by Diane Kelly
“Can you get them a little higher?” she asked.
I tossed a strand over a bare limb above me. “How’s that?”
“It’ll do.”
As the two of us put up the lights, one of the neighbors from down the street jogged by. He did a double take when he realized it was me, the “person of interest,” helping Patty decorate her yard. Another gawked from her minivan as she drove by. Still, I couldn’t help but think that having the backing of the neighborhood busybody would convince the others I wasn’t to blame for Dunaway’s death.
Patty didn’t thank me when we were done, but at least she gave me a lukewarm “see you.” At that point, I’d take what I could get.
I set back to work, pulling the damaged closet doors from their tracks, carrying them out to the garage to be hauled off later. I removed the metal tracks, too, adding them to the pile of refuse on the garage floor. As I walked back out of the garage, a plain sedan pulled to the curb. Detective Flynn sat at the wheel. What’s he doing here? Has he come to arrest me again? Will he put me in jail this time? My hands broke into a sweat inside my gloves, and I yanked them off.
I stood in the drive as the detective climbed out of his car and walked over to me.
“I went by your parents’ place,” he said. “They told me I could find you here.” He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out my cell phone, and held it out to me. “You can have this back.”
I wiped my hand on my coveralls and took the device from him. “Thanks.” I had few phone numbers memorized, and not having access to my contacts list the past few days had been extremely inconvenient. “Any chance I’ll be getting my tools back soon, too?”
“Possibly,” he said. “The lab is still checking them for DNA.”
I sighed. “For Dunaway’s blood, you mean.”
“Yeah,” he said softly.
“What do the crime scene techs think I did? Whack Dunaway with my hammer and then attempt to disassemble him with a screwdriver? He was a man, not a mannequin.”
Okay, so I probably shouldn’t have made light of a serious situation. But I couldn’t help myself. For them to think I had anything at all to do with a murder was absolutely ridiculous!
Fortunately, Flynn chuckled before cocking his head and eyeing me. “I reviewed your cell phone history. It corroborates your statement that you made two calls to Dunaway the evening he was killed.”
“Because I told you the truth.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Or maybe you placed the calls to a man you knew was dead, to throw off suspicion.”
I exhaled a long, exasperated breath. “I did nothing of the sort.”
“You might be interested to know we’ve got Jackson Pharr in custody.”
“Really?” Could this nightmare be over? “You’ve arrested him for the murder?”
“No. I don’t have enough evidence for that. He was brought in last night on a drunk-and-disorderly charge after getting into an altercation in a bar.”
I shook my head. “That kid has no self-control.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. We’re going to hang on to him as long as we can, see if we can get anything out of him.”
“A confession, you mean?” My heart buoyed with hope in my chest.
Flynn nodded. “Whoever killed Rick Dunaway seems to have done so in the heat of the moment. If the murder had been planned, the weapon wouldn’t have been left behind. I’ve talked to the district attorney’s office and we’re thinking if we offer Pharr a plea deal for involuntary manslaughter and a light sentence, he just might bite.”
I was tempted to tell him that if he wanted to apply thumbscrews to the twerp, he was welcome to use any screws in my toolbox, which was still in police possession. My better judgment told me to keep that thought to myself. Instead, I said, “Good luck with that.” I hoped that Jackson would sing like a canary, or like any of the dozen or so aspiring musicians who busked for tips around the city.
Flynn lifted a hand in good-bye as he backed away. “I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
I ventured back into the house to give Buck and Owen an update. “Detective Flynn just came by. He says they’ve got Jackson Pharr in custody.”
Buck’s mouth formed a smug smile. “I told you he was the one.”
“You could be right. I’m not counting my chickens before they’re hatched, though.” Or before they confessed. “Right now, they’ve only got him on a drunk-and-disorderly charge, but they’re going to work on him, see if they can get him to confess to killing Rick Dunaway.”
Buck added the last piece of damaged floorboard to a stack in the corner. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed they can wear him down.”
