by Nina Wright
“She didn’t learn The System in the Coast Guard,” said David. “She learned it . . . underground.”
“Underground?”
“Deely has been an animal rights activist since she was a kid. Her father was Arthur Smarr. He died for the cause.”
“Her father died for animal rights?” We were both whispering now.
“He was trampled by a circus elephant at an Anti-Captivity Rally. It was tragic.”
I couldn’t help but flash on the Mary Tyler Moore Show episode in which Chuckles the Clown, dressed as a peanut, is crushed by an elephant. Like everyone in the WJM newsroom except goody-goody Mary, I was seized by inappropriate laughter. David glared at me.
“Deely was eight years old,” he said.
The same age as Chester. That stopped my giggles.
“Arthur Smarr invented The System,” David continued. “But Deely perfected it. Just look at her.”
The reverential way he spoke caused me to look at David first. No question about it: the good vet was in love.
My cell phone rang.
“Do you know a waitress named Megan?” Jenx began.
“You mean the one at Bear Claw?” I asked.
“She told the MSP she remembered something else: the woman who grabbed Chester had a coat over her arm, a coat for a little boy.”
“Chester wasn’t under-dressed,” I informed David, who was still mooning over Deely. I relayed Jenx’s update, plus her repeated request that I get to the station ASAP to fill out a description of the guy who wasn’t C. Richards, R.N.
“What are you talking about?” said David, finally giving me his full attention.
“There’s a pervert on the loose. He’s supposed to be a nurse, but he’s not.”
My phone rang. Jenx again.
“How soon can you get Abra out to Pasco Point?”
“Why?”
“Brady and Roscoe’s door-to-door wardrobe search is taking too long. They need back-up.”
“You’re recruiting my dog?” As soon as I used the pronoun, I shuddered. I generally tried to deny ownership.
“And you,” Jenx said. “We’re deputizing you both. For that neighborhood, Abra should wear her rhinestone collar. Make sure you look good, too.”
Pasco Point is the site of about a dozen multi-million-dollar lakefront estates. I could understand why going door to door was slow work: the homes were a quarter-mile apart, and most employed a battery of servants to process every request.
“But Abra’s not trained for that kind of work,” I protested. “She’s more likely to steal something than find something!”
“Finding the fur coat is your job,” Jenx said. “Use Abra to get in the door. She’s a local celebrity, Whiskey. Face it, the bitch has class.”
Chapter Seventeen
When I told David that Jenx was deputizing Abra and me for duty at Pasco Point, he said, “Abra has training. What about you?”
We were sitting in my driveway in the Animal Ambulance, a good vantage point from which to admire Deely and the dogs. The identically dressed trio pranced around the yard in a perfect circle.
“Watch this,” David said. “Now they’ll go in reverse.”
Ever graceful, Abra made it look easy. Although Prince Harry stumbled, by God the pup tried to walk backwards. And when Deely gave him his treat, he did not pee on her feet.
“Wonderful trainer!” David sighed.
“But we hired her to be the twins’ nanny,” I reminded him, which made me wonder who was watching Leah and Leo.
“This is what Deely does on her break,” David said. “Give her free rein to train Abra, and you’ll be amazed.”
“But can Abra make a good first impression?” I asked.
David said, “Can you?”
Though dubious about my qualifications, David agreed to deliver me, with Abra, to Pasco Point. I went inside to fetch the dog’s rhinestone collar and a clean, blood-free jacket for myself. Upstairs in Abra’s room—yes, she had her own room—I peered out the window. David and Deely were nose to nose in what looked like an intimate conversation. Were they about to kiss? Or just exchanging hot Flegger gossip? Maybe a whispered reference to speciesism was all it took to get them both excited.
Even from this angle, I was taken by how much Deely looked like Avery. If she ever lost the glasses and let her hair grow, I’d be in big trouble.
“That one’s your listing, isn’t it?” Officer Brady Swancott asked, pointing toward the ivory castle that loomed before us. It would be our fourth stop, and we were tired already although the dogs remained enthusiastic. Why shouldn’t they? So far, they were getting treats at every house. And the residents of Pasco Point didn’t hand out dog biscuits. They wowed their canine guests with table scraps that included filet mignon.
