by Diane Kelly
Screech!
I turned to see Detective Flynn’s plain sedan pull up to the same spot at the curb it had left only minutes before. Flynn rocketed out of his seat before the car even settled back, leaving the door open. Patty turned her hose from the brawlers to her mums as he ran toward the men tangling on the lawn. He paused for a split second on the edge of the fray, determined who was who, and reached out to grab the back of Jackson’s shirt. “Cut it out! Now!”
When he yanked Jackson back, it gave Buck the opening he needed to land a solid uppercut to the guy’s chin. Jackson’s head snapped backward, and he was momentarily dazed. Flynn seized the opportunity to grab Jackson’s right arm and slap a cuff on his wrist. Before the detective could secure the other cuff, Jackson gathered what little wits he had and took a swing at him. Buck levered himself to his knees and launched himself at the boy, tackling Jackson back to the ground, landing a solid punch to the punk’s gut this time.
Jackson retched and reflexively rolled onto his side, his hands grabbing at his stomach. Flynn used his foot to shove the punk’s shoulder, momentum carrying the kid over onto his belly. With a quick click, the detective secured the second cuff, Jackson’s hands now immobilized behind him.
I rushed to Buck. “Are you okay?”
He looked down as if trying to gauge how to answer that question. Given the ruts Jackson’s truck had put in the lawn and the water Patty had sprayed, he was covered in mud and dried grass. But at least none of his limbs was bent in the wrong direction, and no blood was visible on him. “I’m all right. Nothing a shower and a washing machine can’t fix.”
Flynn put a foot on Jackson’s back. “Don’t move. You hear me?”
Jackson responded with a series of choice expletives, but remained facedown on the wet, messy lawn.
The detective looked up at Buck, Patty, and me. “I heard the call come in on my radio and turned right back around. Luckily, I hadn’t gotten far.”
A cruiser careened around the corner, lights flashing and siren wailing. As it approached, we could see Officer Hogarty was at the wheel. She extinguished the siren as she pulled to a stop behind Flynn’s car, but left the lights on. She exited the vehicle and stepped over, where Flynn gave her a quick rundown.
She shook her head as she stared down at Jackson’s back. “Just released from jail and he pulls a stunt like this.” She bent down to look Jackson in the face. “You aren’t too smart, are you?”
Jackson called her a name, too. She shrugged it off. “Eh. I’ve been called worse.”
She, Flynn, and Buck hauled the boy to his feet. He made no effort to help them, intentionally going limp so as to be dead weight. What a jerk. I grabbed a leg to help and we eventually managed to lift and shove him into the backseat of Hogarty’s patrol car.
When Jackson issued a fresh string of curses, Hogarty slammed the door on him. “What a potty mouth. Too bad I can’t wash his mouth out with soap.”
She climbed into the front and, with a wave in good-bye to the detective, took off to the station. Looked like Jackson’s attorneys would be earning additional fees for defending him against an assault-and-battery charge. Maybe even more.
Detective Flynn watched until the cruiser’s taillights disappeared around the corner before turning back to address me and Buck. “Pharr will be facing serious charges now. My guess is that, once everything is said and done, he’ll be looking at some prison time.”
“Good,” Buck snapped. “It’s time that brat got what he deserves.”
I had to agree. I only hoped that while the things were being said and done, they’d keep him in jail. I had a feeling he might not be done with me.
CHAPTER 37
KITCHEN KLATCH
WHITNEY
Detective Flynn had barely driven off before Colette pulled up. She climbed out of her car and took in the damaged pickup sitting in the yard and the stone mailbox that now stood cockeyed, like a miniature leaning tower of Pisa. She raised her hands. “What in the world happened here?”
Her mouth gaped as we filled her in on the altercation that had transpired in the yard only minutes before. She looked Buck up and down, the caked mud on his wet clothing confirming our story. When we finished, she said, “I hope Jackson’s arrest will put an end to this ordeal.”
