by Teresa Trent
“Not if they don’t ever leave that house.”
Maggie tipped back her glass, getting the last drops of the cool, sweet drink. “So, what do you say we go and visit just to see if they’ve seen the dog? What could it hurt?”
What could it hurt? I knew she was right. Just a friendly little visit to see if maybe, just maybe, they stole our dog? Worked for me.
“Would you come with me?”
“Sure. I’d kinda like to see inside that fence, anyway. It could be a pretty hot topic down at Ruby’s.” She was referring to the gossip epicenter of Pecan Bayou, Ruby Green’s Best Little Hair House in Texas. More than one perm had gone too long and fried while Ruby was in the middle of one of her broadcasts. I always chose the basic cut, light on the latest news.
*****
Ten minutes later, Maggie and I stood before the ominous black box in front of the Loper house. “Place looks a little run down,” Maggie said as she fingered some peeling paint on the wrought iron.
I pushed the button on the box. “Hello? Is anyone there? This is Betsy Livingston again, and I was wondering if you had seen our little dog? … Hello?”
Maggie grasped the metal gate and pulled her head forward to see into the courtyard in front of the house. “Pretty cheesy statue of Charlie Loper.” Her eyes brightened as she chirped out an old tune, “It’s Charlie Loper, the best shot in the West.” Her voice was reminiscent of an old radio announcer. She broke into song again. “Giddy-up little cowboy, the sun’s going down. Giddy-up little cowboy, we’re goin’ to town.”
“Hello?” Still no answer. I decided to do my best Texas taxicab whistle. I pushed on the button and, putting my mouth near the speaker, produced a shrill whistling sound into the box.
I heard a slight scuffle and hoped to finally be face-to-face with the man in the box. From around the other side of the cowboy fountain, a tiny yip sounded out, then another. Butch’s little paws made a clicking sound as he came bounding up to the fence.
“Butch!” I exclaimed as the little dog tried to triple his own height in puppy leaps. “Butch! We found you at last!” I put my hands through the wrought-iron gate to pet him. He barked and bounced off my extended arms.
“Wow. I have to wonder if he’s been here all along.”
Aunt Maggie gasped. “I have to wonder what Butch just left all over your hands.”
“What?” I said, pulling my hands back in to examine them. I backed away from the fence. My hands and arms were covered in something brown and sticky that looked like blood. Butch continued to bark and jump on the other side. There were little paw prints of the stuff dotting the inset stones from the fence to where he came around the fountain. I went to the gate handle and jiggled it. It was still locked up tight.
“I’m thinkin’ somebody’s real hurt back there, Betsy. We have to get in somehow.”
She made it all sound so simple. I shrugged. “And how do you suppose we do that with the gate locked?”
“You’re young and have two legs a lot longer than mine. I’ll hoist you up.”
I put my foot in her hands as she boosted me over the wall. With Maggie’s low center of gravity she could only raise me a few feet off the ground, and I had to pull myself up to the top of the wall. I felt the skin under my shirt scraping on the uneven stone barrier that surrounded the house. I hoisted my leg over the wall and bounced down into an overgrown bush. More scratches. As I emerged from the shrubbery, Butch came over and jumped into my arms.
“Good boy, fella. Let’s see what all the mess is about,” I said to him, trying to forget the possible bodily fluid he was covered in. He craned his neck toward me and licked me on the cheek. Holding on to the puppy, I walked up to the faded ranch house and used my fist to bang on the door.
I thought I heard a muffled noise in the house and waited, but after twenty seconds or so heard nothing. If someone was in there, they were choosing not to come to the door.
“No answer,” I called as I turned back to Aunt Maggie still waiting at the fence. My eyes shifted from her to a crumpled form on the other side of the fountain. On the ground lay a man with silver hair matted with blood and whose right cheek was now mashed into the pavement. His black velvet bathrobe was partly saturated with blood that had run down to a pair of well-soled black house slippers, and there was a wide circle of blood plastering his white-and-gray striped pajamas to his chest. The heat of the Texas summer was beating down on him as the familiar buzz of flies reached my ears.
