by Diane Kelly
Though the judge had set his bail at half a million dollars, Jackson’s parents coughed up the funds to pay for their son’s bond. Given the boy’s history of violence, he was fitted with an ankle monitor so that law enforcement could keep track of his whereabouts.
Flynn assured me that Jackson’s release posed no threat to my safety. “He’ll be arrested immediately if he ventures away from his parents’ house. Things are under control. You can sleep easy.”
Easy for him to say. I wouldn’t sleep easy until the Dunaway murder was resolved, his killer sentenced and placed in prison. Jackson Pharr could very well have been Dunaway’s killer. He could have been coming after me that fateful night, and he definitely had it in for me now. Still, the fact that there was no conclusive evidence on him made me hesitant to consider the case closed just yet. As his defense attorneys had pointed out, all the evidence against him was circumstantial at best. Even if he was eventually charged and tried, a jury might be unwilling to convict a young man for murder without definitive proof. It seemed the best I could hope for was that he’d get the maximum sentence for the aggravated assault. What’s more, I simply couldn’t shake the feeling that the fraudulent invoice could be significant.
Around noon, I drove my parents to the airport so they could catch their flight to New York City. They were making their annual pilgrimage to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, take in a Broadway show, and shop at Macy’s, like the characters in Miracle on 34th Street, my mother’s favorite holiday movie. Normally, I made the trek with them. But given that Buck and I were underwater on the Sweetbriar house, I figured I’d better pass this year. Instead, I’d stick around and work as many extra hours for my uncle as possible to make sure we could cover next month’s mortgage. My mother had offered to cancel, but I’d insisted they go. No point in everyone missing out on the fun. Even though Dunaway’s murderer had yet to be convicted, most everyone, my parents included, believed that Detective Flynn had his man, that the killer was Jackson Pharr. With his ankle monitor in place, Jackson Pharr presumably posed no threat to anyone outside his parents’ home. Besides, other than Jackson, nobody seemed to be after me.
I took care of a heater problem for a Home & Hearth rental property in the early afternoon, then joined my uncle and cousins, who were building a gazebo at a wedding venue. We installed the roof on the gazebo, which required lots of lifting and holding heavy boards in place. Before long, my arms began to shake from muscle strain.
I had kept my phone in my pocket all day, waiting to hear more from the detective, to find out whether the odd invoice I’d seen had led him to discover any new evidence, a fresh clue as to who might have ended Dunaway’s life, to prove or disprove that Jackson Pharr was the killer. It wasn’t until three in the afternoon that my mobile vibrated in my pocket. I called out to my cousins, who were holding either end of the long board I’d been supporting in the middle. “I’m letting go. Y’all got it?”
“We’ve got it,” they said in unison, only to nearly drop the thing on their heads when I removed my hands and stepped away.
I put a finger in my ear to block the noise of the tools and strode away from the worksite so I’d be able to hear the detective. “What did you find out?”
“I spoke with Isak Nyström,” he said. “He confirmed what you told me, that he didn’t issue an invoice for thirty-two grand for a property at Twelve Twelve. He allowed me to look at his financial records. Abbot-Dunaway Holdings is listed as a client in their system, but their only billings were for design consultations on a couple of commercial properties that needed renovation. They had a personal account for Rick Dunaway, but it was for work at his private residence years ago. Their billing system is simple. I saw nothing to indicate the invoice was sent in error.”
“What does this mean?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Flynn replied. “I went to the Abbot-Dunaway office to question Presley, but she had left early for a dental appointment. Only Lance Abbot was there. He said that since he’s been a silent partner all these years, he doesn’t have log-on credentials for their computer system and has no clue how their records are kept. He wasn’t sure how Dunaway had been handling their payables, either, how tight a rein he had on their finances. But when I’d spoken with the bank staff earlier about that three-thousand-dollar cash withdrawal, I’d learned something interesting.”
“What did you learn?”
“That Presley has signatory authority on the firm’s bank account.”
