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A real estate deal. A tree. A landscape job. People killed for far less.
“You said Diane worked here ten years?” Rick asked.
“That’s right.” The lines deepened with sadness. “She was one hell of an employee. She’ll be missed.”
After collecting Lockwood’s alibi contacts, Rick and Bishop left Lockwood’s office and climbed into Rick’s car. “Why do I get the vibe that guy’s not telling us all he knows?”
Bishop slid on his sunglasses. “Because he’s not.”
Rick fired up the engine. “We still have time before Jenna’s scheduled to be at the medical examiner’s office. Want to have a chat with the neighbor and Bob Boone?”
He scowled. “Would love to.”
A half hour later, they arrived at the 1920s home that Diane had just purchased. Its color was a faded white that peeled and bubbled in several spots. Three stories high, it sported a wide front porch, faded blue gingerbread trim, tall gabled windows and a high-pitched tin roof that had dimmed from red to a muddy brown. Overgrown bushes blocked the view of the large bay window. An oak with a trunk at least three feet thick hovered close to the house. The roots were thick, reached into the foundation, and likely threatened the house’s sewage system.
Rick had firsthand knowledge of old houses. He had learned a few valuable renovation lessons working on the Big House and just a glance told him that this place, though it had been a showpiece at one time, was going to cost a fortune to restore. “She must like a project.”
Bishop shook his head in disbelief. “Must like to spend money. It’s one hell of a money pit if you ask me.”
To the right of the house were three large, freshly cut tree stumps as well as a large, empty construction dumpster. Judging by the size those trees had been at least eighty to one hundred years old.
“Computer search says that the neighbor, Toby Stewart, is the president of the local historic association. He’s big on keeping the property as is.”
“She made changes and it looks like she was going to make a whole lot more.”
They walked around the side of the property into the backyard. Large stakes with orange flags marked a large square area that looked as if it was going to be a deck and maybe even a pool.
A glance at the back of the house showed five test strips of new paint color: white, gray, sapphire blue, fire engine red, and green. Rick couldn’t imagine the red or blue was a viable choice. Maybe she’d done it to stoke the neighbors who’d given her a hard time for the trees.
Boxwoods warmed by the sun had released an acrid smell in the air that you either loved or hated. Several were marked with red flags that made him wonder if they would also go the way of the trees.
They walked back around to the front of the property in time to see a white van pull up in front of the house. A magnetic sign on the side of the front doors read STEWART RENOVATIONS.
A long, lanky man unfolded himself from the car, pausing long enough to adjust wire-rimmed glasses and straighten a thin, black tie. His gaze slid over Rick’s car and to the detectives as they crossed the yard to him.
“I’m Toby Stewart.” He spoke with the authority of a man in charge. “I’m president of the historic preservation association. And you are?”
“Detective Rick Morgan and this is my partner, Jake Bishop.”
“Did someone finally call the cops on that woman?”
“That woman?”
“Diane Smith. What she’s done to this property is a crime.”
“What’s she done?”
Eyes widened with surprise. “See the tree stumps? See the tree out front marked for destruction. See the outline of the addition and the pool. She’s totally destroying the historic beauty of this house.” A sneer curled his lip. “She’s an attorney. A real estate attorney. Got it written into her mortgage that she could bypass the historic codes.”
“She wasn’t breaking any laws.”
His eyes widened with outrage. “Not technically. But she shouldn’t be changing so much.”
“You two argue about this?”
“Several times. Over dinner last week, I told her the landscape architect she hired was a butcher.”
“Dinner?” Bishop asked, as if he were bored.
“We’ve been out a few times. I like her. I thought we had an understanding but then she cut down the trees and told me about the addition.”
Rick looked at the house and shook his head as if he disapproved. “Sounds like you’re mighty steamed.”
He puffed out his chest as he rested a hand on his hip. “Steamed doesn’t come close. Like I said, what she’s doing is a crime.”
Is. Not was. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Three days ago, we talked about paint colors.”
“That was Saturday?”
“Yes. Early in the morning. I saw the swatches. She threatened to paint the house red.” He shook his head. “Money doesn’t buy history or taste.”
Rick kicked a rock with his boot. “A woman like that must get a lot of grief from neighbors?”
“Grief? I gave her plenty. And her landscape architect, Linwood Carter, I told her where to go.”
“Looks like that tree is biting into the foundation,” Rick said as he scribbled down the name of the landscape architect.
“Tree comes with lots of history that dates back to the Civil War. To lose it would be losing history.” He cocked his head. “Why’re you asking so many questions about Diane. She in some kind of trouble?”
“She’s dead,” Bishop said. “Murdered.”
Stewart’s mouth dropped open and he shook his head as if his brain wrestled with the words. “How? When?”
“Found her charred remains in a house in Nashville yesterday.”
“What?” The thin face paled, whitening to ashen.
Delivering news of death was always a wild card. He’d witnessed the full range. Tears, screams, laughter, stunned stupors, shock, outrage. He wasn’t interested in the reaction as the intent humming beneath the surface. He studied Stewart, paying close attention to the twitch tweaking the fingers of his right hand, the bead of sweat on his brow, and the flare of his nostrils as he breathed.
“Burned beyond recognition. Had to ID her with a hip implant.”
Stewart dragged a trembling hand through his hair. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” He left out the detail of the gunshot wound to Diane’s head. That tidbit he’d share only with a few cops and the killer. “Flesh and blood melted.”
“God.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Bishop’s even tone disarmed the repeated question designed to test Stewart. Whereas the truth came naturally, lying took work. Easier to trip up on stories hastily made up in panic. Can you keep your stories straight?
“Three days ago.”
“You argued at dinner last week?” Rick countered.
He shook his head slowly. “Over the trees. She cut them down.”
“Pissed you off.” An edge sharpened Rick’s words.
His gaze grew vacant as if he’d gotten lost for a moment and then he shook his head. “Yeah. But I didn’t kill her. I didn’t. Couldn’t.”
He could. Anyone could. Rick believed everyone had a magic combination that when dialed drove them to do just about anything, including tying a neighbor to a bed, shooting her in the head, and setting the house on fire. Stewart wasn’t the kind of guy who had it in him to destroy a tree or an old house, but Rick suspected a difficult neighbor or a one-story house in the West End was fair game. “Where were you two nights ago, Mr. Stewart?”
“Two nights ago?” he echoed. “Sunday night. I was at the gym until seven and then went to an Italian restaurant for dinner. I had a taste for pasta.”
“Where’d you sleep?” Rick asked.
“In my own bed.”
“Got a name of the restaurant?” Bishop pressed the tip of his pen to his notebook. Diane had been killed in the middle of the night so where Stewart
ate didn’t really matter. But the more details they gathered the more lies Stewart would have to remember.