Chapter Seven
“Aunt Maggie, call an ambulance!” I yelled around the fountain. “There’s an injured man back here.”
“Oh Lord,” I heard her say on the other side of the fence.
I looked back up at the ancient home looming behind me. Was the killer still inside? Where there more bodies? I turned back to Maggie. “I should probably check the house.”
“I don’t know, Betsy. It might not be safe. Why don’t you try to get the fence open from that side?”
“Okay. I started toward the gate, putting the wiggly Butch back down on the blood-stained ground.”
“You there!” A voice from up on high shouted out to me. “You there, girl!” An old woman teetered out of a window on the top floor of the house. Strands of her white hair fluttered in the wind. Her scrawny body, clothed in a faded pink negligee, was balanced on the windowsill. If she leaned just a little further out, she would be joining the robed man by the fountain.
“Ma’am, get back inside. I’ll come up.”
“Well, I should certainly hope so, and watch your tone with me, girl,” she slurred.
When I tried the doorknob, the door opened easily, and thoughts of a crazy bloodthirsty intruder re-entered my mind. What if someone was hiding in the house getting ready to do in the old lady? Would they find my body alongside hers? Butch scampered behind me, my able-bodied ten-pound canine protection against a killer. Hopefully he had all of his puppy teeth. I could already see my next Happy Hinter column: Bloody paws in the carpet? Try putting your dog out BEFORE you commit murder next time.
As I made my way through the downstairs, I had to maneuver around cardboard cartons scattered about. Were they moving? Was the British guy the crazy lady’s husband? I weaved my way through boxes stacked upon boxes and finally found a stairway.
“Grayson! Get up here. I need you,” the old lady shouted on the next level. She strung out the last sentence in an almost playful way. She repeated the sentence again, and as I entered the room, she was crawling up on a window seat. As she was about to put a leg out the open window, I grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back inside the bedroom. The smell of the room hit me first. It was a mixture of stale perfume and unwashed linens. The old woman pulled away from me and headed back to the window.
“What?” She had spotted the man by the fountain. “Grayson, what are you doing sleeping down there? I don’t pay you to sleep on the job. Get up here, Grayson.”
“Ma’am. You need to come away from the window.”
“Says who?”
“Says me, um, Betsy.” I stood and squared my shoulders, aware that my clothes were now stained with blood. I pulled her back again.
“I’m not going to fall out any damn window. I have to wake Grayson. Didn’t you see him? And what’s that all over your uniform? Where is your standard of cleanliness, girl? I’m going to have to call the agency.”
I sighed, reaching for patience within me. “It’s blood and yes, I saw Grayson. He’s ... hurt. We’ve called an ambulance.”
“Hurt?” She bolted from me again and ran back to the window seat she had been perching on. She sobbed through the billowing curtains. “Grayson, darling! Grayson, can you hear me?”
Butch wandered in. Navigating the stairs proved to be difficult with such short legs. He put his front paws on the window seat where the old lady sat crumpled. “Scout! Ooh, my baby. Go help Uncle Grayson.”
So the woman had taken Zach’s puppy. She and the dead guy, Grayson, had been hiding him all along.<
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“His name is Butch, and he’s my son’s dog.”
“It is not. His name is Scout. I should know because I named him myself.” She picked up Butch and stumbled across the room to the unmade bed. “Off with you now. We don’t need the house cleaned today.” She crawled into bed, pulling the covers up over Butch. His wriggling form could be seen under the dingy white sheets. I hated to think about the mess he was making with his bloody paws and fur.
A siren wailed outside the window, and flashing lights were blinking up against the gate. I glanced out the window as the paramedic stepped out and Maggie gestured to the second-story window. One of the paramedics rattled the locked gate and couldn’t get into the crime scene. He shouted to me in the window.
“Ma’am. I need to open the gate to get in and give assistance.” He stopped and repeated his question in a slower pattern. “How do I open the gate?”
I turned back to the room’s occupant. “How do they get the gate open?”