“Me, too,” I said, though I still had a sick sense it wouldn’t. Maybe I wouldn’t feel a sense of closure until he was sentenced. Maybe that’s why I still felt unsettled.
Colette turned, retrieved a bottle of wine from her car, and handed it to me. “I have a feeling you might be needing this about now.”
I hugged the bottle to my chest. “You’d be right about that.”
“I hope you two worked up an appetite,” Colette said, “because I am going to stuff you silly.”
She popped the trunk open and disappeared into it, emerging with a stockpot cradled in the crook of her arm and a bag of groceries in her hand. We made our way to the house. At the front door, I relieved her of the pot, while Buck grabbed the grocery bag. Her hands now free, she bent down and put one hand under Sawdust’s chin, stroking the top of his head with the other. “Hi, boy. How ya been?”
He replied with a mew that said I’ve been just fine, thanks for asking.
After taking the pot and groceries to the kitchen, we returned to her car for more items. A large sauté pan. A rectangular baking pan. Mixing bowls and spoons. Cutting boards in two sizes. A colander and small plastic food storage container containing several jars of spices. By the time we were done, it looked like she had moved into the place, at least where the kitchen was concerned.
Now that the adrenaline had worn off, I had a nice case of the shakes, trembling from head to toe. I used a corkscrew to open the wine and poured three generous glasses, taking a large gulp of mine to calm my nerves.
Colette eyed me and bit her lip in worry. “You gonna be okay, Whit?”
“Honestly? I won’t be okay until Dunaway’s killer is caught and convicted.” I’d been constantly on edge since I’d found the body in the flower bed. My nerves were shot.
She reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. “Maybe the detective will come through.”
“He’s trying,” I said. “There’s just not much to go on.” Of course that fact could be my fault, for washing any potential fingerprints off the mallet. But no sense beating myself up over that fact. I couldn’t change the past. If only I had a time machine. Maybe I should look into buying a used DeLorean.
Having changed out of his muddy coveralls into a spare pair he kept in his van, Buck made his way to the breakfast bar. He took a seat on one of the stools to observe as Colette spread the bowls and dishes and utensils out on the countertop in front of him in preparation for cooking. “What’s on the menu?” he asked.
She retrieved a long-handled metal spoon. “Red beans and rice. We’re going full-out Louisiana tonight.”
Sawdust and I peeked into the grocery bag on the counter. “I see the ingredients for bread pudding in here, too.”
She brandished the spoon at me. “Hush, now! That was supposed to be a surprise.”
Buck rubbed his belly. “Surprise or not, I can’t wait.”
“How can I help?” I asked.
She pointed the spoon at the bag. “You can start by cutting the bread into cubes and putting the cubes in the baking pan.”
“Easy enough.” I wasn’t much of a cook, but I didn’t see how I could screw that up.
She turned her spoon on Buck now. “Don’t think you’re off the hook, mister. I’m putting you to work, too.” With that, she handed him a paring knife and the large cutting board, following up with a colander in which she’d placed a green pepper, an onion, and a stalk of celery. “Rinse the vegetables and dice them.”
He rose dutifully from the stool. “Whatever you say, dear.”
“I like the sound of that,” she said.
“Dear?” Buck asked.
“No.” She waved a spoon and grinned. “The ‘
whatever you say’ part.”
While Colette set her pot on the back burner and filled it with her homemade vegetable stock, I removed Sawdust from the counter, rounded up a knife and the smaller cutting board, and set about cutting the bread into small squares. The cat watched from the floor as I placed them in the baking pan. I dropped one to the floor for him. He sniffed the cube, his head bobbing. Having performed the sniff test and finding the bread unappetizing, he decided to see if he could make a toy out of it. He gave it a solid whack with his left paw and chased it as it rolled across the floor. The cat was nothing if not resourceful.
When I finished placing the bread cubes in the pan, I sought further instruction. “What’s my next step?”
