by Diane Kelly
Dakota was definitely up high on the list of potential killers, not only because he’d pawned Nelda’s necklace but because he was nowhere to be found. Such behavior might be typical for him, but it was also typical of criminals on the run. I wondered if, when, and where he’d surface. Before, I’d been wondering if Roxanne had taken off for Canada or Mexico. Now, I was wondering the same thing about Dakota.
The driver from Hitch-a-Ride was possibly still in play, too. Though there was nothing directly implicating Bautista in any crime, Collin had said something there didn’t add up. I looked forward to hearing more from the detective.
I went to bed with suspects on my mind and my cat curled up on my belly. Sawdust purred softly, the sound reminding me of Dulce rolling her r when she said Carl’s name. Carrrl. Was he the one? Had he killed his wife? Was he a murrrderrrerr?
* * *
After a lousy night’s sleep, during which the residents of Songbird Circle traipsed back and forth across my mind, I woke up to my cat traipsing back and forth across my bladder. He definitely knew how to get me out of bed when he wanted his breakfast.
As promised, I spent Saturday morning on the sofa with Sawdust, cuddling and watching professional fishermen on television. Colette had worked a late night at the restaurant and still snoozed away behind her closed door. Emmalee emerged from her room, her red hair again sticking up in all directions. Her slippers gave off a shush-shush-shush as she shuffled along, seemingly unable to lift her feet. Definitely not a morning person.
She glanced my way. “’Mornin’,” she croaked.
“Coffee’s ready,” I called.
She put her palms together and dipped her head as if in worship. She disappeared into the kitchen, emerging a minute later with a steaming mug. She plunked herself down in her bowl-like Papasan chair, pulling her legs up and crossing them. She glanced at the television. “Fishing? Ugh.”
“Sawdust enjoys this show.” As if to prove my point, he twitched his whiskers and chirped at the screen.
Emmalee smiled at him before returning her attention to me. “I called the animal shelter. They said kitten season starts in February. I can hardly wait to adopt one.”
I ruffled Sawdust’s ears. “Hear that, boy? You’ll have an itty-bitty buddy soon.” It would be nice for him to have some company. I felt guilty leaving him home alone so much. At least he’d be able to come with me to the flip house today. I could only hope he wouldn’t find another dead body to poke with his paw.
A few minutes and one close call with a rogue wave later, Emmalee took her eyes off the television, finished her coffee, and stood. “I better hop in the shower. I’m working the lunch shift today.”
Thinking back to my last conversation with the detective, I decided to log into Instagram on my phone and see if I could find Luis Bautista’s account. It didn’t take long. His handle was bulldoggiedaddie. Collin was right. Nearly every post was a pic of his dog. There was one of his dog sitting on a dining-room chair at Thanksgiving, a plate of turkey and mashed potatoes on the table in front of him. Another showed his dog wearing antlers, looking like a chubby, short-legged reindeer. In another, Luis and his dog wore matching striped sweaters. Luis knelt down next to him on a patch of grass in front of their apartment building. I recognized the place by its dark blue exterior paint, the white ironwork on the balconies, and the evergreen juniper bushes. Home & Hearth managed a unit in the condominium complex next door. I’d been there recently to replace a broken garbage disposal.
Hmm. Maybe I was giving Luis Bautista too much credit, but I had a hard time believing that anyone who adored his dog that much could be a cold-blooded killer. But maybe I was simply finding him relatable. I had similar photos of Sawdust in my phone and posted on all of my social media platforms. He was my sweetie, my fur baby, my pride and joy.
When the fishing shows wrapped up and Emmalee left for work, I used my phone to snap pics of the antique tins I’d rescued from Lillian’s kitchen. I logged into my computer, set up an account on eBay, and listed the tins for sale, pricing each of them at twenty dollars. I was curious to see how quickly I’d get a response.
