Three days later, I parked in front of the rehab. A pickup truck and other vehicles blocked the driveway. Puzzled, I observed the men tearing off the exterior. As one man removed the vinyl, another worker disposed of the pieces in the refuse container.

  I gasped and jumped out of the car.

  “What are you doing?” I stared, open-mouthed.

  “Katelyn Baxter? You’re the owner?” A third man, a towhead, yelled from the top of the ladder.

  “Yes, I am!” I glared.

  “I’m Paul,” he called out as he descended the ladder. He was tall and lean with firm biceps. “I’m the crew supervisor. We’re replacing the siding.”

  “Paul.” I choked. “It doesn’t come off the front.” I gestured at the wood framing.

  “What?” he was skeptical. The workers looked up from hauling material to the roll-off container. They stopped with their loads and stared at me, the crazy woman freaking out, and to Paul for guidance.

  “Follow me to the west side.” I led him, my face burning and shoulders tensed.

  He shuffled behind me, and took a moment to bark out “stop work” to the laborers. Both men shrugged, and dropped the ripped pieces.

  I stopped at the side that displayed pits from the hail storm.

  He surveyed the damage. With a hint of chagrin, “I’ll call the office.”

  “Do that!” Defeated, I grumbled under my breath, “Who are these people?” and headed to the car to get supplies. I’d just dropped my bags in the entry when the doorbell rang.

  Paul stood on the stoop with his back to me. He pivoted, and said with a sheepish expression, “They meant for the material to go to another address.”

  I blinked. “This isn’t my order?”

  “No.”

  “What now?”

  “We’ll make it right. We have to order more siding. It’s on back order, so it’ll take time.”

  “How long?”

  “It’ll be six to eight weeks. If we can still get it. There’s limited supply. Many houses need to be resided. It’s always better if you do everything. Change colors.”

  Again, I was struck speechless and sputtered. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, it may take as long as two months.”

  “You’re not leaving it this way!”

  “We’ll put the old pieces that aren’t damaged back.” He grimaced at my obvious angst. “I apologize. The office staff gave us the wrong address.”

  I shut the door in Paul’s face. Yeah. It’s always the office that screws up.

  Eventually, the sounds of hammers dwindled to silence. One by one, vehicles sped off. I ventured out to view the front of the house. It had all the earmarks of a slum dwelling, with bare wood at the top, and chunks of siding missing.

  “There is a problem, yes?” I jumped at the voice behind me.

  “Yes. Fernando.” I sighed. “They were supposed to do the west side,” and I pointed, frustrated.

  “Ay caramba! I am sorry.”

  “Me, too.” My gut seized as I surveyed the mess. How was I ever going to get this rehab to market? If the siding was available, delivery would take months, well beyond my time frame. I couldn’t afford to replace all the material. Besides, it had been in great condition.

  “I have sangria?” His soft eyes were sympathetic. “I would be happy to share a bottle? It will look better after a glass of vino.”

  I checked my watch; it was nearly five o’clock. “That’s a great idea. I’ll lock up.” In the back of my mind, I briefly considered how my visit to Fernando’s might look to any nosy neighbor. I reasoned; it was a friendly gesture for a trying day. Surely anyone would understand. I didn’t know if he had anything to do with his wife’s death. And the curious neighbor in me wanted another look at the inside of his house.

  Shaking my head at the day’s debacle, I headed over after locking up.

  “Please, come in.” He waved me to the table and gratefully I sank into a chair. Two glasses of liquid comfort awaited. He kept a clean kitchen. On my first visit, I’d been inside briefly to get the check for the busted mirror, and searched the master bedroom. There were no smudges visible on the stainless appliances. All dishes were out of sight in the cupboards or dishwasher. The counters were clear of clutter.

  “Here is a toast to better times.” He held up his stemware, and I clicked my glass against his. His demeanor was soothing, and I almost believed it. My eyes held his for a brief minute.

  “Amen to that.”

  He grinned. The jangle of the telephone interrupted our toast.

