by Diane Kelly
The car screeched to a quick stop, coming to a halt a mere three inches from my knees.
Flynn frowned through the windshield and unrolled his window, sticking his head out. “You trying to get yourself killed?”
An ironic question if ever there was one.
I darted over to his window. “I think I know who came here tonight!”
“Who?” he asked.
“Lance Abbot!”
“Abbot?” Flynn repeated. “Rick Dunaway’s partner?”
“Silent partner,” I said. Lance Abbot had been silent both in theory and in fact. I’d never once heard the man speak. “I’ve seen him, but I’ve never heard his voice. He always just nodded or gestured. Abbot might have lied when he said he didn’t have access to the holding company’s banking records. If he’d seen the records, he’d know what my signature looks like because I signed the check Rick Dunaway gave me to cover my insurance deductible. Abbot is left-handed, too. At least I think he is. He was holding an umbrella in his left hand the last time I saw him.”
Flynn’s brows rose. “This could all be circumstantial. Then again, you might be on to something.”
“Let’s go find out.”
I ran back around the car, yanked the passenger door open, and began to climb in.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Flynn held up a palm to stop me. “It’s my job to find out, not yours.”
I already had one pajama-clad leg in the door. “Please?” I begged. “You interrogated me and humiliated me over this case, and now I’ve lost an expensive vacuum cleaner thanks to the killer. The least you could do is let me witness the arrest.”
He cocked his head. “How do I know you didn’t hide a weapon in your pajamas? Maybe you’re planning on taking me out on the drive over.”
“You can frisk me if you want.”
He arched a coy brow, a grin playing about his lips.
I rolled my eyes. “Cuff me then,” I suggested. “But please-please-pleeeeease let me see you arrest Lance Abbot!”
The detective groaned, then grunted, but eventually agreed. “All right.” He circled around the car with his handcuffs in his hand. “Turn around and put your hands on the top of the car.”
“Here we go again.” I sighed as I turned around and did as I was told.
He reached up and took my right wrist in his hand, gently pulling it down behind me and attaching one end of the cuffs, closing them with a click. He repeated the process with my left hand. Click.
Rather than seating me in the front, he opened the back door of his car. “In you go.”
“I might have just solved your case for you, and you’re going to make me sit in the back like a suspect?”
He exhaled sharply. “Yes. I shouldn’t be letting you come at all. It may not be safe. Either get in the back or stay home.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll get in the back.”
He helped me into the backseat and pulled the strap over me to buckle me in. “All good?”
“All good,” I replied.
He circled back around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. As he pulled away from the curb, the computerized voice of his GPS told him to make a right turn at the corner. Apparently, he’d already programmed an address into his system.
“Where were you headed before I stopped you?” I asked.
His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. This time, the smile he’d been fighting beat him. His lips spread in a grin. “Lance Abbot’s house.”
“Really? You already suspected he could be the killer?”
“I’d determined it was a distinct possibility.” His gaze left the mirror and went to the road ahead. “You’d told me he never returned Mr. Hartley’s call about the questionable invoice from the designer. That seemed odd to me. What business owner doesn’t want to know if he’s getting ripped off? My guess is he’d already figured it out himself, that he realized his partner was behind it.”
“That would explain why he killed Rick Dunaway!”
Flynn nodded. “Abbot was also the one who told me about the check Rick Dunaway had written to you, the one for the insurance deductible. He claimed Presley told him about it, but I suspected he’d been going through the company’s financial records prior to Dunaway’s death. It seemed to me that he might be looking for someone else to pin his crime on, and he realized that the check could make you an easy target because it indicated you’d seen Mr. Dunaway in person the night he was killed. I figured if Abbot found your check, he might have also found others that were fraudulent. If he realized his partner was skimming from the company, that would give him a motive to eliminate his partner. Of course all of this is speculation on my part, but the theory ties up all the loose ends.”
Given that I was one of those loose ends, I liked his theory.
