Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  After sliding the paperwork into Mrs. Hartley’s in-box, I went to the file cabinet, rounded up all our copies of the keys for the Abbot-Dunaway units, and typed up a quick list noting the status of each property. Leased through May. Currently accepting applications. Homeowners’ association fees due January 1. Our contract didn’t require me to provide the update, but it felt like the courteous thing to do. It would make things easier on whoever they hired to take over the management duties.

  When I was done, I printed out the document, gathered up my things, and bade the Hartleys good-bye. “See you later.”

  Mr. Hartley pointed to the stack of aluminum HOME & HEARTH REALTY signs leaning against the wall. “Don’t forget the sign for your yard.”

  “Oh! Right.” I grabbed one of the signs and carried it out to my SUV.

  On my drive downtown, I made two stops. The first was at the house. I placed the FOR SALE sign in the yard, trying not to think about the last sign I’d erected here, the one for Whitaker Woodworking, the one I’d pounded into the ground with the dead blow mallet I’d inadvertently left outside to become a weapon of death. On the handle of the front door I hung a lockbox containing keys to the house so that Realtors from other agencies could show the place. Buck wouldn’t be too happy if he knew I’d come here alone, but I planned to make it quick.

  I went into the house, locked the door behind me for safety, and turned on every light in the place so I could snap some pics. They’d come in handy for the online listing. Our first flip! I’d also add the photos to the Whitaker Woodworking portfolio of before and after pictures that highlighted our superior carpentry work.

  My second stop was at a florist. While I had scant funds to afford flowers, I wanted to take something to the Abbot-Dunaway Holdings office as a sign of respect. I bought a nice peace lily in a white ceramic pot and wrote “May he rest in peace” on the sympathy card I attached.

  I parked in the underground garage, keeping an eye on my surroundings as I exited my SUV and made my way to the elevator. I saw no white sedan today, but I supposed that made sense. If someone had been spying on Dunaway, they’d have no reason to continue after his death.

  My heart pounded as I rode the car up to the eighteenth floor. I had no idea what type of reception I would get, but surely they’d realize I wouldn’t show my face at their office if I were guilty, right? Besides, the police hadn’t kept me in custody. The fact that I’d been released said something.

  Ding! The doors slid open. As I stepped out, I saw a man in my peripheral vision climbing into the adjacent elevator. He was stocky and wearing a suit. Wait. Was it Thad Gentry? If so, what was he doing here?

  I rushed over to the elevator, having a difficult time moving fast with the lily in my hands. By the time I got there the doors were closing, giving me only a glimpse of a gray suit before they fully shut. I reached out and jabbed at the up and down buttons, hoping to force the doors open again. But it was too late. The elevator had already begun to descend.

  I turned and made my way down the hall to the door of Abbot-Dunaway, using my elbow to push the handle down given that my hands were filled with the peace lily and paperwork.

  While I could hear the whir of the copy machine from down the hall, the reception area was empty. I carried the plant over to Presley’s desk and set it down. As I did, my eyes spotted an invoice in her in-box. The bill was from Isak Nyström for $32,000 in interior design services and furnishings. The invoice was dated the day of Mr. Dunaway’s death, and noted “Terms: Net Ten.” I knew from my own experience with various contractors that the term meant the bill must be paid within ten days. Given that Mr. Dunaway’s funeral and the Thanksgiving holiday had fallen during the interim, Presley apparently had not yet had time to process the invoice. According to the document, the costs were purportedly incurred for services at 1212 Laurel Street. Though no specific unit number was referenced, I knew the address was for a high-rise luxury tower not-so-creatively named Twelve Twelve.

  That’s odd.

  Twelve Twelve was a newer building in a trendy area of downtown known as the Gulch. The first condominiums had been put on the market in late 2014. Abbot-Dunaway had bought one of those units. It had been a smart investment. The Gulch had only grown in popularity since, and the value of the condo had increased substantially.

