1 A High-End Finish (16 page)

“I do.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. Why was this happening to me? “Okay, so you’re telling me that the same person is either setting me up to go to jail or doing me favors or trying to kill me. Or all of the above.”

“I’ve managed to frighten you and I’m sorry, Shannon.”

“Yeah, me, too. He sounds schizophrenic.”

“It’s definitely not a normal scenario.” He stood and slipped his jacket back on. “Look, I can’t promise you round-the-clock protection, but I can try to schedule a cruiser to drive by every hour or so. In the meantime, I would strongly suggest that you find someone to stay here with you or else pack a bag and go to a friend’s house for a few nights.”

“My dad lives in his RV and he usually parks it in my driveway, but he’s been away for the past few days, fishing.”

“Until he gets back, I’d like you to take those extra precautions.”

I shifted my gaze from his to the windows overlooking my familiar view of the safe, quiet street I’d grown up on. After a long moment, I looked back at Eric and nodded. “Believe me, I will.”

Lizzie offered to spend the night at my place, but I told her I didn’t want to take her away from Hal and the kids.

“Why do you think I’m offering?” she said, annoyed that I didn’t understand her ploy.

“Oops.” I laughed. “Sorry.”

Jane jumped in. “It’s all right, Lizzie. I’ll be staying with Shannon for as long as necessary.”

“Thank you,” I said, having already planned for her to stay. Jane had become almost fanatical in her determination to keep me safe. I got the feeling that she was more worried about me than I was about myself, which was pretty darn worried.

“But I could stay, too,” Lizzie said. “We could have a slumber party.”

I gave her a big hug, but in the end she went home to her darling family, while Jane and I ordered Chinese food and watched one of Jane’s favorite old romantic comedies. We laughed, we cried, and if we’d only had more time, we would’ve painted our toenails and braided each other’s hair. It was girls’ night, for sure.

Thursday morning after breakfast, Jane still wasn’t keen on leaving me alone in the house. But since I knew she had an appointment with her landscaper, I insisted that she go home.

“I can cancel the appointment,” she said. “You and I can stay here and play cards or . . . something.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll be fine by myself. I’ve got a bunch of things to do today and besides, nothing’s going to happen to me in broad daylight.”

“But Eric said—”

“I know what he said and believe me, I appreciate his concern. I’ve already seen a cop car drive by a few times this morning, so I feel safe right now.”

She glanced out the window. “I’m uneasy about leaving you here alone.”

“I’m a little anxious myself, but I’ll be okay. When I asked you to spend a few nights here, I didn’t expect you to stay twenty-four hours a day.”

She fiddled with her purse strap, unsure of what to do next. “I feel guilty leaving you.”

“No guilt allowed,” I said, grabbing her for a quick hug before nudging her toward the door. “You have your own life, and you need to get that garden whipped into shape if it’s going to look good by the grand opening.”

“What will you do while I’m gone?”

I walked with her out to her car. “I’ll be sticking close to home today.”

“Can I give you a ride anywhere?”

“No, thanks,” I said easily. “I plan to clean up the garage. It’s got that black dust everywhere from the fingerprinting. And then I thought I’d better go through my tools. Make sure nothing else is missing.”

She grabbed my arm. “Oh, God, Shannon.”

“Yeah, I know.” If I found more tools missing, I was going to call the police right away.

With a heavy sigh, she climbed into her car. “Okay. I’ll be back sometime later this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Jane.” I watched her drive off, then went back inside the house. I called Penny at the bank to beg off meeting her at the gym.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Oh yeah. I’ve just got something I’ve got to take care of at home.” I didn’t feeling like sharing the details with everyone in town.

“That’s a drag,” she said. “Maybe we can make it sometime this weekend.”

“I’m determined to get there tomorrow. Do you think you’ll be there?”

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” she mused. “Yeah, I might be able to make it.”

“That would be great,” I said. “If it turns out you can’t, we’ll do it another time. Otherwise, I’ll see you there around five.”

After we hung up, I spent a full hour stretching out my muscles and limbering up. Ever since the bike accident I’d been feeling positively ancient with all my aches and pains. That had to stop.

