Dead in the Doorway

by Diane Kelly

  HOOONK! Hogarty lay on the horn, letting us know her patience with our chitchat had run out.

  I angled my head to indicate the patrol car. “You going to let her treat you like that?”

  “Heck, yeah,” he said. “She’s terrifying.” The grin tugging at his lips negated his words. Still, it was clear he respected his former training officer even if he didn’t fear her. “I’ll be back in touch once we figure out what’s going on.” With that, we walked to the cruiser. He directed me to sit up front with Officer Hogarty while he slipped into the back with Santos. “Drop her at the gas station up there,” he instructed the officer, pointing at the illuminated sign up ahead. “She can call for a ride from there.”

  Hogarty pulled onto the freeway, drove for a short way, and took the same exit Buck and Colette had taken. No need for me to call them. Colette’s Cruze was parked at the edge of the gas station’s lot.

  As I hopped out of the squad car, Collin climbed out of the back and took my seat up front. Once they’d driven off, I headed to Colette’s car and slid into the backseat.

  Both Colette and Buck turned to look at me, bumping foreheads in the process.

  “Ow!” Colette rubbed her head.

  “Sorry,” Buck replied. “Want me to kiss your boo-boo?”

  I addressed my friend. “Want me to blast him with my pepper spray?”

  A smile skittered across her face before she became serious again. “What happened back there?”

  I gave them an update. The driver was not, in fact, Luis Bautista. His alter ego had texted during the ride, outing his roommate as a fraud. The driver’s real name was Caesar Santos. Why he was pretending to be Luis was anyone’s guess at this point but, with any luck, Detective Flynn would soon get to the bottom of things.

  Colette turned around to start her engine. “It seems coincidental that Dakota would have taken a ride with a person pretending to be someone else on the night Nelda Dolan was killed. I bet Caesar Santos pushed her down the stairs.”

  Buck clucked his tongue. “Nah. I still say Carl Dolan killed his wife.”

  One of them could be right. But I still couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that Roxanne Donnelly and her long fingernails might have had something to do with it. While I couldn’t solve the case tonight, I could treat my best friend and my cousin to flavored moonshine and live music. “Aim for Tootsie’s,” I told Colette. “Drinks on me.”

  CHAPTER 28

  SHATTERED

  WHITNEY

  The sun had just come up when I pulled into Songbird Circle at a quarter past seven Wednesday morning. A patrol car sat in front of Mary Sue’s house next door. Detective Flynn’s plain sedan was there, too. Oh, my gosh! What happened? Is Mary Sue all right? Though her curtains were closed, it was clear from the sliver of light between the panels that the lights were on in her living room. Is she inside? And, if so, is she still alive?

  Just as I’d panicked last night when I thought the driver from Hitch-a-Ride might make a break for it, I felt myself panicking again at the thought that someone might have hurt Mary Sue. My skin throbbed with a frenetic pulse and an instant sweat slicked my skin, gluing me to my coveralls and rendering my heavy coat unnecessary. I gunned my engine, screeched to a stop in the driveway of the flip house, and jumped from my car before it had even settled in place. I ran next door as fast as my legs could move.

  I jabbed the doorbell repeatedly, the ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong sounding especially loud in the quiet, still morning. I willed the cops or detective to come quickly to the door. Hurry up! Hurry up! My ears picked up a shuffling sound from behind the door, probably someone looking out the peephole, before I heard the sound of the deadbolt sliding back. The door opened to reveal Officer Hogarty. She wore her stiffly pressed uniform and a frown.

  “Is Mary Sue okay?” I cried.

  Before Hogarty could respond, my elderly neighbor’s voice came from inside. “I’m not hurt!” Mary Sue called. “But I had the bejeebers scared out of me!”

  Part of me wondered what, exactly, a bejeeber was, and how many a woman her size might contain. Another part of me thought I needed to get my mind back on track. “May I come in?” I asked Hogarty.

  The officer turned and repeated the question to the detective. “Hey, Flynn. Can Ms. Whitaker come in the house?”

  “Sure.”

