Dead in the Doorway

by Diane Kelly

  Buck and Colette had already arrived, his van parked nose to nose with her Chevy Cruze at the curb, as if their front bumpers were kissing. The two of them were waiting for me in Buck’s van, where they could keep warm. They climbed out as I pulled into the driveway, and the three of us met up on the porch, greeting each other with informal “Hey”s.

  Colette would be off to work at the Hermitage Hotel restaurant soon, so she was dressed in black pants and her white chef’s coat. She’d pulled her curls up in a tight bun atop her head so they’d fit under her chef’s hat once she donned it later at the restaurant. Her tote bag hung from her shoulder. Out of the top peeked a rolled-up spare chef’s coat. She always took one with her to work, in case of a kitchen mishap. A chef could easily end up splattered in grease or gravy.

  After unlocking the front door, I subconsciously eased around the edge of the landing, not wanting to walk where the body had lain. Colette followed my lead and Buck closed the door behind us.

  Colette pointed down and whispered, “Is this where you found her?”

  Buck whispered back, “Why are you whispering?”

  Colette cringed and continued to speak softly. “I don’t know. It just seems right.”

  Invisible hands seemed to have wrapped around my throat, and all I could do was nod in response. I waved my cousin and friend forward, and headed up the stairs. I turned to warn Colette about the loose railing only to find that Buck had already taken her arm.

  “Careful,” he told her. “That railing’s not secure.”

  She looked up at him. “Thanks, Buck.”

  He escorted her all the way up, like a groomsman escorting a bridesmaid. She posed no objection. I found myself wondering again whether something could be happening between the two of them and, if it was, when they might acknowledge it.

  As Colette entered the kitchen, her head turned to the outdated gold refrigerator. She stepped over to the appliance to admire Lillian’s blue ribbons, murmuring aloud as she read them. “Best peach pie. Best peach cobbler. Best peach crumble. Blackberry-peach coffee cake. Raspberry-peach tart. Spicy peach puffs. Peach preserves.” She glanced back over her shoulder to address me. “The lady you bought the house from sure did know her way around a peach.” She pulled the handle to open the fridge and peered inside. “She must’ve really liked beer, too.”

  “The beer belongs to her grandson Dakota,” I explained.

  “Not anymore.” Buck reached in and grabbed a can. “Finders keepers. It’s only fair. He’s been squatting here for free and ran up our heating bill, treated the place like an Airbnb.”

  Colette glanced up at my cousin. “Do you really think you should be drinking beer before a funeral?”

  Buck shrugged. “Seems as good a time as any.”

  “Miss Manners would disagree.” Colette took the beer out of his hand and stuck it back in the fridge.

  Buck grunted. “Party pooper.”

  Colette turned to the counter, flipping open the lid on Lillian’s recipe box and riffling through the index cards. “None of her blue-ribbon recipes seem to be in here. Too bad. I’d be curious to try them.” She pulled a few of the cards out for a closer look. “There’s one for celery-stuffed tomatoes and another for wild-rice casserole that sound good.” She glanced over at me. “Is this box up for grabs?”

  “Take anything you’d like,” I told her. “Lillian’s sons have already gone through the house and removed the stuff they wanted to keep.” Including, presumably, the prize-winning recipes.

  “In that case, this box is mine now.” She tucked the recipe box into her tote bag.

  Moving over to the counter, I pulled a drawer open, removed the odd devices Buck and I had found, and held them up for Colette to see. “These are those weird tools I told you about.”

  Buck grabbed the one that looked like an airplane throttle, placed it on the countertop, and pulled back on the lever. Putting a hand over his mouth to mimic a microphone, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our cruising altitude of twenty-two thousand feet. I’m turning off the seatbelt sign. Feel free to move about the cabin and annoy those around you.”

  Colette rolled her eyes and took the device from him. “It’s a French-fry cutter, you doofus.” She lifted the handle to demonstrate. “See? You put the potato in the bottom part, push the lever down to cut through the potato, and voilà! French fries.”

  I held up the long tube. “So I’m guessing this isn’t a caulking gun?”

  “Not even close,” she said. “It’s a cookie press, for making shaped cookies. It’s a quicker alternative to cookie cutters. There should be some discs with cutouts that fit on the end.”

