Alibi in April (Calendar Mysteries Book 4) Page 6

"I'll be there within the hour. Do you know what kind you want?" he replied brusquely.

  "Uh, door locks?"

  "What kind of door locks?" he asked. Then before I could answer, he said, "Never mind. I'll bring whatever you need." He hung up. I pulled a face at the phone. Not only had he snatched my opportunity to apologize but he didn't even ask me for one. He wasn’t exactly friendly.

  I climbed out of the car, fighting my way past the overgrown bushes and let myself in. I was hours behind the schedule I created for myself. I stood in the entryway, listening for anything out of the ordinary but there were no footsteps or creaking floorboards to send me fleeing in horror. No, the house was still.

  I had an hour until Nate arrived so instead of sitting and wallowing in my pity party, I set about pulling back the musty drapes and opening all the downstairs windows. I couldn’t wait to allow some fresh air to enter the house. The drapes would probably have to be taken down at some point and beaten mercilessly to get the dust out but there was nowhere outside to do that. Certainly not by throwing them over the veranda banister and standing out there, mere yards from where the man got shot.

  After I finished that task, I grabbed the duster and tackled the spider web I spotted hanging from the entryway chandelier. I corralled what was left of it after my mother destroyed most of it earlier. I dusted all the corners, stretching the telescopic pole to its longest length. I had to keep one hand over my mouth lest I accidentally swallow whatever might drop down. I moved through the whole house, starting at the ceiling and lightly dusting all the way to the ground before I dropped the dust-coated cloth on the kitchen floor by the French doors.

  The plates and things I soaked in the sink earlier now sat in cold water, so I emptied it, and gave the plates a gentle scrub. I refilled the sink with more hot water and soap. Perhaps they would be salvageable after all.

  I squirted the kitchen surfaces with sanitizing cleaner and grabbed one of the cleaning cloths, scrubbing hard to lift the ingrained dirt until the thick, wooden surfaces began to gleam. I moved all the way around the horseshoe-shaped counters, tossing the dirty cloths onto the floor once they became too soiled to use. Wiping down the cabinet doors was easier and I found a trash bag that I filled with all the expired dried and canned food. I left all the glassware for a later time when I could address them separately, being so delicate, but I arranged as many plates, bowls, mugs, knives, forks, and spoons to the dishwasher as I could fit. Adding the powder, I set it on its hottest cycle. At least when Tia came over later, we wouldn't have to eat out of boxes or drink from straws stuck in the wine bottle necks.

  With some trepidation, I opened the big fridge and freezer. Mercifully, there was no scent of rotting meat. Someone had thankfully emptied the contents and although it still needed airing and a good clean, it wasn't as bad as I'd been expecting.

  Rapping sounded at the front door. I closed the fridge and freezer doors and went over to answer it.

  A cross-looking Nate stood on the porch, his eyes partially covered by his ball cap. His lips were pressed into a thin line, just like I'd seen him do so many times. "Locks," he said, holding up several packages. "I can start with this one on the front door and then I'll do the others."

  "Thank you. I really appreciate you coming so quickly. I..."

  "No problem. I'll be done as fast as I can and leave you an invoice."

  "I'd offer you coffee but I haven't had chance to..."

  "I already got some coffee," he cut in, holding up his cup.

  "Okay." I paused and launched into my speech before he could brush me off. "Nate, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry you heard what I said and I'm really sorry I said it."

  "Why did you say it?" he asked, tipping his head up to look at me from under the cap's rim.

  I gulped. "Well, since I'm not staying in Calendar, there's no point getting settled in or seeing old friends and..."

  "Got it," said Nate. "You're going away. I'm staying. I believe we had this conversation before. If you want to get back to whatever you were doing, go ahead. I don't need your supervision."

  I knew a dismissal when I heard one and I saw the signs that Nate wanted to brood more than talk. "I was just cleaning the kitchen," I told him. "I'll, uh, get back to it." I turned around and walked away before the tension got any thicker. Yet as I reached the kitchen and wiped a tear that rolled down my cheek, I wondered why I felt so bad. Nate and I had already moved on in our lives. We'd been best friends once and that was a long time ago. Why was I so upset about upsetting him?

