I THOUGHT ABOUT calling Detective Mendoza, to tell him I’d seen Jacquie head out in the company of another man, dressed to kill, and did he think there was any chance that she had a jealous ex-boyfriend who might have killed my husband... but I figured I’d already exasperated him enough for one night, and besides, I didn’t really want him to know I was following Jacquie around. So I figured I’d just go home instead, and finish my Cabernet and watch TV until I fell asleep.
But first I decided to take a tour of the neighborhood, just in case I’d missed the truck somewhere, and they’d parked and gone inside a building while I was lingering at the red light a few blocks back.
And that’s when I hit pay dirt. There was a dark blue truck parked in the lot behind Rotier’s—a little hole in the wall on Elliston Place, that is said to serve some of the best burgers in Nashville—and the hood was still ticking. I pulled into an empty parking space a few slots away, and got out. When I placed my palm flat on the front of the truck, the metal was still warm.
It might have been someone else’s truck, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to take a look inside. So I hitched my purse more securely over my shoulder and headed for the back door.
Here’s the thing. I didn’t grow up wealthy. When David met me, I was a struggling college student, waiting tables at night to make ends meet while I tried to keep up with the studying for a marketing degree. The color I’d used to turn my hair from red to blonde back then had come out of a box, because trips to the spa were out of the question. It was years—decades—since I’d been inside a dive like Rotier’s, but walking through the door brought back memories. The low light, the dingy floor, the smells. The neon beer signs decorating walls covered in ugly 1970s paneling.
It was a narrow space. A row of booths against one wall and the bar against the other, with a line of small tables between the two. The waitresses were dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and so were most of the patrons.
I stopped just inside the door to let my eyes adjust to the gloom, and to see if I could see Jacquie and her date.
And lo and behold, there they were, in a booth in the corner. Jacquie had her back to me, but I recognized the guy. When I came in, he looked up, and then looked me up and down for a moment before turning his attention back to Jacquie. I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered that he looked, or offended that he didn’t look at my face, but since it was for the best that he didn’t recognize me, I guess I should simply be grateful that he was a lout.
“Help you?” one of the waitresses asked.
The table next to Jacquie and her companion was occupied, and so was the one on the next row. There was no way for me to get close enough to hear what they were talking about. The best I could hope to do, was keep an eye on them for a while.
I smiled at the waitress. “I’d like to order a hamburger to go.”
“On French bread?” When I didn’t answer immediately, she added, “It’s our signature burger.”
“That’s fine,” I said. I’d just have to do another twenty minutes on the elliptical tomorrow.
“With some sweet potato fries?”
I really shouldn’t, not if I wanted to keep my girlish figure—and seeing Jacquie in those painted-on jeans and that skimpy top had brought home with a vengeance just how far beyond twenty-five I was—but that did sound good. And anyway, it was probably another specialty. I would offend her if I said no.
I threw caution to the wind. “Sure.” An extra hour. But it would be worth it.
“I’ll go put in the order. Why don’t you have a seat at the bar while you wait?”
Why not?
I wandered over to the bar and scooted up on a stool. In the mirror, I could see the corner with Jacquie and her companion. She was leaning forward stabbing the table in front of him with her finger. He was leaning back with his arms folded across his chest.
Classic defensive posture. While hers was classic offensive. I saw her lips moving, but of course I had no idea what she said. Lip-reading isn’t a skill I’ve cultivated. I could tell he didn’t like it, though. He was pouting.
He was a good-looking guy, other than the pout. Young, of course. Jacquie’s age, or maybe a year or two older. Dark-haired and brown-eyed. They might even be siblings.
“Get you something?”
The bartender’s query dragged my attention away from the couple in the corner. “Sure. Um...” It didn’t look like a place where the wine would be good. And anyway, I was driving. “Sweet tea?”
He nodded and moved away. A minute later he was back with a glass. “I’m waiting for a to-go order,” I said. “I’ll pay for it all together when the sandwich comes.”
He just shrugged, so I assumed that was going to work.
In the minute or two I’d been busy elsewhere, the dynamics in the corner booth had changed. Now it was Jacquie’s companion who was leaning forward, stabbing the table, while she was leaning back, pouting. Her folded arms pushed her breasts up and out, and I’m sure it wasn’t an accident. The guy kept getting distracted from what looked like a tirade. Every so often his eyes would drop into her cleavage and he’d stop talking for a few seconds while he just stared.
“Friends of yours?” the waitress asked, and I jumped. She chuckled and put the bag with my hamburger on the counter in front of me. “Total’s $10.91.”
Not bad for a burger and fries. At Fidelio’s, even the appetizers are in the fifteen-dollar range. And of course there are no burgers. “And the tea,” I said.
