by Diane Kelly
The detective stared at Wayne for a long moment, as if attempting to bore into the man’s mind and access his memory banks, see if an image of Nelda Dolan tumbling down the staircase was tucked away in some deep, dark recess. “That’s all I need,” he said finally. “You two are free to go. But not a word about this to Andy until I’ve had a chance to speak to him. Understood?”
Wayne dipped his head. “Understood.”
Dakota nodded in agreement.
As Wayne grabbed the door handle, I remembered the silver polish. “Wait!” I pointed up the stairs, into the kitchen. “Don’t forget your inventory.”
I turned around to head up and reflexively reached for the loose banister to steady myself. I cried out and stumbled as the railing pulled free from the wall, the metal wall plate and screws clanking and tinkling to the steps. One of the screws bounced down the stairs—clink, clink, clink—until it landed at Wayne’s feet, rolling in a circle until the sharp end pointed at him accusingly. I was left holding an eight-foot pole in my hand like a Shaolin stick fighter in a martial arts movie. Despite what the song says, not everybody was kung fu fighting. Some of us were just trying to make a living. Unfortunately, some of us had just produced sizable holes in the drywall that would need to be patched.
Hearing the noise, Buck looked down from the kitchen doorway. “It was only a matter of time until that thing came loose.”
Guess we should’ve made the banister a higher priority. I climbed the steps and leaned the rail against the wall in the upstairs hallway.
Wayne turned to Dakota again and gestured up the stairs. “Scoot on up there and get the polish for me, son.”
Dakota came upstairs and followed me to the kitchen, where Buck had already returned to working on the second row of tile. “Cool. The floor looks like the racing flag from Super Mario.”
Buck sat back on his heels and cut Dakota a look. “Dude. All racing flags look like this. Lay off the video games and watch some NASCAR like a real man.”
I’d been afraid Buck’s words would hurt Dakota’s feelings, but instead Dakota laughed. Men interact differently than women, that’s for sure. I retrieved the box of Starlight Silver Polish from the pantry and handed it to Dakota. “Here you go.”
“Any chance y’all might need some help?” Dakota’s hopeful gaze moved from me to Buck. “I’m looking for work.”
“Laying tile takes practice,” Buck said, “and it’s backbreaking work.”
“I’m willing to learn,” Dakota said, “and I’m stronger than I look.”
My cousin and I exchanged looks. My look said, This kid hasn’t been able to hold a job. Hiring him could be asking for trouble. Buck’s look said, We need to get this house done and sold. I’ve got no qualms firing the punk if he messes up. I raised my brows and pursed my lips, my look now saying, If this goes south, it’s on you.
Our telepathic conversation completed, Buck eyed the young man and conversed audibly. “Tell you what, Dakota. We’ll give you ten dollars an hour to paint. Think you can handle that?”
Painting was tedious work. Ten dollars an hour was a bargain. Dakota could save us time and effort, as long as he did a decent job.
The boy shifted the box of silver cleaner into his left arm and stretched out his hand to shake mine, then Buck’s. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“One screwup,” Buck said, leaning down to look into Dakota’s face, “and we’re done.”
“I understand, sir.”
Sir. I had to snicker at that.
Buck, on the other hand, smiled smugly and released Dakota’s hand. “When can you start?”
Dakota shrugged. “Now?”
Buck turned to address me. “Show him the ropes. Start him on the downstairs bedrooms.”
“Okeydoke.”
Dakota carried the box down to the landing. I followed him.
He looked up at his father. “They’ve hired me to paint.” He angled his head to indicate me. “She’s gonna show me what to do.”
“Don’t that beat all,” Wayne remarked. “One minute you’re calling me a killer, and the next minute you’re hiring my son to work for you.” He snorted. “What time should I pick him up?”
Knowing that Buck and I planned to put in a long day, but that it could also be difficult to pinpoint exactly when we’d be at a convenient stopping point, I said, “Six o’clock. Ish.”
“He’s all yours, then.” With that, Wayne reached out to take the box of silver polish from his son.
