WHITNEY
It was half past ten when I turned into Songbird Circle. Buck’s van was at the curb of our flip house, while Owen’s van sat in the driveway, a flatbed trailer hooked up to it. A large rental truck sat in the other side of the driveway. The back of the rental truck was open, the metal ramp in place, the bay ready to be filled. Good. The guys are already here. We had a long day of clearing and demolition ahead of us.
I noticed Bertram carrying his plastic recycling bin down his driveway. The morning was frosty, and he’d donned a heavy coat over his pajamas, his feet clad in fleece-lined slippers. Mosey moseyed along with him, rocking back and forth on his old, stiff legs. A glance around the circle told me everyone but Roxanne had put their bins out, too. Mary Sue’s bin next door was so full of newspapers she’d had to put a red brick on top of them to keep them from blowing away. The brick matched the ones outlining her flower bed. It must be an extra one she hadn’t used. I supposed I should check to see if the bin parked in the garage at the flip house contained any recyclables.
Forcing a smile, I raised a hand in greeting to Bertram as I drove past. He waved back with both hands and danced a little jig. What a ham. I wondered if he’d feel like dancing if Gayle was arrested, or if she’d want to dance if he was hauled off to the pokey. While some husbands or wives might be thrilled if their spouse was taken away indefinitely, Bertram and Gayle seemed to have a happy relationship, as far as I could tell from the limited time I’d spent with them. Why had Gayle lied to the detective? What happened during the incident that led to Bertram’s arrest for assault? I wish I knew.
Another possibility crossed my mind at that point. Maybe Bertram had been the one to retrieve the cards. Maybe he’d run into Nelda in the house and pushed her down the stairs. Maybe the odd look he’d cut his wife was because she’d covered for him, provided him with an alibi. After all, he’d been arrested once for assault and she might have feared he’d be the first person the police would look to. But what reason would he have to murder Nelda? Would the fact that Nelda had called Gayle a cheat be enough cause to kill?
I looked over at Roxanne’s house. A small white business card was stuck in the front doorjamb. It must be the one the detective had left. Had Roxanne missed it? Could be. After all, lots of people entered and exited their homes through the garage and rarely used their front doors. Then again, maybe she’d murdered Nelda, seen the detective’s card, and realized he could be onto her. She might have hopped on a plane and fled to Canada or Mexico. If I were her, I’d have opted for Mexico this time of year. With temperatures in the twenties in Nashville, a warm beach sounded darn good at the moment. Ironically, the detective’s card remaining in Roxanne’s door was just the type of clue burglars looked for when trying to determine if residents were away from their home.
After parking at the curb behind Buck’s van, I used the remote to open the garage door and climbed out of my SUV, surreptitiously keeping an eye on Bertram. One could never be too careful, right? The recycling bin sat in the back corner of the garage alongside the garbage can. Just like the house, it was full of discarded items left for me to deal with. Magazines. Junk mail. Beer cans. I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised.
The yellow advertisement for the tax-preparation service lay on top of the bin. As I picked it up, a small slip of paper sticking out from under a grocery store circular caught my eye. The top of the paper read FAST FUNDS PAWN SHOP. I finagled the pawn ticket out from under the circular. The ticket was dated one week prior and made out to Dakota Walsh, indicating he’d been advanced $150 for a “bird necklace.” Holy hammers! My head went light, as if my skull had filled with helium. Had Dakota pawned Nelda Dolan’s missing pendant? Had I discovered another lead?
In the words of Detective Flynn, Maybe, maybe not. As busy as the detective was, I didn’t want to send him down a rabbit trail if there was no rabbit to be found. I decided that after Buck, Owen, and I finished cleaning out the house, I’d swing by the pawnshop, see what I could find out. I tucked the pawn ticket into the breast pocket of my coveralls and carried the recycling bin out to the curb.
Bertram waited on his front walk while Mosey sniffed around the front yard, seeking the perfect spot in which to relieve himself. As I looked their way, a thought entered my mind. I can’t be a confidential informant if I don’t learn anything, can I? Before I could think things through, my feet carried me across the cul-de-sac. “You’ve got some great moves, Bertram.”
