Clawed: A Gin & Tonic Mystery

by L. A. Kornetsky

  “Ugh. Right.” She dragged herself out of bed and pulled a sweatshirt over the sweatpants and T-shirt she’d slept in, then shoved her sneakers on bare feet and grabbed Georgie’s leash off the desk, where she’d coiled it the night before. “C’mon, kid. Your bladder waits for no woman.”

  She managed to remember her room key before locking herself out, and exchanged a sleepy smile with another guest, who was coming out of the elevator with a terrier mix in his arms.

  “They have coffee in the lobby,” he told her. “Free.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she said, and he laughed.

  The coffee was hot and strong, even if it lacked in the taste department. She dumped two sugars into the paper cup and let Georgie drag her outside. There were two other guests walking their dogs that morning, and Ginny, holding her coffee in one hand and the leash in the other, watched them with a little more interest than she’d been able to muster the night before. The tall black man, already dapper in a suit, had two puppies that looked like some kind of shepherd mix tumbling at his heels. He was talking into a cell phone, softly enough that she couldn’t hear what he was saying, and occasionally glancing down to make sure that the puppies were staying out of trouble. She appreciated that kind of multitasking. The other guest was an older man, with a staid, graying black standard poodle that perfectly matched his own hair. Georgie and the poodle ignored each other, but she sniffed at the puppies—missing their abandoned pup Parsifal, maybe. They’d finally gotten Parsy a new home with one of Stacy’s friends, who lived in Kirkland and had room for an ungainly, overenergetic puppy to run around.

  Neither human attempted to speak to her as they strolled the length of the dog run, and while normally Ginny liked talking to other dog owners, this morning she was thankful for their preoccupation. She had gotten a full seven hours of sleep, but somehow it felt earlier than 6 a.m. The sun was up, though, and the sky was a grayish blue, and there were birds singing in a nearby tree, making Ginny feel like a slacker for not being more cheerful.

  Then again, she decided sourly, having a job go south was enough to ruin your mood—knowing that you were stuck here until the cops said you could go pretty much trampled it into the ground. If she had to extend her stay here . . .

  “At least I brought the laptop,” she said, not quite loud enough for the dog to hear. “Being stuck here without would have driven me to kill someone.” And then she looked around guiltily, as though a cop would be standing there writing down her words as a confession.

  Once Georgie had taken care of her basic needs and Ginny had finished her coffee, they went back upstairs and Ginny took care of her own morning maintenance. The water pressure in the shower was mediocre, but there was enough hot water that she finally started to feel alert—and a little less paranoid.

  She came out of the bathroom dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, about as far from the smart-but-approachable suit she’d been wearing yesterday as her suitcase could manage. She let her hair dry naturally and studied herself in the mirror. Her normal look was Professionally Tough, No Bullshit Taken. But if she left her hair down, and didn’t wear makeup?

  Her curls framed her face in a haphazard way that might be able to pass for innocently tousled, and her skin seemed reasonably clear, no more than normal shadows under her eyes, despite how tired she felt. She widened her hazel eyes at her reflection and tried to project Trustworthy Girl Next Door vibes.

  “Tonica’s so much better at this,” she told her reflection. “He could be dressed like a Goth IRS agent and people would still trust him.” It was his body language, making his strong build seem comforting rather than threatening, his expression inviting rather than forbidding.

  Oh well. She was honestly interested in what people had to say, especially when it was on a topic that she had a vested interest in solving. That was going to have to be enough.

  “C’mon, kid,” she called to Georgie, who had curled up in the corner while she took her shower, and seemed to be napping. “Time to go to work.”

  * * *

  Operation Neighborhood Walk was Tonica’s term for it. Ginny preferred the simpler “take Georgie for a walk and see what falls out.” But it came down to the same thing: drive to the area they wanted to check out, snap on Georgie’s leash, and wander along the sidewalks until someone came up to talk to them.

