Blue Goodness (Michael Kaplan Mysteries)

by David W. Cowles

  “Yes, that was me,” Soozie admitted pleasantly. “I’ve found the most perfect house for the two of you. Michael absolutely fell in love with the bedroom—it even has a wood-burning fireplace. The reason I was so anxious to reach Michael yesterday is because other brokers have been showing the property. I’m afraid that if you didn’t make an offer soon, someone else will beat you to it and you’ll lose out. It’s priced quite a bit under the market, and—”

  “Bullshit,” Kimberly interrupted testily.

  “I beg your pardon?” Soozie was totally surprised.

  “I said, bullshit,” Kimberly repeated, more loudly.

  Soozie looked like a trapped animal. “What … what do you mean?”

  “First of all, we’re not in the market for a house, and Michael knows that. We’re perfectly satisfied with the condo we live in now. Second, don’t lie to me. When I walked in here just now, I saw you and Michael kissing. Passionately. No, vulgarly. It looked like the two of you were trying to swab each other’s tonsils with your tongues.

  “You may have a real estate license—I’m not saying you don’t; who doesn’t, these days?—but Michael isn’t interested in buying a house and lot, he’s only interested in getting a lot. You’re just another one of his whores.”

  Soozie appeared deeply offended. “I resent that accusation—”

  Color rushed to Kimberly’s face. Her voice became venomous. “Resent it all you want, you carrot-topped bitch! It’s true you’re a whore, and I can prove it. Our Chief of Security has photos of you taken by our eye-in-the-sky cameras plastered all over his office walls. You’ve been to this hotel before, Soozie. Frequently, with other men. Metro Vice has a long record on you. You’ve been arrested countless times for prostitution. So, don’t try to play Miss Innocent with me. I know better.”

  “I … I … I … ” Soozie wanted to leave, to get away from the angry woman’s wrath, but the only way out would have been to crawl under the table.

  Michael tried to calm the situation. Other diners were starting to stare. “Myra, please, let’s discuss this later. Don’t make a scene. You work here, remember? I don’t want you to lose your job. We need the money.”

  “Shut up, Michael,” Kimberly snapped. “I’m tired of earning most of the money in our family and having you piss it away on your sluts.” She turned back to Soozie, her eyes filled with fire. “Are you the whore who gave Michael the case of gonorrhea, which he’s still recovering from?”

  Soozie’s eyes darted back and forth nervously. “Uh, no, it wasn’t me. We haven’t had sex. You’re right, we were talking about it, but nothing has happened yet. After what you just told me, it never will. I swear!”

  “In case you ever think about changing your mind, let me warn you. Sooner or later, I always find out about Michael’s indiscretions.” Kimberly turned toward Michael and leered. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

  “Yes, dear,” he answered meekly, his head lowered in a obsequious pose.

  Kimberly wagged a finger in front of Soozie’s nose. “If you ever go to bed with my husband, I’m going to gouge out both your eyes and stuff them down your throat. Do we understand each other, sweetheart?”

  Soozie never had a chance to answer. The real Myra stepped up to their table and stood in front of them. She glared icily at the seated threesome. Both Michael and Kimberly blanched. It appeared that their charade was about over and ready to backfire in their faces.

  Myra ignored the women and addressed her husband. The calmness of her voice belied the rage building within. “This is a surprise, Michael. How many women do you need at a time? Perhaps some day you’ll tell me how you do it with two women at once. Do you take turns or have you figured out something kinkier?” With that question, Myra turned on her heels and practically ran for the exit.

  Soozie’s eyes were like saucers. “Who the hell was that?” she yelped.

  Kimberly picked up the cue. “Oh, just some other bitch Michael has been fucking. That’s true, isn’t it, Michael? You have fucked that bimbo, haven’t you?”

  Michael winced. He didn’t like Kimberly talking that way about Myra, even under the circumstances.

  “Go ahead. Own up to it.”

  “Uh, yeah, we’ve slept together,” he admitted. “More than once.”

  “Can I leave now?” Soozie begged. I need to get back to my office for a meeting.”

  Kimberly stood to allow Soozie barely enough room to squeeze out. She grabbed Soozie’s arm roughly as the now-intimidated woman passed in front of her. “Just remember what I said, sweetheart. Don’t ever mess with my husband again, or I’ll come down on you like white on rice.”

  “Uh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Kaplan, I really am. What I don’t understand is why you still want this asshole. Why didn’t you divorce him a long time ago for cheating on you?”

  “Well, if you had gone to bed with him, you would understand,” Kimberly smirked smugly. “He’s the best.” She wished she had actual knowledge of the veracity of the statement she’d just uttered.

  Michael and Kimberly waited until they were certain Soozie was long gone from the restaurant, then burst into uproarious laughter. “We did it,” Michael exclaimed. “We slew the wicked witch! Gimme five!” He held up his hand.

  Kimberly slapped his hand with hers, then said, “Give me two.” When Michael looked perplexed, she puckered up her lips and pointed to them. Once her message sank in, he grinned and planted a kiss where she had indicated.

