by Diane Kelly
“Shouldn’t you just turn the ticket over to Flynn? Let him handle it?”
Again, Buck had a point. But besides the fact that the detective was busy, I had to admit that I enjoyed chasing down clues myself. It was like a game, or a treasure hunt. Besides, Collin had mentioned how busy he was. He could use the help. “I’ll let Collin know if anything pans out. I don’t want to waste his time if it’s nothing.” Glancing about, I turned my attention to the matter at hand. “Where should I start?”
Buck gestured to a stack of collapsed boxes and a heavy-duty tape dispenser leaning against the wall in the hallway. “Grab some boxes and tape, and pack up the kitchen.”
I rounded up several boxes and the strapping tape, tucked them under my arm, and carried them upstairs. My cousins had removed Dakota’s beer from the refrigerator and unplugged the appliance, packing the beer cans into a portable cooler and leaving the doors open on the fridge and freezer compartments while they defrosted. A drip-drip-drip sounded as drops of condensation formed and fell inside the freezer. I made a mental note to set aside a couple of Lillian’s old bath towels so I could wipe out the appliance later. Mildew would grow inside if it was closed up with moisture remaining.
After expanding a box and taping the bottom, I opened a cabinet. Uh-oh. Many of the items in the cabinet were fragile and could break in transit if not wrapped properly. I stepped to the top of the stairs, trying not to think about the fact that this was the exact spot where Nelda Dolan had stood when her killer shoved her to her death. Eek! I called down to my cousin. “Hey, Buck! Did you get packing paper?”
“Dadgummit!” he hollered back. “I knew I was forgetting something.”
Rounding up the photo album from the couch, I headed down the stairs. “No problem. Mary Sue’s recycling bin next door is full of newspapers. If they haven’t been picked up yet, I’ll ask her if we can use them. Can’t imagine she’d say no.”
I walked outside, glad to see the recycling truck hadn’t yet made it to Songbird Circle. I strode next door and knocked on Mary Sue’s front door. She answered a moment later, dressed in a pink velour tracksuit and matching pink sneakers.
“Brr.” She pulled the hood up over her head to keep warm. But for a lack of pointy ears, she looked like a human-sized bunny rabbit.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “but could I take some newspaper from your recycling bin? We’re packing up Lillian’s things to donate to charity, and some of the items are breakable. My cousin remembered to get boxes when he rented the truck, but he forgot the packing paper.”
“Getting rid of everything, are you?” A somber shadow darkened her face. “I suppose there’s nothing left but junk. Wayne already took Lillian’s silver and china and the nicer pieces of furniture.”
“He left one important thing behind,” I said.
She tilted her head, her gray eyes sparkling with anticipation. “He did?”
“I thought you and the other ladies should have it.” I held out the album.
She glanced down the book, a slightly confused look on her face as she took it from me. But when she opened it up to the first page, she cried out in delight, a wide smile lighting up her face. “Oh, my goodness!” She turned a page, then another. “Look at us! We were so young then. Groovy, too, wouldn’t you say?”
I returned her smile. “Super groovy.”
“Thank you, Whitney.” She closed the book and hugged it to her chest as if it were a valuable treasure. “Help yourself to all the newspaper you’d like.”
“Thanks.” I took a single step before turning back. “By the way, do you know if Roxanne’s around?”
“Far as I know,” Mary Sue said. “Why?”
No way could I tell her the detective had Roxanne in his sights and that she’d failed to respond to his request that she call him. Instead, I said, “I noticed her recycling bin wasn’t at the curb. I thought maybe she’d gone on a trip or something.”
“Not that I know of,” Mary Sue said. “She usually tells us when she’s going somewhere so we can keep an eye on her house. She might have just forgotten to put her bin out. Or maybe it’s not full and she decided it could wait until next week.”
Could be. After all, Roxanne lived alone and probably didn’t fill her bin quickly. I was probably feeling distrustful for no reason. “Have a good day!” I called as I turned away again.
“You too!” Mary Sue called after me.