  I dug through the drawer and found a plastic bag full of metal discs that resembled stencils. One had a heart cut out of it, another a flower shape. A third bore a crisscross pattern. “Is this what we’re looking for?”

  “Yep.” She took the bag from me. “These devices will really come in handy. Lots of the kitchen tools they make these days are plastic and they break easily. But these metal relics?” She held up the heavy tools, one in each hand. “These were made to last.”

  We spent the next few minutes rummaging through the cabinets and drawers to see what else might be of use.

  Buck pulled out what appeared to be a silver comb with extra-long teeth. “What’s this? Is it for spaghetti?”

  “That’s called a cake breaker.” Colette took it from him and added it to her pile. “It’s for cutting delicate cakes like angel food.”

  I found some small round dishes with shapes in the bottom. “And these are…?”

  “Butter molds,” Colette said, solving yet another mystery. “I’ll take those, too.”

  When all was said and done, Colette had collected quite the cache of kitchen gadgets. A strainer sieve. An egg-poacher pan. A rolling meat tenderizer that resembled a medieval torture device. She gestured to the antique tins. “Some of those old tins could be collectibles.”

  Buck picked one up, his expression incredulous. “You’re saying these ancient artifacts might be worth something?”

  “They’re nostalgic,” she said. “People are into that these days. You could probably get ten or twenty dollars apiece selling them online.”

  I turned to Buck. “Maybe we should take them to Lillian’s family tonight.”

  He scoffed. “They left a bunch of worthless junk behind that we’ll have to sort through, box up, and cart off. If we make a little money off the stuff, I’d call that a fair trade.”

  He had a valid point. They’d had their chance to remove anything from the home they cared about. If they’d overlooked a few things, they had no one to blame but themselves. Still, if we came across anything that had more than nominal value, we’d turn it over to them.

  Colette paged through several of Lillian’s cookbooks and selected three of them to take with her. When we wrapped up in the kitchen, we locked the house and made our way outside to our cars, where we bade goodbye to my roommate.

  An hour later, Buck and I walked into the funeral home. Though we hadn’t known the deceased, we felt a moral duty to attend her memorial service given that she’d perished on our property. I’d found the information about her service online, on the funeral home’s website.

  A photograph of a middle-aged Nelda Dolan sat on a small table outside the sanctuary, along with a guest book. The woman in the photo had dishwater-blond hair giving way to white, and dark, dull eyes, no hint of merriment in them at all. She also had a stern set to her jaw and no smile on her face, making the picture an odd choice. Usually families chose a flattering photo of their deceased loved one to display. Is this the best they could come up with?

  After putting our cell phones in silent mode, Buck and I signed the guest book, took one of the printed programs to share, and slipped into the room. We were greeted by the mellifluous sounds of harp music and the cloying scent of stargazer lilies from the standing spray next to the podium. There was no casket at the front of
the space. Looked like the family had decided on cremation. Was it wrong of me to be glad about that? Though I hoped Mrs. Dolan would rest in peace, I had no desire to see her face again. My mind couldn’t let go of the image of her lying bent and broken on the landing.

  After silencing our cell phones, Buck and I took seats on the back row to leave space for those who knew Nelda better, sitting quietly as they filed in. As the minutes ticked by and the time of her service drew near, we realized we needn’t have bothered. Only a handful of people had come to pay their last respects. A couple of white-haired men with military pins affixed to the lapels of their suit jackets. An African American couple of advanced age. The elderly lady who lived to the right of our flip house and had observed Saturday’s events through her front window, along with another Caucasian woman with a champagne-colored coif. Dakota and Wayne Walsh. Usually a suit made a man look older and more dignified, but Dakota, who teetered on the precipice between boy and man, only looked more childish in the one he wore. He’d probably borrowed it from his father. The lapels gaped, the sleeves hung down to his knuckles, and the pants puddled around his shoes. He must not have any dress clothes in his current wardrobe, but at least he’d tried to look nice. With Dakota and his father was another man who shared the same ginger-colored hair, though this man was balding and arrived alone. A bachelor uncle, perhaps?

