Death on Torrid Ave.

by Patricia McLinn

  “I’m still not sure I understand everything you’re saying about Bob and Dwight and not-Dwight,” Clara said plaintively as we passed Berrie’s Boston terrier plastered vehicle to cross two open spots before Clara’s SUV.

  “That’s okay. We’ll tell Deputy Eckles and it’ll get clearer. Do you have your keys? I’ll drive.”

  There was another vehicle, past her big SUV. It looked like—.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Hand them over, lady. The keys. Right now.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  In that first second my thought was, Really? We’re getting car-jacked for Clara’s dog-scented and -decorated SUV?

  Nope. We were being held at gunpoint by not-Dwight.

  And the vehicle on the far side of Clara’s was Dwight’s.

  I wasted time with a few internalized swear words and self-recriminations. Why hadn’t I checked the lot first? True, his vehicle tucked in behind Clara’s big one, but if I’d looked closely, wouldn’t I have seen it? We could have called the sheriff’s department from the enclosure. Heck, we could have climbed the fence, forded the creek, and run to the sheriff’s department if we’d had to.

  The next couple of ticks I wasted on optimism.

  Berrie.

  Another mental swear word.

  Never mind.

  But wouldn’t someone see us from the road? Two, then three, then five cars went by. Surely someone would notice two women and two dogs being held at gunpoint.

  Or not, since the vehicles — Clara’s and Dwight’s — blocked their line of sight … if they were looking this way at all. And, in all fairness, her vehicle blocked Berrie’s line of sight, too.

  I didn’t want my last thoughts to be unfair.

  I spun around and looked into the face of the man who was not Dwight.

  Gracie growled. I tightened her leash almost to the collar, trying to get her behind me. She twisted and curled, trying to stay in front of me.

  “I’ve called 911. They’re listening right now. They’ll be here any second.”

  “Right,” he scoffed. “Give me your phone.”

  My heart jumped up. If I could reach in and hit 911 while pretending to fish for the phone…

  But I needed to keep him thinking about something else.

  “You’re Dwight’s cousin, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

  He smirked. “Guess it doesn’t matter if you know, considering where you’re going. Erwin.”

  “You do look a lot like Dwight. But did you really think you could pass for him while taking all your grandmother’s money through the power of attorney?”

  Clara cut me a look, but I concentrated on the non-Dwight. Erwin.

  “Old lady’s gaga. Besides, I’d’ve been out of here fast. And the money would’ve all been moved before anybody knew what was happening.”

  “But when you came here to the park with Skeeter — Why did you come here—? Oh? Dress rehearsal before you went to see your grandmother, wasn’t it? But Bob figured out you weren’t Dwight.” The tip of my finger found the edge of the phone. It had slid down sideways in my pocket. “That must’ve been a shock. He ruined your plan.”

  “I adapted. Think on my feet. Plan B. The old lady wasn’t going to sign a new will—”

  “Because she sensed you weren’t Dwight,” Clara flung at him. “So you weren’t going to be able to step into his life and take all her money.”

  A grating hack passed for a laugh. “Fine with me. I get a big share in the old will. And you think that Bob guy was so smart? He called Dwight’s phone to warn him, all superior. When he realized it was me, the jackass started lecturing how I didn’t know anything about dogs. I acted all humble and said I wanted to learn and he fell for it. But I said it had to be in secret, at night, the back way, not to hurt Dwight’s feelings. He’d’ve gone to the moon to show up Dwight. I was waiting, inside. Told him to come over the fence. He started climbing, bitching the whole way, until at the top, he asked where the dog was. I hooked him with that stupid scarf of Dwight’s, dragged him down, and finished it.”

  My fingers found the front of the phone, but I had to unlock it. I prayed I was touching the right spots.

  “You stepped in dog crap, didn’t you?”

  “What if I did?” His eyes narrowed.

  “They can test it. Prove it was you.” Oops. Probably not a topic to keep him entertained. “But why use Trevalyn’s lead—?”

  “Putting that guy’s fancy dog leash around his neck was just funny. Besides, might’ve needed the scarf for more Dwight-playing. That Bob guy said he hadn’t told anybody about me, but I figured he’d blabbed to one of you. Showing off. Couldn’t know which one, so you’ll all go. If they hadn’t closed the damned park, I could’ve gotten it done a lot sooner and been outta here.”

  Was that a faint beep I’d heard of the phone unlocking?

  “Whose fault is it they closed the Torrid Avenue Dog Park?” Clara demanded.

  I wanted to kick her.

  Except he didn’t get angrier. He grew smug. “We’ll see who’s bright. It’s sure not Dwight, because he’s dead. Taking his phone, that was smart. That’s how I got that old guy. That’s how I knew you’d found him. It started going off like crazy. Hustled out here and saw cops all over. Couldn’t stick around to find out who you were or tail you then. Every damned body knew Dwight. Patience. Knew I’d get another chance. When I’ve cleaned up you three, I’ll disappear for good. Until Gran croaks and I get my share — can’t be long now.”