  “Please, excuse me.” He rose and answered the phone in the living room. I tuned out his muted conversation, pondering the day’s events. My mind flitted to the grim thought that Sarah had taken her last breaths in the guest room. I shifted in the wooden chair at the country-style dining set, and scanned the area for any evidence of the tragedy. I itched to find the bedroom Sarah had slept in to search for any clues to her death.

  Grimacing, I held my head, resting elbows on the table. In the process, I jostled the glass, and spilled wine over the table. “Dang it.” I grabbed a sponge from the sink to mop up the mess, wiped the spill, then threw the sponge back. It hit the floor.

  “I am such a klutz,” I grumbled. I reached for the item and glanced up. Stunned, I stared at the spots. On the underside of the cupboard were dots of red. Spatter.

  “So sorry to leave you alone. It was not important.” He shrugged; his brows rose at seeing me stooped by the sink.

  I rose and said, “I’m sorry, my wine spilled. I was cleaning up.” I rinsed the sponge, keeping my expression still.

  “No worries. We have a bottle. Please leave it.” He came behind me and took the scrubber. Our hands met. His touch was warm, he leaned in, and gently kissed me on the cheek. I froze.

  Eek!

  “I’ll leave now,” I whispered, shaking.

  “I do not mean to scare you,” he murmured into my hair.

  Too late.

  “I need to go,” I mumbled, panicky.

  “No, please. Do not go. Do not be afraid,” he protested. I broke loose from his spell, grabbed my handbag and ran from the kitchen to the safety of my car. What just happened? Was he out of his mind, kissing me? Was it a small sign of affection I was blowing out of proportion? Was it blood spatter I’d seen beneath the cabinet? I gunned the car and sped home.

  Chapter 18

  I lost no time dialing Myra after blowing in from my encounter with Fernando.

  While she and I dissected what had transpired with the renovation and my encounter with the neighbor, I fed Boots. He yowled in the background while we talked.

  “It might be a marinara sauce from cooking or spray from a can of cola?”

  I responded evenly, “Or, he could have conked Sarah on the head. The blood hit the cabinet, and he missed it when he cleaned. The medical examiner’s report said blunt force injury.”

  “When you put it that way . . .” she reflected. “But Fernando wasn’t home. He found her when he came home for lunch. Someone else could have dealt the blow and missed cleaning the spots. How can you know?” She read my mind. “No. No more luminol.”

  “Humm.”

  “How on earth would you get in? If it is blood, that still doesn’t prove he did it.”

  “Maybe.” I was stumped, and went on to the other drama, my contractor.

  “What? Who is this contractor?” She gasped and laughed.

  “Yeah. I know,” I said, sighing. “It’s a huge snag in the renovation’s progress.”

  Rap, rap.

  I frowned and looked through the peephole. “Myra, I have to go. Eddy’s here.”

  “Eddy?”

  “Yep.” I disconnected, and opened the door.

  He grinned, and his eyes sparkled. “I drove past the Warbler Street house. Love what you’ve done with the place,” and he let out a belly laugh.

  “It isn’t funny!” I saw the glint of laughter in his expression, recalled the wrecked facade, and snickered, chortling, “It’d be funnier if it wasn’t my project.” I sobered up. “How’s Lola?”

  “Still on a break. How ‘bout dinner at Ivan’s? My treat.”

  “Great. I’ll get ready.” Spending time with Eddy would be a welcome diversion. He knew me. Lord knows what or where Don was. Was he still sorting out Felicity and Olivia? Did he see Eddy as a rival? All I knew was that I was keen to get out.

  While I showered and changed, the phone rang.

  I leaped to answer and got to it before Eddy picked up the extension in the kitchen. “Wayne! When will you be back?” I bit my lip, hearing how eager my voice sounded.

  “Hey, Kiddo.” His deep voice soothed me. “We’re thinking the end of the month. What’s up? Somethin’ wrong?”

  “You won’t believe it; the contractor removed the wrong siding.”

  “Whaaaaat? Who the heck are these guys?” He whistled, then guffawed. His laughter slowed to a chuckle, and I said, “Go ahead, laugh. I miss you.”

