Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  As Flynn bent over to take a look, I headed out the door.

  “Enjoy your sweet potato pie!” he called after me.

  I would. But first, I’d enjoy my sweet, sweet freedom!

  CHAPTER 27

  I SPY

  WHITNEY

  My attorney had told my mother that Detective Flynn had planned to hold me in jail, so my mother had left the station. She’d be pleasantly surprised when I showed up at her house later, a free woman once again.

  Given that my cell phone was now in evidence, I had to beg the receptionist at the front desk to let me use hers. “Pretty please with sugar on top?”

  “Make it quick,” the stern woman barked as she plunked the phone on the counter and turned it my way.

  Colette’s place was the closest to the station, so I phoned her.

  “Any chance you can give me a ride to my car?” I asked when she answered.

  “No problem. What’s going on?”

  I gave her the rundown. Pulled over by police. Interrogated. Told I’d be held for three days, but eventually released. Car sitting at a church too far away for me to walk to.

  “I’m on my way,” Colette said.

  I pushed open the station’s front doors and stepped outside alone to wait for my friend. Even after the short time I’d spent in the dimly lit interrogation room, the autumn sun seemed extra bright, virtually dazzling. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but when they did, they took in several camera crews from the local television stations, as well as a notepad-sporting young woman who was likely a reporter for the local paper. I was headed toward them before I realized they’d come here for me.

  “Roll the camera!” called a handsome man in a suit. I recognized him from the ten o’clock newscasts.

  His cameraman activated his device and smoothly came toward me.

  The reporter shoved a microphone in my face. “Miss Whitaker, why did you kill Rick Dunaway?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Were you and Mr. Dunaway having an affair?”

  “No!” Gross!

  “Are you sorry for what you did?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” I pushed my way past him only to find a different mic at my face now, a different reporter screaming questions at me.

  “Did you act alone? Or did your cousin help you kill Rick Dunaway?”

  Now they’re dragging Buck into this? “I have no comment!” I hollered at the top of my lungs.

  The reporters kept badgering me until I finally sat down on a bench, curled up in a sitting fetal position, and covered my head with my arms. “I said I have no comment! Go away!”

  A couple of the more persistent reporters were still lobbing questions at me when a horn sounded nearby. Toot-toot!

  I looked up to see Colette’s car at the curb. She reached over and threw the passenger door open. “Get in!”

  “Who are you?” a reporter called to her.

  “Beyoncé!” Colette called back.

  I dashed over and all but dove into her car. She took off before my belt was even fastened.

  Once we’d cleared the station’s parking lot, Colette reached out and gave my hand a squeeze, concern in her eyes. “You okay?”

  “As okay as I can be under the circumstances, I guess.”

  She offered a supportive smile, but it morphed into a grimace. “Whatever you do, don’t look at social media.”

  An ominous statement if ever there was one. “News travels fast, huh?”

  “At cyber speed,” she said. “You’ve been retroactively designated as ‘most likely to murder’ on the high school’s Facebook page.”

  I groaned. Despite Colette’s warning, I retrieved her cell phone from the console and typed my name into the Internet browser’s search bar. Several articles popped up, no doubt written and uploaded on the fly by the reporters who’d just been hounding me. Though the reporters were careful not to designate me as a suspect, being identified as a “person of interest” wasn’t much better. Everyone knew that most persons of interest eventually became suspects, and that many of those suspects later became convicts. Several of the stories of my arrest had included references to Home & Hearth, the business the Hartleys had worked so hard to build up over decade after decade. I’d brought shame on them, maybe even caused them to lose potential clients.

  I set the phone down and turned to my friend. “What am I going to do, Colette? The detective doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing. This is his first murder case and, as far as I can tell, he’s clueless.”

  She glanced my way before signaling to make a left turn. “If he can’t figure out who the killer is, we just might have to do it for him after all.”

  I’d had the same thought. “That could be dangerous.”

