Unraveled (27 page)

“Okay,” Jennifer said and clicked away. After a minute she spoke. “Nope. The former owners were named Sampson. And they owned it for fifteen years.”

“Damn,” she said softly into the phone.

“I’m sorry, Kelly. It was a good hunch, but not all hunches pan out.”

That was true, but Kelly’s hunches or gut feelings or instincts always panned out. Her instinct was always on to something. She’d learned to trust it implicitly over the years. “I know what you’re saying, but I can’t shake this feeling. There’s a connection there. I know it.”

“You know, maybe the older woman died since she sold the property. And these people bought her Dallas house. Who knows?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s possible—” Then another idea hit her. “Or,
maybe
, Claire McAllister is the elderly mother of William or Patricia Turnbull. Maybe she’s living with them.” That brought a little buzz. Something resonated inside. She was back on the hunt.

“That’s always a possibility.”

“Are those Turnbull names listed anyway else? Do you see any middle initials anywhere?”

“Let’s see . . . William and Patricia . . . scrolling down . . . nothing. Ooops. William P. Turnbull, so Bill’s out. Let’s see if Patricia is listed anywhere else.”

Kelly waited another full minute, until Jennifer spoke again. “Well, I’ll be damned. . . .”

Kelly’s heart skipped a beat. “What’d you find?”

“Patricia M. Turnbull. It’s not much, Sherlock, but it’s something.”

“Thanks, Jen, I’ll talk to you later.” Kelly clicked off. She needed to go back to her cottage. She needed privacy to follow this scent.

She gathered up the Housemann income statements into her portfolio and shoved it and her laptop back into her briefcase. Dropping a generous tip onto the table, Kelly slipped on her jacket, shouldered her briefcase, and stuck her mug into her jacket pocket. She needed a free hand for her phone.

Speeding down the wooden steps to the café garden patio, Kelly clicked on Burt’s number. Mimi had already told her Burt was out on errands this afternoon. Three rings and he picked up.

“Hey, Kelly, how’re you doing?”

“I’m okay. But I wanted to bounce an idea off you. Are you in the midst of a store or something? I can call you back.” She brushed a wet hanging branch out of her way as she walked along the garden’s flagstone path.

“Actually, this is a good time, Kelly. I’m driving from one shopping center to another. Shoot. What’s on your mind?”

Kelly wound through the parked cars, making sure no one was nearby as she headed toward her cottage. “This may sound weird, but bear with me, okay?”

“Don’t I always?” Burt said with a chuckle.

He certainly did. Kelly gave Burt credit for more patience than anyone she’d ever met. “Yes, and thanks for that. Okay, here goes. Apparently Deputy Don told Jayleen that the previous owners of Turner’s canyon property—which he foreclosed on, by the way—had owned the land for over a hundred years.”

“Wow, that’s a long time.”

“Yeah, it is. So, I was curious, and asked Jennifer to check the land records. Turns out the woman who owned it before Turner got his hands on it was Claire McAllister from Texas. Deputy Don said he’d met Mrs. McAllister and her husband about ten years ago up in the canyon, and they told him how long the property had been in their family.”

“That’s really nice, Kelly. But what does this have to do with anything?”

“Well, today I heard from one of those gun dealers I’ve been contacting. I’d told them all I wanted to find a World War Two German Mauser pistol, and the last guy called back from Texas. He remembered someone coming to see him ten years ago who had a Mauser pistol like that. It was an elderly woman who wanted a valuation only, because she didn’t want to sell the pistol. Her name was Claire McAllister.”

Kelly heard a long pause on the other end of the phone. Finally, Burt spoke. “Well, that
is
interesting, Kelly, but I don’t know if it means much.”

“I think it means something. Fred Turner cheated Claire McAllister out of her family property. She was bound to be mad.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that elderly woman came up here from Texas to kill Fred Turner.”

This time, Kelly paused. “No, not exactly, but I
am
wondering if British Birmingham might be related to the McAllisters. He called up out of the blue right before the property was going under contract and made an appointment with Turner for that Saturday morning in the canyon. Then, Turner is killed. I’m just saying that it’s too much of a coincidence. And coincidences make me suspicious.” She unlocked her cottage front door and stepped inside.

“Well, you’re right on that point. I’ll run it past Paul and see what he says. But don’t be surprised if he doesn’t think it’s worth pursuing. It’s pretty far out there, Kelly.”

