Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  “Home and Hearth?” I issued an indignant scoff. Dunaway had unwittingly dragged the Hartleys’ business into his scheme? The thought burned me up.

  Per Detective Flynn, Lance Abbot discovered that Dunaway had devised a system to skim funds without raising any red flags. Dunaway had Presley prepare the holding company’s checks, but he would then sign and mail them. While the real checks were sent on their merry way through the U.S. mail, the fraudulent checks were never mailed to the parties they were made out to. Rather, Dunaway forged the payees’ signatures using their actual signatures from legitimate payments. Abbot had stolen a play from Dunaway’s playbook when he’d forged my name on the fake confession.

  Flynn went on. “Dunaway countersigned the fraudulent checks in his own name and deposited the checks in an account he’d set up at another bank. The account was in the name of a shell business he’d incorporated in Nevada. He was the sole owner. Because Dunaway maintained a large balance in the account and because the checks he deposited were made out by another of his businesses, the staff of the second bank never questioned him.”

  It wasn’t surprising. The bank employees wouldn’t want to take a chance on offending a major client and having him take his banking business elsewhere.

  “Abbot had only made it through the records for the past two years,” Flynn said, “and already he realized Rick Dunaway had screwed him out of at least half a million dollars. Abbot went to the office to confront Dunaway around five o’clock on Friday of that same week, but Dunaway had already left. Abbot remembered overhearing that his partner planned to meet you at the house on Sweetbriar at six that evening. Abbot headed over to the house and confronted Dunaway on the walkway when he arrived. When Abbot told Dunaway he was going to sue him for every penny he was worth and report him to the police, Dunaway told Abbot he was off his rocker. Abbot became enraged, and that’s when he spotted the mallet.”

  Though the detective didn’t elaborate, it was clear what happened next. Lance Abbot had picked up the mallet, swung it at Dunaway’s head, and killed the man as he came up onto the porch.

  Flynn drew a deep breath before continuing. “When he couldn’t rouse his partner and realized Dunaway was dead, Abbot panicked. He dragged Dunaway over to the flower bed, spread dirt over him, and took his wallet, hoping it would make the crime look like a robbery gone wrong. Abbot didn’t think anybody else suspected that Rick had been stealing from the firm. As long as nobody knew, no one would have a reason to suspect that Abbot might have killed his partner. When you saw the designer’s invoice on Presley’s desk and had your boss call Abbot about it, he thought you’d let it drop if he didn’t return the call. He didn’t realize you’d be so tenacious.” Flynn offered a soft chuckle.

  “It’s not the first time someone has underestimated me,” I acknowledged. It rankled, but it also gave me the joy of proving them wrong.

  “When I got in touch with Abbot about taking a look at the financial records, he panicked. He realized he had to do something that very night if he wanted to save his hide.”

  Again, the detective let me fill in the blanks. Lance Abbot had tried to save his hide by pinning his crime on me, like a warped game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.

  None of the parties to whom the fraudulent, countersigned checks had been payable realized Dunaway had been issuing duplicitous checks in the names of their businesses.

  “I’ve also identified the man in the white sedan,” Flynn said. “He’s an investigator for the divorce attorney Dunaway’s wife hired. The lawyer had him follow Dunaway. Dunaway’s wife suspected her husband had been squirreling money away, but she didn’t know where. She knew her attorney was looking into the matter, but she wasn’t aware his investigator was keeping an eye on her husband. The investigator trailed Dunaway to the bank a couple days before he was killed. Turns out he’d been funneling money from his shell corporation’s account to an offshore account he hadn’t told his wife or the IRS about. The offshore account was in Dunaway’s name only, but since the divorce hadn’t been finalized before his death and he hadn’t revised his will to remove his wife as his heir, the funds are all hers now.”

  She was probably laughing all the way to the bank.

