Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  I eased over to the curb and unrolled my window. “Hello, Mr. Gentry. What’s going on?”

  He stepped over and leaned in my window. “Just reviewing things with my crew. They’ll be grading the lawn and laying asphalt now that the zoning commission approved my plans.”

  “What plans?”

  His mouth curved up in a sinister smile. “I had the property rezoned for commercial use. I’m converting it into a beauty salon.”

  He had the nerve to bark a laugh when I sucked in an involuntary gasp. “Does Rick Dunaway know about this?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “He fought me every step of the way.”

  Though several of the houses on the corners of the busier cross streets had been rezoned commercial and converted to office space, boutiques, and the like, I’d had no idea the house next to the one Buck and I had purchased had been rezoned. I should’ve known better, should’ve looked into it, should’ve realized Mr. Dunaway’s hurry to seal the deal was a red flag. The price Dunaway had offered me may not have been such a great deal after all. Having a commercial property next door would devalue my house by at least ten to twenty percent. Few people wanted to live next to a business, which were often bustling and noisy. That nice profit I’d hoped to make could disappear entirely. Buck and I would be lucky to break even. The appraiser apparently hadn’t been aware of the matter, either, or it would have come up in the report. The designation must have been changed so recently that it had yet to be updated in the appraisal district’s system. The five grand Rick Dunaway had left for me the night before seemed like nothing now, a mere pittance.

  The fact that Gentry owned the adjacent property also explained why he’d wanted to buy mine. Owning the lot next door would give him room for expansion. His eyes sparked with mean-spirited merriment and his mouth spread in a snide grin. “I told you that you’d regret not selling to me. You should have listened.”

  Part of me realized he was right, but another part was more glad than ever that I hadn’t sold the house to the smug son of a gun. I’d never run my business the way he—and Rick Dunaway—ran theirs. I’d never be able to live with myself. How they could look themselves in the mirror each night was beyond me.

  “What did you pay for the house?” he asked. When I said nothing, he had the nerve to snicker. “If you paid more than three hundred, you got taken for a ride.”

  I jabbed the button to roll up the window, forcing him to back away.

  “Have a nice day, Ms. Whitaker!” he called as I put my foot to the gas.

  Fuming, I rolled on and pulled into the driveway next door, startling Sawdust with my sudden shriek. “No!”

  As if this day hadn’t gotten off to a bad enough start, both the front door and the WHITAKER WOODWORKING sign were covered in sticky yellow goo. Broken white eggshells littered the porch and yard. Someone had thrown three dozen or more eggs at the house.

  I’d bet that someone was Jackson. When I’d evicted him and his roommates, Jackson had told me I’d be sorry. Egging the house seemed like just the type of juvenile prank an irresponsible punk like him would pull. Looked like he hadn’t been satisfied by his earlier act of vandalism. At least this time he hadn’t used profanity.

  As I climbed out of the car, I noticed the Mercedes still parked at the curb between my house and Patty’s. Perhaps Patty had a houseguest who’d spent the night, or maybe the car belonged to someone who was visiting another resident on the street. But why park here? There were plenty of places along the curb up and down the street.

  I placed Sawdust’s cage under the magnolia tree and gathered up the eggshells from the yard and porch. Though I was tempted to toss them into Gentry’s yard next door, I tossed them into the garden instead. With their high calcium content, eggshells made a great natural compost. As an added bonus, coarsely ground shells deterred slugs and snails from invading the garden. And maybe having a beauty salon next door wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I’d sell the house to a supermodel or rising singing sensation who’d want a stylist and nail technician only yards away. Yep, I was trying to turn lemons into lemonade this morning. Gallons and gallons of lemonade …

  Once I’d gathered up the eggshells, I retrieved the garden hose, turning it to a more forceful flow than when I’d used it the night before to the water the flowers. I aimed the stream at the aluminum yard sign. The spray gave off a tinny sound as it hit the sign, but at least it washed away some of the goop.

