by Diane Kelly
When I finished, she asked, “Do you know how Dunaway was killed?”
“With a mallet. I found it on the ground that morning, by the porch. I rinsed it off before I realized it had been used to commit murder.”
“Any idea who the mallet belongs to?”
“Yes.” I swallowed hard but still squeaked when I spoke. “It belongs to me.”
Her brows rose in question as the eyes below simultaneously narrowed. “The mallet was yours? How did the killer get hold of it?”
“I’d used it to hammer a sign into the yard, but I forgot to put it away. The killer must have found it.”
She stared at me for a long moment before giving me a firm nod. “I think I’ve got what I need.”
“You do?” I sat up straighter. “How are you going to prove my innocence?”
“I’m not.”
Huh? “Excuse me?”
“You and I have no duty to prove that you didn’t kill Rick Dunaway,” she said. “The government has the burden of proof. It’s their job to gather enough evidence to convince a jury beyond any reasonable doubt that you committed the crime. They won’t be able to do that. Not under these facts.”
I remembered thinking after I’d discovered Dunaway’s body that it was the police department’s job to find his killer. Now, though, it seemed like it might be a good idea to help them along in that process. Even if they lacked the evidence to charge or convict me, the thought of being under suspicion didn’t sit well with me. “But if we can prove I didn’t—”
She silenced me with a chop of her hand. “Don’t make this harder on yourself than it has to be. In the last three days, that detective has probably spoken with dozens of people to try to collect enough evidence to pin this crime on you. He wasn’t able to do it or you would have been charged with the crime already, not merely detained for questioning.”
I took a moment to digest her words. I supposed it was good news, but even better news than learning that I’d likely go free would be that the actual killer had been caught.
She turned, went to the door, and opened it. Flynn waited in the hall.
“We’re ready.” My attorney waved the detective in and he took his seat again.
While I’d expected Detective Flynn to launch into a series of questions, before he could get the first one out of his mouth, Ms. Lewis seized the opportunity to interrogate him instead. “You didn’t bring my client in on Saturday after you questioned her. Why are we here today? What’s happened in the meantime?”
“I have since learned that Ms. Whitaker lied to me when I questioned her on Saturday.”
“What do you allege she lied about?” Ms. Lewis asked.
“About the last time she saw Mr. Dunaway alive,” Flynn said. “On Saturday, she told me the last time she’d seen him in person was Monday of last week. But I’ve got a canceled check here that says otherwise.” He opened the manila folder and pulled out a copy of the front and back of the $5,000 check Mr. Dunaway had left on my doorstep. He slid the paper across the table. “See?” He pointed to the date at the top of the check. “That check was written on Friday and deposited in her account early on Saturday morning. That means Ms. Whitaker must have seen Mr. Dunaway alive sometime the preceding evening. The condition of the body that morning indicated Mr. Dunaway had been dead for several hours. She was likely the last person to see him alive.”
“You’d be wrong about that,” my attorney said. “Ms. Whitaker has informed me that she found the check and a settlement agreement in an envelope on the porch when she left the house a little after nine on Friday night. She wasn’t sure why Mr. Dunaway hadn’t come by at six o’clock as they’d previously agreed, but she assumed he’d gotten tied up with another matter. She had no reason to believe anything was seriously awry.”
A muscle flexed in Flynn’s jaw. “I spoke to Lance Abbot, Mr. Dunaway’s business partner. He told me that Whitney was extremely irate and rude and out of control when she came to their office on the Monday before the murder. Mr. Dunaway’s bookkeeper, Presley, confirmed that Whitney appeared disturbed.”
My cheeks blazed. Disturbed? Seriously? I’d been upset, sure. Angry, yes. But disturbed? Really? Talk about hyperbole.
My attorney answered for me again, leaning forward over the table. “No matter how Miss Whitaker might have appeared on that day, calm or agitated, the fact that Mr. Dunaway agreed to cover her deductible means she had no reason to be upset with him anymore. He’d given in to her request, given her exactly what she asked for.” She sat back and raised her hands. “You’ve got no motive, Detective.”
Again the jaw muscle flexed. “I’ve also spoken with Bobby Palmer, her home inspector. He says Whitney was extremely upset by the fire and looking for someone to blame and cover her losses because she’s broke. He says there was no bribe and that he was shocked Whitney would accuse him of fraud given their long-standing business relationship.”
“Oh, honey,” Lewis said. “If you’re surprised another potential suspect tried to place blame on Ms. Whitaker and soil her character, you aren’t much of a detective, Mr. Flynn.”
Ooh. That comment got a HUGE flex, one that involved the entire side of his neck. I fought the urge to snicker.
Despite the fact that he appeared to be boiling on the inside, Flynn’s demeanor remained calm and cool. “Thaddeus Gentry told me much the same thing. Whitney exploded when she discovered he’d bought the adjoining property and had it rezoned for commercial use. He said she’d assaulted him with her car and attempted to spray him with her garden hose.”