She eyed it. “On the house. I don’t feel like amending the bill.” She took my credit card and turned to the register.
I waited until she’d finished punching in the numbers and had laid the receipt in front of me with a pen. And then I asked, “Do you know them? Have they been here before?”
She glanced over my shoulder. “The couple in the corner? I’ve seen them before, but it’s been a while. His name’s Nick.”
I scribbled my name on the receipt and added a hefty tip, to cover both the drink and the information. “How do you know?”
“He wears a uniform sometimes. With a name patch.” She took the receipt and glanced at it before sticking it in the cash drawer. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Do you know what kind of uniform?”
“The Body Shop,” the waitress said. Or maybe she said Body Shoppe.
“What’s that? Gym? Or cars?”
“Cars. There’s one over on Charlotte Avenue. He might work there.”
He might. Or he could be from the other side of town, and just be hanging out in this neighborhood because of Jacquie.
I slid off the stool. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” the waitress said and wandered off. I took my to-go bag and did the same.
THE HAMBURGER WAS delicious, and so were the sweet potato fries. I ate both with one hand while I drove home with the other, and there wasn’t a single fry left by the time I got to Hillwood. I would have to up that time on the elliptical by another fifteen minutes. I was so full and happy I didn’t even want the rest of the Cabernet. I just crawled into bed and went to sleep.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I thought about what I’d discovered, and what it all might mean.
First of all, Daniel was in Nashville, and staying with his nephew Kenny. I had assumed Daniel was above suspicion, by virtue of being on the other side of the country—and obviously Detective Mendoza had thought the same thing—but now he was firmly in the mix. Either he or Kenny could have killed David, alone or together. They both stood to gain financially, and they both had opportunity and know-how. While I’m sure they loved David, neither had been particularly close to him. He’d been exasperated with them both, and their spending and inability to keep a steady job.
And Jacquie was already getting dressed up and stepping out with another man, not twenty-four hours after her fiancée was murdered.
Not only that, but they’d been going out before, too. Not for a while, the waitress had said. I wondered whether that ‘not for a while’ happened to coincide with Jacquie’s relationship with David.
And Nick—whether he was her brother or former boyfriend or something else—worked at a car place. He’d definitely know where to find the brake lines in David’s Porsche. He probably owned a pair of coveralls he could have worn to wiggle under the car in Fidelio’s parking lot, while Jacquie was keeping David busy inside. As Detective Mendoza had pointed out, there was no reason to suspect the killer had been in the restaurant having dinner with David. He’d been suggesting that I might have been the guilty party, of course, but the same thing applied to Nick.
So was Nick acting on his own, or were he and Jacquie working together?
On his own, I decided, as I huffed and puffed on the elliptical. If they’d planned it together, surely they’d have had the good sense to make sure that Jacquie was married to David and would inherit the money before they did away with him.
So maybe Jacquie threw Nick over for David’s money and position. And Nick had decided to take care of things before she married David and was lost to him forever.
Or at least lost to him until David died. And that might have taken some time. Years. Decades, even. David was more than twice Jacquie’s age, but he was in good shape. He worked out, he played golf, he watched his diet. He would have lived another thirty years, God willing, if someone hadn’t snuffed him out before his time.
I couldn’t see the Newsomes or the Olivers as murderers, and Farley was better off with David alive and bringing in new clients. The idea of Martha crawling around under the Porsche was nothing short of ludicrous. Krystal had her own income and, as far as I knew, no grudge against her father. I suppose it was possible she’d do something stupid to help her brother, but I couldn’t see her deliberately set out to murder David. She’d be more likely to float Kenny herself. She probably already did. And Jacquie wouldn’t have killed David before she got her hands on his money.
That left Kenny, Daniel, and Nick as possible suspects. Unless the killer was someone who hadn’t even crossed my radar yet.
By now it was Thursday morning. David had died on Tuesday night. The first twenty-four hours had gone by without an arrest. I wondered whether that was good or bad. Don’t they say that most crimes are solved in the first twenty-four hours?
Or maybe that’s seventy-two hours? If so, Mendoza had until Friday evening around eight to come up with the killer. I guess I should be grateful he hadn’t settled on the most obvious suspect and arrested me.
I hadn’t told him about seeing Jacquie and Nick together. I’d thought about it, both last night and this morning, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to contact him. He already knew about Daniel; let him worry about that. I’d just go to the Body Shop on Charlotte Avenue myself, and see what I could find out.
I was on my way across the parking lot to the convertible when my phone rang. The number was vaguely familiar, but not one I could place immediately.
“Mrs. Kelly?” a voice said. Same thing there: vaguely familiar, but not someone I knew right off. “Anselm Howard at Boling & Howard Funeral Home.”
Of course. “What can I do for you, Mr. Howard?”
