Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  “We’d be losing money.” Most of our down payment, to be precise.

  “You’re going to lose money regardless,” he said. “You’d be a fool not to take this offer.”

  I remembered Dunaway saying he’d only sell to Gentry over his dead body. Well, I wouldn’t sell to Gentry even then. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked him directly in the eye. “I guess I’m a fool, then. But at least my heart isn’t as cold as ice.”

  He glared back at me, flames virtually flickering in his eyes, before his mouth slowly turned up in what can only be described as an evil grin. “Call me when you come to your senses.” With that, he walked away.

  As I watched him go, a small part of me wondered if he might have killed Rick Dunaway here so he could snag the house for a song. But surely I was wrong. Gentry was ruthless, sure, but he wouldn’t go that far … would he?

  The tape and Thad Gentry dealt with for the time being, Buck and I unloaded his van, carrying our purchases into the house. He had a big job elsewhere that had to be wrapped up by the Thanksgiving holiday later in the week, so we wouldn’t be able to work on our house again for several days. Although I could take care of some of the tasks by myself, I wasn’t about to come back to this place alone. Not with a killer on the loose and Buck threatening to kill me himself if I did. It was frustrating. Every day the renovation work was delayed would cost us money—money we didn’t have.

  Patty watched from her window as we went about our business. She might have thought we couldn’t see her behind her curtain, but I knew she was there. I’d seen the fabric move, caught a glimpse of her hand as she pushed it back. While I’d found her busybody tendencies a little irritating before, I actually appreciated them now. It would be safer around here with her keeping a close and constant eye on things. Maybe she’d even see something that could be helpful to the investigation.

  I heard nothing further from Detective Flynn on Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday. It appeared that whatever suspicions he might have harbored about me had been quelled as he delved into the investigation. Unfortunately, though, there were no news reports of any arrests having been made.

  While Rick Dunaway’s death had been the feature story on the Saturday evening newscasts and in Sunday’s newspaper, given that there’d been seemingly no progress in the case, the crime had already begun to fade from the airwaves and headlines. Keeping Colette’s pepper spray close at hand and a close eye on my rearview mirror and surroundings lest the killer make an attempt on my life, I performed my usual property management duties. I showed a soon-to-be-available two-bedroom duplex to a young couple looking for more space as they anticipated their upcoming bundle of joy. I oversaw the installation of a new water heater at a rental house in east Nashville. I replaced damaged trim in a vacant town house and touched up the smudged paint. Of course I’d had to borrow tools from my cousins since my toolbox had been seized.

  On Tuesday evening, my impatience got the better of me. I wanted Dunaway’s murder solved, and I wanted it solved now. I phoned Buck. “Grab your wrench. Let’s go talk to Bobby Palmer.”

  I found Bobby’s home address in the county real estate records, and Buck and I headed over to his house. As we walked up his driveway, I took a quick glimpse into his truck, which was illuminated by a coach light between his garage doors. On his dash sat a lanyard with a collection of cards attached to a clip at one end. The cards were players club cards from casinos.

  I angled my head to indicate the cards on the dash. “Looks like I was right about Bobby. He’s a gambling man.”

  Buck eyed the cards and grunted. “Yep. Must’ve got himself into some trouble.”

  Bobby’s wife, a sixtyish woman with a warm smile, answered the door. After we introduced ourselves, she called back to her husband. “Bobby? There’s a Buck and Whitney here to see you.”

  Her cordial tone told me her husband might have been less than forthcoming with her about recent events.

  Bobby scurried up, his eyes wide, though his tone was friendly, jolly even. “Hello, you two. My wife’s watching Jeopardy! It’s her favorite program. Why don’t we step outside so we don’t bother her?”

  “Isn’t he thoughtful?” his wife said with a smile.

  “He’s something,” Buck muttered.

  Bobby herded us out the door and onto the porch, closing the door behind himself. “Why are you here?” he hissed, sending furtive glances at the door.

  “I take it you heard about Rick Dunaway?” I said.

  “How could I not?” he replied. “It’s been all over the news. Sad business.”

  Buck’s hand went into the pocket that held the wrench as he stared the man down. “You have anything to do with it?”

  “Me?” Bobby gasped. “Of course not!”

