A Shot in the Bark (A Dog Park Mystery)

by Newsome, Carol Ann

  She wasn't thinking about Peter . . . much. She was thinking about his warning. She turned to Jose and had a long talk about personal protection. Somehow she couldn't see herself carrying a taser all the time. Or a gun, or a snap-out baton. Surely she didn't need to be afraid, did she?

  Then there was the problem with Bailey. Catherine was Catherine. And Catherine's frequent oversight was setting Bailey's nerves on edge. Not that Catherine wouldn't set anyone's nerves on edge, but in the past, Bailey had been able to toss off a joke, roll those protuberant eyes of hers, and stay focussed. Now she was moody. Lia worried that she was going to blow up on the job. Some days she was pumped up and raring to go, others she seemed like she could hardly crawl out of bed. And somedays, her mood turned on a dime, usually after a visit from Catherine. Bailey said it was just Catherine, and as soon as they finished the garden, she'd be better. Lia decided to take it on faith and let it go. Catherine was more inclined to talk to her anyway. So she buffered the two as best she could, and crossed her fingers that they'd make it to the end.

  She saw Peter at the park. They had lunch, caught a Christian Bale movie, and by tacit agreement did not mention the afternoon they'd spent rolling on the floor in Lia's studio. Peter figured they were just catching up, doing things they should have done before rolling on the floor, and when the time was right they'd get back around to it. Peter had hunted as a young man in the Kentucky hills. He knew the value of waiting.

  Peter had been pulled off the Morrisey case to chase down car-jackers operating on Hamilton Avenue. "Cheeky bastards," he said. "District Five is less than half a mile away."

  "Do Kentucky boys say 'cheeky'?"

  "They do if they've spent any time around Terry. How is he?"

  "No change. Donna goes to see him every day and she reads Bernard Cornwell to him." Peter gave her a quizzical look. "Medieval war novels," she explained. "She keeps slipping in deviations from historical facts. She's hoping he'll bolt up and call her on it."

  "I don't know if that's sweet or sad. What's the prognosis?"

  "The swelling's gone down. So far, no obvious signs of long term damage, but with the brain it's hard to say. At least that's what they tell me."

  ~ ~ ~

  For the hell of it, Peter read the fifth Harry Potter book, The Order of the Phoenix. He decided Cho Chang was a twit and told Brent so.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, June 7

  Terry's eyelashes fluttered. Donna's heart stopped. Frantic, she ran to the nurses station and demanded a doctor. By the time one arrived, Terry's eyes were open and he was talking.

  "Sir," the resident asked, "Can you tell me what year it is?"

  "Gregorian, Julian, Mayan, or Jewish?"

  Confused, the resident doggedly continued. "Sir, can you name the president?"

  "You mean that fellow who let a serial killer babysit his children?"

  The neurological resident looked bewildered. "Sounds delirious," he muttered to the nurse. "Sir, can you give me a name?"

  " Comrade Urkel? How about asking me something worth answering, like the Pharaohs of the 19th Dynasty, in order?" Tears ran down Donna's face. "Now, that was a government worth talking about. Ramses I, Seti I, Ramses II, Merneptah, Seti II, Amenmesse, Siptah, ah, and we must not forget little known and under-appreciated Queen Twosret." He punctuated the last name with a pointed index finger.

  "Sir, you aren't making any sense."

  "Only due to your limited intelligence. Fetch me a doctor with a real education."

  The resident noticed Donna smiling through her tears and realized that she was not at all upset by his patient's behavior. "Is this typical?"

  "Terry is never typical. But this is normal for him."

  ~ ~ ~

  All wasn't normal. Terry could recite the periodic table. He could calculate pi to twenty decimal places in his head. This he chose to do instead of counting backwards from 100 by three, as requested by the doctor. He named all the prime numbers under 500. He could not remember falling, or even being on the roof. They told him it was expected to have some memory loss of the events preceding a concussion.

  Terry was bothered. He suspected that somehow, he'd forgotten something important.

  Chapter 18

  Saturday, June 18

  Bailey twitched the mosquito netting in place on their improvised butterfly house.

