by Lane Stone
“Oh, I’m not royalty,” she said.
“Sue,” a baritone voice called out. “A word please.”
“No,” I said.
Without missing a beat, John, though he was in full Chief Turner mode, said, “No? That’s not the word I had in mind.” He turned to the Ziegler men. “Let’s go in.”
He led us through the small lobby and down a hallway. Midway down he stopped and held up a hand for Lady Anthea, Rick, and me to halt. “Mr. Ziegler, do you have an attorney?”
“No, I don’t need one. When did getting your classic automobile stolen become a crime in this town?”
Rick cringed at his father’s description of his car.
“You three can wait in the lobby,” John said. He turned on his heel and opened the door for Rick’s dad to go into the room and followed him. The uniformed Lewes police officer, a young woman I’d last seen when my business and then my home both became crime scenes, went into the interrogation room after them. The door was closed on our civilian faces and we stood there glaring at it like it had used bad language then slammed shut.
“This is not going to go well,” Rick said, still staring at the wooden door.
“I’ve had a long day,” Lady Anthea said. “Can we sit in the lobby?”
“Sure,” Rick said. “I forgot you flew in today. Would you like some coffee? Or tea, maybe?”
“No, just a place to sit.”
We sank onto a vinyl sofa and looked longingly at the door to the interrogation room.
“Did Dayle have a doctor’s appointment? Is that why you asked me to come?” I asked.
“No, she’s done with those. Hopefully forever.” He paused and took a breath. “Actually, I was hoping you could use your influence with the police chief,” he said.
“I don’t know if I have any.”
Lady Anthea snorted a laugh.
I rolled my eyes and changed the subject. “Don’t forget Mason and Joey have something special planned for us on the beach tonight after dark. They’ve kept it all a big secret, but it involved trips to Walgreens and the grocery store.” I turned to Rick. “You and Dayle are coming, right?”
He jerked his jaw in the direction of the door. “Depends on how things go here.”
We went back to staring at the door.
“Where did you find your dad?” I asked.
“He was in his apartment, hiding out. Not answering his phone. Not even opening up when I went over there.”
“Ouch,” I said.
“He says I throw shade on him.”
“What in the world does that mean?” Lady Anthea asked, also mesmerized by the closed door.
I had heard Dana and Mason use the term. “It means to trash someone in front of other people.” I tore my eyes from the door to twist on the sofa and face Rick. “That does not sound like you.”
He gave me a weak smile but before he could say anything, the door opened, and Chief Turner strode our way. He sat in the chair opposite our sofa.
“Rick, Ziggy is free to go,” he announced.
“Who’s Ziggy?” Rick asked.
“Your dad—he said it was what everybody called him.”
“His name is Martin. No one calls him Ziggy,” Rick said.
“Well, he’s given us the names of the two individuals he says took the victim’s dog. We’ll try to find them.” John opened up his notebook. “Do you know Arthur Dent or Ford Prefect?”
“No,” Rick said, shaking his head, puzzled.
“I think you should let Rick and me sit in,” I said, trying not to laugh.
“Why would I do that? I’m getting somewhere,” John said.
“Not really.” Yeah, I was gloating. “Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect are the main characters in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”
In one fast, angry arc, Chief Turner was out of the chair and halfway back to the interrogation room. He pushed the door open. “Sit down!” we heard him say before the door closed again.
“Did you find the car?” I asked. We were speaking to one another but back to staring at that damn door.
“No,” Rick said. “It wasn’t at Mozart’s.”
“Rick, your father said it was stolen. Does he know where the car is?” Lady Anthea asked in a low tone, in case any of the uniformed officers who walked by from time to time were listening. “I’m not familiar with the laws here, but in England that would be classified as insurance fraud.”
“Insurance?!” Rick and I practically yelled the word at the same time.
“She hasn’t seen the ca—” I got out before going into uncontrollable laughter.
Rick started laughing too, and we were both wiping our eyes. I doubled over on the sofa at the thought of the insurance premiums compared to the value of Rick’s father’s car.
When Rick was able to, he said, “I don’t know if he knows where the car is or not. You see, my father has an unusual kind of relationship with the truth.”
The interrogation room door opened and I straightened up and tried to look serious. John looked happy. He sat in the same chair, and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “He was afraid to tell me the truth before. This is serious. What really happened was someone kidnapped the dog that was left at the lighthouse and demanded dog food as ransom. It fits in with there being two robberies.” He turned to Rick. “Sue told me how expensive the good stuff is. The ringleader has a teenager working for him who was going to pass the dog food on to some other teenagers to sell.”
“Did he tell you who the mastermind was?” Lady Anthea asked.
“The name’s Walter White,” Chief Turner said.
“It’s going to be a long night,” I said with a sigh.
“Please let Sue and me go in there,” Rick pleaded.
Chief Turner’s eyes moved from one of us to the other. “You think that’s an alias?”
“He’s the main character from Breaking Bad, a TV show,” Rick said, breaking it to him as gently as he could.
“Son of a…!” The speed and ferocity in Chief Turner’s return to the room startled me.
