Haunting Harold

by Jenna Bennett

  I took it and looked on the back. There was a number scribbled there in cramped, old-fashioned script. “Whose number?”

  “Tara’s. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

  It had been what I wanted. “Thank you,” I said. And dug another card out of my pocket. “Here. Just in case.”

  I stuck it back in through the opening.

  “In case of what?”

  She didn’t give me the opportunity to answer, just shut the door so quickly my fingertips almost got caught.

  “Goodbye to you, too,” I muttered, as I encouraged Edwina to jump down the couple of steps to the grass.

  “At least we got what we came for,” I told her two minutes later, when we were back in the car in the driveway across the street. “Or some of what we came for. We may not know where Tara Cullinan lives, but we can get hold of her.”

  Or so I assumed. I already had my phone out and was dialing.

  The call went to voicemail, of course. I wasn’t surprised. I don’t always answer calls from numbers I don’t recognize, either, and if she was involved in haunting Harold—hah!—then she might be even more careful than usual.

  “You’ve reached Tara. I can’t talk right now. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back.”

  The voice sounded harried. Or maybe that was just my mind, projecting.

  “This is Gina Beaufort Kelly,” I told the phone. “I saw you outside Harold Newsome’s office this morning. I’ve also seen you in other places. I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”

  I rattled off my number. After a brief hesitation, I added, “I’m a private investigator. Harold’s wife Heidi hired me. I would appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”

  I gave her the number again, so she wouldn’t have to go back for it. And then I dropped the phone into the console and glanced at Edwina.

  “What do you think? Stick around and see if the Thompsons have any more info? Or hit the road before rush hour starts? We could make it home by seven. Almost in time for dinner.”

  Edwina’s tail moved at the sound of that. It was probably the word ‘dinner,’ since I didn’t think she really understood anything else I’d said. But I didn’t feel like sitting here for what could be hours waiting for the Thompsons to come home. So I started the car, reversed out of the driveway, and began the long drive back home.

  * * *

  “That’s a lot of driving for very little payoff,” Rachel told me as I drove home.

  And she was right. “But at least now we have a lead.”

  “If she calls you back,” Rachel said.

  Well, yes. Tara would have to call me back.

  But even if she didn’t, I’d probably see her again. I planned to be back to following Harold tomorrow, and she might show up. And now I knew her name, and I also knew better than to draw her attention to me. If I saw her again, I’d just quietly follow her home and confront her there.

  “Anything from Zachary?” I changed the subject as I squinted into the sunset. Nashville is pretty much due west from Knoxville.

  “He called,” Rachel said. “I told him what you told me. He said he’d stick around a little longer.”

  “Did he make it over the wall?”

  “Over the wall and all the way to the Newsome’s house,” Rachel said, sounding pleased.

  “Has anything exciting happened?”

  “Not that he’s mentioned,” Rachel said, “although I’m sure he’s having a good time.”

  I didn’t doubt it at all. “Tell him he can stay however long he wants. And if anything happens that he thinks I should know about, to call me.”

  Rachel said she would.

  “How did your date go last night?” I wanted to know.

  “Fine,” Rachel said.

  “Are you going out with him again?”

  “Tonight. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  It wasn’t. And since it wasn’t, I just told her to have a good time, without reiterating my warnings and without asking any more questions. “I’ll see you Monday morning. Unless I need you in the meantime.”

  “See you then,” Rachel said and hung up. I focused on driving.

  I was almost back in Nashville when Zachary called. “Harold left the house.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “A couple of minutes later, one of the guards from down at the gate drove up in a golf cart and rang the bell.”

  Really? “Did Heidi let him in?”

  “Yes,” Zachary said. “He came out fifteen minutes later.”

  “Did he look… um…?”

  How to say this, in a way that wouldn’t shock my nineteen-year-old associate?

  “Like he’d gotten lucky?” Zachary suggested.

  I breathed out, relieved. “Yes. Exactly.”