  “We sure pulled the wool over Soozie’s eyes,” Michael gloated.

  “To use a different metaphor: She took the bait—hook, line, and sinker,” Kimberly agreed.

  “You played the role of the domineering, enraged wife perfectly,” he complimented.

  “Yes, my ‘unfaithful husband,’ I did, didn’t I?” Kimberly complimented herself. “But all I did was emulate the way Myra’s been acting. You had to set the stage with Soozie. You had to convince the bimbo you were a lecher who’d drop his pants for anyone—even her.”

  “I thought for sure the jig was up when Myra appeared from out of nowhere,” Michael noted. “I never saw her until she was standing by our table.”

  “I didn’t see her approach, either. It couldn’t have worked out better if Myra had been in on our game and rehearsed her lines,” Kimberly opined. “Myra was the clincher we needed. She reinforced every lie I’d told Soozie.”

  Michael turned sober. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to straighten things out with Myra. It seems she wants to believe the worst about me.”

  Kimberly saw an opportunity and took it. “If it’s possible for you and Myra to work out your differences, I’m sure you will. On the other hand, if she really loved you, she wouldn’t be so quick to disparage you.

  “Now, Michael, I’ve worked up quite an appetite. I had to stand by outside the restaurant waiting for you and Soozie to finish your lunches. Call the waiter over, please. You can buy lunch for me. I think I’ve earned it.”

  “You certainly have, Kimberly. Thanks to you, Soozie Snyder will never bother me again.”

  Kimberly was tempted to suggest to Michael that, since he’d already paid for the hotel room, they should put it to good use after lunch. Then she remembered her vow to desist from propositioning Michael. She knew she would eventually get him into bed, though. All in good time.

  Seventeen

  “PLEASE PULL YOUR CAR into that parking lot, Kimberly,” Michael requested. He pointed out a shopping center ahead and to their right. “Let me out as close as you can to the flower shop. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to wait in the car and keep the air conditioner running. I’ll be right back.”

  Michael was able to step out of Kimberly’s Porsche without assistance. His ankle was already feeling much better, but he still needed the crutches to walk. He made his way into the shop and returned to the car a few minutes later carrying a small floral arrangement and a dozen long-stemmed red roses.

  “Who are all the flowers for, M
ichael?” asked Kimberly.

  “The red roses are for you,” he announced. “They’re my way of saying thanks for a job well done.” Michael didn’t tell Kimberly he’d bought another dozen roses—the duplicate of what he’d just presented to her—and had them delivered to Myra as a peace offering.

  “They’re beautiful!” Kimberly exclaimed. “You didn’t have to—but, thank you so much!” She leaned over and gave Michael a perfunctory kiss. “Who’s going to get the little bouquet?” she asked.

  Michael grinned. “We’ll take it with us to the pet cemetery. I want to hear what they say when we tell ’em we want to put flowers on the grave of one of the dogs we found in the mine.”

  “Ooh, you’re bad,” Kimberly teased playfully. From the glint in her eyes it was obvious Kimberly was looking forward to the confrontation as much as Michael.

  Fairlawn Pet Cemetery is located on a two-acre parcel eight miles north of Las Vegas proper in an area consisting primarily of raw desert land interspersed with occasional small ranches. Most people would not want to reside so far from the center of activity—only those who object to having close neighbors, people who buy in the outskirts because the land is still relatively cheap, or rural types who want to keep horses or perhaps raise a few chickens or other farm animals. The neighborhood had not yet been invaded by developers with their housing tracts and condominiums and shopping centers, but it was definitely in the path of progress.

  Michael and Kimberly were impressed by the sylvan appearance of the cemetery. A row of shade trees bordered the property and numerous other trees and bushes were dotted throughout the expanse of lush green lawn. Flower beds, all in full bloom, edged meandering concrete walkways. A larger-than-life bronze statue of several dogs and cats graced the entrance to the park-like setting. An elaborate sprinkler system was applying water to the rear half of the lawn. A gardener was busily mowing the grass in the front half. A low white stucco building with a blue tile roof sat off to one side. Kimberly guessed correctly that the smokestack barely visible on the back of the structure led from a furnace used as a crematory.

  They went inside the building. The only person in sight was an elderly man wearing a black three-piece suit, a white cotton oxford cloth shirt, and a red, white, and blue striped tie. Michael estimated the man was at least seventy years old. He appeared to be about five-foot-seven and had a moderately emaciated appearance. His thinning hair was snow white, which emphasized his tanned countenance.

  The man put down the papers he was working on and got up from behind his desk the minute he saw Michael and Kimberly enter. He walked over to them, smiling sincerely.

  “Hello,” he greeted. “I’m Forrest Glade. What can I do for you?”

  Michael shook the man’s hand. “Forrest, I’m Michael Kaplan, and this is my wife, Kimberly. As you can see, I was in an accident recently. A traffic accident. Unfortunately, our little dog was also injured, and I don’t think poor Spot’s going to make it. Kimberly and I thought we should prepare for his demise.”

