by Diane Kelly
“I do.” Or two … or ten …
She picked me up at my parents’ house and we drove to a quiet neighborhood bar nearby, taking a booth in the back corner. As soon as we’d placed our order with the waitress, Colette reached across the table and took both of my hands in hers, giving them a supportive squeeze. “Tell me everything.”
So I did. I told her about finding Dunaway, Detective Flynn’s interrogation, how Sawdust had been a temporary and very unhappy captive in the cordoned-off crime scene. She shook her head throughout the saga, her brown eyes wide in disbelief.
“So the real target might have been you?” She bit her lip. “I don’t even want to think about that, Whitney.”
“Join the club.”
She sat back, chewing her lip as she pondered. “There certainly are a lot of potential suspects and motives. Who do you think is the most likely to have done it?”
“Honestly?” I raised my palms. “I have no idea. The killer could be any one of them, or someone else entirely. Dunaway has made quite a few enemies. He doesn’t always treat people fairly.” In fact, he rarely did. The man was only out for himself.
The wine arrived and, while I tossed back a big, nerve-numbing swig, Colette took a delicate sip. “My money’s on Dunaway’s assistant. What did you say her name was? Presley?”
“That’s right.” I set my glass down. “Really? You think she killed Dunaway?” The woman certainly had a motive, but I had a hard time seeing Presley picking up the mallet in her manicured fingers and conking Dunaway with it. Though she was among my mental list of possible suspects, she wasn’t at the top of it.
“She kept Dunaway’s calendar,” Colette pointed out, “so she would know he planned to go to the house at six on Friday. Besides, you’ve said he was an awful person to work for. Maybe all those years of working for the guy got to her.”
My friend might be on to something, after all. Not only would our rendezvous be noted on his schedule, but I’d mentioned it aloud when I’d been leaving Dunaway’s office the day I’d asked him to cover the deductible. I thought aloud. “He always managed to get on my last nerve, and I only had to deal with him in small doses.” I could hardly imagine what it must have been like to work for him day in and day out, to put up with his constant demands and condescension. It had to be unbelievably frustrating.
“She seemed jealous of you, too,” Colette said, “of your relationship with her boss. Her dedication hadn’t gotten her anywhere, right? He hadn’t brought her in on a deal. Maybe she was trying to frame you, to get back at both of you by killing Dunaway and making it look like you did it.”
“Wow. You could be right.” Killing her boss would kill two birds with one stone—or at least one hammer. I took another sip of wine. “Even so, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it was Jackson. He threatened me outright, not just once, but twice, the first time in person and the next time by scrawling ‘watch your back’ on the door of the house. Plus, he’s young. People his age have poor impulse control.” Not to mention that he seemed to be a natural-born nincompoop.
“Whoever did it,” she said, “I hope the cops catch him or her soon.” She reached a hand across the table to take mine. “Is there anything I can do in the meantime?”
“You can come with me and Buck to the home improvement store tomorrow afternoon to pick out things for the house. I need something to take my mind off the murder.”
“You got it.” She released my hand, giving it a soft pat.
“You can also help me look over some design Web sites to get some ideas.” I pulled my tablet from my purse and circled around to her side of the booth. As we each finished our first glass of wine, I logged into the bar’s Wi-Fi and the two of us went through page after page of photos on Isak Nyström’s Web site. I’d hoped that reviewing the site would give us some thoughts for the house. Unfortunately, it gave us too many of them, some of the ideas being mutually exclusive.
When we’d reviewed everything on his site, Colette tipped back her glass to savor the last drop of her wine. “Too bad you can’t hire the guy to design the space for you.”
“I know, right?” Assuming the guy would even agree to design the house, there was no way Buck and I could afford even an hour of his time. “I guess we’ll just have to see what catches our eye tomorrow.” I put my fingers back to the keyboard.
Colette leaned in to take another look at the screen. “What are you doing now?”