When I saw the door had closed all the way, I whispered, “Good one, Daddy-O.”
The next time the door opened, Chief Turner leaned out. “Sue and Rick, would you come in?”
When I was close enough to him to speak in a low voice, I asked, “The last time you came out you mentioned the dog food robberies. Did Mr. Ziegler bring them up? Does he know about them?”
He had lowered his head to hear me and now he was looking into my eyes, closing the distance between our faces. Then he straightened, smashed his lips into a tight line, and shook his head. “No,” he whispered.
I looked around him, back at Lady Anthea, still seated on the sofa in the lobby. She stood and motioned for me to go on ahead.
“Are you going to look for a place to get a cup of tea?” I asked.
“Put a G and an and on that and you’ll hit the mark,” she said.
“Huh?” Rick said, joining Chief Turner and me.
I laughed. “I’m trying to convert her from her gin and tonics to orange crushes but I haven’t had much luck.” I’d introduced Lady Anthea to the state drink of Delaware last year.
“When in Lewes, Lady Anthea,” he called over his shoulder.
I watched as she headed for the door; again struck by how comfortable we were around her now.
Chapter 13
“Uh-oh,” was how Martin Ziegler greeted us. He looked tired and it seemed almost like keeping that smirk on his face was real work. His tone had been sarcastic but he looked at Rick with affection. I’d just met him but my read was that he was glad his son was there. Of course, hell would freeze over before he would admit it.
Rick sat next to his dad and I sat across from Mr. Funny Man. Chief Turner took the chair next to me and
tapped the fancy recorder in the middle of the table. “Interview is resuming. Sue Patrick and Rick Ziegler are also present.”
Martin pointed a stubby finger at me. “I want the dog.”
“Chill, Pop,” Rick said.
“I love that pooch and I can give him a good home,” he said with a sniffle, added on for maximum drama.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
The beat it took him to answer was all it took for me to know my hunch was right. I’ve never known a pet parent to refer to their dog as the pooch. People wanting you to go out with them, buy something, or vote for their candidate said “pooch.” What did Martin Ziegler want?
“It’s Billy B.,” he said.
“I meant the dog, the Pug. What’s his name?”
“It’s Puggie,” he said, finally and with such assuredness that I was ready to bet good money he thought I didn’t know the dog’s name either.
I shook my head. “It’s Wags.”
The corners of his lips tilted down. For some curious reason he was disappointed that I knew.
“He’ll stay with me until Billy B.’s next of kin can be contacted, but I’m curious to know why you want him.”
“To give him a good home,” he answered. I didn’t bother to say the dog was spending his days at a five-star pet palace getting very expensive classes from Lady Anthea, gratis, and his nights being spoiled by Mason and Joey.
“Pop?” Rick’s tone was stern.
“Billy B. was my employee and that’s the least I can do.” He stuck his chin out defiantly.
“Pop!”
“What?” Martin Ziegler yelled.
“Why do you keep saying Billy B. was your employee?”
“Why not?”
This exchange sent Chief Turner scrambling through his old-school notebook. “You must have referred to him as your employee five or six times. He’s not?”
Martin leaned toward me, like we were the best of pals. “Ms. Patrick, explain to him that in a small business titles often aren’t relevant.” He sneered at John. “If you’re not one of us, you just don’t understand.” He smiled and added in soulful eyes as a bonus.
“Ziggy? May I call you Ziggy?” I cooed.
“Of course. Please do,” he said.
“Ziggy, would you like to take me out for a drink? Let’s get out of here.”
His mouth dropped open. When he recovered, he looked at Chief Turner for either assistance or permission, or both.
John raised his hands, palms up. “By all means. You’re free to go.”
I stood. “I’ll wait out front for you to pick me up.”
“Gimme ten or fifteen minutes. I’ll be right back—” That’s when Martin froze, his backside hovering over his chair. He realized he had pretty much admitted he had his car back, or at least knew where it was. You can’t just make a direct run at someone like Mr. Ziegler and expect an honest answer. I hoped John was taking notes in his little notepad on this.
He sat down. “I told you it was stolen.”
“You have the car now?” John asked.
All this got him from Martin, never-aka Ziggy, was a scowl.
Just last month I read a book about someone taking something that belonged to someone else, and that person got it back and the first person ended up dead. By “The End,” we knew that the second person, that is, the owner, had killed him. The source was Nine-Tenths of Death. Martin Ziegler had done his damnedest to incriminate himself. And then there was Rick’s question about why he was calling Billy B. his employee. What had he been? Was this just more of Martin’s craziness or did his actual status in the business have anything to do with the murder? After all his stories, the only thing I knew for sure was that if Lady Anthea and I were going to find out who killed Billy B. we would have to know everything that had happened early yesterday morning. We would have to find the facts in the chaos that was the Martin Ziegler-created reality. For now, Rick had to find an off-ramp for his father.
“Did Billy B. steal your vehicle?” John was asking. Another scowl. Chief Turner pulled a folded sheet of paper out of the inside pocket of his jacket and flattened it before laying it on the table in front of Martin. “Here’s a photo of the victim driving your car yesterday morning.”
