“You know I can’t tell you that,” Hark said.
I gave a good facsimile of a nonchalant chuckle. “Well, I guess you can’t expect me to get all hotted up about this, then. If I don’t know who’s trotting the tale around, I mean.”
“I just thought you might know something you’d be willing to share,” Hark said. He shrugged. “But if not…well, forget I brought it up. Okay?”
“I can’t,” I said seriously. “This might figure in Sheila’s murder investigation. You can’t keep it to yourself, either, Hark. That’s legal advice. I’m giving it to you for free, but you’d better take it seriously, or you’ll find yourself in trouble.”
He looked glum. “Yeah. I guess I’ll have to talk to her. She’s not going to be happy to hear it.”
“She’s a big girl,” I said. “She’ll handle it like a pro.”
He nodded. “Listen, China, there’s something else.” He slid me a wheedling look. “I wonder—you wouldn’t be willing to give me the phone number where Ruby is staying, would you?”
“It wouldn’t do you any good if I did,” I said. “Her mother’s moving to a new apartment today, and I don’t have that number.” Seeing his crestfallen expression, I added, “But I’d be willing to give you Ruby’s cell phone number, as long as you promise not to bother her with questions about Colin Fowler’s personal life. Or tell her that she shouldn’t adopt his dog. It’s none of your business.”
“Oh, you bet.” He smiled eagerly. “All I want to do is tell her I’m thinking of her. Gosh, China, thanks!”
“For you, Hark,” I said generously, “I’d do anything. Well, almost anything.” I wrote down the number and gave it to him, adding carelessly, “You’ve heard about the murder over at Sonora?”
“How’d you know about that?” he asked, pocketing the number with a pleased expression. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “I was out there just before I came here. The victim was the bookkeeper. She was killed in the office. Robbery, apparently.”
“Really,” I said. “So that’s what it was.”
“Yep. Somebody grabbed the cash box. When she put up a fuss, he slashed her throat. With a dagger.”
“A dagger?” I frowned.
“Yeah. The cops found it under the desk. The killer must’ve dropped it and failed to find it in the dark.”
“Prints?”
“I don’t know. Sheila never tells me anything.” He pushed his lips out and in regretfully. “The Conrads are good folks. I interviewed them when they opened Sonora, for a story in the paper. Remember that?”
“Yes, come to think of it, I do,” I said, smiling a little. It had been the standard Enterprise “On their way to the top” story, portraying the Conrad family—parents and kids—as hardworking people with a strong specialized knowledge of the plants of Mexico and the Southwest. The photo had shown all four of them in front of the just-completed fountain in the central garden, Betty and Allan standing with the two kids, Ricky and Jeannette, all four smiling proudly. “They’re a nice family.”
“And Allan is one of the hardest workers I’ve ever seen,” Hark replied. “He and Betty have done wonders with that place in just a few years. Hope this doesn’t set them back. They deserve a break. They don’t deserve robbery and murder.”
“Nobody does,” I said softly. “Nobody.”
Chapter Twelve
The Zuni, Navajo, and Anasazi used the banana yucca (Yucca baccata) in a variety of ritual ceremonies. Before the ceremony, they washed their hair with yucca lather in a ritual cleansing, using special baskets woven of yucca. Participants in the ritual might carry decorated yucca stalks as prayer sticks and ceremonial staffs, or hoops and chant arrows. Ceremonial sandals were woven of yucca and hemp. And dancers impersonating the tribal gods wore bands of braided yucca around their heads and wristlets and anklets of yucca ribbon around their arms and legs.
At eleven thirty, Missy went next door to the Craft Emporium to buy some beads for her bead jewelry, and then to the restaurant across the street, for lunch. I kept an eye on both shops, waiting on customers while I grazed my way through a large plate of goodies—sandwiches, some salad, a couple of cookies—that Cass brought from the tearoom. At twelve fifteen, Leatha called, to apologize for leaving our dinner party so precipitously on Wednesday evening. “It was rude,” she said contritely. “I felt sorry about it the minute I got in the car. And when I got home, Sam read me the riot act.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “To tell the truth, I’d almost forgotten. Quite a lot has gone on here in the past day or so.” I started to tell her about Miles hiring McQuaid to investigate the circumstances of Dad’s death, but stopped. It was a long story, and complicated. Then I opened my mouth to tell her about Colin. But I didn’t get that out, either. She would have dozens of questions, and there were other things I needed to do. I’d call her tonight and let her know what was going on.
