Realtor Rub Out

by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  I nodded. I was a bit shaken by the cookies. Shaken for both Belle and myself. Whoever sent them knew we were nosying around in the murder investigation, and they weren’t happy about it. And only the killer knew how Carole Craddock died. The killer and all of us. “I’ll do my best.”

  He kissed my forehead. “Thank you.”

  Matthew wrapped the box in plastic wrap and dropped it inside a black string bag. “If you want cookies, you’re going to have to stop at Millie’s.”

  “We are totally fine with that,” Belle said.

  “You ready to arrest someone?” Matthew asked Dylan.

  “Looks like we’ve got some more investigating to do,” he said.

  “Well, you all get to it. The sooner you solve this, the better I’ll feel about sending my momma and daddy on a plane to Italy before me,” I said.

  “If we’re going to keep getting little gifts like this, I say you send them now and include us in on the early arrival,” Belle said.

  Matthew pecked her on the cheek, and as they walked out, Dylan pointed to the security camera and said, “Turn the thing on now, will you?”

  “Praise God for keeping my nose clean in that hot mess,” she said after they closed the door behind them. “I thought I’d have to say something about my conversation with John Rockwell. He may be a slime ball, but I don’t think he killed Carole Craddock. He’s too worried about making a name for himself at his dad’s firm. Which is kind of funny, considering you said it’s not all that in a pair of tight jeans.”

  I laughed because she used a saying my momma used all the time. “Maybe he didn’t kill her, but he might know if his father did.”

  Chapter 9

  Joey Ronnetti called me on my way to pick up Bo from day care. “This Miss Sprayberry?”

  “Yes, and this is?”

  “Joey Ronnetti. My ma told me to give you a call about the Studebakers.”

  “Oh yes, thank you for calling.”

  “I didn’t kill that woman if that’s what you’re asking. Mr. Studebaker can’t have sugar. Poor guy’s a diabetic, so I don’t offer him my cookies anymore.”

  His mother obviously told him what she knew. “Mr. Ronnetti, I’ve got to run and take care of something, but I’d like to come by your house after if you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Don’t see a problem with that. You hungry? Ma’s making a pot of spaghetti and meatballs, and she’s going to want to feed you.”

  I thanked him and said I’d be there within the hour.

  I grabbed Bo and fed him a few treats from the bag I kept in my car and headed to the Ronnetti’s house. I didn’t think Joey had anything to do with the murder, but I knew it was important to talk to everyone, so I wanted to follow through. Besides, he could have been there and seen something.

  He was right. His mother offered me dinner, and the sauce smelled delicious, but I refused. I’d heard rumors about refusing an Italian woman’s food, and they were right. Mrs. Ronnetti pushed and pushed, even when I told her I had a wedding dress to fit into in a matter of days. “Just a meatball then. You’re too skinny. You need some meat on those bones.”

  I ate a meatball, and God bless that woman, it was one of the best things I’d ever tasted, so I had another, tighter wedding dress aside.

  “Did you go to the Studebakers the day of the murder?” I asked Joey.

  “No, ma’am. I stopped by there to check on them mostly, but Mrs. Studebaker mentioned a leaky faucet, so I said I’d drop by in a day or two, but I haven’t made it there yet. Heard what happened by calling them and letting them know I’d be coming by actually, and then Ma here said you came by to talk about it.”

  I nodded. “Mr. Studebaker said you used to give him cookies.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ma here makes a mean lemon cookie, and Mr. Studebaker, he likes them. Hasn’t had one in a while though because of his diabetes. Mrs. Studebaker is small, but you don’t mess with those country women. They’re tough.”

  “Not as tough as us Italians,” his mother said.

  “Have you ever heard anything that concerned you while you were at their house?” I wasn’t sure what to ask, and that was the first thing that came to mind. “Maybe they mentioned anything about a neighbor or someone they’d upset?”