  Thad Gentry climbed into his Infiniti, backed out of the driveway next door, and gave me a wave and a toot-toot on his horn as he drove past. Clearly, he was trying to get my goat, and get my goat he did. I aimed the stream of water at his car and he gave me another toot-toot when it fell short, serving only to soak my mailbox. Rats.

  Sawdust stood at the front of his carrier, watching through the metal bars as I carried the hose and rag up the steps to the porch and repeated the process. I hosed down the front door, including the Green Man door knocker. The face stared back at me as I used a rag from my toolbox to remove the stubborn, sticky egg whites from the grooves carved into the knocker. As I turned to head back down the stairs, I spotted my dead blow mallet on the ground next to the bottom step. I must have forgotten to put it away the night before. A dark reddish-brown substance coated the head of the mallet. Looked like the vandal had poured something on it, too. But what is it? Barbecue sauce? Dark maple syrup?

  As I pondered the sticky substance, Patty came out of her house next door with a broom in her hand.

  I called out “Good morning!” as she made her way down her front walkway.

  She returned the sentiment. “Enjoying your new roof?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m enjoying the peace and quiet,” she said. “I thought those roofers would never finish. All that hammering gave me a whopper of a headache.” She looked past me when the tractor revved up on the other side of me. Her eyes rolled. “Here we go again. I miss the good old days when all you’d hear in this neighborhood was the wind rustling in the trees.”

  “Did you know the house on my other side is being converted into a beauty salon?”

  “Mm-hm,” she sounded sourly. “A group of us from the street tried to fight it. The guy you bought the house from? He got us organized and hired lawyers and everything. We all went down to the zoning commission and had a hearing. They didn’t listen. Not much, anyway. Thad Gentry promised he’d keep the outside intact and only remodel the inside so it would blend into the neighborhood. He also said he’d install a wall of bushes between your property and his so that the parking lot wouldn’t be visible from our homes. The zoning commission bought his song and dance and approved his application. That man is personus non grautin around here.”

  Patty might not know her Latin, but she knew what a ruthless real estate developer could do to her property value.

  As I debated what to do, whether to confront Rick Dunaway for his failure to disclose this material fact, I laid the mallet on the stone walkway and sprayed it off, too. I supposed I’d have to discuss the matter with Buck first. The Hartleys, too. Meanwhile, Patty swept her walk and drive.

  When all the icky stuff was gone, I picked up the mallet and wiped it dry with a clean cloth. I returned the mallet to my toolbox, which I’d placed on the grass, and exchanged it for a trowel. Retrieving Sawdust from his carrier, I clipped the leash to his harness and carried him over to the flower bed. After securing the end of his leash to the porch rail, I set him free—or at least as free as he could be, tethered to a five-foot-long restraint.

  The soil I’d poured into the bed appeared to have been disturbed. Rather than smooth mounds, parts of it were flattened with footprints. The boys must’ve stepped into the beds when they’d thrown the eggs at the door. The flats of pansies looked as if they’d been kicked about, too. Rather than the orderly row I’d placed them in, they lay at odd angles. One of them was even upside down.

  Sawdust sniffed the fresh earth, his head bobbing up and down as he ma
de his way along, his leash stretching taut in his wake. After lining the flats up along the edge of the flower bed, I dropped to my knees, crumbled up the eggshells, and stretched out my arms to sprinkle them along the length of the bed. The eggshells dealt with, I began smoothing the dirt with the back of the trowel. Having become bored already of merely sniffing the dirt, the cat began to dig in it with his front paws, tossing loose soil to the sides and behind him. He was undoing my work, but he looked as if he were having a fun time. I’d let it slide for now and work on the other end of the bed.

  A half-dozen pansies had made new homes in the soil when Patty came over and stepped up beside me. “I’ve never seen a cat that would tolerate a leash before.”

  “Many won’t,” I agreed, “but Sawdust is fairly docile.” When he wasn’t terrified by a piercing beep and thick smoke, that is. “I started training him on a leash and harness when he was only a tiny kitten. Starting him young helped, too.”