I went to her recycle bin, lifted the red brick, and rounded up several days’ worth of newspapers. Just in time, too. The recycling truck turned into the circle, clinking and clanking and hissing some more. After placing the brick back in the bin, I carried the newspapers to the flip house. The frog smiled at me as I climbed the steps up to the porch. I decided to leave him where he was for now. He added a whimsical touch to the place. Besides, he might have some sentimental value for Dakota. I’d offer the frog to him, see if he wanted it as a memento of his grandmother.
I went back inside to tackle the packing. After placing the collectible food tins in a box and taking it out to my SUV, I wrapped up and boxed the remaining smaller items in the house, while my cousins continued to wrangle with the furniture and appliances. We took a late lunch break at one thirty, and by two o’clock the main part of the house was empty. All that was left was the stuff in the attic.
I climbed up the pull-down ladder, a rag in hand to wipe the dust off the boxes. A layer of dirt filtered the meager light coming through the octagonal window, and I yanked the chain to turn on the bare bulb hanging from the rafters. After taking a quick peek into each of the boxes to make sure there was nothing of value inside, I handed them to Owen, who stood at the top of the ladder, visible only from the chest up like some type of jack-in-the-box. He, in turn, handed the cartons down to Buck, who stacked them in the hallway for us to carry out to the truck once we’d emptied the attic.
At the back of the dusty space I found a box bearing the RAGS-2-RICHE$ logo. The box was taped closed. The label affixed to the outside indicated it contained forty-eight jars of the company’s Starlight Silver Polish. Wayne Walsh must have stored the stuff up here at some point and forgotten about it. Or Lillian Walsh could have bought it to support her son. While I could lay claim to it, I had no use for that much of the stuff. Might as well return it to him. But first, I’d take a look inside, verify that the box indeed contained silver polish and wasn’t instead a spare box repurposed to hold Lillian’s housewares.
I pulled a box cutter from my pocket and used my thumb to extend the blade. After slicing through the tape holding the top closed, I pulled the flaps open. One peek inside told me that the box held only forty-seven bottles of silver polish, one of them apparently having been put to use. I retracted the blade, slid the cutter back into my pocket, and taped the box shut once again.
I passed the box to Owen. “Hang on to that one. It’s inventory for Lillian’s son’s direct sales business.”
“Okeydoke,” he said. “I’ll stick it in the pantry.”
He disappeared from sight. With the attic now empty, I turned around and headed down the ladder, too, joining Buck in the upstairs hallway. When Owen returned from the kitchen, the three of us tackled the stack of boxes, carrying them out to the rental truck. After I activated the alarm system and locked the house up, I hopped into my SUV and followed the rental truck to a local charity thrift store.
The woman overseeing the donation drop-off dock directed us where to place the items in their warehouse and wrote me a receipt. I handed it to Buck, whose income exceeded mine. “You can claim the tax deduction, cuz.”
He noted the blank space where the donor was to fill in the items’ value and glanced back into the storage bay at the stuff we’d brought in. “I’d say that junk was worth about fifty grand, wouldn’t you?”
“At least,” I said, playing along. “But if you get audited by the IRS, I never knew you.”
He folded the receipt in half and tucked it into his wallet.
&n
bsp; I followed my cousins to the truck rental facility and, after Buck turned in the vehicle, drove him and Owen back to our flip house so they could round up their vans and head home.
“Thanks, Owen.” I gave my younger cousin an affectionate pat on the back as he slid out of my car. “We owe you one.”
He arched a hopeful brow. “Babysit Saturday night and we’ll call it even.”
“It’s a deal.” I loved Owen’s three adorable daughters with all my heart and then some. Spending time with them was never a chore.
CHAPTER 14
HOT PROPERTY
WHITNEY
Alone in my SUV now, I finagled the pawn ticket out of the pocket of my coveralls and typed the address of the shop into my GPS. The store was only two miles away, and I arrived at the pawnshop in a matter of minutes.
