Death on Torrid Ave.

by Patricia McLinn

The case would be wrapped up and I could sink back below anybody’s radar. My secret stayed safe.

  It was after child’s pose — never my favorite, with your face smashed into the mat — as we moved into half saddle, that the reasons to doubt suicide surfaced.

  * * * *

  “Kit, he’s dead.”

  I called her as soon as I got home from yoga. Clara had wanted to come over to thrash out this development, but couldn’t. She and Ned had a date each week to watch “their” show together after yoga.

  “You told me that.”

  “Not Bob. I mean yes, he is dead. But I mean his rival, the prime suspect, Dwight. He’s dead, too. We knew he was missing. Clara and I went and saw his grandmother and she and an aide where she lives now confirmed he had not been to visit her. Now the sheriff’s department has found his body.”

  “Where? How long ago was he killed? Is there a gap from when he was visiting his grandmother to when he was likely killed? What is—”

  “Wait, wait I’m trying to write this down.”

  “You know all this. You know the questions to ask.”

  I put down my pen. She was right. “Somehow it makes more sense when you say it.”

  “When it comes right down to it, you’ve had more hands-on practical experience investigating a murder than I have.”

  “Gee, you know exactly what to say to cheer up a girl.” And I meant it.

  “A fact. Now, let’s get back to it. Tell me about this suspect turning up dead.”

  I did. Also about our trip to Grandmother Yagos. And the phone call from the collie rescue group, ending with “…probably strengthening my motive in Deputy Eckles’ mind, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s okay. It means you’re well motivated.”

  “That’s the problem. This deputy thinks I am well motivated and that’s without knowing about Bob Coble red-flagging me or whatever you want to call it with the collie rescue group.”

  “I meant you are well motivated to work on this case.”

  “I was working on the case. I didn’t need more motivation.”

  She didn’t seem to hear that. “Why is it bothering you so much that this deputy might consider you a suspect? You said you were considered a suspect on the cruise and that didn’t bother you much.”

  “It did bother me. But I’m not sure I ever thought the chief security officer really considered me a strong suspect. Besides, I was more optimistic the chief security officer would recognize the error of his ways than I am about Eckles.”

  “You’ll have to show this deputy the error of his ways if he doesn’t see them himself. What about this former detective?”

  “What about him?”

  “Can’t he talk to the deputy or does he think you’re a suspect, too?”

  There was a thought. Great. Maybe Teague was working in my house waiting for my homicidal side to show itself so he could nab me.

  As if her thoughts had followed the same track, Aunt Kit said, “You better hope Clara stays alive and well, especially if this deputy finds out she was the rescue group’s spy.”

  “I’m not telling anybody. But, really, anybody who would think I would kill somebody over that…”

  “People have killed for less.”

  “Thanks for that vote of confidence.”

  “I am entirely confident you did not kill this man and you — and possibly your friends — can figure this out. With my help. Let’s go over your suspects.”

  “You mean now that the best one is dead?” I might have sounded a little glum.

  “Let’s start with him. Dwight you said his name is, right?”

  “He’s dead. Why start with him?”

  “Because he had a good motive and perhaps that motive can be applied to someone else. Or it might reveal other possible motives.”

  I saw the theory, I wasn’t so sure about the reality. But on the chance Kit was right, it was worth a try.

  “Dwight Yagos and Bob Coble have been in competition for — excuse the expression — top dog at Torrid Avenue Dog Park for years. His motive would be that rivalry and ending it once and for all in his favor. Or, perhaps, a moment of rage, brought on by mounting anger over the years of rivalry.”

  I didn’t buy it, though.

  “What would be your theory of the crime with Dwight as the killer?” she asked.

  “The murder part would be quite straightforward. Actually for any one it would be. The murderer put the leash around Bob’s neck, with the clip end slipped through the handle loop, and pulled it tight. We know it wouldn’t have taken long for him to lose consciousness, but the killer would have had to hold it tight longer than that to kill him.”