My task complete, I grabbed a quick shower, pulled my hair back into an easy ponytail, and climbed into a pair of boots and coveralls. I opened the door to Sawdust’s plastic carrier and he sauntered right in, eager to join me on whatever adventure I might have planned. “Good boy!” After loading my cat and my tools into my car, I headed to the flip house.
* * *
As I turned onto Songbird Circle, I saw a man walking slowly down the sidewalk. He wore tennis shoes, jeans, and a heavy blue nylon coat. With the coat’s hood cinched tight around his face and a pair of mirrored sunglasses over his eyes, it was impossible to discern his age or hair color, and his face was largely obscured. Picking him out of a lineup would be next to impossible. Maybe that’s exactly what he’s going for.
A lightweight canvas bag hung over his shoulder. His head rotated slightly as his gaze traveled over the front of each house, moving up into the trees. As I watched, he pulled a green flyer from the bag and proceeded to roll it up into a small scroll. He walked up the Garners’ front walk and tucked the scroll between their doorknob and the jamb.
My mind went back to what Collin had told me earlier: that burglars sometimes leave flyers at homes to see if they stack up. Flyers that aren’t removed by a resident in a timely manner can clue them in that the occupants are away from home for a prolonged period, maybe on a vacation or business trip. Could this man be leaving flyers for that very reason? To find another house to target? Could he be the one who’d come into the flip house and killed Nelda? Was he looking up into the trees to see if any of them might provide access to a second-story or attic window he could use to slip inside?
I slowly rounded the circle and pulled to the curb at the exit, cutting my engine. As the man made his way around the cul-de-sac, I watched him in my side and rearview mirrors. He skipped Mary Sue’s house and the flip house, but left a flyer at both the Dolans’ home and Roxanne’s. Clearly, he was choosing only certain homes to target rather than leaving flyers at every house. Had he skipped Mary Sue’s house and the flip house because there were vehicles in the driveway, telling him someone was home? The Garners’ car and Roxanne’s were parked out of sight in their garages, leaving one to wonder whether anyone might be inside. The new Mustang and Miata sat in front of the Dolans’ house, the paper license plates evidencing the fact that the vehicles were fresh off the lot. The man might have figured that anyone who could afford two new cars at once to park in their driveway would have some nice things inside their house, too. Maybe he’d gone up onto the porch to leave the flyer in the hopes that he could get a peek through their front window.
As he came up the sidewalk alongside my SUV, I pretended to be looking down at my phone. I didn’t want to clue the guy in that I was spying on him.
He passed me and turned the corner. I gave him a thirty-second head start before starting my engine and driving around the corner after him. Again, I parked and watched as he made his way down the sidewalk, looking over each house and selecting only a few at which to leave his rolled-up flyers.
When he rounded another corner to head down a side street, I drove forward and parked at that corner where I could continue to keep an eye on him. With any luck, he’d soon return to a vehicle so I could snag his license plate and turn the number over to Detective Flynn.
The man stopped three houses down and glanced in my direction. I averted my gaze, looking down at my phone again. When I looked up, he had crossed the street halfway down. Odd. Wouldn’t a real solicitor stick to a pattern so he’d be sure to cover the entire area? In addition to the fact that the guy seemed to be picking and choosing where he left his flyers, the fact that he’d crossed the street midblock clued me in that he might be up to no good.
Sawdust stood up in his carrier on the backseat and mewed, seeming to ask why I was engaged in this unusual behavior, driving short dist
ances and stopping repeatedly.
“We’re spying, buddy,” I told him. “Trying to catch a killer.”
When the man had made it down the block, I started my engine again and crept forward a few houses, where I could see his route from here. He glanced back at my car again. That he seemed to be looking out for potential witnesses raised my suspicions even higher. He stopped in front of a house and turned his back to me. He was too far away for me to tell exactly what he was doing, but after a few seconds he took off jogging down the street.
“If you think you’re going to get away,” I said aloud, “you are sorely mistaken.”
I started my motor and headed after him. He ran to the end of the street and hooked a left, sprinting now.
