Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  He climbed out and stalked over in double time. “What on earth is going on here?”

  I filled him in. “I found a body in the flower bed this morning.”

  He glanced over at the makeshift curtain. “You really mean to tell me that on the other side of that blind there’s a—” He whispered the next two words. “Dead person?”

  Whispering the words wasn’t going to the change facts, but I could understand Owen’s reluctance to say them more loudly. Saying them in a normal voice would make it more real. But it was time for me to face the facts head-on. “Yes. It’s Rick Dunaway. The man who sold the house to me and Buck.”

  Owen’s mouth gaped open so wide he could’ve swallowed ten biscuits and a gallon of gravy all at once.

  I went on. “It looks like Dunaway was killed with my dead blow hammer. The detective’s acting like he thinks I did it.”

  Owen scoffed. “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard! You wouldn’t hurt anybody. You don’t have it in you.” He cocked his head and whispered, “But how did the killer get your mallet?”

  “I left it outside last night after I used it to install a sign in the yard.”

  Buck’s van came up the street and pulled to the curb on the other side. He threw his door open, leaped from his truck, and rushed over in his coveralls and cowboy hat.

  “About time you got here,” I snapped, anxiety making me testy.

  “I came as soon as I could,” he said. “I had to stop for gas. You okay?”

  “Not really, Buck. It’s not every day you find a corpse.”

  The detective returned, extended his hand again, and introduced himself to my cousins. “Good morning. I’m Detective Collin Flynn.”

  Buck shook the man’s hand. “Buck Whitaker.”

  “Whitaker,” Flynn repeated, looking from Buck to me and back again. “You’re Whitney’s husband?”

  “Ew.” Buck grimaced. “No.”

  I cut him a look. He’d be lucky to nab a woman like me—one he wasn’t related to, of course.

  The detective took another shot. “Brother, then?”

  Buck shook his head. “Still no.”

  “He’s my—” I began, but Flynn cut me off.

  “Cousin,” he said. “Your fathers are brothers.”

  “Good job putting the clues together, Detective.” I rolled my eyes. Perhaps I should’ve behaved more politely, but I was fit to be tied. Accuse me of murder, will you? I wasn’t going to show him any more respect than he’d shown me. I might be a polite person, but even I had my limits and he’d pushed them.

  Owen held out his hand. “Owen Whitaker.”

  Flynn took Owen’s hand. “Another cousin?”

  Owen replied with a dip of his head.

  “Did Whitney call you two?” the detective asked Buck and Owen, looking from one to the other.

  “Not me,” Owen replied. “The three of us had already planned to meet here this morning to do some work on the house.”

  “She called me,” Buck said. “I wasn’t planning to get here until a little later.”

  The detective narrowed his eyes at Buck. “I understand you own an interest in the house?”

  “Yes.” Buck removed his cowboy hat. “’Course it’s been one big fiasco from the start.”

  “The fire set y’all back, didn’t it?” Flynn asked.

  “Sure did. In more ways than one. We lost some time and it’ll cost us some money, too.”

  Buck may not have realized it yet, but the detective was grilling him to see if he might know something about the murder, might have been involved in some way. After all, Buck was a big, brawny guy, someone who could have easily bested the lithe, lean Dunaway in a physical confrontation. Still, there was no way Buck had anything to do with Dunaway’s death, either. Might as well let him speak his piece and clear himself.

  Flynn readied his notepad. “Did you know Mr. Dunaway?”

  “Nope,” Buck said. “Never met the guy in person. Only heard about him from Whitney.”

  “What did she tell you about him?”

  Buck cut me a nervous glance. I’d already told the detective that my relationship with Rick Dunaway hadn’t been all Georgia peaches and cream. No need for my cousin to paint a prettier picture.

  “I didn’t sugarcoat things, Buck,” I told him. “You don’t need to, either.”

