Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  So that the assistant would think we’d left, we drove our cars out of the lot and parked on the street, on either side of the narrow entrance into the parking lot of INnovations. I climbed into the passenger seat of Buck’s van and we watched a movie on my phone while we waited, an action movie starring one of Hollywood’s many muscleheads. Buck chose it. I would’ve preferred a lighthearted rom-com, but since he was helping me out here the least I could do was let him pick the flick.

  At ten minutes after five, the door from the administrative part of the building opened. The young blond man I’d spoken to before emerged. A couple seconds later, none other than Isak Nyström himself came out of the building. Though I’d never met the man in person, I recognized him from photos on his Web site and in magazines. Like his cohort, he sported platinum-blond hair, though instead of standing up in spikes his was tied back in a short ponytail. He was dressed head to toe in winter white, the only splash of color a royal blue scarf that encircled his neck and draped over the shoulders of his knee-length coat.

  I wasn’t about to miss my chance to ask the exclusive, reclusive designer about the invoice. I hopped out of the van and hurried over, raising a hand. “Mr. Nyström!” I called. “I need to speak with you!”

  The slamming of a door behind me told me Buck had gotten out of his van, too, and had my back.

  Nyström stopped in his tracks. His ice-blue eyes narrowed as I approached, his gaze traveling up and down my work coveralls. He said nothing, letting his assistant take the lead.

  “You again,” the assistant said, continuing toward us. “I told you to mail in the invoice with your questions.”

  Buck stepped up beside me. Ignoring the young man, I addressed the designer. “I’m Whitney Whitaker. I managed properties for Rick Dunaway.”

  While his assistant fumed next to him, Nyström put his palms together, as if in prayer. When he spoke, it was with the same Swedish accent as his assistant. “Tragic what happened to him, no?”

  His use of no confused me. Did no really mean yes here? Rather than accidentally say the wrong thing, I avoided yes and no and simply said, “It certainly was.”

  Though this man knew of Dunaway’s death, he didn’t seem to recognize me as the person of interest whose face had been all over the news and papers. I supposed I looked much different in my coveralls and work boots than I did in the blazer and slacks I’d been wearing the day I’d been arrested. Good. Maybe he’d be more forthcoming.

  I said, “I understand you did some work for Mr. Dunaway?”

  Nyström nodded. “I designed the house for him and his wife in Belle Meade. The Venatino marble I installed transformed it into a masterpiece.” He cocked his head. “You have seen the home, yes?”

  “Unfortunately, I have not,” I said. Though the Dunaways’ frequent soirees had been featured often in the social pages of the local newspaper, I’d never been invited to one of them. Dunaway seemed to consider anyone who worked for him to be beneath him.

  The man clucked his tongue. “Such a shame. You see such exquisite beauty, you are never the same. It touches you here.” He clutched a fist to his chest.

  “In your heart?” I asked.

  “No.” He closed his eyes and whispered. “In your soul.”

  Despite his melodrama, I could understand where he was coming from. Some of my carpentry projects had produced an almost spiritual reaction in me. But I had a much more mundane matter to address with him than the effect of a beautiful piece of real estate. “I had a question about an invoice from your office.” I took my cell phone from my pocket and pulled the photo of the invoice up on my screen. “This one.”

  “Business,” he spat, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “Such an ugly but necessary part of the process.” Crooking one arm behind him, Nyström bent forward from the waist and ran his eyes over the screen. “Something is wrong.” He looked up with a frown. “I designed for three others who live in the Twelve Twelve building. But never did I design there for Abbot-Dunaway Holdings.”

  “What about Rick Dunaway himself?” I asked. “Did you do some personal work there for him or maybe for”—how could I phrase this delicately?—“an acquaintance of his?”

  The designer gave me a knowing look. He knew what I was getting at. “No,” he replied. “Not for him. Not for an acquaintance.”

  “Are you sure?”

  His assistant stood up straight and tapped one ankle to the other, like a soldier coming to attention. “Of course he is sure!”

