Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  “Maybe,” Buck agreed. “But what can you do about it?”

  “Actually,” I said, “I thought we could do something about it.”

  Colette chimed in now. “Like what?”

  “Like follow Presley home from work,” I said, “see where she goes.”

  “I’m game,” Buck said. “I can cut out a little early.” A flexible schedule was one of the benefits of working for a family business.

  “I don’t have to be at the restaurant until seven,” Colette said. “Count me in, too.”

  We arranged to meet at a public parking lot downtown at half past four.

  At four thirty, we had our rendezvous in the lot.

  Buck took in Colette’s white chef jacket and offered her another good-natured ribbing. “When did you take up karate?”

  She bladed her hands and improvised a kick. “Hi-yah!”

  “If I didn’t know better,” Buck said, “I’d think you were Jet Li.”

  She rolled her eyes, contradicting the gesture with a grin. “Let’s take my car,” Colette suggested. “Presley might recognize your SUV, Whitney.”

  “Good idea.” With the WHITAKER WOODWORKING logo painted on its side, Buck’s van was also clearly out of the question as a surveillance vehicle. It wasn’t exactly subtle.

  My cousin and I climbed into Colette’s car, Buck in the front and me in the back. We parked on the street near the exit from the parking garage and waited.

  “What kind of car does Presley drive?” Buck asked as he eyed the exit.

  I shrugged and raised my palms. I had no idea what make and model Presley drove, so each time a car pulled out of the garage I had to quickly check the driver’s face to see if it was her. Good thing I’d borrowed my mother’s bird-watching binoculars.

  “That’s not her,” I said as a Subaru exited the garage. “That’s not her, either,” I repeated in regard to a Toyota Camry. “Still not her,” I said when a Chevy pickup pulled out a few seconds later.

  This process continued for several minutes, during which sixty-seven cars exited the garage. We hit pay dirt with the sixty-eighth, an economical Ford Fiesta in a bright blue color. Presley sat in the driver’s seat, her perfectly manicured fingers curved over the top of the steering wheel.

  “Bingo!” I lowered the binoculars and slid on a pair of sunglasses to disguise myself. “That’s her in the Fiesta.”

  Colette harrumphed. “If she was Rick Dunaway’s mistress, he could’ve at least bought her a fancier car.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But maybe they thought an administrative assistant driving a luxury car would be too obvious, raise eyebrows.” After all, her pricey clothes and accessories had caught my attention, made me wonder how she could afford them.

  Colette started her car and eased out into traffic, following behind Presley’s car.

  “Oh, my gosh,” I said, when Presley hooked a left onto Demonbreun. “Is she going to the Twelve Twelve building?” Had I been right to suspect she could have a personal relationship with Dunaway?

  She slowed as she approached the turn she would need to take to go to the building, but then rolled on past it.

  “Guess not,” Buck said.

  We followed her as she took the overpass above the interstate and hooked another left to enter the entrance ramp to I-65 south. We trailed Presley for several miles, heading south into Antioch, one of Nashville’s suburbs. Presley made a stop at a dry cleaner’s, where she emerged with several articles of clothing in clear plastic bags. She also drove through a Schlotzsky’s, apparently picking up a warm deli sandwich for dinner.

  Eventually, Presley turned into an expansive apartment complex with buildings composed of red brick and pale yellow siding. She parked in an uncovered spot, climbed out of her car, and walked over to the array of mailboxes situated under an overhang. After unlocking her postal box and pulling out a stack of colored paper that appeared to be mostly, if not entirely, junk mail, she headed up to the third floor, the lengthy climb having failed to deter her from wearing her usual designer heels. There, she let herself into a unit and closed the door behind her, leaving us staring up at it.

  “Looks like she lives there,” I said.

  Buck groaned. “Well, this was real exciting, wasn’t it? Following her on her commute?”

  “Let’s wait a while,” I suggested. “See if she comes back out and goes anywhere.”

  Presley did not come back out of the apartment, despite my friend, my cousin, and I waiting around for an hour to see if she would.