  In the front row reserved for immediate family sat the man and woman I’d seen in their pajamas in the Dolans’ doorway Saturday. Flanking Mr. Dolan and his daughter were curvy twin twenty-somethings, also blond, though their shade was golden. An officiant stood to the side, awaiting his signal to begin.

  The somber funeral director who’d been tending the double entrance doors used his shiny shoe to lift the doorstop on one of the doors. Just as he went to shut the other, Detective Flynn slipped through. He took a seat in the back row, across the aisle from me and Buck, and greeted us with a nod. Rather than his police jacket, he wore a dark blue suit with a green tie that brought out the emerald color of his eyes. Hmm. Did the detective come simply as a courtesy, or is more going on here?

  The officiant stepped up to the podium to start the service, opening with a simple prayer. He spent several minutes reciting words and verses he seemed to know from rote memory. The prepackaged program was respectful yet impersonal. The eulogy, if it could even be called that, was very short, more a recitation of the facts of Nelda Dolan’s life rather than a sharing of loving memories. The officiant looked down at the index card before him. “Nelda Pitts was born and raised in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. There, she met Carl Dolan, an army recruit attending basic training at Fort Campbell in preparation for deployment to Vietnam. The two married upon his return stateside and settled here, in Carl’s hometown of Nashville, where they raised their daughter, Becky. Nelda was just shy of her seventy-fifth birthday when she was called home by the Lord last Friday evening.”

  As soon as the man wrapped up, one of the twins stepped to the front of the room, a mandolin in her hands. Her dress bore so much colorful fringe she resembled a piñata. She looked up at the ceiling. “This is for you, grandmother.”

  After taking a seat on a tall stool, she treated the mourners to a beautiful rendition of The Beatles’ classic “Let It Be,” her voice husky and soulful as she filled the room with song. Dakota stared, rapt, his jaw slack. Someone’s got a crush. When she finished, Dakota burst into hearty applause. The girl gave him a coy smile in return.

  The officiant took the podium again and concluded the service with a somber recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. Strangely, I’d heard not a single sniffle during the short ceremony, seen no one dab an eye. It had been only four days since Mrs. Dolan’s unfortunate and unexpected death. Her family and friends wouldn’t have been prepared for her passing. Hmm.

  Just as surreptitiously as he’d slid into the room, Detective Flynn made his escape, slipping silently out the door on the final “Amen.” What’s that all about?

  Buck and I filed into the hallway after the others, stopping along with them to don our winter coats. The two white-haired men shook hands with Carl Dolan, each of them putting a consoling hand on his shoulder as they did so. As Carl’s friends headed for the door, Buck and I eased through the crowd to introduce ourselves and express our condolences.

  Carl spotted us approaching and offered a smile. “You’re the two who bought Lillian’s house, aren’t you?”

  “That’s us,” Buck replied. “Buck and Whitney Whitaker. Cousins.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Carl introduced his remaining family. The middle-aged blonde was Becky, Nelda and Carl’s daughter. The twins were Becky’s girls, Dahlia and Daisy. Carl turned his focus back to me. “They say you’re the one who found Nelda. That must have been hard for you.”

  Harder than losing a spouse you’d been married to for over fifty years? “It was a shock,” I admitted, not telling him it was my cat who’d first discovered the body. “I’m so sorry you’ve lost your wife.”

  “Could be worse,” he said matter-of-factly. “The coroner said it was quick. She didn’t suffer.”

  Becky exhaled sharply, muttering under her breath. “She caused plenty of suffering, though.”

  Buck and I exchanged a glance. Carl sure was taking things well, and there didn’t appear to be much love lost between Becky and her mother. I supposed I was lucky my parents had a healthy relationship, and that we all got along well.

  As the Dolans headed for the door, the elderly couple who’d been in the service stepped up to me and Buck.

  “Excuse me,” the woman said, “but I hear we’re going to be neighbors.”

  “You have a lovely neighborhood,” I said, “but my cousin and I aren’t actually planning to move in. We both own homes already. We’re going to fix the house up and put it back on the market.”

  “Flippers, huh? Well, until you sell it, you’ll be an honorary neighbor.” She gave us a wink. “I’m Gayle Garner,” she said before putting a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “This is my better half, Bertram.”