  Just last month I’d leased the one-bedroom place to a professional couple in their mid-thirties. Both of them traveled regularly for work, and they’d wanted a convenient, upscale abode that was close to the Nashville nightlife and would allow for easy upkeep. Though they could have afforded to buy a place, they didn’t want the hassles that came with home ownership.

  Because the Twelve Twelve building was so new, the interior featured the latest styles in fixtures, flooring, and other design features. There’d be no need to have the condo renovated. What’s more, the unit had been offered unfurnished. None of the Abbot-Dunaway residential properties came with furnishings.

  In other words, the invoice made no sense.

  Before I could fully process the situation, the whir of the copier ceased. I snapped a quick pic of the page as Presley came down the hall looking like a fashion model on a runway in another fitted sheath dress, leather boots, and Gucci scarf. She held a stack of papers in her arms. When she saw me, she stopped in her high-heeled tracks, her lip curling back in a snarl. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming in here.”

  Despite my complete innocence, my cheeks burned with a blush. “I’m sorry about what happened to Mr. Dunaway, Presley. But I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Nothing to do with it?” She set the stack of papers down on top of the invoice and threw up perfectly manicured hands. “You were brought in for his murder!”

  “But the police released me,” I insisted. “They haven’t charged me with any crime.”

  She pointed to the door. “Get out right now or I’ll call security!”

  Clearly, there was nothing to be gained by arguing with her. The people at Abbot-Dunaway Holdings thought I was guilty. So much for my hopes of getting Lance Abbot to reconsider firing Home & Hearth.

  I held up the manila envelope. “The keys for the properties are in here. I’ve provided a status summary for each of the rentals, too.”

  I set the manila envelope down on her desk and walked out, my head held high. No matter what she thought, I knew I was innocent. I refused to leave the place in disgrace.

  As I rode down in the elevator, my mind ventured back to the strange invoice. As the manager of the condo at Twelve Twelve, I should’ve been told if Abbot-Dunaway had wanted to hire a designer to perform services at the property. In fact, it was my job to arrange such things.

  Why had Rick Dunaway left me out of the loop?

  Maybe he’d left me out because the matter was personal. It was possible that Dunaway had moved out of the house he shared with his wife and into a condo at Twelve Twelve. The two were in the middle of a nasty divorce, after all.

  Once I was back in my car, I pulled up the Davidson County Property Assessor’s Web site and ran a search in the name of Rick Dunaway. There was no unit at 1212 Laurel Street in his name. The only residential property in his name was the house in Belle Meade that he owned with his wife. Hmm.

  I went back to the records for Twelve Twelve. There were 286 units in the building. Was it possible that Dunaway had a mistress who lived there? If so, maybe his mistress had killed him. The man was ruthless in business matters. Surely he could be ruthless in matters of the heart, too. Maybe he’d set his sights on another woman, negotiated a better deal with her, and decided to terminate his arrangement with his then-current lover.

  Was one of the units in her name? If so, who might that girlfriend be?

  Presley.

  The name popped unbidden into my mind and my hands went unbidden to my mouth. Could it be?

  If Rick Dunaway and Presley were involved in a romantic relationship, it certainly would explain a lot of things. How she could afford the exp
ensive clothes and accessories she wore. Why the invoice had been sent to the Abbot-Dunaway office. Why she’d seemingly tried to hide it from my view by placing a stack of papers on top of it. Still, even though these facts pointed to Presley, the fact that she’d seemed to harbor some resentments toward her boss told me it might not be her. Then again, assuming she was his mistress, maybe the fact that she not only worked for Dunaway but was sleeping with him made her doubly angry with him for selling the Sweetbriar house to me. Or maybe her resentment was a ploy. Maybe Presley only pretended to resent her boss so that people wouldn’t suspect the two of them of having an intimate relationship.