  Given Abbot’s confession, his lack of premeditation in Rick Dunaway’s murder, and his lack of success killing me or Detective Flynn, the charges against Lance Abbot relating to Rick Dunaway’s death were reduced. Lance Abbot’s attorney worked out a plea deal with the district attorney. In return for a guilty plea for voluntary manslaughter (of Rick Dunaway) and attempted murder (of me and Detective Flynn), he’d receive a sentence of twelve years.

  No one in Abbot’s or Dunaway’s families was interested in taking over the business, nor were outside parties interested in buying a company whose very name was synonymous with murder and fraud. Lance Abbot’s and Rick Dunaway’s wives decided to liquidate the holdings, take the money, and call it a day. Thad Gentry offered to buy the entire portfolio of properties for eighty cents on the dollar, but they turned him down and held out until he raised his offer another fifteen percent. At that point, they decided to accept. After all, they’d spend five percent or more in closing and administrative costs if they sold the properties separately rather than in bulk. And speaking of Thad Gentry, it turned out he’d been under investigation by the feds for suspicion of paying an influential member of the zoning commission for the favorable ruling on his Sweetbriar property. The authorities hadn’t been able to prove anything—yet. Rather than risk a conviction and public humiliation, Gentry agreed to have the property rezoned back from commercial to residential, and to make a sizable contribution to the city’s beautification fund. In return, the feds dropped the investigation.

  Bobby Palmer was convicted of making a false statement to a police officer for lying to Detective Flynn about whether he’d taken a bribe from Rick Dunaway. He was ordered to perform a hundred hours of community service. I’d seen him collecting trash at the city’s Christmas parade, a garbage bag in one hand, a grabber in the other.

  All in all, justice was served.

  Mulled cider was served, too. Buck and I had gotten in the habit of meeting up at the Sweetbriar house to hang out. Its convenient, central location made it the perfect meeting spot for friends from all over the area. We carted in my parents’ card table and folding chairs for impromptu playing of board games or poker. We’d even erected an artificial Christmas tree and dressed it in blinking lights to keep everyone’s spirits merry and bright.

  One Saturday evening in late December, just before the Yuletide holiday, Buck and I were at the house, working on plans for custom shelving in a client’s garage. While Buck stood at the stove, slowly stirring a fresh batch of spiced apple cider, I sketched out a crude diagram that included a designated space for both the client’s golf clubs and his fourteen-foot canoe.

  A knock sounded at the door. I peered out the peephole. Colette stood on the porch looking solemn, yet relieved. I let her in the door, frigid air sneaking in behind her. We warmed each other up with an affectionate hug before heading to the kitchen.

  She gave Sawdust a pat on the head, did the same to Buck, and placed her cell phone and purse on the breakfast bar. She slid onto one of the barstools and heaved a sigh. “It’s over.”

  “What’s over?” I asked.

  Buck looked over his shoulder as he stirred.

  “Me and Shane,” she said. “We finally faced facts. If we’ve been together this long but never felt motivated to take the next step, we owe it to ourselves to see if there’s someone else better suited for each of us.” She shrugged. “It was mutual and amicable, not bad as far as breakups go.”

  As Buck retrieved mugs from the cabinet and ladled cider into them, I reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. “Where will you go?”

  Her boyfriend owned the condo the two had been living in. She’d have to find a new place to live.

  “I’m not sure yet where I’ll live,” Colette said. “One of the
waitresses has been looking for a new roommate for her apartment. Emmalee and I get along great, but I’m just not sure I’d be happy there. The kitchen is tiny.”

  Buck turned around with three mugs of steaming cider in his hands. He placed one in front of Colette, another in front of me. The third he sipped from himself. “Maybe you should move in here.”

  Colette and I exchanged glances.

  “What are you suggesting exactly?” she asked, cradling the warm mug in her hands.