  Relief relaxed his features as he answered the detective’s question. “Whitney told me that Dunaway could be demanding. Cheap, too. But she was learning from him, watching how he chose the properties he bought and sold. She fancies herself the future real estate queen of Nashville.”

  “Do you now?” the detective asked, directing the question at me.

  “I most certainly do.” Then again, it seemed Presley had the same ambition for herself. It would be funny if she and I ended up rivals one day, like Rick Dunaway and Thad Gentry had been.

  The detective took a few seconds to digest the information Buck had provided. “Where were you last night?”

  Buck went rigid, clueing in that the detective had him on the hot seat now. “I wasn’t with Colonel Mustard in the conservatory, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  The detective skewered my cousin with a look. “You’re part owner of this house. You’ve got skin in the game, too.”

  “In other words,” Buck said, “I have a motive for killing Rick Dunaway.”

  “Exactly,” Flynn said, not beating around the bush. “If you want to be cleared as a suspect, I’m going to need you to be more specific about your whereabouts.”

  “It was a Friday night,” he said. “I was doing what I always do on Friday nights. Drinking beer with my buddies and flirting with the single ladies. Unsuccessfully, I might add. If you don’t play guitar, you got no chance with the women in this town.”

  Flynn groaned. “I feel your pain.”

  Buck chuckled and offered the detective an empathetic fist bump. To my surprise, Flynn knocked knuckles with my cousin. Men. Sheesh.

  “Where did you go?” Flynn asked.

  “Up and down SoBro,” Buck replied, using the name locals had given to the famous stretch of south Broadway. The area housed a dozen or more honky-tonks featuring up-and-coming country-western artists, cold beer for wannabe cowboys, and flavored moonshine for the ladies and hipster tourists. “We started out at Tootsie’s, moved on to Tequila Cowboy, and finished up the night at one of them rooftop places that overlook the river.”

  The Cumberland River ran directly to the east of downtown Nashville, between the skyscrapers and the Titans’ stadium, providing a scenic background for Music City.

  “Were you aware that Rick Dunaway was planning to come here last night?” the detective asked.

  “I was,” Buck replied. “Whitney had said something about it, but I didn’t pay it much mind. Seemed like she had things under control.”

  I usually did have things under control—which was precisely why I was having a hard time with my current situation. It felt as if my world were spinning wildly and dangerously, like a circular saw blade that had come off its shaft. I wasn’t sure when the spinning would stop, where the saw blade would land.

  Buck pulled out his wallet, opened it, and removed a couple of white slips of paper. He held them out to the detective. “Here you go. My bar tabs, paid by credit card. Proof positive I wasn’t here last night. My Taco Bell receipt is in there, too. I stopped by and picked up dinner there around five thirty.”

  Flynn took the receipts and looked them over.

  “That Taco Bell location is nowhere near here,” Buck pointed out.

  The detective bobbed his head and handed the receipts back to Buck. “I suppose I can cross you off my list.”

  Looked like Buck had been saved by the bell. The Taco Bell.

  Having struck out with Buck, the detective turned to Owen. “What about you? Where were you last night?”

  Buck snorted. “He’s got three little girls. Hellions, all. I bet he fell asleep on the couc
h before nine.”

  While Buck’s description of our darling, if sometimes overly energetic nieces was hardly flattering, Owen knew Buck meant nothing by it. Buck adored those little girls as much as I did, and that was saying a lot. Owen lifted his chin in acknowledgment. “You’d be right. Fell asleep watching a rom-com on Netflix. Can’t even tell you which one. My wife picked it. ’Course she slept through most of it, too.”

  “All right. Thanks for the information.” The detective closed his notepad and slid it back into his pocket.

  “Are we done here?” I asked. “Can my cat and I go now?”

  “Hang tight for a second.” He stepped away to have a quick pow-wow with the crime scene team, returning a moment later with my keys. He handed them to me. “Here you are. You’re free to go now, but don’t leave town without checking in with me first, okay? I might have some more questions for you.”

