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

by Aimee Nicole Walker

  “Emory Jackson,” I said for our new neighbor. Both men looked at me oddly when they heard the hint of irritation in my voice. I really needed to learn how to be subtle.

  “Look, Sunshine, he brought your favorite wine,” Gabe said, unknowingly betraying me.

  Emory narrowed his eyes in confusion over why I lied to him about not drinking. I had no explanations for why I didn’t like him; I just didn’t. “Sunshine, huh?”

  “Yep,” Gabe said, proud of the name he’d given me.

  “I just bet he’s a ball of fire,” Emory commented. His eyes widened when he realized how his statement sounded. “I-I didn’t mean sexually.”

  “Why the hell not?” I demanded. “You don’t think I can burn shit down?” Who was this guy who pushed himself in my space not once, but twice, and insulted me? “I burn hotter than you could possibly handle.”

  “Take it easy there, Stud Muffin,” Gabe said good-naturedly. “He wasn’t insulting your sexual prowess. I think our new neighbor just meant you’re a feisty guy.”

  I pinned Emory with a death glare and said, “I am feisty. All the time and everywhere.”

  “I think I made the wrong impression here,” Emory said. He pushed the bottle of wine toward Gabe, who graciously accepted his offering. “I’m hoping not to make an ass of myself the next time we run into each other.” Next time he’d be in my chair, so if he got out of line, I’d change him from Fabio to Justin Bieber so fast his head would spin.

  “You’re fine,” Gabe assured him. “We’re all good.”

  Emory looked at me for several awkward moments. “No, but we will be in time,” he said before he turned and walked down the steps of the back porch. “Nice shirt, by the way.”

  I looked down and saw I had put on one of the graphic tees that Gabe bought me. That one had a large blow dryer on the front and read: Want a blow job?

  “What the fuck did he mean by that?” I asked when he was at the end of our driveway. I clearly wasn’t referring to his comment about my shirt.

  “Why don’t you tell me,” Gabe said, watching the strange man across the alleyway that bisected our properties. The pizza delivery guy pulled in just as I opened my mouth to answer him. “Save that for when we’re back upstairs. I have a feeling it’s a long story.”

  “It’s not a long story,” I told Gabe once we were upstairs on the couch with a plate of pizza on our laps. I told Gabe about me lusting after the racing stripes on his car and trying to guess who was moving in based on the furniture that the movers carried inside the house. “The man looked up at my window like he knew to look for me. It was like he was looking inside my brain.”

  “Just how long were you watching the guy?” Gabe asked, pinning me with a narrowed gaze. “People know when they’re being watched. You know this from the time Billy slashed your tires. You once told me that you could feel him watching you.”

  “I could feel his malevolence,” I told Gabe. “That’s not what this was. I was just checking out the new neighbor and had no ill will toward him.”

  “Were you lusting after the guy?” Gabe actually sounded jealous.

  “You can’t seriously be worried about Fabio,” I said. “Babe, believe me when I say that I’m not attracted to him.”

  “Then what are you so worried about?” he wanted to know.

  “He turned up in my salon to schedule an appointment with me today. Chaz said he asked for me specifically. He’s been here for less than twenty-four hours and already knew who I was. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?”

  “Not in this town,” Gabe remarked. “All it took was him having a cup of coffee at The Brew this morning and asking for a good place to get his hair cut.”

  “Cut,” I snorted. “Do you think those highlights are natural?” I asked Gabe.

  “Uh, I didn’t notice his hair,” Gabe replied, a bit snidely.

  “What does that mean?” I asked Gabe, feeling my ire coming on.

  Gabe set his plate on the table and turned to me. I saw emotions I never wanted to see in his eyes: insecurity and dread. “What I noticed was that he only had eyes for you.” True, but it didn’t feel sexual to me. It was something far more unsettling to me, although I couldn’t quite name what it was.