  "It's a bit much, isn't it?" Lia asked, eyeing the plethora of hanging baskets full of Fuchsia and Tuberous Begonias. Pots of Geraniums in every color were stacked around the pavilion's support posts and along the perimeter of the tent.

  "But it's made her so happy. Our Catherine loves overkill. The butterflies will certainly be entertained. They aren't native, but they will make a lovely splash of color, and she can decorate her deck with these after the party's over."

  "I'm so impressed. You've got her being smug about her plants not being jammed in like sardines."

  "It just took citing a few eco-conscious Hollywood types who've gone the native plant route, giving her a few names to drop. She now knows she's in exalted company."

  "Lia! Bailey! Have I told you how wonderful this is?" Catherine picked her way across the stepping stones in her 'koi moat' to the little island. Lia watched her totter across the creek in her spike-heeled sandals and mentally shook her head. "How brilliant of you to come up with a canopy of mosquito netting so the butterflies would have sunshine. Is everything ready to let them loose?"

  "Whenever you say," Lia responded. "We've placed extra pots of flowers for them to feed on while they're in here."

  "It looks lovely! I thought about waiting until everyone was here later this evening, but then I thought, why keep them cooped up any longer? Their lives are so short, they should get all the sunshine they can."

  "If you want, you can sit in the tent and open the hatchery. You'll get to watch them come out, and you can spend some time alone with them."

  "What a marvelous way to get ready for the party!"

  Lia pulled the hatchery out from under the bench. "We'll leave you, then. Just be sure to close the netting all the way when you come out." She showed Catherine the strips of magnets designed to ensure the flaps sealed securely.

  They left Catherine to enjoy her island paradise and strolled the path, savoring bright splashes of blossoms. "It turned out well, didn't it, Bailey?"

  "I'd say so. Maybe some of Catherine's society friends will want one of their very own."

  "You going to be okay now?"

  Bailey sighed, "For a while I was wondering if I was going to be able to see it through. Thanks for running interference."

  "Hey, what are friends for? I could wait awhile before we tackle another one. I swear, I'll never agree to such an insane schedule on a big job again."

  "It's like childbirth. They tell me you forget all the pain and that's the only reason anyone ever does it again."

  "Yeah, you're right. I get in the middle of some huge project and I promise myself I'm never going to do it again and then I turn around and make a proposal for something twice as big. Come on, girlfriend, let's go put on our party shoes."

  ~ ~ ~

  "Detective, Officer, I'm so glad you both made it." Catherine's smile was bright and impersonal as she ushered Peter and Brent into her side yard. "Have you seen the labyrinth? You must walk it. There's food and drinks by the back deck. Don't forget the sushi bar." She wafted off, the lavender and cerise silk of her caftan fluttering behind her. Peter suspected she had decided to take the butterfly theme to heart.

  He heard strains of exotic music pulsing from the rear of the property. "What is that?" Peter asked.

  "I think it's called Ethno-trance-fusion or something like that. Sounds like Mayan Ruins. Gotta love those drums, they're positively tribal," Brent said. "You go check out the labyrinth, I'm looking for a beer."

  Peter followed the winding path into Lia's garden. He let jewel-toned mosaics lead him through the loops and turns. His mind wandered with his feet and he thoug
ht about the woman who could create such loveliness, for whom looking at the world around her was an adventure and a delight. He wondered what she saw in him, an ordinary guy with no special window on the world. One more turn brought him to the edge of the koi pond . . . no, koi moat, as Lia told him Catherine insisted on calling it. Brightly colored fish darted among rocks and aquatic plants. He looked up and saw Lia sitting on the bench, still as a statue while Painted Ladies and Swallowtails floated around her on dancing wings. He crossed the moat.

  "I'd knock, but there's nothing to knock on," he announced.

  "Come on in. I saw you on the path. Did you enjoy the walk?"

  "Not as much as I'm enjoying myself now." He could swear the air around her sparkled as she smiled. "Is there room on the bench for two?"

  "I suspect so." She scooted to one side. If you're quiet, they may land on you."

  "Really?"

  "Three of them have sat on me so far."

  "That's because you smell so pretty."

  "That's because I didn't have you here for competition. Just sit still and wait. Don't talk."