In other words, she could sign checks on the company account, checks Rick Dunaway might not have been aware of unless he was keeping close tabs on the firm’s books. It wasn’t unusual at all for owners of closely held businesses to bypass the normal checks and balances, to provide inadequate oversight over financial assets.
“At any rate,” Flynn continued, “Abbot’s been relying on Presley to carry them through until he can hire someone to take over the duties Rick Dunaway used to handle. I’m planning to go back in the morning to talk to Presley and take a thorough look at the company’s financial records. As they say, money talks. In this case, the money will tell us whether there’s something shady going on.”
We ended the call there. Tomorrow, with any luck, Detective Flynn would find the smoking gun that would tell us whether Presley had been fleecing her boss. If she had been, and if Dunaway had discovered it and threatened to take action, she’d have had reason to put an end to the man’s life.
I arrived home physically exhausted. My mind was exhausted, too. Though I’d pondered and pondered the idea of Presley killing Rick Dunaway, I had to admit I had a hard time seeing it. The image of her in her high heels and dresses simply didn’t mesh with an image of her picking up the dead blow mallet and delivering a solid whack to Rick Dunaway’s skull as if he were a rodent in a game of Whac A Mole.
Still, other than Jackson Pharr Thad Gentry, and the unidentified man in the white sedan, I’d been unable to pinpoint another plausible perpetrator who hadn’t been cleared. Neither had the detective. Pretty much everyone who’d done business with Rick Dunaway disliked the man, but had any of them been upset enough with him to end his life? We didn’t know and, of course, there was still the chance that the murder had been simply a random mugging gone wrong. There was also the chance the killer had been coming after me, and that Dunaway had simply gotten in the way. But if that were the case, wouldn’t the killer have made another attempt on my life? The only person who’d done so was Jackson Pharr, and he was on house arrest now.
I let Yin-Yang out into the backyard to relieve herself and raided my parents’ fridge, peeking into the takeout containers to determine my options. I supposed I should feel bad for stealing their food like some sort of holiday-hating Grinch, but I was too tired to cook and the leftovers would go bad before they arrived home later this week. Better not to let the food go to waste, right? My options included lo mein noodles, spinach enchiladas, and baked ziti. Hmm … Enchiladas it is.
I carried the box out the back door, locking the door behind me. I planned to return to the pool house tonight. With Jackson Pharr under electronic surveillance and no one else seeming to have set their sights on me, it seemed safe to return home. More than anything, I simply wanted my life to return to normal.
“Come on, girl!” I called to Yin-Yang. “You and Sawdust can have a sleepover.”
Sawdust sat on his perch on his cat tree, watching as his mommy and best buddy approached. Cats can’t smile, but the way he paced back and forth betrayed his excitement.
I unlocked the door to the pool house. “Look who’s here!”
Sawdust hopped down to the floor and exchanged sniffs of greeting with his friend. He leaned against the solid little canine and rubbed himself on the side of the dog, circling under her nose and rubbing down the other. Yin-Yang’s tail whipped back and forth at a rate of a hundred wags per second and she bucked up on her back legs. In seconds, the two were playfully wrangling on the floor while I transferred
the enchiladas to a plate and warmed them up in my microwave.
After dinner, I washed my dishes, watched an hour of television to unwind, and changed into my rubber-ducky pajamas to go to bed. I laid my head on my pillow—had it ever felt so soft and inviting?—and in mere seconds was dead to the world. Looked like Detective Flynn was right. I could sleep easy.
My mind was still in snoozeville when, hours later, Sawdust’s growl drew me out of my slumber.
Grrrrr …
“What’s wrong, boy?” Eyes still closed, I felt around on the bed for my cat, but my fingers never found him. Instead, they found my parents’ terrier, who was curled up behind my knees. I forced my eyes open. Yin-Yang did the same. Our gazes followed the sound of Sawdust’s growl.
Grrrr.