Colette made a circular motion with her spoon. “Round up the sugar, cinnamon, almonds, and raisins.”
I gathered up the ingredients, along with a large mixing bowl. Meanwhile, she poured a small amount of olive oil into a pan and turned the burner to low underneath it. Seeing that I was ready to move forward again, she advised me to pour three cups of soymilk into the bowl, add the other ingredients, and mix them well. I poured the mixture over the bread cubes, slid the pan into the oven, and set the timer for thirty minutes. By then, she’d finished sautéing the vegetables and had added them to the beans and rice simmering in the stockpot. Also by then, Sawdust had seemed to realize that playing with a ball of bread and watching us cook was not nearly as interesting as watching the bugs flit about the back porch light. He lay on the windowsill, staring up at the swarm of moths warming themselves about the bulb.
Buck gathered up the dirty dishes and took them to the sink. “I’ll wash these.”
“Who are you?” I teased.
“What?” he said. “A man can’t help clean up in the kitchen?”
“He can,” I said. “I’ve just never seen you actually do it.”
He cut me a narrow-eyed look. “What do you think I do at my own house?”
He had a point. Even so, I’d never heard him offer to help with the dishes after our holiday feasts at his parents’ place. I’d only heard him offer to polish off a pie or what remained of the mashed potatoes. Not that he was a male chauvinist pig, by any means. It’s just that Aunt Nancy tended to shoo her husband and sons out of her kitchen. She was outnumbered three-to-one when it came to male and female chromosomes, and the kitchen was the one room in her house she could claim as her own. The men had taken over her living room with their oversized chairs and big-screen TV.
As Colette stirred the pot, Buck washed the prep dishes and I dried them. When the food was ready, we sat down at the bar to enjoy our gourmet dinner from the stylish square plates my friend had brought with her. Sawdust wandered back over and hopped up to lie on my lap while I ate.
Buck shoveled a heaping spoonful of red beans and rice into his mouth and moaned in ecstasy. “I could get used to this.”
I swallowed a delicious bite, myself. “Me, too.”
Colette held a loaded fork aloft and turned the conversation to a more serious subject. “Do you think the DA will reconsider charging Jackson for the murder? Seems since Jackson tried to kill you tonight, it would make him a more likely suspect in Rick Dunaway’s death.”
As she took her bite, I shrugged. “I don’t know if it changes anything. It’s obvious Jackson has the potential to take a life, but he still hasn’t confessed to taking Dunaway’s.”
Buck chimed in. “There’s still that odd invoice to consider, too. Even if Pharr killed Dunaway, that doesn’t explain the invoice.”
She put her fork down. “Do you think Presley is up to something after all?”
Again, I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Isak Nyström could have lied to us. Maybe he did actually issue the invoice, but didn’t want to admit it. He’s an odd duck. The only thing that’s clear to me is how unclear everything is.”
She leaned back on her stool and mulled things over for a moment. “So Presley and Jackson are still possible suspects. Thad Gentry and Nyström, too. What about that guy you saw? The one in the white car that seemed to be spying on Rick Dunaway?”
I exhaled a long breath. “The police haven’t been able to identity him, and I haven’t seen him since Dunaway’s death.”
Buck took a swig of his wine. “That makes sense. If he had some kind of business with Dunaway and Dunaway is dead, there’s nothing else for the guy to do now.”
Colette raised her wineglass as well. “Especially if his business was killing Rick Dunaway.”
“It’s possible the man in the car was undercover law enforcement. Detective Flynn implied that Thad Gentry is the subject of a government investigation, but he couldn’t give us any details. The longer this case drags on, the more complicated it seems to get.” I let out a long groan and put my face in my hands. “Will this nightmare ever end?”
Colette picked up the wine bottle and poured what little liquid remained into my glass. “It will,” she said, reaching out to rub my shoulder. “It’s just going to take a little more time.”
