“Look, I like people to be happy. That’s one reason why I like doing commission work. It allows me the pleasure of giving someone what they want. But I get to go home at the end of the day, and so it balances out. Do you see?”
“I’m not sure I get you.”
“When I’m in a relationship, I want the other person to be happy. Sometimes I do too much to make them happy and forget about myself. I’m so much better with you, but I don’t know if I’ve figured out how to balance it out yet.”
“There you go, trying to figure things out by yourself again.”
“I do that, don’t I? I guess I do that to make sure I’m not being influenced by anyone else.”
“I can see that. I wish you trusted me to have your needs at heart. I’m not totally selfish, am I?” He wrapped an arm around her.
“No, you’re not, not at all. You’re the sweetest, most generous man I’ve ever dated,” she admitted, leaning into him.
“I think we could build a life together. I’m not sure what it would look like. We have to deal with two demanding careers. I’m not saying it has to start tomorrow. I’m just wondering if you can start thinking about what it would take for us to do that, and if that’s something you might want. Not today, not tomorrow, but sometime.”
“Wow. You sure know how to blow a girl away. Bailey wants to do synastry on us,” Lia blurted out.
“Bailey wants to do what?”
“Synastry. Compare our astrological charts to determine our relationship potential. She thinks she can tell us how we are in a relationship, and how to make it work.”
“Sure, why not.”
“Huh?” Lia blinked.
“It’ll be interesting.”
“I can’t believe you’re going for this nonsense.”
“You’re calling it nonsense? She’s your friend.”
“That doesn't mean I believe in all the stuff she gets into.”
“C’mon. It’ll be fun. Besides, I already know what she’s going to say.”
“What’s that, Kentucky Boy?”
He tapped the dent in her chin with his index finger. “That we’re meant for each other.”
“You’re that confident, are you?”
“Yep. Who knows, she might say something useful. And if it’s all a crock, I think we’re smart enough to let it go. One condition. She has to tell both of us what she finds at the same time.”
Lia’s mind raced, looking for an out. She hadn’t expected Peter to go for Bailey’s offer. She should have remembered about his granny, the one who claimed to have “the sight.” She was stuck, she admitted to herself, and it was her own fault for bringing it up. Philosophically, she acknowledged defeat. “Okay, I’ll tell Bailey. So you look up your birth certificate and I’ll look up mine and we’ll let Bailey do her woo-woo act on us. Agreed?”
Peter kissed her to seal the deal. “Agreed.”
Day 9
Thursday, October 17
“Did you lose Max? I don’t see her anywhere.” Jim was sitting at the usual picnic table, Chester at his side. Lia clambered up on the table next to Chester. Chester sat up on his haunches, showing off for a pet. Viola jumped up and sniffed noses with Chester. She snapped at him, then lay down, satisfied that she had sufficiently clarified her proprietary rights regarding Lia. Honey and Chewy meandered away.
“Viola! Be nice!” Lia admonished. “I left Max with Kate. I thought they needed each other.”
“That was sneaky.”
“I guess I’m a sneaky kind of girl. Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Depends. How personal?”
“You and Mary were married all your lives. What do you think made it work?”
Jim scratched his beard and pondered. “You have to cooperate. You both have to adjust. You adjust, he adjusts. It doesn’t work if the other person isn’t adjusting, too. Neither one of you can say, ‘that’s the way it’s going to be and that’s it!’”
“Doesn’t that mean that neither one of you gets what you really want?”
Jim scratched his beard again. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Did Mary work?”
“She did before Jim, Jr. was born. Then she tried going back to work, but that didn’t work out.”
“What happened?”
“I was really unhappy about dropping him off at daycare every day, so we had a talk and she saw that staying at home was worth more than the extra money she’d bring in working.”
“What if she had really wanted to work? What then?”
“Well, uh, I don’t know about that . . . .”
“Uh-huh. You’re not helping.”