  I stepped inside, stopping on the rug in the entryway. Mary Sue sat on her sofa, dressed in her nightclothes, a thick robe, and house slippers. She wore no makeup, only her glasses, and her hair was covered in a silky wrap.

  She clutched her robe at the neck. “Someone tried to get into my house!”

  I gasped and my head seemed to go hollow. What had been only conjecture a moment before was now real. Had the killer come back? Was the killer targeting older women, like the detective had surmised earlier? I rushed over to the couch. “What happened?”

  “I was fast asleep,” she said, looking up at me pie-eyed, “when a noise woke me up. It sounded like glass breaking. I thought maybe it had come from outside, but the next thing I knew my alarm kicked on. I didn’t turn it off. I locked myself in my bedroom and let it keep right on blaring until the security company called. I told them to send the police right away.”

  Collin looked up from the couch. “Someone broke her downstairs powder room window from the outside.”

  I closed my eyes in a silent, grateful prayer. Whoever was preying on these vulnerable women deserved far more than a whack with a wrench. I hoped whoever it was would get their due, and soon. It was nerve-wracking enough for me merely working on the circle, but Mary Sue, Roxanne, and the Garners had to live day in and day out under the constant fear that Nelda’s killer might return to claim another victim. Carl and Becky, too. That stress had to be taking a toll on them.

  I opened my eyes and racked my brain. It had been another frosty night. The grass was still coated in frozen dew. If the intruder had come through the yard, he would have left a trail, right? I addressed the detective. “Are there footprints you could follow?”

  “Unfortunately, no. There are concrete pavers down the side of the house all the way to the back fence. My guess is that the burglar traveled down the pavers, hopped the locked fence, and stood on the patio to break the window.”

  I returned my attention to Mary Sue, dropping to one knee next to her coffee table so we’d be at the same eye level. “Thank goodness the alarm scared him off and he didn’t get inside.”

  She shuddered and pulled even tighter at the neck of her robe. “I don’t even want to think about what he might have done then!”

  “Tell you what,” I said, “as soon as the police are done here, I’ll take a look at your window. If it’s a standard size, the home improvement store is likely to have a replacement in stock. If so, Buck and I can fix it for you right away. If not, I can pick up some plywood to seal off the hole until a window can be ordered.”

  Her eyes blinked, misty, as she offered an appreciative smile. “You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course,” I said. “We’re neighbors. That’s what neighbors do.” Or they kill each other.

  I turned to Collin. “Will you let me know when things are done here?”

  He nodded.

  I stood and gave Mary Sue a supportive pat on the shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

  “Thanks, Whitney. You’re a godsend.”

  As I exited her house, I found Gayle, Bertram, and Roxanne rushing toward me up the driveway. All three wore their nightclothes with their winter coats thrown on over them. Roxanne’s pajamas bore a racy leopard print.

  “Whitney! Whitney!” Roxanne raised her clawed hand, too, as if I would somehow not see or hear the group otherwise. “What’s going on?”

  I held up my palms. “Mary Sue’s okay. Someone broke the window in her powder room, but the alarm scared them off.”

  Despite her limping gait, Gayle never broke her stride. “Goodness! We better get in there!”

  The three rushed
past me and barged right into Mary Sue’s house without bothering to ring the bell.

  Officer Hogarty halted the onslaught. “Hold on, folks!”

  A crime scene van rolled up to the house as I made my way to the flip house next door. Will they find prints? Some other evidence that will tell us who tried to break into Mary Sue’s place? And if they do, will it also tell us who killed Nelda Dolan? It was possible that the attempted burglary was unrelated to the intruder who’d shoved Nelda down the stairs next door. But it seemed awfully coincidental that there’d be two different intruders in adjacent houses within a matter of days. It has to be the same person, doesn’t it?

  I went into the flip house, locking the door behind me. Even with armed law enforcement next door, it felt eerily dark and quiet inside. I scurried around, turning on every light in the place. Not exactly the most economical or environmentally friendly thing to do but, until either Buck arrived or the sun was fully up in the sky, I’d leave them burning.