  What an odd duo. I slid my phone back into my pocket and dipped my head politely before turning to go. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

  CHAPTER 34

  LEAD ME ON

  WHITNEY

  The following morning, as I drove to a rental property to look into a potential roof leak, I wondered why Lance Abbot hadn’t returned Mr. Hartley’s call. Wouldn’t he want to know if there was a problem with a bill?

  It dawned on me then that, just like the man I’d spoken with earlier served as Nyström’s gatekeeper, Presley served the same purpose at Abbot-Dunaway Holdings. Presley might have deleted Mr. Hartley’s voice mail. Depending on how secure their system was, it might not be hard to do. Maybe Colette’s hunch was right, maybe Presley had had enough with her boss and delivered him a solid whack on my front porch.

  After confirming the roof leak at the rental house, notifying the property owner, and arranging for a roofer to swing by and take a look, I drove to the midtown police station. My attorney had told me not to talk to the cops, so she wouldn’t be happy with me right now. But if I called her and asked her to pass the information about the invoice along to the detective, she’d charge my parents a fee for her time. Essentially, they’d be paying hundreds of dollars for her to serve as a parrot, simply repeating what I’d tell her. It couldn’t hurt for me to talk to the detective about the invoice, right? Besides, given that I’d spoken to him several times since he’d dragged me into this mess, that ship had long since sailed.

  I went inside and checked in with the woman working the front desk. “Is Detective Flynn in?”

  She pointed behind me. “There he comes right now.”

  I turned around to see Detective Flynn and Officer Hogarty coming up the hallway from the interrogation room. Bobby Palmer walked a step or two ahead of them. The look on Bobby’s face was both enraged and terrified at the same time.

  When Bobby spotted me, he rushed toward me. “Tell them, Whitney! Tell them I didn’t do it! You know I wouldn’t kill anyone!”

  I didn’t know what to say. I had a hard time thinking Bobby was capable of killing Rick Dunaway, but I hadn’t thought he’d con me, either. Even though I’d crossed paths with him many times over the last few years, I felt like I hardly knew him now.

  As Hogarty continued past me, the detective stepped over, his demeanor toward me far more congenial today. “Hello, Miss Whitaker.”

  I looked from him, to Bobby, and back again. “What’s going on?”

  The detective eyed Bobby. “Do you want to tell her, or should I?”

  Bobby hung his head, avoiding my gaze. “You do it.”

  “All right,” Flynn said. “You’re free to go for now, Mr. Palmer, but stay in town. We might need to speak with you again.”

  Bobby nodded and headed out the door.

  Once he was gone, Flynn returned his attention to me and waved for me to follow him. “Let’s go back to my office.”

  I followed him down the hall and into the small, windowless space he’d been assigned. Stacks of files in various heights formed a makeshift skyline along the edge of his desk. A couple of takeout menus were thumbtacked to the bulletin board behind his desk, along with an astronomy-themed calendar featuring a photo of the crab nebulae and photos of two cats, one a gray tabby, the other a black-and-white tuxedo.

  He caught me eyeing the cats. “The gray one’s Copernicus. The other’s Galileo.”

  “They’re handsome boys.” I had to wonder if his two feline fr
iends were why he’d believed my kitty-cat defense and decided to let me go the day he and Hogarty had brought me in.

  He gestured for me to take a seat in a blue vinyl chair that faced his desk. Once I did, he caught me up.

  “When I was questioning the Hartleys prior to your detainment, I asked about the payments Home and Hearth had received from Abbot-Dunaway Holdings. They showed me one of the checks and I made note of the company’s bank. I went by the bank today with a search warrant and learned that Rick Dunaway made a three-thousand-dollar cash withdrawal from the account late in the afternoon on the day before Mr. Palmer performed the inspection on your house. I called Mr. Palmer into the station. He admitted he accepted the money as a bribe to falsify your inspection.”

  “He did?” Though I’d suspected as much, it hurt to know that Bobby had confessed to ripping me off, to risking my life.

  “He didn’t come clean right off. He spilled the beans after I informed him we’d arrested his bookie and that the bookie said Palmer recently paid him three grand in cash.”