He chuckled and danced an encore performance of his jig. “Gotta stay warm out here somehow. Mosey’s in no hurry to do his business.”
His comment gave me an idea. “Evidently, I was in too much of a hurry this morning. I got pulled over for speeding on my drive over here.”
He gave me an empathetic shake of the head. “That’s a lousy way to start the day.”
“For sure. But I suppose a ticket’s better than getting arrested and going to jail.” I eyed him closely as I prodded him with my next question. “I wonder what that’s like.”
A cloud seemed to pass over his face. Before he could answer, the recycling truck rumbled past the end of the circle on its way down the main street, its contents clinking and clanking, the brakes hissing. Mosey raised his snout and barked, a furry, four-footed David trying to scare off the enormous metal Goliath.
Bertram turned away. “I better round up Mosey before he goes after that truck and tries to sink his teeth into a tire.”
Darn. I’d hoped the question would be a natural segue into Bertram’s arrest. Looked like I’d remain in the dark for now. “Have a good day, Bertram!” I called as he shooed Mosey back up the porch.
He raised a hand. “Do the same.”
I returned to the flip house, entering through the garage. I found my cousins in the laundry room, wrangling the rusty washing machine onto a dolly. Owen, who was a couple years younger than Buck, resembled his brother in nearly every way. He, too, was tall, blond, and blue-eyed. But rather than a full beard, Owen sported no facial hair, opting to forego current trends and remain clean-shaven. His daughters had complained that his beard was too tickly. He might not be the most stylish man, but he was a darn good daddy.
Buck glanced my way. “About time you got done, dimwit.”
I ignored the epithet, realizing the purported insult was actually an odd term of endearment. Men and their emotional immaturity. Sheesh. “Pipes froze at a rental property.”
When Nashville had its first freeze forecast weeks ago, I’d sent an e-mail reminding all the tenants to take precautions, such as detaching all garden hoses, opening cabinet doors so that heat could reach the pipes under the sinks, and leaving the faucets dripping. Evidently, the couple with the busted pipes had ignored my advice. But that was water under the bridge now—or should I say ice under the bridge?
Putting one hand on top of the washing machine to hold it in place, Owen tipped the dolly backward. “I’ll roll this out to the truck.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, I turned to Buck. “I just spoke to Detective Flynn. He’s following up on some new leads.”
“Let me guess,” Buck said. “He thinks Carl Dolan killed his wife.”
“That’s still a possibility.” Carl could indeed have killed Nelda. Often the police didn’t have to look far for the culprit when a spouse ended up dead. Some people considered ’til death do us part as a suggestion for how to quickly and efficiently end a marriage. It was cost-effective, too. A funeral was cheaper than a divorce. Even so, Carl hadn’t yet emerged as the prime suspect. “The detective’s focus right now is on the driver from Hitch-a-Ride and the Garners.”
Incredulity caused Buck’s voice to raise an octave. “The Garners? Never would’ve guessed that. They seem like nice, normal folks.”
“I thought so, too. Until I found out Gayle lied to Detective Flynn.”
His mouth gaped. “Say what?”
I told him how Gayle had misrepresented when she’d come into the house to take the playing cards. “That’s not all. Bertram has an arrest on his record for assault and battery.”
“Boy howdy!” Buck said. “Guess I’m not a good judge of character.”
“Collin doesn’t have all the details,” I explained. “He’s waiting on the paperwork from archives. The assault took place back in the sixties.”
“The sixties? Shoot. That’s a long time ago. Bertram wouldn’t’ve been much more than a kid back then.”
“He was twenty-two.”
“Like I said. Not much more than a kid. Kids do stupid things sometimes. I know I did. Remember those jeans I bought with the shiny silver studs on the back pockets? Paid over a hundred bucks for ’em. Thought I’d look like Keith Urban. Instead, I looked ridiculous.”