  I shook their hands and introduced myself. Buck also exchanged handshakes and names.

  “We’re hosting a wake at our house now,” Gayle said. “You two should come, get to know the people on the block. We’re all friendly folks—at least now, anyways.”

  What did she mean by that?

  Before I could give Gayle’s odd comment much thought, she went on. “We’ll have lots of good food. If there’s anything the ladies of Songbird Circle know how to do, it’s cook.”

  Buck’s stomach growled, as if replying for us.

  Bertram chuckled. “We’ll take that as a yes. We’re the green house that sits catty-corner from yours. See you there.”

  We followed the couple out the door to the parking lot. They climbed into a shiny silver coupe with a Fisk University Alumni sticker on the back bumper. The historically black university was located in the northeast part of the city, and had a proud history of socially active students who advocated for civil rights and societal progress. The campus was home to Jubilee Hall, a beautiful Gothic Revival–style building. In dark days, a bell had been rung atop the hall to alert students to invasions of the campus by the Night Riders, who were precursors to the KKK. The worst thing I’d had to worry about in college was whether the dorm cafeteria would run out of pizza before I could get there.

  Buck and I climbed back into my SUV. As I drove out of the lot, I spotted Detective Flynn sitting in his unmarked police car, watching the people depart. Why hadn’t he spoken to the family? Extended his condolences?

  Evidently, Buck noticed Flynn, too. “That detective seems to be keeping a close eye on things out here.”

  “He sure does.”

  Was Flynn simply being courteous, giving the mourners a chance to depart before he took off? Or could he be watching them for another reason?

  CHAPTER 8

  DISHING IT OUT

  WHITNEY

  I reached out and jabbed the button to tur
n on the radio. One of my favorite female singers crooned over the airwaves, lamenting her lost love’s cheating heart and vowing to crush said organ under her boot. You go, girl! Buck and I sang along, my cousin improvising a shrill falsetto that threatened to shatter both my eardrums and the windshield. Fortunately, it was only a short drive back to Songbird Circle. I parked in the driveway of our flip house and we strode across the cul-de-sac to Gayle and Bertram’s place.

  Bertram greeted us at the door, loosening his tie as he did so. “Come on in and make yourselves at home. Gayle’s setting up in the kitchen. In the meantime, what can I get you to drink? Sweet tea? Coffee? Soda? Wine? We’ve got a fully stocked bar. I make a mean mint julep.”

  Wine and cocktails? Looked like this would be an Irish wake. Not unusual, I supposed. The surname Dolan was of Gaelic origin, after all. Besides, the customs for grieving seemed to be evolving, with “celebrations of life” now often replacing the more somber traditional observances. Even so, I figured it might be best to see if the other guests chose to imbibe before taking a glass of the hard stuff. “I’ll start with tea, please.”

  “Same for me,” Buck said, following my lead.

  While Bertram rounded up our drinks, Buck and I stepped into the living room. There we found the two older women we’d seen sitting side by side at the service. They were seated in wingback chairs on either side of the roaring fireplace. Between them, on a colorful braided rug, lay a dozing black dog with a white blaze on his chest, one white paw, and some white hairs on his snout telling me he’d entered if not his golden dog years, at least his silver dog years. He was a big dog, too, some type of Labrador-retriever mix. His side rose and fell as he slept peacefully, basking in the warmth of the fire.

  Up close like this, I could tell much more about the women. The one who lived to the right of our flip house was petite, with round, silver-rimmed glasses and shiny, silvery hair cut in a traditional yet stylish bob. Her eyes, too, held a soft, silver-gray hue, reminiscent of pussy willows. She wore sensible flat shoes along with a dark blue dress that, despite being plain, nicely complemented her natural coloring. The other woman was tall and thin, her champagne-blond tresses teased into a soft, spongy pouf atop her head. She wore a black suit with a fitted, feminine cut and high-heeled pumps. She’d applied copious quantities of makeup, though she looked classy rather than tacky, like a movie star who’d aged well, a Glenn Close or Helen Mirren type. Each of the women had a stem glass of white wine in her hand.