AHMM, October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

"No,” Miss Parson assured him. “I'm saying that Father Murphy knows the identity of the real killer. Follow the logic with me. Nothing we uncovered today was particularly well hidden. Father Murphy could have easily raised these questions himself. He didn't need to send letters begging us to hurry and come visit."

  Father Murphy looked up from the table's surface and met Miss Parson's eyes.

  "Father Murphy told us,” Miss Parson continued, “that Brian Greene didn't say the sorts of things during confession that a guilty man would say, and I think that was the truth. But you didn't tell us the whole story, did you, Father?"

  "I may not have,” Father Murphy told her. “There are restrictions on a priest when a man confesses his sins."

  "That's what I thought,” Miss Parson said. “The real murderer came to you for confession. Did you absolve him?"

  "That would be between the killer, God, and me,” Father Murphy reminded them. “But if you were correct in your theory, it would put me in quite a bind. Knowing what I'd learned in confession, it would be difficult for me to investigate the crime without breaking the seal of the sacrament."

  Miss Parson nodded.

  "And so you asked me to investigate for you hoping I would solve the crime without you. What would you have done if I failed?"

  "I don't know,” the priest whispered. “By all that's holy, I just don't know."

  "So wait a minute,” Patrick said. “If Greene didn't kill him, and English didn't do it, who did?"

  "Tim Brady,” Miss Parson said. “He had motive—Bert Windsor ended his boxing career—and opportunity—he was the last person to pass through the stables before the crime was committed. My guess is that he saw Bert Windsor knock Mr. Greene unconscious, snuck up behind him, and hit him over the back of the head with a rock. Then he decided to finish the job."

  "It would be more charitable to suggest that the rock slipped and fell upon Mr. Windsor,” Father Murphy suggested.

  Miss Parson's frown demonstrated her disagreement, but she didn't contradict the priest. “In any event, Mr. Brady left Brian Greene to take the blame and even arranged to do a poor job defending him in front of the jury."

  Patrick rounded upon the priest. “And you were going to let him get away with that?"

  Father Murphy smiled. It was the first genuine look of happiness on his face that Corey had seen since Miss Parson began this conversation. “But he hasn't gotten away with it, Patrick, now has he? Thanks to Miss Parson here, a real inquiry will be made. Who knows what will come of it?"

  Patrick didn't look convinced and the priest's smile faded. “Whatever the result,” he reminded them, “at least we can be certain that Brian Greene won't hang."

  The four friends sat in silence for a few moments before Father Murphy spoke again. “It isn't easy, you know, being a priest and hearing men's confessions. I'm like a telegraph operator tapping out a message from the sinner to God. It's a sacred trust that's weighed heavily on me of late. I thought I was going to have to break faith and share the message. Thanks to the three of you, that won't be necessary."

  Copyright © 2010 Gilbert M. Stack

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  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Dogs abound in mystery fiction, and play roles from heroic to menacing, from comic to villainous partners in crime. This month's column features a little of each in three very different settings.

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  David Rosenfelt's eccentric New Jersey lawyer Andy Carpenter is a dog lover who takes his canine activism to new heights in his eighth adventure, dog tags (Grand Central, $24.99).

  Andy is fortunate enough to pick and choose his battles, and to put his money where his heart is—the Tara Foundation, a dog rescue operation named for his own dog and run by Willie Miller whom Andy pulled from death row in Open and Shut (2002).

  The type of rescue Andy performs in Dog Tags is not typical. Milo is a German shepherd who was trained by the police to disarm suspects. Billy Zimmerman, a former cop and Iraq war veteran who lost a leg, and his police career, in a suicide bombing, was Milo's partner. When Milo reached age seven (K-9 retirement age), Billy asked for him and became his owner.

  Billy, who has turned to theft as a means of financial support and has turned Milo's disarmament skills to a more lucrative kind of snatching, inadvertently ends up involved in a murder scene accused of the crime. And Milo, who successfully snatches an envelope from the victim, hides it, and ends up in a shelter under guard for reasons that are murky at best.