  He took a minute to respond and then said, “Not that I’m aware of. Don’t think those two could upset a fly though. They’re as nice as can be.”

  I glanced down at the plate and desperately wanted to lick the remaining red sauce from it because it was that incredible, but my momma taught me manners, and I just couldn’t do it.

  I smiled at Mrs. Ronnetti. “I’m going to come by and learn how to make this one day. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  “You do that. I don’t have a daughter to share my recipes with, and Joey here, he’s never going to cook. I’d love to pass them onto someone.”

  * * *

  Bo had been lounging on the screen porch with a meatball of his own and had licked his plate clean. I was jealous. He lay next to it snoring away, and both Joey and his mother laughed when I had to shake him awake. “His buddies at doggy day care exhaust him.”

  “Wish I’d had a place like that for Joey when he was a kid.”

  “Ma. I wasn’t that bad.”

  “You weren’t an angel either.”

  I laughed. Their relationship made me miss my parents, and I was looking forward to seeing them soon.

  Or at least I hoped I’d see them soon.

  I retrieved my index cards and notebook and made a few notes about the day while Bo—as usual—snoozed next to me.

  Floyd Bowman and Dabney Clayton had something they didn’t want people to find out, and specifically, me, or at least I thought it was me. What could that be? I tapped my pen on an index card when my cell phone dinged with a text notification from an unknown texter.

  “Don’t let Dabney Clayton fool you. She’s not any better than Carole Craddock was.”

  “Who is this?” I responded.

  “Dabney isn’t innocent.”

  “Do you know something? Who is this?”

  I waited a while and when I didn’t get a response, hit info to call the number, but it sent me to a general voicemail for Craddock & Clayton. I wrote the number down on a separate index card just in case and copied the text message exchange word for word.

  Did Dabney kill Carole? Was the anger she felt toward her soon to be former business partner enough to drive her over the edge? I thought back to what Dylan always said, and to what Mrs. Ronnetti said.

  There are few things that drive someone to commit murder. Money, love, and territory. As Dylan said, passion and money. Mrs. Ronnetti added the third reason, territory, and I liked it. As far as I could tell, Dabney had two out of three reasons, money and territory.

  Floyd Bowman said Carole manipulated his sales by going in and offering a higher bid, but Skip Rockwell said it was the other way around. If Floyd was being honest—a factor I had no way of proving—then he had every reason to be upset. But if Skip was right, he had less of a reason.

  And let’s face it, men aren’t generally bakers. Sure, some men liked to cook, but most threw a few burgers or some barbeque on the grill and that was it. Actual baking was the exception to the rule.

  But something about Floyd and Dabney’s conversation made me wonder. What could they be hiding? Their relationship? I drew a big circle around Floyd’s name on his card. I noted their conversation on each card and then also detailed out the text I’d just received on Dabney’s card, too. It felt like double the work, but keeping the cards connected, I thought, could be the key to my wedding happening on time.

  I shuffled the cards around, trying to figure out the biggest and best motive. No matter how I arranged them, Dabney Clayton kept taking the number one spot. She hit all the marks, and even some marks I hadn’t thought of, like betrayal as a possible motive. I would feel betrayed if Belle gave her business to another firm, so it would be understandable if Dabn
ey felt that way, too. Would that be enough reason to murder Carole, or was it just another piece of the pie?

  I sent Dylan a text asking if he could come by after work, even though it was late. He responded and said he was just leaving and would. I felt bad because I knew he was exhausted, but I wanted to share my thoughts and get his input.

  “I bake,” he said as I explained my theory. “And I’m pretty good at it, too.”

  I’d sampled some of Dylan’s baking efforts. I patted his back. “You might ought to stick to the grill, sweetie.”

  He chuckled. “We can’t rule out suspects just because the weapon might be cookie. If someone wants to murder someone else, they’re going to do what they have to do to be successful.”

  “But when you put it all together, you should consider it.”