Bailey walked up with Kita. “What’s on today’s skullduggery agenda?”
Jim gave Lia a betrayed look. “You’re up to skullduggery? I thought I was your skull-whatsis partner.”
Lia shrugged. “Renee thinks George’s wife is behind his murder and Peter’s not looking at her. So she’s been sending me over with food to check her out. I had Bailey on surveillance yesterday.” She turned to Bailey. “I think I’ve worn out my welcome with Monica. I need to get some painting done, anyway.”
“I can deliver food just as well as anyone,” Jim volunteered. “I can make a crazy cake. I can be just as dupla . . . duplia . . . duplis. . .”
“Duplicitous?” Bailey offered.
“Duplicitous. What you said.”
“You want in on this?” Lia was amused. “I’m not sure how much we can find out by snooping around Monica. By the way, Bailey, did you hear from Trees?”
“Stacy’s a straight A student, a member of student council and an all around busy girl. No disciplinary issues. Jacob, on the other hand, has precarious grades and a handful of substance abuse and truancy related suspensions. No police record on either of them. Trees said he had a vision of a dog, a German Shepherd.”
“Bailey, surely you don’t believe–” A faint wolf-whistle emanated from the vicinity of Lia’s hip. Viola and Chester pricked up their ears.
“What was that?” Bailey asked.
“That has to be Peter,” Lia said, reaching for her phone. “I must have sat wrong. Hey, Kentucky Boy.”
“As much as I love your ass, it doesn’t have much to say.”
“Sorry. I’ve got to figure out how to carry this thing so it doesn’t happen so much.”
“I enjoy getting these random peeks into your life. It’s like surveillance without the guilt. I gotta go. Love you, Babe.”
“Babe is a pig,” Lia told the dead phone.
“How long do you think he was listening?” Bailey asked.
“I don’t know, but he already knows about the food offerings. I think he finds our investigation amusing.”
“Speaking, of,” Jim said, “what are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. Just trying to get a sense of Monica and her daughter, the dynamics. I think it’s kind of a fishing expedition.”
“Don’t forget the hunk down the street,” Bailey added.
“We think he’s crushing on Mrs. Munce,” Lia explained, “and she seems to be crushing back.”
“After school, then,” Bailey added.
“What’s after school?” Terry walked up with Nappa and Jackson.
“We’re skulking,” Bailey announced. “You want to be a skulker?”
“Are detectival pursuits afoot? I presume we are after the killer of the unfortunate George Munce? Who is the quarry? Suspects! I must have suspects!”
“Well, there’s–” Lia began.
“Don’t tell me, I’m cogitating. Obviously, you don’t believe it is the scheming mistress, or you would just leave this to the police.”
“Kitty is not scheming,” Lia protested.
“That leaves the recently bereaved Mrs. Munce. Am I right?”
“She’s at the top of the list, but her alibi is a problem. She was at work,” Lia said.
“We think she had an accomplice,” Bailey added. “Maybe the
kid down the street. He looks like he could pull it off.”
“Intriguing.” Terry stroked his chin, pursed his lips. “I must pay my respects to the widow and put my ratiocination skills to work.”
“You can’t go before I take her my cake,” Jim said.
“Wouldn’t the owner of that dust mop you call a dog be upset if she found out you were visiting other women? I should take the cake,” Terry announced.
“Make your own damn cake,” Jim said. “You’re not getting mine.”
“Children, children!” Lia scolded. “Terry, it won’t hurt for more dog park people to stop by. You’re just going to have to find your own comfort food for the Munces.”
~ ~ ~
“Tell me again why we’re returning to the scene of the crime?” Brent asked.
“Because they always do it in the movies,” Peter deadpanned. “It’s supposed to inspire us.”
“Sweet bleeding Jesus.” Brent’s head swiveled as a chrome car pulled onto the road in front of them. “If that isn’t slicker than frog spit in August.” He patted his steering wheel. “Celeste, Baby, would you like to look like that?” He turned to Peter. “How much do you think it would cost to have that done?”