  “People will recognize you.”

  “You think I’d come back here? They’ll send the money to me when she goes. I cleaned out Dwight so I can coast until the big payday.” He turned the gun on Clara, but spoke to me. “Enough. Give me the phone or she gets it.”

  Slowly, I pulled the phone out. I’d unlocked it, but no more.

  He glanced at the screen and laughed. “You didn’t call the cops, you stupid—”

  “Hey,” Clara objected. Really, she was going to correct his bad language at this moment?

  He tapped the screen. “Here’s the last number you called. You didn’t call 911, you idiot.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  For a second, I had no idea where the voice came from.

  I didn’t have one of those it might be God speaking from on-high moments. First, it didn’t sound on-high. Second, I’d never heard of God speaking from behind a PortaPotty.

  Also, it sounded familiar.

  “Who—?” Erwin spun around.

  I shoved Clara, hard, pushing her behind her SUV, and went sideways to follow, with both dogs dragged along with us.

  It wasn’t as much protection from a bullet as, oh, say, a tank, but it was better than a bunch of air.

  “She did call a cop, though,” the familiar voice finished. Teague O’Donnell. And then came the sound of sirens approaching. “And I called 911. Drop your weapon.”

  Erwin shot the PortaPotty.

  Clara and I screamed.

  Gracie charged back toward Erwin, yanking her leash free. LuLu followed.

  So did I. Clara, from behind, pulled my jacket, but I couldn’t tell if she was trying to tug me back or get past me.

  “Come out or the dog gets it,” Erwin shouted.

  I skidded to a stop. He had LuLu’s collar. He was trying to keep his gun on her, Gracie, me, the SUV, Clara, and the PortaPotty.

  Then Murphy came flying around the other side of the PortaPotty, leaping toward the man’s arm.

  He twisted away. But that twisted his wrist right into the grip of Gracie’s teeth as she leapt up.

  He was screaming as he dropped the gun.

  And that was before I kneed him and Clara stomped his instep.

  He stopped when Teague hit him.

  With lights and sirens, sheriff’s department vehicles streamed into the dog park lot.

  EPILOGUE

  Clara and I sat on weatherproof pads, under a shared weatherproof blanket, watchin
g our dogs at the otherwise deserted Torrid Avenue Dog Park.

  It was precipitating.

  Rain? Ice? Sleet? Snow? Freezing rain? Take your pick.

  It was the end of February in North Bend County, Kentucky.

  “I still say you shouldn’t have given me all the credit with Deputy Eckles,” Clara said.

  “My pleasure.” Truly, truly, my pleasure. “You did a great job on that interview yesterday with the Cincy TV station. Loved the plug at the end for rescue and shelter dogs.”

  We’d been to see Mrs. Yagos three more times, bringing new smelly stuff along. She wanted us to bring Gracie and LuLu. Carolyn had thoughts on getting past Geraldine that needed refining.

  The murders remained a prime topic with us, but each day a little less.

  “Thanks. I’m getting less nervous, so that’s good. Of course, Berrie is all over the place, talking about her trauma and all that nonsense. She wasn’t anywhere near the bullets. Teague won’t even let the sheriff’s department give out his name, much less do interviews.”

  He’d called 911 as he left my house for the dog park. He had no idea the non-Dwight was there, but picked up enough to be pretty sure I’d made a breakthrough.

  And, he’d told us more than once, he didn’t want me to be the next one killed because I hadn’t told anybody what I knew. Or Clara and me, because I’d told only her.

  When he saw the vehicle he recognized as Dwight’s — cop training, I guess — he parked on the road and he and Murphy came across fields, prepared to jump him at Dwight’s vehicle. When he realized we were on the other side of Clara’s SUV, he got behind the only cover available — the PortaPotty.

  “You know what I realized during that interview?” Clara asked me now. “I realized Bob figured it out first. He was the first one to recognize Erwin wasn’t Dwight. He’d’ve liked that. Of course, he wasn’t distracted by a murder, but, still, that was pretty impressive.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. It makes sense, too. Bob liked secrets and liked using them as weapons. So he was on the lookout for secrets. Plus, what had been the most important relationship in his life these past years? Dwight.”

  “Dwight?”

  “Yes. As an antagonist. The antagonist who defined Bob. Bob and Dwight paid closer attention to each other than anyone else. They had to. How else could they gripe about each other? How else could they point out flaws in what the other one did?”

  “I see that. I do. He watched Dwight all the time, looking for anything he could criticize or mock. You’re right. Who better to spot that it wasn’t Dwight?”

  “Skeeter,” I said.

  “Skeeter? Oh.”

  “Exactly. Remember what Donna said. That it wasn’t like Skeeter not to be right at Dwight’s side, ready to mix it up. But we saw how he was that day with the non-Dwight and — Well, how could you describe Skeeter’s reaction?”