  “We’ll be home ‘for ya know it. Me and Gillie are having a great time.”

  “I hope you have the time of your lives. Don’t worry about the rehab.” I tried to sound positive, given the day’s events. I took a deep breath, and asked, “Will you move in with Gillie, or is she moving in with you?”

  “I was gonna tell ya! We’re gettin’ our own place.”

  “Oh?” I asked, stemming my disappointment they’d be moving.

  “We’re gonna keep our places, too.”

  “All right?”

  “We put in an offer on Ariel’s old place.” Ariel was the haughty neighbor who’d met her end in the fourth townhouse. Wayne and I had done the renovation with a generous contract from her wealthy family. Her relatives hadn’t sold or rented out the unit yet.

  “That sounds like a plan.” I was relieved.

  “Yep. That way, we keep our own space, and a place that’s ours. Convenient.”

  “Sure. That makes sense.” Sort of. The seniors had lived on their own for several years. Merging households could be a challenge.

  “Give it a trial run, anyway. We can always sell later.”

  “Sure.”

  They weren’t kids. I didn’t know if that would be my solution to combining households. But it would be wonderful having him back to work on my projects. With his steady hand, I doubted the fiasco that had transpired today would have happened if he’d been there.

  I hung up, did a jig, then finished getting ready to go out with Eddy.

  Seated at Ivan’s, I sipped a glass of chardonnay and filled Eddy in on the happenings. Snickering, his eyes flashed with mirth, and he tried to stifle his laughter. After drinking vino, I could appreciate the preposterous turn of events and dissolved into laughter along with him. I regained my composure, and asked, “So, how is it with you and Lola?”

  “Like I said, she’s taking a breather.” He shrugged.

  “So, no change in the status of our rental agreement.” I studied his expression.

  “Nope.” He avoided my gaze. “What’s happening with Don?”

  “It’s complicated.” I gulped. He’d never asked about the sheriff. It was uncharted territory, best left unexplored, and changed the subject. “After the siding fiasco, Fernando invited me over for a drink.”

  He frowned.

  “It wasn’t anything. He saw the siding upset me.” I decided not to tell him about Fernando’s kiss. It was probably nothing.

  “Uh huh.” He grimaced.

  “When I was in the kitchen, I saw marks, maybe blood spatter, under a cabinet.”

  “Under the cabinet? How? What were you doing?” He frowned and shifted, crossing his arms.

  “I spilled my wine and missed the sink when I tossed the sponge. As I retrieved it, I looked up. That’s when I saw the spots.”

  He let loose a low whistle, and asked, “Where was he?”

  “He was on a call in the living room.”

  “Have they figured out what happened to his wife?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Kate, stay away from his place and tell the police what you saw.”

  “You might be right. But what if it’s just spaghetti sauce?”

  He shrugged and reached for my hand. I clasped his, wishing life was simple again, like when we were teenagers.

  “Let’s go.” He stood and threw down some bills.

  Silent and pensive, he drove home. He left me at my front door, saying, “Gotta figure out what’s going on with Lola.” He leaned towards me, and his lips brushed my forehead.

  Eddy was growing up.

  Chapter 19

  The next day, convinced that Eddy was right, I decided to tell Don about what I’d seen in Fernando’s kitchen. I worked up the courage to head over to the police station. I considered how to broach the subject as I drove past the drugstore, antique shops, Crocus Heights Bank, and parked in the lot across from the station. I entered the cop shop with a plan––I’d be direct.

  The sheriff’s office door was open, and he sat at his desk, staring at a computer monitor. Pausing outside the entrance, I coughed to get his attention.

  “Katelyn? What brings you here?” He glanced up with a welcoming smile, and I went straight to the subject.

  “I saw something at Fernando Garcia’s house that the police might want to investigate.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Shut the door.” He waved me to the chair opposite his desk. I eased into the seat and squirmed, aware his body dwarfed me.

  “You were inside Garcia’s place?” He crossed his arms and sat back, staring.