  Glade’s face took on a somber expression. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” he sympathized. “The loss of a pet is no different from the loss of any other loved one. I do understand the pain you must be going through now. Would you like a tour of our premises, or do you want to sit down first and discuss the arrangements?”

  “Let’s sit down and talk about the cost first,” Michael said. “Then, we’d like to have you show us around.”

  “Certainly. Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee or a glass of cold water, perhaps?” Glade motioned to the chairs surrounding his desk to indicate that Michael and Kimberly should be seated.

  “Thank you,” Kimberly said. “I’d appreciate a glass of water. Bring one for my husband, too, if you please.” She nudged Michael in the ribs.

  The man excused himself and went into an adjoining room. He returned shortly with three glasses of ice and a pitcher of water. After filling the glasses, he sat down behind his desk. “How large is Spot?” he asked.

  Michael noted Glade had remembered the fictitious dog’s name. “Spot must weigh about thirty pounds. He’s a fox terrier, mostly.”

  Glade made a notation on a printed form. “Cremation would be the least expensive means of disposing of the body. For a dog of Spot’s size, cremation would cost you seventy-one dollars—plus nineteen dollars more, if you need us to pick him up.”

  “We were thinking about burying him,” Kimberly told the man. She took a white handkerchief from her purse and brushed an imaginary tear from her eye.

  “The total cost for burial comes to $399.75. That includes a concrete vault, which serves as a casket, and perpetual care of the grounds. As you can see, we take great pride in the appearance of our cemetery.”

  “What do you mean by perpetual care?” Michael asked.

  “Part of the burial cost goes into an interest-bearing trust account. The interest earned on the fund pays for the grounds maintenance. Thus, you’re assured Spot will lie in rest in a place that will be beautiful forever.”

  Kimberly was sniffling into the handkerchief and her eyes were reddened. “What about a … a headstone for Spot’s grave?” she asked.

  “We don’t have headstones here. Few cemeteries—whether for pets or humans—have headstones these days. They make lawn maintenance very difficult. We can arrange for a ground-level marker at a cost of two to five hundred dollars, depending on the material desired and the complexity of the inscription.”

  “So, the total cost for burial would be from four to nine hundred dollars, is that right?” Michael reiterated.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Glade agreed. “Of course, if that’s a problem, you might want to defer the cost of the marker for a year or so. We can even put the burial fee on a no-interest payment plan. The last thing we’d want to do is deny a beloved companion animal a proper burial because its owners were short of money.”

  “The money won’t be a problem,” Kimberly assured the man. “I just hope Spot gets better and won’t need to come here for a long time.”

  “I wish Spot well,” Glade told her. “I think I’ve given you all the financial details. Would you care to go outside now and look around?”

  “Yes, we would,” Michael said earnestly. “We’d especially like to visit the grave of a dog that belonged to some friends of ours. Kimberly, would you mind going to the car, please, and bring in the flowers?”

  Glade beamed. “Oh, that’s so nice of you. While you’re getting the flowers, Mrs. Kaplan, I’ll look up the location of the grave—that is, unless you already know where it is.”

  “No, we don’t,” Michael said. “We’ve never been here before. The dog’s name was Sylvester. He was a springer spaniel. He belonged to Charlie and Harriet Richman—they’re the couple who referred us here.”

  “Please thank them for me the next time you see them.” Glade typed the name Richman into his computer. His brows furrowed into a puzzled expression. “That name is spelled R-I-C-H-M-A-N, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Michael confirmed. “Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t know. Just a minute, please.” Glade typed the dog’s name, but the computer merely beeped and the notation Not Found appeared on the screen.

  Glade’s forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure the Richman dog is buried here, Mr. Kaplan? I can’t find a record of him in my computer.”

  Kimberly returned with the flowers. “Well, are we ready to go outside? Let me help you up, Michael.”

  Michael motioned to the chair next to him. “Sit down, Kimberly. There seems to be a problem. Mr. Glade can’t find a record of Sylvester being buried here.” He turned to Glade. “Would you look up a dog named Woofer? She was owned by Frank Martin.”

  After a few seconds at the computer Glade looked back at Michael and shook his head. “I don’t have any record of the Martin dog.”

  “What about Cheryl Foley’s dog, Oliver?”

  Again, Glade searched the computer files.
“No, there’s no record of that dog, either. Are you sure you’re at the right place? There is another pet cemetery here in town.”

  It was time to disclose the true purpose of their visit. “Mr. Glade, I told you Kimberly and I had a dog that was dying. That was a falsehood. We don’t own a dog. We’re reporters with the Las Vegas Times. The people I just mentioned paid to have their dogs buried at this cemetery. Yet, someone unceremoniously dumped the dogs’ remains down the shaft of an abandoned mine in the desert south of town. I have the ID tags from the animals in my possession. What’s going on here, Mr. Glade? We were told by a confidential source that a scam was being run.”

  All of the color drained from Glade’s face. “I assure you, Mr. Kaplan, this comes as a complete shock to me. I love animals. I run a very respectable operation and would never think of doing what you just implied.