  Kit grunted acknowledgement of what we’d both learned at a forensics seminar for writers. “Pretty straightforward. What’s more interesting is how a killer got the leash around Bob’s neck in the first place. Why would he let anyone do that?”

  I expanded on her point. “And they’d have to take it away from him. Plus, why did he bring it to the park when he didn’t have his dog with him?”

  “That is an interesting question and it’s what makes me think a woman is more likely as the murderer. Someone he trusted and had known a long time, so he’d be off-guard. Or perhaps someone he was going to instruct.”

  My mind flashed to Augustine Lorenson. If Bob had known about Berrie’s training appointment with the woman would he have tried to break it up by meeting for a secret session ahead of time?

  In a heartbeat.

  And that could explain bringing the tweed lead — showing her the proper kind to have — and not having Trevalyn.

  But why would Augustine agree to meet him during the night in the closed dog park? And why would she kill him? Could he possibly have been suing her?

  I needed to check that in courthouse records in the morning.

  In the meantime, there was another possibility.

  “Let me tell you about Berrie Vittlow.”

  I filled in Aunt Kit about Berrie and Bob’s history.

  “Interesting. He’d crushed one of her dreams years ago — presumably to be a couple, maybe marry and have a family — and now he’s threatened her current dream involving rescuing Boston terriers and being a trainer. That’s a lot of emotion.”

  “Lawsuits are emotional, too,” I countered, even though I was arguing against myself. “And there were plenty of those.”

  I told her about Bob’s penchant for lawsuits, including Amy Kackley and his neighbors, Pamela and Jeremy Farris. Also his nit-picking offensive against Ruby, threatening her much-needed job. I ended with, “So I’ll check the public record tomorrow at the courthouse.”

  “All good starts, Sheila. Keep going with those. But I see at least one more suspect based on what you’ve told me.”

  Would she tell me? Oh, no. Said I needed to figure it out myself.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I jolted awake at the sensation of ice applied to the back of my calf.

  Not ice.

  But close enough.

  A cold, wet collie nose that had burrowed under the covers to connect with my now goose-fleshed calf.

  I reached out and felt first one ear, then all of Gracie’s head as she shifted to let me pet her.

  “What is it, Gracie? Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

  But even as I strained to hear anything amiss in the house that might explain her action — first time she’d ever done anything like this — I realized the sheet and light blanket under my down comforter were twisted and tangled.

  I also recognized the misty shreds of a dream.

  I’d been dreaming about the Coble brothers who had feuded over a woman. I’d been that woman. I’d married the surviving brother … and had just realized he’d murdered my father and his brother.

  Definitely not sweet dreams.

  And they seemed to have disturbed not only me, but her, too.

  I stroked Gracie’s head again as I left out a breath. She nuzzled my hand, then
moved away.

  I peered through the middle-of-the-night darkness to make sense of the faint rustlings of her movements, following the tinkling sound of her tags.

  She’d returned to her bed. Circled. And now settled down.

  Her job done.

  My job was lying awake, looking at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, wondering why the heck I’d dreamed about that and how to get it out of my head so I could get some restful sleep.

  * * * *

  I awakened the second time to unfamiliar brightness.

  I squinted at the uncurtained window. Nope, the sky wasn’t blue, but it definitely was brighter than the previous days.

  I looked out.

  Snow. It had snowed overnight. More than a dusting we’d had the night Bob was murdered.

  The sky might still be gray, but with the ground white, it was downright cheerful outside.

  I was half dressed when the phone rang.

  “Sheila, I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  “Clara? What? Why?”

  “That neighbor of Bob’s wants to talk to us. Well, she doesn’t, really. Or she doesn’t know she does. Molly says she’s about to crack. Molly’s wonderful at spotting things like that. So we’re going to show up at her door, let her crack, and then pick up the pieces.”

