The House Across The Street
Page 1
The House Across The Street
Melanie Jones Brownrigg
Amazon
Copyright © 2020 Melanie Jones Brownrigg
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Scott Hardie
Printed in the United States of America
This book is dedicated to all of my friends and family who supported me in my first book, The Hotel.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The House Across The Street
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Acknowledgement
About The Author
Books By This Author
The House Across The Street
Prologue
Sometimes life can take unexpected turns. Even a sudden knock at the door can completely change one’s life. And when clues point to something nefarious going on with the neighbors across the street, will you find out in time? Or will you end up running for your life?
Chapter One
Rachel
Once I locked the front door, a giant lack of enthusiasm grabbed hold and all I could do was plonk in one of the two chairs on the porch and stare at the street in front of me. It was a gloomy day, nothing but gray skies overhead and an icy chill filling the air. Most people would have assumed something must be wrong with me when sitting on the porch under such pitiful conditions sounded more pleasurable than having lunch with my two best friends.
I loved Catie and Brenna. I really did. We were the best of friends. The kind you laughed with until your stomach muscles were sore, tears streamed down your face, and you almost peed your pants. But for months now, all they did was harp on me about getting my shit together and, more specifically, getting back together with Richard. Of course, neither of them fully understood my situation. While I would’ve loved to have laid all my cards on the table, legally I was bound to keep my mouth shut. Two separate gag orders were firmly in place, each allowing only limited disclosure of bits and pieces about my pending divorce from Richard – along with other matters – which meant my besties didn’t know everything. And though, sometimes, certain things were better left unsaid, this would’ve been one of those times when my friends would’ve had my back ... had only they known. If I could’ve poured my guts out to them, it would’ve changed everything, given me a support system and made this weekly lunch something I looked forward to. But with sealed lips and unable to utter a word, I didn’t want to go.
On a weekly basis, the three of us met for lunch at Juan’s, a trendy Mexican place right off 7th Street. While I loved the food there, it tended to be rather noisy, the cement floors bouncing sound waves in all directions. It was better to be seated outside, but not today, not in this weather. Just then a gust of wind picked up and sent me pulling my jacket shut at the neck and I noticed the back of my pants were picking up a dampness from the wet chair cushion. It was cold and I needed to get a move on anyway.
From across the street a door cracked open and out stepped Mrs. Iva Tuttle. Oh, God, not her. She was the busybody neighbor on the block and could talk a mile a minute, always making it her business to stick her nose into everyone’s private affairs ... mine included.
Suddenly, having lunch with my friends sounded like a walk in the park on a sunshiny day. Scrambling to my feet, I hurried off the porch and headed toward my car, hoping she would let me be.
“Oh, is that you, Rachel? I saw someone sitting on the porch and couldn’t tell if it was you. Thought it might be a client of yours, or someone who had no business being over there. I reckoned I needed to check.”
Of course, you did.
Jesus Christ. I’d only been sitting for a few moments. Did she stare out her window all day long? Of course, she did.
“It’s only me, Mrs. Tuttle,” I caved. “I was only taking a moment to text my friends and let them know I was running late for lunch.” I made a big deal of pushing up my sleeve and checking my watch right in front of her. “Oh goodness, I’m running later than I thought. I’d love to stay and chat, but I must get going.”
Paying me no attention whatsoever, she crossed the street and headed up my driveway.
“Oh well, like I said, I saw someone on the porch and wondered what they were up to.” She shrugged, sticking her cold hands in her coat pockets. “I was hoping we could talk about that guy who moved in next door to me about three months ago. You know … oh, what is his name?”
“Jarrod Dawson,” I quickly answered, fearing it might be like one of those things on the tip of her tongue and she wouldn’t let it go without conjuring it up.
“Yes, him. There’s something strange about him. Don’t you think?”
She wanted to get into a conversation with me and I had just told her I was running late. Even though I fibbed about texting my friends, my purse rewarded me with a ping from within the side pocket. Pulling my phone from my purse, I read the message to myself.
I’m running late. The message was from Catie.
Me too, I quickly replied.
Waving my phone around in my hand and using it as an excuse, I told Mrs. Tuttle, “My friends are going to be wondering where I
am. I’ll have to talk to you later about your neighbor. I really need to get going.” I’d been truthful about running late, but I hadn’t texted first. I considered myself to be an honest and caring person and hated telling even little fibs like this. It just wasn’t in my nature. But Mrs. Tuttle was one of those people who, once she engaged you in conversation, became overly exerting to get away from.
