A High-End Finish(55)
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.”