  “Okay.” I’d already told him everything I knew, and I didn’t like having restrictions imposed on me, but fighting the detective would be futile. Given that I was a key witness in a murder investigation, he could probably get some type of court order requiring me to stay put if I didn’t voluntarily agree to stick around. I’d rather he spent his time figuring out who killed Rick Dunaway and why. The sooner that person was behind bars, the sooner my life could return to normal.

  CHAPTER 24

  NAPTIME

  SAWDUST

  Whitney carried him into the pool house and promptly opened the cage door to release him. Good. He’d spent more than enough time in that little plastic box today. All the hubbub at the other house had prevented him getting any sleep. He normally took twenty to thirty naps a day. He was a half dozen in arrears already.

  He hopped up onto Whitney’s bed and curled up on her pillow. He liked how extra soft it was, how it smelled like her. He closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.

  CHAPTER 25

  FIXIN’ TO FIX THINGS UP

  WHITNEY

  After dropping Sawdust back at the pool house, I rushed across the terrace and through my parents’ back door. It being noon on a Saturday, they were relaxing on the couch, watching a travel show on TV. Well, my mother was watching the television, anyway. Both Yin-Yang and my father were asleep, the two of them lounging together on the sofa, snoring softly. Owen wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stay awake in front of the TV.

  My mother looked up as I came in. “Hi, sweetie. Want some lunch? We had Greek last night. There’s leftover spanakopita in the fridge.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t think I could eat right now.” I flopped down in one of their club chairs and put my feet up on the ottoman, trying to figure out where to start.

  She sat bolt upright. “You’re turning down free food. What’s wrong?”

  Might as well start with the big news, huh? “Someone’s done away with Rick Dunaway.” I cringed at my unintended pun.

  Her eyes went wide and she leaned toward me. “The man you and Buck bought the house from? Are you saying someone killed him?”

  “Yep. They buried him in the flower bed at our house on Sweetbriar.” Buried was a generous term. All they’d really done was plunk his body in the garden and toss some loose soil over him. “I found him this morning.”

  My mother’s shriek jarred both the dog and my dad awake.

  “What is it?” my dad cried, looking from my mother to me. “What’s wrong?”

  My mother stood from her chair, her arms fluttering like she was one of the baby birds from the backyard, trying to take its first flight. “Whitney found a corpse on her lawn this morning!”

  “What?” My father reflexively stood, too. Yin-Yang took advantage of the situation to steal my dad’s superior spot on the sofa. She slipped into place behind him.

  I took a deep breath and ran through the morning’s events, including the questions Detective Flynn had posed to me and the tool they’d asked me about. “The murderer must have used my dead blow mallet to kill Mr. Dunaway. The detective seems to think I might be responsible.”

  “How dare he!” My mother stamped a foot in righteous indignation, while simultaneously waving a dismissive hand and issuing a pshaw. “That’s utterly ridiculous! You’d never kill anyone!”

  Dad came over and put a supportive hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure they’ll sort this all out soon, find the killer, and clear your name.”

  I looked up at him. “I sure hope so.”

  “Until then,” my mother said, “you’re staying in the house with us.”

  She’d get no argument from me. I was too creeped out to sleep out in the pool house alone tonight.

  The two came with me as I rounded up some clothes, toiletries, and my cat. Sawdust issued an irritated chirp when I picked him up. Poor thing hadn’t gotten a nap in yet today and was clearly feeling cranky.

  Back in my parents’ house, I settled in my childhood bedroom, sitting at the small student desk I’d used when studying for American history and geometry and the SAT. I phoned the Hartleys and shared the bad news. They had the same reaction as my parents. Ms. Hartley called the detective’s suspicions against me “the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” and Mr. Hartley assured me that Flynn would “realize how off base he was once he poked around a bit.”

  When we finished the call, I tried to study for my real estate exam. Only four days remained until the test and I was woefully behind. Unfortunately, I found it impossible to concentrate on the materials. The image of Rick Dunaway’s ghostly face kept popping into my mind. Eek.