  Rosenfelt has a couple of strong suits that he plays in this consistently amusing series: a cast of zany characters that surround, protect, and occasionally frustrate Andy and some of the best courtroom scenes to be found in mystery fiction. It scarcely matters that the simple murder that results in both Billy and Milo being incarcerated morphs into a much larger affair involving hit men, corruption, and possibly national security. No, what matters is that Andy gets to defend Milo in court complete with expert witnesses. And with Milo freed to his custody, he fights a delaying game at Billy's trial that allows him to demonstrate his considerable courtroom skills while searching for Milo's hidden envelope and the keys to the murder.

  The verdict is in and it's unanimous: Rosenfelt just keeps getting better and better.

  Craig Johnson's Walt Longmire is a Wyoming sheriff and his constant companion Dog proves his mettle again in junkyard dogs (Viking, $25.95), the sixth entry in this entertaining series. Longmire tries to keep the peace in Absaroka County, but he has to contend with more than his share of colorful characters, some of whom work for him. But the laconic sheriff is a good match for both the wild country he protects and the vagaries of crime he encounters.

  When old Geo Stewart is dragged two and a quarter miles over ice behind the wheels of a ‘68 Toronado driven by his grandson Duane's wife, Gina, it is merely another bizarre incident to befall the bizarre family who operates the dump (officially the Municipal Solid Waste Facility). Though crusty old Geo isn't badly hurt, during the medical exam following the accident he reveals that a “body part"—actually a finger—has been found at the dump.

  There will be more incidents with Geo and Duane and Gina, but Walt also has to contend with his Basquo deputy Santiago Saizarbitoria, who has given his two-weeks notice following a nasty incident involving a serrated kitchen knife; his undersheriff, Victoria Moretti, who is both colleague and sometime love interest; and an ongoing dispute between Ozzie Dobbs's Redhills Arroyo Ranch development and Stewart's dump site.

  The “junkyard dogs” of the title are Stewart's two wolf dogs, Butch and Sundance, who “had killed a cougar, a few coyotes, and run at least a couple of black bears off their turf.” Luckily for Walt he has his own dog, “Dog,” who can match their size and help even the odds if necessary.

  Between finding the owner of the missing digit, finding a murderer when a victim is discovered, and uncovering just what is going on at the dump site, Walt also has to find a way to appease his deputy and undersheriff or lose both of them. Johnson's rough humor and savvy affinity for the rugged land and the rugged people who live there make a winning combination.

  A Berkeley, California, dog park with a fairly normal collection of dogs and a highly unusual cast of dog owners and walkers is the setting for Cynthia Robinson's oddball debut the dog park club (Minotaur, $24.99).

  Claudia Fantini is a sometime hysteric. Her frantic overseas phone calls to touring opera singer Max Bravo keep him apprised of her latest crisis (husband Larry has walked out on her) until he can return to his San Francisco home. Claudia is an emotional and physical wreck by the time Max returns and takes charge. Along with neglecting herself, Claudia has neglected her dog Asta. Max takes charge of Asta as well and the eager pup leads Max to the dog park where he meets the odd assemblage of regulars: Jordi Almirall, a Catalan who owns Cecilia, a Rhodesian ridgeback; jobless “Gator” who walks a pair of affenpinschers; Ed, a “wizened old hippie” who li
ves in a van with a big yellow dog named Colonel; the very pregnant Amy and her little pug, Dixie; and lesbian couple Kim and Marcy and their golden retriever, Bill.

  Like Claudia, the sophisticated Max can also be a drama queen, and the dog park crew is eager to embrace the rumors fueled by the idea that Claudia's estranged husband is now stalking her and then by the unexplained disappearance of Amy and the suspicious behavior of her husband, Steve.

  When the remaining members of the gang decide to help the police with their investigation by conducting their own surveillance of Steve things get really interesting and then really hairy for Max and Claudia both.

  The Dog Park Club offers glimmers of promise along with some stumbles. Robinson has a nice knack for comic characterization, and while her plot tends to wander, that doesn't diminish the enjoyment of this strong debut.