  “I don’t think so. He was still dressed the same, and didn’t walk funny.”

  “So they just talked.”

  “No idea,” Zachary said, “but he wasn’t inside long enough for much to happen, and he didn’t look particularly happy when he came out.”

  Most likely a conversation, then, and not in bed.

  “What do you want me to do now?” Zachary wanted to know.

  “What do you want to do? You can stick around if you want. But it’s past quitting time. And when Harold comes home, it’ll probably just be more of the same.”

  “I have a date,” Zachary said.

  “Oh.” Was everyone dating but me?

  I had a momentary vision of Mendoza across the table from some gorgeous blonde with a twenty-five-year-old body, and banished it. “Then go home, by all means. I’ll deal with Harold over the weekend.”

  “You can call if you need help. Just not tonight.”

  I told him I’d do that. In fact, it might be useful for us both to be on hand. That way, if Tara Cullinan showed up, I could follow her, while Zachary could stay on Harold. “I might take you up on that. Tomorrow.”

  “Let me know,” Zachary said, and hung up. I dropped the phone into the console and concentrated on driving.

  * * *

  Edwina and I made it home in time for the new edition of Dateline. We spent two hours on the couch together watching the hunt for the Golden State Killer—finally behind bars, after all these decades.

  The phone rang about halfway through the program. I looked at the display and saw a (local) number I didn’t recognize, but since I’d given my card out to a few people lately, I thought I’d better take it, even at nine o’clock on a Friday night.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Harold Newsome,” a voice on the other end of the phone said, and I scooted upright.

  “Yes, of course. What can I do for you, Harold?”

  “I spoke to Heidi,” Harold said. “She apologized for sending a private investigator after me.”

  He paused. Maybe I was supposed to apologize, too, but I didn’t feel like I’d done anything wrong, so I kept my silence.

  “I would like you to stop by the house tomorrow morning,” Harold added after a few seconds.

  “At Somerset?”

  “Yes.” He sounded marginally annoyed, maybe because I knew where he lived. “Say, nine o’clock?”

  Part of me wanted to say no, since I figured I’d be driving all the way there just so he could fire me in person.

  The other part—the optimistic part—wondered if maybe he was going to hire me instead of Mitch to find Tara Cullinan, and if so, I definitely wanted the job. So I said pleasantly, “Of course. I’d be happy to.”

  “I’ll leave word at the guardhouse that you’re expected,” Harold said. “Nine o’clock. Don’t forget.”

  He disconnected before I could assure him that I wouldn’t forget. I dropped the phone on the table and arched my brows at Edwina. “That was interesting.”

  She glanced up, but didn’t bother to wag her tail, since there was clearly no food in it for her.

  “Good girl,” I told her, and scratched between her ears. She sighed and pu
t her head back down.

  I spent an uneventful night, and woke up the next morning ready to find out what Harold wanted. After a quick walk and some oatmeal, I left Edwina at home—she’d had enough driving yesterday, and didn’t angle to come with me. When I walked toward the door, she just watched me from her pillow, her snout resting on her legs.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours,” I told her. “I don’t imagine Harold has that much to say.”

  Edwina slapped her tail against the pillow a couple of times. I got in the Lexus and drove away.

  It isn’t a terribly long drive from Hillwood to Somerset. Hillwood is on the west side of Nashville, Hillsboro Road is on the south. And traffic was light before nine on a Saturday morning. I arrived at the subdivision with a couple of minutes to spare, and pulled up to the gatehouse. And rolled down my window to let the guard know my name, only to realize that there was no guard inside, and the gatehouse was empty.

  It wasn’t a big structure, only about seven-by-seven square. Big enough to lie flat in, although there was no reason why anyone would want to. It wasn’t big enough to contain anything but a counter with a couple of monitors, two empty chairs, and—in the back—what looked like some kind of bench. It didn’t look like it would be comfortable to sit or lie on, but that probably wasn’t what it was for.