  I had bigger problems right now, including the dead man and his mysterious identity. I forced myself to concentrate exclusively on him as I set about checking the cabinets for anything of value. I imagined what he might have searched for. What could he have wanted to steal?

  There were several dinner services but unless the black market was peddling vintage IKEA, I was sure they weren't at the top of any heist list. Actually, I doubted they would appeal to anyone. I checked all the packets I'd thrown in the trash just in case Aunt Edie had stuffed anything inside them and then continued my search through casserole dishes and fancy tea sets. A lot of it went into the sink so I could wash everything. My parents and Tammy might want to have some of the nicer pieces. When I closed the last cabinet, I had to concede there was nothing hidden. The most I managed to find was eighty-seven dollars in the petty cash tin that I found in Aunt Edie's office.

  Finally, I hauled myself up on the counter to take a look above the cabinets.

  "What in heck are you doing up there?" asked Nate.

  I was startled at his voice, so I shot him a look over my shoulder and felt myself suddenly losing my balance. My foot slipped on the damp counter and went out from under me. My arms shot up, and my hands grappled for anything I could cling to before I fell.

  Strong arms caught me as I panted, now utterly terrified. "Bet you're glad I'm here now," said Nate, grinning down at me.

  Chapter Seven

  "You didn't!" squealed Tia.

  We were sitting on the couch in the living room. An hour before, I pulled all the cushions off, vacuumed it, and stripped all the throw pillows for laundering. I couldn’t wait to sit in dust-free comfort. Tia arrived a half hour ago with two takeout salads for a late lunch, but before we could get down to work, she insisted on sitting, eating, and catching up. Somehow the topic moved to how Nate saved me from crashing to the kitchen floor, a memory that still made my cheeks bright red.

  "I did. I just looked up at him and blinked when I realized I hadn't hit the floor because he managed to catch me just in time. Then I insisted he put me down on my feet."

  "What did he do?"

  "He put me on my feet and walked off. And you know what else? He laughed, Tia. He laughed! I have never been so embarrassed!"

  "Never?" she asked. "Remember when you stuck gum in Mrs. Hollander's hair and she had to cut it out and she told your mom?"

  I winced. "Oh, yeah… I forgot about that."

  "Or that time you slipped on spilt water in the school cafeteria and tipped your whole plate of spaghetti all over your top?"

  "Yes, okay! Maybe it was just one of the most embarrassing things I’ve done!"

  "Nate loaned you his sweater to wear that day," Tia reminded me, "and you kept it all year."

  "I did not!"

  "You did too!"

  "Fine, I did, but only because it was super comfortable. Anyway, Nate changed all the locks on the doors and walked out without even saying goodbye."

  Tia shook her head. "He is so mad at you."

  "I apologized to him after opening my big mouth earlier. He should understand why. I already told him I’m not staying in Calendar."

  "Why did you two lose touch?" asked Tia. "You stayed in touch with me; and Nate was your best friend out of all of us."

  I dug into my salad. "It's complicated," I muttered.

  "I sense a story." Tia waved a finger at me. "There was definitely a story at the time. What happened?"


  "There's no story. Really," I added when she raised her eyebrows. "We just grew apart."

  "Sure," Tia said, her voice dripping with skepticism. "So where do you want to start? Seems like you already made some headway. The house already looks better than it did this morning. Smells fresher too."

  "I opened every window downstairs and I swept all the cobwebs away. I scrubbed the kitchen surfaces and the doors and I started washing everything but I still need to wash inside the cabinets before I can put anything away. I also need to mop the floor and then there's the refrigerator..." I began to speed up out of excitement. It was good to feel useful after nearly a month of idle unemployment.

  "Whoa!" Tia held up a hand. "Is this all coming out of your head or did you make a list?"

