The Hillwood neighborhood that the Wolffs lived in was quiet on this Tuesday. Much less frantic than the day before. The crime scene tape was still strung across the Wolffs’ driveway, a patrol officer was sitting quietly in his cruiser in front of the mailbox to discourage any thrill-seekers from coming by and messing with the scene.
Until the scene was officially released, they needed someone to keep guard. Taylor hoped that would happen today, there was no sense in wasting resources that could be used elsewhere.
Taylor pulled in behind the cruiser. The officer left his vehicle as she and Fitz climbed out of the Impala. Official business, they needed to have department vehicles on the scene. Taylor had never been fond of the Impalas, but what could you do? Couldn’t exactly ask the new chief to assign Porsches to the troops. The Chevy had some get-up-and-go at least, could haul ass if needed, unlike the Mercury she’d been forced to drive as a junior grade detective. She always felt so conspicuous in the white sedans, figured it was from too many years driving an SUV in a town where bigger was always considered better and a GMC Suburban was de rigeur for any class.
Fitz had started talking regional barbeque contests with the patrol, so Taylor took the opportunity to examine the Wolffs’ house. On the face, it was no different than yesterday-a handsome two-story tan brick colonial with a narrow white picket front porch, blue shutters, four curtained windows symmetrically set on either side of the front door, up and down. A chimney rose from the left side, the great room’s fireplace.
Taylor had noticed that both the Wolffs and Mrs. Manchini had converted to gas fireplaces. It was difficult to find newer homes in Nashville with the traditional wood-burning style, and Taylor had warned Baldwin that no way, no how was she going to go with gas. Pretty, convenient, easy, yes, they were all of those, but Taylor liked the real deal-the smell of smoky maple or popping oak hardwood, the action of piling in the kindling, stuffing the paper, stacking the wood. She’d much rather spend some time and effort to have a fire than stare at glowing coals and fake flames.
A closer look at the house revealed the slightest difference in the color of the brick between the top and bottom of the house. It would only show in the most perfect of light. Well, that made sense. This section of town, with its stunning one-and two-acre lots and trees, had undergone its own renaissance. The allure of having a little land was popular in Davidson County. Most of the original homes in the development were like Mrs. Manchini’s one-story rambler, tiny in comparison with new houses recently built.
An army of architects had moved through Hillwood in the recent years, helping new and old residents add on. Some people took the carport or garage, made it into a living room, built a new portico, cut in some skylights and were thrilled with a simple renovation. Others, with more grandiose plans in mind, put entire second stories on their homes. That’s what had happened with the Wolff house. Now that she knew what to look for, she could see the lines well. It was a beautiful job, but Taylor could see the bones of the rambler beneath its stately new persona.
Those extensive renovations would have been as expensive as buying a brand-new home, but the schools, the land, and the country club nearby were excellent enticements for a young family like the Wolffs. She had wondered why they didn’t live in one of his developments, but decided that perhaps it was the same reason she and Baldwin had opted out. No trees and no privacy. The houses Wolff’s company built were stunning, but the lots were close together and the land had been cleared entirely, which meant every tree was newly planted by a landscape designer. Regardless of size, they didn’t have the stately beauty of the real deal. This neighborhood, on the other hand, had a homey, genuine feel. And much more privacy.
She signaled to Fitz, who broke away from the patrol officer and met her in the driveway.
“You ready to go in?” she asked.
“Yeah. Sorry. Junior over there was all excited about the Memphis Bake, but he had it confused with the Huntsville Social Club. Got him straightened out.”
“Very generous of you. I assume you feel he wouldn’t be any competition?”
“That kid? Ha! He wouldn’t know pepper from paprika. Doesn’t have a chance against old Pops here.” He tapped his chest. “Pops has got it going on, I’ll tell you for true. I’ve found the most subtle nutmeg, comes from this little back alley store in Bombay, doesn’t taste like anything out there. They won’t know what hit them.”
