3 Sleuths, 2 Dogs, 1 Murder (The Sleuth Sisters)

by Maggie Pill

  I put my unsettling encounter with Basca aside as I drove. If I called the police, there wasn’t much I could tell them. He hadn’t actually asked me to do anything illegal, and Basca’s claim that our client stole from him would only make Win Darrow’s situation worse. Once Barb and I talked it over, we’d decide what to do about Basca’s visit.

  My dog (well, almost mine) was awake when I arrived, and he peered at me groggily from a cage in a remote corner of the animal dormitory.

  “The break went together well,” the vet said, “no pins or staples needed. Keep him off the leg as much as you can and bring him back on Friday.”

  She guessed his age at just under a year, which she warned meant he might still have the urge to chew. I’d bought toys for that, hoping they’d keep him from destroying my things—and more importantly, Barb’s.

  As we talked, the dog watched with large, black-button eyes. When I moved to pet him Dr. Camp warned, “Be careful. He’s tried to take my hand off twice.”

  The look he gave me seemed neutral. He didn’t growl when I put out a hand and let him sniff it through the metal grate. As if to counter the vet’s claim, he licked my thumb once.

  “Ready to go home, Bud?” I asked, opening the cage. His answer was a sigh I interpreted as approval. I picked him up, supporting the broken leg with one hand. Dr. Camp opened the carrier gate, and I set him inside. Buddy made no objection. When I stopped at the desk to pay the bill, he was quiet, despite a cat and two other dogs within a few feet. I had a feeling it wasn’t his usual way, but I took it as a sign he felt safe with me.

  At home I went in through the back door, carrying Buddy to our bedroom, where I set the carrier beside the bed I’d prepared for him. Getting a bowl of water, I put it inside the carrier in case the anesthetic had made him thirsty. “You aren’t supposed to move around for a while,” I explained, “so I have to leave you in jail for now.”

  He didn’t complain, and I thought he realized he needed time to recuperate. It seemed he was also beginning to trust me, to believe my actions were in his best interests.

  I could hear Barb and Retta talking in the office, so once Buddy settled his head on his paws and closed his eyes, I joined them. Barb asked politely about the dog’s condition, and I updated them. “He was such a good boy,” I finished. “He didn’t bark once, all the way home.”

  “What’s his name going to be?”

  “Buddy, I guess. It’s what I’ve been calling him.”

  “Oh.” Retta’s smile was a shade too bright, like it always is when someone says something she thinks is dumb. “A better name will come to you once you get to know him.”

  Without agreeing or disagreeing, I told them about Max Basca’s visit. “Winston is more than a lady’s man,” I said in conclusion. “He’s apparently a thief as well.”

  “That still doesn’t make him a murderer,” Retta replied. “Maybe this Basca killed Stacy in an attempt to get back whatever he’s looking for.”

  “As a warning to Darrow.” Barb traced her bottom lip with a finger.

  “Pretty extreme,” I commented. “Why kill the wife?”

  “Maybe she tried to run away,” Retta said.

  Barb looked doubtful. “Then why didn’t Basca wait for Darrow and make him give his property back?”

  “You’re right.” Retta sounded disappointed. “If he was willing to kill, he wouldn’t just walk away without it.”

  “What do we do about Basca?” I asked, looking to Barb. “Do I tell the sheriff about him?”

  “He’s got Darrow for murder,” she replied. “I doubt he’ll investigate a claim of stolen property when the owner inquired about it through the back door.”

  “He should if it suggests other possibilities for Mrs. Darrow’s death,” Retta argued.

  Turning her chair toward the computer screen, Barb said, “This is something from Darrow’s past, something he thought he’d escaped.” Tapping at the keys, she added, “A thief and a con man—he probably has a history with the justice system.”

  “Maybe Retta could use her contacts with the state police to get information on the Darrows or Max Basca,” I suggested. “Now, he’s a man I’ll bet has a criminal record.”

  Turning to Retta, Barb asked, “Do you think you could get us some help from the state police?”

