She eyed it. “On the house. I don’t feel like amending the bill.” She took my credit card and turned to the register.
I waited until she’d finished punching in the numbers and had laid the receipt in front of me with a pen. And then I asked, “Do you know them? Have they been here before?”
She glanced over my shoulder. “The couple in the corner? I’ve seen them before, but it’s been a while. His name’s Nick.”
I scribbled my name on the receipt and added a hefty tip, to cover both the drink and the information. “How do you know?”
“He wears a uniform sometimes. With a name patch.” She took the receipt and glanced at it before sticking it in the cash drawer. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Do you know what kind of uniform?”
“The Body Shop,” the waitress said. Or maybe she said Body Shoppe.
“What’s that? Gym? Or cars?”
“Cars. There’s one over on Charlotte Avenue. He might work there.”
He might. Or he could be from the other side of town, and just be hanging out in this neighborhood because of Jacquie.
I slid off the stool. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” the waitress said and wandered off. I took my to-go bag and did the same.
* * *
THE HAMBURGER WAS delicious, and so were the sweet potato fries. I ate both with one hand while I drove home with the other, and there wasn’t a single fry left by the time I got to Hillwood. I would have to up that time on the elliptical by another fifteen minutes. I was so full and happy I didn’t even want the rest of the Cabernet. I just crawled into bed and went to sleep.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I thought about what I’d discovered, and what it all might mean.
First of all, Daniel was in Nashville, and staying with his nephew Kenny. I had assumed Daniel was above suspicion, by virtue of being on the other side of the country—and obviously Detective Mendoza had thought the same thing—but now he was firmly in the mix. Either he or Kenny could have killed David, alone or together. They both stood to gain financially, and they both had opportunity and know-how. While I’m sure they loved David, neither had been particularly close to him. He’d been exasperated with them both, and their spending and inability to keep a steady job.
And Jacquie was already getting dressed up and stepping out with another man, not twenty-four hours after her fiancée was murdered.
Not only that, but they’d been going out before, too. Not for a while, the waitress had said. I wondered whether that ‘not for a while’ happened to coincide with Jacquie’s relationship with David.
And Nick—whether he was her brother or former boyfriend or something else—worked at a car place. He’d definitely know where to find the brake lines in David’s Porsche. He probably owned a pair of coveralls he could have worn to wiggle under the car in Fidelio’s parking lot, while Jacquie was keeping David busy inside. As Detective Mendoza had pointed out, there was no reason to suspect the killer had been in the restaurant having dinner with David. He’d been suggesting that I might have been the guilty party, of course, but the same thing applied to Nick.
So was Nick acting on his own, or were he and Jacquie working together?
On his own, I decided, as I huffed and puffed on the elliptical. If they’d planned it together, surely they’d have had the good sense to make sure that Jacquie was married to David and would inherit the money before they did away with him.
So maybe Jacquie threw Nick over for David’s money and position. And Nick had decided to take care of things before she married David and was lost to him forever.
Or at least lost to him until David died. And that might have taken some time. Years. Decades, even. David was more than twice Jacquie’s age, but he was in good shape. He worked out, he played golf, he watched his diet. He would have lived another thirty years, God willing, if someone hadn’t snuffed him out before his time.
I couldn’t see the Newsomes or the Olivers as murderers, and Farley was better off with David alive and bringing in new clients. The idea of Martha crawling around under the Porsche was nothing short of ludicrous. Krystal had her own income and, as far as I knew, no grudge against her father. I suppose it was possible she’d do something stupid to help her brother, but I couldn’t see her deliberately set out to murder David. She’d be more likely to float Kenny herself. She probably already did. And Jacquie wouldn’t have killed David before she got her hands on his money.
That left Kenny, Daniel, and Nick as possible suspects. Unless the killer was someone who hadn’t even crossed my radar yet.
By now it was Thursday morning. David had died on Tuesday night. The first twenty-four hours had gone by without an arrest. I wondered whether that was good or bad. Don’t they say that most crimes are solved in the first twenty-four hours?
Or maybe that’s seventy-two hours? If so, Mendoza had until Friday evening around eight to come up with the killer. I guess I should be grateful he hadn’t settled on the most obvious suspect and arrested me.
I hadn’t told him about seeing Jacquie and Nick together. I’d thought about it, both last night and this morning, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to contact him. He already knew about Daniel; let him worry about that. I’d just go to the Body Shop on Charlotte Avenue myself, and see what I could find out.
I was on my way across the parking lot to the convertible when my phone rang. The number was vaguely familiar, but not one I could place immediately.
“Mrs. Kelly?” a voice said. Same thing there: vaguely familiar, but not someone I knew right off. “Anselm Howard at Boling & Howard Funeral Home.”
Of course. “What can I do for you, Mr. Howard?”
“It’s what I can do for you,” Anselm Howard said. I arched my brows; not that he could see me. He must have realized on his own that the touch of levity was misplaced, because when he continued, he was back to business. “I wanted to let you know that your husband’s remains were delivered this morning.”