“Grayson will get it for them.”
“Grayson can’t help, Ma’am. He’s the one who’s hurt. How do they open the gate?”
The old woman turned toward me. “Grayson keeps the key to the gate. Check on his desk.”
“Where’s that?”
“You’ve cleaned it, you should know by now. I can’t believe he even hired you. My head is beginning to hurt.” Butch crawled out from under the sheets, landing with a plop on the floor. Her eyes fluttered closed.
Looking around, it didn’t seem like they had hired anyone to clean the house in quite a while. Butch, now free from his captor, ran around the room with his tail wagging.
“Okay, fella. Where’s Grayson’s office?” A man’s voice came over a speaker down the hall.
“Hey Betsy, are you up there? This is Orley from the Pecan Bayou Emergency Unit. We need access to this gate.”
Following the voice, I found a bedroom that had been converted into an office. More boxes were scattered everywhere, some open and some still sealed. China, vases and electronics peeked out of their bubble wrap as if the recipient took one look and shoved them back in the box. Shuffling through papers on the desk, I uncovered a little red light on a speaker box. I pushed the button underneath it.
“Hello?”
“Betsy, we need to get into this gate. Can you get down here and open it? “
“Hi, Orley.” Like so many people who worked with my dad, Orley Ortiz was like one of the family. His kindness and patience with people in crisis never failed him. Getting through a locked gate was a little tougher. I continued, “I climbed over the fence. I’m looking for the key right now.”
“Copy that. Maybe we could climb over to get to him while we wait.”
I searched through mounds of papers, most of them sales orders, bills and payment due notices.
“Betsy,” Aunt Maggie’s voice came through the speaker. “Be careful. Are you sure you’re alone?”
I had forgotten about that threat. Looking behind me briefly, I returned to the phone. “I think so. Just me and the old lady, right now.”
“I’m thinkin’ that’s got to be Charlie Loper’s daughter. Did you get her name?”
“Not much more than crazy lady hanging out the window at this point.”
“Oh, Betsy. They’re over the fence ... I think they just found a key in the man’s pocket.”
“The man’s name is Grayson if you didn’t hear it being yelled out the window.”
“Is that what she was sayin’? They’re gettin’ the fence open. Can you get out of that house?”
“Tell Orley I think the woman up here probably needs medical assistance as well.”
“Is she hurt too?”
“Nothing that a cup of coffee and cold shower wouldn’t solve. I don’t want to leave her and have her fall out of her bedroom window.”
“He’s on his way up. Judd and George just pulled up.”
I made my way back to the bedroom where the lady now softly snored. On most of the walls were pictures and movie posters featuring Charlie Loper, the best shot in the West. His cowboy-clad image smiled at me as he rode astride a bucking horse up against a sunset. He was singing to a beautiful señorita whose black eyes reflected back true Hollywood love. His presence was everywhere. Butch scrambled back up on the bed, but the woman continued to sleep. I went back to the window and looked out at the body of Grayson, now surrounded by Pecan Bayou’s finest. George Beckman, the other working officer on our little police force, was writing things in his little black notebook. A woman I didn’t recognize in a police uniform was now standing at the gate. Had Chief Wilson broken down and hired a new police officer? Her hair was pulled back in a straight brown ponytail, and in her gloved hands she held a camera. From behind her, my dad, Judd Kelsey, emerged. Maggie pointed up to the window, and he shook his head at me.
It had been more than a year since I stumbled over a body in the Pecan Bayou library. I had to admit I seemed to have a knack for finding bodies. Maybe I was the human form of a cadaver dog? He had to be so proud. He folded his arms across his chest and grimaced at the window.
“Girl, bring me some tea, won’t you?” I jumped. She was awake.
“Ma’am. Can you tell me your name?”
Her eyes widened. “I’m the daughter of the great Charlie Loper. Didn’t you recognize me? My photo was all over the movie magazines riding my horse, Snowy.” Her eyes misted for a moment as she focused on a photo on the opposite wall of a little girl riding a horse. “Oh, Snowy. I miss you still.” She sighed, and her eyes darted back toward me. She returned to scolding the help. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that already. Didn’t Grayson tell you anything? I’m Libby Loper, you simple girl.”