While I appreciated her attempts to console and encourage me, I knew her words weren’t necessarily true. Many murders remained unsolved for years, decades even, some of them never resolved. Police departments were up to their holsters in cold cases. I could only hope Rick Dunaway’s murder wouldn’t be one of them.
Buck tossed back the last of his wine and set his glass on the countertop. “Maybe we should spy on Thad Gentry ourselves, see if we might catch a clue or two that law enforcement is missing.”
An involuntary shiver ran through me. Thad Gentry gave me a bad vibe. Spying on him could be dangerous. Besides, we didn’t have the manpower to cover him 24/7, and we didn’t have any strong evidence linking him to Dunaway’s death. Even so, sitting around and doing nothing didn’t sit well with me, either. We compared schedules and agreed to meet Tuesday at five for a spy mission on Gentry.
The oven timer went off, letting us know the bread pudding was ready. Just in time, too. After thinking about cold cases, I could use something to warm me up.
Colette donned a pair of oven mitts and pulled the pudding from the oven. “This looks perfect.”
“Smells good, too,” Buck added.
“I didn’t realize I was capable of cooking,” I told my friend. “It was fun, too. You might have to give me more lessons.”
“I’d be happy to. Cooking is always more fun when there’s someone in the kitchen with you.”
We finished the meal, washed the dinner dishes, and packed everything back into Colette’s car. A tow truck had come by to haul Jackson’s damaged pickup away, so the yard was empty now, the ruts from his tires forming deep grooves in the soil. Ugh. I’d see what I could do about the damage later.
“Thanks so much.” I gave Colette a tight hug. “That dinner was really special.”
“Sure was,” Buck agreed.
Colette raised her hands to indicate the house. “This house is what’s special. You guys have really done good here.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “We did, didn’t we?” I could only hope it was the first of many houses we’d fix up and sell.
Buck pulled his keys from his pocket. “It’s getting late. I think I’ll head out, too.”
I followed suit, making a quick run inside to round up Sawdust and lock the front door. After placing my cat’s carrier into my car, I glanced back at the house. Dinner here tonight had been fun. We’d all felt right at home in the place.
It seemed a shame we’d have to sell it.
CHAPTER 38
MISTREATED
SAWDUST
It had been days since Whitney had given him one of his favorite tuna treats. He’d gone to the cabinet where she kept them multiple times and asked for one. Meow? Meow? But still she refused to give him a treat.
He’d tried again when she arrived home tonight, going so far as to try to open the cabinet with his paw. He’d managed to pry it open a little three or four times, but the darn thing kept shutting on him.
Meow?
“Sorry, boy,” Whitney said. “No tuna treats until mommy gets back on her financial feet.”
Sawdust had no idea what her words meant, but he could tell by her tone that she was sorry. She opened the cabinet and showed him that there were no treats inside. She even let him climb into the cabinet and take a look around.
“I might not be able to give you treats,” she said, “but I’ve got plenty of love. Love doesn’t cost anything.”
She scooped him up in her arms and cradled him, scratching his chest. Not quite as satisfying as a tuna treat, but not a bad alternative, either.
CHAPTER 39
MONEY TALKS, DEAD PEOPLE DON’T
WHITNEY
Jackson Pharr was released from jail again on Monday. Buck and I were at the house that morning, using a shovel and hoe to smooth out the ruts the lawbreaker had put in the yard when Detective Flynn called to tell me the news.
“Jackson’s been charged with aggravated assault,” he said. “His truck is considered a deadly weapon under Tennessee law. The DA is still considering whether to charge him with Rick Dunaway’s murder, too. Even though Jackson came after you, his attorneys say it’s only because your statements to the police are what led to him being held after his drunk and disorderly arrest. I can understand the DA’s position. A lot of money and time go into a murder case. They don’t want to bring one if there’s not a reasonably good chance of a conviction. Besides, we’re still not convinced Pharr was the killer.”
I wasn’t, either. “What’s the penalty for aggravated assault?”
“Three to fifteen years,” Flynn replied. “It’s a class C felony.”