  “It doesn’t matter, Gabe, because he can’t have me. I belong to you.” I picked his plate up off the coffee table and handed it to him. “Eat your dinner. Skipping meals is the last thing you need to do while under this much stress.” I shook my head in disbelief that Gabe could entertain that my heart would ever belong to someone else after he held it in his hand.

  “I don’t think I like him,” Gabe said.

  “I know that I don’t like him, which was why I told him I didn’t drink when he tried to hand me the bottle of wine. How’d he know my favorite wine, anyway? Who the fuck in town would’ve told him that?” I asked.

  “Good point since you drive into the next town to buy it.” Gabe narrowed his eyes. “It’s possible that it was a lucky guess, but I think I need to do a little digging in to our new neighbor.”

  “I agree,” I said. “I can’t shake the feeling that Fabio’s brought something bad to town with him.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Gabe promised.

  I felt guilty that he would even waste a minute of his work day looking at that guy when the internet was a hotbed of information. After we had finished eating, I pulled up my internet browser on my tablet and typed his name in the search box.

  I didn’t go into the search with a lot of expectations, but what I found shocked the hell out of me. There was a wide variety of photos of the man along with articles about his psychic abilities. “I don’t believe it,” I said.

  “What?” Gabe asked when he returned after stacking our plates in the dishwasher. I turned my tablet around for him to see. Gabe took it out of my hands and began clicking things. “Well, what do we have here?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t know because you took my tablet,” I reminded him.

  Gabe hooked his arm around my neck and pulled until my head rested against his chest and I could see what he was reading. “The guy has been on several of those cold case shows, and a few psychic investigation shows too. This article is from last year. ‘Psychic Emory Jackson led police to a location in the woods where he claimed Tira Strebor, age twenty-two, had been buried by her killer. After authorities had recovered Ms. Strebor’s remains, Mr. Jackson was investigated and later cleared of any wrongdoing. He was out of the country at the time of Ms. Strebor’s abduction.’ Here’s an article about how they solved her abduction and murder with his help,” Gabe said.

  “Do you believe in that stuff?” I asked Gabe.

  “There have been plenty of documented cases where psychics have provided clues that have helped solve cases,” he told me. “I think for every legitimate psychic there are fifty more that are frauds. It’s not an impressive ratio.” Gabe thumbed through the articles written about Emory’s involvement with police investigations. Some of them included photographs of the guy on the scene with law enforcement while others were clearly posed for effect.

  “I don’t think his appearance in our town is necessarily a good thing,” I told Gabe, convinced that my trepidation was warranted.

  Gabe had found an article that was titled: Psychic’s Abilities Started After Death of Husband. I’d nestled in closer and listened as Gabe read the article out loud. In January 2012, Emory and his husband, River Jackson, were involved in a single-car accident after coming home from celebrating River’s birthday with some friends. They were five miles from home when River hit a patch of black ice on a bridge and lost control of his car. Emory hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt and was ejected from the car before it went over the side of the bridge and plunged into the frigid water below. Emory came out of his coma a week later and learned of his husband’s death. He said his abilities began a few months later and it felt like his late husband was working through him to help people in need.

  �
��That’s really sad,” I said somberly. I couldn’t imagine waking up to find that Gabe was taken from me. Hell, just the thought had tears stinging the back of my eyes.

  “I can’t even imagine,” Gabe added. I knew he was thinking the same thing by the way he pulled me even tighter against his side. “Damn, how does a guy get up the next day after learning something like that?”

  “I guess he believes there’s something more he has left to accomplish or he wants to honor his husband’s memory,” I replied. “It sure as hell wouldn’t be easy.” That same ominous feeling I’d felt before permeated my body and left me cold, so much so that my teeth began to chatter in the warm comfort of my home. I closed my eyes and willed the fear away. Once I had myself together, I looked up at Gabe and asked, “What do you think it means that he’s in Blissville? We don’t have any unsolved cases, do we?” I asked.

