Death on Torrid Ave.

by Patricia McLinn

  Pamela held hers like a refugee huddled around a fire, but she’d stopped crying.

  About halfway through the mug, Clara said quietly, “Now, tell us what’s worrying you so much.”

  Pamela looked up, her brown eyes immediately redrenched in tears. “What if I could have saved his life? What if I could have stopped it?”

  * * * *

  It took time to calm her down again.

  “How could you have done that?” I asked. See? I can be tactful, too. I didn’t even bring up saving a life.

  “If I’d called, if I’d only called instead of being so … so horrible. Staying in bed, thinking maybe he’d fallen down the stairs and hurt himself and he deserved it.” She gulped. “But I never, never thought he was dead. Never.”

  Clara resumed consoling, also shooting me a look that said she had no idea what the woman was talking about.

  I ventured, “But he hadn’t, had he? Fallen down the stairs, I mean. What made you think he might have?”

  “Trevalyn’s barking. Barking and barking and barking. I knew something was wrong, but he was such an awful neighbor and Jeremy had said to stay away from him and Jeremy wasn’t home that night, so I…” The sobs started ramping up again. “And he might not have died if it weren’t for me.”

  A second round of tea and Clara’s patience — mine had run out during the first mug of tea — pulled out the story.

  She’d heard Trevalyn barking during the night. She had not called anybody about it. She felt that failure might have cost Bob Coble his life.

  I doubted we completely persuaded her that calling 911 about Trevalyn barking inside would not have saved Bob. Even if it immediately raised the alarm, who would have thought to check the dog park when he didn’t have his dog?

  Though maybe they would have immediately spotted that stepped-on poop, done a massive dragnet for shoes newly adorned with poop, and solved the murder right then.

  Or not.

  I certainly didn’t raise the possibility to Pamela Farris.

  What I did do was ask, “What started the bad blood between Bob and you and your husband?”

  It was like she lost all her bones. She slumped into a rag doll of misery.

  “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. Poor Jeremy. Working so hard to build a life and reputation in business, and I’m going to drag him down. I told him he should leave me. But he won’t.”

  “How is it your fault?”

  “My … my daddy’s a criminal. He’s in prison. Again.” She said a name that meant nothing to me, but clearly did to Clara. She mouthed Later to me. “I can’t run away from that name, even though I’m now a Farris, and it will besmirch Jeremy’s name and reputation.”

  I cut through the drama with another question. “How did Bob find out?”

  “He went through our mail. He came up to the door, holding it out to me one day with this … this smile saying he’d wanted to save me the trouble. And then he said something about family and I thought he was hinting around about when we were going to have another baby, but when I saw the letter Daddy had written from prison in the pile, I knew…

  “After that, he was real mean. Thought he could boss me and Jeremy around, telling us what to plant in our yard and wanting us to kill the dandelions with chemicals and all sorts of things. But Jeremy wouldn’t and it got worse and worse and then the lawsuit and I knew it would all come out in court, like it did for my poor mama, sitting there hearing the horrible things Daddy had done — twice! At least now she doesn’t believe him anymore, but it was so awful for her.

  “And I was in bed that night thinking about all those things and I heard Trevalyn barking and I was just evil thinking those things and never calling anybody.”

  “But we’ve been over that,” Clara said. “You couldn’t have saved Bob. You have to stop tormenting yourself about that.”

  “At the very least I could have spared Trevalyn that miserable time alone.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Clara said.

  Pamela burst into tears again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “There’s no way on earth that poor girl killed Bob,” Clara declared as we neared my house.

  She’d told me first that she wouldn’t be surprised if a new little Farris joined the neighborhood in seven or eight months, suspecting hormones fueled Pamela’s waterworks.

  Then she filled me in that Pamela’s father had been a state legislator until he was caught with his pants down — literally — and his pockets stuffed with illicit cash — proverbially. He came out of prison, having found Jesus, redemption, and absolute proof that evolution did not exist, he proclaimed, and set up as a preacher, who needed folks’ generous donations to support his mission in sharing what he’d learned. Two years later it was Act Two. He was now back in prison.

  “Unless she’s a really good actress,” I told Clara.

  “Oh.”

  “Watch out, Clara. Amy’s backing out of her driveway.”

  She had been, but then she pulled back in, perhaps deciding not to risk the roads until a distracted Clara parked.

  “Sheila, you think Pamela could have—?”

  “I don’t know. But she did have motive. We have nothing to go on except what she told us. Not only her actions that night, but Jeremy’s. What if he thought Bob could have ruined them? Where exactly was he that night? And can he prove it?”

  “Oh, those are all such great questions.” She pulled into my now-cleared driveway behind Teague’s vehicle. “But before we discuss them, I have to run into your house. All that tea…”

  “Go right ahead.” I’d wisely used the facilities at Pamela Farris’ house in an entirely anonymous powder room that told me nothing, even when I looked in the cabinet and under the sink.

  As I started to follow Clara in, I heard my name.

  I looked around and Amy Kackley was walking diagonally across the street.