  “You arrested his bookie?”

  “No.” Flynn’s mouth curved up in a self-satisfied grin. “I only told Palmer we did. It was a ruse to get him to confess. You’d think a gambler would be able to recognize a bluff, huh?”

  “A good gambler might,” I noted, “but Bobby’s not a good gambler. Otherwise, he’d be winning instead of losing.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Flynn agreed. “Anyway, the bluff got Palmer to spill the beans. He said he couldn’t believe ‘Jack’ had ratted him out like that.” He raised his palms. “Now we’ve also got a lead on an illegal gambling operation.”

  It was an effective trick. Maybe I hadn’t been giving Detective Flynn enough credit.

  “You haven’t arrested him,” I said, “so I guess he didn’t confess to killing Rick Dunaway?”

  “No,” Flynn replied. “He still claims he didn’t commit the murder. But I’m thinking he may have gone after Dunaway for more money. He might’ve smelled blood after being offered the three grand and knowing Dunaway agreed to pay you another five for your insurance deductible.”

  “The same thought had crossed my mind.”

  “You’d also told Palmer that Dunaway would be coming by the house the night he was killed, so Palmer knew where Dunaway would be. He could have laid in wait, ambushed Dunaway when he arrived, and demanded more cash. Dunaway might’ve turned him down. Palmer could have lost his cool and hit the guy with the mallet. Or maybe Palmer threatened Dunaway with the hammer and issued a blow to try to persuade Dunaway to give in. Maybe he hit a little too hard.” The detective shrugged. “There’s several different ways it could have played out. But no matter which way it happened, Rick Dunaway could have ended up dead at Palmer’s hand. If Palmer’s alibi doesn’t pan out, I’ll bring him back in.”

  “What’s his alibi?”

  “He claims he was out of town that weekend, gambling at the Tropicana casino in Evansville, Indiana.”

  I remembered the player’s club cards lying on the dashboard of Bobby’s truck a few days after Dunaway was killed. I told Flynn about them.

  “I’ll need more than some cards to clear him,” he said. “He’s going to have to show up on video footage from the casinos.”

  “If you’re looking into Bobby now,” I said, “does this mean I’m off the hook?”

  “Sorry, but no. You’re still officially a person of interest.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said sourly.

  He gave me a soft, sympathetic smile and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on his desk. “Now, what were you here to see me about?”

  “I have another potential lead for you. Two, really. The first is an odd invoice.” I handed him a copy of the invoice that I’d printed out. As he looked it over, I continued. “I spotted it on Presley’s desk Monday when I went to the Abbot-Dunaway office to return the keys to their properties.”

  He finished perusing the document and looked up at me. “What’s odd about this invoice?”

  “The address of the property where the services were supposedly rendered is twelve twelve Laurel Street.”

  “I know the place. It’s the Twelve Twelve condominiums, right?”

  “Exactly. Anyway, there wasn’t a unit number on the invoice, but Abbot-Dunaway only owns one condo there. To my knowledge, a designer had never been to the unit, and none of the Abbot-Dunaway residential properties come furnished. As the property manager, I should’ve been involved if any redecorating was taking place at a property. I’ve since gone by the unit and confirmed with the tenant that there were no design services rendered and no furniture delivered. I went by the designer’s office, too, and he confirmed that he didn’t send the invoice.”

  “You think the designer was telling the truth?”

  “I assumed so.” Of course it was possible that Isak Nyström had, in fact, issued the invoice, but had feigned innocence when Buck and I questioned him. Ugh. If only I could read minds and tell who was being honest and who was lying. It would make things so much easier!

  Flynn tapped his ballpoint pen against his chin. “This invoice could have several implications. I’ll look into it. What’s the second lead?”

  “Remember the white sedan I told you about?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I got nowhere with it. No other agencies were investigating Dunaway, so it wasn’t undercover law enforcement. There were several white sedans that showed up on the security camera feed from the downtown parking garage the day you visited the Abbot-Dunaway office. All of them cleared but one. It was a rental. Given that it was a weak lead anyway, I didn’t follow up.” He raised his palms. “There just aren’t enough hours in the day.”