  “You sure about that?” I asked. “It seems clear you’ve gotten yourself into some trouble with your gambling. Did you need more money to pay your bookie? Did you try to extort more funds from Rick Dunaway?”

  “I did no such thing!” Bobby’s expression was bewildered, as if he never would have considered the idea on his own. Heck, maybe he wouldn’t have.

  “If you didn’t kill Rick Dunaway,” I said, “maybe you know who might have.”

  Bobby’s face contorted, an open display of the emotional struggle going on within him. “I have no idea who might have killed the man,” he said, “but I will say this. A shady business doesn’t yield a sunny life.”

  Had he just admitted something? “So you know Dunaway was shady?” I asked.

  The door behind Bobby opened and his wife poked her head out. “The show’s over now. Why don’t you invite your friends in for some apple pie?”

  “Thanks, hon.” Bobby’s tight face and closed expression told us he’d said all he’d intended to, and gave us our cue to go. “But they were just leaving.”

  * * *

  On Wednesday morning, I downed an extra cup of coffee in preparation for my real estate exam. I hadn’t slept well the last few nights, and I hoped the extra caffeine would keep me alert. Given the fire and Dunaway’s murder, I’d had far too little time to study. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could even pass the test given the circumstances. But since I’d already paid my fee, I decided I might as well give it a shot. It would be horribly embarrassing to fail the test, but I could repeat it if I didn’t pass this time around. At least with Thanksgiving tomorrow I had something to look forward to. Aunt Nancy’s sweet potato pie was just the thing I needed to lift my spirits.

  I picked up Sawdust and cradled him in my arms. “Be a good boy while mommy’s gone.” I gave him his usual kiss on the head and, with another quick kiss to my waiting mother’s cheek, handed him off and headed out to my car.

  As I’d done since the murder, I glanced at my rearview mirror every few seconds to keep tabs on the cars behind me, keeping a lookout for Jackson Pharr, Bobby Palmer, Thad Gentry, and Presley. I wasn’t sure what Presley drove, but I knew Jackson and Bobby drove pickups and Thad Gentry drove a blue Infiniti. While I saw neither a pickup nor an Infiniti to my rear, as I neared the testing center, a metro police car pulled in behind me. My eyes immediately went to my speedometer. Nope, I wasn’t speeding. I hadn’t run a red light, either. Nevertheless, the flashing lights came on. That’s strange. Had I made an illegal lane change? Was one of my taillights out? None of the warning lights on my dashboard were on. Hmm. I supposed I’d find out soon enough.

  There was no shoulder on this part of the road, so I turned into the parking lot of a Methodist church and stopped my car. The cruiser pulled up sideways behind me, blocking me in. A moment later, both Officer Hogarty and Detective Flynn climbed out.

  Uh-oh. I have a really bad feeling about this.

  I rolled down my window as the detective stepped up beside my car. “Good morning,” I said, forcing myself to sound pleasant.

  His voice was firm and emotionless. “Step out of your car, please.”

  The bad feeling got even worse. I shut off the engine, removed
my keys, and slid them into my blazer pocket as I climbed out of the car. My gaze went from the detective to Officer Hogarty and back again. “What’s going on?”

  “We need you to come to the station,” Flynn said.

  Alarms went off in my mind and my adrenaline spiked, raising my body temperature in an instant. “Why?” I squeaked.

  “We need to talk to you about the Dunaway murder.”

  He’d already interrogated me up, down, and backwards. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  “We have some follow-up questions.”

  What could there possibly be left to ask me? “Could I come by the station this afternoon? I’m on my way to take my test for my Realtor’s license.” I hadn’t studied nearly enough and would probably fail the test, but that was beside the point.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “But we need to talk now.”

  “Can we talk here? I had to pay a fee to take the test and it’s nonrefundable.”

  “Look.” Hogarty pulled her handcuffs from her belt. “Are you going to cooperate or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”

  I gulped and raised my hands in surrender. “I’ll cooperate.”

  Hogarty made a circular motion with her index finger, directing me to turn around. When I did, she told me to put my hands on the roof of my car. I’d seen this play out before on television. She was going to cuff me! Like a common criminal! But there was nothing I could do about it.