  There was no one on it now, anyway, and also no bathroom. The guard had probably needed to take a quick break—there was a clubhouse with a pool halfway up the road—and would be back in a minute. It was inconvenient—by the time he got back here, I would be late instead of early—but there was nothing I could do about it. There was a keypad next to the window, and if I’d known the combination, I could have let myself in, but I didn’t, and so I settled in to wait.

  A minute later, I was just contemplating calling Harold—or maybe Heidi—to ask about the code, when a loud noise rent the Saturday morning silence. A flock of birds took flight with a chatter of complaint.

  I looked around, of course, with the silence practically ringing in my ears. But I didn’t see anything. I was thinking that perhaps I ought to call 911—or maybe Mendoza—and report that I thought I’d heard a gunshot when the sound of an engine came closer.

  A second later, a yellow Beetle came down the road much too fast. The gate started groaning open as soon as the Beetle came into view—there were either sensors in the road, or cameras in the trees, or maybe whoever was inside the Beetle had a remote—and by the time the car reached the guardhouse, the gate had opened far enough for a small car to fit through. The VW shot forward into the opening and took the turn onto Hillsboro Road on squealing tires.

  Chapter 6

  I was facing the wrong way. It took what felt like forever to turn the car around and follow. When I was finally going in the right direction, I stomped on the gas pedal. To hell with the speed limit. It’s only about a mile from the entrance to Somerset and down to the intersection with Old Hickory Boulevard. If Tara reached that intersection before I caught sight of her, I’d lose her. It’s a four-way light, and I’d have to guess whether she’d gone left, right, or straight.

  So I drove hell for leather down the road, until the intersection was in sight, and with it the yellow Beetle. And that’s when I had to slow down. A siren sounded, much too close and too loud, and I came to a screeching halt as lights started flashing in front of me. A fire truck came screaming out of the fire station on my right. An ambulance followed directly behind, sirens blaring. One after the other, they cut across the road in front of me, rocking the Lexus sideways with the force of their passage, and by the time I could move again, the yellow Beetle was out of sight.

  I drove the last few yards down to the intersection anyway, and crossed, slowly enough that I could look both east and west on Old Hickory Boulevard. But whichever way she’d gone, I couldn’t see her. In front of me, Hillsboro Road disappeared among the trees on its way to Franklin. There was no sight of the Bug there, either.

  “Damn!”

  I pulled into the nearest parking lot—a Baptist Church—and stopped the car. My hands were shaking a bit from the last few minutes, and besides, I wanted to call Mendoza.

  It took concentrated focus to push the numbers on the phone. I put it up to my ear and heard it click, ever so slightly, against my earring. No, not quite steady yet.

  “Mrs. Kelly,” Mendoza’s voice said in my ear. He sounded resigned.

  “Detective. I’m sorry to call on a weekend. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “I’m on call,” Mendoza said.

  “So if someone dies, they call you in?”

  He grunted.

  “Well, I’m down here in Forest Hills, where the Newsomes live—”

  “Save it,” Mendoza said. “I’m on my way.”

  My heart sank. “Someone got shot.”

  “That’s the report,” Mendoza said.

  “Who?”

  “I have no idea,” Mendoza said. “I’m not there yet. Dispatch said one gunshot, one victim. That’s all I know.”

  “Dead?”

  “According to the dispatcher. But that’s not confirmed. I don’t even know that it’s the Newsomes’ address. It could be anyone in the subdivision. Do you have reason to think it has anything to do with the Newsomes?”

  Other than the fact that I’d watched Tara Cullinan leave Somerset like a bat out of hell, none.

  But I hadn’t mentioned Tara Cullinan to Mendoza. I hadn’t mentioned the fact that I’d met Mitch McKetchum yesterday, either. I hadn’t spoken to Mendoza about anything that had happened in the course of following Harold.

  And now wasn’t the time to burden him with the story. He was driving, and had a homicide to get to.

  “When do you expect to be here?” I asked.

  He calculated for a second. “Ten minutes.”

