Daddy's Little Killer

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

 

Jerry Lowe's neighborhood was a dead end street nestled into the Nightingale suburb of Darkwater Bay. The quiet nook within an already stately community was so picturesque, I found it breathtaking. Huge oak trees with branches spreading so far and wide they resembled a canopy lined the street. It was impossible to tell where one tree stopped and the next began unless I looked for the massive tree trunks.

The sidewalks weren't the typical slabs of concrete either. Natural stone had been laid carefully to form the cobblestone walkways. Every lawn was perfectly shorn to equal lengths, mowed in a diagonal pattern, and the greens were vibrant and unvaried. I thought if a moment of history could be frozen in time, it would surely be Lowe's neighborhood, and undoubtedly would be a Rockwell painting hanging in a gallery somewhere.

Finding the specific house wasn't difficult, even though trees obscured clear views of the homes. Black and white paint decorated the curb in front of each residence, identifying the assigned house numbers.

Gwen Foster's neighborhood was impressive with its sprawling homes and affluent trappings. Jerry's street was charming without being pretentious. It struck me as an odd incongruity to the man everyone said was the real Jerry Lowe. "I'll make my own assessment," my stubbornness forced the opinion out into the universe. Sure, I could listen to everyone around me, but Weber and Hardy's black cloud gave me pause to wonder if there weren't others suffering in silence at the hand of someone who knew too much and wasn't afraid to play his ace. 

Danny Datello popped to mind immediately. This was exactly the sort of behavior I had witnessed first hand from dear old Uncle Sully. Apples don't fall far from the tree.

I picked my way along the lovely cobblestone path to Lowe's porch. The house didn't appear to be more than a decade old, but was built in the Victorian style, two stories, wrap around front porch, a charming turret spire at the left corner of the house. 

A swing on the front porch hung from chains secured to the ceiling with heavy hooks. White lath style ceiling didn't have a speck of dirt visible to the naked eye. The house was soft heather gray, a little heavy on blue tones. The swing was painted charcoal in a high gloss. It swung gently in the late spring breeze.

Facing outward at the front door was a doormat. WELCOME was emblazoned in white and surrounded by lilac sprays. I hadn't noticed a ring on Lowe's left hand, but the house screamed of a woman's influence.

Or perhaps that was Jerry's big secret that someone might wield over him to solicit complete obedience. "Do you have a flair for home decorating, Jerry?"

The front door swung open, and the man I didn't expect to see at Jerry Lowe's home appeared. I bristled before he had the chance to speak.

"I was about to ring."

"I saw you drive up," Flynn Myre said blandly. "I was here discussing another case with the chief. Won't be long, or interrupt your... lunch." His eyes roved from head to toe in an unsettling squint.

Lowe appeared a moment later, kitchen towel in one hand, corkscrew in the other. He shoved both toward Myre and jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Helen," the smile was warm and genuine this time, not the plastic one he forced after he learned who I was, why I arrived in Darkwater Bay. "I'm so glad you're here. I trust you didn't have any difficulty finding the place." 

I wondered at the reversal in his original reaction to meeting me. Perhaps I would find the right moment to slip an innocent inquiry into our conversation. "Sorry it took me so long to get to the door. I couldn't help but admire this cozy little neighborhood, Jerry. Nightingale is beautiful from what I've seen of it, but this... this is simply breathtaking."