Oh. “Thank you.” No problem with having the funeral tomorrow, then.
“There was a bag of his personal effects included. I thought you might want to stop by and retrieve it.”
I might do that. I hadn’t actually thought about it—I guess I hadn’t been as calm and collected yesterday as I imagined I’d been—but someone had to take care of things. Things like cancelling the utilities for the new apartment, and making sure the insurance company knew he was dead.
“I’ll have the effects ready for you,” Mr. Howard said. “Along with a preliminary copy of the death certificate. Once the original has been filed, you can request a certified copy from the vital records office.”
I told him I’d be there in twenty minutes, and instead of heading toward Charlotte Avenue and the Body Shop, I headed toward Woodbine and the funeral home instead.
It didn’t occur to me to go home and change first. When I walked in—still in my yoga pants and sneakers and a fitted T-shirt—Mr. Howard gave me a funny look, and that’s when I realized that perhaps I should have put on something tasteful and black, like I’d worn yesterday.
“You caught me coming home from the gym,” I said. “I thought I might as well stop by now, instead of going home and going out again later.”
Mr. Howard nodded, but looked unsure. And I guess he must have felt my presence diminished the quality of his establishment, because he thrust the clear plastic bag filled with David’s belongings at me. “Here.” He didn’t add, “Now go,” but he might as well have.
“Thank you,” I said, peering at it.
It was a good sized bag. I could see fabric, some of it dark and woolen, some thinner and pale blue. Pants and shirt, I assumed. What David had been wearing when he died. There was a pair of black dress shoes at the bottom of the bag, and a jingle when I shook the plastic experimentally. Must be David’s keys or loose change. Maybe both.
For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder what had happened to Davi
d’s car. It must have been towed somewhere, I guessed, and someone must have looked at it, to have determined that the brake lines had been compromised... but what would happen to it now?
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Mr. Howard said when I asked. “I would recommend you inquire of the police. They would have arranged for it to have been towed.”
That would necessitate another call to Detective Mendoza. Maybe I’d just wait until he called me—which he’d said he would, to tell me what had happened with Daniel—and I’d casually drop the question then. It wasn’t like I cared about the Porsche. I had my own car. And besides, it was probably totaled anyway. If the accident killed David, it must have killed the car, as well.
Mr. Howard cleared his throat. “I’m sure you would like your husband to go in the ground appropriately dressed, Mrs. Kelly.”
I suppose I would. Putting him in the coffin stark naked would be satisfying, but wrong. “You need something to bury him in, don’t you?”
Mr. Howard nodded.
I glanced at the bag. “These clothes...”
“Destroyed.”
Ah. Better not to think too hard about that.
“I’ll find something and bring it to you,” I said, seeing my trip to the Body Shop dwindling into the afternoon.
Mr. Howard inclined his head in something that was halfway between a nod and a bow. “Thank you.”
I might as well get started. “See you later,” I told Mr. Howard. He looked relieved as I walked toward the front door. I tried not to take it personally.
Once in the car, I opened the plastic bag and turned it upside down over the passenger seat. The heavy things tumbled out first: David’s shoes, his keychain, his wallet. I had to shake the bag to get the clothes out.
As Anselm Howard had said, they were destroyed. The doctors must have cut them off David’s body at the hospital. And they were stiff with blood. I pushed them onto the floor with my fingertips, fighting back a shudder of revulsion and an unexpected urge to cry. Poor David. I’d been angry with him, but nobody deserved to die like that.
Had he suffered? Or maybe—hopefully—he’d died on impact, and there hadn’t been time for more than the realization that he was going to crash. And fear. I’m sure there’d been fear.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand—thank God for waterproof mascara—and picked up the keychain. There was a little blood on that too, but I girded my loins—or rather, my quivering stomach—and dealt with it.
There was the key to the Porsche, with the factory emblem on it. Useless now, most likely. The key to the Hillwood house, where I lived. And where David had lived up until a couple of months ago.
Keys to the office: the front door, David’s own office, and the storage room where the hardcopies of the files were kept.
Three keys I didn’t recognize. One, at least, must be to the new apartment. Maybe two. Maybe all three. Front door, apartment door, and mailbox.
There was only one way to find out. I’d have to go to David’s apartment and see which keys fit where. And while I was there, I could pick out a suit and bring it back to Mr. Howard, as well.
But first I’d go home and take a shower. I look pretty good for forty-plus—and I intend to stay that way—but Mr. Howard was right: I shouldn’t be walking around in my workout gear.
Chapter 7
I GOT TO David’s apartment building just before eleven, lucked out and found a parking space on the street outside, and walked in to find a fifteen-year-old doorman behind a desk giving me the beady eye. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Not really,” I told him in passing. “I know where I’m going.”
If he hadn’t called me ma’am, it’s possible I might have been nicer, but no woman enjoys being ma’amed, and I wasn’t so used to it yet that it didn’t still rankle.
He jumped up and ran after me. “You can’t go upstairs!”
“Of course I can.” And he wasn’t man enough to stop me. In my heels, I was taller than he was, and he wasn’t old enough to shave yet. If he laid a hand on me, I could easily take him.