  She took my right hand by the wrist and pulled it down behind me. As she did the same with my left hand, drivers on the road slowed down to rubberneck, no doubt wondering what the benign-looking blonde had done to warrant her arrest. Cold, hard metal encircled my wrists, followed by two clicks as the officer secured the cuffs. Worst bangle bracelets ever!

  After patting me down and finding nothing more dangerous than a tube of lip balm in my pocket, she took me by the upper arm and looked me in the eye. “You have the right to remain silent,” she said. “Anything you say to us can be used against you in court. You also have the right to a lawyer. If you can’t afford one, the court will appoint you one. Understand?”

  I swallowed hard. “I’m being arrested?”

  She scoffed. “What was your first clue?”

  This can’t be happening! my mind screamed as she escorted me to the cruiser and placed me in the backseat. Once I was seated, she buckled me in. She tossed my keys to the detective, who used them to open my car, remove my purse, and relock the vehicle.

  The tasks complete, Officer Hogarty and Detective Flynn retook their seats in the front, separated from me by an expanse of metal mesh that felt miles thick. On their side was freedom. On mine was imprisonment.

  Detective Flynn set my purse on his lap, unzipped it, and fished around inside. He pulled out the canister of pepper spray Colette had given me, examined it, and then dropped it back into my bag, continuing to fish around until he found my cell phone. He pulled it out and turned it on. “What’s your passcode?”

  “Five, six, eight, four.”

  He typed it in to confirm it was valid, then slid my phone back into my purse.

  “May I call my parents?” I asked.

  “Once we get to the station,” Flynn said.

  I wanted to cry and scream and stomp my feet and profess my innocence, but I only managed the former, a single tear journeying down my face and surely leaving a streak in my makeup. My eyes caught Detective Flynn’s in the rearview mirror. He saw me cry. I felt ashamed and angry. Part of me wanted to cry harder. Another part wanted to kick the back of his seat and tell him that he was wasting everyone’s time hassling me while Rick Dunaway’s actual killer was still on the loose! What kind of detective was he that he’d think a woman like me would kill someone?

  I realized at that moment that he didn’t know me. Not at all. He had no idea that I’d once been a Girl Scout, that I’d received positive comments about my classroom conduct from all of my teachers on my report cards, that I’d volunteered as a teenager at the animal shelter cleaning litter boxes in the cat room. He didn’t know that, more recently, I’d worked alongside other volunteers doing carpentry work for Habitat for Humanity. All he knew was that I had both a motive and the opportunity to kill Rick Dunaway. Maybe that was all he cared about, too.

  I knew from the cop shows I’d seen that it was best to keep my mouth shut, but it was incredibly hard. I had to bite my lip to keep from talking. I wanted to profess my innocence. To tell him who I was. I wanted to ask why. Why had they decided to take me in today? What had they discovered between Saturday and this morning that, instead of clearing my name, had made them more suspicious of me?

  People in adjacent cars looked over at me as we drove along. An adolescent boy put his thumbs in his ears, waggled his fingers, and stuck his tongue out at me. As we drew near the station, we passed a billboard for Grumpy’s Bail Bonds that featured owner Leah Hulan, the unbelievably busty bleached blonde who called herself the “Bond Girl” and was considered a local semicelebrity. Would I soon be needing Grumpy’s services?

  At the station, Officer Hogarty opened the back of the cruiser and took me by the arm to help me out and lead me inside. We made a quick stop by Detective Flynn’s office, where he grabbed a manila folder from his desk. He and Officer Hogarty took me to an interrogation room that smelled like cigarettes and stale coffee and contained a metal table and four uncomfortable-looking chairs, two on each side. The table was bolted to the floor, though one of the bolts was loose. Leave it to a carpenter to notice. An old-fashioned desk phone sat on the table.

  Hogarty led me to a chair. “Take a seat.”

  Once I’d sat down, she released my right hand from the cuff, and attached the loose manacle to a metal ring on the table so I couldn’t attempt an escape. Now I know how dogs feel when they’re chained to a tree.

  Detective Flynn pushed the phone over in front of me. “You’ve got three minutes to complete your phone call.”

  With that, the two left the room.

  I picked up the receiver and dialed my parents’ number, fumbling given that my right arm had limited movement. My mother answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “I’ve been arrested, Mom,” I said without preamble, not wanting to waste any of the three short minutes I’d been given to make the call. “I’m at the midtown precinct police station.”

