Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  “Good evening!” I called in greeting from the porch as they made their way up the walk.

  We exchanged handshakes and I took them on a tour, pointing out the features. We started with the outside. I showed them the spacious garage and backyard, pointing out that the stone spanned the entire outside of the house. No cutting corners by using wood or aluminum siding on the sides and back.

  When we’d made our way back to the porch, I led them inside and took them through the rooms.

  “My wife would love this kitchen,” the older man said as he took a look around. “She loves to cook.” As for himself, he liked the stone wall in the living room. “That’s not something you see every day.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed. “This property is unique.”

  When we were done with the tour, the agent said, “May I have a moment alone with my client?”

  “Of course,” I replied. “I’ll wait out front.”

  I stepped outside. The night was frigid, but the cold air smelled fresh and clean, like a new beginning. This buyer’s interested, isn’t he? My gosh! I might sell the house its first day on the market!

  A minute or so later, the agent opened the door and invited me back inside. “We’re interested,” he said. “Of course we’ll need to take a look at the disclosure statement. Do you have a copy with you?”

  “I do.” I pulled the statement from my bag and handed it to him.

  He carried the document into the kitchen and laid it on the breakfast bar where he and his client could stand side by side and look it over together.

  The agent flipped to the second page and looked up at me. “There was a fire here?”

  “Yes,” I replied. I’d disclosed the fire in the section where the seller was supposed to list any known repairs. “But it was contained to the small bedroom.”

  “What caused it?” the client asked.

  “Old wiring,” said. “No need to worry, though. The entire electrical system has since been updated.”

  The agent picked up the report and ventured into the back bedroom. His client and I followed him. “Is this where it happened?”

  “Yes,” I said. “As you can see, there’s no evidence of fire damage.”

  “There’s certainly not,” the buyer agreed. “Whoever the contractor was did a really good job.”

  Thank you. I couldn’t agree more.

  The agent glanced back down at the report. “I don’t see anything else that causes me any concern.”

  The buyer pointed in the direction of Gentry’s property. “I saw a Bobcat tractor next door. What’s going on over there?”

  Ugh. Here we go. “That house was recently rezoned so that it could be used for commercial purposes. It’s my understanding the owner plans to lease it to a beauty salon.”

  The buyer’s hmm wasn’t exactly encouraging. Darn Mr. Gentry and his ruthless pursuit of the almighty dollar!

  I did what damage control I could. “It’s my understanding that the developer has agreed to put in a privacy hedge between that property and this one. You won’t even be able to see the salon once it’s installed.”

  The buyer’s second hmm sounded a little more positive. “I’ll need to think on it tonight,” he said. “I really like this place. I’d prefer to have people living on both sides of me rather than a business, but the salon’s not necessarily a deal breaker. We live next to a branch library right now. It hasn’t been much of a problem, but we’ve got a brick wall between us. That gives us some privacy and keeps the traffic noise down.”

  I stuck out my hand and we exchanged final handshakes. I gave the men my best buy-this-house smile. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you in the morning.”

  With that, we exited the house and stepped onto the porch. As the men made their way up the walk to the agent’s car, I followed after them.

  The gawker from across the street was rolling his trash bin out to the curb. He looked over at the men. “You gonna buy the murder house?” he called.

  The buyer and his agent stopped in their tracks, just like Presley had done when she’d come upon me this morning. I nearly ran into their backs, stopping only a couple inches behind them. Both of them turned around to face me and we found ourselves standing awkwardly close. The agent raised a brow in question while the buyer crossed his arms over his chest. Defensive posture. Not good.

  “There wasn’t a murder inside the house,” I clarified. “A body was found outside.”

  “Outside where?” asked the agent.

  “In the flower bed,” I replied.

  The potential buyer glanced over at the flower bed. “That bed there?”

  I nodded.

  “Whose body was it?” the client asked.

  Eek. “The former owner’s.”

  He muttered a few choice words and cut me a look so pointed I could have hunted buffalo with it.

  I raised my palms. “It’s not what you think. The owner didn’t live here. The house was a rental.”

  The client grunted. “Like that’s much better. Did they at least catch the guy who did it?”

  “Not yet.” But they did drag me in for questioning.

  The client’s jaw went slack in disbelief. “So the killer is still on the loose? He could come back at any time?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. I don’t think it’s likely.”

  The agent chimed in. “When did the murder take place?”

  “A couple weeks ago.” Okay, so it was only ten days. But everyone knows it’s okay to round up.

  “Wait a minute.” The agent jabbed his finger in the direction of the house. “Is this where they found Rick Dunaway?”

  There was no denying it. “Yes.”

  “Holy moly!” He shook his head and turned to address his client. “Sorry about this. If I’d known, I would’ve told you up front and not wasted your time coming by here to see the place.”

  Without so much as another glance in my direction, the two climbed into the agent’s car and drove away. I climbed into mine, started the engine, and accidentally on purpose backed into my neighbor’s garbage can, tipping it over on his lawn. Cost me a sale, will you?

  CHAPTER 32

  KITTY KISSES

  SAWDUST

  The cat could tell that Whitney wasn’t happy when she came home that night. She kept closing her eyes and sighing. She’d also eaten an enormous bowl of ice cream. Sawdust had noticed she did that when she was sad or worried.