“Leave it for now.” Collin motioned for Dakota to set the box down on the landing. “I’ll need to take a quick look before any property is released from this house.”
Wayne raised his hands and brows. “Whatever you say, officer.” With that, he headed out the door.
Collin jerked his head toward the door. “Wait outside, too, Dakota. I’ll let you back inside in a minute or two.”
Dakota stepped out onto the porch and the detective locked the door behind him. He gestured at the frosted glass pane in the door and whispered, “Stand in front of the glass so he can’t see in. I don’t want him to see where the secret compartment is located.”
I stood with my back to the door, raising my arms over my shoulders as if I were going through an airport scanner so that I’d block as much of the glass as possible. Collin eased himself down the steps until he reached the bottom, the telltale step giving off its signature creak. He pulled a pair of disposable latex gloves from his jacket pocket, donned them, and pointed at the bottom step. This one? he mouthed.
I nodded.
He lifted the step and peered into the now-empty compartment. Bending forward, he examined the hinges. When he finished, he carefully lowered the step and returned to the landing, still whispering so Dakota couldn’t overhear. “It’s still possible Wayne killed Nelda, but it’s clear he didn’t know about the hidden will or he would have taken it with him to eliminate the evidence. Dakota’s reaction tells me he didn’t kill Nelda.”
“I reached the same conclusion.”
Collin returned to the landing and opened the box of silver polish. “These bottles are rectangular, and one is missing.”
“You think that’s what could have been under Nelda? You think she snagged a bottle of this stuff while she was here? Or that whoever pushed her dropped the bottle and it ended up under her?”
“One way to find out.”
He opened the front door to address Wayne. “There’s a bottle of polish missing from your box. Where is it?”
“Mom bought a bottle from me to polish her silver a few months ago, before she passed. Only bottle I ever sold. Nobody else seemed to be interested. I left the box here thinking maybe she could sell some to her friends, but she must’ve had Andy put it in the attic. I forgot all about it until she mentioned it.” He pointed to me.
“Where’s that bottle now?” Collin asked.
“Heck if I know. If the bottle wasn’t with Mom’s other cleaning supplies, she must’ve used it up.”
Collin turned to me and I shrugged to let him know I hadn’t seen the bottle anywhere.
The detective handed the box to Wayne and told him he was free to go before closing the door again. Collin tugged the gloves off his hands and tucked them under his arm, digging in his pants pocket for his car keys. “I’m off to speak with Andy and Dulce. I want to know if Andy was aware of the newer will. I also want to know more about Carl and Dulce’s relationship. I’ll talk to Carl, too, see if his story and Dulce’s jibe. I’m going to speak with Roxanne again, also. I want to know just how deep a feud she had with Nelda Dolan.”
I wanted to know, too.
With that, he headed off. I could only hope that the next time we spoke, he’d have some answers.
Leaving Dakota on the porch, I went to my SUV and retrieved the same paint-spattered pair of coveralls he had used to keep warm the morning we’d discovered Nelda Dolan in the doorway. He could have them. They were about ready for the trash can anyway. I returned t
o the house and held them out. “Come in and put these on. They’ll protect your clothes.”
We stepped back inside, where he slid into the garment. I had several inches on the kid. While the coveralls fit me just fine, the legs puddled around his ankles and the sleeves swallowed his hands, much like the ill-fitting suit he’d worn to Nelda’s memorial service. To rectify the problem, I grabbed my staple gun from my toolbox and proceeded to improvise a hem at the bottom of each leg. “Roll the sleeves back,” I instructed. Once he had, I slid the gun under the edge, squeezed the handle, and stapled the rolls into place. Kachunk. Kachunk. Kachunk. “That ought to do ya.” I returned the staple gun to the toolbox.
I led him out to the garage, where we bypassed the rolls of old carpet to round up canvas tarps, painter’s tape, rollers, brushes, stirrers, trays, and cans of paint. We carried it back to the bedroom where he used to sleep and spent the next twenty minutes engaged in a detailed lesson on the ins and outs of painting. How to apply the tape to protect the trim. When to use regular brushes, when to use foam brushes, and when to use a roller. How to avoid leaving brushstrokes in the paint. The importance of thoroughly stirring the paint before applying it.
