Death on Torrid Ave.

by Patricia McLinn

  “You shouldn’t let LuLu jump on you that way,” Berrie said with censure strong in her voice. “She’ll never treat you as leader when you let her do that. Turn your back when she jumps, so you don’t give her positive feedback.”

  “She had her back to her,” Clara said. “Oh, Sheila, I’m so sorry. Can I—?” Her hand fluttered toward my chest. “Or maybe that’ll make it worse?”

  I strongly suspected that, yes, a woman being seen rubbing my breasts, even through a jacket, at the dog park would make the situation worse. “It’s okay, Clara.”

  “I’ll wash it or take it to the cleaners or replace it.”

  I started to respond, but Berrie was not to be denied. “You have to anticipate. To know your dog so well you’re always two steps ahead.”

  “LuLu is not my dog. And I needed eyes in the back of my head to anticipate that.”

  A group started to gather around us.

  “I train dogs all the time that aren’t mine. Anticipation has been a key element in my success. And it’s especially important with a dog who presents a danger.”

  “Danger?” Clara repeated in blended astonishment, insult, and disdain.

  Several spectators gaped at the idea of LuLu, an acknowledged clown, being a danger.

  That didn’t stop Berrie. “What you need to do is be more of a leader. If you’d followed Bob’s methods, you’d have strong commands now. You, too, Clara,” she tossed off. “Fortunately, I learned so much from Bob, I can work with you—”

  “If it’s such a great method, why hasn’t it worked with Marcus?” came a mutter from the back of the group.

  Berrie spun toward the voice. “Was that you, Nathan? You and Dwight always were thick as thieves. You probably conspired with him to murder Bob. You—”

  “That’s enough.”

  Donna’s familiar voice cut through rising rumbles, but it was Teague O’Donnell who shouldered in. I hadn’t realized the group had tightened so much around Berrie, Clara, and me. Teague’s physical presence widened it.

  Donna joined him, and he enforced more space by stepping back. I did the same thing, opening the circle. I noticed several of the Sane Middles positioning themselves beside some of the most ardent Bobs and Dwights.

  “There’s been too much said today already,” Donna said. “It’s a hard day. It’s very crowded, which is hard on dogs and people. So, if you can’t stay here without keeping your hard thoughts to yourself, I suggest you go home and come back another day. But leave your hard thoughts home! They’re as bad as ticks.”

  That drew some chuckles.

  A few grumbles rose.

  “C’mon, now, all of us packed in here have churned this ground enough. Let’s let it be. Just let it be.” Her listeners could take that as a reference to the soil … or more.

  She shooed at a few people, but turned back and said in a low voice, to Clara, Teague, and me, “You three get down the other end, make sure there’s no congregating of one faction or the other.”

  We did as we were told, watching Donna slowly separate, remix, then herd selected packets of dogs and people. Gracie would approve.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “So, you checked up on me.”

  Clara and I looked at each other, at him, then back at each other.

  “What makes you think that?” I asked after too long a pause.

  “Got a call from a buddy of mine.”

  Clara started to say something. I cut across her with a drawled, “And?”

  His turn to look from me to Clara and back. “And he said a nice lady was asking about me. He got all excited, too. Had to tell him to quit his Cupid fantasies because the caller’s married. Happily married.” Without moving anything else, he slowly, slowly slid his gaze toward Clara. “Aren’t you, Clara?”

  She was toast. “Me? Why would you think it was me? I’m sure you know any number of women who might call to see if you were telling them the truth.”

  “Ah, but he said a nice lady, a true lady, and they’re much rarer. I thought of you right away.”

  That flustered her — deny she’d called or protest the compliment? Which to do first?

  “Your friend couldn’t possibly know she was a true lady. And — and he couldn’t possibly know who it was who called.” Triumph came into her face. “Not unless she told him her name.”

  “She didn’t need to.” His voice dropped low and soft. A snake charmer’s croon. “I know it was you, Clara. I know.”

  “How? How could you possibly know?”

  His voice didn’t change, but the lines around his eyes dug deep with suppressed laughter. “Caller ID, Clara. Your name and number came up on his caller ID.”

  She said the word most of us at the dog park euphemized to poop. First time I’d heard her use it. “What an idiot I am.”

  “Not at all.” Teague grinned, but didn’t let out the laughter lurking. “Proves you’d have a lot of sneaky to learn to become Mata Hari.”

  She huffed. “I’m not sorry I did it.”

  He slung an arm around her shoulders. “I’m not sorry you did it, either. It was good thinking. Showed initiative. As it turns out, it was a good thing for me, too.”

  “Really? How?”

  “My buddy you talked to — Harris — got curious and looked up Haines Tavern and found the news of the murder. Somebody he was in the academy with is in the sheriff’s department here. Harris gave him a call and vouched for me.”

  “Hadn’t you already told them you were a cop?” Clara asked.

  “I did. They didn’t seem overly impressed with what I told them before. There’s something about a murder that makes everyone suspicious. And a suspect.”

  “But now they should be impressed, with the good old boy network vouching for you,” Clara said.

