Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  I gave the officers a quick, condensed version of what happened. “Detective Flynn is on his way.”

  The taller officer’s brows formed a V in question. “You know Detective Flynn?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I came across a body recently. He’s the one handling the investigation.”

  His eyes narrowed further as he studied my face, and popped wide as recognition hit him. “You’re the one they brought in for questioning in the Dunaway murder, aren’t you?”

  I heaved a sigh. “Yes. That’s me. But I was released without charges. And I didn’t kill Rick Dunaway.”

  The officer looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my slippers. An odd look crossed his face. Dare I think it meant Killers don’t wear rubber-ducky slippers?

  The stocky one angled his head to indicate their cruiser. “I’ll take a look around the area. See if the guy’s still around.”

  He jogged back to the police cruiser, slid into the driver’s seat, and turned on the spotlight, bathing us in a blinding, bright light. Now I knew how the performers on Broadway felt on stage. I felt a sudden urge to make jazz hands and perform a soft-shoe routine. The officer set off down the street with the spotlight on, shining it into my neighbors’ bushes and trees, looking to see if the intruder was hiding somewhere about.

  The tall officer stuck around. As I led him back to the pool house, he shone his flashlight about, noting the shattered remnants of my robotic vac. “You can kiss your warranty good-bye.”

  I cut him a look. “Better than kissing my life good-bye.”

  He raised his palms in acquiescence. “You got me there.”

  As we stepped up to the door of the pool house, he verified the location of the gun and the envelope. “Leave those be until the detective gets here.”

  Rather than continue to stand outside shivering in the cold night air, we stepped inside, where I promptly set about making coffee. Maybe not the best idea, given that my nerves were already jittery. But it gave me something to do with my anxious energy.

  As the coffee dripped into the pot, the officer stared out the window, keeping an eye on the backyard. I took a seat on the raggedy recliner. Sawdust sat on my lap, leaning back against my chest as if trying to melt into me. Poor thing. Yin-Yang must have sensed that Sawdust was scared and upset. The little Boston terrier peeked out from under the bed. Once she’d assured herself that the danger had passed, she issued an empathetic whine and clickety-clicked over on the tile floor, standing on her hind legs to repeatedly lick the cat’s face from chin to ear to comfort him. Sawdust responded with his steam-locomotive purr. PRRR-RRR-RRR-PRR-RRR-RRR.

  Ten minutes later, the officer who’d been cruising the neighborhood returned with a report. I set my cat down on the recliner, and stood to address the policeman. “Any luck?”

  “None,” he said as he stepped inside. “Didn’t see anyone lurking about. No suspicious cars, either. Looks like whoever came after you has gotten the heck out of Dodge.”

  Darn! I’d been hoping the officer would spot the intruder hiding in someone’s azalea bushes and make a quick and easy arrest, clearing my name in the process.

  Detective Flynn arrived on the officer’s heels. Rather than his usual loafers, navy pants, and so-starched-it-could-stand-up-on-its-own button-down shirt, he’d thrown on a pair of tennis shoes, nylon running pants, and a fitted long-sleeved athletic shirt. His eyes went straight to my slippers. His upper lip quirked as he fought a smile, but he became all business once again as his focus shifted from my slippers to the gun and envelope lying just outside the door where he stood. He whipped a pair of latex gloves from the zippered pouch at his waist, slid his hands into them, and picked up the gun, dropping it into a clear plastic evidence bag. “We’ll have crime scene check the gun for prints.”

  “I can’t say for sure,” I told him, “but I think the guy might have been wearing gloves, too.” After all, he’d taken pains to cover his face so that he couldn’t be easily identified. He’d probably made sure he wouldn’t leave fingerprints, either.

  Detective Flynn frowned at my response. Was he thinking I’d faked this attack? Planted the gun and come up with the quick response about the gloves to explain why they might find no prints? He could certainly be thinking exactly that. But the only thing I could do was tell the truth and hope he’d believe me.

