Chapter Nine
Monday mid-morning
Amanda looks up as I enter from the back hallway. “When did you come in?” she asks with a welcoming grin. At that moment, a customer carrying a shopping basket steps up to the register and I’m saved from answering. Three customers enter, holding the door for the one who’s exiting.
I keep walking. “I’ll stop in to see you later.”
Amanda wiggles three fingers at me, shouting, “Mom called. She wants you to come to leftover turkey salad sandwich on Wednesday. About noon?”
“Sounds awesome.” I step onto the sidewalk. Diablo soars over and claws holes in my flesh as he lands and balances himself. First thing I do is check to see if he’s brought a new clue. Nope.
Before I do anything else, I want to get inside Nona’s house. Best way to accomplish this is to call Eddie or Jakob and ask them to go with me. They’ve already invited me to the crime scene for input, so there can’t be any objection. I start in that direction. A half-block away Eddie races from the building and rockets to his cruiser parked at the curb. He shoots away, siren blaring. I watch until he disappears on the road leading south of town. Then I go inside and ask for Jakob. He is in a hurry too as he comes from the back, snapping his holster shut.
“What’s up?” he says, his voice higher than normal, and I know he plans to follow Eddie.
“I was hoping to go look through Nona’s house.”
He steps around me. “I can take you later. Got an emergency right now.”
“Okay.” Then he’s gone. “What’s up?” I ask the dispatcher.
“Domestic,” is all she offers.
Okay, I guess it’s none of my business. “Thanks.” I head back outside.
It’s nearly lunchtime and I wonder what Anna and Whitney are doing, so I traipse across to Whitney’s shop because it’s closer than the pack ’n ship. She’s locking the front door.
I say, “Hey,” and she jumps about a mile as she spins toward me.
Then she grins. “I was just going looking for you. Anna’s meeting us at The Café.”
I fall into step with her and walk the two blocks on the smaller street running parallel to East Main. This is where locals spend time, away from the touristy crowds. The Café, as usual, is hopping. Blonde and perky Shay Reed waves us to a table about halfway toward the back. “They’re just about to pay.”
In less than a minute we’re seated and joined by Anna who hugs us both. We order the specials of the day: turkey clubs with seasoned fries and fruit cups. I laugh. Seems like everyone’s using up leftover turkey right now. I tell them about Arlene’s invitation for lunch tomorrow. Then I relay the information I’d received during the morning.
Shay arrives carrying a metal pitcher and refills our water glasses. Then she bends to say softly, “Couldn’t help overhearing about Nona. Terrible, isn’t it?”
“Did you know her?”
“Sure, she and the guys came in often for lunch.”
“How did they get along?” I ask, eager for someone else’s point of view.
She thinks a moment, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth. “Yeah. I—” She stops and her bright blue eyes grow wide behind the wire-rimmed glasses. “Do you believe one of them killed her?”
“You think it’s possible?” Whitney asks.
Shay grows serious. “No, especially not the cute one.”
I picture both men and seriously can’t decide which one she’s talking about. They’re each pretty average looking in my eyes.
“The drummer,” Anna says, her face bright now. Jeez-looweez, Anna likes anything in pants, so that’s no— “He’s a hunk-and-a-half.”
Shay places her free hand on her heart and fake-swoons.
Whitney raises well-plucked brows at me and I react with a one-shoulder shrug. Oh well, I’ll just go with the flow. “He ever ask you out?” I say the same time Whitney asks, “Did he ever come in alone?”
“Sure.”
“Did he ever meet with anyone not in the band? Anyone you didn’t know?”
“Only his brother. He introduced us. His name—well, his nickname, because he didn’t say his birth name. It’s Cheetah.”
“Like the cat? Whitney asks, or like he cheats on women all the time?”
Shay grows serious. “Gee, I took it like it was a cat, but really, it could be the other because when Hank went to the men’s room at one point, the guy hit on me.”
“How did you react? I mean, you weren’t dating Hank or anything, so…” Anna asks.
She shakes her head. “How would that look? Here I am hoping he’ll ask me out and then I go out with his brother!”
“She’s got a point,” I say, but I can see Anna’s not on that page. I roll my eyes at her.
“Did either of them say where the brother was from?”
Shay shakes her head. “Not that I recall.”
“So, tell us more about Hank.”
“One day it was dead in here and I sat with him.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Nothing much. Trivial stuff you say when you just meet somebody.”
“So, he’s not married?”