“Oh, this is Tuesday, isn’t it?” she remarked as things clicked into place. “Well, what I have to say will only take a minute.” She moved in closer.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tuttle, Brenna only gets a narrow lunchtime. I really must go. Perhaps we can talk later.”
Looking putout, she sighed heavily, emitting a vapor into the cold air. “Well, okay, but I really need to talk to you.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Tuttle,” I promised her. “Later, okay?”
“Well, okay,” she said in a disappointed tone.
Taking a few steps toward my solid black SUV, I palmed the door handle and it automatically unlocked at the touch of my hand. Pulling the door open, I quickly crawled inside and snapped my seat belt shut. Pushing a button, the engine purred to life and with the push of another button, I backed out, leaving Mrs. Tuttle standing to the side of my driveway. She gave me a tiny wave as I drove past her and I politely waved back. Coming to a stop, I shifted the car into drive and then pressed the accelerator, heading for the end of the street. Pushing on the brake at the stop sign, I peered in my rearview mirror and watched as she crossed the street, heading back to her home.
Admittedly, I was a little curious about what she had to say about Mr. Dawson, the man who had moved into the middle residence of the three-unit townhomes situated across the street from my little house. He’d only lived there for about three months, but during that short time frame he’d managed to rub me the wrong way on more than one occasion. Way too pushy for one thing. Maybe I was being overly judgmental, but there was just something about him that caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.
Chapter Two
Jackson
“Morning,” I say to my two favorite detectives.
“Coffee?” Detective Tanner Sutton inquires as he pours himself a cup and doctors it to his liking. Sutton is one of the best detectives within the Fort Worth Police Department. He’s one of those guys who leaves no stone unturned and is willing to go the extra mile to make sure the right man is behind bars. The only thing I can’t stand about him is he’s damned good looking. Way too damned good looking. If I stand right next to him, there isn’t a woman on this planet who would notice me. I can take a little competition, but I’m no match for him. He’s a broad-shouldered beast with the perfect strong jawline. With his overly handsome looks, every woman who sees him falls all over herself, practically salivating and chomping at the bit. He’s eligible too, though I’ve heard he’s not interested in any relationship … not even one-nighters, which I find incomprehensible. Not me, I like women, the more the merrier. I mean that literally. If more than one wants to join me in bed, I’ll be okay.
“Sure,” I say to the offer and make my way over to the steaming aroma.
“How’s it going,” Detective James “Jimmy” Andrews asks entering the room and striding across to join us at the coffee bar.
“Just came off a job on Rosedale … busted three johns in one night,” I brag.
“Prostitution?” Sutton asks with a question mark on his face.
I shrug. “They’ve got me working undercover on everything now. Drugs, guns, theft, prostitution, you name it.” With few friends and little family, I am the perfect undercover officer. Just send me somewhere. I’ll take anywhere as an excuse to keep from going home to Veronica. God, I need to get rid of her. She’s been hanging around my apartment for longer than I have. When she claimed she didn’t have anywhere to go, I brought her home one night … just for a quickie. And somehow, she’s taken up residence in my apartment. Who does that? And why do I let her stay?
“Well this is a completely different situation,” Sutton says. “You’ll find it outside the box.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask intrigued. “What’ve you got?”
“Nothing right now,” Andrews says while he stirs creamer into his coffee. “That’s why we need you.”
“Have a seat,” Sutton says as he takes his own and Andrews parks next to him. I take a chair opposite them at a long rectangular table. Once we’re situated, I give him a nod to go ahead. “About a month ago, Norma Ramsey, eighty-one-years old, was found dead in her home by a concerned neighbor who had repeatedly called her for several hours with no answer. After going over to check on her, using a key she had, she found Mrs. Ramsey dead at the bottom of her stairs. Broken neck did the trick.”
“She probably missed her footing and fell to her death.” It sounds cut and dried to me.
“That’s what we thought too,” Sutton goes on. “The medical examiner ruled it as an accidental death. Case closed.”
“Okay. So, what do you need me for?” I ask, giving a good blow on my hot coffee.