“Chrome plating isn’t much, but taking the car apart and putting it back together again will cost you. I bet that’s a car wrap. You could do it yourself for around five hundred dollars.”
“What’s a car wrap?”
“It’s vinyl with adhesive on the back.”
“Contact paper for cars? On my Celeste? Oh my ever-loving Lord, I think I’m going to puke. I’ve never heard of anything so absolutely tacky. Pun intended.” He stroked his steering wheel. “I apologize, Baby. Don’t you worry your little head-gasket about it. I’d sooner trick you out in fuzzy dice and spinners.”
“Justin Bieber has a chrome car,” Peter said, straight faced.
“Tell me you made that up.”
“Would I lie to you?” Peter’s expression mingled mock-hurt with astonishment.
“I was lusting after the Bieber-mobile? How will I live with myself?”
“You’ll manage.”
“I think I need to pluck out my eyes.”
“We’ve got eye wash in the first aid kit if you need it. Turn here.”
~
Brent peered up from the ground. “Are you communing with the essence of murder yet? Are you inside the killer’s head? Thinking his thoughts?”
Peter looked down from his perch in the makeshift tree stand. “Wander over by that pile of downed trees, will you?”
Brent made his way to George and Kate’s love nest. “What am I doing over here?”
“Giving me a chance to think . . . Say something in a normal tone of voice. I want to see if the sound carries.” Brent began to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.
Peter listened with half an ear as the sound floated up. Who are you? Why were you here? George and Kate only met after the hunters were gone for the morning. You weren’t hunting.
He caught a whisper of something, a scent that had been masked by the overwhelming reek of predator lure during his last visit. He leaned over. Sniffed. Whiskey, soaked into the wood. Were you drinking up here? He pulled out his pocket knife and a baggie, scraped up a small pile of the alcohol infused wood fibers and tucked the sample away for later testing.
“Come on back, Brent.” He scrambled down from the makeshift aerie. “I think I know who our man is and what he was up to.”
“Do tell.”
“Stryker was hunting and brought along a bottle. Got drunk enough up there to spill some of it. Maybe he passed out, maybe not. He hung around long enough to catch the George and Kate show, listened in on their plans to meet again. He realizes he has an opportunity to kill Munce, but he doesn’t want to get caught. He goes home, reports his bow as stolen and then pulls the tranny out of his car. The big question is, why did he shoot Munce? I think we have some more digging to do on William Stryker. We’ve got to find a connection to George Munce and break that alibi. We also need to come up with a plausible scenario for how he got down off that hill without his car.
~ ~ ~
Brent popped the last onion chip into his mouth and looked at the empty slider boxes scattered across Peter’s desk. “Remember, you promised. You cannot tell anyone I eat this stuff.”
“I took a picture with my phone when you weren’t looking. I’m going to send it to Cynth and tell her that’s what she has to look forward to on your first date.”
“You do that, and I’ll tell Lia you’ve been drinking Pepsi again.”
“That’s low.”
“Speaking of low, what could a low-life like Stryker have to do with George Munce? Munce ever work for Hudepohl?”
“Munce managed that Dollar Hut for almost five years. I don’t know what he did before that, but I can’t imagine Stryker waiting that long if he had a grudge, can you?”
“No, I guess not. So where do you want to start?”
Peter pulled up Bill Stryker’s police record, scanned it. “I say we start with the ex-wife, Colleen.” Another search revealed that Colleen Stryker now went by her maiden name, Thomas. Peter tapped a few more keys to pull up her driver’s license.
“Hel-lo.”
“What is it?” Brent rolled his chair over by Peter so he could see the computer monitor.
“Look familiar?”
Brent narrowed his eyes, cocked his head to one side. “Let’s see. Dump a gallon of peroxide on her head and put a red smock on her, and I think we have the lovely Carleen from Dollar Hut. Now isn’t that a surprise?”