I stuck with the warm-up stretches, but vowed that tomorrow afternoon at the gym I would start getting my legs and arms back into shape. I could always go for a walk later today, but I was a little wary of running into any of my neighbors. I knew they would try to bully me into spilling the details of Wendell Jarvick’s murder. I was fairly certain I’d be able to withstand their doggedness, but, really, who could blame them? Everyone loved gossip, especially in a small town. It was our lifeblood. That was doubly true when something gruesome happened on your own street. You owed it to the rest of the town to get the scoop and share it with others.

The garage cleanup took me almost two hours. That fine black fingerprint powder was more difficult to clean than I thought it would be. On the outside windowsill I started off with a soapy sponge and learned right away that any moisture added to the powder residue would turn it into something resembling India ink. I got it all wiped off eventually, though, thanks to the glossy white paint on the surface, which was so thick there were no crevices for the black powder to sink into.

My work bench inside the garage was different. The wood there was simply whitewashed, not glossy and thick, so the minuscule powdery flecks had burrowed into the porous surface. I finally resorted to using my industrial Shop-Vac with the HEPA filter that was so effective on sweeping up drywall dust. Except for a few tiny spots, it worked. I could live with the spots until it was time to paint the darn thing.

I put away all my cleaning stuff and turned to my tools. I’d amassed a pretty large collection over the years, but I had always been diligent about keeping them in order. I didn’t find anything missing from the large rolling tool cabinet—yes, it was pink—I always kept at home. Likewise, nothing was gone from the two smaller toolboxes I used on job sites. I organized everything, culling some of the items I rarely used and rearranging the drawers to be more accessible. Then I locked up the boxes and went out to my truck to get my third tool chest, the one I’d brought home from the Boyers’ place. The police had gone through the entire contents, and Eric had asked me to look through it, too, in case something else was missing. I had assured him that other than my pink wrench and the screwdriver used as murder weapons, nothing else was gone.

Before I locked it up, I decided to double-check that everything was where it should be. It looked to be in good order, until I shifted the big wooden claw hammer and realized that I had been storing three different hammers in this chest for the Boyers’ job. My claw hammer and my framing hammer with the lightweight titanium head were both in their proper places. But to my horror, my pink-handled ball-peen hammer wasn’t there. I went back through all of my tool chests to make sure I hadn’t overlooked it. I couldn’t find it anywhere.

I had no choice but to call Eric and give him the bad news.

•   •   •

The guilt was overwhelming. To distract myself, I spent the rest of the afternoon in my garden. It was October, harvesttime, and since our weather was relatively mild most of the year, I was looking forward to prepping the garden for a new crop of winter vegetables. It would be a few more weeks before I could do it, though, because all six of my good-sized vegetable beds were still producing veggies from the planting I’d done last spring. And that didn’t even count all the pots of tomatoes and edible herbs I had lined up along the side fence.

All summer I’d been harvesting what I liked to call my salad veggies—lettuces, tomatoes, cucumbers, green onions—almost daily. Now I was eyeing my fall crop of zucchini, spinach, beets, peas, carrots, peppers, and various root vegetables that I planned to roast or turn into cold-weather soups and stews. At one end of the squash bed were a dozen small pumpkins and two massive ones that I hoped would grow even larger for the annual Harvest Festival and Parade at the end of the month.

I had already filled up one large basket with vegetables for soup and was starting to weed the beds when I heard someone call out my name. Glancing up, I saw Mac Sullivan looking over the fence.

“Hi, Mac.” I stood and brushed the soil off my jeans.

“Hey, Irish. You look good in the garden.”

“Thank you.” I smiled as I unlatched the gate. The man said the nicest things. “What’s up?”

“I was hoping you’d show me one of those rooms you rent out.”

I was puzzled. “Are you doing research?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “I’m looking for a place to live.”

“But you just bought a big new house.”

“Can’t live in it until it’s refurbished. Thought I’d look into renting for a while.”

I stared at him. Not that it was a hardship, but I had to wonder if he was pulling my leg. MacKintyre Sullivan could afford the biggest deluxe suite anywhere in the world, so why bother with my little rental? He looked serious, though, so I pulled off my gardening gloves and set them on the side of the raised bed. “I’ll go get the key.”

I came back outside a minute later and led him upstairs to the apartments.

I stopped in front of Wendell’s place and took in the streams of yellow tape strewn across the door.

“Did they say how long they’ll keep it a crime scene?” he asked.

“Eric said his guys will need a few more days to sift through Wendell’s belongings. I didn’t get a chance to look inside, so I have no idea what condition it’s in.”

