Murder in the Dog Days

by P. M. Carlson

  Her unquenchable friendliness tugged at Holly, challenging her to confidence, connection, friendship. Damn Maggot. Holly’s hand clenched defensively on her notebook. “See you tomorrow,” she said tightly.

  “Okay. We ought to talk about how it was done.” Maggie’s glance lingered a moment as she stood, heron-like with her rounded torso poised over those long legs. Then she turned to the blonde. “Felicia, sorry we met this way. I’m Maggie. See you later.” She waved at them both and started for the door. Patterson quirked a dubious eyebrow at Holly and followed her out.

  “What was all that about?” demanded Felicia Colby. “And where’s Dale?”

  Holly was scribbling in her notebook. The peacenik was right, of course; how Colby was killed was the first problem, and she’d better check soon to see what Crime Scene was finding.

  But for now she turned with relief to the angry and bewildered Felicia Colby. “Mrs. Colby, please sit down,” she said gently, gesturing to the sofa. “I’m afraid you can’t talk to Dale Colby. You see, a little earlier today he was killed.”

  “Killed? Dale?” Felicia sank suddenly into the sofa cushions, her eyes darting wildly about the room and finally settling on Holly. “And you’re a cop—”

  “Yes, Mrs. Colby. And I have a few questions for you.”

  But Felicia Colby’s bright red lips had clamped shut. Another tough interview coming up. Yet Holly knew that this one would be easier, because this time she’d be contending only with the witness. Not with that black drowned part of herself.

  4

  For the sixteenth time, Olivia twitched back the mist-green satin drape of Betty Morgan’s front window to peer toward the Colby house next door. The night was black now, but the glow from a streetlight reached as far as the Colby walk and light from the living room windows splashed onto the still-glistening lawn. Two policemen stood in the driveway, shadows against the light, talking. Their rumpled regulation summer shirts together with nightsticks, holsters, and notebooks made their silhouettes look lumpy, barnacled. Two more men, in plainclothes, were moving around the periphery of the house, studying the shrubbery with flashlights.

  “Hey, Maggie’s coming!” Olivia exclaimed as the Colby front door opened at last. Instantly Nick and Jerry were at her side, peering out too. Nick held a drowsy Sarah against his beefy shoulder, and the little girl whimpered resentfully at her father’s sudden movement. He patted her back and murmured, “Let’s not be tetchy and wayward, now.”

  “Look at Maggie,” said Jerry. “Quizzing the police.”

  “Wish I could!” Olivia muttered to him, enviously watching Maggie’s conversation with the officer escorting her toward them. This was the height of frustration. Her friend and coworker had been killed, and Olivia was simultaneously horrified and eager to discover anything she could to help. And more than that: she was the first reporter on the scene, she had inside information, she knew the victim, the witnesses, the first doctor to examine the body. But here she was, cooped up in the house next door, and every time she’d try to compare notes with Jerry or asked the dazed Donna a question, a discouraging word from the cop Higgins in the corner shut her up again. She hadn’t even had a chance to call the paper yet. She’d tried to get information from Higgins, but he’d brushed off most of her questions, explaining that a statement for the media would be issued in good time. Off the pigs. Though Olivia had to admit that she was also inhibited by Donna’s shock; she couldn’t ask Jerry anything too graphic in front of her even if Higgins would let her.

  “I feel bottled up,” she grumbled quietly to her husband.

  “Yeah, I can tell.” His fingers touched the nape of her neck lightly, a strangely comforting sensation. “The minute they uncork you, you’ll be fizzing all over the place with questions.”

  “You make me sound like Alka-Seltzer.”

  “No, no. Champagne,” Jerry corrected her gallantly. But he was distracted too, glancing from window to front hall.

  Maggie and the other officer appeared in the archway. Maggie’s eyes and smile first sought out Nick, who nodded at her across the blue cotton of their slumbering daughter’s back. Then she turned to Donna and her children, a flicker of concern crossing her face. The three were huddled together on the sofa, a picture book sitting unopened on Donna’s lap. Maggie crossed to her. “How’s it going, Donna?”