Sawdust crouched atop his cat tree beside the French doors, his body rigid. My parents’ back porch light provided just enough illumination for me to make out the dark shape of a person on the other side of the door. The person’s hand was trying the knob. The motion gave off a soft, metallic rattle.
Yin-Yang leaped from the bed and promptly ran under it. In my hazy, half-awake state, it took me a few seconds longer to process the situation.
Someone is at my door, trying to get inside.
My cat is growling at that someone.
If that someone was a friend or family member, the person would knock at the door and call my name to let me know I had nothing to fear. This person, however, had neither knocked nor called my name. Therefore, I should fear this person.
Eeeek!
CHAPTER 40
COMING IN, COMING OUT
SAWDUST
This man was a threat.
Sawdust sensed it, from the tips of his ears to the tip of his tail. People didn’t normally sneak around at night like raccoons and possums and skunks did.
Instinct told him to run, to hide under Whitney’s bed with the dog, where the man couldn’t see him. But this was no time to be a fraidy-cat. Whitney was a sitting duck in her bed. Yin-Yang was no help. The dog hadn’t even barked. Only Sawdust could protect Whitney now. Besides, running away from the ceiling demon at the big house had done no good, and he’d ended up hurting the woman he loved with all of his furry little heart.
Time to face his fears and redeem himself.
Good thing he’d spent time sharpening his claws on the recliner today. They were as smooth and sharp as they could be.
He raised his left paw and extended his claws like tiny little switchblades.
This man will be sorry he messed with us.
CHAPTER 41
VAC ATTACK
WHITNEY
I sat bolt upright. Yin-Yang whimpered from under the bed. Some guard dog she is.
I grabbed my cell phone from the end table between my bed and the recliner to call for help. The screen told me it was 2:48 A.M., but in my terror, I couldn’t seem to enter my security code correctly.
What is it?
5-4-6-8?
5-6-4-8?
Oh, no! I can’t remember!
A sickening click told me the lock had released.
As the door began to swing open, I realized that even if I could manage to enter both my security code and dial 911, there was no way law enforcement could get here in time to help me.
I have to defend myself!
My eyes frantically scanned the room. My toolbox was in my SUV in the driveway, so there was no chance of getting to a hammer or screwdriver. A pizza pan rested in the dish drainer on the counter. It could serve as both a shield and a weapon but, by the time I got to it, whoever was at the door would be inside and it would be too late. Ditto for Colette’s pepper spray in my purse. I didn’t have time to dig around for it. I had to stop this man before he gained entry, scare him away.
But how?
Out of the darkness, from the corner next to my bed, a tiny green glowing beacon beckoned to me.
My robotic vacuum.
The device was in easy reach and weighed over seven pounds. Not a perfect weapon by any means, but when it came to matters of self-defense a woman had to be quick and resourceful.
I slid out of bed and grabbed the device in both hands, yanking it from its docking station. I turned back to the door to see a hand easing through the opening. The hand held a gun. The length of the barrel told me a silencer had been attached.
This person could shoot me dead here and now, and nobody would hear it.
The door swung open a few inches wider, and a head covered in a black ski mask peeked through the opening. My cat and I seized the opportunity. Before the intruder could get his visual bearings, we both pounced.
Sawdust hissed, arched his back, and raked his claws across the mask, going for the exposed eye. The intruder yelped in pain and surprise and jerked back, throwing the door fully open. He raised his hand to his injured face, inadvertently smacking himself in the forehead with his gun. “Ow! Stupid cat!”
Is that Jackson Pharr’s voice? Thad Gentry’s? I couldn’t tell, but in the light from my parents’ back porch, I could see the man was dressed all in black, including the ski mask. He wore long, dark pants, making it impossible for me to tell whether an ankle monitor was attached to his leg. He held a letter-sized envelope in his right hand.
My only chance of surviving the situation was to seize the moment, to rush the guy before he could gather his wits. I raised the vac, dashed forward, and brought it down on his head with all the force I could muster.
BAM!
