Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan)

by P. M. Carlson

  “What’s that?”

  “The noise. We heard the wood splitting.”

  “That’s right.” Olivia moved closer to them and shuddered, remembering. “It was like a screech.”

  Jerry caught her hand and kissed it before pulling her down to sit next to him on the sofa. “So maybe it screeches when it’s pushed back,’’ he said dubiously.

  “So far,” said Nick, “we’re going to ask the police if they’ve found evidence of threads attached to the lamp, trick window frames, or mysterious screeching door wedges. Don’t you think Schreiner will find it all a tad far-fetched? Exceeding fantastical?”

  “But what do you suggest? The room was locked,” Olivia said.

  “Well, I’d like to know about the medication he was taking,” Nick said. “Could he have had some kind of reaction? Overdose, maybe, that could cause convulsions so he’d crash into the lamp?”

  Jerry shook his head. “Not likely. You want a brief lecture about Dale’s medicines?”

  “Sure,” said Nick.

  “Okay.” Jerry seemed glad to be distracted from the grim crime scene into more general considerations. “To oversimplify hideously, there are two chemical messengers in the brain that have to be in proper balance. One is called acetylcholine, the other dopamine. Not enough dopamine, and you get Parkinson’s symptoms—stiffness, slow movement or even brief freezing episodes, tremor. That’s what Dale had. But if the seesaw tips the other way and there’s too much dopamine in your brain, you get loose-jointed, uncontrolled movement. Also restlessness. Hey, Mag, that’s it! That’s been your trouble all these years! Too much dopamine!”

  Maggie stood up, gave Jerry a contemptuous look, dusted her hands on her shorts, and sprang onto the sofa arm next to Olivia. She paused there gracefully a moment, leg and arms extended in what would have been a beautiful arabesque if it hadn’t been for her belly. Olivia could see the sinews in the lean foot and calf tensed for balance.

  “All right, all right,” Jerry admitted. “You do have a smidgin of control.”

  Olivia grinned up at her, guiltily aware that she too would rather think about anything except Dale. “Cathy Rigby,” she said.

  “Well, listen, soon as they have Olympics for people seven months pregnant, I’ve got it made,” Maggie declared. She stepped down neatly from the sofa arm and drew them firmly back to the problem. “So how do you treat Parkinson’s?”

  “You try to restore the balance of the two chemical messengers in the brain.”

  “So if Dale didn’t have enough dopamine, you’d just add some?” She settled on the floor, legs folded.

  “I wish it was that easy! But for years Parkinson’s had to be treated by suppressing acetylcholine with anticholinergic drugs, so the two brain chemicals would be in balance.”

  “Is that what Dale took?”

  “Yes. But about five years ago they discovered that L-dopa could increase dopamine in the brain. So now they can restore the balance two ways.”

  “Can you get too much L-dopa?”

  “Possible. But it’s not likely that was Dale’s problem. He was on a very light beginning dose of L-dopa, and even that was still causing some nausea. He wouldn’t likely take too much.”

  “Not on purpose,” Nick said.

  “Also, he was still taking the anticholinergic,” Jerry continued. “The same drug that he’d been taking for years. He was at the highest dosage of that—probably that’s why his doctor wanted him to add the newer drug at this point. I suspect he was suffering some mild side effects from the anticholinergic. Reduced secretions—dry mouth and so forth.”

  “Suppose he took too much of his old drug?” Maggie asked.

  “Restlessness, floppiness. Plus forgetfulness. And maybe hallucinations. Psychedelic effects, little people having parties, writhing designs on the rug.”

  “Wow.” Maggie was sitting cross-legged on the floor now, listening avidly. “Sounds like fun. Would he maybe take too much on purpose?”

  “No,” Olivia said firmly. They didn’t know Dale.

  “Not the type?” asked Nick dubiously.

  “Well, now that you mention it, he’s not. Wrong generation. Too uptight to play games with his medicine. The whole time I’ve worked with him I’ve never seen him restless or twitchy. Slow, yes. A couple of times he sort of froze, couldn’t move his feet.”

  “Yeah, that’s typical of Parkinson’s,” Jerry confirmed.