Over the next hour or so, my cousins pulled the old, cheap cabinets from the kitchen and bath and carried them out to the garage, where they joined the closet doors I’d hauled out earlier. They dismantled the sinks and removed those, too.
Owen begged off at that point. “My better half has already texted twice asking when I’ll be home. If I stay any longer I’ll be in the doghouse.”
The doghouse Owen had built for their oversized mutt had a raised floor, a ventilated roof, and Plexiglas windows on each side. It even had a front porch. He could live pretty well in that thing.
“We understand, bro.” Buck gave him a pat on the back. “Thanks for your help.”
“Yeah. Thanks, cuz.” I gave him a pat of my own. “Give those girls a hug for me.”
“Will do.”
With that, he left the house.
Buck and I pulled out the old stove, dishwasher, and refrigerator, leaving the kitchen a mere shell. Improvising a little two-step, I cleaned up the dust and debris left behind, getting things ready for the new cabinets, sinks, and countertops to be installed tomorrow. With any luck, Detective Flynn would have a confession from Jackson soon, and Buck and I would have the house on the market. Things seemed to be looking up.
The two of us headed out around seven that evening, our muscles sore and aching. But pain meant progress, so that made it bearable.
* * *
On Sunday morning after church, while Buck and Owen installed the cabinets and countertops in the kitchen and bath, Colette and I replaced the damaged floorboards. It was sweet of her to help again. Surely she had better things to do than perform hard labor for free.
“I owe you,” I told her.
She waved off the comment. “Nah. I’m sure I’ll need you for something someday, and we’ll call it even.”
As the afternoon wore down, Buck emerged from the kitchen, a broad grin on his face. He waved us over. “Come take a look, you two.”
Colette and I made our way into the kitchen. While the cabinets had yet to be painted, the majority of the work in the kitchen was complete. Even without paint, the space was beautiful, the quartz countertops gleaming under the new light fixtures.
“It’s gorgeous!” Colette exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight.
Buck grinned. “You women sure do like your kitchens.”
“You’re one to talk,” I shot back. After all, Buck made the state’s best homemade barbecue sauce. He laced it with bourbon from up the road in Kentucky, and added just enough garlic, onions, and Tabasco to give it a nice kick.
“I don’t like to cook,” Buck said. “I like to eat.”
Colette cut a coy look his way. “And women aren’t just lining up to cook for you?”
“Nope.” Buck shrugged. “I’m as baffled about that as you are.”
She shook her head and laughed before looking from my cousin to me. “You have to let me cook here at least once before you sell the place. I’ll test out the kitchen for you.”
“That would be great,” I said. “Will you make your bread pudding?” I loved Colette’s bread pudding. She put both regular and golden raisins in it. Of course I loved everything she prepared. She was an incredible chef.
“Of course I’ll make bread pudding,” she said. “No meal would be complete witho
ut it.” She checked her phone for the time. “Speaking of cooking, I gotta run. My shift starts in an hour.”
We parted with a hug on the porch. While Buck and Colette didn’t hug, Buck did lift his chin in good-bye and she lifted hers in return.
“Later,” he said.
“Later,” she replied. While Southerners often drew out their syllables, even adding an extra one or two to some words, we rarely spoke in complete sentences. It would sound uppity.
Buck and I got back to work, sanding the rough corners on the cabinets. By seven that evening, we had them ready for paint. We also had sore backs and tight arm muscles.
I tossed the worn sandpaper square into a trash bag. “Let’s call it a day.”
Buck put a hand to his sore back. “Amen to that.”
I unplugged the snowman as we left. No sense running up an electric bill I couldn’t afford. As the air left his body and he crumpled to the ground, I felt as if I’d ended his life. Luckily, unlike Rick Dunaway, the snowman could be resurrected by simply plugging him into an outlet.