  “I’ll meet you outside the gate.” I hung up as he drew breath, probably to tell me that there was no way in hell he’d let me inside the subdivision with him.

  He didn’t call back, though. Too busy driving, probably. Or maybe he just figured that once he got there, he’d shut the gate with me on the outside, and that would be the end of it.

  There was someone in the gatehouse when I got there, but I decided not to push my luck and go inside. It would only annoy Mendoza. So I lingered outside the gate while I waited. And while I sat there, I pulled out my phone again and dialed Tara Cullinan’s number.

  She didn’t answer, of course. But I left a rather more pointed message this time. “This is Gina Beaufort Kelly calling again. It’s about Harold Newsome. I saw you leaving his subdivision a few minutes ago, just after that gunshot. I haven’t told the police about you yet, but unless you call me back and tell me what’s going on—and fast—I’m afraid I’m going to have to.”

  I’d probably have to anyway, but there was no point in mentioning that.

  I left my number one more time, even though she should already have it, and dropped the phone into my purse, just as Mendoza’s unmarked car pulled up in front of the gate.

  Mendoza leaned out and spoke to whoever was inside the gatehouse, and the gate opened like magic. Mendoza’s gray sedan drove through, and since he hadn’t told me I couldn’t, I put the Lexus in gear and followed. Part of me was slightly concerned that the gate would close before I made it inside, but it must have had sensors or something, because nothing impaled the rear end of my car. In fact, the gate didn’t start shutting until I was safely on the other side. And the guard—young and fairly handsome in a black shirt with the Somerset logo on the chest—didn’t even look at me when I passed him on my way in.

  I had thought that Mendoza might stop inside the gate and talk to me—or more accurately, tell me that I couldn’t come up the hill with him. But he didn’t, just gassed his little sedan and headed up. Per force, I headed up, too.

  It was my first time inside Somerset, and I must admit I was gaping left and right at the houses—or castles—we passed. It was one thing to see them from th
e road below, half obscured by trees and bushes. It was something else entirely to see them up close.

  The house I had shared with David in Hillwood—and that I shared with Edwina now—was nothing to sneeze at. It had cost a pretty penny, and looked both affluent and quite nice from the outside.

  This was something else. Here, the houses didn’t merely look affluent and nice, they looked filthy rich—ostentatious, even—and like they belonged on the cover of a magazine. French Chateaux rubbed elbows with sprawling haciendas and faux Tuscan villas. We passed the miniature copy of Mad Ludwig’s castle, which did, indeed, have both a miniature moat and a pair of swans.

  Mendoza’s sedan kept going. I trailed along behind, with half my attention on the road and half on the houses on either side.

  I wish I could say it was a surprise when he pulled to a stop in front of what looked quite a lot like an English Manor house, but I’d been expecting it. Or fearing it. Worrying about it, at least. The shot could have come from, or been targeted at, anyone in the subdivision, but I guess I’d known, at least subconsciously, that we’d end up at the Newsomes.

  The fire truck was still here, and so was the ambulance. I pulled in beside it and cut the engine. Mendoza parked on the other side of the fire truck and got out. And he must have been planning on having a relaxing day, because he was dressed in a pair of worn sneakers, snug jeans that clung to his thighs, and a basic gray sweatshirt, a far cry from his usual elegance.

  It’s a testament to Mendoza—and God—that even dressed way down, he was still gorgeous enough to make my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.

  I’d thought that maybe, if I stayed back, he’d forget that I was there, and just go about his business. Of course he didn’t. Before he’d so much as introduced himself to the emergency personnel, he crooked a finger in my direction. “Mrs. Kelly.”

  “Detective,” I said, drifting closer. “Casual Friday?”

  He scowled. “For your information, I had a pee-wee soccer game on the schedule this morning. My son’s playing.”

  “Sorry,” I said, and wondered whether now would be a good time to mention that I’d had occasion to meet his replacement in his son’s life yesterday.