  “But the real reason Dale wouldn’t overdose is that he was working on a story. He was a good reporter, damn it! And he wouldn’t risk forgetfulness or hallucinations if a story was breaking.”

  “In any case,” said Jerry, “tripping wouldn’t have the charms for him that it does for some people. To patients with this sort of chemical imbalance, being normal is the amazing and glorious thing.”

  “So an overdose is unlikely,” Nick summed up. “He’d been taking one drug for years with few problems even at high dosages. The other was prescribed in low—”

  He was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. Olivia hurried to answer it.

  A couple stood there, erect in dark raincoats, the woman with steely gray hair, the man angular and balding. He said, “We’ve come for our grandchildren.”

  “What?”

  “Josie and Tina. Our grandchildren.” The man emphasized his point with an impatient tap of his furled but dripping umbrella.

  Maggie was at Olivia’s shoulder now. She scanned the grim pair and asked, “Are you Dale Colby’s parents?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, I’ll go fetch Josie and Tina’s parent,” said Maggie sweetly, and breezed up the stairs.

  Olivia decided not to ask these people in. Well, not unless Donna wanted them. It was raining again but the porch was a broad comfortable turn-of-the-century model where they could all talk easily enough. So when the man motioned to go in, she didn’t budge, just smiled and said, “They should be down soon.” All the same she was glad to note Nick and Jerry behind her in the arch to the living room.

  Donna, wrapped in Jerry’s navy terrycloth robe, looked frail and uncertain as she descended the stairs. Olivia gave her an encouraging smile and said, “Would you rather talk on the porch?”

  Donna’s frightened eyes checked the pair outside, then Olivia, then the comforting bulk of Nick and Jerry. She seemed to take heart. “Yes,” she said.

  Mr. Colby’s lips tightened but he moved aside to let the phalanx of women out. Nick and Jerry remained inside, shadowy linebackers. Olivia waved at the wicker chairs. “Have a seat,” she offered.

  “No need for that.” Mr. Colby refused conciliation and glared at Donna. “We came for Josie and Tina.”

  Donna stared at her feet.

  Maggie said, “You’re saying that you want to help Josie and Tina?”

  “Yes, that’s it.” Mrs. Colby spoke for the first time, with a furtive glance at her husband.

  “That’s natural, at a time like this,” said Maggie agreeably. “I’m sure there will be a lot of ways to help them.’’

  “We want them with us,” said Mr. Colby.

  “You mean Donna too, of course?” inquired Maggie. Donna was observing her now, brown eyes amazed, occasionally flicking a nervous glance at Mr. Colby.

  Mr. Colby said impatiently, “No, not enough room, and she’s a bad influence.”

  “Oh? In what way?” Olivia asked indignantly.

  “Well, look what she did to our son!” exclaimed Mr. Colby. “Broke up his marriage. Let him catch that disease. And now let him get murdered!”

  Mrs. Colby sobbed. So did Donna. But they both stood rigidly apart from one another.

  Mr. Colby added angrily, “She’s a bad mother. Just the way she was a bad wife!”

  “Well,” said Maggie in that sweet voice, “the fact remains that Donna is the person who has the right to decide. What do you say, Donna? Do you want Josie and Tina to go with their grandparents?”

  Donna’s lip trembled. She shook her head.
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  “Not even for a few days?” Maggie continued.

  Donna looked at her feet again. Olivia was exasperated with her. Okay, so right now she was devastated, that was understandable. Hard to be liberated in the midst of tragedy. But if she’d stood up to these people long ago they’d be more reasonable now. Wouldn’t they?

  And Mr. Colby was blustering again. “We’re not talking about a few days, young lady! We’re talking about my grandchildren’s future!”

  “So are we!” exclaimed Olivia hotly, unable to keep silent any longer. “What makes you think—” She broke off. Maggie’s hand, a powerful gymnast’s hand, was squeezing her wrist painfully.

  “It’s Donna’s decision,” Maggie repeated gently. “Donna, I know it’s hard right now. But you have to take control of your life. You have to decide what’s best for your girls.”

  Donna looked at Maggie and drew a deep breath. Then, blonde hair alight in the glow from the porch lamp, she squared her shoulders in Jerry’s robe and said, “It would be best for the girls to stay with me.”