  He wrapped an arm around her and she dropped her head against his shoulder. He imagined himself sitting with her, just like this, no butterflies necessary, when he was old and arthritic. Just Lia leaning on his shoulder, maybe looking at a fire, or watching a sunset. It was a warm thought. A Painted Lady fluttered down and sat on his shoulder. Lia grinned at him and he leaned over to kiss her, a brush of lips as soft as butterfly wings.

  "Aw. She flew off," Lia pouted.

  "That's okay. I got a grip on the prettiest lady here. I don't need any others."

  "You're sweet."

  "On you."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  "Hmmm," Lia considered.

  "You can't be surprised."

  "Guess not. You're not exactly the Sphinx."

  "What do we do about this?"

  Lia gave a contented sigh. "This is nice, just like this."

  "Yes, it is."

  "I really like you, Peter. You're so solid. And I feel like you really see me. I just don't want to jump in and fall flat on my face. After Luthor I'm having a hard time trusting myself, my judgement. But this is really nice. I don't think I've ever felt so comfortable with anyone before, just being, you know?"

  "I think I do." He gave her a squeeze. "Shall we go find some food? Patronize the famous sushi bar? Discover what other delicacies are in store for us?"

  "Might as well. After all the agony Catherine's put us through, Bailey and I better get our money's worth tonight."

  "I can't believe what you and Bailey accomplished, it's amazing. I hope I get to see it when the plants are established. You did a really great job." He used the excuse of the stepping stones to hold her hand, then kept it after they crossed the water.

  They stopped by the sushi station, where the chef was slicing a California Roll for Brent. "So this is the lovely Lia. How'd you get mixed up with this clown?"

  Lia gave Brent a flirtatious look. "It's the itty-bitty car and the big red nose. Gets me every time. I can't help myself. Are you having a good time?"

  "Nice party. I've met a few of your friends. Some guy named Terry in a wheelchair. Is he for real?"

  "'Fraid so," Lia and Peter said in unison.

  "He said he was helping you find a gun. Said something about how he thought he remembered seeing it before, but it turned out it was only some weird brand of air pistol."

  Peter shook his head. "Barely out of the hospital, and he's already back on the case."

  "Bailey was suggesting that she bring in some of her mystical friends and have a seance to get Luthor to tell us where he got the gun, then Terry went off on a riff about 19th Century table-tipping fraud. He offered to be in charge of manufacturing her special effects."

  "Glad to hear his accident didn't slow him down any."

  "Peter!" Lia scolded.

  Nadine rounded a bush and spotted Lia. "Lia, have you seen Catherine?" she asked, distractedly.

  "Not recently. What's wrong?"

  "It's Marie and Terry. They're at it again."

  "Surely not."

  "Surely yes."

  "How are Catherine's other guests taking it?"

  "They're appalled, of course. Charlie's been looking for Catherine, but I don't think he's found her yet. I've got to put a stop to this somehow. It's just not right, it's a party, for Heaven's sake." She stalked off towards the band, shaking her head and muttering to herself.

  Peter frowned, mentally gearing-up into cop-mode. Lia saw his face, read his mind. "Sorry, Detective, you may be the long arm of the law, but there's not a thing you can do." She gave him an appraising look and sighed, " I suppose you'll have to see for yourself."

  She took him by the hand and led him around to the crowded deck. They pushed through to the center. Terry sat in his wheelchair, facing off with Marie. Terry's eyes were predatory slits behind his wire-rim glasses. Marie's head was canted to a dangerous angle, her eyes narrowed, her magenta bangs a bold stroke of defiance. Catherine's other guests were slack-jawed and gaping.

  Marie spoke first, "Sarah Palin filed a complaint of sexual harassment against Dick Cheney for talking about her enormous rack."

  "Oh, really?"

  "But it didn't go anywhere. Turns out he was talking about the antlers on the last moose she bagged."

  Terry grunted in a mild acknowledgment of the hit. He leaned forward and gripped the arm rests of his wheel chair. "In the Eighties, when Ronald Reagan was president, Bob Hope and Johnny Cash were still alive. Now we've got Obama, no Hope and no Cash.