Kelly dropped her bag and briefcase on the dining table. “I know I may be grasping at straws, Burt, but Birmingham keeps bothering me.”

Burt chuckled. “Well, I understand that, Kelly. Gotta run. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Kelly dropped her phone onto her desk and headed into the kitchen. She wanted more coffee, yet she didn’t want to go back to the café. There was something she wanted to do, and she needed privacy.

Quickly dropping a packet of her favorite brew into her coffeemaker, Kelly filled it with water and let it go. Soon, the aroma would waft through the room. Meanwhile, Kelly couldn’t wait a minute longer. She had to call Patricia Turnbull and find out if her hunch was right. Was she related to Claire McAllister? As for the war pistol, Kelly figured she’d pose again as a buyer so she could ask questions without seeming too nosy. She hoped.

Riffling through her briefcase, Kelly found the income statement where she’d scribbled Claire McAllister’s address and the Turnbulls’ information. Now, she had to find the phone number. This time, she touched the Internet browser sign on her smartphone and the search engine appeared. When she accessed the phonebook website, she entered both Turnbull names and complete Dallas address.

She clicked and held her breath, hoping to see a phone number appear at last. In an instant, it appeared.
Yesss!
Kelly pumped her fist in excitement and settled into her desk chair. Copying the number into her phone screen, she clicked and waited for the rings. Then, she took a deep breath, and called up her imaginary shopper persona.

A woman’s voice answered after four rings. “Turnbull residence.”

Kelly took a deep breath. “Hello? I’m looking for a Claire McAllister. Do I have the wrong number?”

“Uh . . . uh, no. Claire McAllister did live here for several years. Who’s calling, please?” The woman sounded concerned.

“My name’s Barbara Smith, and I’m calling from Denver, Colorado. I hope I didn’t disturb you, Mrs. Turnbull.”

“No, no, it’s all right. Claire McAllister was my mother. But she passed away last year. Why were you calling exactly?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Turnbull,” Kelly said, in complete sincerity. She didn’t expect to hear that. “I . . . I was given your mother’s name by a Texas firearms dealer. You see, I’m looking for a World War Two German Mauser pistol for my uncle, and Joe Faber in San Antonio said he recalled your mother had one. I simply called to see if she might be interested in selling it.”

“Oh, I see. You must be talking about my father’s old German war pistol. Yes, Mama kept that with her all these years.”

Kelly noticed the tinge of nostalgia in her voice and decided to follow up on it. “I understand completely, Mrs. Turnbull. Would you by any chance be interested in selling the pistol? My uncle fought in that war, and he’s in the hospital now with cancer.”

“Dreadful disease. That’s what took Mama.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“I’m afraid we won’t be parting with the pistol, Miss Smith. We want to keep it in the family. I’m sure you understand.”

Kelly felt her gut twist. The Turnbulls still had the gun. It couldn’t be the one that killed Fred Turner. Her hunch was wrong. Dead wrong.

“I understand, Mrs. Turnbull. It’s a family piece. I can imagine you have it displayed prominently.”

“Well, we plan to. My brother has it right now. He took it after Mama’s death. He and my mother were quite close.”

Kelly’s pulse skipped a beat this time. And her hunch picked itself up off the ground. “Oh, really? Is your brother in Texas, too? Is his name McAllister?” she couldn’t help asking.

There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry we can’t help you, Miss Smith. You have a good day.” The phone line went dead. Patricia Turnbull hung up on her.

“Damn!”
Kelly mentally kicked herself for pushing the woman. Now, she couldn’t get any more information out of her. Kelly could hear it in the suspicious tone in Patricia Turnbull’s voice. Right before she hung up.

Kelly tossed her phone onto the desk and sprang from her chair, totally frustrated with herself.
Why did she do that?
She knew better than to push someone. Now, she’d never find out who Patricia Turnbull’s brother was. Or where he was, either. He might be in Texas, and he might live in Europe for all Kelly knew. Stupid, stupid,
stupid
.

She slammed three cabinet doors as she located a clean coffee mug, venting her frustration. At least the coffee was ready. She filled her mug, took a sip, and started pacing the cottage’s small living room.

