by Diane Kelly
Flynn returned his attention to Dakota. “Do you know who those cars belong to?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Dolan drive the Chevy,” Dakota replied. “The old blue car belongs to their daughter. She moved in with them a while back. Granny said something about a messy divorce.”
Judging from the fact that Mrs. Dolan was elderly, her daughter was likely middle-aged. The old, damaged vehicle the daughter drove said she wasn’t wealthy. Not likely she and her ex-husband had fought over money. Perhaps they’d fought over the lack of it. They wouldn’t be the first couple to split up over financial woes.
While Dakota used his cell phone to summon a ride, I asked the detective what the neighbors had been told.
“Only that there appears to have been an accident in the house,” he said. “We said nothing about potential victims. We need to notify the next of kin first.”
I didn’t envy him. It couldn’t be easy having to break bad news to the loved ones of a person who’d met a tragic end. I gestured to the porch. “Can I get my toolbox? I’m pretty useless without it.”
When I wasn’t collecting rent and showing properties to prospective tenants, my job as a property manager for Home & Hearth often required tools. Ditto for the moonlighting I performed for my uncle Roger. During my childhood, while my parents were gallivanting around Europe, I’d spent many a summer at Uncle Roger and Aunt Nancy’s cabin up near the Kentucky border, having fun with my two cousins. Though I adored Owen, who was a year younger than I was, I’d always looked up to Buck, who was born a year before me. My uncle had started off by showing us kids how to build birdhouses. We’d earned some spending money selling the finished houses to bird-watchers in the area. Not a bad summer job for an adolescent girl. It beat babysitting. No bottles, no diapers, and I got to spend the days outside in the sunshine.
“I’ll get the toolbox for you,” Flynn said.
As the detective rounded up my toolbox, I ducked under the cordon tape at the end of the driveway and loaded Sawdust into his carrier in the backseat of my SUV. He issued a small growl of protest, probably tired of having been restrained most of the morning. I couldn’t blame him. Being stuck in the laundry room while a dead woman lay only feet away hadn’t exactly been an uplifting experience for me, either. I ran a soothing hand down his back. “Sorry, boy. It’s been a bad morning for all of us. When we get home, I’ll give you a tuna treat.”
His eyes brightened on hearing his favorite words and he issued a chirp of excitement.
Flynn retrieved my heavy toolbox from the porch and carried it over to me, the metal implements inside clinking against each other. I circled around the back of my SUV to open the cargo bay, and Flynn slid the toolbox inside.
He took a step back so I could shut the bay door. “I’ll call you when we’re done so you can come back and lock up.”
As Flynn headed out to the Dolans’ house next door, I climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine, willing the motor to warm up quickly. Dakota completed his call, ducked under the yellow tape, and rushed over to climb into my front passenger seat. I handed him a spare pair of paint-splattered coveralls to use as a blanket until the heater kicked in.
“Thanks!” He wrapped the arms around his neck like a scarf. “My teeth were starting to chatter.”
My gaze went to the clock on my dash. 10:53. Buck will be awake by now. As I retrieved my cell phone from my purse, Flynn climbed up to the porch of the Dolans’ home next door and rang the bell. A few seconds later, a stout man with dark gray hair answered. His still-broad shoulders bore a slight stoop. He wore a pair of flannel pajamas and house slippers. A fiftyish blond woman with a similar sturdy build stepped up beside him. Like the man, she was still dressed in her nightclothes, though she’d covered her pajamas with a fluffy pink robe. Looked like the two had been enjoying a lazy morning. Both looked past the detective, spotted the law enforcement vehicles, and gaped. Flynn said something to them and they stepped back to allow him inside, closing the door behind him.
After shutting my eyes and sending up a short, silent prayer for the family, I placed a call to my cousin. “No need to come to the house,” I told Buck. “We’ve got a body on our hands.”
CHAPTER 6
I WANT MY MOMMY
WHITNEY
Buck groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Wish I were.” After giving him the details, I said, “It looks like Mrs. Dolan’s death was nothing more than an unfortunate accident.”