  Colette checked the time on her car’s clock. “I hate to be a party pooper, but I’m going to have to get to work soon.”

  “Let’s go up and have a quick talk with Presley,” I said. “See if we can get anything out of her.”

  The three of us headed up the stairs and assumed the same positions we had taken at Jackson Pharr’s duplex, Colette and I backed up out of sight on either side of the door while Buck stood in front of it and knocked.

  A few seconds later, Presley’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Who is it?”

  Uh-oh. If she realized Buck was my cousin, there was no way she’d open the door.

  Buck improvised, pulling the wrench from his pocket and holding it up in case she was looking out her peephole. “Maintenance. I need to take a look at your air conditioner.”

  There was a rattle and click as she released her dead bolt. The door swung open. Presley stood there in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She held a glass of iced tea in her hand.

  I stepped up next to Buck, surreptitiously sliding my foot forward over the threshold.

  She gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m calling the police!” she cried. She attempted to slam the door shut, but with the steel toe of my boot in the way, met with no success. That didn’t stop her from trying again, though. She opened the door a few inches and tried to slam it again.

  I wasted no time, addressing her through the five-inch opening, though I could no longer see her behind the door. “Are you skimming from Abbot-Dunaway, Presley? Is that why you killed Rick Dunaway? Because he found out?”

  Her face appeared in the gap and her mouth fell open. “You killed Mr. Dunaway!”

  “No, I didn’t. I saw the invoice on your desk. Did you fake it?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  Was she telling me the truth? “Had Thad Gentry been at your office the day I brought you the keys?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  Buck grunted. “That’s a yes.”

  “What did he want?” I demanded. Were the two of them in cahoots? Working together to undermine Rick Dunaway?

  “Go away!” she cried. She tried again to slam the door on my boot.

  “We’re not leaving until we get some answers, Presley.”

  The next thing I knew, she whipped the door open and tossed the tea in my face, ice cubes and all. Dang, that’s cold! Reflexively, I stepped backward. With my boot no longer blocking the doorway, she was able to close her door. SLAM!

  I blinked and sputtered, swiping my face with my hand. Colette pulled a small packet of tissues from her purse and handed them to me. “Here. Use these.”

  Buck, on the other hand, turned away from me. His heaving shoulders told me he was laughing silently.

  I dabbed at my wet bangs. “This isn’t funny, Buck!”

  Colette put a hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle her giggle.

  “You, too?” I spat.

  She raised her palms in innocence. “It’s just a little funny.”

  Once I’d dried myself as well as I could, we headed down the three floors to the parking lot. As we drove back to the parking lot where Buck and I had left our cars, Colette reminded us that she’d promised to cook one of her special meals for us in the new kitchen. “How’s Saturday evening look for you two?”

  “I’m free,” I said.

>   “I’ve got a date with Kacey Musgraves,” Buck said, referencing one of his favorite female country artists. “But I can stand her up.”

  Colette cut him a look. “Her husband would probably appreciate that.”

  As Buck slid out of Colette’s vehicle, he raised a hand in good-bye. “See you in the mornin’, Whitney.”

  We’d planned to hold an open house, see if we could generate some interest in the Sweetbriar property. “I’ll bring coffee.”

  “You’d better,” he said, “or you might find me asleep in that claw-foot tub.”

  CHAPTER 36

  READY TO RUMBLE

  WHITNEY

  Saturday morning, Buck and I arrived at the house twenty minutes before ten. After handing him a large coffee as promised, I went to plug in the inflatable snowman and sweep the walkway. I changed the lettering on the sandwich board so that it read OPEN HOUSE TODAY.

  Next door, Patty came out with recycling to add to her bin and saw me on the lawn. She looked from me to the house and back again. She wagged a finger at me. “Remember to sell that house to someone quiet.”

  I laughed. “Don’t worry. We will.”