CHAPTER 30
A KEPT CAT
SAWDUST
Sawdust gazed out the window, watching the squirrels scurry about, gathering nuts that had fallen from the hickory tree. He’d been watching them long enough to know their routine. They’d find a nut, choose a place to bury it, and hold it in their mouth while they dug a hole with their claws. When the hole was big enough, they’d drop the nut in and cover it with dirt.
Sure seems like a lot of work.
Sawdust pitied the rodents. He had never had to worry about where his next meal was coming from. Whitney made sure he had a never-ending supply of crunchy kibble, wet food, and his favorite tuna treats. Still, he liked digging, too. That was something he and the squirrels had in common. It had been a while since he’d had a chance to dig, though. The last time was that day at the stone house when he’d dug up that odd plaything in the dirt and Whitney had tossed him into his cage. He’d been stuck there for hours in the cold. What a miserable day that had been.
He wasn’t cold now, though. It was nice and warm here in Whitney’s parents house. He decided he’d had enough of watching the squirrels. He rolled over onto his back to get more comfortable. Time for another nap.
CHAPTER 31
INVOICES AND INQUIRIES
WHITNEY
Over the next week, between my duties for Home & Hearth and Buck’s duties for the family carpentry business, we painted the cabinets, the remaining walls, and what wood there was on the primarily stone exterior. We installed the brushed-nickel switch plates. We poured our blood, sweat, and tears into our work and the project progressed at a rapid pace. Nothing motivates two people more than a looming mortgage they can’t afford.
The plumber came and fixed the leaky pipe in the bathroom. The window guy replaced the broken glass in the kitchen window. We also installed the new closet doors and light fixtures. We trimmed the trees and seeded the yard. Buck added several bags of black bark chips to the beds to really make the red flowers on the camellias pop. Colette came by on occasion to cheer us on and fill us up with culinary creations from her kitchen, all with a New Orleans flair. Beignets covered in powdered sugar. Po’boy sandwiches. Thermoses of her super spicy gumbo.
Finally, the last brushstroke was complete. I took a minute or two to polish the door knocker with cleaner and a soft rag. The Green Man gleamed proudly.
My cousin and I stepped back to admire our work, standing on the walkway, gazing at the place.
Buck beamed with pride. “We done good, didn’t we, cuz?”
I raised my hand to exchange a victorious high five. “We sure did.”
I couldn’t help but smile. In record time, we’d completed the renovations and the house was ready to go on the market. The place had undergone a metamorphosis, transforming from an unkempt eyesore owned by a penny-pinching landlord to a fresh and inviting cottage. It looked like the kind of place someone would be proud to call home. The only question now was Who will that someone be?
A car rolled to a stop on the street behind us. We turned to see Detective Flynn at the wheel of his plain, government-issue sedan. He climbed out.
“Did Jackson confess?” I asked as he headed our way.
Unfortunately, while things had progressed at the house, they seemed to be at another impasse in regard to the murder investigation.
“Jackson won’t admit anything,” Flynn said, “even with a generous plea deal on the table. His lawyers say he didn’t kill Rick Dunaway and that they’ll take the risk of going to trial if he’s charged. We had no choice but to release him.”
I sighed. Jackson might deny that he killed Rick Dunaway, but that didn’t mean he was innocent. Guilty people lied about their crimes all the time. As far as I was concerned, he was still on the list of potential suspects. Will Rick Dunaway’s killer ever be convicted? I was tired of looking over my shoulder, of having Buck babysit me, of living in my parents’ house. I wanted my pool house back. I wanted my life back. Heck, I’d be happy just to get my tools back.
I was in luck. Flynn pushed a button on his key fob and the trunk popped open on his vehicle. He circled around and pulled my toolbox from his trunk. “You’ll be pleased to know that no blood residue or other DNA evidence was found on your tools.”
I was pleased, yes. But I wasn’t surprised, of course. I accepted the toolbox. “Better late than never. We just finished the renovations.”
He glanced over at the house. “Can I take a look?”