Woo-woo!
I glanced up at my rearview mirror to see the flashing lights of a police cruiser behind me. What luck! I could send the officer after the guy.
I pulled over to the curb, rolled my window down, and stuck my head out. A male officer slid out and strolled up to my window. “We had a report of suspicious behavior.”
“I’m so glad you came!” I pointed down the street. “The guy just ran that way. He’s in a blue jacket with the hood up and mirrored sunglasses.”
The officer cocked his head. “The report I got was a suspicious person in a red Honda SUV.”
“Me? Suspicious?”
“You’ve been following a guy. He called it in.”
“I have been following him, but he’s the one who’s suspicious, not me!” I explained the situation, that a woman had died in questionable circumstances in a house I owned just a few blocks away. “Detective Flynn is working the case.” I pointed down the street. “That man looked like he might be casing the houses. He only left flyers at some of them.”
“Hold tight,” the cop said. “Let’s see if we can clear this up.”
He returned to his cruiser, where I saw him speak into his mic. A minute later, the officer climbed back out of his car and my eyes spotted the man I’d been following jogging back up the street toward us.
The man stopped near my car, removed his sunglasses, and addressed the officer. “I’m the one who called her in.”
“What’re you doing out here?” the officer asked him.
The man reached into his bag, pulled out one of the flyers, and handed it to the officer. “I trim trees. I’ve been leaving flyers at houses where I notice dead trees or limbs that need cutting back.”
His explanation made perfect sense.
I cringed. “Sorry! The fact that you had your hood up and sunglasses on caught my attention is all. It looked like you were trying to disguise yourself.”
The man issued a derisive snort. “I’m trying to keep warm. It’s only twenty-eight degrees out here. Guess you didn’t notice since you were sitting in your heated car.”
The officer looked up, squinting at the sky before cutting me a look. “It’s sunny, too.” I raised my hands in surrender. “You’re right. I was being paranoid. I apologize.”
Of course, the man had been the one to call the cops on me. Quickly, too. Maybe he was just as paranoid as I was, and he wasn’t offering me any apologies. At any rate, we agreed to chalk the incident up to a mutual misunderstanding and go about our business.
As I drove off, Sawdust issued a meow?
I glanced back at my cat. “False alarm.”
* * *
Minutes later, I closed the front door of the flip house behind us and released Sawdust from his carrier. “Have fun, boy. Stay out of trouble.” And please don’t find another body! I stashed his cage in the hall closet, out of the way.
Country-western tunes lured me upstairs to the kitchen. Buck’s bottom half stuck out of a lower cabinet. I bent down and peeked in at him. In addition to his usual work boots and coveralls, he’d also donned safety goggles and a disposable dust mask today. He was removing the screws holding the old kitchen countertops in place.
“What’s my assignment, boss?” I asked.
He used his screwdriver to point to his right. “Get started in the next cabinet.”
After donning goggles and a dust mask myself, I grabbed a screwdriver from my toolbox, opened the adjoining cabinet, and backed in to get to work. While I set about my task, I filled Buck in on the latest developments, including Carl Dolan’s sweetie and the fact that he had so obviously lied about his whereabouts the night before.
“Whoa,” Buck said from inside his cabinet, his voice echoing in the small space. “Carl Dolan has a side piece?”
“I suppose she’s not a side piece if there’s no longer a main piece.” I removed the last screw, tucked it into my breast pocket, and backed out of the cabinet. “I have no idea whether Carl and Dulce were having an affair while Nelda was still alive. It could be a new relationship.”
Buck sat up and poked his head out, his lip quirking in disgust. “What kind of man starts dating less than a week after his wife passes away?”
“One who’s been trapped for decades in an unhappy marriage?” Carl Dolan could certainly have killed his wife. But innocent until proven guilty, right? Could be he was simply trying to move on as quickly as possible, make up for lost time, and eke as much joy as he could out of his golden years. Maybe he couldn’t handle being alone and was trying to fill the void Nelda had left. Maybe he needed a distraction from his grief. Maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt. Or maybe he was guilty as heck.