  She shrugged. “It could be just as dangerous to wait and see if the killer strikes again.”

  She had a point. Still, I wouldn’t even know where to start. When I said as much, she asked, “Have you checked the feeds from those security cameras Buck put up at the house?”

  “Not since yesterday.” So far, all the footage had shown was a couple of raccoons getting frisky in the yard and a neighborhood cat sauntering by, swishing its tail. “I’ll take a look. See if anything interesting shows up.”

  After Colette dropped me at my car, I aimed straight for a Walmart, where I bought a cheap cell phone to use until mine was released from police evidence. My next stop would be Home & Hearth, where I would attempt some damage control. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Hartleys decided to let me go, and I certainly wouldn’t blame them a bit. This fiasco could bring down their business. No doubt they’d already received calls from concerned clients.

  I zipped into the lot and hopped out of my car, hurrying inside. “I’m so sorry about all this mess!” I cried when they looked up from their desks.

  “Don’t you dare apologize,” Mrs. Hartley insisted as she stood. “You have nothing to be sorry about. It’s that young detective who’s way out of line. That’s what we’ve been telling the clients, too.”

  I dropped into a chair. “You talked to Detective Flynn?”

  Mr. Hartley joined in. “He came by the office late yesterday afternoon and asked us some questions about Rick Dunaway and his relationship with Home and Hearth. We told him that Mr. Dunaway could be a tough cookie, but that you had a knack for dealing with him.”

  I wasn’t sure that phrasing was the best response. It could be taken a number of ways. But that was water under the bridge now.

  “I’ll understand if you want to terminate my employment,” I told them. Heck, maybe I should make it easy on them and tender my resignation on the spot.

  Mr. Hartley wagged his finger. “No, no, no. We will not lose a valuable employee to baseless accusations!”

  I felt tears well in my eyes again, but for a totally different reason. The fact that the Hartleys were standing by me said so much, gave me hope that all was not lost, that the truth would become known.

  “I know I’ve gotten behind because of everything that’s been going on,” I told them, “but I’ll catch up on things this afternoon. I can stay late tonight if needed.” Leases on five of the Abbot-Dunaway properties would expire at the end of the year. I’d need to follow up with the tenants to see if they planned to renew their leases and, if not, begin showing the properties and evaluating rental applications.

  The two exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

  “There’s not much to catch up on anymore,” Mrs. Hartley said. “Lance Abbot terminated our management contract effective as of the end of the month.”

  “What?!?” The last day of the month was the day after tomorrow. I exhaled a sharp breath. “The contract with Abbot-Dunaway Holdings requires them to give at least thirty days’ notice of cancellation. Did you remind him of that?”

  “No,” Mr. Hartley said. “It seemed best not to argue the point, given the circumstances.”

  The circumstances being that law enforcement had considered me the
prime suspect in his partner’s death. Ugh. Not only did I feel bad that the Hartleys had been forced to cover my duties while I dealt with the fire and the rehab and the murder investigation, but now the property management income—and my paychecks—would be cut in half. This situation was snowballing out of control. Heck, it wasn’t just a snowball, it was an avalanche.

  “Now that I’ve been released without charges,” I said, “maybe Lance Abbot will change his mind.”

  “But you’re still a ‘person of interest,’ right?” Mrs. Hartley said. “That’s what the news is saying.”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Hartley shifted in his seat. “I think it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “I understand.” This turn of events meant I had nothing to do at Home & Hearth. Buck was finishing up a job at a house across town, and I wasn’t about to go back to the Sweetbriar house by myself to work. It would be too creepy to be there alone. Buck had insisted I stay away unless he was there with me. What if the killer came back for me? The mere thought caused my toes and fingers to prickle in fear. I supposed there was nothing to do but go back to my parents’ house.

  An hour later, I was sitting on my parents’ couch with my laptop on my thighs and Sawdust on his back next to me, his head tilted back so I could scratch under his chin. I logged into Facebook to see what fresh fodder the Internet trolls had come up with. Why I was choosing to torture myself was anyone’s guess. I just couldn’t help myself.