“Thank heaven for small favors.”
While a murder on site could negatively impact a property’s value, an accidental death was unlikely to affect its worth. Given that the house was an investment for me and Buck, as well as the fact that our finances were already stretched thin, we couldn’t afford to take a hit.
We ended the call and I tried the heater. The air blowing from the vents was nice and toasty. I turned it up full blast and the windows fogged, obscuring the view outside. If only the heater could fog up the window in my mind and cloud the image of a dead Mrs. Dolan.
A few minutes later, blurry images moved outside my window and a rap sounded on the glass. I used my sleeve to wipe the condensation away. A face filled the space. It belonged to a man who looked the way Dakota would if you added twenty-five years and twenty-five pounds to the boy. He must be Dakota’s father. He shared the same ginger hair as his son, though a few lighter strands had crept in around his temples.
I pushed the button to unroll my window. As soon as it was down, the man stuck his head inside in my car, forcing me to press myself back against my seat lest we bump noses.
The man looked past me to his son. “Are you okay, Dakota?”
“I’m fine, Dad.” Dakota extricated himself from the straightjacket he’d concocted from my spare coveralls and tossed them into the backseat. “Just a little shook up is all.”
As Dakota opened his door and slid out of my car, his father turned to me and stuck an arm in, too, offering me his hand. “Wayne Walsh.”
Seems everyone is intent on invading my space today. I shook his hand awkwardly in the tight space. “Whitney Whitaker.” I raised my left elbow to rest it on the window ledge, hoping the guy would take a hint and back away.
He retreated only an inch or two, hovering over me like a fly over a dung pile. Of course that would make me the dung pile. Ew. My metaphors could use some work.
“I understand you’ve got big plans for mom’s house,” he said.
The house no longer belonged to the man’s mother, but there was nothing to be gained by pointing it out. “My cousin and I plan to make some updates.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” He stood up straight, reached into the inside pocket of his blazer, and retrieved a brochure. “You’ll require cleaning products, that’s for sure. Luckily for you, I can supply everything you need.”
He leaned back in and shoved the brochure in my face. The cover featured the logo of RAGS-2-RICHE$, a multilevel marketing platform, as well as photos of the company’s merchandise and its grinning founder. Sheesh. Peddling products when a woman has just been found dead here? Does the man have no shame?
“Thanks,” I said, “but we’re all set.”
Not taking no for an answer, he tried a different tack. “You’re no doubt a smart woman who knows a good deal when she sees it. You could join my sales team, give yourself another income stream.”
I already worked as a property manager, carpenter, and house flipper. The last thing I needed was another gig. “I’m too busy to take on another job,” I told him. “But you take care now.” I jabbed the button to roll up the window, giving the man no choice but to back off or risk decapitation. Not exactly a polite gesture on my part, but my nerves were frayed and all I wanted was to get away from there.
I slid the car into gear and drove off, leaving the detective, the crime-scene technicians, and the medical examiner to tend to their business and Mrs. Dolan.
* * *
Half an hour later, I pul
led into the driveway of my parents’ house in the Green Hills neighborhood of Nashville and parked next to my mother’s pearly white Cadillac. Mom helped out with billing and other administrative tasks at my father’s otolaryngology practice a few days a week, but rarely on Fridays. Or Mondays. Or any day that Nordstrom was having a sale.
A red cardinal perched on the picket fence that surrounded the backyard. He stared at me, tilting his head to one side, then the other. I’d heard that cardinals were spirit messengers, a sign from those who’d passed on to the hereafter. I could only wonder if this cardinal had been sent by Mrs. Dolan to tell me something and, if so, what that message might be. Of course, the more likely scenario was that the bird had come to feed in the backyard. My mother kept her bird feeders well stocked with various seed mixes, including one specifically formulated for the pretty red birds. My parents’ backyard was constantly atwitter with flocks of finches, chickadees, wrens, and doves. When I’d lived in the guesthouse out back, Sawdust used to love to watch the birds from the top perch of his cat tree at the window. Sometimes he’d even crouch and make a chirping sound back at them, though I suspected it wasn’t so much an imitation of their calls as a sign of how badly he wanted to pounce on them. For such a sweet little guy, he could have quite the killer instinct on occasion.
