Dead in the Doorway

by Diane Kelly

  Dakota arrived not long after me. After I opened the door to let him in, he stood on the porch and motioned next door, worry lines creasing his forehead. “The police are at Mrs. Mecklenberg’s house again. You think somebody tried to bust into her house again? Should we go see if she’s okay?”

  I poked my head out and glanced over. Both Detective Flynn’s unmarked sedan and a police cruiser were parked at the curb. Knowing the reason for their visit, I dismissed Dakota’s worries. “If she wasn’t okay, they’d have called an ambulance. They’re probably just following up on the break-in.”

  His face relaxed. “Oh. Okay.” He came inside and I closed the door behind him.

  Buck appeared at the top of the stairs. “There’s my right-hand man.” He waved Dakota up the stairs. “Come on up. I’m laying hardwoods in the master. I’ll teach you how. It’ll give you strong arms and shoulders. The girls will like that.”

  On hearing that last bit, Dakota couldn’t get up the stairs fast enough.

  Though I had some finishing work to do in the guest bath downstairs, I was far more interested in knowing what was happening at Mary Sue’s house. I decided to start on the living-room floors, where I could keep an eye on things out the front window. If she was going to be hauled off in handcuffs, I wanted to see it.

  While I normally wore noise-canceling headphones to drown out the banging and electric saw noise when I installed flooring, I decided to forego the headphones today. The last thing I wanted was someone, especially a killer, sneaking up on me. I needed all my senses at full power.

  Twenty minutes later, Mary Sue’s front door opened. I stepped to the corner of the window to get the best view. Officer Hogarty and Detective Flynn emerged, but they didn’t have Mary Sue in handcuffs. Rather, she gave them a friendly smile and a wave goodbye as they departed, as if they’d stopped by for a cup of tea. What the heck had happened in there?

  The instant the detective closed to the door to his car, I dialed his phone. “What did she say?”

  Glancing up through his windshield, he met my gaze. He put me on speaker and sat the phone down in his cup holder. “Let me get out of here and I’ll fill you in.”

  He started his engine and drove off, following Hogarty’s squad card. A minute later, the engine noise quieted as he apparently pulled over somewhere. “Her garage is full of junk,” he said. “Pretty normal for someone who’s lived in one place for a long time. She’s barely got room for her car in there. She keeps her garbage can and recycle bin on her covered patio out back.”

  In other words, the recycle bin and brick were within easy reach of a prowler looking for something to use to smash Mary Sue’s powder room window.

  “The recycle bin was pushed under a potting table. When we came by after the break-in, she’d said nothing on the table appeared disturbed, so we didn’t pay it much mind. We assumed the intruder had used his elbow or a tool he’d brought with him.”

  Hindsight was twenty-twenty, of course. Knowing now that the brick had probably been taken from the bin to smash the window, it seemed that the potting table and bin should have been inspected more thoroughly. Then again, maybe Mary Sue hadn’t wanted them to spend too much time looking around there, discover the brick she herself had used to smash her window. Maybe she had intentionally misled them when she said nothing looked disturbed. Then again, maybe the glass fragments on the brick were from a broken jar of applesauce she’d dropped in her recycling. Who knew? Only Mary Sue. That’s who.

  “She said she was wondering what happened to her brick,” Collin added. “She noticed it was missing when she retrieved her bin late yesterday afternoon.”

  “You told her you took it?”

  “I had to. Otherwise I couldn’t explain how we knew the brick had glass dust in the holes. But I made it seem casual, like the department was just keeping an eye on the neighborhood for safety’s sake and happened to notice the brick in her bin, thought maybe it was something a prowler would pick up to smash a window. I told her the same thing I told you, that things in the trash and recycling can be picked up by law enforcement without a warrant. I told her I hadn’t come to her door because I didn’t want to disturb her or get her hopes up that we might catch the prowler if it didn’t pan out.”

  “It seems unlikely a prowler would have smashed the window with the brick, then returned it to the bin.” It seemed far more likely a prowler would have dropped the brick when the alarm went off, or maybe run off with it.