  Retta’s pause revealed surprise at a request from Barb. “Um, sure. I’ll make some calls.” She rose to go, sliding on a bright blue coat that looked darling on her but would have made me look like a Smurf. “I’ll call in the morning to let you know what I find out.”

  After she left I said, “It’s good you let Retta help. I’m sure she’s freaking out over this.”

  Barb shrugged, still typing. “She’s in until the first time she tells me what to do. Then she’s just another woman who got taken by a smooth-talking lady-killer.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Barb

  The next day was my morning to have breakfast with Faye and Dale. My sister loves feeding people, and she insists I need home-cooked food periodically in order to be healthy. (She often adds that thawing Chang-La boxes of stir-fried shrimp in the microwave doesn’t count as home-cooked.) To please her, I join them for one breakfast, one lunch, and one dinner each week.

  Dale was quieter than usual, but the cause wasn’t clear until the new dog limped into the room. Seeing me, it gave a decidedly unfriendly snarl, and Faye said quickly, “Buddy, behave!”

  The dog and I examined each other while I tried to think of something nice to say.

  He was a mess. Undernourished, of course, but I didn’t see much potential for improvement after proper feeding. He was simply a homely dog, and if dogs have facial expressions, his was ugly. Nevertheless, I fussed a little to please Faye, ignoring his growls as I commented on his bright future once he got some meat on his bones. Inside my head I was hoping someone would claim him. Soon.

  Dale didn’t get any better treatment than I did. He was helping Faye prepare breakfast, setting dishes, silverware, and ingredients she might need at her elbow. The dog bared his teeth and growled each time Dale passed, until Faye finally turned and pointed to the door. “Buddy! Go!”

  Head low, the dog left the room. An odd tick-tick-tick-thump sounded on the wood floor then stopped abruptly.

  Dale muttered something. I only heard the word night, but Faye got the message. “He’ll settle in after a few days, Dale.” She spooned perfect hash browns onto a plate. “He just needs to get used to everyone.”

  “Is there a story here?” I asked.

  Dale looked to Faye, who sighed heavily. “Last night Buddy decided Dale wasn’t allowed in our room.”

  I bit back the smile that threatened. “Really.”

  “Came right at me,” Dale said resentfully. “Left me standing outside my own bedroom door in my underwear.” He set a half gallon of milk near Faye. She glanced at it, and when he turned away, put it back in the fridge.

  “Tonight we’ll make sure you’re in there first,” she told Dale, “so he knows you belong.”

  “I have to have the dog’s permission to go to bed?”

  “He’ll get used to you.” She patted Dale’s shoulder. “I want the two of you to get along.”

  He folded, as he always does when Faye really wants something. “We’ll work it out.” He glanced down the hall. “As long as he’s willing to meet me halfway.”

  I smiled to myself at their exchange, but my smile turned to horror when the dog reappeared, carrying my left boot in his mouth.

  Hurrying forward, Faye took the boot from him and gave it to me. “Bad dog!” To me she said, “I’m sorry, Barb.”

  “It’s okay,” I assured her. “I shouldn’t have left them by the door.” Forcing a casual tone I added, “He didn’t hurt a thing.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. The boot had a set of small, round punctures near the top. Reminding myself Faye’s happiness was worth more than footwear, I put my thumb over the holes and said, “A little dam
p, that’s all.”

  Relief showed on her face. “I’ll watch him,” she promised. “He’s really smart, so it won’t take him long to learn what he can have and what he can’t.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Now let’s eat before our food gets cold.”

  By 8:30 we were at our desks, researching the case. Neither of us found any trace of Max Basca. He’d lied. No big surprise.

  When her phone rang, Faye dug in her purse for at least thirty seconds, found it, and answered. I could tell it was Retta, and Faye’s brief responses meant she was doing a lot of talking. Not unusual.

  As she ended the call, Faye’s expression was half-irritated and half amused. “It seems the state police are aware of Retta’s relationship with Win Darrow. She was told politely but firmly that they won’t be sharing information with her.”