“Yes, that’s our listing,” I said, afraid to look up for long from the slippery surface beneath my feet. We were making our way down icy Scarletta Road. Even the super-rich couldn’t get the County clear their street after a major winter storm.
Ahead loomed Iberville, a ten-thousand square-foot French chateau with a panoramic view of Lake Michigan. It was one of the properties Odette and I had told Mrs. Gribble the Third about the day we signed her as a client.
“It’s unoccupied, right?” Brady said
“Right. The owners moved to Miami right after Christmas.”
“Has Abra been here?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“She acts like she knows the place.”
I glanced up again. He was right. Brady had assigned Officer Roscoe to me and taken Abra’s leash himself. Nice try at damage control. The blonde deputy dog was pulling hard as we approached the Iberville driveway.
“Let’s humor her,” said Brady. “See where she leads.”
Three-quarters of the way up the long unplowed lane, I said, “Technically we’re trespassing, you know.”
“It’s okay. You’re with a cop. Heck, today you are a cop.” Brady winked at me. He was young and sweet in a goofy, geeky way. Law enforcement was not Brady Swancott’s destiny. In his mid-twenties, he already had a son and a wife and was halfway through an online graduate degree in Art History. His career goal? Either art conservation or stay-at-home fatherhood.
Abra whimpered pathetically, straining toward the rear of the house.
Brady commanded her to halt, and to my amazement, she did. He crouched in the icy driveway and studied what I realized was a pair of faint tire tracks.
“Ice doesn’t register good prints,” he remarked. “But somebody was here, probably just a couple hours ago.”
As Roscoe dutifully sniffed the ice, Abra whined again.
“What’s wrong with her?” I said impatiently.
Brady replied, “She’s trying to tell us.”
He released her leash. Freed of constraints, Abra spun in place on the icy drive until her claws found friction. Then she loped away, her graceful blonde body disappearing around the corner of the mansion.
“There’s a delivery entrance back there,” I mused. “But there shouldn’t have been any deliveries.”
“Let’s go see,” said Brady. “I assume there’s an electronic lockbox?”
“On the front door. The owners insisted that Mattimoe Realty oversee all showings. So far, only Odette has taken people through.”
Abra’s sudden shrill bark prickled the back of my neck. It wasn’t her usual yip, but rather the higher-pitched yelp she saved for emergencies. Without waiting for Brady’s command, Officer Roscoe woofed a reply and bounded after her.
“She found something,” Brady said, breaking into a jog.
I managed to keep up with him, so we took in the scene simultaneously: The double-wide delivery door ajar. The two dogs planted in place, heads and tails erect, bodies electrified, as they peered inside.
Abra emitted a low moan.
“Good girl,” Brady whispered. To me he said, “She knows better than to contaminate a crime scene.”
Mo
re likely she didn’t care for the smell. Or she was trying to impress Officer Roscoe.
I scanned the area. The tire tracks ended in front of the delivery door, where the earth looked churned and scarred.
Brady drew his sidearm.
“Somebody dragged something in.” He motioned for me to wait with the dogs. “Is your cell phone working?” he asked.
I nodded.
“If I’m not back in five, call Jenx.” Noiselessly he slipped inside.
Abra actually seemed to grasp the situation. At least she knew enough to take her cues from Roscoe. Silent and still as statues, the dogs stared after Brady. I did the same, keeping one eye on my watch. After four excruciating minutes, my stomach clenched. After four and a half minutes, my finger arched over Jenx’s number.
Brady returned as stealthily as he had departed. His impassive cop face offered no clue to what he’d seen.
It can’t be an emergency, I thought. He’s too calm.
“It’s Gil Gruen,” Brady said without preamble. “He’s inside.”
“Gil’s inside?” I echoed numbly. “Gil’s dead.”
“You need to see this.” Holding my right elbow, Brady steered me toward Iberville’s delivery door. “Come on.”