Housemann’s investment properties were sitting in her briefcase, waiting for her to return to her analysis. Her laptop sat on her desk, waiting for her to return to the familiar spreadsheets. Work awaited. And waited.

Kelly kept on pacing. She was so aggravated with herself, she didn’t think she could sit still and do the financial analysis right now. Right now, she wanted answers, and she wasn’t getting them. In fact, she might never get the answers she wanted. Kelly wasn’t used to that. And she didn’t like it.

After another two laps around her living room, her cell phone rang. Grateful for the distraction, she snatched it from her desk and tried not to growl. “Kelly Flynn here.”

“Hey, Kelly,” Megan’s cheerful voice sounded. “Lisa and I thought we’d go over to the batting cages and hit some balls. The guys may come, too. We’ll probably have to wear snow boots and winter jackets, but, what the hey? Spring’s coming!”

Kelly released a huge breath. “Bless you, Megan. I really, really need to hit something right now. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Those accounts getting to you? I know mine are.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kelly lied. She didn’t feel like explaining. “And I’m tired of being cooped up inside all winter.”

“It’ll be muddy and messy—”

“I don’t care if we have to wear waders. Let’s get outside and hit some balls!”

Nineteen

Kelly
stepped inside the knitting shop foyer. Morning sunlight shone through the skylight above, illuminating the bright spring yarns scattered across the cabinets and shelves along the wall. An antique dry sink bulged with newly spun silk and mohair—lime green, raspberry, blueberry, lemon yellow. A cabinet door stretched wide, revealing more bundles and skeins spilling forth.

She stroked the silk and mohair first, then the bamboo and cotton. Then the soy silk. Soft, soft. Maybe she would start one of those short sleeve tops Jennifer was knitting.

“Hey, Kelly, how’re you doing?” Burt said as he rounded the corner into the foyer.

“Hanging in there, Burt,” she replied, shifting her briefcase strap higher on her shoulder. “I’m trying to work up enthusiasm for hours of financial analysis, so I thought the yarns would help soften my resistance.”

Burt cocked his head. “That doesn’t sound like you, Kelly. You always get right to work, no matter what. Something’s bothering you. What’s up?”

Burt could see right through her, exactly like Jennifer. Kelly gave him a little smile. “Boy, you and Jennifer. I can’t hide anything from you guys.”

“I knew something was up. Do you have a minute to talk? There’s nobody at the table.” Burt gestured toward the knitting room.

“It’s nothing, really, Burt,” Kelly said as she followed him to the long table and dropped her briefcase and bag. “It’s simply the residue of frustration.” She settled into a chair.

“I called Claire McAllister yesterday afternoon.”

Burt pulled out a chair beside her, clearly interested. “Really ? Well, whatever you learned, you don’t look too happy.”

“I talked to her daughter, Patricia Turnbull. Claire McAllister lived with her in Dallas before she died last year from cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Burt said. “And I’m sorry your hunch didn’t pan out, Kelly. It must be the first time.”

“Actually, it did. I told Patricia Turnbull I was looking for a World War Two German Mauser, and a San Antonio dealer gave me her mother’s name and address. And it turns out her mother was the same Claire McAllister who owned the pistol.”

Burt’s bushy brows shot up. “No kidding?”

Kelly nodded. “She said they didn’t want to sell it, then she mentioned that her brother took the pistol after his mom’s death. So, naturally, I couldn’t resist asking her where her brother lived and his name.” Kelly gave Burt a wry smile. “Well, she must not have liked my questions, because she hung up on me.”

Burt stared at Kelly for a moment, then started to laugh softly.
“No!”
he teased. “She hung up in the midst of your interrogation? The nerve of her. Clearly she didn’t know who she was dealing with.”

“Yeah, I know,” Kelly admitted. “I came on too strong, I guess.”

“You think?” Burt teased again, sounding all the world like Steve when she was relating past missteps.

Kelly shrugged good-naturedly. “I couldn’t help it, Burt. You know how I get when I’m on the hunt. I was convinced the pistol was still in Texas and was about to throw in the towel when she suddenly mentioned her brother took the gun after Mom died. Well, you know how suspicious that sounded. And you know me.”

“Oh, yeah. You jumped right over the phone. I’m sure Patricia Turnbull thought you were going to show up in her kitchen.” He laughed harder.

“You know I’ve got to follow up on that, Burt. That brother could be British Birmingham.”