  “I’m not saying you’re necessarily wrong, but we can’t jump to conclusions. My job is to build a case I can take to the district attorney. I can’t build a case on suppositions and guesses alone. I need cold, hard proof.”

  Cold, hard proof. Where could we get some?

  “Even if Mary Sue faked the break-in,” he added, “it wouldn’t prove she killed Nelda Dolan. She’s a widow who also lost her best friend in recent months. Maybe she just wanted some attention.”

  The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, but it made sense. Mary Sue was relatively plain and reserved, easy to overlook when compared to the vivacious and verbose Roxanne. Gayle still had Bertram to keep her company. Maybe Mary Sue was lonely, looking for sympathy and companionship.

  “Be careful tonight,” he warned. “Every woman at that poker game is still a potential suspect.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “Roxanne’s hosting. She’s got her shotgun at the ready.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”

  Leaving the hardwood floors for later, I returned to finish the tile work, no longer buoyed by the hope of resolving the case, but feeling as mired down in muck as the tiles I coated with grout and stuck to the wall. Maybe we’d never figure out who killed Nelda Dolan and why. Maybe the identity of her murderer was destined to forever remain a mystery. Although a short blurb had appeared on the evening news and in the newspaper about the investigation, nobody had contacted the Nashville police department with any clues.

  I pushed another tile up against the wall. If only these walls could talk. They could tell us what they witnessed the night Nelda took her tumble down the staircase.

  CHAPTER 32

  HEARTS, SPADES, DIAMONDS, AND CLUBS

  WHITNEY

  My mood improved when I went home at the end of the workday and smelled the enticing scent of freshly baked peach pies. Buck had followed me to the house so he could pick up his pie and take it home with him. Cradling Sawdust to my chest, I ventured into the kitchen to find the pies lined up on the breakfast bar and Colette sprinkling the still-warm crusts with coarse sugar.

  “They look like works of art!” I exclaimed.

  Each pie had a different fancy crust. The one she’d made for tonight’s poker game had followed Lillian’s instructions precisely, and bore a tightly woven lattice top with a crimped edge. The crust on another was decorated with small stars Colette had cut with a cookie cutter. A third had what appeared to be a braided crust encircling it and lying across the top. In yet another she’d etched intricate flower-shaped vents in the crust.

  Colette yanked a stretch of aluminum foil from a box and tore it off with a loud rrrrrip. “I had some fun with the crusts. Couldn’t help myself.”

  As she wrapped the pie for the poker game in foil, I said, “You are going to make a lot of people very happy, Colette.”

  “One of them is going to be me,” Buck said. “Which pie is mine?”

  Colette swept her hand in an arc over the uncovered pies. “Take your pick.”

  Buck chose one with twisted lattice ribbons. “Dibs on this one.”

  Colette ripped off another sheet of foil and held it out to Buck. “I bake. You wrap.”

  “Works for me.” He took the foil from her and carefully laid it over his pie, bending it over the edges to secure it.

  “I’m going to clean up,” I told Colette. “I’ll be ready to go in half an hour.”

  Sawdust lounged in the bathroom sink while I showered and shampooed. He followe
d me to my bedroom afterward, where I fixed my hair, applied my makeup, and dressed. Ready now, I returned to the kitchen, surprised to find Buck still hanging around, sitting on a stool with a small plate and a bottle of beer in front of him.

  “It’s Friday night,” I told him. “Go out somewhere. Get a life.”

  “I’d rather eat this guacamole.” He snatched another blue corn tortilla chip from the bag on the counter and scooped up a huge blob of the green stuff.

  I slapped his hand. “That’s for tonight’s poker game!”

  “Don’t worry,” Colette said. “We’ve got plenty of avocados. I can make some more.” She reached over to the big red bowl where she kept fresh fruit and vegetables, fished out an avocado, and held it to her ear.

  Buck stopped before taking his bite and snorted. “What’s that all about?”

  “She’s the avocado whisperer,” I said.

  Colette returned the avocado to the bowl. “That one won’t be ready for seventeen more hours.” She fished out another and held it to her ear. “Almost.” She raised three fingers, then two, then one as she counted down. “Three. Two. One. Now it’s ready.”