  Olivia cheered silently. Mr. Colby shouted, “You’ll regret this! We’ll—we’ll—”

  Olivia said, “If you cause them any trouble, Donna can get a court order to keep you away.”

  There was a spark of astonishment in the old man’s eyes. He waved a fist at Donna. “You do that and I’ll disown them! You, them, everyone!” He grabbed his wife’s elbow and steered her from the porch. “I’ll disown them!” he repeated, as though relishing the sound of it. “You hear that? I’ll disown them!” They disappeared down the front walk.

  Donna stood there dazed until Maggie put her arm around her and drew her inside.

  “Whew!” said Olivia as they rejoined the men. “I hate to insult your family, Donna, but they really are unreasonable.”

  “Can I really get a court order?” Donna asked in wonder.

  “If you want one,” said Maggie. “You have lots of rights, you know.”

  “But Dale’s father is so …”

  Maggie gave her hand a squeeze. “Yes. But I have a feeling that he’s mostly bluster. Stand up to him the way you did tonight and your girls will be fine.”

  “I’m not very good at standing up to people.”

  “You did fine.”

  “I wish he would disown us,” said Donna with feeling. She glanced at the staircase.

  “Fine. Then there’s no problem. Do you want to get back to your girls, now?” She squeezed her hand again encouragingly and released her to go back upstairs, then Maggie joined the others drifting back into the living room.

  Jerry said, “Boy. I hope that man’s the murderer. I’d love to lock him up.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” said Olivia indignantly. “Should have asked him for an alibi.”

  “Well, I’m sure Schreiner will ask,” said Nick. “Now, where were we?”

  “Drug overdoses,” said Maggie. “I suppose the cops will know to test for overdoses of those medications?”

  “Yeah,” said Jerry. “Schreiner said she used to be a nurse.”

  “Really?” Olivia was fascinated. “But she’s such a cold fish!”

  “I don’t think she’s a cold fish.” Maggie was thoughtful. “I think she hurts.”

  “Well, the effect is the same,” snorted Olivia unsympathetically.

  “All cops act like cold fish,” said Nick. His lively eyes suddenly grew stony, watchful; his usually mobile face became neutral, impenetrable; his pleasant voice shifted to a flat contralto. It was an amazing transformation. “What time did you return from the beach?”

  Jerry clapped his hands. “God, that’s Schreiner!”

  “Why do they do that?” Olivia wondered.

  Nick shrugged. “They never know if they’re talking to the damsel in distress or to the perp. It’s a grim job and they can’t afford mistakes.”

  Maggie pulled them back to the problem at hand. “Okay, so Dale’s medication is not likely the problem, and—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Olivia. She glanced apprehensively at the stairs and lowered her voice. “Could Donna maybe slip extra medicine into his sandwich? Or his coffee? I mean, she wouldn’t, but—”

  “She didn’t,” Maggie said. “Or we might all be hallucinating right now. I know because Sarah went running into the kitchen about the time Dale asked Donna for his lunch. I followed Sarah. And I saw Donna pour his coffee from the same Thermos all the rest of us drank from. She poured it into a mug that she took from the dishwasher.”

  “And the sandwich?”

  “I was by the table and she asked me to hand her one. I just randomly grabbed one from the basket and put it on the plate she was fixing for him.”

  “And the potato chips were in a sealed packet,” Olivia remembered. “Another theory shot. Thank God.”

  “Well, the medication was involved in one important way,” Maggie pointed out. “It kept Dale close to home. So the murderer must have known his house.”

  “Doesn’t help a lot,” Olivia said morosely. “He got out occasionally, though not a lot during this heat wave. And he got some of us to come to his house. Even did some interviews there if he could talk people into stopping by.”

  “But from the murderer’s point of view there was a real advantage to knowing where he’d be. He wasn’t out running around unpredictably the way you usually are, Liv.”

  “That’s true. But still, how did the killer get out of the locked room?”

  “How about the air-conditioning?” asked Nick. “No one would have to get in or out if maybe some kind of gas could be fed into the system.”

  “Not carbon monoxide,” said Maggie. “He wasn’t pink. Right, Jerry?”