  “You’re not going to let him off that leash, are you? I don’t want him coming over and marking my bushes.”

  I looked up at her. “No need to worry. I wouldn’t risk letting him roam free.” There were too many potential dangers outside. Of course, the fire had shown that there could be dangers inside, too.

  She gestured to the cat. “What’s he got there?”

  I turned to see Sawdust swatting at something sticking up out of the dirt. It was a couple of inches long, and light in color. “Looks like he’s got a root.” I thought I’d dug up all the old roots from the half-dead, odd-shaped bushes that had been here before, but it looked like I must’ve missed at least one.

  Patty moved closer to Sawdust and leaned in to take a closer look. “Lord Almighty!” she shrieked, shrinking back. “That’s not a root! That’s a finger!”

  It took a second or two for her words to sink in. “It’s a what?!?”

  I sprang from the ground like a jack-in-the-box and rushed over. Sure enough, the thing I’d thought was a root had a fingernail on the end of it. The nail was short and unpainted.

  Like Patty, I, too, instinctively shrank back, as if putting distance between the hand and myself would somehow make it less real. My mouth gaped as my gaze ran over the flower bed. While I hadn’t discerned it before, my eyes now made out a human form beneath the soil, including a small mound at the top where the head would be.

  Patty seemed to see it, too. “I’m calling the police!” she cried, bolting back toward her house.

  Who was in the flower bed? Is there any chance the person could still be alive? Though my brain told me it was unlikely, my heart knew it would suffer guilt if I let a person die unnecessarily. I had to find out if there was any hope for him or her.

  Forcing myself forward, I dropped to my knees again and grabbed the finger, pulling upward until the entire hand came free of the soil. Judging from the size and the light hairs on the knuckles, it appeared to be a man’s hand. Oh, my gosh! The ring finger bore a white stripe where a wedding band had been removed. No. No! It can’t be. Can it? In denial, I continued to pull up on it until the wrist appeared, along with the cuff of a now dirty white dress shirt and a gray suit jacket. I put the fingers of my other hand against the wrist to check for a pulse. I couldn’t feel one, but I also realized the thick fabric of the gardening glove might be impeding the sensation.

  Gulping down both fear and revulsion, I tugged off my gloves and put my bare fingers to the wrist—cringing at the cold, rubber-doll-like feel of the skin.

  Nothing.

  Both the lack of pulse and the temperature of the body told me that whoever was buried in my garden had gone on to meet his maker. There was no hope for him.

  As I gently placed the hand atop the dirt, a watch peeked out from under the jacket cuff and glinted in the morning sun. It was a gold Rolex watch.

  Just the like the one Rick Dunaway wore.

  CHAPTER 20

  OUTDOOR PLAYTIME IS OVER

  SAWDUST

  When Sawdust went to sniff the hand Whitney had been holding, she squealed, unclipped the leash from his harness, yanked him away, and ran over to the big tree with the cat clenched to her chest. She opened the door to his carrier and shoved him inside, slamming the door behind him. She’d never been so rough with him before. Had something he’d done made her angry? What was it?

  He crouched and cowered in the back corner, worried that he’d upset her and not knowing why. Human behavior could be hard to comprehend sometimes. For instance, Sawdust would never understand why Whitney liked to soak in water up to her neck. Sawdust hated baths. As far as he was concerned, water was for drinking only.

  Meow? he asked. Why are you angry at me? He’d only been having a little fun, batting at the thing he’d uncovered. He couldn’t help it if he’d been curious. Curiosity was the core of a cat’s nature. She must know that by now. Meow?

  But Whitney ignored his pleas. Instead, she put her face in her hands and began to shake.

  CHAPTER 21

  CRIME SCENE

  WHITNEY

  Unlike the door knocker, which could never hide its eyes, I kept my hands over my face for a long moment, trying to shut things out. But it was a futile effort. The image of that cold, lifeless hand would be forever etched in my mind.