  When she put it in the sink without washing it, he seized the rare opportunity. He leaped up onto the counter, waltzed over to the sink, and treated himself to the melted remnants, lapping it up as fast as his tongue could go.

  When he’d licked the bowl clean, he figured he should go and try to cheer her up. After everything Whitney did for him, it was the least he could do in return.

  First, he whacked his ball with his paw and sent it rolling across the floor. Jingle-jingle-jingle. He chased after the ball, performing a spin as he passed her chair. That move usually got a laugh out of her. Not tonight, though. Tonight, she reached down, snatched up his ball, and stuck it in the top drawer of the dresser.

  Oookay.

  Since the ball hadn’t worked, he decided to try crazy cat. She seemed to get a kick out of it when he sprinted around the room and bolted up and down his cat tree. Off he went. He made three dizzying trips around the room and still she hadn’t cracked a smile. His little heart was beating so fast he could feel it in his ears!

  He had one more trick he could try. He jumped up onto the bed and traipsed up to the top, where he wriggled under the covers. He wriggled all the way down to the end and back, but Whitney never tickled him through the sheets like she usually did.

  Out of ideas, he decided maybe she needed love more than amusement. He hopped up into her lap, raised his chin, and stuck out his tongue to kiss her cheek. That seemed to cheer her up lickety-split. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his fur.

  CHAPTER 33


  MONEY TALKS

  WHITNEY

  Word that the murder house was up for sale spread like wildfire. The next morning, both scheduled showings were canceled. Nobody else called about the property all day. Lance Abbot didn’t call about the suspicious invoice, either. Wednesday was more or less a repeat of Tuesday. No calls. No movement on the house or the invoice. No news of an arrest in Rick Dunaway’s murder.

  Being a woman of action, and running out of patience, I decided on Thursday morning to seize the bull by the horns. I scheduled an open house from ten to six on Saturday, noting the event in the multiple-listing service online. Maybe that would lead a buyer to our doors. I also advertised the event by placing a sandwich board sign with changeable letters next to the FOR SALE sign in the yard. I’d arranged the letters to say FULLY RENOVATED DREAM HOME! DON’T MISS OUR OPEN HOUSE SATURDAY 10–6.

  I also decided to go by the property in the Twelve Twelve building and speak with the tenants. They could tell me whether Isak Nyström had done any work there. Knowing the couple who leased the condo worked irregular hours, I took a chance and stopped by that afternoon. The lobby of the building was just as chic and stylish as I remembered. I rode the elevator up to the fifth floor, made my way to the end of the hall, and knocked on the door.

  The wife answered. She was wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt. Her feet were bare. It wasn’t clear whether she was actually exercising or if this was simply her go-to lounging gear as it was for so many women these days, including myself. She looked at me, her focus on my nose, her eyes squinting a bit as if she didn’t recognize me.

  “Hi,” I said. “Do you remember me? I’m Whitney Whitaker. From your property management company?” Former management company, to be precise.

  “Oh, right.” Her eyes widened to normal, though her focus was still on my nose. “I don’t have my glasses on so you’re nothing but a big blond blur.” She indicated my fuzzy form by making a circling motion with her palm, as if she were waxing an invisible car.

  I glanced past her into the condo. As far as I could tell, nothing had changed here. The kitchen had the same appliances, the same tile, the same countertops. The flooring was the same, too. The walls were the same basic, neutral taupe color that I had the painters put in all of the rental properties when they needed to be repainted.

  I hadn’t come to the condo since handing over the keys, so I’d never seen the couple’s furniture. But there was absolutely no chance that Isak Nyström had selected their furnishings. I’d visited his Web site umpteen times and attended enough tours of homes to know that he trafficked in rare, unusual pieces and bright, bold colors. The décor here was distinctly Crate & Barrel. Neutral tones. Standard styles. Everyday furniture fare, with nothing particularly eye-catching or conversation-starting.

  Could the designer have ordered furniture, but not yet delivered it? Better to eliminate all possibilities.

  I returned my attention to the tenant. “Can you tell me whether a designer has been by to take a look at the place? Was any furniture ordered for the condo?”

  “No.” Lines of confusion popped up on her forehead. “Why?”

  I gave her a slightly altered version of the facts, but one that would serve to waste no more of her time and keep the name of Abbot-Dunaway Holdings out of the conversation. “Home and Hearth received an invoice from a designer that we can’t match to a property. I’m trying to sort it out for our records.”

  Her eyes narrowed again. “Wouldn’t the easiest way to sort it out be to talk to the designer?”

  It would be, if I didn’t want to tip him off that I suspected him of fraud. “I haven’t been able to reach her,” I said to cover my tracks, inadvertently giving the designer an impromptu sex change. “She’s on vacation. But I’m sure she can clear things up for me when she returns. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “No problem.”

  The door closed behind me as I turned and headed back down the hall. I returned to my car on the street to find a parking ticket on my windshield. Ugh! My mind had been going a million miles a minute when I’d arrived. I’d totally forgotten to feed the meter.

