Open House Heist Read online

  “How ‘bout you sell homes and let me solve crimes?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not trying to find out who took the collection. You can do that. I’m trying to find out who killed Jennifer Rawlings. That’s what was asked of me anyway.”

  “You don’t know whether the note was actually for you, Lily.”

  “Of course it was for me. It wasn’t coincidence that it was left when I had the open house, honey.”

  “You’re engaged to the county sheriff. It could have just as easily been for me.”

  “Right. If you say so. Anyway, I read online earlier that almost eighty-five percent of murders don’t get solved. Did you know? And most of the time, the police, or sheriff in your case, knows who did it but doesn’t have enough credible evidence to win in court.”

  He nodded. “That’s true.”

  “And Jennifer was murdered thirty-five years ago, Dylan. You don’t have the time or the resources to investigate the case, right?”

  He nodded again.

  “So, what’s the harm in letting me check into it? Maybe I can find something that will blow the case wide open.” I giggled.

  “You got that from TV, didn’t you?”

  I blushed. “Maybe.”

  “You promise you’re not going to get involved in the coin collection case?”

  I crossed my heart. “Swear on my momma’s life. You can keep that one, and I’ll handle the more advanced case.”

  His eyes widened. I never swore on my momma’s life, and he knew it. He knew I meant business, or else he was shocked at my little dig. I wasn’t sure which, though I had a feeling it was my little dig that got him. “Oh, well then, okay.”

  “So, we’re good?”

  “For now.”

  I took that and moved back to the floor and my piles of papers. As I shuffled through them, I made notes and snapped photos of everything. I started my own file, well, notebook, and jotted down the exact spot where her body was discovered as well as other details I thought might be important. I ended up taking photos of every piece of paper, zooming in on some information, and then I put everything back in order into the file folder, and set it on my coffee table.

  “You heard me say you could keep the file, right? Matthew and I each made the copies for you.”

  I nodded. “Just in case, I want to have photos.”

  “Because?”

  I didn’t want to admit I’d seen that on TV, too. “Just because.”

  I shuffled through the papers and pulled one out. “Did you see this?” I sat next to my fiancé again. “Look at the names.”

  I handed him the suspects list. When his bland expression switched to surprise, I knew he’d read the last name on the list, the one Deputy Pittman circled and wrote, probable killer next to.

  “Is this who I think it is?” he asked.

  I nodded. “How could anyone consider Old Man Goodson a murderer?”

  Chapter 2

  I straightened the papers into a pile and ran my hand through my long, curly hair, getting caught on a small knot. I yanked my hand down and right through it. “I need to talk to him.”

  Dylan sat up and leaned forward on the couch. “It’s too late to go there now, and that’s not the way to handle a cold case investigation anyway, Lily.”

  I set the paper on my coffee table and sat back on the couch, and Bo wandered over and laid down beside our legs. “That man is too sweet to squash a bug. He didn’t do it, Dylan, there’s just no way.”

  “Then he’ll be cleared, but there’s a process you should to follow, and talking to the prime suspect first isn’t how you do it.”

  “Then how do I do it?”

  He took the file from the table and opened it. After scanning through the summaries, he told me to grab my pen and paper.

  “First, I’d meet with this Clara Covington, the vic’s aunt. She provided a lot of information about her niece, and she might have remembered something since then, or has additional thoughts to share.”

  I started an investigation to-do list, and labeled it as such. “Okay, what would you do next?”

  “First, I’d reread every page of this.” He held up the case file. “Until I memorized every detail, and then I’d read it again and find the things that don’t add up, the holes in it.” He opened the file, pulled out a page and read it. “For example, Pittman says here Buford Jennings had it in for the Covingtons. They thought he was trying to destroy their business. I’d find out what happened after the case went cold. Did they go under? What about his business? What happened after that might lead to the man being the main suspect, anything?”

  He flipped through the pages and read further. “And here. He interviewed every potential witness three times, except this one.” He pointed to a name in the file. “I’d want to know why. Then I’d probably check out the crime scene, just to get a feel for it. Then I’d start going through the witnesses, though it doesn’t look like there are any, and talk to them again to see what they can remember. After I finished with all of them, then I’d talk to the original suspects. All of them.”

  I nodded as I took notes.

  “You can’t approach this with the intention of proving Larry Goodson innocent, Lily. You have to go at it to uncover Jennifer Rawlings’ killer, even if that leads you to him.”

  I understood, but I didn’t like it. “I just don’t think he’s capable of such a violent act. And dumping the body?” I shook my head. “Impossible. It’s not who he is, Dylan. You know that.”

  “No, I don’t. I know Old Man Goodson. I don’t know Larry Goodson from thirty-something years ago. He could have been an entirely different man then. That’s what you have to find out. Besides, the first thing they teach us in murder investigation is anyone can be driven to murder. We don’t know the circumstances, so we can’t presume someone we care about wouldn’t do it.”

  “I don’t agree. I know I’d never murder someone.”

  “You don’t think you could have killed any of the people who’ve attacked you over the past year, people that wanted you dead?”