Assaulted him with my car? All I’d done was roll up the window! And as far as spraying him with the hose, I hadn’t even thought of it until he’d tooted his horn to taunt me. Yet, regardless of how unfounded and off base the statements of these people were, they’d painted a picture of me as a vindictive, conniving, vengeful shrew. And that picture was a piece of art that Detective Flynn had bought and hung on his metaphorical wall, not realizing it was a forgery.
I had to defend myself. To tell him that he was wrong. “I didn’t—”
Lewis threw her arm across me, like a mother protecting a young child when suddenly slamming on the brakes in a car. “I do all the talking, Miss Whitaker. Remember?”
My fight-or-flight instincts told me to fight. After all, with my hand attached to the table, it wasn’t like I could escape. It took everything in me to close my mouth, to stop my verbal defense, to give her a nod of agreement.
She returned her attention to Detective Flynn. “None of this proves anything. And did you speak with Jackson, the former tenant? What did he have to say?”
“He admitted he threw the eggs at the house, but he said it was very late that night, around two A.M., after he’d been at a party nearby.”
“And you believed him?” she asked, scorn in her voice. “A punk with a record?”
“Jackson Pharr didn’t even know who Mr. Dunaway was, had no idea who owned the rental house. He said the only person he’d ever dealt with regarding their lease was Whitney.”
Alas, that much was true. I’d handled all of the leasing arrangements and the rental agreement was in the name of Home & Hearth, not Abbot-Dunaway Holdings. Jackson had no reason to know who Rick Dunaway was. Still, it didn’t eliminate the possibility that Jackson had actually thrown the eggs at the house earlier and come across Dunaway then. But surely I would’ve spotted the broken eggs when I left the house if they’d already been thrown, right? Would Dunaway have had a reason to return to the house later that night and maybe run across Jackson then? I had no way of knowing. Of course there was also the possibility that Jackson had swung at Rick Dunaway, thinking the man was me. After all, with the electricity out, the porch light had not been on and it was fairly dark outside.
The detective went on. “The next-door neighbor told me she overheard Whitney and Buck speaking through the hole in the roof the day after the fire. She heard Whitney specifically reference Rick Dunaway and suggested he might wa
nt to buy life insurance because—” He consulted his notes in an apparent attempt to get my quote right. “She ‘had half a mind to put an end to him.’ Miss Whitaker then referenced a tool that ‘could do the trick.’ She must have been referring to her mallet.”
Actually, I’d been referring to my nail gun at the time, not my mallet, but I wasn’t about to correct the detective and confirm that I had, in fact, engaged in a discussion about ending Rick Dunaway’s life through violent means. It had all been a joke, for goodness’ sake! A way to blow off steam, is all. I hadn’t been serious.
“A carpenter having a conversation about tools is hardly unusual,” Ms. Lewis said, but didn’t belabor the point. Instead, she bombarded him with more questions. “Have you looked into the possibility that the attack may have been a random robbery? That someone might have followed Dunaway’s fancy car to Whitney’s house? His wallet was missing, right?”
Flynn hesitated a moment before revealing the information. “Yes. His wallet was gone. But his keys and watch weren’t. If he’d been mugged, the thief would have stolen Dunaway’s car. His Rolex, too. That watch is worth thousands of dollars.”
“Not necessarily,” Lewis said. “He might not want to risk being caught in a dead man’s car, and he wouldn’t have been able to pawn the watch. The robber would know the Rolex would be put on the stolen goods list that’s supplied to secondhand shops. He’d have to find a buyer himself, or sell it at a big markdown to someone who deals in stolen property.”
She certainly knew how crime worked. I supposed it came with the territory for a defense attorney. But all of this was new to me.
“Whitney mentioned a suspicious white sedan,” Lewis said. “Have you confirmed that no government agency had Mr. Dunaway under surveillance? That he wasn’t involved in dangerous illegal activity?”
“He wasn’t being watched by Nashville PD, the Davidson County Sheriff’s Department, or the FBI,” he said.
“What about the IRS?” she asked. “ATF? ICE? Did you check with them, too?”
Another flex. In other words, he hadn’t checked with those agencies. “I have no reason to believe Mr. Dunaway was involved with illegal firearms or smuggling. As for the IRS, I’ll look into it.”
Lewis continued relentlessly. “It’s also possible the white car belonged to a hit man who took out Mr. Dunaway.”
“It’s not clear the white car is even relevant,” Flynn said. “Miss Whitaker said so herself. Besides, none of the evidence I’ve uncovered points to Mr. Dunaway being the target of a premeditated hit.”
“Maybe you’re not digging hard enough,” Lewis said, “or digging in the right places.”
Digging. Ugh. The word had me once again picturing Dunaway’s lifeless face as he lay in the dirt.
“Got anything else against my client, Detective?” my attorney demanded.
Flynn was quiet a moment. “That’s it for now.”
“You’re going down a rabbit trail where Miss Whitaker is concerned,” Lewis said. “You’ll never get a conviction on this flimsy, circumstantial evidence. You and I both know that.”