  I was working on the tile in the master bath when Buck arrived half an hour later.

  “It’s me!” he hollered.

  “I’m in the master!” I called back.

  A moment later, he appeared in the doorway. “There’s cops out there again. What in the Sam Hill is going on now?”

  I told him that someone had smashed Mary Sue’s window. “The crime scene team is searching for clues.”

  He frowned, his features rigid. “It’s a shame that poor old lady had go through such a fright, but maybe they’ll find a clue and nail whoever’s been causing all this trouble.”

  “Speaking of nails, I told Mary Sue we’d fix her window as soon as the police are done over there.”

  “It’s the least we could do. I have half a mind to install a trip wire around this entire circle.”

  My phone chimed with an incoming text from the detective, providing both a photo of the broken window and the measurements. 23.75″ × 53.25″. Good. The glass was a standard size. I texted him back a thumbs-up and returned my attention to my cousin. “I’m heading to the hardware store for a window. I’ll be back ASAP.”

  “All righty. While you’re gone, I’ll finish up the kitchen floor.”

  I climbed back into my car. Luckily, the engine was still warm enough I could use the heater right away. I drove to the home-improvement store, snatched a cart, and aimed directly for the door and window department. After selecting the proper-sized window, I found myself winding my way to the aisle stocked with protective gear. I bypassed the tool belts, safety goggles, and hard hats to stop in front of the small display of basic coveralls. I selected a gray pair in men’s size small and tossed them into my cart. I bought a box of disposable shoe covers, too. In for a penny, in for a pound. I charged the window and coveralls to my credit card, and returned to Songbird Circle.

  As I approached our house, my eyes caught a glimpse of Carl heading up Mary Sue’s walk with a pink bakery box. Looked like he’d gotten his hands on more of Dulce’s dulces. Someone must have notified him about the attempted break-in.

  Was Carl truly being thoughtful, taking a treat to a friend and neighbor in need of comfort? Or was he playing a role, feigning concern when he was actually trying to get the inside scoop on the investigation? And how would Officer Hogarty and Detective Flynn feel when he showed up with donuts, a typical cop cliché?

  I parked in the driveway of the flip house and sat there a moment, pondering things. Carl was up relatively early today. He’d slept in quite late the night after Nelda had been killed, and hadn’t ventured out to look for his wife. But maybe he’d risen early today because he’d gotten a call from Roxanne or the Garners about the incident. If he’d been the one to end Nelda’s life, is he also the one who’d smashed Mary Sue’s window? Could be. If he’d been caught outside, he’d have a ready excuse. He could claim he’d spotted a prowler and come over to investigate. No one would be the wiser. But had he broken Mary Sue’s window to throw suspicion off himself? To make it appear that the murderer was someone targeting other residents or houses in the neighborhood, not just Nelda in particular?

  Having left the bakery box behind, Carl emerged from Mary Sue’s house and headed back to his own. It would certainly be ironic if the police were at the house on one side of our property while the killer and window-smasher wiled away his morning in the house on the other side. Buck and I would be stuck in the middle. I already felt that way, in a sense. All of the folks on the circle were suspects, but they were also neighbors who were fast becoming friends. It was growing harder and harder to remain objective.

  Carl’s front door closed behind him, shutting his secrets in with him. Buck and I might get the truth out of Carl if we applied thumbscrews. I had some large screws in my toolbox that would do the trick. But I supposed I’d only end up getting arrested for assault myself. Besides, I didn’t have the stomach for such violence. But I did wish we could get to the truth.

  I went back inside to find Dakota had already arrived, punctual and prepared to paint. Despite the fact that he wore my hand-me-down coveralls with the stapled hems, he looked more grown-up today. He carried himself more confidently, held his head higher, bore a determined glint in his eye. Discovering something he was good at seemed to have buoyed his self-esteem. It was nice that something positive had resulted from recent events.

  “Heads up!” I tossed him the packaged pair of coveralls, followed by the box of booties. I gestured to the stapled and colorfully paint-splattered coveralls he currently wore. “Those old coveralls are ready for the trash heap, not to mention they’re a tripping hazard. The new ones should fit you much better.”