  “But—”

  “One hour. All the roads should be plowed by then, but just in case, I’ll drive the SUV.”

  She hung up. I wouldn’t have argued anyway. I’d planned to go to the courthouse first thing, but the lawsuits could wait.

  I hurried Gracie through the rest of our morning routine, piled on layers, and rushed outside.

  Twenty minutes into our surprise mini-winter wonderland of about three inches of snow, Gracie still reveled in it. I was less enchanted.

  That was easily explained. She was playing, secured by a line hooked to her collar, but with thirty feet any direction to romp and roam. I, on the other hand, was shoveling, starting from the open garage door.

  Actually, at the moment Teague’s vehicle pulled up on the plowed road, I was leaning on the shovel.

  “You can’t leave it parked in the street. Plow might come back,” I protested, when he came around the front to open the passenger door for Murphy. Teague was back in his dog park outfit, with hat pulled down, scarf pulled up, and green jacket zipped tight.

  Something pecked at my memory. What—?

  “It’s on the street only until you’re shoveled out. You know how hard it is to shovel where a car’s been. Heck, even foot traffic makes it harder.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. Want to put the dogs in the back? It’s fenced.”

  “Good idea. I already had him to the dog park, but he’s still raring to go. C’mon, Murph.”

  Immediately, his dog bounded in the direction Teague waved. Gracie flew to his side the second I unhooked her from the line.

  He walked along the edge of the driveway, rather than on it. He wore boots, in addition to the cold-weather gear I was used to from the dog park.

  I sighed.

  “Tired?” he asked as he returned from closing the gate behind the dogs.

  “It’s heavier than it looks.”

  “This is nothing compared to the Chicago area.” He gave me that squint that was harder to meet than the most penetrating questions of seasoned interviewers. “You must have been used to this in New York.”

  “We had people to do shoveling.” Good grief. Had the unusual brightness fried my brain? That answer had come from my author-of-Abandon-All life, not my fictional English teacher who unexpectedly inherited life. I scrambled to add, “At the condo where I lived. We residents didn’t have to worry about any exterior maintenance. Except for paying for it.”

  I needed to start a spreadsheet of what I’d told to whom.

  Condo. Must remember I’d said I lived in a condo.

  “Huh. How about growing up around here. You had snow then, right?”

  “Some. I also had older brothers. Don’t blame my parents. They didn’t assign tasks by gender. It was my brothers who snagged all the shoveling jobs, realizing they could make good money with a few hours of physical labor around the neighborhood. Far better per hour than lawn-mowing, which they oh, so generously left to me.”

  He chuckled. “Smart guys. Maybe they didn’t think much of your technique.”

  “It’s an excellent technique.”

  I hadn’t actually been shoveling so much as pushing the snow across one side of the double driveway to the other side. It was a lot easier than trying to lift the heavy old-fashioned shovel, especially with a load of snow.

  “You’re only clearing one side of the driveway.”

  “One side works for me, since I have one car.”

  “When I pull in, you’ll be blocked.”

  “You can pull out if I have to go somewhere.”

  It clearly bugged him to not clear the entire driveway, but he let it drop for another topic.

  “You need a lighter shovel.”

  I agreed with that, but this behemoth, which I strongly suspected was made of iron, was what the previous owners had left in the garage, along with a rake, garbage cans, and a hose that looked older than me.

  “Hey!” I protested when he took the shovel from me, not only removing my tool but my prop.

  He returned to his vehicle by the same route, got a bright orange shovel from inside and came back to me.

  “Here. You use this. I’ll take Black Bessie, there.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I’ll start from the street and we’ll meet in the middle.”

  I didn’t remember a lot about snow-shoveling, but did know he’d taken the harder task — where the street plows had broadcast extra layers of snow chunks at the base of the driveway — along with the metal shovel.

  The bright orange shovel was a great relief to my arms and worked great as a snow-shover.

  Still, Teague was faster.

