In Plain Sight
Page 28
The girl’s glance strayed to the door, then traveled back to my face. “I don’t have a car. I can’t get out there.”
Zsa Zsa, my cocker spaniel, came out from under the counter where she’d been sleeping and rubbed against my leg. “Maybe one of your friends can take you.” I bent down and petted my dog. She had a mat on one of her ears. That was the trouble with cocker spaniels. They always needed to be groomed. The girl didn’t move. I straightened up. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you,” I repeated.
“You have to,” the girl insisted.
“Actually, I don’t.” And I turned to go. My patience had run out.
“But Murphy said you would.”
I stopped dead. Suddenly the room seemed unnaturally bright. “Murphy?” I could hear my voice crack on the name. “Murphy is dead.” He’d O.D.’d on cocaine and left me as chief suspect in a murder case awhile back. It was something I hadn’t been able to forgive or forget.
She gave me a look of contempt. “I know that. But he told me if I ever had any problems, I should come to you. Well I have a problem, and I’m coming to you.”
How classically Murphy, I reflected, shaking my head in wonder. Even when he was dead, the son of a bitch was still causing trouble. A nerve twitched behind my left eye. I rubbed my temples. “How do you know him?”
The girl didn’t answer. She was too busy looking at something over my shoulder. I turned and followed her gaze. She was staring out the front window. Two men were standing on the pavement in front of the store, talking to each other in the late afternoon gloom. I looked back at the girl. She seemed to have shrunk into herself. Her jacket highlighted her pallor.
“Who are they?” I asked.
She didn’t answer my question. Instead, she touched a shaking hand to the base of her throat. “Is there another way out of here?”
I pointed to the door on my left. “Through there. What kind of trouble are you in?”
“Enough.” And before I knew what was happening, she leaned over and put the ferret on my shoulder. “Be good, Mr. Bones,” she whispered. Her eyes were glazed with tears.
“Wait,” I cried. But it was too late. By the time I’d gotten the word out of my mouth, she was through the door to the back.
I was just about to follow her, when the front door banged open and the two men I’d just seen standing outside lumbered in. They were both in their early thirties. Dressed in Windbreakers, jeans, sweatshirts, and sneakers, they both looked like high school jocks who’d never forgotten their moment of glory on the field.
“Where’s the girl who was in here?” the taller of the two demanded, as his eyes swept the store.
Zsa Zsa ran out from behind the counter and began barking at him, something she did when she didn’t like someone. Usually I’ve found her judgement coincides with mine.
I blew a bubble and popped it, before I replied. “Why do you want to know?”
He glared at me. “This is why.”
I blew and popped another bubble as he strode over, reached into his Windbreaker, took out a cheap plastic card carrier, opened it, and handed it to me.
“Detective, huh?” I said, after I’d read the card inside. Not that I was surprised. It was hard to miss the handcuffs peeking out of his side pocket. Camouflage was obviously not his forte.
“That’s right. Now where is she?”
I didn’t answer immediately. Maybe it was her mention of Murphy, maybe it was that she looked so small and the detectives looked so large, or maybe it was because she seemed like a lost soul. But something about the girl made me want to give her some extra time.
“Where is she?” the detective repeated.
I looked around the store. “She’s not here.”
“I can see that.”
I blew another bubble. “Well she could have been hiding behind the rabbits.”
His eyebrows came together as he beetled his brow. “I heard about you.”
“Something good I trust,” I replied, even though I knew it wasn’t. I didn’t need the expression on his face to tell me that. I’d been involved in solving three homicide cases since my husband’s death and was not particularly liked downtown.
Before he could answer, his partner walked up and pointed to the door behind me. “Where does that go?”
“To the storeroom.”
“Is there another way out?”
I nodded. I wasn’t going to lie for the girl, either.
The two men exchanged glances and headed towards the door.
“Be careful of the boa constrictor,” I called, as they opened it. “I think he’s out of his cage.” It was a juvenile thing to do, but the therapist I used to go to told me I should cultivate my inner child.
They didn’t answer. A moment later, I heard the side door slam. They were probably running through the alley towards Devon Street, which is where the girl had most likely gone—unless, of course, she’d gone in the back door of Phil’s Grocery and out the front. Or, if she were smart, she would have cut through the backyards and run towards Geddes Street. There were more people and stores there, making it easier to hide. But not for her, I realized. With her blue hair, she’d stand out anywhere. Mr. Bones began sniffing at my neck. His stiff whiskers tickled my skin.
I held the ferret up. “So what did your mistress do?” I asked. But he didn’t answer. I guess this wasn’t the day for questions. I put the animal back on my shoulder. He just lay there. This was one very mellow ferret. Most of the ones I’ve known would be racing up and down my arm and trying to burrow beneath my shirt, by now.
I was blowing another bubble and trying to figure out what the hell was going on, when the detectives walked back in through the front door, bringing the late afternoon October darkness with them.
“Do you know where she went?” the taller one asked. He must have been the designated talker for the group.
I popped the bubble. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He walked over and planted himself in front of me. Zsa Zsa scooted back out from behind the counter and barked at him again. She had a small dog’s piercing sound. It was very annoying. I could tell, from the expression on his face, that the detective thought so too.
“Can’t you shut her up?” he demanded.
“Probably.” And I shushed Zsa Zsa. She tossed her ears and pranced back behind the counter.
“What did the girl want?” the detective asked.
I told him the truth. “To board the ferret.” And I pointed to Mr. Bones.
“What else did she say?” I could see that the animal didn’t interest him.
“Nothing.” I didn’t see any reason to drag Murphy into the conversation. “What do you want her for?”
Instead of answering, the detective took out a business card and gave it to me. He’d penciled in his name at the bottom. Paul Marvin. I guess money was tight at the Syracuse Police Department. “When you get bored, do you reverse your names?” I asked.
He pressed his lips together. He probably got that comment all the time. “Call me when she comes back,” he said.
“What makes you think she will?”
“The rat.” And he pointed to Mr. Bones.
“Ferrets aren’t rodents.” Everyone always says that, and it annoys the hell out of me. “They belong to the mink family.”
“Ask me if I care.”
“Do you?”
His jaw tightened, and he turned away.
“I guess you’re not interested in taxonomic niceties.”
Before Marvin could reply, his partner came up and told him they had to get going. I blew another bubble as I watched them leave and thought about what had just happened. It was all a big puzzle and there didn’t seem to be much I could do at the moment to solve it, but that didn’t prevent me from thinking about it, while I fixed up a home for the ferret in an old aquarium. It wasn’t the best place to keep him, but since I didn’t have a ferret cage around, it would h
ave to do for the moment.
Who was this girl? I wondered, as I put the aquarium on top of the counter. How had she known Murphy? And what the hell did she want from me? That’s what I wanted to know.
About the Author
Barbara Block lives in Syracuse, New York with her three sons and a variety of pets. She is the author of four Robin Light mysteries: CHUTES AND ADDERS, TWISTER, IN PLAIN SIGHT, and THE SCENT OF MURDER (now available at bookstores everywhere in hardcover). Barbara is currently working on her next Robin Light mystery, which will be published in September, 1998. She loves hearing from her readers and you may write to her c/o Zebra Books. Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope if you wish a response.
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Copyright © 1996 by Barbara Block
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