  I tried to think happy thoughts. Thanksgiving was next week, and that meant a feast at Uncle Roger and Aunt Nancy’s cabin, including enormous slabs of Aunt Nancy’s delicious sweet potato pie. Soon it would be time to decorate for Christmas. I always enjoyed that. Colette had recently sent me a link to a funny video of two kittens swatting cue balls around on a pool table. I tried to replay it in my mind, visualize the orange tabby swatting the eight ball into the corner pocket.

  Sigh.

  The happy thoughts weren’t helping. My mind kept turning back to the body in the bed.

  When I finally removed my hands, I turned my head away, pushed myself up from the ground, and walked on wobbly legs down the stone pathway to wait by the mailbox for the first responders. I’ve got to notify Buck. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed his number. The first time I tried, it went to voice mail. No doubt he was still in bed, not yet ready to face the day. The second time I tried, he answered on the fourth ring, his voice gravelly with sleep.

  “Somebody better be dead,” he growled.

  My voice quavered when I responded. “Somebody is, Buck.”

  There was a brief pause. “What are you talking about, Whitney?” He sounded fully awake now.

  “I just found a body.” My throat was so tight I had to force the words out. “In the flower bed at our house. The police are on their way.”

  “So am I,” he said. “Hold tight, cuz!”

  As I slid my phone into my pocket, Patty came back out of her house. She stayed on her porch rather than coming over. I couldn’t much blame her. I’d just as soon jump into my car and drive as far away as I could, as fast as I could.

  As I waited for the police, a litany of questions rolled about in my mind like loose ball bearings. Is that really Rick Dunaway in my flower bed? Who had killed him? Had the murder taken place here? When had it happened? Was he killed last night after I’d left? Or could that thud I’d heard yesterday evening have been the sound of Rick Dunaway falling to the porch? Terror twisted around my spine at the thought of him being murdered right outside the door while I sat inside, unknowing, only a door separating me from the grisly action.

  The first police car arrived with flashing lights on the top. While many city police forces drove black-and-white cars, the Nashville Metro Police cruisers were white with a thick blue stripe edged in gold down the side. Two female officers were seated inside. One of the officers was fresh faced, the other seasoned. Both were brown haired.

  The flashing lights went off and the officers climbed out, stepping over to me.

  The seasoned officer, whose name badge read HOGARTY, asked, “You okay, honey?”

  Could she not see that I was performing an involuntary hokey
pokey and shaking all about? But no matter how upset I was, I was infinitely better off than the person in my flower bed.

  “My head’s spinning,” I told the officer, “but I’ll be all right.” My gut was churning, too, but that was too icky to mention.

  “Where’s the deceased?”

  I pointed over my shoulder. “In the flower bed.”

  She glanced that way. “I see.”

  The two officers stepped gingerly toward the house, returning a few seconds later after getting a glimpse at the corpse. While the younger cop retrieved yellow cordon tape from the trunk of the cruiser, Officer Hogarty climbed back into the car, leaving the driver’s door open and one leg on the pavement as she grabbed the dashboard microphone to contact the station. “Send a team from crime scene and a homicide detective.”

  After the dispatcher confirmed her request, she climbed back out of the vehicle. “Wait here,” she instructed me. “We’ve got folks on the way.”

  With that, she went to help her partner cordon off the yard. When they finished, bright yellow tape spanned the length and width of my yard, like streamers at some type of warped birthday party. My toolbox sat within the perimeter, out of reach. Sawdust crouched in his carrier in the middle of the crime scene, asking more questions that went unanswered. Meow? Mew? Meowww? Not only did Sawdust seem upset by the commotion, I knew from experience that holding him would calm me, too.

  “May I get my cat?” I called to Officer Hogarty.

  “Not yet,” she called back. “We can’t risk disturbing anything. You’ll have to wait until the crime scene team has had a chance to comb over the area.”

  Sawdust looked pitiful and pathetic, an innocent prisoner in his cage. “Sorry, baby!” I called to him. “I’ll get you out of there as soon as I can.”