Mac considered the yellow tape. “I can be like a rabid dog when it comes to doing research, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not stay in the murder victim’s room.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” I walked a few more steps and unlocked the door to the second apartment. “This one’s clean and ready for a new tenant.”

He walked inside and glanced around. “This place is great. Lots of good light. Bigger than I thought it would be.”

“It’s basically one big room, but I tried to section it off so it feels like you’ve got several separate areas.”

“I like it,” he said, running his fingers down the matchstick screen that, together with a willowy ficus tree, created a partition between the bedroom and the living room space. “Hey, there’s a desk.”

I shrugged. “A lot of people travel with their computers.”

As I’d done for Wendell over a week ago, I walked across the suite and pulled the blinds open. The view from this room was slightly better than Wendell’s—at least I thought so. There was more to see of the green hills and redwood trees to the south, and the ocean was still in plain sight above the rooftops, too.

“Really nice view,” he said. Pointing, he asked, “Is that an empty lot behind you?”

“Not for long.” I gave him the quick explanation of how I’d bought the property behind my house two years ago. The house had been what we called a cracker box, a run-down little beach shack that was rented out to tourists year after year. Even though cracker-box houses were small, they often sat on lots as big as my own.

In recent years, a buyer would snag one of those houses, tear it down and build a much grander house, an updated Victorian or a Craftsman to match the style and feeling of the town.

I had razed the old house, salvaging as much of the good wood and chimney bricks as I could, and filled the lot with mustard seed to treat the soil until I was ready to plant next year. I envisioned a row of trees along the edges of the property, grass and flower beds in the center, benches and walkways here and there. I wanted to turn it into a small park. I had already conducted a casual survey of my neighbors, who approved of the plan wholeheartedly.

“That’s cool,” he said.

“I like the idea of having a neighborhood park.”

He nodded, glanced around the room again. “Did you do all the work in here?”

“Me and a couple of my guys.”

He ran his finger along the beveled grooves of the decorative wood panel above the small fireplace mantel. “Who did this woodwork?”

“I did.”

“It’s exceptional.” His gaze held on mine. “So you’re also a carpenter.”

“Yes.”

Mac strolled around the room, checked out the kitchenette sink, mini fridge, two-burner electric stove, and microwave oven. He slid the closet door open and closed, popped into the bathroom, and then glanced out the window one more time. “So, how much to rent the place?”

I was still mystified by his interest, but decided to play along. “By the day or by the week?”

“By the month.”

“Oh.” I mentally calculated the price, took off fifteen percent for the long-term rate, and gave him the bottom line.

“Not bad. I’ll take it.”

•   •   •

Later that afternoon, Jane arrived to spend another night with me. She was bursting with excitement and danced around the kitchen as she told me all about her meeting with the landscaper and their plans for her garden.

“It sounds beautiful,” I said. “I love the idea of having a little bridge across the koi pond. And the ferns planted around the bases of the trees will give the space a real magical quality.”

“I know,” she said, and provided more details as I poured two glasses of wine. When I handed her a glass, she asked, “What did you do today?”

“My day wasn’t quite as exciting as yours, but let’s see.” I tried to think of all the positive things while avoiding the missing-hammer news. “I cleaned out the garage, worked in the garden for a while, and rented one of my apartments to a new tenant.”

“You have a new tenant already?” she said, taken aback. “But you just got rid of Wendell— I mean, oh, dear. You know what I mean.”

I tried not to laugh, since the subject was morbid. And she looked so utterly mortified that I knew it would be cruel to tease her. “I know what you meant. And it’s not like I rented out Wendell’s place. I can’t. It’s still a crime scene.”

Her shoulders hunched up and she rubbed her arms. “Just thinking about it gives me goose bumps.”

“Yeah, me too. Anyway, I rented the other apartment.”

She considered it for a moment. “I would’ve thought you might want some privacy for a while.”

“I thought I did, too, but then this guy came around asking if the place was available and I changed my mind.”

“What guy?”

I bit my lip, unsure why I was so hesitant to tell her. Maybe to keep the toasty little secret to myself for a while? But that didn’t make sense. Jane was my oldest and dearest friend and we had no secrets between us. “Mac Sullivan.”

“Oh.” She drew the word out for several syllables.

“Yeah.” Hoping the subject was closed, I walked to the freezer. “I thought we could have chicken for dinner. Do you mind making a salad?”