Buck had a point, both about the jeans and Bertram Garner. Even if Bertram had assaulted someone, did a violent act committed by a young man mean that same man would commit murder decades later? Bertram had no arrests in the interim, nothing to indicate he was habitually violent. “Dakota might have some explaining to do, too. I just found a pawnshop ticket in the recycle bin. He pawned a necklace for a hundred and fifty dollars. It might have been one Nelda Dolan claimed to have lost here in the house. I’m going to swing by the pawnshop later to take a look.”
“Shouldn’t you just turn the ticket over to Flynn? Let him handle it?”
Again, Buck had a point. But besides the fact that the detective was busy, I had to admit that I enjoyed chasing down clues myself. It was like a game, or a treasure hunt. Besides, Collin had mentioned how busy he was. He could use the help. “I’ll let Collin know if anything pans out. I don’t want to waste his time if it’s nothing.” Glancing about, I turned my attention to the matter at hand. “Where should I start?”
Buck gestured to a stack of collapsed boxes and a heavy-duty tape dispenser leaning against the wall in the hallway. “Grab some boxes and tape, and pack up the kitchen.”
I rounded up several boxes and the strapping tape, tucked them under my arm, and carried them upstairs. My cousins had removed Dakota’s beer from the refrigerator and unplugged the appliance, packing the beer cans into a portable cooler and leaving the doors open on the fridge and freezer compartments while they defrosted. A drip-drip-drip sounded as drops of condensation formed and fell inside the freezer. I made a mental note to set aside a couple of Lillian’s old bath towels so I could wipe out the appliance later. Mildew would grow inside if it was closed up with moisture remaining.
After expanding a box and taping the bottom, I opened a cabinet. Uh-oh. Many of the items in the cabinet were fragile and could break in transit if not wrapped properly. I stepped to the top of the stairs, trying not to think about the fact that this was the exact spot where Nelda Dolan had stood when her killer shoved her to her death. Eek! I called down to my cousin. “Hey, Buck! Did you get packing paper?”
“Dadgummit!” he hollered back. “I knew I was forgetting something.”
Rounding up the photo album from the couch, I headed down the stairs. “No problem. Mary Sue’s recycling bin next door is full of newspapers. If they haven’t been picked up yet, I’ll ask her if we can use them. Can’t imagine she’d say no.”
I walked outside, glad to see the recycling truck hadn’t yet made it to Songbird Circle. I strode next door and knocked on Mary Sue’s front door. She answered a moment later, dressed in a pink velour tracksuit and matching pink sneakers.
“Brr.” She pulled the hood up over her head to keep warm. But for a lack of pointy ears, she looked like a human-sized bunny rabbit.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “but could I take some newspaper from your recycling bin? We’re packing up Lillian’s things to donate to charity, and some of the items are breakable. My cousin remembered to get boxes when he rented the truck, but he forgot the packing paper.”
“Getting rid of everything, are you?” A somber shadow darkened her face. “I suppose there’s nothing left but junk. Wayne already took Lillian’s silver and china and the nicer pieces of furniture.”
“He left one important thing behind,” I said.
She tilted her head, her gray eyes sparkling with anticipation. “He did?”
“I thought you and the other ladies should have it.” I held out the album.
She glanced down the book, a slightly confused look on her face as she took it from me. But when she opened it up to the first page, she cried out in delight, a wide smile lighting up her face. “Oh, my goodness!” She turned a page, then another. “Look at us! We were so young then. Groovy, too, wouldn’t you say?”
I returned her smile. “Super groovy.”
“Thank you, Whitney.” She closed the book and hugged it to her chest as if it were a valuable treasure. “Help yourself to all the newspaper you’d like.”
“Thanks.” I took a single step before turning back. “By the way, do you know if Roxanne’s around?”
“Far as I know,” Mary Sue said. “Why?”
No way could I tell her the detective had Roxanne in his sights and that she’d failed to respond to his request that she call him. Instead, I said, “I noticed her recycling bin wasn’t at the curb. I thought maybe she’d gone on a trip or something.”