The vac took the blow like a pro. The intruder, however, did not. He wobbled on his feet and dropped both the gun and envelope to the patch of grass adjacent to the walkway. When I raised the vac again to deliver another hit, he turned and ran back across the pool terrace toward the open gate.
He might be fleeing, but I wasn’t done with him yet.
I whipped the vacuum back over my shoulder and, with a loud cry, sent it sailing after him like a Frisbee. The device hit him square in the back. THUMP! He stumbled for a few strides, but regained his feet and took off. Meanwhile, the vac fell to the concrete behind him, clattering and breaking apart, pieces of plastic and metal raining down beside the pool.
I turned and darted back into my little home, slamming and locking the door behind me. Not that the French doors would be any match for the gun if the intruder came back, but I didn’t dare make the run across the terrace to my parents’ house. I’d be too easy a target when I stopped to unlock their door.
Rounding up my phone again, I got my security code right this time—5-6-8-4. I dialed 911, peeking out from the edge of the curtain at the window. I figured I’d better keep an eye out in case the guy tried to come back.
Dispatch answered on the first ring. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“Someone just tried to break into my house!” I cried. “He had a gun!”
She asked for the address and I gave it to her. “I live in the pool house out back.”
“Is the intruder still there?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. My cat scratched him and I hit him with my vacuum and he ran off.”
“I’ll get officers en route right away.”
While I waited for the cops to arrive, I grabbed a spatula and the pizza pan from my kitchenette, simultaneously realizing a plastic utensil made a poor weapon and the thin metal had no chance of stopping a bullet. But it’s not like I was trained in situations like this. I was acting on instinct—instinct that had been dulled by generations of civilized behavior. I also flipped the switches to turn on the lights in the pool and along the terrace. Though light couldn’t stop an intruder, my underlying, if irrational, reasoning was that bad things happened in the dark. If I could make things as bright as possible, the illumination would somehow protect me and the pets.
As I waited for a police cruiser to arrive, my mind churned, trying to process the situation. It could be entirely unrelated to Rick Dunaway’s murder. The intruder could have simply been looking for things to st
eal and thought the pool house, with its French doors, would be easy to access. Maybe he thought there’d be valuable tools or equipment inside. Still, the fact that he’d had a gun at the ready told me his primary motive hadn’t been theft. More than likely, his motive was murder.
But why me? Was he a random creep who’d spotted me from the street going into the pool house and thought I’d be an easy target back here? Though it was possible, I doubted such was the case. It seemed too much of a coincidence that someone would try to kill me just weeks after taking out Dunaway. There must be a connection, right?
I dialed Detective Flynn. It took five rings to rouse him from sleep, and his voice was gravelly when he answered. “Whitney? Everything okay?”
The fact that he knew it was me calling told me he’d added my name to his contacts list. He probably did the same for all suspects, so I wouldn’t flatter myself by thinking it meant something more.
“Someone just tried to break into my place!” I cried.
“What happened?” He sounded fully alert now.
“Sawdust was growling and it woke me up. Someone was outside picking the lock. The next thing I knew, the door was open and the intruder stuck his head inside.” I told him about the gun, too, and Sawdust’s heroic feat. “He swiped the intruder right across the face. It bought me enough time to grab my robotic vacuum and hit the guy over the head with it.”
He paused for a beat. “You hit him with a what now?”
“Robotic vacuum.”
“Just when I thought I’d heard it all.” A jostling sound came over the phone, the sounds of someone hurriedly dressing while trying not to drop their device. “I’ll be right there.”
Now that the more immediate matters had been tended to, I scooped up my frightened little cat in my arms and cradled him to my chest, stroking his head and neck. “You were a brave boy,” I murmured. “A brave, brave boy.”
He replied with a soft purr.
In minutes, a cruiser pulled to a stop out front, its flashing lights playing about the house and trees. I slid my feet into my rubber-ducky slippers, ventured across the pool terrace to the open gate, and waved my arm to get the attention of the uniformed officers. They climbed out of the patrol car and headed up the drive. One was tall and thin, the other short and stocky.