I carried Sawdust inside. We found my mother standing at the kitchen counter, cutting roast beef into tiny little bites for her black-and-white Boston terrier. Yin-Yang waited at my mother’s feet, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, eagerly looking up at her lunch with her bulbous bug eyes. Yep, the dog was just as spoiled as Sawdust. Like her pampered pet, my mother was petite. I’d gotten my height from my father. My blond hair came from both of my parents, though my father’s had mostly faded to a soft beige over the years. Mom’s stylist kept her hair trimmed, colored, and coiffed, not a single gray to be found.
My mother looked over with a bright smile that fizzled like a wet firework the instant she saw my face. “What’s wrong?”
I set Sawdust’s carrier down on the floor and released him before stepping toward her, my lip quivering as emotion took hold of me. At nearly thirty, I was probably too old to need my mommy. But having experienced first the shock of finding a corpse in my flip house and then the terror of discovering a squatter sneaking up the stairs behind me, my nerves were beyond frayed. All I wanted was for her to wrap me in her arms and tell me everything would be okay, just like she did when I was a kid and scraped my knee or stubbed my toe.
Instinctively, she spread her arms and encircled me in them, patting my back softly.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head on her shoulder. “I found a body.”
She stiffened and reflexively pushed me back, gripping my shoulders in her hands, her eyes bugging out nearly as much as Yin-Yang’s. “You found a what?!”
“Body,” I squeaked through the tiny airway remaining open in my throat. “An elderly woman. She’d fallen down the stairs. She was lying in the front doorway of our flip house.”
“Oh, honey!” My mother pulled me to her again. “That must have been terrible for you!”
It had indeed been terrible. It had been much worse for Mrs. Dolan, of course, but naturally my mother was more concerned about her daughter than a stranger at the moment. She ushered me over to the table and pulled out a chair for me. I melted onto it. She sat next to me and held my hands tightly as I gave her the details. I told her about Dakota, the medical examiner, and Detective Flynn. “They think it was an accident, that she lost her footing and fell.”
“So there was no evidence of foul play?”
“No.”
“Thank goodness!”
Yin-Yang, who’d been very patient waiting for her lunch, could wait no longer. Her nails clicked across the tile floor as she walked over and raised a paw to tap my mother’s leg, as if to say, Aren’t you forgetting something? But while her paw was on my mother’s leg, her gaze remained on the roast.
With my emotions now under control, my mother released my hands, stood, and returned to the counter to finish preparing her dog’s lunch. “What was the woman doing in your flip house?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Dakota didn’t seem to know, either. I suppose the detective will figure it out when he talks to her family.”
“Could you and Buck have some liability? I’ve heard of folks suing for injuries, even when they were trespassing. I wonder if the woman’s family will try to pin the blame on you.”
Great. Something else to worry about. “I hope not. I’m not aware of anything that would have made her trip.” Then again, that hideous shag carpet wasn’t tacked down well. Several small nails protruded from the tack strip at the top of the stairs. Because we’d planned to rip the carpet out, Buck and I hadn’t bothered to fix them. Even so, it seemed a stretch to think the tiny tacks could have tripped her. Should I call our insurance company? I supposed it made sense to wait until the medical examiner issued his official report. We’d learn more of the details then, know whether he ruled it an accident or negligence.
My mother filled Yin-Yang’s bowl with the meaty tidbits and placed it on the floor in front of her pup. The dog promptly set about gobbling the bites down. Curious, Sawdust sauntered over, his tail forming a question mark as he ignored Yin-Yang’s growl and sniffed at the bowl.