“Not that I know of,” Mary Sue said. “She usually tells us when she’s going somewhere so we can keep an eye on her house. She might have just forgotten to put her bin out. Or maybe it’s not full and she decided it could wait until next week.”
Could be. After all, Roxanne lived alone and probably didn’t fill her bin quickly. I was probably feeling distrustful for no reason. “Have a good day!” I called as I turned away again.
“You too!” Mary Sue called after me.
I went to her recycle bin, lifted the red brick, and rounded up several days’ worth of newspapers. Just in time, too. The recycling truck turned into the circle, clinking and clanking and hissing some more. After placing the brick back in the bin, I carried the newspapers to the flip house. The frog smiled at me as I climbed the steps up to the porch. I decided to leave him where he was for now. He added a whimsical touch to the place. Besides, he might have some sentimental value for Dakota. I’d offer the frog to him, see if he wanted it as a memento of his grandmother.
I went back inside to tackle the packing. After placing the collectible food tins in a box and taking it out to my SUV, I wrapped up and boxed the remaining smaller items in the house, while my cousins continued to wrangle with the furniture and appliances. We took a late lunch break at one thirty, and by two o’clock the main part of the house was empty. All that was left was the stuff in the attic.
I climbed up the pull-down ladder, a rag in hand to wipe the dust off the boxes. A layer of dirt filtered the meager light coming through the octagonal window, and I yanked the chain to turn on the bare bulb hanging from the rafters. After taking a quick peek into each of the boxes to make sure there was nothing of value inside, I handed them to Owen, who stood at the top of the ladder, visible only from the chest up like some type of jack-in-the-box. He, in turn, handed the cartons down to Buck, who stacked them in the hallway for us to carry out to the truck once we’d emptied the attic.
At the back of the dusty space I found a box bearing the RAGS-2-RICHE$ logo. The box was taped closed. The label affixed to the outside indicated it contained forty-eight jars of the company’s Starlight Silver Polish. Wayne Walsh must have stored the stuff up here at some point and forgotten about it. Or Lillian Walsh could have bought it to support her son. While I could lay claim to it, I had no use for that much of the stuff. Might as well return it to him. But first, I’d take a look inside, verify that the box indeed contained silver polish and wasn’t instead a spare box repurposed to hold Lillian’s housewares.
I pulled a box cutter from my pocket and used my thumb to extend the blade. After slicing through the tape holding the top closed, I pulled the flaps open. One peek inside told me that the box held only forty-seven bottles of silver polish, one of them apparently having been put to use. I retracted the blade, slid the cutter back into my pocket, and taped the box shut once again.
I passed the box to Owen. “Hang on to that one. It’s inventory for Lillian’s son’s direct sales business.”
“Okeydoke,” he said. “I’ll stick it in the pantry.”
He disappeared from sight. With the attic now empty, I turned around and headed down the ladder, too, joining Buck in the upstairs hallway. When Owen returned from the kitchen, the three of us tackled the stack of boxes, carrying them out to the rental truck. After I activated the alarm system and locked the house up, I hopped into my SUV and followed the rental truck to a local charity thrift store.
The woman overseeing the donation drop-off dock directed us where to place the items in their warehouse and wrote me a receipt. I handed it to Buck, whose income exceeded mine. “You can claim the tax deduction, cuz.”
He noted the blank space where the donor was to fill in the items’ value and glanced back into the storage bay at the stuff we’d brought in. “I’d say that junk was worth about fifty grand, wouldn’t you?”
“At least,” I said, playing along. “But if you get audited by the IRS, I never knew you.”
He folded the receipt in half and tucked it into his wallet.
I followed my cousins to the truck rental facility and, after Buck turned in the vehicle, drove him and Owen back to our flip house so they could round up their vans and head home.
“Thanks, Owen.” I gave my younger cousin an affectionate pat on the back as he slid out of my car. “We owe you one.”
He arched a hopeful brow. “Babysit Saturday night and we’ll call it even.”
“It’s a deal.” I loved Owen’s three adorable daughters with all my heart and then some. Spending time with them was never a chore.