“Pulling up Jackson Pharr’s rap sheet.” I’d learned how to run background checks at Home & Hearth. For a small fee, you could obtain someone’s criminal records online. I logged into the site, paid the $19.95 fee with my credit card, and typed in Jackson’s name.
“Whoa!” Colette said when his report popped up on the screen.
Whoa, indeed. Jackson had amassed an extensive and varied record, all of it since he’d applied to rent the house on Sweetbriar. He had a nonviolent offense for vandalizing a vehicle. He’d been assessed only a fine for that petty crime. He’d also been cited for driving under the influence. He was currently serving probation for that dangerous violation. Looked like he’d gotten off easy since it was his first charge for that particular offense. He’d also been recently charged with assault. Given the date of the incident, it appeared that entry related to the fistfight Patty had seen take place in the front yard. The charges were pending, no final adjudication having yet been rendered.
“He’s no saint,” Colette said.
“That’s for sure.” I downloaded the report so I could print it out later at home.
As we left the bar later, Colette reached into her purse, retrieved the small canister of pepper spray she always kept in the bag, and pressed it into my hand. “Until they catch the killer, keep this in reach at all times.”
I looked at my friend. “I don’t want you to be without it.”
She stopped, wrapped her fingers around mine, and forced them to close around the spray. “And I don’t want to be without you, Whitney.”
I felt the same way. A genuine, long-lasting friendship like ours was rare. I accepted the spray but said, “When they arrest Dunaway’s killer, I’m giving this back to you.”
“Fine. Let’s hope it’s soon.”
* * *
The following afternoon, Colette and I met up with Buck in the parking lot of the home improvement store.
I held out a printout to Buck. “Take a look at this.”
“What is it?” he asked as he took it from me.
“Jackson Pharr’s criminal record. I have a hunch he could be the one who ended Rick Dunaway. I was curious so I bought his record online. There’s some interesting stuff in there.”
Buck looked down and read over the document before looking up again. “He’s off the rails.”
While Jackson’s criminal record didn’t conclusively prove he’d been the one to write the threat on the door, egg the house, and attack Dunaway, it showed he was capable of such acts.
“I hope Detective Flynn took a look at Jackson’s record, too, and followed up with him.” I’d rest much easier once the culprit was caught and put behind bars.
Buck cracked his knuckles, as if warming them up for a fight. “I have half a mind to track that kid down, go ’round to his place, and encourage him to confess.”
“I have the other half.”
Buck lifted a determined chin. “Then let’s do it. Now.”
Colette was more hesitant. “It could be dangerous to confront him. Shouldn’t you leave this up to the police?”
Buck frowned. “I’m concerned about that detective. He’s still wet behind the ears.”
Part of me agreed with Buck. Another part thought we should give the guy the benefit of the doubt. After all, his training partner had noted he’d moved up quickly. Surely the folks who were up the chain at Nashville PD wouldn’t have promoted him if they didn’t think he was ready. Still, the detective had a lot of leads to follow. Why not help move things along if we could?
There was just one small problem. “I don’t have Jackson’s current address.”
Buck cocked his head. “Got his phone number?”
“He won’t answer calls from me.” I supposed we could try his mother, but she’d probably tip him off.
“I’ll call him on my cell,” Buck said. “That way he won’t recognize the number.”
I retrieved my phone from my bag, pulled up Jackson’s name in my contacts list, and rattled it off. As I did, Buck typed it into his phone.
My cousin put his phone to his ear. Though Colette and I could only hear Buck’s side of the conversation, we got the gist.
“Jackson Pharr?” Buck asked. He paused to listen. “I’ve got a package I’m trying to deliver to you. Looks like it’s from some kind of electronics company. The box has an address on Sweetbriar Avenue, but a woman there told me you’ve moved.” He paused again. “Uh-huh. So long as it’s not too far, I can bring it to you. Where you at?”