  "The list is inside my head," I admitted.

  "We should walk through the house and make a real list of everything that needs to be done, otherwise we're just going to dart around, doing different things as we see them, and achieving nothing in the end. Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?"

  "No, but I have my cellphone. I can write our notes on that."

  "So this century!" laughed Tia. "Let's finish our lunch before we get started."

  "We haven't talked about the murder," I reminded her.

  "I was trying to be polite by avoiding that subject. I didn't want to scare you anymore than you must have been already. Has the man been identified yet?"

  "I don't know. I haven't heard back from Detective Logan. Did your parents recognize him?"

  "I asked them, but they didn't and when Detective Logan showed me the photo, I didn't recognize him either. Maybe he was a grifter."

  "That's what I thought." An image of him flickered back into my head like an old movie reel. He was wearing a leather jacket that looked new and a pair of black jeans. His boots were polished and he looked clean. "He didn't look like a grifter," I told her. "His jacket was expensive and his clothes were too clean."

  "That doesn't mean he wasn't up to no good. He might have just stolen the jacket."

  "I guess, but I think we can assume he was up to no good. People with good intentions rarely skulk around other people's property in the wee hours of the morning. And one more thing, he was wearing a black hat like most burglars."

  "There you have it," said Tia. "I'm sure he'll be identified soon if only from his fingerprints. I bet he has a long record."

  "I'm a little more worried about his accomplice. He or she had to be a killer."

  "Detective Logan said he thought they probably came here to steal stuff. Do you think they found something, and possibly argued about it before one of them shot the other?" asked Tia.

  "Now that you mention it, that's exactly what I think." Then I thought about it from the opposite angle. "Or maybe they didn't find whatever they were looking for, and one of them got so mad that he shot the other. Maybe one of them persuaded the other one there was something worth stealing here and they promised the other thief a big payday so the other thief felt deceived when it didn’t pan out."

  "I hope they don't come back. Have you thought about getting an alarm system?"

  "I pestered Aunt Edie about that a long time ago. Remember when there were all those burglaries during our junior year? They caught the burglar eventually and everybody forgot about it."

  "I'm sure this killer will be caught too. Unless they're already a hundred miles away!"

  "I hope it doesn't affect the sale of the house. If it does, I may as well forget about trying to clean up or do any of the repairs." I sighed as I looked around. Maybe Tammy was right. The place was awfully large for just one person. If I couldn't sell it, I would have to seriously consider renting it out to a large family.

  "You can't think like that." Tia jumped to her feet as she reached for my hands, pulling me up too. "Let's walk through the whole house and keep busy. It has been so long since I was in here last and I can't wait to see it all over again. We can talk about what you need to scrap and what you want to keep. You're really not staying?" she added sadly.

  "I can't." I didn't explain the need for me to start job hunting as soon as possible. But Calendar was hardly the town for an out of work graphic designer to find a good job with a decent salary.

  "That's a shame. It would have been nice to be back home with an old friend. Lead the way!"

  Starting in the front living room, we began our notes: getting the rug professionally cleaned and mopping the floors, which were just dirty. The chimney needed sweeping, another unexpected expense I had to budget for and hire a professional to do. Fireplaces are always a great selling point though, so I made a note to buy some pretty logs to display in a basket for the staging after the house was listed. Tia thought we should get rid of the unstable desk Edie set up to receive her guests but I argued that it might have some appeal to anyone considering using the house as an inn again. "I suppose I could move Aunt Edie's desk from her private study over here and dismantle this one," I conceded after thinking about it a little longer.

  "Great idea. That desk is too lovely to lie hidden away where no one sees it."

  "What do you know about business permits?" I asked, thinking about the business opportunities a realtor could mention.

  "Absolutely nothing," said Tia.

  "Me neither."

  "What about the kitchen?"

  We walked through it. "I don't think too much needs to be done except for more cleaning and mopping the floors. I planned to include the breakfast table and chairs in the sale. The huge table was custom built for the space; plus, country French style kitchens are very fashionable right now."