  I ran her name through the system, but nothing came up. Hmm. I went back to the Twelve Twelve records for a third time and read over the list of all 286 owners, searching for units that listed a female owner. A couple of the names sounded vaguely familiar, but a quick search of the Web told me why. They were up-and-coming country singing stars. I’d probably seen them on the news or performing at a venue around town. There seemed to be a lineup in every bar and restaurant in the city. I’d even seen a guy playing guitar once in a frozen yogurt shop, probably hoping an agent or record-label executive would wander in for a cone. Anything to be heard and potentially discovered.

  I typed Rick Dunaway’s name into the search browser and skimmed over the articles about him that popped up, looking for any references to a woman he might have associated with who could have been a potential lover. I found a couple of photos of him with an attractive woman from the chamber of commerce, but when I compared her name to the list of owners of condos at Twelve Twelve, I found no match. Darn.

  I pondered the information and decided that I could reach no definitive conclusions from it. Dunaway could have bought a condo in the building through a “straw man,” putting the unit in the name of someone else so his wife wouldn’t know about it. Or maybe he didn’t own the unit, but was merely renting the condo. Still, if he had purchased or rented the condo for personal use, by himself or a girlfriend, he should have paid for the design services out of his own pocket. The expense should not have been run through the company. On the other hand, maybe he’d planned to pay for the service, but had the invoice sent to his business address so that his wife wouldn’t find out about it.

  I returned my phone to my purse and started my car. As I drove back to Home & Hearth, I continued to mull the situation over. The more I thought about it, the more concerned I became. The curriculum for my business degree had included several accounting courses. My Accounting 101 professor had taught us the importance of checks and balances in any accounting system. Part of those checks and balances involved splitting the accounting functions among several staff members. Separating the tasks was not a difficult thing for large businesses to do, but for a firm like Abbot-Dunaway Holdings with a small staff, it wasn’t always possible to implement proper protocols. Unscrupulous employees could exploit the system for their own nefarious purposes, siphon off dollar after dollar before anyone else got wind of it. Some of them were never caught.

  The invoice from Isak Nyström looked legitimate on its face, but was it? I had my doubts. I supposed it could have been an honest error. Maybe someone on the designer’s staff had issued the invoice by mistake. But how would that person have had the address of an Abbot-Dunaway property they’d never been associated with? And if the bill was fraudulent, what did that mean?

  It meant that someone was trying to pull a fast one on Abbot-Dunaway Holdings, that’s what. That someone had to be Rick Dunaway, Isak Nyström, a member of the designer’s staff, or Presley, right? Or perhaps some combination of these people working together?

  If Presley had faked the invoice, it could explain why she’d shooed me out of the Abbot-Dunaway office so quickly this morning. Maybe she was afraid I’d spot the bill and realize something was out of order.

  A sick feeling tiptoed into my tummy. If that invoice is a fake, could it have something to do with Rick Dunaway’s death? Had Rick Dunaway found out that Presley was processing fraudulent invoices and skimming money from the company? She kept Mr. Dunaway’s calendar, knew everywhere he’d be and when. She’d have known he planned to meet me at the house on Sweetbriar Avenue that fateful Friday evening.

  Had Presley killed Rick Dunaway?

  I pulled into the parking lot of Home & Hearth, parked, and went into the building. The Hartleys looked up from their desks as I came in.

  “I might be on to something.”

  Mrs. Hartley tilted her head in interest. “What is it?”

  I told the Hartleys about the invoice I’d spotted on Presley’s desk. “The bill is suspicious, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Hartley’s brows gathered above his nose. “It raises some questions, that’s for sure.”

  I looked from one of them to the other. “What should I do?”

  Mrs. Hartley provided an answer. “I suppose the right thing to do is give Mr. Abbot a call and let him know what you saw.”

  “Let me do it,” Mr. Hartley said. “He might not accept a call from Whitney.”

  I mentally cringed, but had to agree.

  Mr. Hartley picked up the receiver for his desk phone. “Got the number handy?”