“The most important thing to remember,” I told him, “is not to get into a hurry. If you rush, you’ll end up splashing and dripping. You’ve got to take your time and do it right so it doesn’t look sloppy. Got it?”
“Got it.”
He’d seemed to be paying attention, and had even asked a couple of perceptive questions. Maybe he wasn’t the total screwup the ladies of Songbird Circle seemed to think he was. At least he couldn’t do any permanent damage here. If he did a poor job, we could always paint over it. And if he did a good job, Buck and I could focus on the bigger tasks.
I handed Dakota a brush. “Here you go, Michelangelo.”
He smiled, and I was pleased he’d gotten the reference. But then he spoiled it by saying, “You like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, too?”
What have Buck and I gotten ourselves into?
CHAPTER 26
HITCHING AND SNITCHING
WHITNEY
I checked Dakota’s progress repeatedly throughout the day, putting more and more time between my visits downstairs as I became more comfortable that he was doing a competent job. He’d been exceedingly careful at the points where the wall met the trim, his lines razor straight, not a single smudge in sight. I spotted only a couple fresh drips on the coveralls and canvas tarps. Thanks to me and Buck, this kid might have just found his forte.
After Wayne picked Dakota up Tuesday evening, and despite the fact that we had plenty of home-improvement projects to complete, I proposed another project to Buck—Operation Hitch-and-Snitch. The detective might not be sure whether to listen to his gut or his brain, but as long as there was any chance Luis Bautista could be Nelda’s killer, I thought the matter was worth pursuing. If her killer was safely confined behind bars, we’d have a much better chance of selling the house for a decent price. The sooner the better, too. The more time we could put between the killer’s arrest and listing the house, the greater the chance that the local news cycle would have moved on to another story and Nelda’s murder would no longer be on everyone’s news feed and minds.
Buck was all in. “Is Colette free tonight?” he asked. “It could be helpful to have her along.”
“She’s got the night off,” I said. “Which means she’s probably cooked something at our place. Come over and we’ll see if we can convince her to join us again.” We were hardly Seal Team Six, but we’d successfully run surveillance together in the earlier investigation, followed a potential suspect, and interrogated her at her apartment. The suspect had thrown a glass of iced tea in my face, but I’d learned from the experience. If the driver from Hitch-a-Ride tried to throw anything at me, I now knew to duck.
As we headed out to our cars, my eyes spotted a large red sign posted in the flowerbed next to Roxanne’s front porch. It featured an image of a gun and read THIS PROPERTY PROTECTED BY SMITH AND WESSON SECURITY. A glance around the circle told me that most of the others had taken a similar but slightly different tack. Gayle’s wooden fence now bore a posted placard that read BEWARE OF DOG. Is she referring to Mosey? That dog was anything but dangerous. Then again, there was a risk someone could trip over him. Mary Sue had placed a preprinted sign in her front window that read THESE PREMISES UNDER 24-HOUR VIDEO SURVEILLANCE. A camera that I suspected was a fake was mounted over her front door. Carl and Becky Dolan were the only ones on the block who hadn’t posted some type of warning. Did that mean anything?
While I certainly couldn’t blame the neighbors for feeling anxious, I wasn’t sure how effective the measures would be. I also had no idea how Roxanne thought she’d be able to fire a gun with those long fingernails getting in the way. She’d have a hard time getting her index finger on the trigger. Anyone who got a glimpse of Mosey would be able to tell he was no real threat. The camera over Mary Sue’s door looked cheap and flimsy, a dead giveaway that it was merely a decoy.
Buck followed me home. As we stepped inside the stone cottage, we were met by the enticing scents of garlic and pesto. Looked like Colette had made Italian tonight.
“I’m home!” I called out to her.
“I’m making pizzas!” she called back.
“Hope you got enough for me!” Buck added.
She poked her head around the doorway of the kitchen. “Buck’s here? Darn,” she teased. “There go our leftovers.”