Buck made a scribbling motion with his hand and Colette and I quickly rummaged in our purses until we came up with a pen and a grocery receipt he could write on. I turned my back to him so he could use my shoulder as a hard surface. “Got it. I’ll be there in ten minutes or so.”
Buck ended the call and the three of us piled into his van and drove to Pharr’s new digs. As we climbed out, Buck opened his toolbox and retrieved his biggest wrench, slipping it into his pocket. “That kid tries anything, he’ll be sorry.”
After grabbing another wrench for myself, I pulled Colette’s pepper spray from my purse and handed it to her. Armed with our makeshift defense system, we eased up to the door of the duplex where Jackson now lived. While Buck knocked on the door, Colette and I pressed our backs to either side of it so we’d be out of view if Pharr looked out the peephole.
We needn’t have bothered. The kid pulled the door open and looked Buck up and down with bloodshot eyes. Looked like he was hungover again. “Where’s my box?”
I whirled to face him. “Where were you Friday night?”
Pharr looked from Buck to me, his ruddy, unwashed face crinkled in confusion for a moment before he seemed to realize he’d been had. “Where I go is none of your business.” He proceeded to call me some very loud and colorful names, the verbal equivalent of fireworks.
Buck pulled himself up to his full height and stepped right up to Pharr. “You kiss your mother with that filthy mouth?”
“No.” Pharr smirked. “I kiss your mother with it.”
With that, he stepped back and slammed the door in our faces. BAM!
I sighed. “That didn’t go well.” We’d gained nothing by coming here. I should have realized the visit would be fruitless.
“The kid’s a jerk,” Buck said, “but I have to admit he had a pretty good comeback.”
We returned to Buck’s van and drove back to the home improvement store. While Buck rounded up a long, flat dolly for the larger pieces we planned to buy, I snagged a shopping cart for the smaller items we’d need, like nails and screws and paintbrushes. Fortunately, I’d heard from the crime scene team earlier. They had finished going over the house and we were permitted back inside.
Although Colette had come along primarily to offer her expertise on the kitchen items, we welcomed her opinion on the other decorative items, too, such as the lighting fixtures and bathroom cabinets. After spirited debate, we decided to go with brushed nickel over chrome or bronze, and a soft gray flat interior paint for the walls. We selected a dresser-style cabinet with feet and a curved front for the bathroom. The old-fashioned design would go well with the claw-foot tub. We’d add another cabinet over the toilet for extra storage, as well as new towel racks and a couple of hooks to hang robes or clothing items. After picking out new switch plates, again opting for the more expensive brushed-nickel style, we moved on to closet doors.
Finally, we came to the kitchen department.
Buck swept an upturned hand to indicate all of the options that stood before us. “Work your magic, Chef Chevalier.”
She squealed, jumped up and down, and aimed right for the cabinets. After walking back and forth before the sample display and examining each option closely, she made her pronouncement. “I like the Shaker-style ones the best. They’d look great with glossy black paint and square knobs.”
“As you wish, milady,” Buck said with a bow. “Now. How ’bout countertops?”
When none of the standard, more affordable countertops met Colette’s fancy, the saleswoman said, “Would you like to take a look at the granite and quartz slabs?”
Colette looked up at Buck. “Would quartz bust your budget?”
I’d been wondering the same thing. I was pretty sure we’d exceeded our budget already. But given that he was footing the bill for the renovations, it was his call.
Buck looked back down at her. “Don’t you worry. Whatever you like, we’ll make it work.”
After looking over two dozen slabs of granite, marble, and quartz, Colette decided on a quartz piece that was primarily white with gray and silver streaks running through it.
I ran a hand over the stone. “It’s beautiful.” She’d chosen well.
When we were done in the kitchen section, Buck pointed down the main aisle that bisected the store. “Let’s take a walk over there and see what they’re offering in terms of security systems. In case the killer was really after you, we’d best put a system in at the house to keep you safe.”