“When we went through the house, we found she was using a neighborhood guy, Logan Foster, for odd jobs. You know, varying tasks elderly people can no longer perform. In Mrs. Ramsey’s case he had replaced lightbulbs, cleaned her windows and repaired a hole in her roof … whatever she needed. She paid him in cash. But we found a ledger book in her desk drawer where she was keeping up with dates, hours he worked and amounts she’d paid him.” Sutton frowns. “It wasn’t anything to draw our attention,” he concludes.
“The house wasn’t broken into,” Andrews adds. “Nothing was taken. It just looked like Norma Ramsey fell down the stairs and died.”
“So why are you second guessing the manner of death?” I ask, taking a careful sip of my hot brew.
“Last Friday, Martha Hilliard, aged sixty-eight, was found dead in her home by her daughter Janet. It appeared Mrs. Hilliard also fell down the stairs and died.” Sutton looks at me. “Except in this case, the medical examiner found cranial damage. He believes Mrs. Hilliard survived the fall and was struck on the head with a metal object to finish her off. Except, there’s nothing metal in her path … even the spindles are wooden.”
“Guess who her handyman was?” Andrews poses with a telling nod of his head.
“I don’t have to guess. It’s Logan Foster.”
“You got it,” Sutton says, his face turning into a grimace. “Problem is, there’s still no forced entry and nothing is missing.”
“Well, she would’ve let her handyman inside,” I point out.
“Exactly,” Andrews agrees. “But what’s his motive for killing her if nothing is missing?”
“I don’t know. Do you think he was planning on coming back later? Maybe to rob the place once the body was removed?”
“In the previous case with Mrs. Ramsey, everything remained intact. If his intentions were robbery, you’d think he would’ve returned to her house by now.”
“True,” I agree. “Did he con them into preparing new Wills that left everything to him? Maybe he was looking for a windfall after their deaths.”
“Nope. In Mrs. Ramsey’s case, her estate went to the neighbor who checked in on her. In Mrs. Hilliard’s case, we located her Will in the top drawer of Mrs. Hilliard’s file cabinet, and it left everything to her daughter.”
I scratch my head. “Hmm. No robbery, and no Will leaving anything to Logan Foster.” I pause. “What about the concerned neighbor who stood to benefit? Maybe he got tired of waiting for Mrs. Ramsey to die and sped up her demise.”
“It’s a she, Eileen Briggs,” Andrews says. “She doesn’t seem the type. Besides, we’ve already pulled video of her at Walmart during the estimated time the fall supposedly occurred.”
“Look, here’s the deal,” Sutton says. “We have our suspicions about this Logan Foster. But there’s no reason for him to kill two people. And just because he’s the handyman in both instances, it certainly doesn’t make him the murderer. Not without
benefiting somehow. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“He has a criminal history,” Andrews brings up. “Small time stuff … a couple of arrests for possession of marijuana with intent to distribute, and once for driving under the influence.”
“He might’ve graduated, moved up to harder drugs and be looking to score some money,” I suggest.
Sutton shakes his head. “Again, nothing was taken. Mrs. Hilliard’s purse contained a couple hundred dollars. She had quite a bit of expensive jewelry in her bedroom, along with a wooden box in her bedside table containing just under three thousand dollars. Why not take those items if you’re looking to score?”
Andrews nods agreeably at his partner and then turns his gaze back to me. “Mrs. Ramsey always paid Foster in cash from a tin she kept in the kitchen cupboard. The neighbor says she’d been there before when Foster saw her digging through it to pay him. It was still there. Surely he would’ve taken that.”
“What about fingerprints?” I bring up.
Sutton frowns. “In both instances, we only found prints from the people you’d expect, including Foster’s, since he was the handyman.”
“Where do I come in?” I ask, knowing I’m not here for the coffee.
“We need you to watch Logan Foster. If he’s committed two murders within the month, chances are it won’t be his last. Follow his moves. See who he’s associating with. Maybe even initiate contact with him, possibly under the guise of purchasing drugs. Do whatever it takes for you to get into his head.”
“Do I already have clearance on this?”
“You do. You can get started right away,” Sutton answers after partaking in a long swallow from his coffee.
We talk a bit longer and then I leave. There’s a spring in my step because, truth be told, I don’t like being undercover. It’s lonely. I’m hoping to move over to the criminal detective division and work cases with fellow officers, like Sutton and Andrews. Maybe, just maybe, working this possible murder case will give me an inside track. As I exit the building, a cold blast of air strikes me in the face. For the first of April, Texas has been uncharacteristically cold. I don’t like cold … unless some young honey is keeping me warm.