  He looked down at the items before lifting his head. “Thanks. I was getting a little tired of looking like a birthday clown.”

  I was putting the finishing touches on the bathroom’s backsplash an hour later when a knock sounded at the front door downstairs.

  “Can you get that?” Buck hollered. “I’m knee-deep in grout here!”

  “I got it!” I called back. I headed out of the bedroom, into the hall, and down the stairs. Even though his image was blurred by the frosted glass, I was familiar enough with the detective by now to recognize his dark hair, navy police jacket, and his self-possessed-yet-vigilant posture. I opened the door.

  While his spine stood straight and strong, his face appeared weary, drooping and sallow. The investigation seemed to be taking a toll. “We can’t seem to go more than a few hours without crossing paths, can we?”

  “Sure seems that way. All done at Mrs. Mecklenberg’s?”

  “We are. Let me come in out of this cold and I’ll tell you what we’ve found.”

  “Of course.” I stepped back to let him in. “Just so you know, Dakota’s working downstairs.”

  He gestured up the staircase to the second floor. We went upstairs and into the master bedroom, where he closed the door behind us. “The pinky swear applies to what I’m about to tell you, okay?”

  I raised a crooked pinky in acknowledgement.

  He kept his voice low lest it travel through the vents and ducts. “The crime-scene techs found no prints on the scene. They didn’t find any clothing fibers on the top of the fence, either.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Not necessarily. Depends on the fabric the burglar wore. Some fabrics, like wools or knits, shed and snag more easily than others. The burglar might have been wearing something smooth, like denim, nylon, or spandex.”

  “Spandex. So the intruder could have been a ballerina or a yoga instructor.”

  “At this point, a ballerina or yoga instructor is as likely as anyone else. None of the other leads have panned out.”

  Speaking of those leads … “What about Caesar Santos? Did you find out why he was driving under his roommate’s name?”

  “Caesar has a felony conviction. He was pulled over for expired tags a couple of years ago and the patrol officer noticed a prescription bottle of Ritalin lying on the back floorboard. Ritalin is a sti
mulant. It’s prescribed to people who suffer from narcolepsy and to kids with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. It’s also a controlled substance, so possession of Ritalin without a prescription is illegal. Based on the amount in the bottle, Santos was initially charged with a Class C felony, which is punishable by three to six years in prison and a fine of up to a hundred grand.”

  “Whoa.” The state of Tennessee certainly didn’t mess around when it came to drug offenses.

  “Santos claimed then, and still claims now, that he gave some other students a ride earlier that day and that one of them must have left the pills in his car. None of those students would own up to having stolen the drug or buying it off someone with a legitimate prescription. Unfortunately, college kids with valid prescriptions sometimes sell their pills to other students who think it will help them cram for exams, have better focus and get better grades.”

  “Isn’t that what coffee’s for?” I wouldn’t have made it through college without copious amounts of caffeine. But an illegal prescription drug? I never would have dreamed of taking something that hadn’t been prescribed to me. What if it had unexpected side effects or a bad interaction with another medication? Those kids were taking serious chances with their health.

  “Coffee’s a much better option, that’s for sure,” Collin agreed. “At any rate, because it was his first offense and Santos was otherwise doing well, attending school and working part-time as a busboy at a barbecue joint, the defense attorney representing him was able to wrangle the prosecutor down. Santos pleaded guilty to a Class E felony, and his sentence was probated.”

  “So he never actually went to jail?”

  “Correct. He fulfilled the terms of his probation. The conviction remains on his record, though. When he quit the barbecue place, he had trouble finding work because of his criminal history. He came up with the plan to sell his car to his roommate for a dollar so they could put the vehicle in Bautista’s name. He convinced Bautista to apply to drive for Hitch-a-Ride, but Santos is the one who actually did the driving and kept the earnings. He also paid all of the expenses related to the car, and reimbursed Bautista for the income taxes he had to pay on the earnings reported to him.”