A High-End Finish(72)

“Let me try to jog your memory a little,” he said. “And if your head starts to hurt or you feel sick or anything, I’ll stop. Deal?”

“Yeah.”

“When did it happen?”

“Not sure of the exact time, but the sun was setting. I watched it disappear behind the ocean.”

“That’s a nice time of evening,” he said. “So it was dusk, not quite dark yet.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t hear anything but the sound of a branch snapping or a leaf crackling. Did you smell anything? Was there a scent in the air?”

“Someone in the neighborhood was burning leaves. It smelled like fall.”

He smiled. “That’s a good one.”

“I thought so, too.”

“A few seconds ago, you said, ‘Then he hit me.’ So you think it was a man who did this to you?”

I thought for a moment. “I have no idea. I said that because . . . I don’t know. It had to be someone strong. I just assumed it was a man.”

“Did you hear him take a breath?” He shifted forward in his chair. “You know how sometimes if you’re about to hit something, like a baseball, you take a quick breath before you swing the bat? Did you hear anything like that? A gasp or an intake of breath?”

I tried to remember. “No. Sorry. Whoever it was was very quiet.”

“Did you smell anything else besides the burning leaves?”

“Like what?”

“Like perfume,” he said. “Or cigarettes. Coffee. Sweat. People sometimes smell like their work. Sawdust. Gasoline. Anything.”

I closed my eyes and put myself back at the spot. I breathed in and out, then opened my eyes and stared into his. “Not anything related to another person. I smelled the salt air, of course. And there was a slight whiff of paint remover, but that probably came from the equipment in my truck.”

He nodded reflectively. “Your father said that when he was driving to your job site, he passed what he thought was a sporty black car. It was going pretty fast in the opposite direction. It’s a sketchy clue, but I’m willing to check it out. Do you know anyone who drives a car like that?”

“Whitney Gallagher drives a black Jaguar,” I said a little too quickly.

“Tommy’s wife?”

“Yes. You know her.”

“Sure. Nice lady.”

It figured she would be nice to Tommy’s boss. And Eric was such a handsome guy, what woman wouldn’t play nice around him?

“Anyone else?” he asked.

“So many.” I rattled off names. “Jennifer Bailey drives a black BMW. Emily Rose drives a black Mini Cooper. Liz Logan drives a black SUV. So does Mac Sullivan, but neither of those are small or sporty. Oh. Buddy Capello. Do you know him?”

“Capello. Yeah, we talked to him a week or so ago.”

“He drives a navy blue Porsche. He’s Luisa Capello’s brother.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I don’t know what kind of car Luisa drives. Or her brother Marco, either.”

“I can get that information,” he said.

“Of course.” I’d never been so happy to be driving a gunmetal gray truck. Nothing about it was small and it wasn’t black, either. Not that it mattered. I wasn’t a suspect anymore. Unless, of course, I thought wryly, the police decided that I’d bonked myself in the head to clear suspicion. Oh, that was depressing.

“That’s it?”

“I almost forgot Penny. She drives a dark-colored Miata. And Jane Hennessey has a dark gray Lexus.”

“Is there anyone whose car you don’t know?”

“It’s my town,” I muttered, and closed my eyes.

A few seconds later I felt Eric let go of my hand and I opened my eyes. “Are you leaving?”

“I’ve worn you out,” he said, standing. “Besides, I want to check in with a couple of officers who are combing the area around your truck for any evidence. They’ll be talking to the neighbors, too, in case anyone saw anything. The black car is a long shot, but we’ll make sure we check every one we can find.”

“Can I ask you something?” I rubbed at the wide strip of gauze that was wrapped around my head to hold the thick bandage in place over my ear. “What did they hit me with?”

He paused. Taking hold of my hand again, he said, “They used a hammer.”

I shuddered. A hammer? Damn, I really was lucky to be alive. And then it hit me, so to speak. “How clever of them.”

He scowled. “I figured they saved that one just for you.”

Because my name was Hammer, of course. It would’ve been silly if it weren’t so frightening. “You found it?”

“They dropped it right next to your truck.”

“Was it . . . ?”

His jaw tightened visibly. “Yeah, it was pink.”

I groaned softly. My missing hammer. The killer had taken it from the same toolbox from which he stole the wrench and screwdriver used to murder Jerry Saxton and Wendell Jarvick.

The only good thing about being attacked with the pink ball-peen hammer was that it was lightweight, not big at all. Still, it could’ve killed me for sure if my assailant had hit me in the right spot.