  “Right. But we’re really in never-never land here. Cyanide, mustard gas—these things leave signs too. I didn’t see any signs. But of course there’s always a chance the police will find something.”

  Back to the damn police, to Ms. Ride-in-a-patrol-car Schreiner. Olivia leaned back, exasperated, stretched out her toes to kick angrily at the coffee table, and jammed her fists into her pockets. “Damn, I wish we didn’t have to leave it all to them!”

  “Schreiner’s got access to labs,” Maggie pointed out reasonably. “She’s got lots of trained people. No need for us to meddle.”

  “Well, maybe not. Not about how he died, anyway,” Olivia admitted as another thought occurred to her. “I mean, you’re right, all the theories we’ve come up with so far require some kind of evidence. Blood tests or door wedges or whatever. But we’re already ahead of the cops when it comes to Dale’s life, right? I can talk to Nate and Edgy tomorrow and find out about the stories he’s worked on. Donna can probably help us a lot once she’s had some rest, and—”

  “Donna’s energy should go toward helping the police,” Maggie said.

  “Yeah, I know, of course. But if we talk to her we can help her think of things to tell the police.” Olivia pulled her hands from her pockets and gestured upstairs. “I mean, Donna’s mind isn’t working all that well right now. We can help.”

  “Well, it’s true that things make more sense when you know more background,” Maggie admitted.

  Olivia didn’t answer. She was staring at her hand, at what she’d just pulled from her pocket. A paper napkin. The napkin that she’d picked up from the hall floor outside Dale’s locked door, before the horrible discovery had wiped it from her mind.

  Jerry nudged her in the ribs. “What’ve you got, Liv?”

  “Oh.” She dragged her eyes from the folded square, met his blue ones. “It’s, um, maybe a clue!”

  “Donovan’s Bar?” he asked suspiciously, taking the napkin. The green logo, complete with shamrock, filled the corner.

  “You found it at the Colbys’?” Maggie guessed.

  “Yes. On the floor outside the den door when I first went to knock on it. I’m sure it wasn’t there earlier, before we went to the beach.”

  “Yeah. You would have noticed. Donna’s a good housekeeper.” M
aggie was on her feet, hurrying to the phone in the hall. She brought back the directory.

  “Yeah, that’s why I picked it up,” Olivia said. “It seemed almost sacrilegious on that polished floor. So where’s Donovan’s?”

  Maggie’s tracking finger paused on the page. “What do you mean, Donovan’s? I’m looking for the county police number.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Olivia snatched the book away and turned to the D’s. “Schreiner won’t be at headquarters anyway,” she added lamely.

  “You’re not saying you’re keeping this from her!”

  “No, no,” Olivia said soothingly. “I just mean, she’s got more than enough to do tonight.”

  “That’s not what you mean, Ms. Woodward-hyphen-Bernstein,” said Jerry darkly.

  Nick returned to the point. “It might help the cops if they know about it right away.”

  Cornered, Olivia protested, “Do you really trust Schreiner that much? She wears all that more-official-than-thou armor. But if she wants to learn things—well, hell, she just wasn’t very open with me.”

  “Not her job to be open with us,” Nick said. “Besides, she did tell you a little about the plane crash victims.”

  “Yeah, but I know what Liv means,” Maggie said slowly. “Schreiner’s got her own agenda. I think she wants to solve the crime, basically. But that armor you talk about has some odd cracks in it.”

  Nick nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. She didn’t talk to me long. But there was a moment—I was talking about Berlin, and for a minute there we connected. Then suddenly the defenses went up again.”

  “Right. That kept happening to me too. Swings back and forth.”

  “So how can we trust her?” repeated Olivia, sensing an ally.

  But Maggie betrayed her. “I trust her more than I trust us,” she said vehemently. Olivia was surprised at the dark emotion in her eyes. “Last time I meddled in police business somebody died. I don’t want to mess things up again.”

  “Well, nobody’s asking you to.” Olivia put down the phone book and stood up briskly. “But just in case you hadn’t noticed, it is a reporter’s business to ask about things. So I’m going to go ask.” She grabbed her shoulder bag from the table.