  Buck continued to hold his loaded chip aloft. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’s right up there with ‘Mary Sue Mecklenberg killed Nelda Dolan.’”

  I scowled at my cousin. “How do you know she didn’t do it?”

  “Because she weighs all of ninety pounds soaking wet and is about as ornery as a butterfly.”

  “You only spoke to her once, at the wake. What do you know?” I pushed his hand toward his mouth and shoved the chip inside. That’ll shut him up for a bit. Of course, Buck could be right. I could be way off base. In fact, after speaking with the detective earlier in the day, I was fairly certain I was so far off base that I wasn’t even on the field anymore. Mary Sue had needed help lifting her cast iron skillet the last time we’d played poker. She wasn’t strong enough to push someone down a flight of stairs, was she?

  I glanced at the clock on the stove. “We better get going or we’ll be late.”

  Colette carefully slid the pies onto the shelves of her insulated warming box, while I snapped a lid onto the plastic bowl of guacamole and rounded up a fresh bag of chips. Colette had also prepared a colorful stacked salad in the trifle bowl this time, layering shredded lettuce, cucumbers, purple cabbage, cherry tomatoes, and chopped carrots like an edible rainbow. She’d also prepared a warm baguette topped with olive tapenade. The ladies were sure to love these offerings almost as much as Lillian’s pie.

  Buck carried the catering equipment out to my SUV and loaded it in the back. We placed the other food items next to it, and climbed into the front. I started the engine and blew a kiss to Sawdust, who’d resumed his usual spot at the top of his cat tree and was watching us depart. He raised a paw and touched it to the glass, as if catching my kiss. My heart became as warm and gooey as the pie filling. I love that furry little guy.

  As we drove, the delicious scent of warm peach pie filled my car. Somebody could make a fortune manufacturing an air freshener with the fruity scent. Before long, we were in the driveway of the flip house, rounding up the appetizers and salad. Mary Sue wandered out of her house next door with her cast-iron skillet cradled in both arms. She really is frail, isn’t she?

  “Let me carry that for you.” I scurried over to relieve her of her heavy burden.

  “Thanks, Whitney.” She raised her nose to the air and sniffed, her brows drawing in to form a befuddled V. I motioned to Colette to close the door to my cargo bay before Mary Sue could figure out it was full of peach pie. No sense ruining the surprise. Luckily, a brisk breeze blew in from behind the woman, whisking the pie aroma away with it.

  After I introduced my roommate and my neighbor, Mary Sue said, “That fruit salad you put together last week was so pretty we almost couldn’t bear to eat it.”

  Colette held up the colorful trifle bowl. “I tried something different tonight.”

  “Oh, my!” Mary Sue exclaimed. “That’s almost too pretty to eat, too!”

  Colette grinned proudly. “My philosophy about food is that presentation enhances taste. People enjoy food more when it looks good, too.”

  “Shucks.” Mary Sue gestured to the skillet I carried. “I bake my cornbread in a boring old cast-iron fry pan.”

  “Cast iron has personality,” Colette reassured her. “It’s homey and comforting.”

  Not to mention heavy. My wrist was being put to the test.

  We headed up to Roxanne’s door, Colette cutting her eyes to mine when she spotted the Smith and Wesson warning sign posted in the flower bed. When Roxanne opened the door, we could see the shotgun in plain sight in her front hallway, the stock sticking up out of an umbrella stand. I hoped she wouldn’t reach for it on accident the next rainy day. She might blow a hole in her ceiling.

  Gayle was already in the kitchen, cutting a casserole into squares. She looked up as we came into the room, spotting the pretty salad. “You’re putting us all to shame,” she told Colette with a smile.

  “That’s not what I hear,” Colette said congenially. “Whitney raved about the wonderful food you ladies prepared for the last poker game.”

  The others smiled, clearly pleased by the compliment. As usual, Colette had made fast friends out of virtual strangers. Becky came in the door bearing a tray of mini spring rolls and sweet-and-sour dip. I introduced my roommate all around and each of us fixed a plate, moving to the dining room to eat and chat.