  I had been involved in a few situations where a bad person thought my demise would make their day, and I’d fought back, but that was to save my life, not take theirs, and I never once considered killing someone. I just defended myself. “Nobody deserves to die, Dylan.”

  He shook his head. “No, but if it’s a choice between me and them, I’m choosing me.”

  “Do you really think Old Man Goodson could have done this?”

  “It’s always a possibility.”

  I scowled at him. I just didn’t want to think that of my dear old friend. “Well, I don’t, and I intend to prove to you I’m right.”

  “I hope you do.”

  * * *

  Belle sat with her knees up to her chest in one of our conference table chairs as she sipped her coffee. I told her about the case file and lead suspect. “No way.”

  “I know. I still can’t believe it.”

  “What did Dylan say?”

  I blew out a breath. “Everyone’s capable of murder. You never really know someone, and all that kind of sheriff talk.”

  She scanned the pages of the file. “I know to the depth of my soul that Old Man Goodson could never kill anyone. Bonnie and Henrietta though, that’s another story entirely.”

  I laughed. “God bless, those women are going to freak if they find out they could be—” I struggled to find the right word. “swapping dates with a killer.”

  “Honey, I don’t think it’s just dates they’re swapping.”

  “Annabelle Pyott. Do not go there.”

  She raised her eyebrows and then shook her head as she held her hand to her chest. “I think I just gave myself indigestion.”

  “I think you gave it to me, too.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Plan?”

  “Sweetie, how many times are we going to get on this horse? We both know you’re itching to find out who killed her,” she
scanned the first page of the case file, “and more importantly, to clear Old Man Goodson’s name, so what’s your plan?”

  I slumped in my seat across from her. “Well, for starters, I’m not going to Old Man Goodson, and you need to keep this a secret from him for now, too. From everyone.”

  “What? Why not? You need to find out why he’s a suspect.”

  “I know, and I will, but Dylan kind of ran me through how I should do this, and as much as I hate to admit it, I think he’s right.”

  “You’d better do it his way. There’s an expensive coin collection and our reputation at stake.”

  “Thanks. That’s the kind of support a girl needs from her bestie.”

  “Hey, it’s my reputation, too. So, what can I do to help?”

  I thought about that for a moment as she continued to flip through the file. “You want to go with me to the Covington’s house? I plan to sit down with Clara and Clyde and find out what they remember.”

  She shuffled the papers back into the vanilla file folder and sighed. “I’m in, but it’ll take a miracle to get something out of Clyde Covington. Man died a while back, but I’d love to go talk to Clara. I want to see what goodies I can get from her.”

  I laughed. “Of course that’s why you want to go.” Belle had a love of old homes, their décor, and mostly the treasures she thought were hidden inside. Any time someone held an estate sale, she was there. I loved old homes too, but I didn’t want anything from them. I admired their character, the historic design elements, and the stories inside the walls.

  I knew a little about architecture and design as well as interior design, and loved antiques–all things that created the story of a home. But what I loved most was the stories the homes told. The lives of the people who lived in them, what they did, who they loved, why they hurt. Those stories were what mattered, what made a house a home. If I could, I’d but every old home in town and leave them just as they were, like little museums full of memories and the stories they told. It wasn’t economically feasible, of course, but it would have been wonderful to do.

  All homes had stories and secrets, and an older home like the Covington’s, with its large brick fireplace, wood burning stove, and steep, crickety wood staircase wasn’t an exception. I’d been in the old home once before, when Belle had purchased an old wooden trunk for her house, and I’d fallen in love with the place.

  “We might be able to get something for the cabin. Clara’s getting older, and I’m sure she’s going to want to get rid of stuff. I’d be crazy not to go.”

  I stood and hooked my purse strap over my shoulder. “Then let’s go.”

  She pushed herself out of her chair, looped her bag over her left shoulder, and headed toward our office entrance.

  * * *

  Clara Covington answered her door wearing a plain red matching cotton sweat suit with the pants tucked into a pair of rubber rain boots. “Well lookie here, Belle Pyott. Last time I saw you was when you bought my trunk. What was that, five years ago?”

  Belle smiled. “It’s been two years, Mrs. Covington, but it’s nice to see you again.”

  She waved her hand at my friend. “That’s right, two years. That’s when I got them boys from that junk place to come and clean out the barn. Saved me a few things, including that trunk. You ever get that old thing open?”

  “No, ma’am, but I never really tried.”

  “Lord knows I searched far and wide for that darn key, but I never could find it. My guess is Clyde took it with him to the grave. Or at least took where he’d put it along with him, but I might could take another look around if you’d like.”

  “Oh goodness, no need to search for it all over again. Really, I’m fine without it. If I need it opened, I’ll just have someone break the lock.” She glanced my direction. “You remember Lily Sprayberry, right? She came with me to pick up the trunk.”

  Clara smiled. “’Course I do. I’m not that old I can’t remember two years ago. ‘Course I thought it was five, but that just goes to show you time slows down when you’re old and tired.”

  From the looks of her, I’d guess her age at around seventy-five, but I couldn’t be sure, and I certainly wouldn’t ask. It just wasn’t polite. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Covington.”