  Someone always did. No matter who was holding the leash, Georgie’s wrinkled skin and sweet brown eyes drew people to her, exactly the same way she’d first drawn Ginny to her at the sidewalk shelter adoption display. Shar-peis were a blend of odd and adorable, and Georgie’s one drooping ear, the off-breed inheritance, made her even more appealing. Strangers would approach cautiously, looking at Georgie then flicking their gaze up to the human with her, turning sideways, and offering their hand for Georgie to sniff at the same time they were asking if it was okay to approach the dog. Ginny thought it would be smarter to ask before putting your hand out, but people couldn’t seem to help themselves. She wasn’t much better, with other people’s dogs.

  People wanted to believe that dogs were friendly, for the most part.

  As they drove back to the house where she’d found the body yesterday, Ginny felt a familiar nervous tension in her stomach. It wasn’t the snooping around that made her uncomfortable—even when they’d started this, she’d been okay with the idea of asking questions and poking her nose into other people’s business. That was what she did, after all. All right, usually with their permission, and them paying her to do so, but the theory was the same. But returning to the same street, walking past the same house, where she’d been the one to discover a murder victim? When the cops had their eyes on her already?

  She gave herself a pep talk. “You’re just going to look. And maybe talk to anyone who’s out and about.” It was just after nine now, so the commute-to-work folk would be gone, and anyone on the street now might be more likely to stop and gossip about all the cops who’d come by the day before. That was the theory behind Neighborhood Walk, anyway, and it had always worked before.

  And it was unlikely anyone would connect her with the woman who’d been there the day before, even without the change of clothes and hairstyle. She hadn’t talked to anyone other than the cops, hadn’t been caught on film—that she was aware of—and hadn’t stopped to chat with any of the rubberneckers. Everyone had been focusing on the house and the cops, not the person who’d called in the scene.

  Normally, she’d be upset to be so overlooked, but in this instance, Ginny was thankful. Plus, she had Georgie now. People remembered the dog, not the owner. She was guilty of that herself, too.

  Just to be on the safer side, though, she parked the rental car a block away, and the two of them ambled in the direction of the house slowly, ready to abort the mission if she saw even a hint of a cop car. But whatever investigating the police had done, they seemed to be done. When she looked down the street, she could see that there was the usual yellow tape on the door, but no sign of anything else.

  Maybe they were treating it as an accidental death, despite what Ron had said. Maybe she was panicked for no reason at all.

  Then Ginny remembered the way the body had been crammed under the table, the torn clothing and bloodied hands, and shook her head. Even the most inept or corrupt TV cop would have to investigate that, even if they overlooked or ignored what was in the small studio, or—she presumed—on the computers lined up in the living room.

  “They’d have to have looked at the computers, whatever was on them. Wouldn’t they?” she asked Georgie, who was busy sniffing the base of the stop sign at the corner.

  Georgie had no opinion.

  “Some help you are, partner,” she grumbled, but gave Georgie a treat anyway. It wasn’t the dog’s fault she didn’t know enough about actual police procedure. She should learn. Except the cops she knew back in Seattle would be more likely to tell her to back off than to a
ctually tell her anything. . . . Maybe there was a website with that kind of info? There was always a website.

  “Oh, isn’t he a beauty,” a voice said, and Ginny looked up to see an older woman walking down the street, a tiny black fluff of a dog at the end of her leash. “Is that a shar-pei?”

  “Mostly,” Ginny said. “And she’s good with little dogs, don’t worry,” even as the fluff spotted Georgie and strained at the leash, wanting to go meet the newcomer. Georgie looked at the strange dog and wuffed once, then turned her head to look at Ginny, asking if this was all right.

  “Play, Georgie,” she said, and let the leash go slack enough that Georgie had room to move forward and sniff noses, then butts, before the black fluff tried to put its paws on Georgie’s head, indicating it was time to play.