It was only a few minutes after four in the morning, so the night was still dark as we drove. I stared out the window, buoyed by the thought that Dunaway’s killer might soon be behind bars and I could focus on other matters, such as trying to find a buyer for the Sweetbriar house.
We were within two miles of Abbot’s home and driving down a four-lane thoroughfare, when the lights of a twenty-four-hour pharmacy caught my eye. With most of the neighboring businesses closed for the night, the place was like a beacon, a million-megawatt spotlight beckoning people to come see the show.
As we sailed past, my eyes spotted three cars parked at the edge of the lot. They probably belonged to the employees who worked the night shift. Store staff usually had to park away from the doors to leave the more convenient spots open for customers. A black Lexus was parked near the doors, which told me it belonged to a customer. That customer was on the sidewalk, dressed all in black, and heading toward the automatic doors.
That customer was none other than Lance Abbot.
“Stop!” I cried.
The man disappeared into the pharmacy as Flynn slammed on the brakes. The car stopped, but momentum carried my body forward. With my arms cuffed behind me, I couldn’t use them to brace myself. Even with the benefit of the seat belt, my face nearly slammed into the back of Flynn’s headrest.
“What is it?” he asked.
I couldn’t point with my finger, so I had to use my head to indicate the building. “Lance Abbot! I just saw him go inside the pharmacy!”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m eighty-seven percent positive!”
Flynn turned around to look at me and frowned. “By definition, anything less than one hundred percent is not positive.”
Sheesh. “I only saw his profile. But he had Abbot’s nose. It’s gotta be him!” Right?
Flynn punched the gas, sending me rocketing backward now. But whiplash would be a small price to pay to see Lance Abbot taken into custody.
Flynn backed in next to the employees’ cars and cut his engine. He looked over at the Lexus. “Is that Abbot’s car?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what he drives.”
The detective grabbed the mic off the dash and pressed the button to talk. “I need you to run a plate for me,” he said to the dispatcher. He rattled off the license plate number.
Sure enough, a few seconds later, the dispatcher came back with, “The car is registered to a Lance Abbot.”
“Told ya!” I cried.
He pressed the button again. “Send backup, please. I’m going to be taking a suspect into custody.” He gave the dispatcher our location using cross streets for a reference.
“Are you going inside?” I asked when he slid the mic back into its mount.
“No. I don’t want to put the employees at risk. But I don’t want to lose the element of surprise, either. It would be less risky to nab him here, when he’s not expecting it, than it would be to pull him over or confront him at his house. I’m going to intercept him on the sidewalk when he comes out.”
He used his keys to unlock his glove box, reached inside, and retrieved a handgun. He climbed out of the car and lifted his shirt to tuck
the gun into the waistband of his pants, simultaneously displaying a nice six-pack of abs.
He opened the back door. “Lean forward.”
When I did, he reached behind me and unlocked the cuffs, pulling them off me.
I sat up and rubbed my wrists. “You’re letting me free?”
“Only because these are my only pair of cuffs and I’ll need them. Don’t get out of this car under any circumstances. You hear me? I don’t want you getting hurt.”
He was probably concerned about potential liability if I were injured.
“Okay,” I agreed.
Armed and ready, he strode toward the entrance and positioned himself on the far side of a Coke machine that sat outside to the right of the doors. Abbot wouldn’t be able to spot the detective behind the machine, lying in wait.
As I peeked around the headrest, watching the door for Lance Abbot to emerge, my heart pulsed a thousand beats a minute in my chest and my breaths came fast. This is so exciting!
A minute passed.
Another followed.
Then came a third.
“Hurry up!” I muttered.
Another minute passed and I could tell that even the calm Detective Flynn was growing impatient. He leaned forward to peer around the vending machine every few seconds, anxious to pounce on his prey.
Finally, the automatic doors slid open. Lance Abbot emerged from the store with a white paper bag in his right hand, his keys in his left, and a stark white gauze patch over his right eye.
It was him who’d tried to kill me tonight! I knew it!