After cleaning ourselves up, Buck and I joined her in the kitchen. She’d prepared a caprese salad and margherita pizzas with pesto sauce.
I filled my plate with three slices of pizza and enough salad to feed a dozen bunny rabbits. Physical labor sure makes a girl work up an appetite.
Buck followed suit. “Guess I’ll have to save that frozen TV dinner for another night.”
Sitting on stools at the breakfast bar, I explained my plan to Colette and Buck while we ate. “I’ll download the Hitch-a-Ride app to my phone. I know where Luis Bautista lives from the photos he posted on social media. He told Detective Flynn that he only drives at night. We’ll park somewhere near his apartment and I’ll request a ride. If I don’t get him on the first request, I’ll cancel and try again until I get him as my driver. You two can each follow his car, make sure he doesn’t drive off into the boonies somewhere to kill me. I’ll request a ride to Tootsie’s on SoBro.”
Tootsie’s or, more formally, Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, was a Nashville landmark, having been in business since the 1960s. It sat right around the corner from the Ryman Auditorium, the original home of the Grand Ole Opry. Among Tootsie’s early customers were Patsy Cline, Kris Kristofferson, and Waylon Jennings. Several movies had been filmed on site, too. It would be a safe, public place for Bautista to drop me off.
Buck raised a slice of the delicious pizza from his plate. “It might make more sense for Colette and me to follow you together in one vehicle. That way, the driver can keep an eye on traffic and the passenger can keep an eye on you.”
One car, two cars, it really didn’t matter. “However y’all want to do it is fine with me. Just make sure you don’t lose him.”
Colette bit her lip. “This is crazy, Whitney. If Luis Bautista murdered Nelda and he figures out you’re spying on him, he could kill you, too.”
“I’ll have these in my purse.” I held up the pepper spray she’d given me and the large wrench that had become my defensive weapon of choice.
Buck didn’t seem to share Colette’s concern about my safety. He finished chewing his pizza and said, “She’ll be fine. Bautista can’t kill Whitney while he’s driving, and if he pulls over somewhere, we’ll be right there to make sure it doesn’t happen.” Buck pulled a heavy-duty metal hammer from his own toolbox and held it up, flexing his well-developed bicep. “I’ll keep this in reach. If he tries to hurt my cousin, he’ll be sorry. This thing could smash a skull.”
It was nice to know he had my back
. “Thanks, Buck.”
He reached into his toolbox and pulled out a long screwdriver, holding it out to Colette. “Here. You can stab him with this.”
She looked down at the screwdriver and crinkled up her nose. “I’ve got something much better.” She stood and stepped over to one of the kitchen drawers, opening it to retrieve what appeared to be a medieval torture device. The steel tool had a straight handle attached to a flat plate sporting a mass of sharp, pointed nails. She brandished it. “How about I take this instead? It’s my best meat tenderizer. Twenty-eight ultra-sharp prongs.” She faked a couple of swings in Buck’s direction.
“Yikes,” I said. “That tenderizer could turn a person into a pegboard. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that thing.”
Buck tossed the screwdriver back into his toolbox. “Whatever suits your fancy.”
When we finished our meal, I downloaded the Hitch-a-Ride app. Armed with pepper spray, a wrench, a hammer, and a meat mallet, we climbed into Colette’s car and drove to the apartment complex where Luis Bautista lived. I didn’t know which particular unit he resided in, but I figured we could identify his car by the glow-in-the-dark stickers all Hitch-a-Ride drivers sported in their front and back windows. Since it was dark outside already, I didn’t have to worry that he might spot me performing surveillance from the backseat of Colette’s Chevy.
We were circling slowly through the lot when I saw a thumbs-up sticker glowing in the back window of a silver Honda Accord. I pointed. “That must be his car. Looks like he hasn’t headed out yet.”
Colette drove to a nearby shopping center, and I climbed out to wait in front of a florist’s shop. The place was closed for the night, but maybe Bautista would assume I worked here and had been making floral arrangements after business hours to be delivered tomorrow. After dropping me off, Colette and Buck waited in front of a barbershop at the far end of the parking lot while I logged into the app.