“Do you suppose he offed Munce because Munce helped her get away from him, or do you think he did it so she would get a promotion?”
“Could be, it’s a twofer. Maybe he thought that was the way to get his punching bag back.”
“Murder is a real romantic gesture. What do you want to do first? Talk to Carleen or pull him in?”
~ ~ ~
Carleen smiled when they walked into the store. Peter noticed her front tooth was chipped. He wondered if the dental defect was courtesy of Bill Stryker.
“Back again? Did you find what you wanted on those security tapes?”
Peter mentally smacked his head. They hadn’t even looked at the video files. “They were helpful. Thanks for getting those to us. Ms. Thomas, we have a few more questions for you. Can you take a break? Is there somewhere we can go?”
“Sure, we can go to the office.”
Carleen informed the cashier on duty that she would be off the floor for a while. Then she led them through a door in the back of the store which opened into a small hallway. This, in turn, led to the stockroom. The employees’ restrooms were on one side, a time clock and a rack of time cards on the other. Next to that was a tiny office.
The office held a small desk with an aging secretarial chair. Two stackable chrome and plastic chairs were against the side wall. A pair of battered file cabinets were against the rear wall.
Carleen had apparently started to make the space her own. The desk and the tops of the filing cabinet were decorated with chipped and broken knick knacks, probably salvaged from damaged merchandise. Her taste leaned toward cringe-worthy-cute ceramics that Monica Munce wouldn’t decorate her garbage can with. On one filing cabinet, a struggling snake plant grew in a pot decorated with Halloween jack-o-lanterns and black cats. It was surrounded with a schizophrenic jumble of decorative objects. Peter imagined the antiseptic and oh-so-tasteful Mrs. Munce attacking the display while wearing a haz-mat suit.
Carleen nodded to the two chairs, then sat at her desk. She swiveled her chair around, facing them. Peter sat. His chair rocked slightly. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees to put his weight on the front legs.
Carleen looked at them expectantly.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about your ex-husband,” Peter began.
“Is this about Billy?” She gave them a confused look. “I thought you were he
re about George.”
Peter ignored the question. “How long have you been divorced, Ms. Thomas?”
“Please, call me Carleen.”
“About that,” Brent said. “Your driver’s license says your name is Colleen.”
“Oh, everybody calls me Carleen. My baby brother couldn’t get my name straight, and it stuck. I’ve been Carleen since I was in grade school. Why do you want to know about Billy? We’ve been divorced for six months. He hasn’t done anything, has he?”
“We don’t know,” Peter said. “Shondra said Munce helped when you were having trouble with your husband. We were wondering how your ex felt about that.”
“We were fighting a lot back then. I came in with a black eye and George was upset about it, and he kinda pushed me into leaving Billy.”
“Did your ex-husband ever say anything about George?” asked Peter.
Carleen fidgeted. “No man likes it when someone interferes with their business. Billy wouldn’t do anything about it. He was all talk.”
Except when it came to planting his fist in your face.
“We’re very concerned, Carleen,” Brent said. “We believe your ex-husband’s crossbow was used to kill George.”
“His bow? His bow was stolen. He told me so.”
“When did he tell you this?” Peter asked.
“Right when it happened, after he called the police. He called me, bitching about not being able to pay child support. He said someone took his bow right in the middle of his session of the deer cull and he wouldn’t be able to give us any venison because of it. Last year he took a deer. It fed us all winter.
“Billy didn’t kill George,” Carleen insisted.
Peter did not note any of the usual signs of deception when she said this, or during her previous responses. Whether or not Bill Stryker killed George Munce, Carleen wholeheartedly believed he hadn’t done it.
“Why do you think his bow killed George?” Carleen asked.
“We found the bow,” Brent said, “with George’s wallet and phone.”
“You did?” Carleen’s eyes went wide with fear.
Maximum Security (A Dog Park Mystery) Page 14
