Dead in the Doorway by Diane Kelly

Author:Diane Kelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

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After a lousy night’s sleep, during which the residents of Songbird Circle traipsed back and forth across my mind, I woke up to my cat traipsing back and forth across my bladder. He definitely knew how to get me out of bed when he wanted his breakfast.

As promised, I spent Saturday morning on the sofa with Sawdust, cuddling and watching professional fishermen on television. Colette had worked a late night at the restaurant and still snoozed away behind her closed door. Emmalee emerged from her room, her red hair again sticking up in all directions. Her slippers gave off a shush-shush-shush as she shuffled along, seemingly unable to lift her feet. Definitely not a morning person.

She glanced my way. “’Mornin’,” she croaked.

“Coffee’s ready,” I called.

She put her palms together and dipped her head as if in worship. She disappeared into the kitchen, emerging a minute later with a steaming mug. She plunked herself down in her bowl-like Papasan chair, pulling her legs up and crossing them. She glanced at the television. “Fishing? Ugh.”

“Sawdust enjoys this show.” As if to prove my point, he twitched his whiskers and chirped at the screen.

Emmalee smiled at him before returning her attention to me. “I called the animal shelter. They said kitten season starts in February. I can hardly wait to adopt one.”

I ruffled Sawdust’s ears. “Hear that, boy? You’ll have an itty-bitty buddy soon.” It would be nice for him to have some company. I felt guilty leaving him home alone so much. At least he’d be able to come with me to the flip house today. I could only hope he wouldn’t find another dead body to poke with his paw.

A few minutes and one close call with a rogue wave later, Emmalee took her eyes off the television, finished her coffee, and stood. “I better hop in the shower. I’m working the lunch shift today.”

Thinking back to my last conversation with the detective, I decided to log into Instagram on my phone and see if I could find Luis Bautista’s account. It didn’t take long. His handle was bulldoggiedaddie. Collin was right. Nearly every post was a pic of his dog. There was one of his dog sitting on a dining-room chair at Thanksgiving, a plate of turkey and mashed potatoes on the table in front of him. Another showed his dog wearing antlers, looking like a chubby, short-legged reindeer. In another, Luis and his dog wore matching striped sweaters. Luis knelt down next to him on a patch of grass in front of their apartment building. I recognized the place by its dark blue exterior paint, the white ironwork on the balconies, and the evergreen juniper bushes. Home & Hearth managed a unit in the condominium complex next door. I’d been there recently to replace a broken garbage disposal.

Hmm. Maybe I was giving Luis Bautista too much credit, but I had a hard time believing that anyone who adored his dog that much could be a cold-blooded killer. But maybe I was simply finding him relatable.

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