Abbot pushed the button on the fob to unlock his car. The headlights flashed. But there was another set of flashing lights, too. The second set sat atop the police cruiser coming up the block.
When Abbot spotted the cruiser, he aborted his plan to get into his car and instead scurried down the sidewalk, looking back over his shoulder to keep an eye—his good one—on the cruiser. With his focus diverted, he walked right past Detective Flynn without spotting him.
And he’d had the nerve to call my cat stupid.
Weapon at the ready, Flynn stepped right in behind Abbot. When Abbot caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, he spun around to see who was following him. Unfortunately, he was at the edge of the sidewalk as he turned. He stepped off the curb backward, lost his balance, and fell to his bum on the asphalt, dropping both his bag and his keys in the process.
Flynn pounced as Abbot reached for his hip. Oh, my gosh! Is he going for a gun?
The two struggled on the ground, Abbot putting up quite a fight for a man of his age. Just as Buck and Jackson had wrestled and wrangled on the ground only a few days earlier, Flynn and Abbot rolled about, first one, then the other, gaining advantage. A few seconds into the fracas, Abbot’s hand emerged from the tangle of limbs and, in the dim glow of the streetlight, I saw the glint of a handgun.
“Look out!” I cried out the open car window. “He’s got a gun!”
BANG!
The earsplitting sound was accompanied by a white muzzle flash. An instant later, a hole appeared in the soda machine Flynn had been hiding behind earlier.
Despite Detective Flynn having ordered me to stay in the car, I couldn’t just sit there and watch him get shot. It wouldn’t be right. Besides, if Abbot killed Flynn, he might come for me next.
Better to take the bull by the horns.
I slid out of the car and looked around for something—anything!—I could use as a weapon. I saw nothing. My hands fisted reflexively at my sides, touching the loose belt of my robe.
My belt! That’s it!
I rushed over to the men, yanked my belt from my robe, and grasped it in my hands.
Flynn hollered, “I told you to stay in the car!”
“I have to help!” I shouted back.
I watched their movements, looking for an opportunity. Before I could find one, Abbot got off another shot. BANG! That one took out the rearview mirror on the passenger side of his car.
Finally, Abbot reared his head back as Flynn attempted to grab him by the throat. It was just the chance I needed. I looped the belt over his head, sliding it down to his neck, and yanked back as hard as I could, crossing my hands to cut off his air supply. He dropped his gun and reached up to claw at the belt choking him. It was all Flynn needed to best the man. He kicked the gun away and grabbed Abbot by the shirtfront. I released my hold on the belt and Flynn jerked Abbot forward, slamming him to the ground at his side. In mere seconds he had the man facedown with his hands behind him in handcuffs. Flynn panted from exertion as he knelt over Abbot, his knee in the man’s back to keep him immobilized.
The detective looked up at me scowling. “You weren’t supposed to leave the car.”
“I might have just saved your life.”
“And you might have lost your own.”
I lifted my shoulders and raised my palms. “So we’ll call it a tie, then?”
Before he could chastise me further, the squad car turned in to the lot. I waved my arms over my head to get the attention of the cop at the wheel of the cruiser. When Officer Hogarty looked my way, I pointed down to the men.
Hogarty pulled to a stop at an angle near Flynn and Abbot and climbed out of her car, casting a confused glance at my rubber-ducky slippers before turning her attention to the detective and his charge. “What in the world is going on here?”
Flynn gave Hogarty a quick rundown. Abbot was Rick Dunaway’s partner. Abbot had killed Dunaway and attempted to implicate me in the murder. When charges against me didn’t stick, he tried to frame me with a forged deathbed confession.
During the entire exchange, Abbot remained quiet as usual, his head turned to the side, staring straight ahead in defeat at my smiling slippers.
Flynn said, “I’m going to let you up, Abbot. No funny business.” With that, he rose from his position across the man’s back.
When the uniformed officer took Abbot’s arm and pulled him to a stand, Flynn read him his rights and asked, “Is there anything you’d like to say?”