  He bent down again to retrieve the envelope. When he stood, he said, “Walk me through what happened.”

  “Okay.” I gestured for him to come inside.

  As he entered, he stepped over to give Sawdust a pat on the head. “Hey, boy. Heard you scared off an armed prowler. Nice work.”

  The cat’s terror having dissipated, he now lay on the recliner, licking a paw and looking somewhat smug. It was almost as if he understood the detective’s words and felt proud he’d scared off a human twenty times his size.

  While the detective and the officers gathered off to the side, I climbed back into the bed to reenact the events. I pulled the covers up to my chin.

  “I was lying here asleep,” I said, “when Sawdust’s growl woke me. He was crouched on top of his cat tree next to the door. I heard the sound of someone picking the lock. I could see the person’s outline in the light on my parents’ back porch. When I realized what was happening, I jumped out of bed and looked around for a weapon.” I tossed the covers back, climbed out of bed, and acted out looking around the place. “The light on top of my robotic vacuum caught my eye, so I grabbed it. By then, the guy had opened the door and stuck his hand and head through, like this.” I walked out the door and now played the part of the intruder, sticking my left hand through the door, my thumb and index finger forming an improvised gun.

  The detective eyed my ad-libbed weapon. “The gun was in his left hand?”

  “Yes.” I shifted, playing the part of my cat now, standing by the cat tree. “Sawdust reached up and swiped his paw across the man’s face.” I swung my left hand in the air. “The man yelled ‘Ow! Stupid cat!’ when he hit himself in the forehead with the gun.”

  The cops exchanged glances and chuckles. I only wished I could find the situation as amusing as they did. I supposed it was funnier when it wasn’t your own life that had been threatened.

  Flynn cut the officers a look and they immediately stopped laughing. The detective returned his attention to me and asked, “Did you recognize the man’s voice?”

  “No. It didn’t sound familiar at all.”

  Of course the intruder had only said three words, stupid cat and ow. I wasn’t sure ow even qualified as a word. Maybe it was merely a sound effect like pow or whammo? But I supposed it didn’t matter.

  I continued with my story. “The door swung open further and I struck.” I mimicked raising the circular vac and bringing it down on the intruder’s head. “The intruder turned and ran back toward the gate. I hurled the vacuum after him. It hit him in the back and fell to the ground.”

  Flynn looked out across the terrace at the shattered remains of my vacuum before finishing the story himself. “Then you called 911 and me.”

  “Right.”

  He continued to look out the window, though his gaze shifted from the broken vacuum to the back door of my parents’ house. “Did you warn your parents?”

  “No. They’re not home. They’re on vacation in New York.”

  I’d be there, too, if I wasn’t teetering on the verge of bankruptcy.

  Flynn turned his head back my way. “What about the neighbors? The vacuum must have caused a racket when it smashed to the ground. Did anyone come out to investigate?”

  “Not that I know of. But I came right back inside so it’s possible I didn’t see them.”

  The tall cop chimed in. “We didn’t see anyone when we pulled up, and there didn’t seem to be any lights on in the adjacent houses.”

  Flynn nodded slowly, as if mulling over what we’d told him, before turning over the envelope in his hand. “It’s sealed.” He glanced over at my tiny kitchenette. “W
hat drawer do you keep your silverware in?”

  “The top one,” I replied.

  He stepped over, pulled the drawer open, and retrieved a table knife, sliding the point under the seal to loosen it. When the flap had been freed, he pulled a piece of paper from the envelope and read it over. He looked from the paper to me, his gaze intent.

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  “It’s a confession,” he said. “From the person who claims to have killed Rick Dunaway.”

  A confession? Could this case be over now? Would I no longer be a suspect? My heart lurched in anticipation and instinctively I straightened up and leaned toward him. “Who is it?”

  He exhaled a sharp breath and gave me a pointed look. “You.”

  CHAPTER 42

  THE END OF THE DEMON

  SAWDUST

  The demon was no more!