  “She’s seriously ticked off, I bet.”

  “Um, that would be a yes.”

  “It’s disappointing, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Maybe Rory—” As if on cue the office phone rang, and apd appeared on the caller ID.

  “Smart Detective Agency.” Faye said. “Good morning, chief. She’s right here.” She turned in her chair. “For you.”

  Still taking notes, I picked up the phone. “Rory.”

  “Good morning, Barb. I have information for you.”

  “On my case?”

  “Yeah.”

  I tapped my pen on the desk. “I didn’t mean for you to spend your time doing my work.”

  “So you’ll owe me. If I ask a question and get an answer, it saves you having to dig and plead and wait until some cop feels like responding.”

  “We’re grateful for the help.”

  I heard Rory’s chair squeak as he moved. “Idalski’s even more certain today that he’s got the right guy. It seems the real Winston Darrow died in the 1950s at five years of age.”

  “What?”

  “Yup. Years after the little guy passed away he re-appeared, alive and well in Columbia, South Carolina.” He supplied specifics, reading from a print-out as I took notes. “Since Winston re-animated he’s moved around pretty regularly, but he ended up here.”

  I got disgusted at Winston—or whoever he was—all over again. “Identity theft.”

  “I asked Wade to send over what they found,” Rory said. “When I get it, I’ll send it to you.”

  “Is that legal?”

  He chuckled again. “Legal, but not politically correct, so let’s keep it among the four of us.”

  Call me crazy, but I was pleased he didn’t say “between the four of us” as many would. My little grammar-glow faded as his meaning registered. “The four of us?”

  “You, me, Faye, and Retta, right? I hope they know how to keep a secret.” I felt a shift in Rory’s mental gears as he asked, “Now do you think Darrow-who-isn’t-Darrow killed his wife?”

  “There’s been an interesting development.” I told him about Faye’s visitor and his demand that we convince Darrow to turn over something he’d stolen.

  “If the theft story is true,” I finished, “this Max Basca might have killed Stacy in reprisal. Winston’s false identity lends some credence to that possibility.”

  “Do you think she was aware of it?” he asked.

  “Hard to say with how little we know about her.”

  “If I get time, I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “Thanks, Rory. Again, I appreciate it.”

  His tone changed. “Then pay me back.”

  “How?”

  “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  I felt what Retta’s romance novelists would call a frisson. After months of casual acquaintance, Rory was asking me out. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  He let out a puff of breath. “I’ve been a good boy for months, friendly to everybody in town but not too friendly with anybody. All that time I’ve been wishing you and I could have a second dinner together.” His tone turned teasing. “The first time, other things got in the way.”

  Like murder and attempted murder, I thought, but what I said was, “What will people say about the chief of police dating the local lady detective?”

  “I guess they’ll say whatever they want to.”

  With a sniff—a very ladylike one—I said, “I can tell you didn’t grow up in a small town.”

  “You’re avoiding the question, Barb. Dinner?”

  I chewed on my bottom lip. “Could we go out of town?”

  There was a grin in his voice as his accent turned heavily Irish. “It’s ashamed of me y’are.”

  “Not ashamed, just cautious.” I looked through the office doorway, where my sister was pretending to work at her computer and trying to hide a smile. “We work hard to make people take this agency seriously, Rory. If you and I start something, they’ll say—” I stopped, embarrassed.

  “That you’re sleeping with me to get information, like Belle Boyd or Mata Hari?”

  “It’s more likely they’ll say you solve the cases while we take the clients’ money.”

  “Tell you what,” he said after a brief pause. “We’ll keep it between us this time. If things don’t work out, we go back to being business acquaintances. If—if we become a thing, they’ll have to say what they say. Is that fair?”

  “I guess so.” The smile Faye had been suppressing turned to a look of amused irritation, but she’d been married for thirty years and had no idea how much interest people take in such things. A woman who’s single after forty is presumed to be a lesbian, but if it turns out she isn’t, then she must be absolutely desperate for the attention of a man.