  “Hey, not so old.”

  “But still the boy network,” I said.

  He shrugged slightly.

  Clara frowned at him. “What did you tell them before?”

  “Just my observations. Maybe a few impressions.”

  Talk about raised suspicions, mine circled up around the top of the flagpole. “What kind of observations and impressions?”

  “In addition to the confrontation between Bob and Dwight, they asked about you two. I said both of you seem to be nice people. With wonderful dogs.”

  “And?”

  “And you were intelligent and observant, aware of interactions between people at the dog park, as well as the dogs—”

  “I’m sure that impressed them.”

  “—and that you, Sheila, seemed aware of police procedures in cases of unnatural death.”

  Uh-oh.

  The other time I’d encountered unnatural death — a much nicer way to say it than murder — I’d explained my knowledge of police procedures and interest in murder investigations by my credentials as an author. A supposed author.

  This time I couldn’t use that excuse.

  So why would an ex-English teacher be interested in police procedure and murder?

  From up at the gate, Donna called out and waved to us. Maybe six dogs other than ours remained. They and their people seemed calm.

  We waved back to Donna, acknowledging we’d been relieved from duty. Donna and Hattie left.

  “I dated a cop,” I said impulsively. Teague’s sharpened look immediately told me I might have ventured from the frying pan into the fire. I veered away and added, “And I’ve always wanted to write murder mysteries.”

  “You have?” Clara said. “Me too. I love reading them. And I’ve always thought writing them would be so fascinating. The problem is, I don’t know how to write. I mean, of course I can write. But not books. It amazes me someone can start a book and get all the way to the end and have it make sense.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying that sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes the author had to work and rework and re-rework drafts, the writethroughs, then edits to get the book to work from start to finish.

  “Ser
iously?” Teague asked.

  “Oh yes,” Clara said. “I’ve even read books about writing, but they didn’t help. It still seems like magic.”

  “Sorry, Clara, I meant about Sheila dating a cop. A detective?”

  That could explain my knowing things I actually knew from helping Aunt Kit and attending research events with her. But I did quick mental calculations of likely career advancement and ages, especially since I might be better off putting this supposed relationship several years in the past. That would make it easier to be vague.

  “No. But his father was. Family dinners were fascinating. Whatever he recommended Sam read, I read, too.”

  “That’s so amazing,” Clara said.

  Teague did not look nearly as impressed. “With all that delving into his profession, it’s a shame it didn’t work out between you and your boyfriend. What happened?”

  “You’d have to ask him.” I infused that with confusion and philosophical sorrow, leaving a neon Do Not Trespass sign over my supposed wound. Not to mention that I had covered why I had no explanation for the breakup.

  Brilliant, if I do say so myself.

  “Teague,” Clara said, “now that we know you’re a cop — ex-cop — and the deputies here know it, you can tell them more and they’ll have to listen.”

  “I told them everything I saw. They seem to have developed their own theories.”

  He said that very precisely.

  “We know all about their theories. When we tell them to look for Dwight, they don’t. They hardly even blink when he comes up missing,” Clara said darkly. “As much as I hate to be really looking at him, it makes sense he would have strangled Bob with his leash. That tweed leash he was so proud of—”

  “Wait.” I held out a stop sign hand to Clara, but kept my eyes on Teague. I’d seen something there. “The leash. You don’t think that’s what killed Bob?”

  “I don’t know anything about it. Outside my scope. Not to mention none of my business. None of our business.”

  I squelched the urge to say Speak for yourself.

  What if I was right? What if he didn’t think the leash killed Bob? That sent my head for a spin.

  “It is our business. And you can tell them Sheila didn’t—” Clara started.

  “They’re only interested in what people — including me — know. Not theories.”

  “But you know Sheila.”

  “No, I don’t.” He looked right at me when he said that.

  “You know she couldn’t have done it.”

  Before he responded, I turned. “C’mon, Clara, let’s go.”

  “But … But…”

  “It’s okay, Clara. He’s right. He doesn’t know me.”

  We started away.

  I stopped.

  Clara looked at me questioningly.

  I turned back to Teague. “When you separated Bob and Dwight that day they argued, you focused more on Dwight. Was that solely because of size?”

  Teague narrowed his eyes, apparently thinking back. When he didn’t say anything for a while, Clara said, “Bob started it, jabbing at Dwight, but Sheila’s right. You kept your eyes on Dwight.”

  “Dwight escalated.” Then he repeated, “Dwight escalated. And…”

  “And?” I prodded after another pause.

  “Bob was set up for pushing and shoving. Dwight was ready to go. Hands fisted. His stance. He was ready to fight.”

  Clara gave a little crow.

  His mouth quirked. “All right, all right. That’s an observation. I’ll talk to the deputies again.”

  “As long as you’re talking to them, ask if Bob’s body could have been seen from the small-dog enclosure Berrie usually used.”

  “I will.”

  He joined us as we walked out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Clara peeled off to her vehicle. A few parking spaces down, I prepared to do the same.

  “Sheila?” Teague called.

  “Yes?” I stopped until he came close enough to speak quietly.