I cast a questioning glance at Buck. Our relationship with Detective Flynn was an odd one. He’d considered both Buck and me to be potential suspects in a murder, though he’d dismissed Buck quickly and had eventually let me tentatively off the hook. We weren’t exactly friends, here. Still, we were proud of our house, of the hard work we’d put into it, proud we’d managed to get the place fixed up so fast amid very trying circumstances.
Buck’s pride won out. He motioned with his hand for Flynn to follow him. “Come on in. We’ll take you on the grand tour.”
I followed the two men as Buck led Flynn around and pointed out all of the things we’d done to fix the place up. Buck stopped once we’d circled back to the front door.
The detective said, “The place looks great.”
“We just need a buyer now,” Buck said.
I eyed Flynn. “The murder isn’t going to help move the place, especially if the killer isn’t caught.”
He met my gaze and held it for a moment before releasing a long breath. “I’m as frustrated as you are. I’ve talked with Dunaway’s family and friends, interviewed all of the potential suspects you and the others have named, but none of the evidence seems to stick. Until something new comes to light, or the killer slips up, the case seems to be at a dead end.”
A dead end wasn’t good enough for me. I wanted a resolution, and I wanted it now.
“What about the video of Thad Gentry I sent you?” I asked. “He seemed unusually interested in this house, what with the way he was staring and all.”
Flynn shrugged. “Maybe. But it could have been for any number of reasons. Lots of people are fascinated by crime scenes. There are businesses that even offer tours to murder sites.”
“Really?” I shuddered at the thought of taking a vacation to see where grisly crimes had been committed. A long weekend at a cabin getaway in the Smoky Mountains was much more my style.
Buck had a slightly different take. “I bet Gentry was looking at the house, thinking what he’ll do with it if we’re forced to sell to him after all. He may be the only person willing to make an offer.”
No doubt he’d lowball us if he was even still interested in the place.
I returned my attention to the detective. “What about the fact that Patty saw Gentry’s car the night of Dunaway’s murder? She told me that she mentioned it to you. He backed out in a hurry and sped off.”
“I asked him about it,” Flynn said. “He said he’d come by h
is property next door to make sure the contractors were proceeding on schedule. He rushed off when he received a call that the fire sprinklers at one of his other properties had accidentally activated. I looked into it. His story checked out.”
“He could’ve still killed Dunaway before he left, right?”
“That’s true. But without his fingerprints on the weapon or a witness saying they’d seen Gentry on your property, there’s nothing to pin on him.” The detective raised a shoulder.
“Did he tell you whether he’d seen any activity at our house?”
“I asked. He said he’d seen nothing. He’d noticed a light on inside your place, but that was it.”
He must have seen the light coming from the portable lantern I’d brought along with me to study for the real estate exam.
We bade each other good-bye as we exited the house and aimed for our respective cars. As I opened the door to my SUV, Flynn called over to me, “Hey, Whitney?”
I looked in his direction. “Yeah?”
“Say hello to Sawdust for me.”
* * *
On the following Monday morning, I went to the Home & Hearth office.
Mr. and Mrs. Hartley greeted me with their usual warm welcomes. Before they could say anything further, I circled around their desks and gave each of them a great, big hug. “Thanks again for helping out at the house. I can’t thank you two enough.”
“Shoot, hon,” Mrs. Hartley said. “After all the hard work you’ve put in for us? You don’t need to thank us at all.” She waved a dismissive hand. “We were glad to help.”
Mr. Hartley nodded in agreement. “It was the least we could do.”
After pouring myself a cup of coffee, I sat down at my desk and completed the paperwork to put the Sweetbriar house on the market. Though the plan all along had been to sell the place once we’d renovated it, I found myself feeling wistful. The house seemed almost a part of me now, like a first love I wasn’t quite ready to let go of even though I knew it had to be done. We’d been through a lot together. I’d poured my blood, sweat, and tears into it. Then again, some of Rick Dunaway’s blood had gone into the place, too. Eeek. That thought made it a little easier to sign my name on the bottom line.