She took a deep breath, as if she were steeling herself. “I’m sure you’re too busy to talk right now, China. But I’d just like you to know that I’ve had second thoughts about what your brother—about what Miles wants to do. If he wants to hunt down that old Cadillac of your father’s, that’s what he should do. I still don’t understand why Laura Danforth would want to keep the old thing—just plain morbid, if you ask me. But if it’s that important to Miles, he has my support. And you do, too. Whatever you children want to do is fine with me. Will you tell him that?”
“Sure,” I said, feeling a little taken aback. Did this mean that Leatha had decided there might be something to Mrs. Danforth’s suspicions about Dad’s death and hoped an investigation would settle the issue?
But her next words suggested that she had decided nothing of the kind. “I still for the life of me can’t understand why the car is so important,” she added. “And I certainly hope Miles doesn’t intend to turn it into a shrine. But surely he has more common sense than that. He ought to tow the old thing to a junkyard!”
“I’ll be sure and tell him,” I said. I brought her up-to-date on Ruby’s mother’s situation—that, at least, was something we could talk about, and we said good-bye. I went to wait on a man who had read a recent research report on saw palmetto berries and prostate health and wanted to know how to use the herb. I showed him Michael Jansen’s booklet, which surveys the research and describes the herb’s effects, and he bought several ounces of the dried berries.
Then Missy came back, and it was my turn to take off. Big Red Mama and I were about to have an adventure. We were going to rescue a Rottweiler and keep him from being sent to the animal shelter.
But after listening to McQuaid, I was feeling a little more nervous about this mission. Howard Cosell was a member of the family and we all loved him dearly. If Rambo injured him, McQuaid would never forgive me. Heck, I’d never forgive myself. So I’d better make sure that didn’t happen. Also, I was a bit concerned about riding around with an unrestrained Rottweiler, who might take it into his head to leap in my lap or bite my ankle just as I approached an intersection. It would be better if I crated him, and Big Red Mama, boxy girl that she is, is perfectly capable of toting a crate.
So my first stop was Beezle’s Pet Shop, where Howard Cosell spends his weekly allowance on doggie treats. When I told Barbara Beezle about Rambo, she agreed that the dog would be safer (not to mention the driver) if he were confined, and generously offered to loan me a Rottweiler-sized crate. I also bought a leather leash that looked substantial enough to restrain a rambunctious rhinoceros, and—pondering the task ahead and thinking that success might depend as much on distraction as deterrence—several cans of pop-top dog food and a big package of bacon-flavored treats. I considered a muzzle, but muzzling a reluctant Rottweiler didn’t fill me with enthusiasm, so I gave it up. Barbara, looking more apprehensive than I might have wished, helped me wrestle the crate into the back of Big Red Mama, and off I went.
Colin’s small frame house was still wrapped in yellow crime-scene tape, bu
t there were no cop cars out in front, or anywhere else on the quiet residential street. I parked Big Red Mama beside the curb, put a handful of bacon treats in my pocket, and took a can of dog food and the leash. I walked, whistling with as much bravado as I could muster, around the house to the back.
“Well, look at that!” I sang out in a cheery voice, trying to mask my apprehension. I approached the chain-link dog run. “Well, heck, if it isn’t Rambo! Hey, Rambo, old boy. Nice to see you again, fella. Been a good dog while I’ve been gone? Hungry?”
Rambo ran to the gate and bounced up and down with enormous energy, barking in a vigorous, substantial voice. The muscles of his meaty shoulders rippled with the authority of a Dallas linebacker, and he moved with the muscular agility of Arnold Schwarzenegger skipping rope. His eyebrows, golden brown in a nearly-black face, were going up and down, registering some sort of extreme emotion. I studied him nervously, trying to decide whether he was offering to tear me limb from limb, or whether he remembered me as the giver-of-weenie-treats and was extending a warm welcome to his world.