Fitz was a world-class amateur barbeque enthusiast, winning all the regional competitions with his amazing rubs and slow-cooked Boston butts. He traveled to various contests most weekends, racking up the awards and bringing lunch for them all every Monday.
“You put nutmeg in your barbeque? Isn’t that illegal?”
Now it was Fitz’s turn to laugh. “Only in Texas, darlin’. Only in Texas.”
He took off for the house, Taylor following him closely. The seal was intact on the front door. Fitz slit it open with a pocketknife and they went in.
The scent of death was still strong, lingering in the bloody carpet, the walls. Taylor wondered if Todd would try to sell the place or go on living there. Though he hadn’t had the same shock as Michelle Harris, seeing Corinne in a pool of blood in their bedroom, there was no question a life had ended under this roof. Violence stayed, steeping in the walls, regardless of the abilities of the professional cleaners. They could clean the surface, but the malevolence could never be fully exorcised.
They moved in a pattern similar to the prior morning, through the dining room into the kitchen, then into the tastefully decorated great room. Architectural Digest magazines were stacked with precision on the coffee table, three crystal clocks each told the same time, and a honeysuckle scented candle with one half inch of pristine white wick showing sat in a rose marble holder. The mantle over the fireplace held three espresso colored vases in various heights, each filled with a slightly different shade of cream silk orchid. The walls were done in faux Venetian plaster in an ecru tint. The furniture was soft chocolate leather. A forty-inch flat screen television was mounted on the wall across from the sofa. The Wolffs certainly appeared to be living the good life.
And considering the fact that the Wolffs had an eighteen-month-old child, the only real evidence was the understated nursery, the baby gate and the baby-proofed cabinets. It was astounding, really. Taylor had seen homes like this before, knew people who just didn’t become gaga over their children, buying every plaything on the market, turning their formal living areas into romper rooms. Hell, she’d grown up in a home like that, and she’d turned out just fine. It was her parents who were royally fucked up. Not that she was lumping the Wolffs in with her parents, of course.
“What’s this?” Fitz asked. He was standing next to a short cognac-colored smooth leather chair, which sat beneath a hanging tapestry at least seven feet in length depicting a leaping unicorn being speared by a group of men. He fingered the cloth.
Taylor joined him. “It’s a reproduction of one of the Unicorn Tapestries. The Unicorn Leaps the Stream, I think.”
“Are you sure it’s not the real deal? It’s pretty heavy.”
“No, it’s just a nice reproduction. If I remember, the originals are in The Cloisters, part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. They’re French, fifteenth century or so, made for Louis XII, I think. They probably bought this at the Met’s Museum bookstore, or out of the catalogue. Why, what’s the matter?”
Instead of speaking, Fitz’s mouth quirked up in a tiny half smile and his blue eyes twinkled in amusement, then he turned back to his task. He sometimes gave her that face, half-proud, half-bemused, looking right through her in that odd way that made her pull at her ponytail with self-conscious embarrassment. It wasn’t her fault that her parents had dragged her to every museum known to mankind and she remembered this shit.
“I feel a draft coming from the wall.” He started running his hands along the tapestry. Taylor was struck by a thought.
“Pull the tapestry aside, I think there’s something here. Manchini’s house, next door? She had a door on this part of the living room wall, must be a basement.”
Fitz wrestled the heavy cloth away from the wall. “Bingo.” The draft was coming from the hole where the doorknob should have been. That made sense; in order for the tapestry to lie flat against the wall the Wolffs had to remove the knob. Instead of struggling to get behind the heavy tapestry, Taylor and Fitz lifted it gently from the wall and laid it on the leather chair. The door opened inward, revealing a set of stairs that led to darkness. Sure enough, a basement.
“Did anyone pick up on this yesterday?” Taylor asked.
“Not that I know of.” He went down the first three steps, then charged back up, swiping at his face.
“Argh!”
“What?”