  Slowly, Donna’s brown eyes focused on her. “ Fine,” she said without inflection.

  “Josie? Tina? You okay?”

  Josie was staring stonily at her own toes, but Tina wriggled impatiently on the sofa next to her mother and whined, “I want to go home.”

  “We can’t just yet,” Maggie said gently. “Do you want to take a nap? Like Sarah?”

  Tina twisted her head around to look at the small girl. “Sarah’s a baby,” she pouted.

  “Well, I know how to pretend to be a baby,” Maggie declared. She lay down on the shag carpet on her back and bicycled at the ceiling. God, thought Olivia, what kind of family have I got myself into? But Tina was distracted from her complaint. She laid her head back in her mother’s lap and imitated Maggie from the sofa before an enormous yawn slowed her circling legs again, testimony that Maggie’s reading of her problem was correct.

  Plump Betty Morgan, making the best of her enforced role as hostess, bustled in from the kitchen laden with a tray of cups of hot chocolate. “Oh, goodness!” she exclaimed, halting in surprise.

  Maggie looked up sheepishly from the floor. “Oh, hi. You must be Mrs. Morgan.” She stood up, surprisingly nimble, and explained, “Tina and I were just pretending. I’m Maggie Ryan. Thanks for helping us out.”

  Olivia could bear it no longer. “Maggie, what’s going on?”

  “Police investigation. Tedious but necessary.”

  “Who was the woman in the red Vega? Blonde, red pants?”

  “Felicia Colby.” Maggie was looking at Donna as she answered.

  Donna blinked. “Felicia’s here?”

  “She said something about Mark.”

  “Her son,” said Donna. “She’s been after Dale for—”

  From his straight chair next to the arch, the cop Higgins cleared his throat. “It’s better if you don’t discuss it.”

  Jeez. Olivia steamed ahead with a different question. “What were you and the other policeman talking about on the way over?”

  Maggie glanced at Higgins. “Not about the case! About the county detective in charge of this investigation. Detective Schreiner.”

  “What about her?”

  “He says she’s good. Started undercover in Narcotics, got promoted fast when they let women in the regular force. One of the first women to make detective. She’s earned a fistful of commendations. Do you agree, Officer Higgins?”

  “That’s the word,” said Higgins, looking at her suspiciously from under gray brows.

  “You’ve worked with her before?”

  “No. She’s new. Anyway we don’t get a lot of homicides around here.” He shifted in his chair, as though startled by his own loquaciousness.

  “But what did you think?” Olivia asked Maggie.

  “Me? Oh, I agree. She’s good. Totally professional. Oh, thanks, Mrs. Morgan!” She accepted a cup of cocoa with a smile. “You know, nothing’s as comforting as chocolate.”

  Betty Morgan beamed. “I think so too! And the weather has cooled off enough, don’t you think? Here, Josie, won’t you change your mind?”

  The girl looked sideways at her sister, who was now leaning against Donna’s arm, sipping sleepily at her cup. “Okay,” she consented. Betty Morgan distributed the rest of the cups, even coaxing Higgins into accepting one. He took it with a suspicious look, propping it on one uniformed knee. Well, with that paunch he was probably right to view it as the enemy.

  A car door slammed and Olivia whirled to look through the curtain again. The old red Vega’s lights went on. and she saw the blonde at the wheel as the car pulled out past the streetlight. Was there a second person in the
car too? Then the other cop appeared in the archway. “Who’s the reporter?” he asked Higgins.

  Higgins nodded toward Olivia. “Redhead.’’

  “Okay, ma’am. You’re next.”

  At last! Olivia thrust her chocolate into Jerry’s hand and raced across the room. As she passed Maggie, she heard, “Don’t ask her anything personal.”

  “Oh?” Olivia slowed.

  “But you might ask her if the Colbys should be arranging for a place to spend the night. I doubt if they’ll be finished over there any time soon.”

  Olivia glanced at Donna. “Good point. See you soon.” She went through the door Patterson was holding for her and into the fresh damp night.