  I shot glances at him as we came closer and closer.

  We’d all heard how Murphy showed up at his back door, shivering and soaked. And now we knew he was an ex-cop, an ex-detective, who’d left law enforcement for substitute teaching.

  What had Kit said about that — a strange career path? Sure was. Yet, he’d said little about it. In fact, Teague O’Donnell said little about anything having to do with himself.

  That reticence twanged a nerve somewhere inside me. Maybe it was that it takes someone keeping secrets to recognize the symptoms in someone else.

  Or maybe the twang wasn’t just caution.

  And that posed another kind of danger.

  “Why are you here, Teague?”

  He looked around at me as if waiting for a punchline.

  “Seriously, why are you here?”

  “Shoveling snow so I can get inside to work on the shelves.” His tone added a half-question and an overlay of amusement.

  “Is that the only reason? Or are you also here to spy for Deputy Eckles? Or if not to spy, thinking you can solve the case yourself and get the credit? Would that get you back in law enforcement?”

  He straightened and rested the shovel against his hip. “First, we don’t call it spying, we call it undercover. Generally, somebody undercover does not first reveal that they’ve been a cop. It sort of ruins the surprise. Second, to solve the case by putting shelves in your closet and bookcases in your office, I’d have to hope evidence came visiting. And even then I might not be able to hear it over the saw and drill. Third, I’d either have to be willing to steal credit from you and, I suppose, Clara, or I’d have to prove one of you was the murderer. Fourth, it would not get me back in law enforcement.”

  “That was no answer. Are you spying for Eckles or do you think you can solve the case and get the credit?” I threw back at him. “Maybe get back into law enforcement. Make good on whatever reason you left.”

  “No.”

  We could have been flash frozen for all the sound or movement that followed t
hat flat syllable. I didn’t know where to take this next. And he clearly wasn’t going to volunteer anything.

  Who knows how long we might have stood there if Clara hadn’t pulled into the bottom of the driveway then and tooted the horn.

  “Go on,” he ordered. “I’ll finish this up and bring the dogs in when I start work inside. You and Clara go do whatever clue-hunting you’ve got planned. Just know this isn’t a game.”

  “We don’t—” He’d grabbed the old-fashioned shovel again and had his head down. “Fine.”

  I had my keys and wallet in my pocket. I didn’t need anything else. I drove the blade of the orange shovel into a modest snowbank accumulated from my shoveling and headed toward Clara’s SUV.

  “But Sheila…”

  Teague’s voice stopped me, pulled my head back around to him.

  “You definitely need a new shovel. This thing could anchor a boat.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Either Molly or Clara had missed her calling as a fortune-teller.

  We rang the doorbell of Pamela and Jeremy Farris’ imposing Blue Grass Estates home, a pumpkin to my house’s cantaloupe — see, I was learning from my grocery store trips.

  Pamela Farris opening it, wearing a jeans and t-shirt outfit that made me think expensive, rather than comfortable.

  “Hi, Pamela,” Clara said. “Remember us? We met you at Molly’s. We wanted to talk to you.”

  Pamela burst into tears.

  I don’t have a lot of experience with people bursting into tears when they open a door to me, but I would have expected her next move to be closing the inside door in our faces.

  Instead, she fumbled at the lock on the storm door and gave it a feeble push open.

  We needed no other invitation.

  I handled the door, Clara handled Pamela. One arm around her shoulders, telling her not to worry, saying we’d talk, and it would all be okay. When Pamela took a step toward the starchy living room, Clara steered her, instead, to the back of the house and a couch in the family room that opened to the kitchen.

  “How about some tea?”

  Pamela nodded to Clara and sobbed.

  I recognized that as my cue to make tea. Fortunately, there were bags of green tea in a cannister cunningly labeled “tea.” Mugs were lined up on open shelving and the microwave did its magic. Heck, I even found a little round tray to carry the mugs over.