  “Confused,” she said promptly. “He knew it wasn’t Dwight, but it was someone who looked and sounded like Dwight, wearing Dwight’s clothes. And according to that neighbor, Erwin had been staying with them for several days before — Oh.” I was growing fond of her little Ohs of discovery. “He must have killed Dwight away from Skeeter, because Skeeter would have known and reacted very differently to him. Erwin. The non-Dwight.”

  “Good point, Clara.”

  Deputy Eckles and the rest of the department had all that to sort out. Or to get Erwin to tell them.

  She sighed. “This has all been more exciting than I ever expected. Challenging and brain-stretching. But in another way, so sad. Bob dead. Dwight dead. And feeling suspicious of people you know and like.”

  I see at least one more suspect based on what you’ve told me.

  Clara.

  Clara had been Great-Aunt Kit’s other suspect.

  I could see it from Kit’s perspective, knowing Clara only as a collection of traits. Including her great interest in the case. Murderers did sometimes insert themselves in an investigation.

  I could also see why I’d missed — or dismissed — the possibility.

  Even in my initial hurt, anger, and mostly fear about her reporting to collie rescue, I’d never considered her a murder suspect.

  As if she’d caught a whisper of my thoughts, she said, “I really am sorry for spying on you and Gracie.”

  “Don’t be. I’d rather have people looking out for dogs than not. Especially someone like you — who agrees so much with me about how to treat them.”

  She chuckled. “Who knows how long it might have taken us to start talking if collie rescue hadn’t asked me to check on you. We might not have become friends for ages.”

  I shook my head. “It was a sure thing. Gracie and LuLu would have seen to it. Along with the third musketeer.”

  We didn’t dare say Murphy’s name for fear Gracie and LuLu would hear it.

  Murphy and Gracie had been examined by three dog experts the week after the event to be sure their defense of us didn’t indicate aggressive tendencies. They all agreed the dogs were safe for society.

  Good thing. I’m not sure what Clara would have done to those experts if they hadn’t. I am sure what I would have done.

  “We need Teague’s key,” Clara said.

  “What?”

  “So we can get you-know-who—” I swear Gracie lifted her head at that pseudonym for Murphy. “—and bring him with us to the dog park on days like today when Teague subs.”

  My suspicions of Teague had eased some as time passed with no article appearing or other sign that he’d unearthed my secret. He still asked more questions than I liked, but he did it while building my shelves.

  Still, I was not asking Teague O’Donnell for a key to his apartment.

  Though if Clara chose to…

  * * * *

  The bookshelves were done, following the completion of the closet shelves.

  Teague had finished packing up everything. All I had to do was wait a couple days for the last coat of paint to thoroughly dry before loading them.

  That evening, he and I were in the office, toasting the completion.

  I sat at the desk with champagne. He had his legs stretched out, the back of his neck propped on the back cushion of the loveseat, with a small bourbon.

  The dogs were curled up together, each breath bringing them in contact with the sole of his propped-up shoe.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  “About?”

  “Closets. The bedroom closets are way too small.”

  “That’s how they built them back then.”

  “Yup. They also built them deep. And the closets to the two bedrooms are side by side. If the side wall was broken out, they could each have twice as much hanging space. And the shoe shelves wouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “Huh. That might work. Want a bid?”

  “Yup.”

  He gave me that half smile.

  And another mystery was solved.

  I’d been wrong that it was the smile of an interviewer. It was the smile of a detective.

  The reason that half-smile bothered me was it indicated his brain was working away at some puzzle. Most of the time I’d seen it, he’d been looking at me.

  Teague O’Donnell viewed me as a puzzle to solve.

  That presented a problem, since I wanted to — needed to — remain unsolved.

  “Call me Sheila M,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  He rolled his head and looked at me from under his partly lowered lids. “I’m no English teacher, but I do like puzzles.” I squelched a shiver at his echoing my thoughts. “I’ll admit, this one, I had to write down. See it on paper. But then I figured out your game.”

  My heart squeezed, but my throat didn’t. “My game?”

  “First line of Moby Dick. Call me Ishmael. Happens to be an anagram for Call me Sheila M. No wonder you say it all the time. More English teacher humor.”

  I breathed.

  * * * *

  Someday I’ll tell you
the whole truth of how I came to Kentucky.

  At least mostly, like Mark Twain did.

  For now, I’ll leave it that I moved to Kentucky.

  Met the love of my life. Gracie the collie.

  Found my spiritual home. The Torrid Avenue Dog Park.

  And figured prominently — though the public doesn’t know it — in the solution of a murder that baffled local law enforcement. (Is anyone other than law enforcement ever baffled?)

  Oh, wait — there’s one thing I’m not going to be truthful about. My well-known author name. (I’m being modest — my author name’s famous.)

  You’d know it. You’d tell your friends. And you might stop buying the books with that name on them. I couldn’t do that to Aunt Kit. After all, she has an Outer Banks lifestyle to support.

  Since I have a Haines Tavern, Kentucky, lifestyle to support, I’d be okay.

  But I might need to get a job to feed Gracie’s treat habit. And then I couldn’t take her to the Torrid Avenue Dog Park as much.

  * * * *

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