  I snatched the ticket out from under the wiper and checked to see how much the infraction would cost me. $75? Sheesh! At this rate I was going to have to learn to forage for berries in the woods or force myself to eat crickets. I’d heard they were a dietary staple in some countries. Sawdust had played with an errant cricket or two that had ventured into our pool house. Fortunately for the bugs, he hadn’t seemed to have a taste for them.

  I tucked the citation into my purse and climbed into my car. Pulling my phone from my purse, I called Buck and gave him an update. “I’m going to talk to the designer. Any chance you can play bodyguard for me?”

  “I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

  After ending the call and using my phone to find for the address of Nyström’s studio, I plugged it into my GPS and headed back out on the road. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the lot of a warehouse in east Nashville. The only thing identifying the place as Nyström’s business were his initials, IN, which were spelled out in rust on the side of the metal building. Who knew rust could be forced? I thought it just happened naturally.

  The designer was known for picking up odds and ends that caught his eye, whether they be at a garage sale in the hills of Kentucky or a chic boutique in Paris. The bay doors were open, revealing a smorgasbord of pieces. A collection of vintage food tins, ranging from a large red tin of animal crackers to a rectangular tin of Prince Albert tobacco. The dinged and dented front bumper of a circa 1955 car, the Tennessee license plate still attached. A vintage poster for a revival to be held at the Ryman Auditorium. The local tourist attraction had been built by a reformed riverboat captain to serve as a church, and had been originally named the Union Gospel Tabernacle. Years later, it had been converted to an entertainment venue. It served as the original home of the Grand Ole Opry for decades. I’d attended several concerts there myself over the years.

  Buck pulled up in his van and took the parking spot next to my SUV. We climbed out of our vehicles and met on the pavement.

  He patted his pocket to let me know that, once again, he was armed with his wrench in case things went south.

  As we wandered into the space, my eyes noted the handwritten price tags hanging from some of the items: $4,850 for a pair of worn whitewall tires on which a circle of glass had been placed to form a makeshift coffee table; $6,570 for an old-fashioned, precomputer library card catalog; $13,300 for a wall-sized painting of an airplane with a ceiling fan turned on its side as the propeller. I’ve gone into the wrong business.

  Seeing nobody in the bay, we walked up to a solid metal door at the side of the room to see if we might find someone in an office. The words BY APPOINTMENT ONLY were spelled out in colorful plastic magnets, the kind people put on their fridge to teach their children the alphabet. Amusing. The designer had a definite sense of whimsy.

  I raised a hand and rapped on the door. Rap-rap-rap.

  After waiting for a full minute with no response, I tried again, knocking harder this time. RAP-RAP-RAP.

  Still nothing.

  “Can I help y’all?” came a voice from behind us. Despite the Southern phrasing, the words were tinged with an accent I assumed was Swedish. Talk about a culture clash.

  Buck and I turned to find a young man with spiky platinum-blond hair. He wore bright red plastic eyeglasses and a black and white striped jumpsuit. If not for the fact that the stripes were vertical rather than horizontal, he could be taken for an inmate. And if not for the fact that he was wearing the eyeglasses, he could be taken for a zebra.

  “We’d like to speak to Mr. Nyström. Is he in?”

  “Is it about one of the pieces here in the shop?” The man swept his hand to indicate the items. “Because I can help you with anything here.”

  “No,” I replied. “It’s about his design services.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” He look
ed from me to Buck and back again.

  “No.”

  “You will have to make an appointment. Mr. Nyström’s time is valuable and he is beyond busy. I have been given strict orders not to interrupt him while he is creating.”

  I understood the value of time as well as anyone, even if my time might not yield as many dollars per hour as the designer’s. Hmm. That thought gives me an idea. “I’m here to pay a thirty-two-thousand-dollar invoice for a property I manage.” If that kind of money didn’t open Nyström’s door, I didn’t know what would.

  The young man held out his hand. “I can take it.”

  “I have some questions about the invoice.”

  He lowered his glasses and eyed me over them. “What are they? I can pass them on and get back to you.”

  “I would much prefer to discuss the matter with Mr. Nyström himself.”

  The young man scowled, clearly insulted. “Why should he spend his valuable time on something his assistant can handle for him?”

  Money may talk, but it didn’t speak loud enough for this guy. Thirty-two thousand dollars must be a mere pittance for the designer and his staff. Must be nice to earn big bucks like that.

  “Go now.” Done with us, the young man shooed me and Buck out of the place, waving the backs of his hands and coming at us until we had backed out onto the asphalt parking lot.

  “What am I supposed to do about my questions?” I asked.

  “Put them in writing and mail them in,” he snapped before pushing a button to lower the bay door.

  The guy’s behavior and attitude had me wondering whether he was involved in the fake-invoice scheme.

  After we’d walked back to our vehicles, I exhaled sharply and turned to Buck. “Looks like I’ll have to find another way to get to Isak Nyström.”

  Buck gestured toward the building. “We know he’s in there, right? Why don’t we wait for him? He’s got to come out sometime.”

  “You’ve got a point.” We could only hope he didn’t decide to put in a late night and keep us waiting until the wee hours.