  “Little dogs always think they’re so fierce,” the woman said fondly. “Mika firmly believes that she’s a Great Dane.”

  “Hey, Mika,” Ginny said. “Is she a Pom?”

  “Mostly. And a little Jack Russell, I think.”

  Ginny’s eyes widened. “That must make for . . .”

  The other woman laughed. “A very energetic dog, oh yes.”

  Mika’s owner had to be in her late sixties or early seventies, and Ginny only hoped that she was up to that kind of energy at that age. “You must have to walk her a lot?”

  “Three times a day, minimum.” They paused a moment to untangle the leashes, as the dogs circled each other, sniffing noses, then tails. “I have a yard where she can run around, but it’s good for her to have the discipline of a leash, too.”

  Ginny had the suspicion that the woman had been a teacher at one point. “I know that feeling,” she said with sincerity. “Georgie’s getting full-on training, because if she decided to take off I’m pretty sure she’d take my arm with me. Not that she ever would, she’s a sweetheart, but, well, things can startle even the best dog.” It was a lousy opening, but Ginny took it anyway. “And you never know what’s going to happen these days, do you? Were you out when the cops showed up yesterday? I only heard about it after the fact. . . .” Technically true: He was dead when she got there, so that was after the fact, right?

  “Oh my, yes, such a shame.” The woman made a face, the kind you make when you talk about a tragedy that doesn’t really affect you directly: slightly too concerned, too interested. “Not that I knew the boy who lived there—he seemed to keep rather odd hours, and spent his time with much younger people than me, obviously—but you don’t ever want to think about someone dying in such an awful fashion.”

  The dogs had graduated to mock-leaping at each other, and their owners had to keep adjusting leashes while they talked, handling the reins like seasoned pros to keep them from becoming hopelessly tangled. “Signs have already gone up; we’re going to have a neighborhood watch meeting at the end of the week, with the local police in to talk about safety precautions we can take.”

  “They think it was a break-in?”

  “Oh my, dear, what else could it have been?”

  “That’s terrible. . . . I’d hoped maybe he just fell, or . . .”

  “Oh no, it was definitely murder.”

  The woman didn’t lower her voice or look either wide-eyed or nervous saying the word: definitely a teacher, Ginny decided. Or ex-military.

  “Someone bashed his head in, and left him to die. I can’t imagine that was anything but a crime of passion, can you? I mean, a planned death wouldn’t be so . . . sudden?”

  “Maybe he was actually one of those so-quiet types who turn out to be mass murderers, and he was killed by an escaping victim?” Ginny couldn’t help herself; the woman seemed so fascinated by the ghoulish turn of the conversation.

  “Oh.” The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh dear, the property values of the neighborhood would never recover if they start finding bodies in the basement. . . .”

  They looked at each other, and there was a moment before they both started giggling, slightly ashamed of themselves.

  “Oh dear.” The woman’s expression eased a little, true regret there now. “A man is dead; we should not be so . . . But I suppose there are only a few ways to respond to death, and gruesome humor always seemed healthier to me than the others, if you didn’t actually know the victim. . . .” She shook her head, and then suddenly seemed to recall her manners. “I’m Daisy.”

  “Virginia.” Fake names were pointless trouble. A limited truth’s easier to keep track of, and gives you plausible deniability if you happen to know people in common. “And that’s Georgie.”

  “Do you live in the area, Virginia? I’m sure I would have noticed Georgie before.”

  “No, I’m down from Seattle on business. Georgie came with me, since it was only a car ride.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.” From ghoulish to grandmotherly in .002 seconds. “Business trips can be awful; it’s nice to have company. She’s good in a car?”

  “Surprisingly so,” Ginny said.

  At that point, Mika decided she’d had enough, and started tugging at her leash again, indicating she wanted to get a move on.

  “Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Portland,” Daisy said.