“It’s what I can do for you,” Anselm Howard said. I arched my brows; not that he could see me. He must have realized on his own that the touch of levity was misplaced, because when he continued, he was back to business. “I wanted to let you know that your husband’s remains were delivered this morning.”
Oh. “Thank you.” No problem with having the funeral tomorrow, then.
“There was a bag of his personal effects included. I thought you might want to stop by and retrieve it.”
I might do that. I hadn’t actually thought about it—I guess I hadn’t been as calm and collected yesterday as I imagined I’d been—but someone had to take care of things. Things like cancelling the utilities for the new apartment, and making sure the insurance company knew he was dead.
“I’ll have the effects ready for you,” Mr. Howard said. “Along with a preliminary copy of the death certificate. Once the original has been filed, you can request a certified copy from the vital records office.”
I told him I’d be there in twenty minutes, and instead of heading toward Charlotte Avenue and the Body Shop, I headed toward Woodbine and the funeral home instead.
It didn’t occur to me to go home and change first. When I walked in—still in my yoga pants and sneakers and a fitted T-shirt—Mr. Howard gave me a funny look, and that’s when I realized that perhaps I should have put on something tasteful and black, like I’d worn yesterday.
“You caught me coming home from the gym,” I said. “I thought I might as well stop by now, instead of going home and going out again later.”
Mr. Howard nodded, but looked unsure. And I guess he must have felt my presence diminished the quality of his establishment, because he thrust the clear plastic bag filled with David’s belongings at me. “Here.” He didn’t add, “Now go,” but he might as well have.
“Thank you,” I said, peering at it.
It was a good sized bag. I could see fabric, some of it dark and woolen, some thinner and pale blue. Pants and shirt, I assumed. What David had been wearing when he died. There was a pair of black dress shoes at the bottom of the bag, and a jingle when I shook the plastic experimentally. Must be David’s keys or loose change. Maybe both.
For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder what had happened to David’s car. It must have been towed somewhere, I guessed, and someone must have looked at it, to have determined that the brake lines had been compromised... but what would happen to it now?
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Mr. Howard said when I asked. “I would recommend you inquire of the police. They would have arranged for it to have been towed.”
That would necessitate another call to Detective Mendoza. Maybe I’d just wait until he called me—which he’d said he would, to tell me what had happened with Daniel—and I’d casually drop the question then. It wasn’t like I cared about the Porsche. I had my own car. And besides, it was probably totaled anyway. If the accident killed David, it must have killed the car, as well.
Mr. Howard cleared his throat. “I’m sure you would like your husband to go in the ground appropriately dressed, Mrs. Kelly.”
I suppose I would. Putting him in the coffin stark naked would be satisfying, but wrong. “You need something to bury him in, don’t you?”
Mr. Howard nodded.
I glanced at the bag. “These clothes...”
“Destroyed.”
Ah. Better not to think too hard about that.
“I’ll find something and bring it to you,” I said, seeing my trip to the Body Shop dwindling into the afternoon.
Mr. Howard inclined his head in something that was halfway between a nod and a bow. “Thank you.”
I might as well get started. “See you later,” I told Mr. Howard. He looked relieved as I walked toward the front door. I tried not to take it personally.
Once in the car, I opened the plastic bag and turned it upside down over the passenger seat. The heavy things tumbled out first: David’s shoes, his keychain, his wallet. I had to shake the bag to get the clothes out.
As Anselm Howard had said, they were destroyed. The doctors must have cut them off David’s body at the hospital. And they were stiff with blood. I pushed them onto the floor with my fingertips, fighting back a shudder of revulsion and an unexpected urge to cry. Poor David. I’d been angry with him, but nobody deserved to die like that.
Had he suffered? Or maybe—hopefully—he’d died on impact, and there hadn’t been time for more than the realization that he was going to crash. And fear. I’m sure there’d been fear.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand—thank God for waterproof mascara—and picked up the keychain. There was a little blood on that too, but I girded my loins—or rather, my quivering stomach—and dealt with it.
There was the key to the Porsche, with the factory emblem on it. Useless now, most likely. The key to the Hillwood house, where I lived. And where David had lived up until a couple of months ago.
Keys to the office: the front door, David’s own office, and the storage room where the hardcopies of the files were kept.
Three keys I didn’t recognize. One, at least, must be to the new apartment. Maybe two. Maybe all three. Front door, apartment door, and mailbox.
There was only one way to find out. I’d have to go to David’s apartment and see which keys fit where. And while I was there, I could pick out a suit and bring it back to Mr. Howard, as well.
But first I’d go home and take a shower. I look pretty good for forty-plus—and I intend to stay that way—but Mr. Howard was right: I shouldn’t be walking around in my workout gear.