  Detective Holly Schreiner was in the hall talking to the pudgy male detective when Olivia and Patterson arrived. Olivia had a moment to study her: sturdy, muscular rather than fat, with mid-length khaki-colored hair. She was dressed in conservative tailored summer skirt and blouse, comfortable sandals. Only the holstered gun not quite hidden by her loose blouse betrayed her occupation. Olivia was fascinated: cops had been the other side for so long, college demonstrations against the war, feminist marches, and now that she was a reporter they too often served as tight-lipped obstacles to getting a story. But this cop was a woman. An ally? She’d soon know.

  “Let’s phone them right away, Gabe,” Schreiner was saying to the pudgy detective.

  “Sure,” said Gabe. “But Harrisburg may take a while. It’s almost eleven already.”

  “Yeah, well, get it in the works. And I want to know about Ryan too. Margaret Mary. Check New York City on her.”

  Wow, so her sister-in-law was being checked! Olivia wondered if she would be too. It came home to her suddenly, viscerally, that this was real, not just a newsworthy event, not happening to someone else. Dale was really dead, and that fact had entangled her, her relatives and friends. She remembered writing about colleagues and relations of Joanne Little’s murdered jailer, laughing at some of their claims about the victim’s flawless character. Would her own claims be any less biased?

  Well, she’d try. Stay objective, collect facts, use her skills to help figure out what the hell had happened here. Don’t ask anything personal, Maggie had warned. But the questions of the official interrogation itself would be revealing. She might be able to read between the lines, find out what the police were thinking.

  She focused again on the detectives. The one called Gabe was heading down the hall for the den again. Detective Schreiner’s serious dark eyes, underlined with weariness, turned to Olivia. She said, “You’re Mrs. Kerr?”

  “Ms. Yes,” said Olivia.

  “Right.” There was no flicker of sisterly approval, but no hostility either. “You worked with Dale Colby?”

  “Yes, since I started at the S-D a year and a half ago.”

  “Let’s sit down.” Schreiner gestured with her notepad toward the sofa in the living room. Olivia followed directions and settled into the cushions, feeling strangely self-conscious to be taking part in this formal rite of truth-searching. Solomon, Pilate, Oliver Wendell Holmes: the law’s lineage was ancient and solemn compared to her own profession’s checkered history. Embraced by the creaky scaffolding of rules of evidence and due process, she and Detective Schreiner would play their appointed roles in the attempt to pick out the currents of truth in the muddy-bordered runniness of reality. Olivia’s role was to be witness, source of information. How many times had she bantered about sources? And now that was her own sole function. But Detective Schreiner was more than curious reporter. Her role was weightier: priest of logic, justice, retribution. She studied Olivia with those grave eyes and began the ritual questions: full name, address, date of birth, ID.

  “You said you’ve been working at the Sun-Dispatch a year and a half?” Her voice was courteous but colorless.

  “That’s right,’’ said Olivia. “Mostly features, some news rewrites.”

  “Did you know Mr. Colby well?”

  Olivia shrugged. “Not well enough to know what’s going on now. Socially, he and Donna came to our Christmas party last year. That was about it, until this picnic. Mostly we talked at the office, joked around.”

  “Can you tell me anything about his current work?”

  “Only a little.” Olivia saw that her hand was squeezing the arm of the sofa and relaxed her fingers consciously. “You see, he was working at home temporarily while he got used to his new medication. The way I understand it, Edgerton considered him half-time this month, and Dale sent stuff in from home.”

  “Edgerton?”

  “Kent Edgerton, our managing editor. He kept him pretty busy. Dale was calling in a couple of times a day or sending a messenger. Once or twice he asked me to stop by here to pick things up on my way in. Dale was definitely doing a lot of reporting. He’s such a workaholic anyway, I don’t think half-time made any difference to either of them. Except he was doing all his interviews by phone.”

  Detective Schreiner’s head was bent over her notepad, the ash-tan hair drooping over her face. “Was he due to go back to the office soon?”

  “Week after next, I think. But that’s just a manner of speaking. Normally he’d be away from the office a lot, getting interviews and so forth.”

  “I see. Well, what can you tell me about his current stories?” The detective lifted her eyes to Olivia. She didn’t smile much.