While I’d purchased an occasional used tool at a pawnshop, I’d never pawned any item myself. I wasn’t sure whether the staff would provide me with any information given that the loan had not yet come due, but it was worth a shot. I headed up to the counter. A hulking man with a shaved head, a barbed-wire tattoo encircling his neck, and five silver hoops through his left ear sat on a stool behind the register. He’s not someone I’d want to come across in a dark alley.
The man looked up and gave me a smile, the overhead fluorescent light glinting off a capped incisor that resembled a bullet casing. “Hello there. Can I help you with something?” His cordial, professional tone told me that perhaps I’d been too quick to judge this book by its cover.
“I hope so.” I lay the ticket on the counter in front of him. “I’d like to take a look at this piece of jewelry.”
He picked up the ticket and perused it before his gaze returned to my face. “Are you Dakota Walsh?”
“No,” I admitted. I briefly toyed with the idea of inventing some type of ruse, but decided to go with the truth. I’d never been a good liar. “I recently bought Dakota’s grandmother’s house and I found this ticket in the recycle bin. A neighbor is missing a pendant and might have lost it in the house. I’m trying to figure out if Dakota pawned it.”
The guy cocked his bald head, the light reflecting off his shiny forehead now. “Why don’t you just ask him?”
“I’d rather get my ducks in a row first. I’d hate to wrongfully accuse him of stealing if he didn’t do it. For all I know, this could be an entirely different piece of jewelry.”
He rubbed his chin for a moment in thought. “All righty. Give me a sec.” He stood and walked to a Dutch door behind him. The bottom half of the door was closed, but the top half was open. He held out the ticket and spoke to someone out of sight. “Can you pull this piece for me?”
The ticket disappeared, snatched by an unseen hand. The sounds of someone rummaging around in drawers came from the back room before whoever was working there handed a small manila envelope to the clerk. The clerk returned to the counter, spread a white velvet cloth atop it, and opened the clasp on the envelope, tipping the contents out onto the fabric. Using his index finger, he spread the gold chain. The clasp was broken. The pendant lay upside down, an amorphous blob when viewed from the backside. Is it a peacock? I couldn’t tell. The man gingerly turned the pendant over. Yep. It was in the shape of a peacock and embellished with small sapphires. I gasped. It’s Nelda’s necklace. It has to be.
“You okay?” the clerk asked.
“Yes,” I managed. “I’m just…” Surprised? Confused? Freaking out that this find means Dakota might have had a reason to kill Nelda Dolan? All of the above? I went with, “I’m not sure where to go from here.”
He reached under the counter and handed me a form. “If this necklace was stolen, the neighbor will need to file a written claim along with a copy of the police report. The owner of the shop will review the claim and respond within ten days. Either he’ll return the property, or your neighbor will have to go to court for a judge’s order if she wants it back.”
I didn’t bother telling him the neighbor who’d owned the necklace was no longer living, and could have died in an argument over this very piece of jewelry. Instead, I asked if I could take a photo of the necklace. “I assume this is the pendant that was missing, but I never actually saw it myself. Okay if I snap a picture to show the neighbor?”
The guy shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of the pendant. Returning my phone to my purse, I thanked the man for his time. He, in turn, returned the necklace to the envelope.
“Can I interest you in something for yourself?” he asked. “A guitar, maybe? Television? Or how about a gun?” He raised a palm to indicate the case of handguns to his left. “We got a pretty little pearl-handled model that would be perfect for a lady such as yourself. You never know when you might need protection.”
His words sounded like an eerie premonition. But probably I was just feeling upset and anxious over finding Nelda’s necklace. “Thanks,” I said. “But I’m good.”
“All righty.” He resumed his seat on the stool. “You change your mind, you know where to find us.”
I returned to my car and promptly texted Detective Flynn a photo of both the pawn ticket and the necklace. Found this pawn ticket in the recycle bin today. Went by pawnshop. The necklace is a peacock pendant. Possibly Nelda’s? I added a photo of the tax-service advertisement, too. This was also in the bin. With a telltale whoosh, the text and pictures set out through cyberspace.