“I have to announce you!”
“The person I’m going to see is dead,” I told him, and stopped him in his tracks. He rocked back on his heels. His eyes widened and his skin blanched, and for a second I was afraid he’d faint.
“Dead?!” he squeaked.
I took a breath. Perhaps I was being too hasty, and too upset by the ma’am. I was being unkind to this poor young soul who was obviously overcome by the news. “My name is Regina Beaufort Kelly. David Kelly was my husband.”
“Was?” The young man swayed.
“He passed away Tuesday night,” I said.
“Mr. Kelly’s dead? Upstairs?!” His eyes rolled upward, to the ceiling.
“Of course not upstairs. He’s at the funeral home. I have to pick out a suit for him to wear when he’s buried.”
The young man looked faintly sick.
“I have his keys,” I said, lifting them. “And a copy of the death certificate, if you’d like to see it.”
“No.” He shook his head, and kept on shaking it. “No, that’s OK. I trust you. You... just go on up.”
It seemed to be a day when men I encountered couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Lovely.
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”
He didn’t answer, just staggered back to the desk and dropped into the chair. I got into the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor.
I’d never been to David’s new place before. I’d driven by the outside, so I knew what the building looked like—big and expensive-looking, like a giant phallus pointing to the sky—but this was the first time I’d been inside. So far I was impressed. The doorman was barely out of high school and easily bowled over, but there was a doorman. The foyer was all granite and marble, and the elevator was a nice: industrial steel with lots of mirrors. It moved quickly and silently, with no jerking and not much illusion of speed. We ascended fourteen stories before I’d even realized it. The car came to a stop with the slightest of bumps, and the doors slid soundlessly apart. I stepped out into the hallway.
There were four penthouse apartments in David’s building, one on each corner. I’m sure it’s much more exclusive when there’s only one, but the building was huge; it wasn’t like one person could afford the entire top floor. Or would need that much space.
David’s apartment was Penthouse 3, on the northeast corner. I inserted the most likely-looking key on the keychain into the lock and jiggled it. The lock tumbled, and I turned the knob and pushed the door in.
And... hot damn!
The place was gorgeous. If nothing else, David had had good taste in apartments.
The front door opened into a hallway that ran the length of the apartment. All the doors were on the left; the right was a flat gallery wall that, I was willing to bet, matched the wall in the mirror-image apartment next door. That way, the only shared wall with the other apartment was this interior hallway, while none of the actual living spaces butted up against one another.
The first door on the left was a coat closet. Nice and big. The next was a laundry closet. It must have come with the matching front-loader washer and dryer, since I doubted David had bought them. He probably had everything dry cleaned, including his socks and underwear.
After that came a lovely little half bath, with a marble vanity and fake orchid in a pot.
The master bedroom was next, down a separate hallway. Oversized, with a wall of windows looking out over downtown, and a master bath that would have looked at home on one of HGTV’s Luxury Living segments. The closet was big enough to hold a square dance inside. David’s wardrobe—and he did like to dress well—only took up half the space.
I looked around for anything of Jacquie’s, but there was nothing I could see. If she’d been here—and I’m sure she had—she had left wearing what she’d arrived in.
I had to pick out a suit for David to wear tomorrow, bu
t first I wanted to see the rest of the place. So I went back into the hallway and continued east.
The next room was the last room, and it didn’t have a door. The hallway opened up into a gigantic living room/dining room/kitchen combination that took up an entire corner of the building. There were windows on two sides here: overlooking downtown to the north, and the Cumberland River and the Adventure Science Center to the east.
It was stunning, and would probably be even more fantastic at night, when all the lights were lit outside, outlining streets and interstates.
The kitchen was gourmet all the way. Stainless steel, granite, six-burner gas stove...
Wasted on David, who I’m sure didn’t do his own cooking any more than he did his own laundry. A quick look inside the oversized fridge and walk-in pantry confirmed this supposition. The pantry held a box of instant oatmeal and one of microwave popcorn, along with a box of Cheerios. In the fridge was a half-empty container of almond milk, a six-pack of imported beer with a bottle missing, and a lot of bottled water. The only well-stocked thing in the kitchen was the wine-cooler.
The dining room set was all glass and chrome; very different from the heavy, dark wood in the house in Hillwood. And the sectional sofa was white leather with black piping. It faced a TV almost as big as the wall itself.
Looking around, I realized I had apartment-envy in a very big way. I love our house in Hillwood, and the idea that David might have been trying to take it from me in the divorce had filled me with worry and anger, but at the same time, I could totally get into something sleek and modern and sexy, like this. It must have made David feel very young and hip.
The kitchen had a built-in office area, and I sat down and pulled out the top drawer on the right. Pens and pencils, rubber bands and paper clips were jumbled together in an unholy mess. The drawer below had been intended for hanging files, but when I opened it, I saw that David had just tossed any mail he wanted to keep into the drawer unopened. The top envelope was from a bank, and not the bank where our joint accounts were housed.
Ditching David Page 7