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  Fiction: OLD DOGS by Naomi Bell

  Every night before bed Ellen Roundal stood at her kitchen counter and laid out four pieces of white bread in a square and covered them with a slice of cheese and a slice of beef and a slice of tomato and then folded and wrapped them for Bert.

  She'd been making Bert's lunch for twenty-eight years, as long as they'd been married. She made Bert's lunch and dinner (meat and two veg) and bought his clothes and cleaned the bathrooms and when finally Bert said that he wanted more out of life she thought only, What more?

  She signed where Bert told her. He backed a truck into the driveway and took the couch and the big television from the den. He called a real estate agent. Ellen stood in the kitchen opening and closing her mouth while happy couples trooped through her living room with measuring tapes.

  Her daughter Lizzie came home from college and told Ellen to stand up for herself. Ellen tried to explain, but how could she when words didn't mean what they used to mean? Lizzie and her girlfriends rented a cube-van, packed up what Bert had left, and moved Ellen into an apartment. She flittered from room to room while Lizzie's friends crammed the shelves with the odds and ends of her life with Bert.

  The apartment had three rooms and pipes that creaked, but it was on the ground floor with a glass patio door. That first night after Lizzie had left Ellen lay in bed listening to feet walking about on the ceiling.

  Lizzie graduated and went to study climate change at a research station in Nunavut. She told Ellen the station's name but its consonants were all wrong—all g's and q's—and Ellen couldn't keep it straight. She knew only that it was a tiny flyspeck far up at the top of the map where North America petered out into islands.

  One night while flipping through the channels she found a nature show with polar ice and seals and penguins. She watched it so that when Lizzie phoned she would have something to talk about.

  She worked for a distributer that imported houseware and shuttled it to retailers. She shared the office with three other girls who chattered and texted and swapped ringtones and not one of them noticed that Ellen never said a word. Mr. Simmons waded through their chatter with a smile and asked, Ellen can you fix the printer, Ellen can you send this fax, Ellen...

  She wanted to say something, anything. She wanted to, but she didn't.

  Old Lenny from the warehouse reached his retirement date, and the girls in the office spent four full days planning his party. As Ellen held a slice of cake and sang along she felt something give way inside her, deep down, as if she'd fallen into a crevasse, out of sight of everyone on the surface. With every breath she slipped and sank lower, the walls grinding her into sand. She put the cake down, pushed through the crowd, and asked Mr. Simmons for Lenny's job.

  So she worked nights, from eight until four, in the warehouse preparing the boxes for the drivers to deliver the next day. She had Jonesy to help, who called her Helen and wore black T-shirts with skulls on them. She tried to be friendly, or at least get him to wear a sweater against the chill warehouse air, but Jonesy paid more attention to his earpiece. Every night after he'd punched in he walked through the warehouse to the lock-cage. He'd sit behind the chain-link walls surrounded by boxes and crates, tapping away on his cell phone.

  Ellen drove the forklift and shuffled skids into neat piles she organized for each driver by the bay doors. She set the traveling papers on top of the boxes so that when the driver came in he would see exactly what he had to do that day. After that she swept the warehouse and after that she looked for any notes left by Mr. Simmons (Ellen fix the printer), and after that she tidied the breakroom, and after that she sat at the chipped white table.

  She went to work and went home again. In the black hours of the morning she watched game shows on the tiny television that used to be in Lizzie's room. She couldn't bear the late late movie with its false characters, but she could follow game shows, joining letters into blocks into words that meant nothing. She watched television until the space outside started to shift and bang with noise: alarm clocks buzzing, feet slapping on bathroom tiles, voices murmuring. Then she'd switch the television to the weather station and sleep and sleep until it was time to ride the bus through dark streets to work.

  She recycled paper and plastic and put kitchen waste out in a green-bin. She rode the bus to work and carried her groceries home in cloth bags, and sometimes she thought that if she tried hard enough she wouldn't exist at all.

  One day she went to the grocery store and bought flour and eggs and chocolate chips. That night, after she'd prepared the boxes and swept the warehouse, she cleaned the old stove in the breakroom and baked muffins. She ate one and wrapped another in a napkin and took it out to the lock-cage.