Abra yipped excitedly. Though not directed at her, the words were a familiar command, one that she rarely chose to obey. But this occasion must have promised excitement because I’d gone green around the gills. Eagerly Abra trotted through the door ahead of us.
“No!” Brady bellowed. Roscoe leapt to his aid, taking the Afghan hound down. When she rolled onto her back, I recognized her come-hither look. She had interpreted the German shepherd’s passionate action as foreplay. He restrained himself, however. The canine officer was a gentleman.
“I saw Gil’s body already,” I told Brady with a shudder. “I don’t want to see it again.”
“Trust me,” he said. “This is . . . different.”
Numbly, I let him lead me through the delivery door into what the owners of Iberville called their “service area.” The partitioned extension of the kitchen-slash-pantry was an immaculate, bright-white room lined with benches, shelves, and a walk-in refrigerator. Brady pushed open the next door. We were in a hallway.
Since my only tour of Iberville had begun at the front door and proceeded in a clockwise circle through each of the three floors, I was already disoriented. At the next juncture, I paused. I may have even stumbled as the smell that Abra had no doubt discerned from outside finally penetrated my senses.
“Oh, god,” I gasped. It was a sharp almost metallic stench, and it reminded me of the odor present in the ice shanty where I had found Gil’s body.
“It’s not what you think,” Brady said. “Keep moving.”
Shaking now, I half-closed my eyes and wished I could close my nose. The odor grew stronger when we entered the conservatory, a round room with a wall of leaded glass. No matter that the owners had removed their greenery; I was nearly gagged by the stink of organic decay.
“Open your eyes, Whiskey,” said Brady. “It’s all right.”
Cautiously I did. Silhouetted against the window stood Gil Gruen in full Western regalia. His eyes and mouth were open, his hands raised.
I swooned. The questions formed just before my legs failed: How could Gil be here? And what was that god-awful smell?
Chapter Eighteen
I had to be dreaming.
In my ear Brady whispered, “It’s all right, Whiskey. There are three more Gil Gruens.”
And someone was scrubbing my face.
When I tried to push the face-washer away, my hand made contact with a soft, furry muzzle. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know whose. But I opened them anyway. Brady Swancott was holding my head in his lap as Abra tried to clean it.
“Three more Gils?” I asked.
“Yup. They’re each a little bit different. One’s in the main foyer, one’s in the living room, and one’s in the master suite.”
“What are you talking about?” I said, struggling to sit up.
Brady nodded in the direction of the conservatory window-wall, where Officer Roscoe stood guard next to a life-size cardboard cut-out of Gil Gruen.
“Recognize that?” Brady asked.
I did. It was Gil’s habit to set up self-replicas next to the FOR SALE signs at his properties. Until, that is, the seller made him take them down, or local kids stole them. Gil called the cut-outs his “action figures.” As far as I knew, he’d had them made in several poses. This one was a freeze-frame of Gil in mid-spiel: lips apart, arms outstretched, fingers splayed,
I sniffed the air. The putrid smell was fainter now, but not gone.
“What still stinks?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Yes!”
“Well, along with each cut-out, there’s a dead rat.”
That got me to my feet. Fast.
“Where?” I demanded, scanning the room.
“The one that was in here is gone.”
“Gone?” Temporary deputy though I was, I knew that nobody’s supposed to remove anything from a crime scene until the initial investigation is complete.
“Uh . . . yeah. . . .” Brady cast a sidelong look at Abra.
“You mean . . . Abra took the rat? The dead rat?”
“She didn’t exactly take it. She . . . ate it.”
I stared at him. “And you let her lick my face?!”
I was already frantically wiping it with the sleeve of my parka. Make that both sleeves. I would never stop cleaning it. Lady Macbeth had nothing on me.
“She didn’t eat the whole thing,” Brady said in an apologetic tone. “Just the torso and the—”
“Are you trying to kill me?!”
“No! I’m trying to calm you down! Please calm down! Jenx is on her way over here. So is the MSP.”
That stopped me. “Why call in the State Boys? This is just a trespassing, isn’t it? Or maybe a simple B&E?”
