’t fit my typical ideal mold of a man? People say that you don’t know what you’re missing if you’ve never had it, but I think at least a part of me always knew I was missing him.

  Josh getting tipsy before he could fuck me was an eye opener. I teased him to lighten the mood as he would do for me, but truthfully there was nothing funny about the situation. Okay, his attempt at smoldering looks and lecherous winks were, but not the reason behind them. Josh was naturally sexy and didn’t need enhancements of any kind to make me want him. I promised myself that I would make him realize that one day. In the meantime, I did all that I could to ease his concerns by being truthful. He had rocked my world in many ways the moment I met him.

  Sex—making love—had never felt so good or right as when I was with him and feeling Josh inside me was incredible. I’d had good sex, and even great sex, but being joined with Josh was… magical. I held onto that feeling and those moments whenever my day wasn’t going so great or when I really wanted to grab a douche by the collar and shake him, like when I visited Jack Wallace with Detective Dorchester the next morning. The receptionist gave me the stink eye the minute I walked in and went to Jack’s office to let him know I was there without being told.

  “Wow, your reputation precedes you,” Dorchester said. “It doesn’t seem like she cares for your bad cop routine.”

  “We’ve gone a few rounds before,” I told him. “Wait until you see the reception I get from the commissioner.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said gleefully while rubbing his hands together. We weren’t kept waiting for long, and Dorchester let out a low whistle when he saw the deep scowl on Wallace’s face when his eyes landed on me once we entered his office. “You weren’t kidding.” I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Hello again, Commissioner Wallace,” I said in an attempt at being somewhat friendly.

  “State your business and get the hell out,” Wallace replied.

  I looked over at Dorchester, expecting to see a huge grin on his face. Instead, he stood ramrod straight and narrowed his eyes at Jack Wallace as if he was public enemy number one. “It’d be wise if you showed the respect due to us, sir.”

  Wallace snorted and rolled his eyes. “Respect is earned,” he told Dorchester. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I’m Detective John Dorchester with the CCSD. Detective Wyatt and I are investigating the homicide of Nate Turner from January twenty-second of this year,” Dorchester said in his no-nonsense voice. He was always so jovial in my presence that I was surprised to witness that side of him.

  “The investigation has brought you to my door?” Wallace asked in surprise. He looked at me and said, “I suppose you blame me for global warming and the reason we can’t have world peace, Detective Wyatt.”

  “Nah,” I said dismissively. “We’re not here to question you in an official capacity, Commissioner Wallace. We’d like to know from you if there’s been any renewed interest in building a casino in our county.”

  “The casino?” he asked in surprise.

  “I was told that you initially supported the project, and I have to ask you if you’ve been approached by anyone from the casino consortium,” I answered.

  “No.” He looked and sounded genuinely surprised.

  “Do you know who in town the consortium would approach first if they were looking to propose the casino again?” I followed up.

  “Well, Rocky and I were the two biggest allies in town, but besides us, I would say the landowner, Lawrence Robertson,” Wallace answered. “He had the most to gain and lose from the entire ordeal. His land was the one McCarren Consortium Inc. had a boner for.”

  “Do you know if McCarren Consortium built a casino elsewhere after the initiative failed?” Dorchester asked.

  “Aren’t you the investigators?” Wallace fired back.

  His condescending attitude went all through me. I had let Dorchester take the lead with the bad cop shit, but it was time for me to take it back. I leaned forward and placed both hands on the commissioner’s desk. “Why don’t you focus on being a good and honest person and not lecture me on how to do my job.”

  He glanced back and forth between Dorchester and me, wondering if I had told him about Wallace’s secret life. It wasn’t long ago that Adrian and I had learned about Jack’s affair with the mayor. Jack told us he wanted the truth to be told and live openly with Rocky, but Rocky didn’t return his feelings. Jack cheating on his wife pissed me off, but it wasn’t my place to out the man.

  “Okay, then,” Dorchester said, clearly confused about the undertones of anger passing between the commissioner and me. “Let us know if you hear anything, Commissioner.” He laid his business card on Wallace’s desk before he left.

  “That guy really pisses me off,” I groused.

  “You two have a lot of history?” Dorchester asked.

  “Just one run-in, but trust me when I say that it was enough to leave a bad taste in both our mouths,” I replied. “Still, I think Jack would tell us if he knew something important. What do you think about taking a ride out to Robertson’s place and having a talk with him? If his property was the ideal location then, it would still be that way now. It’s possible the land has even increased in value.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Dorchester said.

  “Tell me what you know about Lawrence Robertson, other than he owns the land the consortium wanted to buy,” I said once Dorchester gave me directions to Robertson’s farm.