  Jonesy sat in a deck chair, talking, “I'm telling you, Mr. Burke should see this stuff."

  When he saw her Jonesy snapped to his feet and crossed to the cage door. Through the chain-link he asked, “What?"

  Ellen held out the muffin. “I thought you'd like..."

  He hesitated a moment, then unlatched the door long enough to snake out a hand. He turned away. “Okay, so listen..."

  She shifted a half step back, wanting something. Jonesy glanced back, saw her, his narrow face creasing. “Hang on."

  To her, he said, “Did you need something?"

  She cast about, patching words, asked, “What is all this stuff?” although she knew, she'd been doing the paperwork for years.

  He said impatiently, “Shipments in storage. We hold the freight for customers until they have room in their own warehouse."

  She said, “Oh,” but Jonesy had already drifted his gaze away. “You don't want to pass this on, that's up to you. But it's the real deal, and Mr. Burke might not be too happy if you let it slip away . . . it's your call . . . other fish in sea, man."

  Ellen pulled her cardigan tighter, and walked back to the breakroom. She set the other muffins on a tray with a note for the drivers.

  The next night she found the tray still on the chipped white table, covered with crumbs and a yellow sticky-note reading more! and a happy face.

  Later, after she'd sorted out the deliveries, she took out the leftover flour and eggs and chocolate chips, set them on the white table, and looked at them.

  Always more.

  She made French toast instead, and ate every single crumb.

  The next day was Saturday and the newspaper ran an ad from the local animal shelter for the Rescue of the Week: a fluffy puppy, all button eyes and perky ears. Ellen cut out the puppy's picture and put it on the fridge. For the next week she came home every morning to the fridge-puppy and wondered what the landlord would say. On Saturday she caught the bus to the animal shelter.

  The shelter lady walked her along rows and rows of dogs in cages. Not the fridge-puppy (long since adopted), but other dogs, wagging their tails and jumping up at the cage doors. The bursting barking energy overwhelmed Ellen a little, and the shelter lady gently suggested perhaps a cat instead? But at the end of the row Ellen saw a black dog with a gray muzzle curled up in the corner of the cage. The black dog didn't bark, or even get up, but when Ellen p
ut her fingers through the wire the dog lifted its head and looked at her. Ellen held her breath as the dog climbed to its feet and hobbled over. As the dog sniffed her fingers Ellen said to the shelter lady, “This one."

  She named the dog Ernie. He was knee high, with shaky legs and a whip tail. When she got home from work he would follow her from room to room until she put her coat back on and took him for a walk. When she slept Ernie curled up in the crook of her knee, and if she half woke during the day she'd shift a little, to find him.

  One morning as she walked home from the bus stop she found her street swept by blue and white light. A police cruiser sat in the parking lot of her building. She half ran, counting apartment doors from the corner, not believing it. Her front door stood wide open, pouring light onto the street. She could see right through to the back patio, as if the space had been gutted.

  A police officer stood in the doorway, talking to a man with sticking-up hair and bare feet. The police officer put out a hand to stop her, but Ellen ran past him, looking, looking.

  Her living room looked as if a mad child had erupted into fury. Cushions ripped apart, stuffing spilling out. On the floor, ornaments in white splinters, splattered with instant coffee, peanut butter, milk. Blanks where the television, radio should be.

  Another police officer came out of her bathroom. “Ma'am, is this your apartment?"

  "Yes, yes."

  He asked some question, but she cut him off: “My dog, where is he?"

  The police officer shrugged. “When we got here the patio door was open."

  He kept talking, but Ellen ran to the patio door. Light bled out, spilled onto the narrow strip of grass. Ellen ran outside, calling, “Ernie!"

  Nothing moved. The police officer had followed her, still talking. She wished he would go away, shut up. She shrank into herself, silently begging to hear the tags on Ernie's collar jingle.

  She ran back into the apartment, grasping for his leash, shoving aside torn-open cereal boxes for his cookies, and half heard a voice call, “Ma'am?"