  Scrolling down the feed, I saw the usual funny pet videos, what everyone ate for dinner last night, and unlikely animal friends, today’s best buddies being a hippo and the flamingo he allowed to stand on his hindquarters as he waded chest deep through a river.

  I’d bypassed a couple of vacation pics when my face popped up in the feed.

  Nooooo!

  Someone had made a video of me, using a photo I’d posted on my page of me with a hammer in my hand. I’d been helping out on a project with Habitat for Humanity at the time. The photo had been tinkered with so that my hand moved up and down, as if I were pounding the hammer. A never-ending scroll of celebrity heads swept across the bottom, the pics cut and pasted from photos found elsewhere online. As the heads swept across the screen, each one stopped to receive a blow from my tool before exploding in cartoon blood spatter. Kim Kardashian. Zac Ephron. Mother Teresa. The cartoon face of Bob the Builder. The Rock. As if I’d ever hit a man as attractive as Dwayne Johnson on the head. The entire farce was accompanied by a score excerpted from MC Hammer’s hit song “U Can’t Touch This.” As I brought the hammer down on each head, the singer belted out “Hammer time!”

  My mother glanced back at me. “What are you looking at?”

  I held up my computer to show her. Big mistake. She closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead as if her head, too, was at risk of exploding.

  “Is that on the Internet?” she asked. “For all the world to see?”

  “Yes.” My former schoolteachers and classmates. People from church. Neighbors. Clients. Anyone and everyone had access to the news and memes. I could only wonder what they were thinking. Were they shocked, telling themselves and others there was no possible way the mannerly and harmless Whitney Whitaker they knew would have ever killed someone? Or were they thinking back to the work I’d done at their homes or in high school shop class, the force with which I could bring a hammer down on an innocent smooth shank nail? They could be speculating whether I had lost control, used the tool for nefarious and fatal purposes.

  The weight of the world settled on my shoulders, feeling as if I were carrying a load of four-by-fours on them. When will this nightmare be over? Part of me was tempted to climb into my childhood bed down the hall and pull the covers over my head, pretend this whole thing wasn’t happening. But another part refused to let me take this humiliation lying down. It told me to do whatever I could to identify Dunaway’s killer and see that person was put behind bars.

  As long as I had my laptop out, I figured I should check the security camera feeds as Colette had suggested. I logged into the site where the footage from our system was stored. Buck had installed six devices. One on each corner of the house, and one over each door. One by one, I reviewed the videos. There was little activity on the cameras that faced the backyard, only the hoppity-hopping of a wild bunny as he traversed the yard, occasionally stopping to sample a scrumptious bite of clover. The front corner camera was a different matter. While the lenses were angled to primarily take in our yard, part of the side of Patty’s house and a few feet of her front yard fell within the range, too. The feed showed her puttering around the edge of her lawn, raking the few leaves that had fallen since the last time she’d cleaned up her lawn. Rather than bagging the leaves, however, she looked around to see if anyone was watching and, apparently satisfied nobody was looking her way, dragged the dead leaves into our yard.

  She looked toward the house and performed a quick double take, tiptoeing closer as she gazed up at the camera. Her face grew large and distorted as she stopped under it, squinting her eyes and bobbing her head as she checked it out. Once she’d given it a thorough lookover, she returned to her yard, leaving her leaves behind for Buck and me to clean up. “Thanks a lot, Patty,” I muttered aloud.