She rose from the table and I followed her lead before realizing I was still shackled to it.
She pointed to the handcuff. “You want to unlock that so she can go?”
Flynn stood and stared down my attorney. “No.”
“No?” she repeated, her voice rising an octave. “Excuse me?”
“As you know, Ms. Lewis,” the detective replied, “under Tennessee law Miss Whitaker can be held for questioning for seventy-two hours without charges.”
Seventy-two hours? “But tomorrow’s Thanksgiving!” I cried.
Lewis cut me a look that said Shut that mouth of yours and shut it now!
“Sorry,” I told her. “It’s just that I was really looking forward to it. My aunt Nancy makes this delicious sweet potato pie—”
Instead of telling me with her words and glances to be quiet, this time my attorney slapped her hand over my mouth and looked me in the eye. “You listen to me and you listen to me good, Whitney.” She jabbed a finger in Detective Flynn’s direction. “That man is keeping you here because he hopes to break you, to get you to confess to something you didn’t do. Don’t fall for it. Keep your mouth closed and don’t say anything to anyone. I’ll be back if and when he decides to question you again.”
She was leaving me here? Now I knew how Sawdust felt that one time I’d had to board him at the kennel.
My attorney looked down at her watch then at Detective Flynn. “It’s ten forty-three. My client better be out of here by ten forty-four Saturday morning or there will be consequences.” She jabbed a finger on the table. “You’ll be one of them.”
She turned back to me, mimicked zipping her lip and throwing away the key, and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Bam!
Flynn tugged his radio from his belt. “I need a female officer to escort a person of interest to a holding cell, please.”
Person of interest. That sounded slightly better than suspect, but not much.
Hot tears welled up in my eyes and my head felt as if it were full of helium, causing all coherent thought to float away. But an instant later, my resolve kicked in. I looked Detective Flynn in the eye. “This is your first murder investigation, isn’t it?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I answered your questions. You could at least answer mine.”
“Actually,” he reminded me, “you didn’t answer any of my questions today.”
“Point taken,” I said. “But I answered them all on Saturday, at the house. Willingly and thoroughly.”
“So?”
“So I can understand the pressure you’re under to make a quick arrest, to prove to your boss that you know what you’re doing. But throwing the wrong person in jail isn’t going to impress your superiors. In fact, it’ll do exactly the opposite.”
He exhaled sharply. “Who says I have the wrong person?”
“I do. You said earlier you could smell a lie a mile away. Can you smell the truth, too?”
“What, exactly, would the truth smell like?”
I thought it over. “Cupcakes?”
His lip quirked as he fought a smile.
“Look,” I said. “I know my attorney was a bit of a—”
“Ballbuster?”
I’d been thinking of another B-word, but ballbuster worked, too. “Don’t punish me for it. She was only doing her job.”
He grunted and stared me down for a long moment as if trying to look into my soul. The twitch around his eyes told me that maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to waver. “Nothing I’ve heard today proves your innocence. If you could prove to me that you didn’t kill Dunaway, give me one incontrovertible fact, I’ll let you go. But you can’t do that, can you, Miss Whitaker?”
I couldn’t. My heart felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds in my chest. Defeated, I looked down. And found just the evidence I needed.
I raised my unshackled arm. “Look at my sleeves. What do you see?”
He leaned in and took a look. “Cat hair. Lots of it.”
“Exactly. I gave my cat a hug before I left the house. I love that furry little guy so much that I would never risk going to jail and leaving him behind. It would break my heart to be without him.”
Flynn stared at me for another long moment. His gaze flicked to my mouth. “You kissed your cat, too.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’ve got cat hair in your lip gloss.” He reached out and plucked a stray fur from my lip.
We held each other’s gaze for several seconds before the door opened. Officer Hogarty stepped inside and headed my way. “Let’s get you to lockup, blondie.”
Panic welled up in me, making my head feel like a helium balloon that would pop free from my neck and float away. I’m going to jail! There’s scary people in there!
“Wait!” Flynn raised a palm. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“You have
?” Hallelujah! The tight knot my gut had tied itself into began to loosen and my brain began to defog.
Hogarty cut her eyes to the detective. “You haven’t been swayed by a pretty face, have you, Flynn?”
“No,” he replied, his eyes still locked on mine. “I was swayed by her arguments. She’s not actually all that pretty.”
My free hand went to my hip. “Hey!”
A subtle smile played over his face before he turned to the officer. “You can remove the handcuffs.”
Hogarty gave a snort of disapproval. “You’re the boss.”
She unlocked the cuff from the table before removing it from my wrist. “There you are. Free to go. Just don’t kill anyone else.”
I heaved a sigh.
“You’re still a person of interest,” Flynn warned me, his tone all business again. “Don’t leave the area.”
“I won’t. By the way.” I pointed down to the floor. “There’s a bolt missing down there. You might want to get that taken care of before some suspect rips the table out of the floor and whacks you over the head with it.”