When Brady didn’t answer, I said, “Well, isn’t it? What’s going on, Swancott?”
“Remember the marks we saw in the ice outside? Where it looked like somebody had dragged something in?”
“Yeah?”
“Somebody did.”
“You mean something besides the cut-outs and the rodents?”
Brady motioned for me to follow. I glanced back to see Abra happily tagging along.
“No!” I shouted. “No more dead rats for you!”
“I’ve secured the other rooms,” Brady promised.
He led me through the first floor to the focal point of the house, the flared central staircase with its ornately carved walnut banister. A second cut-out of Gil helpfully pointed the way up the steps; a dead rat lay at his feet.
“Uh-oh, I forgot about that one,” Brady said. He simultaneously whistled for Roscoe and body-blocked Abra as she lunged for her prey. The canine officer entered barking. I don’t know what he told her, but Abra meekly trailed him back to the conservatory.
“You said there were three more Gils?” I asked Brady.
He nodded. “The one in the main foyer is holding a WELCOME sign.”
I knew that cut-out well since it was the one Gil displayed at Best West’s Open Houses. Whoever did this was counting on visitors to enter through the front door.
Before we started up the staircase, I stole a peek at the dead rat Brady had shielded from Abra. Decomposing, it lay on its back, beady eyes still open, four feet in the air.
Brady followed my gaze. “They were all placed like that. Somebody was trying to make a point.”
“What kind of point?” I asked, mystified. “What’s this about?”
“Wait till you see what’s upstairs. . . .”
As we ascended, I recalled that the master suite took up the entire second floor. The third floor—accessible by a different staircase and by an elevator—featured an eat-in kitchen-slash-family room for guests staying in the four additional bedrooms, each of which h
ad its own private bath.
The master suite was to die for. Upon reaching the second floor, Brady and I paused, not to regain our breaths but rather to take in the scenic overlook. The wall ahead of us was mostly glass. Although we seemed to stand among the treetops, their seasonal leaflessness opened the view to a vast expanse of lake and shore.
The owners had left most furnishings in place so that the house could be shown in its nearly full glory. A California king-size canopy bed dominated the sleeping area. Arranged around it were matching nightstands and dressers, two sofas, two wingback chairs, an entertainment center, and an antique writing desk. Chintz—never to my taste—was the fabric of choice in this room.
“Looks like they removed their best art,” Brady quipped, nodding toward a couple conspicuous bare spots on the inside walls.
As we walked on, I replayed sales points in my head: The master bath and dressing room comprised more than 400 square feet of luxury. Painted twilight blue, the dressing area featured wall-to-wall carpet the same color as the ice now on the lake. The rest of the master bath was tiled: aquamarine alternating with midnight blue and gold. A twenty-foot-long alabaster counter with his-and-hers sinks matched the whirlpool bath, shower, commode, and bidet. Custom-made walnut cabinets and drawers under the counter provided ample storage in addition to the cedar closets and built-in-cupboards covering two walls. The ornate plumbing fixtures were gold with a finish guaranteed never to corrode or stain. Ninety square feet of mirrors enhanced the drama and self-absorption one was sure to feel in this space. Or, as Brady put it, “If you live here, you better like the way you look naked.”
“I thought you said the fourth cut-out of Gil was in here,” I said, cautiously sniffing the air. “I see nothing and smell nothing.”
Brady stepped toward the opaque privacy door that separated the whirlpool bath from the rest of the room.
“Are you ready?” he asked. Before I could reply, he pulled the door open, and the familiar stink wafted out.
I could not immediately grasp what I saw. The immense oval tub was crammed with slabs of ice, cut into odd shapes of varying thickness. Although the frozen chunks were melting, the tub still contained more ice than water. That wasn’t all: wedged among the slabs was the fourth replica of Gil Gruen. This one was nearly submerged; pointy-toed cowboy boots poked up through the brine at a forty-five degree angle. The fourth dead rat was accounted for, too. Like the others, and like the submerged cut-out, it lay on its back. But this rat had been posed on the crown of a floating Stetson hat.