  "Buyers will appreciate that. Where does this door lead?" she asked as she rattled the handle on a door.

  "I'm not sure. I don't remember it ever being open. Is it locked?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll add that to the list. It's probably just a closet Aunt Edie didn't want us kids going inside."

  I made a note on my phone as Tia crossed over to the French doors. "Is that where he was found?" she asked, pointing outside.

  "Yes, and if it’s all the same to you, I'm not going out there!"

  "I am so glad you said that, never mind the veranda roof needs a good inspection. The wisteria vine is on a rampage to swallow it up entirely."

  "I'll jot that down; now, let's go into the rear living room."

  "I love that room! That's where Edie held her painting workshops, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, that's right. There’s another set of doors that open out to the sunroom and the veranda. Nate changed those locks too." I led Tia to the big living room. Aunt Edie cleared all the furniture out long ago when she realized hosting artist retreats was not only fun but also quite profitable. Several times a year, she invited a group of artists, amateurs and professionals. They turned up for long weekends or sometimes, a full week to perfect their skills or simply just to relax and paint the scenery. Aunt Edie had a stock of easels for their use and piles of canvases and art supplies filled the bookcases lining the shortest wall. The bookcases were original to the house and Aunt Edie often said they were made to be used and not just admired.

  "All the art is still here!" I happily exclaimed, pointing to the long exterior wall. Aunt Edie had a gallery of dozens of her favorite paintings, mashing all of them together in a vivid collection of different media. There were big oil canvases streaked with color in vintage frames, and delicate watercolor landscapes, as well as some unframed sketches in pencil and even a few crayon drawings that I recognized as mine and Tammy's.

  "Where did these all come from?" asked Tia.

  "Aunt Edie and Uncle John collected some of them on their travels after they were first married. They traveled all through Europe in the fifties before they came back to the States and bought this house. She said they sometimes traded English lessons for artwork, or else they would swap their artwork for other people's."

  "I think she mentioned an artist colony where she lived for a while. Wasn’t it somewhere in Italy? O
r was it Greece?"

  "Yes! Italy." Aunt Edie's words popped right back into my head. Her enthusiastic descriptions of the artist colony they stumbled across in Sardinia, off the coast of Italy, made me feel as if I’d been there too. For one long, hot, magical summer, they were drinking, partying, and painting. "They were all painters and sculptors and other kinds of creative artists. She said it was so fabulous and the best fun."

  "I bet Edie was a wild one when she was young."

  "Mom and Dad made sure she only ever told us the 'safe' version," I said, laughing. "But I think it might have included some skinny dipping and pot smoking. Anyway, some of these paintings were from their experience there. She told me she picked up a couple of them on other travels. And her guests would often leave her a painting or two as a token of their appreciation."

  "She sure has a lot of them!"

  "There's even more scattered throughout the house. I'll have to take them down and spackle all the holes."

  "Living the dream, baby," laughed Tia.

  "Then I'll have to sand everything and prime and paint and..."

  "I thought you said you weren't staying forever. It sure sounds like you are."

  I laughed. "Maybe I should consider hiring someone to do the work after all. I'm anxious to check the sunroom and see what kind of condition it's in," I told her as I crossed the distance. I opened the door to the small sunroom. "Actually it looks fine. I don't think it needs... What was that?" I asked when my toe connected with something that went skittering across the floor. I followed it, stooping down to pick up the black cylinder. "It's a flashlight," I said, standing and turning back to my friend. "What's a flashlight doing in here? Oh! Do you think the dead man brought it with him?"

  Tia hurried over to look at it. "It might be Edie's?"

  "No, she has a big, purple flashlight. I saw it in the supply closet."

  "You should give it to Detective Logan. It might have fingerprints on it."

  I pulled a face. "I’m sure it does! It has my fingerprints on it now! What do I do? If I call Detective Logan and tell him about it and it has nothing to do with the dead man, he'll just think I'm an idiot."