  “Sorry. Clara got a little distracted. Hope it didn’t scare you.”

  “What? No. That was fine. I … I wanted to talk to you.”

  She said the words with no joy in her heart. Amy wasn’t the bursting in tears type, but if she had been, I’d have been experiencing déjà vu, judging by that tone.

  “Yes?” Okay, I could have been more encouraging. But what if I my assessment of Amy’s tearfulness quotient was wrong. I would deal with another outburst if I had to, but I didn’t have to beg for it.

  Amy’s jaw moved like she was unclenching her teeth.

  “I saw Dwight.”

  “What? When?”

  “There at the dog park after Bob’s body was found. For a minute, barely even that. He got out of his van and our eyes met for an instant — I know he saw me — and then he got back in and he left. He looked … He looked awful. Just awful. I haven’t told anybody.

  “But now he’s dead. People are saying he must have killed himself right after killing Bob, but I know that’s not right. And the rumors about his scarf … He was wearing it. Like always. His hat and the scarf and the jacket with the hood pulled up. But he looked like I’d never seen him look before.”

  She wasn’t crying, but she trembled.

  North Bend County couldn’t possibly have two great actors, could it?

  I took hold of her arms and looked into her eyes. “You have to go to the sheriff’s department, Amy. Right now. Ask for Deputy Eckles or Deputy Hensen. Don’t leave until you’ve told one of them this. Do you understand?”

  A single nod.

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  A sideways jerk of her head.

  “Get Donna to go with you?

  A repeat.

  She parted her lips, drew in a breath. “I knew I had to, but I needed someone to say it. When I saw you with Clara … I still don’t think Dwight did this. And I can’t find it in me to be crying for Bob Coble. But a person has to tell the truth, not try to massage it to their liking. I’m going now.”

  She pivoted, my hands falling
away from her. She took the direct path to her vehicle.

  I stood there, watching, as she backed out and went the opposite direction from the library, taking the route to the sheriff’s department.

  Damn. I’d missed asking her what rumors about Dwight’s scarf.

  * * * *

  As I turned to go into the house, I received a text from Kit.

  Prelim shows Teague O’Donnell legit. More to come. Diving into deadline.

  Kit on deadline?

  The entire globe could be packed up and transported to Saturn and Kit wouldn’t notice when she was on deadline.

  This was bad.

  I’d lost my murder sounding board, my guru, my consultant.

  I’d also lost the buffer between me and my mother, who knew I’d been around a murder, and my father, who would know as soon as Mom cracked, which she would do sooner without Kit’s reassurance.

  Bad, bad, bad.

  * * * *

  I found Clara curled up on the loveseat in my office, watching Teague mark out measurements for the bookshelves there. From the smell, he’d started painting the shoe shelves in the other room.

  “I was telling him about Pamela,” she said cheerfully.

  Behind his back, I gave her a sharp we-talked-about-this glare.

  She returned a What?-I-checked-him-out-and-he’s-really-a-cop look.

  I gave her a doesn’t-mean-we-have-to-blab-everything frown.

  She tilted her head for a Cop!-Detective!-he-might-be-able-to-help-us response.

  I gave up. At least for now.

  I told them about my encounter with Amy.

  A sentence in, Teague turned, fat pencil and measuring tape still in hand.

  “That’s sure interesting,” Clara said, “but does it change anything?”

  “Okay, I don’t want you two to get all excited about this, because it’s not something I was told outright — Hell, I have no idea why I’m telling you now. But—”

  “You know you’ll be the next to die if you don’t tell us,” I inserted.

  His eyes lit up. “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. Informing you about what happens next in all the books and movies so you can make a good decision. The person with the knowledge that would solve everything gets killed before he’s smart enough to share it.”

  “She’s right,” Clara said immediately. “You better tell us right away. It’s the only way to save your life.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment.” His mouth quirked. “Trouble with your theory is that more people than me know this. It’s gotten around. In fact, I heard most of it when I was out at the big box store because the hardware store here in town is closed on Sundays. Still, remember, this is something I gathered from a few comments. I could be totally wrong, have put things together the wrong way or—”

  “For Pete’s sake, just tell us.”

  I stifled a giggle at Clara’s outburst, but Teague appeared taken aback.

  “The leash might not have been the murder weapon.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “What?”

  My one-syllable question covered two octaves, possibly three. Clara looked stunned.

  “There’s the possibility the leash wasn’t the murder weapon,” he repeated.

  “We heard you, but—”

  “Why? How?” Clara demanded. “We saw it around his neck. Tight around his neck.”

  “The leash was definitely around his neck, but the ME — medical examiner — might have found indications something else was used first, then the leash put on, either to finish the job or maybe to mask the first thing used.”

  “What was the first thing used?”

  “No way I could say for sure.”

  Clara and I stared at him.

  “Okay, okay, it’s being talked about at the big box store, so I suppose it can’t hurt … Possibly a blow. Or something else used to strangle him. The ME might have found blue and white fibers.”

  “Blue and wh — Dwight’s UK scarf,” Clara cried. Then the pitch of her cry changed. “And then he put it back around his neck and wore it to the dog park the next day? No wonder Amy said he looked so awful.”