  “There’s been no movement on the house,” he said, which was unfortunately true. Despite putting every effort into selling the place, we hadn’t received a single offer, not even a lowball offer from Thad Gentry. Nobody wanted to buy a house where a corpse had once been buried. “Maybe it makes sense for you to move in here. Whitney, too. Lord knows she’s lived in that doghouse long enough.”

  I rolled my eyes over the top of my mug as I took a sip. “It’s not a doghouse. It’s a pool house.”

  “That’s not much bigger,” he said, which wasn’t a lie.

  I looked over at Colette. “He might be on to something. If Emmalee’s interested, we could all three move in here.”

  Colette’s eyes brightened and she ran her hand along the quartz countertop. “You mean I could cook in this kitchen every night? That would be a dream come true!”

  If three of us lived here, and the other two paid a reasonable rent, I’d be able to cover the monthly mortgage without Buck’s help. I’d accepted that my money would be tied up in this house until we could sell it, but would Buck be okay with that?

  When I asked, he waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll think of it as an investment. We’ll split the equity fifty-fifty sometime down the road when people have forgotten about Rick Dunaway’s murder and it makes sense to put it back on the market.”

  His proposition seemed like the perfect solution to our financial dilemma and would solve Colette’s housing problem as well.

  I turned to Colette. “I’ll take the small bedroom.”

  She grinned. “I’ll take the big one.”

  Buck pointed to Colette’s phone on the countertop. “Call your coworker. See if she wants to take a look.”

  Colette phoned Emmalee. Luckily, she wasn’t working that evening.

  Emmalee showed up a half hour later, using the door knocker to announce her arrival. She had hair the color of mahogany, fair and freckled skin, and a warm smile. After introductions were exchanged in the doorway, she pointed to the knocker. “That’s an interesting touch.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” I said.

  The three of us took her on the grand tour, showing her the mid-sized bedroom that could be hers if she wanted.

  When we were done, I asked, “What do you think?”

  “I love the place!” she replied. “There’s much more space than my apartment. I like the idea of having a yard, too. The only place I can get outside at the apartment is by the pool and it’s always loud and crowded when the weather is nice.”

  “One question,” I said. “Are you allergic to cats?” If she was, it would be a deal breaker. Where I went, my cat went. Sawdust would be moving into the house with me.

  “Not at all,” Emmalee said. “I grew up with cats. I’ve been wanting one myself. The complex where I live now doesn’t allow pets, but maybe I could adopt a kitten if I moved in here?”

  “Of course!” I said. “Sawdust would love the company.”

  * * *

  Colette and I moved in the following day. Buck offered his van and flatbed trailer, as well as his muscle in relocating our furniture to the house from our former abodes. Colette thanked him by whipping up a batch of hearty potato soup for dinner. To her delight, he downed three bowls and declared it the best potato soup on earth.

  Emmalee moved in right after Christmas. By New Year’s Eve, the three of us had arranged, rearranged, and re-rearranged the furniture until we were all satisfied that we’d found the best spots for each piece. We’d worked out our routines and were settling in nicely. Sawdust was, too. He’d already decided on his favorite places to nap—on Colette’s cushy couch, curled up in Emmalee’s Papasan chair, and, for some unknown reason, in the bathroom sink.

  We three roomies decided to usher in the new year in our new place. We invited several friends to join us. Buck was invited, too, of course. A veritable buffet of gourmet snack foods stretched across the breakfast bar. Colette deserved most of the credit for the delicious spread, though she had delegated some chopping and measuring to me and Emmalee.

  We shared jokes and funny stories, sang along with Emmalee’s karaoke machine, and stuffed ourselves silly until midnight neared. Sawdust was the belle of the ball, weaving in and out of our guests’ legs, collecting belly scratches and ear rubs as he worked the crowd.

  Before we knew it, the ten-second countdown to midnight began.

  “Ten!” we hollered in unison. “Nine! Eight!”

  We continued on until we reached, “Three! Two! One!”