  Gabe appeared to be contemplating his answer as he stretched his neck by moving his head from left to right. The wrinkled forehead and frown he wore on his mouth didn’t alleviate any of the uncertainty I felt. “I guess we’ll find out when he reveals his purpose to us,” he said. “I can tell you one motherfucking thing his visions didn’t reveal, and that was you in his bed. You’re my Sunshine.”

  “Damn straight,” I replied.

  “Not even close,” Gabe shot back, causing me to almost choke on my drink of beer.

  “Ass,” I said.

  “Pirate,” he replied like we were playing a word association game.

  “Ass Pirate! Ass Pirate!” Savage squawked.

  “Look what you did,” Gabe and I said at the same time.

  “Me?” I asked. “You’re the one teaching him horrible language.”

  “Oh, okay. Savage just happened to teach himself the word cumguzzler then,” Gabe said accusingly.

  “He came to me preprogrammed with that one,” I said defensively. “I refuse to take the blame for his salty language. Dirty Bird!”

  “Ass Pirate!” Savage shot back, not following the program at all.

  Gabe and I couldn’t help but bust out into laughter over the outrageousness of the situation. It was just what we needed to pull ourselves out of the somber mood we’d found ourselves in after reading about Emory’s situation. I turned on a new episode of our favorite couple fixing up houses for home buyers, and we enjoyed the rest of the evening. The world was filled with uncertainty, but there was no reason to waste precious moments on borrowing trouble before it arrived.

  I PICKED UP DORCHESTER from the sheriff’s department the next morning because we needed Robertson’s house keys from the evidence locker. His house showed no signs of forced entry, so we locked the house up after we were through the day before and logged the keys in as evidence. A house fire call came over the radio while we were en route to Robertson’s house to look for another notebook that might contain notes about recent meetings. A farmer on a different road saw the plumes of black smoke and called 911.

  “I don’t fucking believe it,” Dorchester exclaimed. “Did you recognize that address?”

  “Sure did.” I flipped on my lights and siren so we could get there quicker. “This can’t be a coincidence,” I told Dorchester.

  “Why’d the guy wait until after we discovered the body to torch the place? Why not torch the place with Robertson inside? There would’ve been a high probability that we ruled that the fire caused Robertson’s death,” Dorchester said.

  “Maybe he wanted us to know he killed Robertson,” I remarked. “The fire could be his attempt to make sure we don’t find anything else. Maybe word got around that we carted off a bunch of boxes and he didn’t want us coming back to find anything else.”

  When we arrived on the scene just a few minutes later, angry red and orange flames completely engulfed the old farmhouse. Acrid smoke filled the air and thick, black smoke billowed from the two-story structure. The firefighters had brought in water tankers, but nothing was going to save Robertson’s place. You could hear the fire roaring, wood splintering, and objects falling inside. The firemen battled the flames as best they could, but the old, somber house gave a loud, shuddering groan and collapsed in on itself.

  I approached the man shouting out orders to the men scrambling to prevent the fire from spreading to the nearby barns. “Lieutenant, I know this is premature to ask but do you have any idea if this fire was accidental?”

  “I can’t say which accelerant they specifically used right now, but I can promise you this was not an accidental fire. Sure, the house and the timber is dry, but it still burned too hot and too fast. The fire marshal and his arson dog will investigate once we put the fire out.” A call came over his radio about additional tankers on their way to assist from neighboring townships. “Excuse me, fellas,” he said then walked away to respond to dispatch.

  Dorchester and I were only going to be in the way. Whatever evidence we had hoped to find had gone up in flames. Our only hope was that Robertson put his latest notes—if they existed—in his safe deposit box or gave them to his lawyer.

  “Let’s go see Rylan Broadman,” Dorchester said. “We’ll get there a little early, but you can show him your bad cop if he gets lippy.”

  Goodville was eighteen miles north of us, and it took thirty minutes to get to Broadman’s office. Instead of getting stink-eye from the receptionist that we were an hour early, she offered us a cup of coffee while we waited for the attorney to finish his call.