  Inside, I nudged the thermostat a little higher to make things warm and cozy. I turned on all the lights so the place would look bright and shiny, and lit a pine-scented candle to give the house a fresh and festive scent. I dragged two of the bar stools from the kitchen to the living room and situated them by the front window, where Buck I could watch for buyers stopping by to take a look. Finally, I released Sawdust from his carrier. A house isn’t a home without a cat in it. I hoped any potential buyer would feel the same.

  The first couple pulled to the curb at a few minutes after ten. They looked to be in their sixties and had no agent with them.

  Buck and I met them at the door.

  “Good morning,” I said. “How are you folks today?”

  “Just dandy,” the man said, glancing around, his eyes wide. “Say, where’d they find that body? Was it in that flower bed? Or was it in the other one?” He pointed first to the bed where I’d found Dunaway, then to the one on the other side.

  I lied. I wasn’t about to indulge his morbid curiosity. “I don’t know where the body was found.”

  “Shucks,” he said. “We was wanting to know.”

  I decided to put him on the spot. “Why do you want to know?” Creepy much?

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Just nosy, I guess.”

  At least he was honest. I supposed I couldn’t blame them too much. I’d spent quite a bit of time Thursday night trying to dig up sordid details on a dead man. Maybe I was creepy, too.

  Buck stepped up beside me and held out a hand to indicate the living room. “Would you like to see the inside?”

  The wife’s face lit up. “Was he killed in there?”

  Ugh. “No. Nothing happened in the house.”

  “How can you be sure?” she asked.

  Because I was here the night it happened. “The doors were locked the whole night.” I’d leave it at that. They didn’t need to know more.

  They frowned, obviously disappointed their visit hadn’t been more exciting, had provided no gruesome detail they could share with their friends over bingo or dinner at Cracker Barrel.

  Several more lookie-loos came by later that morning, though most were people from the neighborhood who’d seen the police cars and crime scene van the morning I’d found Dunaway.

  One of them, a man with stale burger-and-onion breath, leaned in toward me. “I heard you killed that feller. Is that true?”

  I was tempted to say yes just to get him to back away, but it was probably never a good idea to admit to a crime, even in jest. “Of course I didn’t kill him,” I said.

  He, too, looked disappointed.

  Just before six o’clock, Detective Flynn’s plain sedan pulled up out front. What’s he doing here?

  I opened the door as he came up on the porch. Sawdust came around, too, to see what was going on. “It’s Saturday night, Detective,” I said to Flynn. “Shouldn’t you be on a date?”

  “I am on a date,” he said. “With justice.”

  Buck snorted. I groaned. Flynn grinned. Sawdust swished his tail in the cool air that drifted inside.

  “How was the open house?” he asked.

  Buck shook his head. “It was a total bust. Everyone who came by only wanted to check out the crime scene.”

  “If we’d had any foresight,” I added, “we could’ve charged admission and made up some of the loss we’ll have to take on the place.”

  The detective chuckled, but afterward his demeanor quickly became somber. “I’ve got some news. We’ve cleared Bobby Palmer. I reviewed the Tropicana’s security feeds. The video and Palmer’s credit card data verify that he arrived around four o’clock in the afternoon and didn’t leave until ten the following morning. When I spoke with Presley shortly after Dunaway’s body was found, she told me that Dunaway had been at work until four thirty that Friday. And, of course, you found him before ten that next morning.”

  “So there’s no way Bobby could have killed Dunaway, after all.”

  “I’m afraid not. He’s been charged with making a false statement, though. I wasted quite a bit of time and energy chasing down that bribe. That time could have been better spent finding the actual killer.”

  I had to fight the urge to point out to the detective that he’d also wasted time interrogating me. But the last thing an investigator needs when handling his first homicide case is for someone to derail his confidence.

  “What about Gentry?” I asked. “Was the man in the white car spying on him? Is he under investigation by another agency?”

  “I can’t give you that information,” Flynn replied.

  Buck and I exchanged glances. In other words, law enforcement had something on Gentry. I wondered what it was. Had he committed tax evasion? Hired undocumented workers? Buried someone in cement at one of his construction sites?