  My mom’s voice went up three octaves. “Are you kidding me, Whitney? If you are, this isn’t funny!”

  “I’m not kidding, Mom. I need you to get me a lawyer. The detective wants to ask me more questions about Rick Dunaway’s murder and it’s not smart for me to talk without an attorney to advise me.”

  “I’ll get right on it!”

  I hung up the phone and sat back in the chair. All I’d wanted was to launch a home renovation business. How the heck had I ended up here, chained to a table?

  Officer Hogarty and the detective returned a couple of minutes later. Flynn held a small digital tape recorder, which he placed on the table as he took his seat. Rather than sit, Hogarty opted to lean back against the wall in the corner. I supposed she spent enough time sitting in her cruiser as she patrolled the streets of Nashville each day.

  Flynn skewered me with a look. “Do you want to talk? Take this chance to clear yourself? Or do you want to wait for your attorney to arrive and tell you to keep your mouth shut and end up leaving us no choice but to charge you with Rick Dunaway’s murder?”

  Nice try, buddy. “I’ll wait for my attorney.”

  Officer Hogarty heaved a sigh, pulled out her phone, and launched a game app. When a playful tune erupted from her phone, she tapped the volume button to turn it down. “Oops,” she said. “My bad.”

  We sat there in silence for a full hour, my rear end going numb in the hard metal chair, before my mother arrived with an attorney in tow. The lawyer was black, boxy, and brash, with spiky dark hair and harsh slashes of plum-hued rouge down her cheeks.

&nbs
p; When the officer and detective saw her, they exchanged glances and muttered under their breath. I took that as a good sign.

  The attorney cut a look at Flynn and Hogarty. “Get out. I need a few minutes alone with my client.”

  They both raised their palms. Flynn rose from his seat.

  “You, too,” the attorney told my mother. “I want to speak to your daughter in private.”

  My mother hesitated and opened her mouth as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it and backed out the door, closing it as she did so.

  The woman plopped down in the seat next to me and extended her hand. “Beverly Lewis.”

  I shook her hand as best I could. “Nice to meet you.”

  She laid her briefcase on the table and opened the latches. Snap-snap. She pulled out a legal pad and a pen, and turned to me, looking directly into my eyes. “Shoot straight with me,” she said. “I can smell a lie a mile away and I won’t tolerate anything less than the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Got it?”

  I found her no-nonsense demeanor to be oddly comforting. She seemed in control and in charge. “Understood.”

  “You don’t say anything to these people, either. Nothing to the detective, the officers, anyone. You let me do the talking. Got that?”

  I dipped my chin in acknowledgment. “Got it.”

  “Okay, hon.” She craned her neck to get a better look at my face. “The police seem to think you killed this guy. Rick Dunaway. Why would they believe that?”

  I gave her a quick but thorough rundown of the relevant facts. I managed the residential properties owned by Abbot-Dunaway Holdings. I’d done work gratis for Dunaway when he’d complained about repair costs on his units. My cousin and I had recently bought a house from him in a rushed sale, a house that turned out to be worth far less than I’d believed due to a faulty electrical system and the fact that the adjoining property had been rezoned commercial. Rick Dunaway had led a coalition of homeowners from the neighborhood in an unsuccessful attempt to stop the rezoning. The house I’d bought had caught fire due to the aforementioned faulty electrical system, and I couldn’t afford my insurance deductible because I’d put every penny I had into the house. I suspected Dunaway had bribed my home inspector to overlook the ancient and degraded wiring. I approached Dunaway about covering my deductible and he’d agreed to bring a check by last Friday. Though I hadn’t seen Dunaway that night, I’d found the check and settlement agreement on the porch when I left around nine. I found Dunaway’s body the following morning, shortly after I discovered that Thad Gentry, the man who’d offered to buy the property from me for a twenty percent markup, had planned to turn the adjacent plot into a beauty salon. I also found eggs that had been thrown at the house and suspected that Jackson, a former tenant I’d evicted from the property, could be to blame. Jackson had a pending assault charge, as well as a conviction for vandalism. Though I didn’t know for certain, I believed that Dunaway’s wallet might have been missing when his body was found. I’d seen what might or might not be a suspicious white sedan parked both on Sweetbriar and in the parking garage downtown.