Mom looked down at her pet. “Hush, Yin-Yang. You’re being rude to your buddy. Let Sawdust try a bite if he wants to.” She turned her attention back to me. “Have you had lunch?”
“Are you offering me a bite of Yin-Yang’s roast, too?”
“No. I’m offering you a pimento-cheese sandwich.”
“I’d love one.”
Mom fixed us each a sandwich and cut mine into four triangles, just as she’d done since I was a kid. It wasn’t nearly as fancy as the gourmet panini my roommate had prepared for me the day before, but I’d take it. As my mother placed the plate in front of me, she said, “Maybe you ought to give some more thought to getting your real-estate license.”
Here we go again. As much as I loved my mother, she and I had very different aptitudes and attitudes. She couldn’t understand why I’d want to dress in unflattering, stained coveralls and strain my muscles repairing and remodeling houses. I, on the other hand, couldn’t understand how she could be happy performing routine tasks over and over while stuck behind a desk day after day.
To appease my mother and attempt a compromise, I’d signed up to take the real-estate agent’s examination weeks ago. Unfortunately, due to an untimely interrogation by Detective Flynn, I missed the exam. But maybe missing the test was a blessing in disguise. I’d only signed up to take it because my mother had relentlessly pestered me into doing it, much as she was doing now. While I loved working in real estate, I preferred physically working on properties to dealing with clients and processing paperwork. Besides, being a natural homebody, I didn’t have the extroverted personality and extensive social network needed to ensure a steady supply of clients. Seemed my destiny was to remain a part-time property manager and carpenter until I could focus full-time on flipping houses.
I didn’t bother arguing with my mother, opting instead to stuff my face with white bread and pimento cheese. Luckily for me, she moved on to other topics. “Dad and I are considering a summertime cruise. I’ve heard wonderful things about the Amalfi Coast.”
While I was content with weekend trips to the Smoky Mountains, Memphis, or Mammoth Cave up the road in Kentucky, my mother wanted to see the far-flung corners of the world. Travel was yet another area where we differed. It’s not so much that I didn’t want to visit places and learn more about other countries and cultures, but when it would mean being away from my own bed and my sweet little cat, I knew I’d feel too homesick to really enjoy myself. I was happy to babysit Yin-Yang while my parents wandered the world, and to enjoy their vacation photos when they returned home.
“You should go,” I told her. “Yin-Yang is more than welcome to come stay with me and
Sawdust.” After all, despite the dog’s earlier growl, the two were best friends. In fact, they were currently chasing each other around the sofa in the living room.
“I’ll let you know once we decide on dates.”
After we finished our lunch, my mother suggested I lie down in my former bedroom. “You’ve been through a lot today. You look exhausted. Some rest will do you good.”
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to nap after the horrors of the morning, but then again, the adrenaline spike I’d suffered that morning had long since receded, leaving me feeling drained and depleted. I took my mother’s advice and lay down on my bed, snuggling up with a plush possum that had served in lieu of a security blanket to comfort me in my much younger days. Not to be left out, Sawdust snuggled up with us, too.
I closed my eyes but dozed only fitfully, awaking to a vibration in the pocket of my coveralls and the folksy strains of Peter, Paul and Mary singing “If I Had a Hammer.” The ringtone seemed fitting for a carpenter.
I pulled the device from my pocket. The screen indicated it was Detective Flynn calling. I tapped the button to accept the call.
“We’re all done here,” he said. “You can come back now. And Whitney?”
“Yes?”
“Change the locks to the house ASAP. You don’t know who else might have a key.”
CHAPTER 7
WAKE AND BAKE
WHITNEY
Early Tuesday evening, I drove back to the flip house. I’d returned to install new locks late Saturday afternoon after the police and medical examiner had finished their work and taken Mrs. Dolan’s body away, but I hadn’t been back since. Buck and I had agreed it would seem callous to start the demo work on the house directly on the heels of the woman’s death there. But an hour from now there’d be a memorial service, a symbol of closure, and we figured we could start the renovations tomorrow without causing offense.