  “Must we travel in separate vehicles to some faraway trysting place?” Rory asked, still laying on the Irish accent.

  My sense of humor overcame my sense of decorum. “Let’s leave after five. It’ll be dark enough no one will recognize you.”

  “Pick you up at five-thirty. I’ll call if something comes up between now and then.”

  When I ended the call, Faye sang, “You have a date with the chee-eef.”

  I tried for nonchalance, but inside I was giddy. Things he’d said replayed in my head, and emotions I’d repressed for months bubbled in my chest. Things had changed with a simple invitation: Have dinner with me tonight.

  “It’s just dinner,” I said as much to myself as to Faye. “We’ll see if it leads anywhere.”

  “Let’s hope it does.” She took a bite of the doughnut that served as her brunch. “You’ve been alone too long.”

  Unwilling to argue and unable to disagree, I returned to the case. “Our Mr. Darrow is not who he says.” Her eyes widened as I explained. “We need to find out who he was before he turned into Winston Darrow.”

  “When was that?”

  I consulted the notes I’d taken. “November 10, 1982.”

  “No Internet then. Hope the records were scanned in.”

  We spent the better part of three hours making calls, consulting on-line records, and trying to piece information together. The real Winston Darrow had indeed died as a child in South Carolina. In the fall of 1982, someone had come in requesting a replacement birth certificate. We were pretty sure that had been our client.

  I suggested Faye email the Facebook photo labeled WINSTON GOT MARRIED to the high schools in the area to see if someone recognized him. “That’s a faint hope all these years later,” she said, picking up the phone. “I have a better idea.”

  “Whom are you calling?”

  “The guy who knows who Winston Darrow really is,” she answered. “Winston Darrow.”

  “Mr. Darrow,” she said a few seconds later, “this is Faye Burner from the Smart Detective Agency. You need to pick up.” In only a few seconds there was a response. “Where are you? … I was afraid of that. We’ll meet you there.” Ending the call, she told me, “He’s on his way to the sheriff’s office with his lawyer.”

  Opening her desk drawer, she took out her scruffy denim purse and shook it, listening for the jingle that revealed
where her car keys had settled. “Since he isn’t who he says he is, the judge revoked his bail. Our Mr. X is considered a flight risk, and now the charge will be murder.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Faye

  To protect Dale’s ankles I shut Buddy in the bedroom, promising him it wouldn’t be for long. When Barb and I got to the jail, Darrow’s lawyer, Mr. Glass, introduced himself with chilly reserve. A cautious type who smelled of fruity hair products, Glass made us promise we’d treat what his client said as privileged information. Even after we agreed, there was discussion of generalities and what-ifs before Darrow—who again asked that we call him Win—was finally allowed to tell his story.

  “The name I started life with is Walter Dubey, and you can imagine the teasing that came along with that name. I come from a small town in South Carolina where I was nobody special: not smart, not athletic, and according to my teachers, not very ambitious.” He smiled disarmingly, but when no one smiled in return, he cleared his throat and went on. “After high school, I went to work in the little factory where everybody who didn’t go to college ended up. It was an okay place, you know? A decent living.

  “The one thing I was good at was getting women, and it took me a while to see that I’m better at it than most guys. There was this ritzy girls’ college in the next town, and my buddies and I used to go there on weekends and pick up rich girls wanting a good time. The guys brought me along because the girls liked me. They didn’t mind getting the leftovers, you know?”

  Barb shifted impatiently in her chair. Winston got the message and sped up his tale.

  “I was pretty happy with life, I guess, but then in 1979 the factory closed down, and I lost my job. I’d been dating this girl named Chandra for a few months, and when I told her, she just laughed like it was nothing. ‘No problem,” she said. “‘You can be my boy-toy.’”

  Darrow—Win— set his hands on the table before him, and I noticed that the nails appeared to be professionally cared for. Where does a man in northern Lower Michigan go for a manicure? I wondered.

  I returned my focus to the story when Barb said, “This woman offered to support you?”