  Olivia leaned forward on the sofa, forearms on her knees, hands clasped as she thought. “Today he was working on a follow-up on that Representative Knox plane crash back in January. He’d been doing stuff on the progress of the new subway lines into Virginia too. The I-66 controversy.”

  “Can you explain about the plane crash? If it was in January, why was he still writing about it?”

  “They’re still investigating it, you see. Representative Knox wasn’t happy with some of the original work. He said it was too hasty. He got them to repeat some of the tests.”

  “Why would they be too hasty?”

  “Well, it was a small plane. Five deaths. Not like a big commercial plane crashing. But Representative Knox was scheduled to be on the flight originally, so naturally he wanted a thorough investigation.”

  A quick nod as Detective Schreiner wrote it down. This interested her, Olivia thought, trying to remember what else she knew about that crash. She’d have to check the files tomorrow. And Nate Rosen—he’d done some of the early reports on that story. Though mostly it had been Dale, out in the January weather, shuffling back into the office with snowflakes melting on his coat, grousing about the congressman’s press aide.

  The detective asked, “What had the new investigation found?”

  Olivia leaned back in the sofa and crinkled up her face in the effort to remember. “Let me think. A couple weeks ago they reported the pilot’s last words. I know that they concluded he hadn’t seen trouble coming. But there was going to be another report. It wasn’t out yet, that’s why I can’t tell you much. But soon, I think.”

  “Had Dale said anything about it recently?”

  “Not much. He said he’d started talking to relatives of the people who died in the crash, updating their ideas. But I don’t know what he found out.”

  “Who were the relatives?” The detective’s voice was still neutral, but her posture had altered slightly, her back straighter, her eyes more alert. Olivia felt an uncomfortable little shiver of complicity with the power structure. She felt like a snitch. But, hell, this wasn’t a political struggle, was it? They all wanted to find Dale’s killer. Anyway, it wasn’t confidential.

  “Moffatt,” she said. “There was someone named Moffatt, a rich businessman, who died in the crash. His son Leon came to the office today. And, well, he was complaining about Dale.”

  “I see.’’ The information went briskly onto the notepad. Official now. Part of a different order of reality. “What was his complaint?”

  “Very general. He called Dale an asshole reporter.”

  “Mm. Did he say
why?”

  Olivia shrugged. “Probably he did, but not in my hearing. Edgerton took him into his private office. You’d better ask him.” And I’d better too, she thought eagerly. This was important. She and Nate and Edgy should get their heads together as soon as possible.

  “Had Moffatt been to your office often?”

  “No. At least, not while I was there.”

  “Okay. Now, do you know who else he was talking to about this crash?”

  “Representative Knox’s office, obviously. But I really wasn’t keeping track of that story.” Dumb, she thought to herself; she should have asked Dale more questions. A national politician involved in this almost-local story. The airfield was in this county, the hills where it had crashed not far away. But even Dale hadn’t seemed too excited about it. Except—she said slowly, “I saw Dale for a minute before we left for the beach. I told him Moffatt was upset at him, and he seemed pleased. Like he was finally getting somewhere.”

  There was a little amused twitch at the corner of Schreiner’s mouth, as though she recognized that situation. Olivia blurted, “Your job is a little like a reporter’s, isn’t it?”

  “A little.”

  “Wish I could get search warrants and things,” Olivia observed enviously.

  “Wish I didn’t have so many forms to fill out.” Schreiner’s tired eyes looked at Olivia almost kindly. “Now, Ms. Kerr, I’m going to read you some names. Tell me if you recognize any of them. First is John Lewis, also known as Corky.”

  “Corky Lewis. No, don’t recognize that name.”

  “How about Priscilla Lewis?”

  “No.”

  “Moffatt we’ve done. How about Ann Kauffmann?”

  “Guess I’m striking out. No.”

  “Frank or Doris Resler?”

  “Hey!” Olivia bounced upright on the sofa. “I’ve heard—listen, Mrs. Resler was in the S-D office today too, talking to the editor! Not upset like Moffatt. But there’s something else. Dale was on the phone to Mrs. Resler when I stopped in right before we left! Doris, you said?”