  Colette took one bite of Mary Sue’s cornbread and moaned. “It’s so moist and flavorful. It doesn’t even need butter.”

  “That’s special praise,” Mary Sue replied, “coming from a professional chef.”

  Becky asked me about the status of the renovations on Lillian’s house. “Are you on schedule?”

  We were on the revised schedule we’d come up with after being delayed by her mother’s death on the property, but I saw no reason to mention the tragic incident and bring down the party mood. “So far, so good,” I said. “Dakota’s picked up a lot of the slack. He’s nearly done painting the downstairs and hasn’t made a single mistake yet. He’s helped with the flooring, too. We’ve been impressed with his attention to detail. He seems to have a real knack for renovation.”

  Becky arched an astounded brow. “What do you know. Maybe Dad should hire him to paint our house.”

  “I think he’d do a good job,” I told her, “especially since he seems eager to impress Daisy.”

  “Speaking of my girls,” Becky said, “they took the bus home from school this weekend. Got home about an hour ago. They took one look at that Mustang in the driveway and hugged me like they haven’t since they were kids. You’d think I was mother of the year. Of course, it didn’t last long. Once I handed over the keys, they jumped inside and took off to show their friends. I’ll be lucky if they spend any time at home this weekend.”

  Roxanne drizzled vinaigrette dressing over her salad. “You can’t blame them for wanting to spread their wings. My twenties were some of the best years of my life. Of course, so were my thirties, and forties, and fifties. My eighties aren’t turning out so bad, either!” She put down the dressing and raised her glass of wine in salute before tossing back a sip. I was beginning to wonder if, rather than pickling her liver, the alcohol was actually preserving her instead.

  Gayle fished another olive-topped slice of bread off the platter on the table and placed it on her plate. “My granddaughter won her school’s spelling bee. She’s moving on to the district-wide competition.”

  “Congratulations!” I raised my glass in a toast, clinking it against Gayle’s. The other ladies did likewise.

  “As long as we’re sharing news,” Mary Sue said, “I’ve looked into the ornamental burglar bars Whitney mentioned and ordered some for all of my downstairs windows.” She issued a mirthless chuckle. “There goes my social-security checks for the next three months. But it’ll buy me peace of mind. I’ll be a
ble to sleep in my own house again.” She turned to Roxanne. “As soon as they’re installed, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Roxanne reached across the table and patted her friend’s hand. “Mi casa es su casa, Mary Sue. You’re welcome to sleep in my guest room as long as you like.” She lifted her shoulders and looked around the table. “It’s kind of fun, actually. Like a girls’ slumber party.” She picked up the bottle of wine and topped off Mary Sue’s glass. “Mi vino es su vino, too. Drink up!”

  Mary Sue took one look at the full glass and said, “If I drink all that, I won’t be able to find my way to your guest room.”

  “That’s okay,” Roxanne replied. “I can drag you by your ankles.”

  When we’d finished our meal, Becky put a hand on her belly. “I’m so full I couldn’t eat another bite right now.” She suggested we play a few hands of poker before dessert.

  The others agreed.

  “One more bite,” Roxanne said, “and I just might burst out of my Spanx!”

  Although I was eager to see their reaction to the pie, I, too, had eaten so much I couldn’t force down another bite at the moment. Colette and I gathered up the dishes and silverware and carried them to the kitchen sink, giving them a quick rinse before loading them into the dishwasher.

  The dishes dealt with, we returned to the dining room and dug through our purses for change. Given that I’d lost nearly every hand the week before and had only used my debit and credit cards since, I had limited spare change and had been forced to run by the bank for rolls of coins during my lunch break. Colette had traded with Emmalee, who had an old pickle jar of coins in her bedroom. When you worked for tips like Emmalee did, you ended up with a lot of spare change.

  We tossed our ante into the pile in the center of the table, and Gayle dealt the first hand. Again, she was the most difficult player to read, having no tell that I could see. As I’d learned last time, she was also a good actor, giving subtle cues that may or may not be faked. With her performance skills, the woman could have had a career on Broadway.