  “Well, he’s an enigma,” Dorchester told me. “He’s a fourth-generation farmer, he’s never married, and to look at him, you’d n
ever know he was worth billions.”

  “Plain dresser?”

  “He looks like he can’t afford soap and his clothes look like they haven’t been washed in two decades,” Dorchester said solemnly. “He lives all alone in that big old family farmhouse and doesn’t socialize with anyone. You’ll see him at the grocery store occasionally or the bank, but that’s it.”

  “I wonder what makes a guy live in solitude like that?” I asked him. I had lived as a bachelor for quite a few years, but I still got out and socialized. I couldn’t imagine how lonely that life must be for him. Josh was vibrant and full of life, like my personal ray of sunshine, and I couldn’t fathom living without the joys he brought to my life. “Why would he be so keen on selling his land? And to a casino of all things!”

  “Keep in mind that this is pure speculation on my part,” Dorchester said. I nodded my understanding, and he continued. “He has no children to leave the farm to, but he has two nephews from his younger brother, Ken, who died in Vietnam—both brothers served, but only one returned. Rumor has it that he doesn’t like the two nephews at all. They moved away for college and never showed any interest in the farm. They tried to get him to sell the farm to a real estate developer who wanted to build a subdivision years ago—back before the casino was interested in the land.”

  “How is that any different than selling the land to the casino?” I asked.

  “Both nephews worked for the developer and probably would’ve been rewarded handsomely had the deal gone through,” Dorchester replied. “Ole Lawrence wasn’t about to let them profit off the land they turned their backs on. I reckon he wanted to be in control of what happened to the land rather than let his nephews get it through his estate or something.”

  “It’s reasonable then that he’d strike up the conversation with McCarren Consortium again, especially if he’s tired of farming on his own,” I replied.

  Lawrence Robertson lived in an extremely rural part of the county. His house was one of just a few on the road. The long driveway was a quarter of a mile long; it added to the seclusion and loneliness of the property. The old home stood tall among the barns and trees, but its haggard and worn appearance clearly showed that it had weathered at least ten decades. The closer we got to the structures the more obvious the neglect became.

  “This used to be such a beautiful place,” Dorchester said sadly as I pulled to a stop next to the farmhouse. “Damn, some of the barns look like they’re about to cave in at any moment.”

  “How likely is it that the man has a shotgun aimed at us when we exit the car and approach the house?” I asked him. Many people shied away from crowds, but the level of anti-socialness that Dorchester described often meant that other underlying issues were present. The last thing I wanted was to get shot by a paranoid man.

  “Likely,” Dorchester replied. “We’ll just have to make our presence known.” We slowly got out of the car, and Dorchester hollered, “Mr. Robertson, we’re not here looking for any trouble. I’m Detective John Dorchester with the sheriff’s department, and I brought Detective Gabriel Wyatt from the Blissville Police Department with me. We just want to ask you a few questions about McCarren Consortium Inc.” We took a few steps closer to the front porch. “We don’t even have to come inside; we can chat on the front porch, sir.”

  We had continued walking slowly as John identified us and the reason we were present on his property. The total lack of noise of any kind stuck out to me. The wind was nonexistent, there were no birds chirping in the trees, and no creaking coming from inside the house to indicate the sole occupant was home and moving around. Maybe he wasn’t home or… “Fuck!” I exclaimed when the putrid smell of decaying flesh reached my nose.

  Dorchester was a step ahead of me. “Dispatch, I’m going to need the county coroner,” he said then rattled off Robertson’s address. “Detective Wyatt and I stopped by to ask Lawrence Robertson a few questions, and I can tell by the smell that there’s a DB inside. We haven’t made it inside the house to identify whether it’s Mr. Robertson yet.” Once Dorchester finished his call, he looked over at me and asked, “Are you ready?”

  Death is never easy to stumble upon, but it’s worse once the decaying process had started. “Let’s do it.” The door was locked when I tested it, so I lifted my leg and kicked it hard near the doorknob, so I could knock the lock loose from where it engaged with the doorframe. The stench that rolled out of the gaping door was enough to make me gag. People that told you to just breathe through your mouth had never been in a similar situation, or they would’ve known that wouldn’t help. I walked over to the far end of the front porch and sucked some fresh air into my lungs.

  “I’ve got Vick’s VapoRub in my trunk,” I told Dorchester after my stomach had settled down. It was a trick I had learned during my time with the MPD where DBs were a more common occurrence.