  I zeroed in on Teague. “The ME might have found blue and white fibers?”

  He carefully put down pencil and measuring tape, then turned back to us and shrugged. “I haven’t talked to the ME directly, so I don’t know for sure. I don’t even know who did talk to the ME. It’s like a game of telephone. Or a couple games of telephone, one line passing down one bit of information and a second another bit of information, then they get put together. It’s not evidence, much less anything that would stand up in court.”

  “Which line came at the big box store?”

  “The blue and white. Couldn’t believe it was being talked about like that.”

  “So the ME finding that something other than Bob’s leash actually killed him, that came to you from a more reliable game of telephone?”

  “Maybe.” It was as far as he’d go.

  “How does this—. How might this,” I conceded under his frown as I sat behind my desk, “change how we look at our suspects?”

  “It would make Dwight a lot more likely — which would break his grandmother’s heart if it’s not already broken because he’s dead,” Clara said.

  “Good point. If it wasn’t Dwight’s UK scarf, how hard a blow to the neck are we talking about?”

  Teague shrugged again. “Don’t know for sure. Bob was a pretty slight guy. If the victim was somebody the size of Dwight, a possible blow to the neck would eliminate lots of people because they couldn’t reach.”

  “Ruby would have a hard time reaching even with Bob. I don’t see how she could have killed him with a blow, either. Not unless she knows martial arts or something.”

  Clara shook her head. “Never heard of her or Amy Kackley knowing that sort of thing, though Amy’s at least several inches taller than Ruby, so there’s that.”

  “Even without training, it’s hard but not entirely impossible. Especially with adrenaline going.”

  Teague, leaning against the window frame, gave me a bemused look. “Voice of experience?”

  “All those mysteries she’s read,” Clara said.

  I ignored that detour. “Berrie could reach, she’s nearly Bob’s height.”

  “So could Pamela and Jeremy Farris. The neighbors of Bob I told you about,” Clara said to Teague. Then she sighed. “This doesn’t get us very far.”

  “No, but let’s keep going. If the murderer killed him with a blow to the neck, why put the leash on?”

  “Don’t get too caught up in the idea of a blow,” Teague said. “It’s only a possibility.”

  Clara sat up from her morose slump, ignoring him and going back to what I’d said. “Right. Why put the leash on? It sure couldn’t pass as an accident after that. Not if the UK scarf was used first then swapped out, either. But if it was a blow to the neck and they didn’t use the leash, it might never have been investigated—”

  “A guy found dead in the dog park — it was always going to be investigated,” Teague objected.

  “Okay, but the leash immediately made everybody think it was murder.”

  “Unless it was a sex game.”

  “Bob?” Clara demanded. “No way.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Teague muttered.

  Clara and I exchanged a look. We weren’t asking him to explain that. Not now, anyway.

  “Back to Clara’s point that it makes everybody think murder. Who would benefit from that?”

  “Somebody we’d never suspect,” Clara said promptly.

  “Great. Except who? It’s not like there’s somebody he’s been close to whom we haven’t suspected.” I was proud of that whom. It was what an English teacher would say. I hoped Teague was paying attention.

  “Because he hasn’t been close to anybody.”

  “That brings up a good point. I wonder who inherits?”

  “Oh, that’s a great p
oint.” Clara looked impressed.

  Actually, I should have thought of it long ago. It was basic. “Teague, have you heard anything from your official sources?”

  “I don’t have any sources. Especially not official sources.” He said it so firmly it made me wonder … But he wasn’t budging.

  “I’ll find out what the rumor mill says about that. I haven’t heard anything yet, but sometimes a little priming works wonders.”

  “Great, Clara. I still want to check the suits.”

  Teague cleared his throat. “One thing you haven’t explored is what Clara said at the beginning — this makes Dwight more likely. His size and strength, he could have hit Bob out of anger or even wrapped the scarf around his neck, not trying to kill him. But he did. Then Dwight realized Bob was dead and panicked. He put Bob’s leash around his neck to throw off suspicion.”

  “It didn’t throw off suspicion at all.”

  “He couldn’t have known that. Especially not in a panic. When he did realize it, he committed suicide.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said slowly. “We were talking before about why the dog park and why the leash. What if it was because the murder wasn’t about the dog park, but the murderer wanted to make it look like it was?”

  “You do know most murders are pretty straight forward, don’t you?” Teague asked. “The most likely guy is the most likely because they usually do it. That’s what I was saying about Dwight.”

  “Maybe in your world,” Clara said dismissively, “but those are the easy ones. Go on, Sheila, what were you saying?”

  “It would still be about Bob, since he’s the one who died. Think about Bob, what kind of person he was.”

  “You mean he liked secrets?” Clara asked.

  “Oh, yes, he definitely liked secrets. Look at how he called collie rescue on me.”

  “He what?” Teague asked.

  I explained succinctly. “And, yes,” I said to his expression, “Someone might think that gave me a motive to kill Bob. But not a motive to kill Dwight.”