  “Yes. It was an innocent glass of wine,” I protested.

  His brows knitted; he continued his gaze.

  “I’d had a run-in with the siding contractor.” He stayed silent, studying me. I gulped.

  He cleared his throat, sat up, and asked tersely, “What did you see?”

  I flushed, and responded, “Brownish red spots that resembled blood under the kitchen cabinet, next to the sink.”

  “Our investigators combed the kitchen. I think they would have found blood spatter.” He appeared wary and shifted in his chair.

  I bristled at his tone. “They could have missed it. I’m just telling you what I saw.”

  “Uh huh.” He leaned back, and laced his hands behind his head. “I think it’s best you stay away from your neighbor. His wife’s death is still under investigation. I don’t want you in the middle of a case.”

  “I understand.” My voice was flat, and I bit my lower lip.

  He frowned; his blue eyes sharpened. “You have all the doors locked while you work. Correct?”

  A twinge of doubt niggled. Had I?

  “Yes. Any leads on my rat?” I sparred.

  “None yet. Reports are still coming in about a prowler in the neighborhood.” He rubbed his temple. My dig had hit a spot. “In the meantime, let the police do the investigating.” His eyes strayed to his screen; I did an eye-roll and stood up. I wanted to ask about Olivia, but hesitated.

  He must have read my mind, because his tone was softer. “I’ve sent in my DNA along with Olivia’s. I should know the results in about a week.”

  “Oh. How does Olivia feel about you doing the test?” I shuffled my feet, embarrassed.

  “Not good. She won’t answer my calls or texts.”

  “I’m sorry. She’s probably upset that you doubt her. It’s good you told her. You could have ordered the test without her knowledge.”

  “Yes. I suppose that’s so.” His eyes misted, and he coughed. “Should have done it right away. Before we got comfortable.”

  “It’s better for her to know the truth, too. It’s the right thing to do,” I ventured.

  “Yes. The correct thing isn’t always the easiest.” He smiled wryly.

  When I left, he was staring at the computer screen again. I felt like a heel for suggesting he should verify Olivia’s claim that she was his father. Would I ever learn to mind my own business?

  On my way to the Warbler rehab, I passed Randy’s Plumbing truck in the driveway at a nearby residence. I pulled into my drive, noting that Fernando’s truck was parked across the street.

  “He must be home for lunch,” I muttered. The dismal view of the front of the renovation taunted me, and I grumbled “idiots” as I entered. I dropped my messenger bag on the kitchen counter and headed to the attached garage.

  It was time I did some landscaping work. I grabbed a rake and cleared out the beds in front and in back. There were bits of siding scattered about, and the plants had taken a beating from the contractors tearing off material. I placed the remnants in the dumpster. While I raked, the sheriff’s car pulled into Fernando’s driveway.

  Covertly, I watched the sheriff knock. He nodded towards me while waiting on the stoop for Fernando. He cocked his head to one side, his brows rose, surveying the exterior of the renovation. I shrugged, catching his gawk. Fernando opened the door, and the sheriff went in.

  About fifteen minutes later, Don emerged from Fernando’s, and trotted to where I raked grass bordering the driveway.

  “Katelyn.” He tugged his hat.

  “Sheriff.” I addressed him formally, given he was in uniform, and it appeared he’d followed up on my observation at Fernando’s.

  “Stay out of this investigation,” he said, his jaw firm.

  I faced him and straightened to my nearly five and a half feet. “Did you see the droplets?”

  “Yes.” He was terse.

  “And?”

  “Do as I say, keep away from Garcia’s residence, and out of police work.”

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “All I have to say,” he paused, “is that marinara sauce makes a mess.”

  “That’s all it was?” I rested the rake’s handle against my shoulder, frowning.

  “I repeat, do not get involved with this case.” He pushed his sunglasses up and gave me a steely gaze.

  “So, it wasn’t blood?” I asked stubbornly.

  “Have a pleasant afternoon.” He turned and hiked to the squad, tossing one last glare as he sped off.

 

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