As long as I had my phone out, I figured I might as well take care of another piece of business—my side dish for tomorrow night’s poker game at Mary Sue’s house. My usual frozen pizza rolls weren’t likely to be well received by the ladies of Songbird Circle, so I texted Colette for ideas and ingredients. She replied with a list that included various fruits, fresh spinach, portabella mushrooms, and phyllo dough. I thanked her with a kissy-face emoji.
I drove half a mile down the road and turned into the parking lot of a small neighborhood grocery store. After grabbing a buggy and plunking a case of Sawdust’s favorite wet cat food into it, I rolled to the frozen-foods section. Fortunately, Colette had not only put phyllo dough on the list but also indicated where to find it in the store, near the frozen pie crusts. I’d have been lost otherwise. Squeezing past a woman with three young children squabbling over which type of frozen waffles to buy—Blueberry, no question!—I headed for the produce section.
As I wound my way through the displays searching for clementines, a man standing at the bakery counter caught my eye. His back was to me, so I couldn’t see his face, but his dark gray hair, stout build, and broad but slightly stooped shoulders seemed familiar. Is that Carl Dolan? He spoke to the bakery attendant, an attractive sixty-something woman with dark hair and a friendly face as round as the cinnamon buns gracing the top shelf of the glass case separating her from the man. Her tightly tied white apron emphasized rather than hid her voluptuous figure. She threw her head back and laughed at something the man said, her audible amusement traveling over the croissants, muffins, and loaves of French bread, all the way to the lemons where I now stood. As I eased closer to determine whether the man was, in fact, Carl Dolan, the baker bent over to retrieve a dozen glazed donuts from the case and place them in a large pink box. She stood and set the box on top of the case. Her name tag was visible now. It read Dulce. The man reached for the box with both hands. No wedding ring encircled his left ring finger.
“See you soon, Sugar,” the man said, causing the woman to erupt in fresh giggles.
She corrected him with a girlish grin, her voice tinged with a Spanish accent. “How many times do I have to tell you? Dulce means sweet, not sugar.”
“Okay. Sweetie it is.”
“Enjoy your dulces, Carl,” she said with a seductive smile and an exotic roll of the r. Carrrl. It sounded as if she were purring his name.
The man put the box in his cart and turned to head to the front registers, providing me with a full-on view of his face now. If the name the woman had purred had
n’t been enough to convince me, the face did. It was Carl Dolan, all right, looking cocky, confident, and carefree. Nothing about his countenance would even hint at the fact that his wife had died unexpectedly a mere five days earlier. The fact that he’d already removed his wedding ring spoke volumes, too. He appeared to have adjusted to his single status swiftly, smoothly, and seamlessly. He failed to notice me watching him, the satisfied smile on his face telling me his thoughts were elsewhere, possibly on the baker’s cinnamon buns.
I glanced back at the bakery counter. Though the woman pretended to be cleaning the top of the glass case with a cloth, she surreptitiously watched Carl depart. The blush on her cheeks and the gleam in her eyes told me her interest in Carl went beyond the usual baker-customer relationship. For all I knew, the two had something going on.
Could Carl have been having an affair with this woman? Had he taken advantage of Nelda’s visit to my flip house to put an end to his wife and make it look like an accident? Or had Carl and this woman simply engaged in some harmless flirtation, and my imagination was running away with me?
CHAPTER 15
PURRPETRATOR
SAWDUST
Sawdust wasn’t sure what Whitney was saying to him. He didn’t recognize the words Carl or Dakota or peacock or bakery. He only knew that when Whitney was upset or worried, she often took him upon her lap, talked to him, and ran her hand repeatedly over his back in an effort to calm herself. He supposed he should feel used, but he wasn’t about to complain when he was the beneficiary of her anxious moods. Besides, he loved Whitney. If he could help her in any way, he would, even if it was simply by lying in her lap and letting her stroke him.