A few minutes later, we’d removed all the screws and sliced through the line of caulk underneath the countertop. Buck grabbed one end and I grabbed the other. Together, we lifted the countertop off the cabinets and, with Buck easing backward down the steps, carried it carefully down to the landing. We had a little difficulty negotiating the turn at the front doorway, but eventually managed to carry the countertop down the lower flight and into the garage where we’d store it until we could haul it off to the dump. We did the same for the bathroom countertops before moving on to the tub in the master bath.
With all of the large structures removed, it was time to pull out the flooring. We started with the ugly shag carpet. Fortunately, this would be an easier task. Buck worked downstairs while I worked upstairs. Going room by room, I used a sharp blade to cut the carpet and padding into smaller, manageable sizes. I rolled them up together against the walls, exposing the plywood subflooring. Sawdust repeatedly settled onto the carpet where I worked and dug his claws in, refusing to budge as I pushed the roll toward him. I should’ve trimmed his nails.
I wrestled him free once again. “You’re not helping, buddy.” As I set him aside, the cat emitted an irritated yowl that said I was interfering with his plan for total carpet domination. He’d only just begun to shred the stuff. Why was I putting an end to his fun?
When I finished removing the carpet on the upper floor, I went downstairs in search of Buck. I found him in the sewing room, performing what appeared to be a fox-trot with a long roll of carpet he’d stood on end. “Fred Astaire’s got nothing on you, cuz.”
“Grab an end,” he demanded.
I pointed out an obvious flaw in his technique. “Smaller rolls are more manageable. You could cut it down the middle.”
He, in turn, pointed out an obvious flaw in my personality. “And you could keep your mouth shut.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
I took one end of the long, heavy roll and the two of us carried it out to the garage. Half an hour later, all the old carpet and padding had been taken out to the garage and a cubic ton of dust and debris had settled in our hair and on the floors. Sawdust lay on his back in a particularly dirty spot and wriggled back and forth, collecting as much dirt and lint on his fur as he could.
“Keep that up,” I warned him, shaking my finger, “and I won’t bring you with me on a job again.”
He stopped and eyed me for a brief moment before he set to wriggling again. The cat knew my words were mere bluster. Thanks to all the dust the cat was stirring up, and despite the mask
I was wearing, I sneezed three times in quick succession. Achoo-choo-choo.
While Buck used a claw hammer to remove the extraneous carpet nails from the plywood base, I swept up the dirt and debris. Sawdust followed me around the house, batting around a small tuft of carpet I’d missed. I ruffled my cat with my gloved hands to get the dirt out of his fur. He sent up a cloud of dust that would rival that of Pig-Pen from the Peanuts comic strip. As he scurried off, I grabbed the broom once again to sweep the dirt he’d left behind.
The shag carpeting now history, my cousin and I turned our attention to the linoleum flooring on the landing and in the kitchen and baths. We scored the flooring with a utility knife, peeled the linoleum back, and used a scraper to remove the hardened glue. Talk about a workout for your forearms. Sheesh! After opening the windows a few inches to ensure fresh, if frigid, airflow, Buck applied a propane torch to the stubborn spots of glue that remained, melting them and scraping them away. The air filled with the acrid smells of smoke and hot adhesive.
By late afternoon, we’d removed all countertops, bath fixtures, and flooring, and I’d dealt with so much dust I felt like a character in The Grapes of Wrath. In return for our efforts, Buck and I were rewarded with sore backs and aching muscles. With the demolition completed, though, we could look forward to the more interesting phase of house flipping, the renovation stage. In fact, the materials were due to be delivered any moment. I’d overheard Buck on the phone with someone from the home-improvement store a few minutes ago, verifying our address.
Seemed like a good time to take a quick break and update the detective.
CHAPTER 19
UPDATING THE DETECTIVE
WHITNEY