  Given that I now speculated the man with the newspaper on Sweetbriar might have been watching Thad Gentry rather than Rick Dunaway, I supposed the car that had been in the parking garage at the Abbot-Dunaway office weeks ago didn’t matter. Odds were it wasn’t the same car anyway, just a look-alike.

  “A thought crossed my mind,” I said. “What if the man in the car had been watching Thad Gentry instead of Mr. Dunaway? Mr. Gentry was at the house next door that morning.”

  Detective Flynn sat up straight in his seat. “That’s an interesting thought. I’ll look into that, too.”

  “Also, I can’t be sure, but I think I might have seen Thad Gentry getting onto an elevator today when I went to the Abbot-Dunaway office.”

  He nodded and jotted a note.

  Our business concluded, he walked me to the doors, where we bade each other good-bye.

  I’d taken just five steps out of the building when Bobby Palmer stood from the bench he’d been sitting on and approached me.

  “I’m sorry, Whitney,” he said, his expression anguished, “I want to apologize. I screwed up. I was desperate. I had to pay off my bookie. He’d threatened to put a bullet through my foot.”

  “I could’ve died, Bobby. My cat, too.”

  “I know, but I didn’t think you’d be staying at the house. I thought the risk would be low, especially with additional smoke detectors to warn you if the wiring went up in flames. I figured that once you got the place ready to sell, whoever bought it would find out about the wiring and insist you fix it before the sale. You’d be out a few grand to update the electrical systems, but Rick Dunaway said he’d given you a great deal on the house, so I figured it was fair enough. I might look bad for missing the electrical problem, but that would be better than getting shot. Rick Dunaway seemed desperate, too. He said he needed some ready cash or his business would go under. He said his wife and her lawyer were taking him to the cleaners.”

  The man had used the same words with me.

  “The guy got me feeling sorry for him,” Bobby said. “I guess he played me.”

  I sighed. “He played me, too.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment.

  “So if you didn’t kill Rick Dunaway,” I said, “and I didn’t kill him, then who do yo
u think did?”

  He answered without hesitation. “Thad Gentry.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I’ve been in this business a long time,” he said, “and I’ve heard things. Those two men have been at each other’s throats for years, figuratively speaking. Doesn’t seem much of a stretch to think things might’ve turned physical for one reason or another.”

  He had a point. But was he right?

  CHAPTER 35

  CONFRONTATION

  WHITNEY

  Back in my car, I phoned Buck and Colette, getting the two of them on the line at once.

  “Big news,” I told them. “Detective Flynn brought Bobby Palmer in for questioning in Dunaway’s murder.”

  Buck demanded details. “What did they find on Palmer? Did he confess?”

  I filled them in. “Detective Flynn found evidence that Dunaway had made a three-thousand-dollar cash withdrawal the day before the inspection. He tricked Bobby into admitting he took a bribe to pay his bookie.”

  Buck scoffed. “So Bobby risked your life for only three grand?”

  “Yep.” It was incredibly insulting. My life was worth far more than three thousand dollars. Sawdust’s was, too. “Bobby still claims he didn’t kill Dunaway, but if he’s been lying all this time about the inspection, Flynn figures he could be lying about the murder, too. Problem is, Bobby claims to have an alibi. He says he was gambling at a casino in Indiana on Friday night. Flynn’s looking into it.” I told him about the invoice, of my theories that Dunaway could have had a distraught mistress, that the mistress might possibly have been Presley. “What do you think?”

  “You could be right,” Buck said. “Rick Dunaway certainly wouldn’t be the first man to have a little love nest somewhere. A pied-à-tush.”

  Colette corrected him. “It’s pied-à-terre.”

  “You sure about that?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” Colette replied. “I know my French.”

  “Ooh-la-la,” Buck replied.

  I forced them back to the matter at hand. “As angry as I am at Bobby for intentionally botching the inspection, it wouldn’t be fair for him to spend the rest of his life in jail if he didn’t actually kill Rick Dunaway.”