“He may have borrowed it,” Martin answered. “He’d never steal from me.”
“Do you know why he borrowed your car?” John asked.
“Maybe he couldn’t figure out Uber,” he said.
“Pop,” Rick said, stretching the word out, his voice filled with a plea to get back on the straight and narrow.
“He went over there to get a dog to track his and find it.” He looked at me. I liked the way he hadn’t held my earlier deception against me. “That’s what dogs do, right?”
“Only if they’ve been trained to,” I said.
Mr. Ziegler went on, “Well, your dog is probably trained in a lot of things. And with all the dogs going in and out of Buckingham’s some of them must know how to track, right?”
Sure, his theory had a crazy number of holes, but I believed there was some legit information woven in. The case had something to do with dogs, or a dog, Wags. It had not escaped my notice that he alluded to Abby. “You knew Billy B. came to my house and to Buckingham’s?” I gave Rick a this isn’t good look, and John saw it. Martin knew his car had been at my place and that Billy B. had been there, too. This closed off any possibility that the car had been abandoned somewhere and he had found it, which was flimsy but there were probably attorneys out there sleazy enough to use it. “Why would he steal from Rick and me first?” I asked.
Rick rubbed his forehead. “Pop, if you don’t know, you don’t know.”
“So when can I get Wagner?” By changing the subject instead of making up a story, Martin was restoring my faith in humanity. He pronounced the composer’s name correctly and with a German accent. Vagner. Why had he pretended not to know the dog’s name before? I had said Wags, but few people would make that connection. Actually, Lady Anthea was the only person I knew whose brain would spring to the composer, instead of to what a dog’s tail did.
“Wags. Wagner. I get it now,” I said.
“Some opera singer Billy knew was going into assisted living and she gave him the dog. She used to live around here and liked his singing. That was about five or six years ago.” Martin smiled at the memory.
It was a nice story but I still wanted to know why he’d led us to believe he didn’t know the dog’s name, and why he wanted him, though I doubted I’d find out from him.
“Martin, can I ask you another question? The whole town thought a lot of Billy B. but few of us feel like we knew him. Why was that?” I looked at Martin and hoped he would say something honest.
He looked at the wall over my shoulder and I saw his jaw clench. “I know what you mean. He would sing opera every day for lunch and dinner but when it came to talking about himself, no dice. I asked him once what some of those songs meant and he told me which ones were love songs and which ones were about families, or just life. But if I ever asked about where he came from he’d clam up. He did say that keeping a low profile was how you stayed safe in this life.” I believed what he had said, and hoped I wouldn’t be disappointed.
“Did Billy B. not have a car?” I asked.
Martin shook his head no.
“Then how did he get to work every day?” I asked.
“He walked,” Martin said.
“I have his address. He would have had to walk at least four or five miles each way!” Chief Turner said.
“He liked it. Once told me his father did the same thing. His old man used to say that just getting out and walking with no one to stop you was the best feeling in the world.”
Chief Turner looked unconvinced but waited before he asked, “Mr. Ziegler, do you have any idea how much trouble you
are in? Even if I forget the misleading information you’ve given me here tonight, instead of adding on obstructing an investigation, and forget you claimed your car was stolen when you had it all along, you’re looking at a murder charge.”
Martin started to interrupt but Chief Turner cut him off. “The victim had possession of your car almost up until the time he was killed. Now you have the car. Where is it?”
“In the parking lot of Fowler’s Beach,” he said.
I didn’t know if Chief Turner knew where that was, but I could tell him later that it was a few miles north of Lewes on Route 1.
John was becoming more angry and frustrated, and spoke with what I would call his last-chance voice. “I’m about to ask you a question and I want you to think carefully before you tell me another untruth. Was Billy B. alive when you retrieved your car from Sue’s driveway?”
The question was so un-Chief-John-Turner that all I could do was stare. First, it was a question. I had expected a statement that began with the words, “I’m arresting you for.” Second, that he hadn’t jumped straight to “Did you murder William Berger?”
“He wants a lawyer,” Rick said. There it was; there was his off-ramp. Now all we had to do was hope his father would stop talking, by that I mean lying, long enough to drive onto it.
Chapter 14
After Rick lawyered up his father, Chief Turner leaned back in his chair and looked at each of us. Then he glanced over at Officer Statler who had been sitting at the end of the table so quietly I had forgotten she was there. “Make arrangements to have that car brought in,” he told the young woman. She gazed at him with such adoration I thought she would have gladly pulled the car up Route 1 with her bare hands. “Sue, what city is it in?”
“Milford,” I said.
“Call the Milford police and let me know if there’s a problem.” She left the room, sidestepping behind the chairs, and John went back to sitting and glaring at us. I wondered if I could go help her, just to get out of that little room. Then I reminded myself I had practically begged to get into it.
Finally I put us out of our misery by asking, “Would you let Martin go based on Rick’s assurance that his father won’t leave town?”