  As midnight struck and those with dates turned to their partners to plant a big kiss on each other, Sawdust put a paw up on my leg and mewed up at me. Meow?

  Colette looked down at my cat. “I think he’s asking for a kiss.”

  “Then a kiss he shall have.” I scooped my cat up in my arms and planted a loud one on his furry cheek. Smoooch!

  All in all, not a bad way to ring in the new year. And I already knew the new year would be better than the last. After all, what were the chances I’d find another body?

  * * *

  When I returned to work at Home & Hearth after the holidays, Mrs. Hartley waved me over to her desk and patted the chair she’d pulled up next to it. “Take a seat right here, hon, and look at this new listing we got today.”

  Once I was seated, she scrolled slowly through a number of digital photos on her computer screen. The photos showed a rectangular white colonial, a type of house ubiquitous in Nashville where traditional residences ruled. A tall trellis reached from the ground all the way up to a small, octagonal window on the third floor, near the pinnacle of the gable. An attic window would be my guess. A climbing rosebush with an abundance of scarlet blooms ascended the trellis and had reached out in an attempt to claim the gutter as well. What shutters remained were painted black, as was the front door. Much of the paint was peeling, revealing weathered boards underneath. A covered porch spanned the front of the house. Several wide balusters were missing from the porch railing, making the house look as if it had taken a punch in the mouth and lost several teeth. At least it appeared to be smiling.

  “What’s the story behind the house?” I asked Mrs. Hartley.

  “It was owned by an older woman who couldn’t afford the upkeep,” she said. “The woman passed away.” She raised a palm. “Don’t worry. It was natural causes, and it didn’t happen in the house. She’d been taken to the hospital.” She put her hand down again. “Anyway, her children don’t want the place and they can’t afford to fix it up, either. They want to put it on the market as is.” She gave me a pointed look over her reading glasses. “You know how these listing things go. The house will sit on the market and continue to deteriorate until the government seizes it to pay back taxes or some developer offers peanuts for it and the desperate family has no choice but to take the offer. We’ll end up with a pittance in commission.”

  Given what she’d told me, I had to ask the obvious question, “Then why did you take the listing?”

  She gave me a smile. “So we could sell the house to you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s the perfect fixer-upper for a carpenter like you. It’s in a good neighborhood. The lot is large. And just look at those roses! A little bit of trimming and they’d be gorgeous.”

  My gaze moved back at the screen. Yep, the house definitely had potential. But I, just as definitely, had no ready money to buy it. “Wish I could,” I told Mrs. Hartley. “But every spare cent I had is in my house on Sweetbriar. With the mortgage on my cred
it report, no bank would give me a loan.”

  “We’re well aware of your situation,” Mr. Hartley said, rising from his adjacent desk. “That’s why we prepared this.”

  He handed me a single-page document that read PROMISSORY NOTE across the top. The note provided that the Hartleys would loan me an amount equal to the offering price in the listing, $139,000. Interest would accrue at the ridiculously low rate of 1 percent per annum. Payments would be payable over thirty years in the affordable monthly amount of less than $450.

  My heart swelled as I looked up at the Hartleys. “You’d do this for me? Really?”

  Mrs. Hartley reached out to pat my hand. “We believe in you, hon.”

  “Besides,” Mr. Hartley said. “We know it’ll end up being a short-term thing.”

  True. If I took the loan, I’d pay it off early with the proceeds from the sale of the house once it was fixed up. The rest would be mine to keep.

  Mrs. Hartley chimed in again. “It’ll be our way of putting more money in your pocket without taking it out of ours.”

  “Yup,” said Mr. Hartley. “One of them so-called win-win situations.”

  “You two are the best!” I stood from my seat and gave them each a warm hug and a firm handshake.

  Mr. Hartley fished a pen out of his breast pocket and held it out to me. “Does this mean it’s a deal?”

  I took the pen from him, signed my name to the note, and handed both the pen and the page to him. “It is now.”