“Was. Divorced five years. One brother who’s an electrician. A teenage son that lives with the mom. Hank went to college in Chicago, plays six instruments, and loves bacon and lemonade.” She giggles. “Not at the same time.”
“Did he ask you on a date?”
“No.” Someone calls to her from the kitchen and she takes a half-step in that direction. “We met for pizza a few days later. Then the band went on the road. I haven’t seen him since they returned.”
“Okay, good,” Anna says. “Will you contact one of us if you think of something else? Or if you see the brother again.”
“Sure.” She disappears through the swinging doors.
“What do you make of that?” Whitney asks.
“We have to get into Nona’s house,” Anna responds. She wraps a napkin around her water glass to absorb the moisture. Then she places the soggy mess in a heap on the table.
“That’s where I was heading.” I tell them about the emergency call that took Eddie and Jakob away.
“And what I wouldn’t give to search Hank’s place.” Anna waits for our reaction, a fork halfway to her mouth.
Personally, I love the idea. But how to do it legally? “Maybe the cops have already done this,” I offer. “They have got to be major suspects, right?”
“Yes,” says Whitney, “but what we’d look for isn’t always what the cops have their eye on.”
Anna laughs and high-fives her friend. I push away my empty plate. Whitney does likewise. Anna dunks the last fry into the ketchup and pops it in her mouth. Shay brings the bill and we’re off. Outside the building, I’m about to ask where we’re headed in our investigation when Whitney gropes in her lavender Versace handbag and come up with a remote. She wiggles it in the air. “Guess where we’re going from here?”
Being that Nona Williamson’s home is a few miles out of town, we take Anna’s car. Nona’s house is what I think is called a Queen Anne style, with lots of dormers and even a cool turret room. There aren’t too many Queen Annes here in Florida but I saw a lot around my ex-hometown ‘out east’. My favorite part of Nona’s would be the porch where I could sit and listen to music or star-gaze.
There isn’t much in the way of landscaping. Just a couple of old live oaks and a few wispy ixoras. I guess Nona wasn’t much for esthetics because the whole place could use some TLC. What a beautiful home this could be all fixed up.
A two-car garage is attached to the back side. This is a good place for it because it doesn’t spoil the look of the styling. The only vehicle here is Nona’s so she must’ve gone to the party with the guys. If I remember right, they drive a van with the name of the band painted on it.
“We need to look inside the van too,” Whitney said, mirroring my thoughts.
A strip of yellow crime scene tape decorates the front door: peeling blue with a brass knocker in the center. A sharp breeze ripples the tape and one end flaps as if it’s angry.
Thankfully no tape spans the double garage doors—coincidentally painted the same flaking color as the front door—so we’re not breaking any rules by entering. At least that’s what Anna says and I tend to go by her words—when it suits me.
Whitney presses a button on the remote and the garage door rumbles upward. The place is a mess, and I don’t mean because of the reno work that’s being done. Miscellaneous equipment, a keyboard standing on only three legs, extra speakers stacked like dominos, and Pisa-style heaps of to-go containers grace practically every inch of space near the front and the left. The back and the right side are where it’s attached to the house. Whitney was working in this area. The wall has been torn out, making a large space. Sheetrock and soundproofing panels have been applied.
“This project should’ve been finished months ago,” Whitney says. Her words are tinged with frustration. She wants to take on more clients but Nona’s job absorbed so much of her time she was afraid to commit to anyone else. “She kept making changes and complaints and…” Whitney heaves a sigh that I swear clears every molecule from her lungs. “I know, I know,” she mutters softly, “careful what I say, it gives me a motive for murder.”
Anna waves off the comment. “What should we do first?”
“Find that toolbox,” I say. “I want to see if there is a pair of red wire cutters.”
“Oh yes, she claimed Diablo stole them.”
“Which—” I gesture around the place— “I can’t see how he could’ve gotten in. Even if the box was open, the tool would have to be sitting on the top because, no way a one-pound bird could dig through and find what he wanted.”
Whitney holds up a finger. “Unless whoever did the deed left the cutters sitting out.”
“Good point. Still, how did he get in?”
“Maybe that morning while they were loading the van? The door must have been open. Being busy, they might not have noticed him.”
“Possible,” I agree at the same time Anna laughs with, “How could anyone not see a bird with a bright yellow chest and a lime green bill the size of Fort Knox?”
“Not to mention the cheerful red spot on his butt.”
We laugh at the word cheerful. It’s a good thing Diablo isn’t here. He takes offense at references to his vibrantly colored bottom.