  It had gone berserk. Whitney had grabbed the demon to try to control it, but it attacked the man’s head and then flew after him. Sawdust had seen the demon crash to the concrete and break into pieces, not moving. The cat knew what that meant. It won’t be back to torment me ever again. Hooray!

  Now that he’d licked the prowler’s scent from his paw, Sawdust hopped down from the recliner, padded over to the glass door, and looked out at the demon’s remains. Crashing to the ground couldn’t have been a pleasant way to die. The cat almost felt sorry for the demon.

  But not quite.

  CHAPTER 43

  FRAMED FOR MURDER

  WHITNEY

  My mouth dropped open and I pointed a finger at my chest. “Me?”

  Detective Flynn held the paper up and the officers and I stepped closer to read it.

  I can’t live with the guilt anymore. I

  didn’t mean to kill Rick Dunaway but he

  made me so angry I lost control. Please

  forgive me.

  Love,

  Whitney

  It was both a confession and good-bye. Eek! While the body of the letter was typed, the signature was handwritten in ink.

  That’s my signature. How can this be?

  I wagged a finger. No, no, no. “I didn’t write that!”

  “Then who did?” the detective asked. “Who would have a voice you don’t recognize and also know what your signature looks like?”

  Who, indeed?

  When I couldn’t come up with the name of someone who would somehow know my signature but whose voice I wouldn’t recognize, the detective scrubbed a frustrated hand over his face. “Did anyone really come here tonight, or did you make this whole thing up, Whitney?”

  “What?” I cried. “I’m a suspect again? Why would I lie about being attacked?”

  He shrugged. “To throw suspicion off yourself?”

  It was more a question than a statement. Still, it rankled.

  “That’s nuts!” I scoffed. “I don’t even own a gun. You can check every gun store from here to Chattanooga. They’ll tell you I never set foot in their shop.”

  Flynn lifted another shoulder as he slid the letter back into the envelope and dropped the envelope into an evidence bag. “It’s easy enough to get a gun on the secondary market. Or you could have had someone buy it for you.”

  My mouth gaped. Is this really happening? “I thought you had decided I was innocent!”

  “I did,” he acknowledged. “But I reserve the right to change my mind in light of new evidence.”

  I tossed my hands in the air. “If I were making this up, why would I bother to put a silencer on the gun?”

  “Maybe you thought that would make things look more realistic,” he said. “If someone was trying to frame you and planned to shoot you and make it look like a self-inflicted wound, that person would try to be as quiet about it as possible to get away undetected. You’re a smart person. You’d have figured that out.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You give me more credit than I deserve.” Wait. Had I just insulted myself?

  “Look.” The detective raised conciliatory palms. “I’m not saying you were or weren’t behind what happened here tonight. If you weren’t, I’m sorry to have implied otherwise. But I’ve got to look at the situation from every angle. It’s my job.”

  Truth be told, I’d feel the same way if I’d been in the detective’s shoes. Nevertheless, by the time he and the uniformed officers left, I was beyond furious. Furious and more motivated than ever to prove my innocence. At least I had some fresh clues to consider. I also had a fresh pot of coffee to fuel my thought process.

  I poured myself a steaming mug, took a gulp, and, tongue and tonsils burning, plopped down on my stool to think. Sawdust wandered over and hopped up into my lap. I stroked his back as I pondered the clues.

  The person who’d come by tonight to try to frame me knew what my signature looked like. With so many things handled electronically these days, I’d signed very few papers in recent years. The documents to purchase my SUV at the Honda dealership. A rare credit card slip given that I didn’t like paying interest and preferred to use my debit card, which only required a PIN. An occasional greeting card, though most of those were sent to people I knew well and cared about, not anyone likely to make an attempt on my life.