  I fished my cell phone out of my purse and pulled up Rick Dunaway’s contact information. I had both his private cell number and the main office number for Abbot-Dunaway. I rattled off the office number and Mr. Hartley dialed it.

  “Good morning,” he said when the phone was answered. “May I speak to Mr. Abbot, please?”

  He paused for a few seconds during which Presley must have asked who was calling.

  “Marv Hartley,” he replied, “from Home and Hearth.”

  Another pause.

  “He’s not in? All righty, then. May I have his voice mail please?” Mr. Hartley gave us a thumbs-up to let us know he was being transferred to Abbot’s voice mail. After another short pause, he left his message. “Hello, Mr. Abbot. Marv Hartley here. We think there might be a problem with a bill your firm received. It has to do with one of the properties we managed for you. It seems you might have been overcharged. Please give me a call back as soon as you can.” He ended by leaving the Home & Hearth office number.

  After he hung up the receiver he shrugged his shoulders. “Guess all we can do now is wait for him to call back.”

  I hoped Lance Abbot would return the call soon. While determination and tenacity were some of my virtues, patience was not among them.

  While I’d been gone, Mrs. Hartley had processed the paperwork for the Sweetbriar house and it was ready to go public. I went to my desk to upload the information about the house into the multiple-listing service Web site. I took care of the easy part first, inputting the square footage, the year the house was built and the date of its most recent remodel, the number of bedrooms and bathrooms, the size of the lot. Next, I uploaded the photos I’d taken of both the exterior and interior of the home. Finally, I took a moment or two to formulate a description that would be sure to entice a buyer. It was no secret Realtors sometimes had to get creative when describing properties to potential buyers. There was a not-so-secret code. Cozy meant small. Great location meant the house was in a convenient area, but wasn’t much to look at. Handyman’s dream was the code for a fixer-upper. After some thought, I came up with:

  The perfect blend of classic style and contemporary conveniences make this custom stone cottage a must-see for the discerning buyer. Located in the desirable Belmont-Hillsboro neighborhood, this home features exposed stone in the living room, a claw-foot tub in the bath, and a newly remodeled chef’s kitchen. Fresh paint, new flooring, and lush landscaping round out this one-of-a-kind property.

  That sounded so much better than Crime scene for sale. Your children can play where a corpse once lay!

  After discussion with Buck and the Hartleys, we’d decided on a listing price of $499,000. I typed the price into the appropriate field on the screen. Objectively, the home should be worth every penny of the list pri
ce. All of the fire damage had been repaired and the wiring was completely updated. All evidence of Rick Dunaway’s murder had been removed, too. Subjectively, though, buyers might not want to pay market price for a house that had suffered a fire and served as a venue for violence. But we’d cross that bridge when, and if, it came to it. We could always negotiate the price down if we had to. I only hoped we wouldn’t end up in a short sale situation. We’d have to get the mortgage company’s approval to sell the house for less than we owed. A short sale would not only ruin my credit and Buck’s, but it could get our loan officer in hot water, too. She’d stuck her neck out for me, convincing the underwriter that I was a safe bet. I’d hate to let her down, jeopardize her career, too.

  I hit enter to submit the photos and information. Within minutes the listing was live. I crossed my fingers. Somebody buy the house and soon!

  * * *

  Things were off to a great start!

  By the end of the workday, I’d received three calls about the house. Woo-hoo!

  The first showing was that very night. While buyer’s agents don’t normally like their clients to interact directly with the seller or seller’s agent, this agent had asked me to be on-site. His client was an executive who was being transferred to Nashville soon. The client was in town for only a short period of time, and the agent wanted to show him as many options as possible and seal the deal before the man flew out on Wednesday. If his buyer had questions, he wanted someone readily available to answer them. I was happy to oblige. I met them at the house at seven thirty.

  The agent was on the younger side, in his early thirties. His client was in his mid- to late fifties. Both wore dress pants and jackets, but no ties.