I spot a red metal toolbox just inside the garage door and hurry to it.
“Being right inside the door like this…” Anna follows me… “it would have been easy for Diablo to get to it.”
“True.” Using a filthy paper towel with dry wrinkled edges I find on the floor, and ignoring thoughts of what caused the grime, I use it to tilt back the unlocked lid. “But he couldn’t have opened the cover. This thing is heavy”
“Could’ve been open already.”
A vociferous collection of cheap tools are scattered amid the rectangular compartments. I don’t see a wire cutter of any size or color—which, sadly, could mean Diablo took it from here. The good thing is, I’ve come to know the clues he brings are viable. Which means I need to take a meticulous look around here. It stands to reason the wire cutters point to the killer; otherwise the toucan wouldn’t have bothered with them. The tool didn’t belong to the killer because Nona announced quite loudly they were hers.
Who else had access to this space? Obviously, Hank, Philip and Whitney. Was the garage locked and closed all the time? I turn to ask Whitney.
“It was when they were away. But since there’s no AC out here yet, they had big fans—” she gestures at two industrial sized ones on either side of the room— “then they opened the door. Why? What are you thinking?”
“That anyone could’ve gotten in and taken the wire cutters.”
“Good point, except, like I said, the doors were only open when they were here.”
Anna comes close. “Did they find prints on the cutters Diablo found? Can they get prints from them?”
For now, the toolbox has told me all it can. I close the lid and stand, planting hands on my hips. “I assume they can get prints from the plastic coating on the handles. Whether they did or not, no clue.” I make a mental note to ask Eddie or Jakob. “Where should we look next?”
“Why don’t we split up? I’ll take the garage,” Whitney turns in a circle, grimacing with distaste, “and you two explore the house.” She peers inside a guitar case with a dent in the cover that tipped against the wall near the toolbox.
Anna starts toward the door leading into the main house. I follow Anna into the kitchen. It’s outdated and it’s…green—um, olive green. The formica counters are cluttered with, well, let’s just leave it that they’re cluttered. Anna crosses her arms and says, “I think you should take the downstairs.”
I can’t help it; I throw back my head and laugh. “Thanks, friend. One of these days I’ll repay you for your generosity.”
“Kidding. Let’s work together.”
She points near the pair of windows that look out over a pale-pink sided ranch home. The landscaping looks like a professional designed it.
I start in a dark wood cabinet I think in the old days was called a hutch. It’s full just like the counters. A full set of china dinnerware—looks like eight of everything—with a turkey painted in the centers, takes up the main space. I move aside stacks of bills and scribbled notes. They look old so, for now, I ignore them. I dig deep as Anna begins her search across the room. Ooh, what’s this? I pull a battered wooden box from beneath a pile of papers.
“Um,” she says, her voice muffled since she’s deep in the cabinet under the sink. She backs out and drops to sit on the floor. Not sure I’d want to do that; it’s pretty grubby. “Should we be worried about fingerprints?”
I gaze about the messy space, then giggle. “Whitney says the police have been through twice already so probably not.”
Now she giggles too. “Man, I bet the fingerprint team had fun here.” She dives back under the sink. I set the box on the table. It’s sealed with a gold color hasp. I slide it over and open the lid.
“Whatcha got?” comes Anna’s voice from over my shoulder. I jump about a mile. We bang elbows then both cringe and hold our funny bones.
“It’s just silverware. Pretty nice stuff.”
“Needs a thorough cleaning; it’s all tarnished. My mom had a set similar. That was in the old days when people actually ate off stuff like this. They didn’t have the liquid cleaner we use now where you just dip it in and rinse it off. Before every holiday, my mom spent hours scrubbing each piece with a foul smelling cleaner and a toothbrush.”
“Not yours, I hope.”
“Me too.”
We had silver like this also, but a maid who did the cleaning. I don’t volunteer the information. I shut the lid but don’t place the box back in the hutch yet. I noticed there was something behind it. Anna’s spotted it too—an envelope. She holds it by the tips of her fingers and lays it atop the silverware box. A single name is written in ink, but it’s smudged and illegible.
“Do we open it or give it to the police?” I ask.
“Far as I’m concerned they had their chance to find it. The thing’s fair game now.”
“Works for me.”
Cautious about prints, she gets a knife and eases open the flap. Inside is a sheet of white paper. Unlike the front of the envelope, this writing is legible. And it’s a warning to Nona. Well, I assume it was to her.
You didn’t listen.
And now you die.