  Could I have signed something at work? I couldn’t recall anything specific other than the W-4 form I’d signed years ago when I’d first been hired by Home & Hearth. As owners of the business, the Hartleys signed all of the leases and other contracts and documents relating to the property management business. The same went for my job at Whitaker Woodworking. Uncle Roger was the one in charge, and he signed all of the contracts with the suppliers and clients.

  Of course my signature would appear on checks I’d written, but given that checks were virtually obsolete these days I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d written one. The only checks I’d dealt with recently was the check I’d written to Bobby Palmer, who’d been cleared, and the check for my earnest money for the house. But rather than a personal check, the earnest money check was a cashier’s check, issued by the bank. My signature didn’t appear on it. I retrieved my purse, pulled out my checkbook, and perused the register. That last check I’d written prior to the one to Bobby Palmer was way back in February. It was made out to a Girl Scout troop in the amount of $15 for cookies. I’d come across the girls in their green uniforms outside the Harris Teeter store when I’d been shopping for groceries. Having no cash on me at the time, I’d written a check. Going home without a few boxes of thin mints would have been utterly unthinkable.

  Given that I’d made out no recent checks to anyone who might be a suspect, I closed the checkbook. The checks were a dead end.

  Or were they?

  My brain flashed and flickered and fizzled like the light that had short-circuited at the Sweetbriar house. But then the light came on and blazed in full glory, illuminating the situation so that I could see things clearly.

  While I’d signed only a small number of checks on my own personal bank account, I’d recently endorsed a check made out to me—it was in the amount of $5,000 payable from the account of Abbot-Dunaway Holdings, Ltd.

  That check had made me a suspect in Rick Dunaway’s murder, and that check could now clear my name!

  I threw my hands in the air, thanking the heavens—and the strong coffee—for giving me the answer. Or at least a possible answer.

  That answer was Lance Abbot.

  Lance Abbot could have obtained my signature from the company’s banking records and traced it onto the confession letter. I’d never heard the man’s voice, either. He truly was a silent partner. Like the intruder, Abbot appeared to be left-handed. He’d held his umbrella in his left hand the day I’d gone to their office to confront Rick Dunaway about the faulty wiring.

  Lance Abbot checked all the boxes.

  But is he really a killer?

  It was hard to picture the calm, sophisticated man doing something so base and vile. The last thing I wanted to do was wrongly accuse someone of murder. I knew how awful and d
egrading it felt to have others think the worst of you. Still, just as Detective Flynn had noted that I could have faked tonight’s attack to throw suspicion off myself, Lance Abbot could have planned to kill me to throw suspicion off himself. The detective planned to go through the financial records of Abbot-Dunaway Holdings tomorrow. Maybe Abbot had decided to strike tonight to prevent that from happening. Maybe there was something in those financial records that he didn’t want the detective to see.

  There was one way to find out for certain. I could go to see Abbot. If he had a scratch on his face, it would mean he was the killer. Of course confronting the guy directly would be a dangerous and reckless move. If he was the one who’d killed Rick Dunaway and had tried to kill me a couple hours earlier, he might decide to finish the job right then and there.

  I bolted out the door.

  CHAPTER 44

  CATNIPPED

  SAWDUST

  Whitney went out the door without saying good-bye or giving him a kiss on the head. What had gotten into her?

  Maybe she’d been in the catnip. Sawdust only partook of the stuff on occasion, when Whitney sprinkled it around the base of his scratching post in a futile attempt to encourage him to sharpen his claws on the toy rather than the recliner. The herb made him feel wild and crazy, like he wanted to roll in it and run and jump and fly like the birds that lived in the houses in the backyard.

  He looked out the glass and saw Whitney running across the terrace in her ducky slippers.

  Yep, she’s on catnip.

  CHAPTER 45

  THE TRUTH CAN’T BE CONCEALED

  WHITNEY

  My robe billowing out behind me, I ran across the terrace and threw the gate open. Flynn’s plain sedan was pulling away from the curb. I sprinted down the drive as fast as my rubber-ducky slippers would let me and dashed out in front of the car, raising my hands to stop him.