There was only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath and muttering the mantra, “Nice doggie, good doggie,” I let myself into the run, bracing for a quick exit if necessary. But Rambo only grinned and panted and made eager, whiny noises, so I popped the top of the dog food can and dumped the contents into the plastic dish I’d left there. As he wolfed it down, I snapped the leash on his chain-link collar. Sneaky, yes, but quick and effective.
Rottweilers are even faster foodies than bassets (which is saying something), and Rambo scarfed up a full can of dog food in about fifteen seconds. When he had licked the dish and then licked it again to assure himself that he hadn’t missed anything significant, he noticed the leash in my hand, the business end of which was connected to his collar. I thought for an instant that he was going to object and tensed, glancing up quickly to be sure that I had latched the gate. If he decided to chow down on my arm, I didn’t want him running loose around the neighborhood with my bloody hand in his mouth. It might scare the children.
But Rambo was looking up at me with the same goofy “Oh-boy-oh-boy!” grin that Howard Cosell always wears when we snap on his leash and he thinks we’re going in the car. His eyebrows were up, his tongue was lolling, and his head was cocked.
I relaxed a little. In my experience, dogs with goofy grins are generally in a mellow mood. And why shouldn’t he be? I was a well-meaning, good-hearted person, wasn’t I? And his belly was full of dog food, wasn’t it? No room for a piece of my arm.
“Go for a ride, Rambo?” I inquired brightly. In case these weren’t the magic words, I added, “Wanna ride in the van?” I put my hand in my pocket, pulled out my keys, and jingled them.
With a gleeful abandon, Rambo barked twice and lunged for the kennel gate, nearly yanking me off my feet. Obviously, going for a ride in the van was something that appealed to him. But before we left the safety of the kennel, there were one or two things I needed to check out.
“Sit,” I said.
Rambo looked at me over his shoulder, his eyebrows suddenly worried. Obviously, a Rottweiler who is sitting can’t be going for a ride.
“Sit,” I said again, more firmly. When I didn’t see any immediate response, I put my hand on his butt and pushed. “Sit.”
Rambo sat, under protest and with a plaintive look that said, plain as words, “I wish to hell you’d make up your mind. First you said we were going for a ride and now you’re telling me to sit. Which is it?”
“Good dog,” I said in a warmly congratulatory tone. “That’s a very nice sit.” I pulled on his leash and he sprang to his feet. “Heel,” I said.
Rambo heaved a “well-if-you-insist” sigh and stood at attention beside my left thigh, humoring me. Bless you, Colin Fowler or Dan Reid or whoever you are, I thought warmly. You’ve raised a Rottweiler with manners. To the dog, I said approvingly, “Good boy, Rambo. You’re a peach of a pooch. Now, we’ll go out into the yard and you can show me how well you come when I call you. Got that?”
Beside me, Rambo suddenly tensed, pressing himself against my thigh, his muscles gathering. He stared fixedly toward the house, a low, menacing growl rumbling in his throat. I looked up. The back corner of the house was visible through the foliage screen of the photinia bush, and a man was coming around from the side. A cop, I thought, a member of the crime-scene team who had been sent to the house to pick something up.
He wasn’t a cop.
The man was big, burly, and blond, and he had a clipboard in his big hands. His face was square-jawed and he held himself aggressively, as if he were used to giving commands and having them obeyed. He was wearing a brown khaki shirt and pants, a brown cap, brown gloves, and about ten pounds of keys on a large ring at his belt. It was the meter man, and—much to Rambo’s consternation—he was intent on getting into the house.
“No barking,” I cautioned in a fierce whisper, as Rambo tensed. I encircled his muzzle with my fingers, not wanting the man to glance toward the dog run and see me with the Rotti, who seemed to know him. Or maybe he recognized the figure as an intruder, and was preparing to do what Rottweilers are trained to do on such occasions, which is to scare the bejeebers out of the guy.
The intruder seemed to know what he was doing. He didn’t bother with the windows (I happened to know that the kitchen window was unlocked). Stepping around the yucca and agave pots, he headed straight for the back door, which still sported a strip of yellow tape. Ignoring the tape, he selected a key on his ring and tried it in the lock. No dice. He tried another. He was going back for a third when—
“Yoo-hoo!” cried a high-pitched voice. “Excuse me, but you really shouldn’t be trying to get into that house!”