  “Just so you know, I don’t think Clara was the only one who checked up on me.”

  I did pretty well, saying with a tinge of amusement, “Did you ever consider you might be paranoid.”

  He gave a half-amused huh. “Comes with the territory. Doesn’t mean I’m not right. About you checking up. And about thinking you wouldn’t leave an obvious trail.”

  “As flattered as I am by your confidence in me, I’ll say — or any trail since I’m not doing anything.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt if you did. Women should be careful. Especially about men they allow in.”

  It was as if he’d heard Kit and me talking. And he agreed with me.

  After a couple extra beats, he tacked on an addition that changed his meaning, “Allow in to their houses to do work. You shouldn’t count on Gracie as your only protection.”

  I gladly followed that path, rather than the previous one, which might have been a figment of my imagination, anyway. “I don’t. She’d sell me out for the first offer of a treat.”

  “I doubt that, but bad guys wouldn’t hesitate to get her out of the way.”

  Yikes. Now I had to worry about protecting my dog if she ever tried to protect me.

  “We’re not in the big city anymore,” he continued, “but bad stuff happens here, too, as we both know.”

  When I thought about that conversation later, it was that last line that bugged me. We’re not in the big city anymore. … We’re. I’d told him I’d worked in upstate New York, not the city. So why include me?

  Unless he meant him and Murphy.

  There was a reassuring thought. Or a straw I’d grasped.

  Not so reassuring.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t do what Clara had. There was no former employer he could call to check up on me. He’d have to call every “upstate” high school. That would keep him busy.

  He couldn’t be that nosy.

  Besides, he’d be calling all those places asking about the wrong name.

  * * * *

  Clara looked at me. It reminded me of the look Gracie gives me right after she wakes up from a nap which has followed a full day of fun and activity. It’s the look that says she’s ready for more.

  “That was good, right? Not telling Teague I was following you home to find out what we should do next? So what is next?”

  Slowly, I said, “I think we should do something charitable right now.”

  Her face fell. “Not sleuthing?”

  I didn’t answer directly. “Do you know who is probably the most confused and sad and worried and lonely right now?”

  “You mean with Dwight missing?” Her frown immediately lifted. “His grandmother. And my grandmother used to live next door to her, so it would be natural for me to visit her.”

  “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Dwight’s grandmother sounded determined, but scared when she invited — or ordered — us to come in to her room at Kentucky Manors.

  Coming here explained one item — Zig-Zag was the name of the road it was on.

  Mrs. Yagos’ door opened from the hallway into a neat, sunny room with a bed area on one side and a sitting area on the other. Doors indicated a bathroom and closet. Mrs. Yagos sat in a large chair by one of the two big windows. She had iron gray hair pulled back in a bun.

  I saw the strong resemblance to Dwight. But also had the impression of hard edges not so much softened as eroded by time.

  “Mrs. Y? It’s Clara Woodrow. Trudy’s granddaughter? You might not remember me—”

  “Of course, I do, child. Got a note from Trudy a few weeks ago with some photos.”

  She’d gained vigor as she talked.

  Clara went to her and took her hand. “That’s why we came. This is Sheila Mackey. She knows Dwight, too, from the dog park. We wanted to come say we hope you’re not worrying too much because everybody’s looking for him. We’ll find him safe, don’t you worry.”

  Mrs. Yago
s gave a mild snort at that. It could have meant any of a dozen things.

  She peered at me with faded blue eyes. I went close and offered my hand.

  “Hello, Mrs. Yagos. I’m Sheila.”

  After a moment, the strain around her eyes eased some. She took my hand in a surprisingly strong shake.

  “You here to tell me more nonsense like that deputy tried to that my grandson’s on the run from the law?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, you better not be. Because Dwight’s a good boy. He’s probably off somewhere fixing up the final papers and all with some business from last week.”

  “What kind of papers?”

  “Papers so he doesn’t need to come running to me all the time. He can just handle things himself.”

  “Where would he go to fix those up?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why Dwight’s taking care of it.” I suspect she’d aimed for defiant disinterest. It came out more querulous.

  “We went by the house the other day,” Clara said chattily. “The neighborhood’s not the same without you and Gran, Mrs. Y. Of course, Dwight keeps your house up nice. Can’t say the same for the people who moved in to Gran’s house.”

  “Dwight showed me pictures and videos.” She clicked her tongue. “It looks strange without Trudy’s flamingos. And those curtains on the front porch? Whoever heard of curtains outdoors? Not to mention it looks like you’re trying to hide behind them so nobody who’s walking past can say hello. What sort of neighbor does that?

  “I suppose Dwight’s had that dog of his all over my furniture. Skeeter’s not a bad dog, but dogs are meant to be outside. I grew up on a farm and dogs worked as hard as anybody else. At the end of the day, they stayed outside or in the barn where they belong. They sure weren’t princes the way they are these days. Absolute nonsense.

  “But I will say, that’s the only thing I know to say against my Dwight. Other than being dog crazy he’s a good boy. And there’s nobody who can say otherwise. Got a lot of friends that boy has.”