“Sorry, Miss Loper. I didn’t know.”
There was a soft knock on the door. “Betsy?” Orley Ortiz came in, taking off the stethoscope he had around his neck. His blue uniform shirt was already showing patches of sweat.
“Good, the police have arrived,” Miss Loper said. “I want you to arrest this woman for breach of contract.”
“Excuse me?”
“She refuses to clean,” she said, pointing a scraggly finger my way.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m here to give you medical help. You hired this lady to clean your house?” A smile inched into the corners of his mouth.
“Arrest her.”
“How much have you had to drink today, ma’am?”
Libby Loper’s eyes grew wide. “I beg your pardon! You obviously don’t know who I am. How dare you ask such an impertinent question.”
“I know exactly who you are, Miss Loper. I ask because I’m concerned for your safety.”
“Well for your information, Officer Redneck, I haven’t had anything to drink today.” Her words slurred slightly. “I’m a tee-tot’ler.”
“Betsy?” The speaker from down the hall beckoned me.
I ran back to it, Butch at my heels. “Yes, Aunt Maggie?”
“They have some questions for you down here. Can you come down?”
“Sure.” I went back down the hall and stuck my head back in Libby Loper’s bedroom.
“Will you be okay, now Orley?”
“Not a problem, Betsy. Better get back to that cleaning.” He grinned.
Chapter Eight
The body of Hunter Grayson was now steaming as the sun heated up the paved stones. A putrid smell was starting to rise, and I covered my mouth as my father stood quietly, hands on hips, looking at the scene. I knew he was trying to see every little detail of the crime. He was in his zone of observation. The policewoman with the camera was now snapping pictures at what looked like every cobblestone in the courtyard. Butch ran ahead of me toward the gate.
“Betsy, you’re going to need to get that damn dog out of here. He’s destroying the crime scene,” Dad said. I picked him up and handed him through the fence to Aunt Maggie.
“Sorry,” I apologized, “but think about it, he is your only witness.”
“We’ll be sure to polygraph him later.”
“Zach will be glad to see him,” Maggie said, still standing at the gate.
George came up, notebook in hand. “Betsy, did you see anything? Did you see anyone leaving the scene?”
“No. We came to see if the people who lived here had seen our dog. Butch came running up to us, and that’s when we saw the blood all over him.”
“So how did you get in?”
“I climbed the fence.”
George looked over at the six-foot wall. “That’s pretty high for you, Betsy.”
I glanced at Aunt Maggie. “I had help.”
Maggie suddenly looked down at the puppy as if to hide her corrupting influence.
“Do you know this man?” My dad asked.
“I think he might have been the guy we talked to over the intercom, but I never actually met him.”
George pulled a plastic bag out of the dead man’s pocket. Inside was what looked like some sort of moss in a blue plastic wrapper. “See any more of this inside?”
“No. What is it?”
“Looks like Mr. Grayson here was a pot smoker. Let’s see if there’s any more in the other pocket.”
“You think this might be drug-related?” I asked.
“Well, somebody sure did him in. I’ll have to leave it up to the coroner, but I would say he was hit with something. Something big and heavy.”
“Grayson!” The scream came from Libby Loper as she came out of the house holding Orley Ortiz’s arm. “Who hurt my Grayson?” She turned to my dad, waving a finger wildly in his face. “Ossifer. I expect you to investigate this to the highest extent. This is murderrrr mos’ foul.”
“Yes ma’am, that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” he said, tipping his Stetson.
“My father had to solve a murder in one of his movies. ‘Murder Under the Western Skies,’ it was called. It was the ranch foreman ... Oops, I guess I spoiled it for ya,” she cackled as she leaned her head sideways, glancing at the body.
Orley attempted to maneuver her around the splotches of blood and the activity that surrounded the dead body of Hunter Grayson. The policewoman with the camera came up behind me.