  “True, and Skip Rockwell doesn’t seem like the type of guy that sits around and bakes at night to relax.”

  “I agree, but Dabney? That’s a different story. She falls into two out of the three motive categories, too. Money and territory, and if you add betrayal, she’s there, too.”

  “Territory?”

  “Do I have to teach you how to investigate now?” I winked. “Mrs. Ronnetti, she’s Italian, and she said there are three reasons a person is driven to murder, at least it’s been her experience.”

  “Her experience? How many people has she murdered?”

  “Stop it,” I swatted his arm. She wouldn’t hurt a flea, but she’s Italian, and she said she’s got family members that were in the mob, and they always had three reasons to kill people.”

  He raised his eyebrow. “And what were those three reasons?”

  “Love, money, and territory. Territory isn’t always a location, it’s an attitude.”

  “She didn’t mention honor?”

  “No, why?”

  “Honor is a biggie with the Italians. Capone had a lot of men killed because of it.”

  “Honey, this is Bramblett County Georgia. We’re a long way away from anything like Al Capone.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “But you see? It works both ways for Dabney Clayton. The money of course, but also, the territory. Carole was leaving her partnership with Dabney and taking her clients to another firm. That’s territory right there if I ever saw it.”

  “She has an alibi, and so far, it’s checked out.”

  What’s her alibi?”

  “She was preparing to show a house in Milton.”

  “Did you talk to the clients?”

  He nodded. “They said they were with her around eleven o’clock.”

  “But you don’t have a specific time for the murder yet, do you? Did you get the autopsy back?”

  “We know that Carole died around ten thirty-ish.”

  “That’s a thirty-minute difference. A lot can happen in thirty minutes.” I showed him the text messages. “Maybe you should dig deeper. Maybe she took the cookie from the office?”

  He focused on the message, took a screenshot and then sent it to his cell phone via text. “Did you try calling the number?”

  I nodded. “And it went straight to a general voicemail box for Craddock & Clayton. Which means whoever made the call had set their calls to come from the main line at the firm. Someone that wanted me to know Dabney’s not innocent.”

  “Or someone that wants you to think she’s not.”

  “Like Skip Rockwell?”

  “Or Floyd Bowman.”

  “Not possible. They’ve got something going on, he and Dabney, and I just don’t think it’s him.”

  “Whatever’s going on can’t be that important to Dabney. She’s the one that gave us, and you, his name as a possible suspect.”

  He was right. “Probably because she wanted to deflect the blame from herself.”

  He agreed. “If she killed her, she’d want to redirect our investigation.”

  “Are you set on it being Skip Rockwell? Did you bring him in for questioning?”

  “I’m not set on anyone just yet, and honestly, I don’t see a motive for Skip. What did he have to lose in bringing a seasoned agent with a book of business on board? More importantly, what could he gain from killing her?”

  “Her entire book of business for himself.”

  “But she hadn’t officially transitioned over, and could he even have access to any of it now that she’s gone?”

  “It’s possible. If he has access to her client base on her computer, or he could do a property search through the city of Alpharetta, but that would take a lot of time. Months probably.”

  “We have her computer. It was in her vehicle. We have a lot to find out still. We’re interviewing agents from Craddock & Clayton, and we could have another suspect by the end of the day tomorrow. We just don’t have any strong evidence for any arrests yet.”

  Which meant the odds of making it to Ischia for the wedding were getting lower by the minute, and I was determined to make sure Carole Craddock’s murder didn’t stop us.

  Chapter 10

  All eyes were glued to me as I walked into Craddock & Clayton. I wanted to wave and gush at my popularity, hoping it was for my choice of professional attire–a black skirt that hit just above the knee, a pale pink silk button down top with three-quarter sleeves, and a pair of pale pink pumps I’d picked up the week before. I bought them because they were a perfect match to a sundress already packed for my wedding. They were a little pricy and over my budget, but they were cute as a bug on a rug, and I just couldn’t say no.