  “And I hope they catch whoever did that, soon,” Ginny said, bending down to pet Georgie, who looked forlorn to lose a playmate. “Sorry, kid,” she said as Daisy and Mika moved away. “That’s how business meetings go.” Bless Daisy. She might not have been the most informative informant, but it was an excellent starting point. The victim had lived in the house, and kept, quote unquote, “odd hours.”

  Maybe someone else down the block might know more.

  * * *

  What she discovered, though, was that the cops weren’t quite done with the scene yet. As they strolled closer to the house, a cop was visible, not so much standing guard as lounging against what looked like an unmarked squad car: a too-boring dark blue sedan with slightly tinted windows. As they came closer, the woman straightened and turned toward them, clearly asking Ginny to stop, and raising an eyebrow as though to ask what Ginny was doing walking her dog near a crime scene.

  All right, she might be getting paranoid again, but the probably-a-cop definitely took notice of them.

  “May I help you?” Definitely a cop: her voice was regulation dealing-with-the-public pleasant, but there was an undertone that suggested that the right answer would be “no thank you, just moving along.”

  “I’m sorry, was the street closed? I didn’t see any signs. . . .” Ginny had an excellent Innocent Civilian voice, but about three seconds in, the cop’s expression changed, and Ginny knew she’d been busted.

  “Ma’am? May I see some identification, please?”

  Ginny sighed, and pulled her wallet out of the bag slung over her shoulder, opening it and handing it to the nice officer in proper fashion, photo identification clearly visible.

  “You have a reason for being here, Ms. Mallard?” Had they seriously passed her name along as a person of interest, or whatever term the real cops actually used? She felt a tremor of panic. But even if they had, that wasn’t enough for the cop to be eyeing her like that, was it? She hadn’t done anything wrong, just being here. . . . Or had they run her name through their computers, found out she’d been involved in murders before? But if so, they’d know she’d never been a suspect in any of them, right? Or was just being around dead bodies too many times cause for suspicion?

  No, it couldn’t be, otherwise Miss Marple would have been cooling her sensible heels in prison for years, right?

  “I’m banned from the entire street?” She kept her tone surprised, not amused, or anything else that might possibly read as snark to someone with a gun. “I promised not to leave town, so that limits where I can walk Georgie,” and never mind that she was staying at a hotel in another neighborhood entirely; if the cop didn’t ask, she didn’t have to volunteer that information.
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  The cop glanced down—she’d given Georgie a once-over as she approached, and apparently dismissed her as not-a-threat, but was now able to give her proper notice. “And you’re Georgie, I take it, huh? Hi there.”

  Ginny blessed the money she’d spent on getting Georgie properly trained, because the shar-pei glanced at her for approval, then dropped onto her haunches and leaned her squared-off head into the cop’s hand, accepting the ear-scritch as her just due.

  “Looks tough, but melts like butter, huh?”

  “Pretty much,” Ginny admitted. “But she has to be walked on a regular basis, no matter what—or if momma’s on the most-wanted list.”

  “Yeah, I get that. A dog’s gotta pee when a dog’s gotta pee.” The cop had a sense of humor, thank God. “I was just coming to take the tape down, actually. You’re fine, so long as you don’t actually go near the house itself.”

  Ginny shuddered, and it wasn’t entirely an act. “Believe me, I have no desire whatsoever to go near that house ever again.” She might be an investigator, but she wasn’t a ghoul. And it wasn’t even a lie: desire and need had nothing to do with each other in this case.

  “So just cross the street and I’ll pretend I never saw you.”

  Ginny knew that was a lie: she wasn’t as good at reading people as Tonica, not even close, but this cop wasn’t going to “forget” that the only witness and a possible suspect happened to wander down the street the day after, not when they hammer into everyone’s skull that killers sometimes return to the scene of their crime. But hopefully she wouldn’t bother to tell anyone until the end of her shift, and by the time anyone followed up on it, they’d have a real suspect to go after. . . .