  Marie snorted derisively. "Why didn't Sarah Palin cross the road?"

  Terry rolled his eyes in an attempt to display of boredom. "Gee, I don't know. Why?"

  "She had a new laser-scope and it wasn't necessary."

  "What will we have when they put Obama's face on a quarter?"

  "I don't know. What?"

  "Finally, 'Change you can believe in.'"

  "Why did Sarah Palin bleach her hair?"

  "No idea."

  "It was time to shoot dinner and it was snowing outside."

  Donna sidled up to Lia and Peter. "They have an audience. I don't think there's any stopping them."

  A rail-thin, cultured blond leaned over. "How long will they keep this up? This is unbelievable!

  "It could be hours," Donna moaned.

  The blond shook her head. "It's like a train wreck. I can't help watching."

  "Fascinating, isn't it?" Lia asked.

  "Yes, in a very weird, sick way," the blond said, shaking her head.

  "They score points, you know," Donna added.

  "Seriously?"

  "They can't repeat a joke and the one who runs out first has to buy at the next Burger-Mania lunch. Right now, I think Marie is winning."

  "And what do you get for putting up with it?"

  Donna smiled, "I get Terry."

  Just then, the music stopped. After a moment of dead silence, a single drum started the familiar rhythm of the Conga. The sound got louder, as if it was moving closer. A tambourine joined in, then a cowbell. Slowly the crowd parted. Paul Ravenscraft, the band's bearded drummer, appeared carrying a djembe in an improvised parade harness as he rapped out the syncopated siren song. Nadine clung to the waist strap of his harness with one hand while she shook the tambourine with the other. She waved the noise-maker at Lia and Peter in a "come on down" gesture. Catherine gyrated behind Nadine with the cowbell, giving an extra twist to her hips on the downbeat. Jose, Bailey and Brent were behind her. Brent gave a "what the heck" shrug as he shuffled with the beat. The Conga line snaked through the crowd, picking up dancers as it moved along.

  Lia grabbed Peter's hand and pulled him towards the expanding train of party guests.

  "Must we?"

  "You'd rather listen to bad Obama jokes?"

  "Good point." He joined the line behind Lia, settling his hands on her hips. He decided this was
much better than questionable political humor. The line circled the garden, then took a serpentine path around the house. The crowd around Marie and Terry dissipated, absorbed into the dance. Lia looked back at the deck. Terry was good-naturedly banging on the cowbell while Donna pushed his wheelchair around the deck in time with the music.

  The line began to zig-zag across the flagstone patio, filling up the make-shift dance floor. Paul rejoined his bandmates as other instruments started to play. The band segued into the softly pulsating rhythm of an original tune. Lia turned around, into Peter's arms.

  Peter froze. "You know, Kentucky boys can't dance."

  "Do Kentucky boys keep time?"

  "That we do."

  "What if we just stay like this and keep time? You just have to sway a little. It's so crowded, nobody will notice us anyway." She wrapped her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes. Peter thought maybe Kentucky boys did dance, just a little.

  Peter left Lia surrounded by high-maintenance women from Hyde Park and Amberly Village. It was all in the fingernails, he thought. He found fake fingernails a repellent reminder that some people had more money than sense. Money enough, perhaps, to commission a garden of their own? He figured the cooing was a girl thing and headed over to the bar for a beer, promising to bring a mohito for Lia. He pried Bailey away from Anna and sent her back with the mohito. As long as there was cooing, she might as well get some. Better her than him.

  He found Brent, Jim, and Jose talking to a bear of a man who was Catherine's husband, Leo. Leo was a Steelers fan, in opposition to 90% of Cincinnati. He stated that only the brain-dead held to home-town loyalties in the face of superior skills and a solid winning record. Jim replied that true love is unconditional. Brent said he didn't care too much one way or the other, as long as he didn't have to go around calling himself a 'Cheesehead,' which was the fate of Cincinnatians who chose Wisconsin over Pittsburgh in the last Superbowl. Jose thought this was funnier than it deserved to be. When Leo asked what his game was, Peter suggested that baseball was a real thinking man's sport and turned the conversation to the Red's current season, the Reds being much easier to love than the Bengals.