Remaining true to his title as Dunaway’s “silent partner,” the man said nothing, simply looking down and shaking his head, his one exposed eye avoiding our gaze.
Flynn retrieved the pharmacy bag and pulled out the contents—an over-the-counter antibiotic skin cream, eye drops, and a tube of concealer in buff beige. Looked like Abbot had planned to cover the scratches with makeup to avoid questions from his family or Presley.
Flynn frisked Abbot and found a folded receipt in his pocket from a nearby minor emergency center. The date and time stamp indicated he’d just come from the clinic. Abbot had provided a false name, Larry Abernathy, and paid in cash, probably hoping the visit wouldn’t lead police to him if they contacted medical offices to inquire about patients coming in tonight with an eye injury.
With a final pointed look at Abbot, Detective Flynn turned to address Officer Hogarty. “Take him in.”
The cop gave him a nod, took Abbot by the arm, and placed him in the back of her cruiser. She slid back into the driver’s seat and raised a hand in good-bye. “See you later, Flynn!”
The detective and I watched as they drove away.
When the cruiser disappeared from sight, Flynn pulled out his cell phone to check the time and turned to me. “Loveless Café opens at seven. Why don’t we start this day off right with biscuits and gravy? Maybe a hot cup of coffee?”
I moaned in buttery anticipation. “You had me at biscuits.”
CHAPTER 46
HAPPY DAYS
SAWDUST
When Whitney returned a few hours after sunup, she was still acting a little strange, but it no longer seemed like a catnip high. She went about the pool house, singing and dancing as she opened a can of Sawdust’s wet food, cleaned up his litter box, and swept up the fur he’d shed.
The cat wasn’t sure what had put her in such a good mood. He could smell biscuits and gravy on her breath when she picked him up and cooed at him and scratched his
chest. Maybe it was a good breakfast that had her feeling happy. But this seemed like more than just good-meal happy. No, he suspected it was something else entirely. But whatever it was, he was glad. She’d been worried and upset for the past few weeks. He was glad those days were behind them, and he looked forward to happier days ahead.
CHAPTER 47
HOME SWEET HOME
WHITNEY
With Dunaway’s killer finally in jail, I returned Colette’s pepper spray.
More details came out following Lance Abbot’s arrest. While Bobby Palmer had been in cahoots with Rick Dunaway regarding the inspection of the house on Sweetbriar Avenue, Dunaway had acted on his own with regard to the fraudulent invoices. Because the invoices had looked legitimate, Presley hadn’t had an inkling that Dunaway was skimming. Though she’d unwittingly processed the payments, she’d played no knowing part in the scheme and reaped no benefits. Dunaway had paid her such a paltry salary that she’d taken a weekend job doing bookkeeping at a consignment store. She earned a little extra money there, and was also given first dibs and an employee discount on items the customers brought in to sell. The arrangement explained how she’d been able to amass so many designer accessories on her modest pay.
Though Lance Abbot initially said nothing, his attorneys quickly realized that if he didn’t offer some type of defense, he’d go down for first degree murder, which carried a potential death penalty. Detective Flynn phoned me after Abbot confessed to killing Dunaway.
“Apparently you were the first clue Mr. Abbot had that his partner was milking their firm,” he said.
Me? “I was?”
“Abbot told me that Rick Dunaway always spoke very highly of you. Said you worked hard, charged reasonable rates, and had a good head on your shoulders. After you came by the office to talk to him about the fire, Abbot questioned him about it. Dunaway told his partner that he knew nothing about the old wiring in the house he sold you, but Abbot said Dunaway had always been a stickler for detail, so he didn’t buy Dunaway’s story. He realized Dunaway had tried to pull one over on you. And if Dunaway would swindle a young woman who’d been nothing but a help to him, Abbot wondered what Dunaway might do to a silent partner who’d been hands-off and trusted him to operate on the up-and-up. Lance Abbot looked over the financial records one evening after Dunaway had left the office, and got his answer. Dunaway had been fleecing the firm for years with false invoices, some of them purportedly from Home and Hearth.”