  “We were so sorry to hear about Mr. Robertson’s passing,” she said sadly. “He was a sweet man.” I found it interesting that every person we talked to seemed to have a different impression of the man, although the receptionist’s comments were very similar to Alice Davenport’s.

  We accepted a cup of coffee and had a seat in the reception area, which looked more like someone’s comfortable living room. The print and floral stripe fabric on the sofa and adjoining chairs was a little fussier than I would’ve picked, but it worked well with the classically styled furniture. I sat down in an armchair and looked through the magazines on the polished mahogany coffee table while Dorchester read the newspaper.

  I had just chosen the latest Sports Illustrated magazine when a deep voice said, “Come on back, Detectives.”

  I rose to my feet and faced the man who spoke. He didn’t look anything like I associated with an attorney. Instead of an expensive three-piece suit, he wore a pair of khakis, loafers, and a pale blue polo shirt. I noticed the calluses on Rylan Broadman’s hands when we introduced ourselves, which told me that sitting at a desk wasn’t all that he did each day.

  When we got to his office, I noticed a collection of antique tractor toys on shelves and several aerial photos of a large farm hanging on his walls. “Family farm?” I asked.

  “Yes. Fifth generation farmer,” he said proudly.

  “Lovely place,” Dorchester said, admiring the black and white photos of an antebellum style mini-mansion that also hung on the wall.

  “Thank you. It’s a lovely feeling to live in the same house as your family did dating back to almost the civil war era,” Rylan remarked and gestured for us to have a seat. His office was masculine and professional, but a welcoming place nonetheless. It felt more like someone’s home office rather than a professional one, but I could see where most people would prefer his type of environment. “Man, I hated to hear about Lawrence,” he said once we sat in the chairs across from his desk. “He was a good man.”

  We broke the news to him that his client hadn’t died of natural causes because it wasn’t public knowledge yet. His reaction was as startled and genuine as Alice’s the previous day. We started off with the basic questions, like how long Robertson had been a client and what kind of services he provided him. We learned that Rylan had taken the practice over from his grandfather when he retired just like Kyle had taken over his grandfather’s veterinary practice. It seemed to be a common circumstance in smaller communities. Rylan told us that all of Robertson’s holdings—land and money—were in a trust
and he became the trustee upon Robertson’s death.

  “Were you his attorney of record during his negotiations with McCarren Consortium?” Dorchester asked. We knew that he had been from the notes that Robertson made so the question was thrown out there to see if we could trust the man to be straightforward with us.

  “I was,” Rylan said nodding.

  “How upset was Robertson when it didn’t go through? That was a lot of money,” I remarked.

  “It wasn’t about money for Lawrence,” Rylan told us. “It was about being in control of what happened to his land long after he died.” He smirked a bit and added, “And, to make sure his nephews didn’t get any money off the land they wanted no part of until it was convenient for them.”

  “Can we have the names of his nephews please?” I asked. “We’d like to interview them.”

  “Sure,” Rylan said, opening a file. “Scott and Mark Robertson. They both live and work in Cincinnati for Greg Sharpe Homes. You probably already know this, but Scott and Mark pitched the idea of selling the land to Greg Sharpe so he could build a new subdivision on the land.”

  “Was Mr. Robertson open to that idea until he learned that his nephews would profit from the sale?” I asked.

  “He was,” Broadman confirmed. “He was adamant that they would never own or profit from the land and even had McCarren add clauses to prevent it from happening.”

  “McCarren was okay with that?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.

  “I was surprised also,” Broadman admitted. “Honestly, he seemed eager to help Lawrence thwart his nephews. There were other surprising clauses that he agreed to.”

  “Such as?” Dorchester asked.

  “Lawrence wanted a guarantee that a certain percentage of profit was put back into the county schools, library, and hospitals. He also had asked for money to be given to local law enforcement to purchase modernized equipment. Lawrence just felt that the county would benefit more from the casino than another housing development.”