  “You call me Clara too, you hear?”

  I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The cool spring breeze whipped onto the front porch and sent a chill rushing through my bones. I’d checked the weather, and it wasn’t supposed to be windy, but the Covingtons lived up a hill, and it was always windier up hills. I wrapped my arms around my chest. “Mrs.—Clara, I was hoping we could talk with you about your niece, Jennifer. It will only take a few minutes of your time.”

  She gave me a long, slow, but thorough once over, watching me shiver while examining my dark, fitting, skinny jeans and forest green V-neck sweater. “Come on in. It’s cold enough to freeze the tit off a frog out here.” She held the screen door open, and we walked into the worn, outdated foyer.

  She led us to the parlor of the old plantation home. “You want a glass of sweet tea? Got some fresh from Millie’s just yesterday.” She opened the floor length blue drapes behind a pink tuft loveseat with ornamental arm rests and matching legs, a piece I knew Belle would die to have, and let some much needed sunlight into the darkened room. “Otherwise I can make a pot of coffee right quick.”

  In the South it could be thirty degrees—which as of late, happened more often than I’d like—and Southerners would still drink iced sweet tea. It was loads more refreshing in the summer, but still, it was practically impossible to resist a good glass of sweat tea, especially if Millie made it. “Yes, ma’am, tea would be lovely.”

  Belle agreed.

  Clara Covington retreated to her kitchen at the back of the house.

  “What are the odds she’s got some of Millie’s raspberry scones, too?” Belle asked.

  “Ten to one? Though I don’t even know what that means, so…” Millie, owner of the infamous—in Bramblett County, Georgia, at least—Millie’s Café, was the best sweet tea and scone maker in all of North Georgia. If you didn’t agree, she’d just ban you from her place, but the entire county did agree, and not because they feared banning. They would have regardless, because her scones were honest to goodness the best thing since sliced bread, which, of course, Millie nailed when she baked that, too.

  “Well, I’d give my right ovary for a scone right now.” She rubbed her belly and it growled in response. “See? The monster within must be fed.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Sweetie, you sound like you’re eating for two.”

  She grimaced. “Hush your mouth. I am far too young and too single to be eating for two. I’m just hungry.”

  “More like hangry,” I said, smiling the entire time.

  She leaned back on the loveseat and stared at the built-in maple bookcase on the side wall, completely ignoring my little dig. “I love that bookcase. They just don’t make homes like this anymore.”

  “Imagine what they’d cost if they did? This place has got to be what, nine thousand square feet?”

  “At least.” She stood and ran her fingers across the edges of the old bookcase. “And Clara lives in it all alone.” She flipped around. “Hey, maybe we can get her to sell? People would pay a pretty penny for a house like this.”

  I laughed. “Sure, we’ll just say, hey Clara, I know we’re here to talk about your dead niece, but since you’re older than Jesus, feel like listing your house with us?”

  Belle laughed, too. “Well, I wouldn’t put it just like that, but that’s pretty darn close.”

  “Fine, if you decide to do it, just wait until we’re done discussing what we came to discuss, please. I’d prefer we not be thrown out before I get any information from her.”

  She winked at me. “Will do.”

  Clara returned with a tray of tea and cookies, and I glanced at Belle who gave me a slight shrug.

  “So, why’re you wanting t
o talk about my niece? Girl’s been dead thirty-five years.”

  I didn’t want anyone to know about the Hansard’s missing coin collection, especially since they’d not responded to my email, so I fibbed a little. “I’ve got this weird fascination with unsolved murders, and I watch a lot of TV shows about them. I thought maybe I could toss around some ideas to my fiancé.” I wasn’t sure she knew who my fiancé was. “The sheriff.”

  “Yeah, I heard you two are planning on getting hitched. When’s the big day?”

  “Next year, after Valentine’s Day.”

  She nodded. “Well, good for you. Me and my Clyde, we was married too many years to count.” She glanced at a photo of him on the bookcase. “Still married in my heart, too. You’d be lucky to have that kind of love with the sheriff.”

  I agreed.

  “So, what is it you want to know?”

  I’d prepared a quick list of questions when I got into the office that morning even though I had work piled up on my desk. “First of all, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Clara gave me a half-hearted smile. “Thank you.” She sat in the chair facing the loveseat. “Well, let’s get on with it. I got me some work to do around the house. Takes me a lot longer to clean up these days.”

  I didn’t make eye contact with my best friend. I didn’t have to because I knew exactly what she was thinking. “I struggle keeping my little bungalow clean, so I understand.”

  “If you ever decide to sell the place, you can always call us,” Belle said. She just couldn’t stop herself.

  I wanted to whack her on the forehead, but I figured that wouldn’t be a good idea in front of Clara.

  “Ain’t ready for that. Don’t got nobody to leave it to though, so that’ll happen one day. Jenny was my only family outside of my sister, but she’s long gone now, too.”

  “Can you tell me what you remember about the day your niece was killed?” I removed my notebook from my purse and readied myself to take notes.