  I grabbed a donut from the table of food and took a bite out of it. “I love me some powdered donuts.” I held it up and smiled at it. “Is this from a bakery, or does someone here make all of this?”

  No one answered, and it was obvious they weren’t gawking at me for my cute outfit. They did it because they feared Dabney would pop a screw loose when she saw me. And they were right.

  “What in the…what are you doing here? This is my place of business, and I don’t need you here fussing around things that have nothing to do with you.”

  “Mrs. Clayton, it has everything to do with me. Your partner was murdered in my client’s home. It is my duty to them to find out what’s going on, and I think you know more than you’re saying.”

  She grimaced, flipped around, and headed toward her office. I stood waiting for the go ahead, and when she glanced back to check, she stopped and said, “Well, come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  “At the broker lunch yesterday, before the altercation, I went to use the restroom, and I heard you and Mr. Bowman talking. You said you were worried about something a woman was sticking her nose into. And you mentioned the police.” I sat in the chair in front of her desk. “You don’t have a lot of friends here in the agency, do you?”

  She flinched, and her face heated to a shade similar to the fire trucks in Bramblett. “You listened in on our private conversation?”

  “Not intentionally, no, but I’ll admit that once I recognized the voices and confirmed it was you and Mr. Bowman, I didn’t walk away.”

  “That’s a breach of privacy. Nothing you heard will ever hold up in a court of law.”

  I wasn’t aware of hearing anything that would require a court of law in the first place. “Happening upon a private conversation and not wanting to interrupt it isn’t illegal, Ms. Clayton. But I can’t help and wonder if there was something you’d fear I’d take to the police.”

  Her eyes shifted, and she hesitated before speaking. “We were discussing an employee of…a situation with an employee. It doesn’t concern Carole Craddock, and therefore, it doesn’t concern you, either.”

  “When I first met you, you suggested I speak to Mr. Bowman about his relationship with Ms. Craddock. Strange that you would throw your boyfriend under the bus like that, don’t you think?”

  If Belle was there, she would have cheered me on. I’d gone into full out crime drama TV mode and was proud of myself.

  “He is not my boyfriend.”

  “W
ell, I don’t know what y’all do in these big cities, but where I come from, when men get all touchy feeling and whisper terms of endearment, they’re either trying to sell a used car, or you’re knocking boots.”

  Dabney glanced out her office window into the main work area with all the agent desks. There were six people out there, two men and four women, and one woman, a petite, curly haired red head in an adorable green and blue sleeveless dress, caught her eye. The young woman immediately glanced down at her desk.

  “Ms. Sprayberry, I find your comment highly inappropriate and extremely offensive. And what I do in my private life is none of your business.”

  “Maybe not, but Carole Craddock’s murder is, and I plan to do everything within my power to find out who killed her.”

  She shuffled a stack of papers on her desk and sighed. “Very well, you do that, but leave me out of it. I have work to do.”

  I nodded, and as I stood to leave, I placed my hands on her desk, an intimidating move I’d recently seen on TV. My wrists shook ever so slightly from my nerves. “Ms. Clayton, what’s your favorite cookie?”

  She glanced up at me. “Not the kind that killed Carole, I can tell you that.”

  “Why do you think a cookie killed her?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Because, I…because that woman never left the office without a bag of cookies.”

  “So, you’re saying she took cookies from here, ate them, and then died?”

  Her jaw dropped. “No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that Carole Craddock loved cookies, and I heard that was what killed her.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Let’s just say I did the math. Skip Rockwell said yesterday that she was poisoned, and she’s always got cookies with her. How does that add up to you?”

  “It’s a reach.”

  “Only because you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Even the simplest of law enforcement officers like the ones you’ve got in your little backwoods county can figure that out. Now, if you don’t mind.” She flicked her hand toward the door. “I’ve got work to do.”