  John and I smeared the ointment beneath our nostrils, stepped into blue booties, and slid our hands into black latex gloves before we entered the premises. We found Mr. Robertson dead at his kitchen table. It looked like he had been reading the newspaper and drinking coffee when he died. If not for the bullet hole in his skull, it would’ve looked like he had a heart attack. There was no weapon in sight, no casing on the kitchen floor anywhere, and I saw where someone had dug the bullet out of the wall where it landed after exiting Robertson’s head.

  “This looks eerily similar to Nate Turner’s and Owen Smithson’s death,” Dorchester said. Both the club owner and the man who had sent him the harassing emails were killed the same way. The killer left behind no trace evidence for us to collect by removing the bullet fragment and shell casings from all three scenes.

  “Call Detective Jade and let him know that we’re not going to make it to Cincinnati today,” I told Dorchester as I began taking pictures with my phone. I would delete them later once they’d been uploaded to my computer and tagged as evidence. The sheriff’s department would take official crime scene photos, but I wanted my initial findings documented. “Let them know the latest development and get them to dig into McCarren. Does the man want this land enough to kill for it?”

  Dorchester made the call then we waited for the coroner to arrive before we touched anything. An odd thought struck me while I was looking around the kitchen. The room was old and outdated, but it was spotless except for the victim at the kitchen table. It was in direct contrast from the dilapidated exterior of the home. I looked in the living room we entered moments before and noticed it was in the same condition. The furniture was shabby looking, but there was no sign of the dust or clutter I would’ve expected from a man who was practically a hermit.

  “Do you find it odd how clean this house is?” I asked Dorchester. “Doesn’t that seem atypical of a non-conforming, anti-social existence?” I expected to see walls of news clippings about conspiracies or alien sightings.

  “Now that you mention it,” he replied. “It’s a cleaner house than I’d expect a bachelor to live in, but he’s former military, and they tend to keep that tidiness with them for their entire lives.”

  It was possible that Robertson kept his house tidy. “Or, he had hired help,” I commented.

  “It’s not public knowledge if that’s the case, but that’s what you’d expect from a very private man,” he replied.

  The county coroner showed up and took his photographs of the kitchen and the victim before he transported the body to the county morgue. A few other members of the sheriff’s department joined us, and we combed the house looking for clues. The rest of the house was as tidy as the living room and kitchen except for one spare bedroom that Robertson used for storage. Inside, there were boxes and boxes of old newspapers and personal files filled with paperwork. It was going to take us forever to go through the files to see if they contained anything pertinent to our investigation.

  The deputies who showed up to assist us carted the boxes to their vehicles and took them back to the sheriff’s office to store until we had a chance to loo
k at them. While searching the living room, I found Mr. Robertson’s checkbook in the drawer of the end table next to the threadbare couch. I found a weekly entry in his register for an Alice Davenport.

  “You know her?” I asked Dorchester.

  “She cleans houses for a living,” he replied, confirming my earlier suspicion. He raised a brow and tilted his head slightly to the right. “I’ve heard about your history with housekeepers, so maybe I should take the lead when we talk to her.” I appreciated Dorchester’s attempt at humor, but I didn’t think anything could put a smile on my face that day. I was wrong. My cellphone vibrated with a text from Josh.

  I love you.

  I found myself smiling amidst the cloak of sorrow and despair that clung to the air around me. I repeated those same words back to Josh in a text. Word must’ve reached Josh already, and he must’ve heard I was on the scene. I felt his lightness and warmth surround my heart, and it grounded me.

  “Let’s go find Alice Davenport,” I told Dorchester. “I’ll let you take the lead just to be safe.”

  WORD OF BAD NEWS traveled faster than the speed of light in a small town. I had known that my whole life—or soon as I was old enough to realize that my mom would know that I was sent to the principal’s office before I even reached his office—and yet it still managed to catch me by surprise at times. There were probably only three houses on that long stretch of the rural route that Lawrence Robertson lived and one of the residents just happened to have an appointment at my salon that day.

  “I saw a coroner’s van at Lawrence Robertson’s house while I was heading to town,” Sheila Jones said from Heather’s chair. “Bless his heart; I hope he didn’t suffer too terribly because Lord knows he suffered enough during his lifetime.” To the best of my knowledge, no one truly knew the man, and it felt like Sheila’s words were more like posturing than a genuine remark.

  Lawrence Robertson reminded me of the next-door neighbor to Kevin in the first Home Alone movie. He had a solemn, almost scary countenance about him. As a child, I was afraid of him, and I thought his house belonged in an episode of Scooby Doo, but as an adult, I got more of a lonely vibe from him instead of spooky. I decided to tune out the gossip about the death of a sad man to focus on the contrary head of hair I was working.