  I mentally reviewed the list of potential suspects I’d given to Detective Flynn and the evidence against them.

  Could Bobby Palmer have been the killer? He’d have every reason to want revenge on Rick Dunaway. If Mr. Dunaway hadn’t offered him a bribe, he wouldn’t have ended up losing Home & Hearth’s business. Bobby had a gambling problem and was in debt to his bookie, for who knows how much. Desperate people do desperate things. Bobby also knew Dunaway was coming to my house last night. Maybe he’d confronted him out front while I’d sat unknowingly in the kitchen. Maybe he’d demanded more money from Dunaway and Dunaway had said no. Maybe he had flown off the handle, spotted the mallet, and whacked Mr. Dunaway with it. It was certainly possible. Still, having known and trusted Bobby for years, I simply couldn’t see it. Then again, maybe I was fooling myself. How many times had people on the TV news said their homicidal neighbor had seemed like a nice person until bodies surfaced in the yard? Of course the people on Sweetbriar might be saying the same thing about me. Ugh.

  It was also possible that Dunaway had pulled up when Jackson was hurling eggs at the house. Maybe Jackson had panicked when caught in the act, grabbed the mallet, and swung at Mr. Dunaway in an attempt to get away. But why not just run? It would be faster and easier. Besides, it was dark by six o’clock at this time of year. Wouldn’t Jackson have seen Dunaway’s headlights coming up the road and had plenty of time to hide or scurry off? Then again, Jackson wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Maybe he hadn’t been paying attention to the road.

  I wondered if Thad Gentry had been next door last night. Maybe he’d seen Dunaway arrive and had come over to start an argument about the house or gloat about Dunaway’s unsuccessful attempt to prevent the rezoning of Gentry’s property. With two powerful men going head-to-head, things might have gotten out of hand and become physical. It could happen. Even so, guys like Rick Dunaway and Thad Gentry seemed much more likely to take their battles to a courtroom than the streets. They weren’t the type of men who liked to get their hands dirty. They hired people for that. Wait. Could Gentry have hired a hit on Dunaway? Though I supposed it was possible, it felt like my imagination was running wild, getting the best of me. Still, engrossed in my studies at the back of the house, I could have missed a disturbance out front if it wasn’t too loud.

  One possibility that hadn’t crossed my mind until now was that the crime could have been a totally random robbery. Mr. Dunaway’s car and cloth
ing sent an unmistakable message that the man had big bucks. Maybe someone had followed his car and mugged him on my doorstep. Maybe they’d clobbered him with the mallet when he’d put up some resistance. After all, if his wallet had been in his pocket, the crime scene techs could have identified him by his driver’s license photo and they wouldn’t have needed me to identify his body, right? Maybe the detective made up all that stuff about needing a positive ID because Dunaway’s wallet wasn’t on him. I wasn’t sure of the police protocols, but it would make sense. I also knew police were sometimes hesitant to share information. Maybe they hadn’t wanted me to know his wallet was missing.

  Mr. Dunaway was in the process of divorce, too. Could it be that he’d liquidated the Sweetbriar property not to have money for his legal fees and his soon-to-be-ex wife, but that he’d sold it to have cash he could secrete away somewhere? Maybe his wife had found out and become enraged, followed him to tell him off and whacked him like a piñata when he’d expressed no remorse.

  All of these scenarios were possible, but were any of them probable? I had no idea. Luckily, it wasn’t my job to figure that out. It was Detective Flynn’s. I could only hope the rookie homicide detective was up to the task. From what I could glean, the Dunaway case was his first murder investigation.

  I spent the rest of the day fidgeting and worrying, but finally managed to eat a few bites of the spanakopita. If only I could be whisked away to a Greek isle …

  * * *

  When I called Colette that afternoon to tell her what had happened, she was incredulous. “I’ve got the night off. I’m taking you out for a drink. I know you need one.”