  The feed from the camera on the front of the house on the other side provided some more interesting fodder. The contractors performing the work on the beauty salon ventured onto our grass multiple times, and even used our garden hose to rinse dirt from their tools. Maybe I should show them the footage and send them our next water bill, demand that they pay part of it. But while that footage had caught my eye, what really got my attention was when Thad Gentry stepped into our yard from his own property next door. He wore his usual business suit. My guess was he’d stopped by to check on the progress at the salon between meetings and appointments and fancy business lunches. He walked to the porch, but didn’t ascend the steps. He stood and simply stared at our house for a long moment, his expressionless face difficult to read. Is he lamenting the fact that Buck and I didn’t sell the property to him? Or is he reliving the memory of killing his competitor there, of getting revenge on Dunaway for fighting him at the zoning commission? It was impossible to tell.

  I downloaded the feed that featured Thad Gentry and e-mailed it to Detective Flynn along with a message. Found this on my security camera feeds today. Thought you might find it interesting. My attorney would probably be furious that I’d communicated with the detective again. But, at this point, I figured I had nothing to lose.

  * * *

  Thursday morning, after watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade in our pajamas while sipping coffee and nibbling on pastries, my parents and I cleaned ourselves up, got dressed, and headed up Interstate 65, out of the city and into the woods and hills, taking the last exit before crossing into Kentucky. I’d brought Sawdust with me so he could visit his mother. It only seemed right that he spend the holiday with his family, too. After a few turns down country roads, we headed onto the inclined gravel drive that led up to the cabin. Oh, how I love this place! It was everything my parents’ house wasn’t. Casual. Cozy. Cluttered.

  As I let Sawdust out of his carrier, his mother, aptly if not uncreatively named Mama, padded into the living room. She sauntered over and sniffed her son’s face, welcoming him with a warm, wet lick between the eyes when she recognized his scent and realized he was one of her offspring. He responded with a loud purr and circled around her, rubbing himself up and down her sides.

  Minutes later, my family was gathered around the long walnut dining room table Uncle Roger had lovingly made with his own hands. An assortment of mismatched bowls and pans crowded the center of the table. They held everything from green bean casserole to homemade corn-bread stuffing, along with what appeared to be at least a gallon of savory brown gravy. I was tempted to turn the gravy boat up and pour the stuff directly down my throat.

  Everyone grabbed the closest item and passed it counterclockwise, using the syst
em we’d worked out many holidays ago to make sure nobody missed out on anything. Once the item you’d started with was handed back to you, you could place it back on the table. Soon, everyone had filled their plates and the conversation stopped as we all dug in.

  Buck swallowed a mouthful of green beans and posed the question everyone had probably had on their minds but been afraid to ask. “What’s it like in jail? Did you have to make a shiv out of your toothbrush to defend yourself?”

  Now that I’d been freed without having even set one foot in a cell, I found I could laugh at the suggestion.

  My oldest niece batted her big brown eyes at me. “Why did you go to jail, Aunt Whitney?”

  “I didn’t go to jail, sweetie,” I told her. “Uncle Buck was joking. I only went to the police station.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the police wanted to ask me some questions.”

  “Why?”

  Because a business associate of mine had been bludgeoned to death. We adults exchanged nervous glances. Nobody wanted to be the one to introduce the concept of murder to a four-year-old. “The police thought I might know who used my hammer without permission,” I told her. It was as close as I could get to the truth. And now, for my second act, let’s try some distraction! I picked up the cranberry sauce and shook the bowl. “Look! It jiggles!” I spooned some onto my plate, took a bite, and wiggled around in my seat. “It jiggles on the inside, too!”

  My niece giggled and clapped her hands. “I want some!”

  Buck snorted. “Nice job, Witless.”

  “Shut your pie hole,” I replied cheerily. I’d noticed that the girls tended to pay less attention to what was said when your voice sounded pleasant. They seemed to sense that the really good stuff was discussed in less congenial tones.

  I passed the cranberry sauce across the table to my sister-in-law so she could scoop some onto her daughter’s plate. In seconds, my niece had swallowed a big spoonful and was shaking and giggling in her seat. Her two-year-old sister followed suit, nearly falling out of her booster chair. Fortunately, her mother anticipated the impending disaster and grabbed hold of her in the nick of time.