The man’s head snapped around. A woman had just come down the back steps of her house and was standing at the hedge of clipped yaupon holly that separated her backyard from Colin’s. She looked to be in her late thirties. Her bleached blond hair was swept up in the kind of towering bouffant do that you rarely see outside of Dallas, which is the Big Hair capital of Texas. She was wearing a skimpy red bikini that exhibited almost all of her bounteous Dolly Parton boobs, saucer-sized gold hoop earrings, and a sexily flirtatious smile. She had a blanket over her arm and was clearly bent on spending the afternoon worshipping the sun in the privacy of her backyard, wearing as little as was legal.
“Good afternoon, miss,” the man said, and tipped his cap politely. His voice was deep and husky, with no accent.
“I’m sure you’re just wantin’ to do your job,” she said, in a voice honeyed with Southern sweetness. “But maybe you don’t know that the guy who lived there has been murdered.” Her voice quavered delicately on the last word.
“Murdered!” the meter man exclaimed, as if this were an enormous surprise. “Oh, gosh, that’s horrible!”
“Oh, I know—isn’t it just? But what I’m tryin’ to tell you is that the police were all over the place, lookin’ for evidence, and then they went away and locked everything up tight as a drum. Can’t you see that yellow tape across the door? You shouldn’t try to get in.”
“So that’s what that is,” the meter man said, as if he couldn’t read what was printed on the tape. He pushed up the bill of his cap with his thumb and drawled, in a fair imitation of Andy Griffith, “Well, darn.” He left the door and went toward the hedge. I loosened my grip on Rambo’s muzzle and the dog leaned against my leg, trembling slightly and making little whining noises. I couldn’t tell whether he was excited or afraid.
The woman came close to the fence and leaned against it, putting her cleavage on full display. “In fact, there was a policeman there earlier today—a very nice young guy.” She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes, lowering her voice and giving it a resonant erotic trill. “Hey. I don’t think I’ve seen you before, and I am posilutely, absitively sure I would’ve noticed. You’re new on the job, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure am,” said the meter man, and his Southern accent b
ecame more pronounced. “New in town, too. Say, that policeman—was he in uniform?” With a concerned look, he added, “My crew chief told us last week to warn folks to be on the lookout for impersonators—people pretending to be security officers. There’ve been quite a few reports.”
Impersonators? I stifled a sarcastic chuckle and Rambo looked up questioningly. “Shh,” I said, putting a finger to my lips.
“No, he wasn’t in uniform,” the woman said slowly, “but he was very, very nice. He didn’t even seem to mind when I asked him to please show me his badge.” Her eyes widened and she put her hand to her mouth in a gesture almost comically reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. The meter man wasn’t the only one doing impersonations. “You don’t think—Perhaps I shouldn’t of been so quick to let him use my—” She stopped, biting her bee-stung lower lip in exaggerated consternation.
“Oh, well, if he had a badge,” the meter man said in a reassuring tone. He went closer to the fence. “I’m sure he was real glad for your help, Miss—”
“Sanders. But everybody calls me Zany.” She giggled. “That’s short for Zania. My mama named me for my great-grandma. She was some gal, let me tell you. Vaudeville, back in the early days. Dance?” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, my, could she dance! A real hoofer, she was.”
The meter man’s voice was warm and complimentary. “I’ll bet you’re some dancer, too, Miss Zany.”
“Miss Zany, that’s me.” Another giggle. “Crazy Zany, my friends call me. Crazy Zany, always ready for a good time. And yeah, I do my share of dancin’.” She looked up at him. “Hey, do you like to dance? I love dancin’ with big men.”
“Do I dance? Oh, you bet,” the meter man said with enthusiasm. He paused. “You let him use your—was it a key, did you say?”
“Well, sure,” Miss Zany replied. “He couldn’t of got in otherwise, could he? How else could he do his job?” She pouted. “To tell the truth, I felt really sorry for the poor guy. I mean, wouldn’t you think they’d of made sure he had the key before they sent him out here? But he was just dadgum lucky, because—” She smiled happily. “Because I had one. Colin gave it to me when he first moved in. He had to have the hot water heater repaired, y’see, and I said I’d be glad to let the repair man in. Well, one thing sorta led to another and I kept the key.” She smiled again, with significance. “It was a good thing, doncha think?”
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