  Instead, I asked, “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to look into that invoice that had you all hot and bothered.”

  I told him about our visit to Presley’s apartment and asked him the question that had been dogging me. “Do you think Presley could have killed Rick Dunaway?”

  “It’s plausible,” he replied. “There were no defensive wounds on Dunaway’s body, so he either didn’t see the blow coming or didn’t consider his attacker a potential threat.”

  I thought out loud. “Dunaway might not have thought Presley was capable of hurting him, and failed to defend himself.”

  “Exactly,” Flynn replied. “I’m going to make a visit to the designer on Monday and see what else I can find out. In the meantime, I need you two to do me a favor. Don’t say anything more to anyone about that invoice, okay?”

  He looked to Buck and me for affirmation. Buck nodded, while I pretended to zip my lip and throw away the key, just like Beverly Lewis had taught me when I’d been interrogated at the police station.

  Detective Flynn pretended to snatch the key out of the air and tuck it into his pocket. “I better keep this in case we need to talk later.”

  Sawdust watched from his perch on the interior living room windowsill as Buck and I walked the detective out and bade him good-bye at the curb. As Flynn drove off, Buck went back inside to blow out the candle, turn out the lights, and lower the temperature on the thermostat to keep the heating bill in check. I stepped over to the sandwich board with the plastic container in which we stored the letters and began to remove them one by one, dropping them into the bin.

  As I was kneeling at the sign, a pickup roared around the corner. The driver slowed as the truck approached the house, switching from low to high beams. I had to put a hand to my eyes to shield them from the intense stream of light. Before I knew what was happening, the tires squealed, the engine roared, and the truck came straight at me.

  Holy moly! It’s going to run me down!

  Acting
on instinct, I threw myself to the right, rolling behind the stone mailbox at the curb. The truck careened into the yard, the tires missing me by mere inches. The truck took out both the sandwich board sign and the FOR SALE sign, sending letters up into the air before circling the tree and coming back at me with another roar as the driver gunned the engine again. I had just enough time to lever myself to my feet and dart behind Buck’s van before the truck crashed into the mailbox with a loud BAM! The truck came to a standstill, leaving deep ruts in its wake, its driver’s side headlight now broken and dark.

  What just happened? Is the driver drunk? Having a seizure? Trying to kill me?

  When the driver’s door swung open and Jackson Pharr leaped out, I realized it was the latter. He looked my way, called me a nasty name, and hollered, “You got me arrested for murder! I’ll show you!”

  As he stormed in my direction, my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and I ran around the van, screaming for my cousin. “Buck! Help!”

  Jackson had chased me around it twice and was gaining on me before the front door banged open and Buck appeared in the doorway. The knocker ring swung up and back, hitting the plate with a loud, metallic knock.

  I ran toward Buck. “Help!” My cry was unnecessary. Buck had already assessed the situation, grabbed the porch rail, and vaulted over the front steps as gracefully as an Olympic gymnast. He ran past me to confront Jackson head-on. Literally. There was a sickening crack as skull met numbskull. I could only hope my cousin wouldn’t end up with a concussion. The two men wrangled and wrestled on their feet for several seconds before Buck took Jackson down to the lawn, where they continued to wrangle and wrestle on their backs, the men equally matched in size and strength.

  Roused by the noise and commotion, Patty came out onto her porch next door. “Goodness gracious!” she cried. “Here we go again.” She placed a quick call to 9-1-1.

  The next thing we knew, she’d turned her hose on full force and was spraying it at Buck and Jackson. She stepped closer, the coiled hose unwinding behind her like a snake. Sawdust paced back and forth on the windowsill as he watched the melee, clearly agitated. Meanwhile, I circled the men, trying to figure out how to help Buck best Jackson. Unfortunately, they were moving too fast for me to get in a kick without risking that I’d injure my cousin instead of Jackson. Ditto for Colette’s pepper spray. There was no way to use it on Jackson without spraying Buck, too.