We made our way to the aisle and looked over the variety of security systems offered. They ranged wildly in complexity and price. After comparing the options and costs, we decided on a set of wireless units with motion-detection lights that would turn on anytime someone approached and record the activity. We also bought a wireless doorbell. It had a special function that would sound an alert via an app on our phones anytime someone rang the bell. We would be able to address the person through our phones. I hated that we had to spend the additional funds—Buck’s funds—on a system that was almost solely for my benefit, but I wasn’t about to turn my cousin down. Better safe than sorry.
After Buck placed the items in my cart, he said, “I don’t want you at the house for an extended period of time by yourself. The killer could come back. Let me know when you’ll be there so I can make sure to be there with you.”
While I appreciated his concern, I knew he had much better things to do than play babysitter for me. “Colette gave me her pepper spray.”
“That’s good,” he said, “but not good enough.” He gave me a pointed look. “You heard me. Let me know when you’ll be at the house. If I find out you’ve been there alone, I’ll put an end to you myself.”
“All right, Buck,” I said. “Understood.”
We turned and headed back through the store to the front checkouts, loaded down with the beautiful slab of quartz for the kitchen and bathroom countertops, two new sinks, the cabinets, the security devices, and more cans of paint and hardware than you could shake a stick at. On our way, Buck reached out and grabbed a new dead blow hammer from a peg in an aisle. He said nothing about it, but he didn’t need to. My mallet, the one that had been used to kill Rick Dunaway, was in an evidence locker somewhere. I wouldn’t want it back even if they offered to return it after the killer was convicted.
When we reached the checkout and the clerk had finished ringing up our items, Buck pulled out his credit card and held it aloft. “Everyone cross your fingers.”
I gave him a pointed look. “You don’t know your balance?”
“Nah,” he said. “I like to live on the edge.”
“The edge of bankruptcy?” I teased. Buck might not know his balances down to the penny, but he was responsible. Otherwise, the mortgage company wouldn’t have approved him cosigning my loan.
He ran the card through the machine. When the word APPROVED popped up on the screen, the three of us cheered. I gave Buck a big hug right there at the checkout counter. The cashier smiled as he tried to wriggle out of my grasp.
&
nbsp; “Stop that!” he said. “If you’re going to keep hugging me, I’m going to have second thoughts about being your business partner.”
“But I’m so grateful!” I gave him a final squeeze and let him go. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, cutting me a sharp look completely contradicted by the grin tugging at his lips. “Don’t ever forget that.”
CHAPTER 26
PRIME SUSPECT
WHITNEY
Buck and I drove straight from the home improvement store to the house so we could unload the items and install the security cameras. Gentry’s car was parked next door. The man seemed to work 24/7.
Though it had been only a day since I’d found Rick Dunaway’s corpse in the garden, it felt like a lifetime ago. What remained of the yellow cordon tape drooped, some of it having fallen to the ground. A ribbon of it was picked up by the breeze and fluttered as if waving good-bye to a ghost. The warped birthday party was over.
I climbed out of my SUV. First things first. I circumnavigated the yard and pulled down all of the remaining crime scene tape, gathering it into a tangled ball in my arms. I carried it to the garage and stuffed it into the garbage bin as deep as it would go, leaning in to force it down.
“In a pickle, aren’t you?”
The unexpected voice came from directly behind me and I reflexively jumped back. “Mr. Gentry,” I said on a breath, my heart pounding against my ribs like an electric hammer. “I didn’t hear you walk up.” Seriously, is the man part vampire?
Gentry gestured around. “You can take that crime scene tape down, but people aren’t going to forget. A man was murdered here. You’ll be lucky to sell this house for half of what it was worth two days ago.”
Gee, thanks. And good day to you, too, sir. “Can I help you with something?” My irritation came through in my words, but I didn’t much care. Dunaway had been gone only a day and already Thad Gentry seemed to be trying to capitalize on the man’s death.
“I’ll take this place off your hands for three hundred and seventy thousand. Cash. You’d be able to pay off your loan in full.”