Tickled to Death

by Joan Hess

  “Isn’t there something you can do?” Luanne asked, this time sounding as if she might call him Ward and show him the Beaver’s report card.

  “If I could lure him into my office chair, I’d wire his jaws closed. Then I’d pump him full of Smurf gas and let him giggle to death.”

  “Smurf gas?” I said blankly.

  “Nitrous oxide. One of our patients named it that and the staff adopted it. We’re big on stickers and balloons and cute euphemisms.”

  I had no idea what a Smurf was, but I let it go and returned to a more concrete arena. “Why does Captain Gannet continue to investigate this accident?”

  Dick gave Luanne a wry glance, then said, “I should have suspected you’d be curious, Claire. Luanne has told me that you’re Farberville’s most famous and successful sleuth. I’m not well read in the mystery genre, but I do like the old detective movies. Am I supposed to offer you a retainer? It’ll have to be a plastic one with a wire, but they come in all colors these days.”

  I wasn’t sure how genuine his amusement was. I myself was a little disgruntled to discover I’d been the topic of conversation and that he’d been regaled with my past involvements with homicide investigations. Then again, the phrase “most famous and successful” had a measure of charm. “I’m not a private investigator,” I said. “There have been a few situations in which the circumstances required me to make a civic-minded contribution.”

  “You’re too modest,” murmured Dick.

  “Perhaps Luanne exaggerates,” I countered evenly.

  Luanne stood up, visibly torn between diving over the rail or dashing inside the house. “I’d better check the lasagna. Jillian didn’t say how long to leave it in the oven.”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. “If Claire wants to investigate the case, she’s welcome to do so. Someone has to convince Gannet that it was nothing more than an unfortunate accident.”

  I put my drink on the table and picked up my purse. “I didn’t come here to investigate anything. I don’t know what Luanne told you, but I’m not a pushy broad with a twitchy nose and an arsenal in a knitting bag. I think I’d better mind my own business, which is selling books in Farberville.”

  Luanne gave me a stricken look. “Oh, Claire, Dick didn’t mean to imply you were butting in. He was up all night with Gannet.”

  “I realize that,” I said, noting that she was not only telling lies to Mr. Right, but also offering his excuses and apologies. “All the same, if you’ll draw me a map to the highway, I’ll head back to town so Caron can work on her tan. Thanks for the drink.”

  “Did someone say ‘drink’?” said a woman as she came around the corner of the house. “I would die for a Bloody Mary, easy on the salt, heavy on the vodka.” She had shoulder-length ash-blond hair and slightly feline features accented by deftly applied makeup. Her pastel-pink lipstick matched the floral print of her jacket and trousers. Sunlight sparkled on gold earrings and a bracelet. Had she lifted her left hand, I was quite sure we’d be blinded from the glare off the massive diamond on her fourth finger.

  “I thought I’d drop by on my way for yet another dreary meeting with the insurance agent,” she said as she came onto the deck. At this distance I could see that she was superbly preserved rather than youthful; she undoubtedly visited her plastic surgeon more often than I did my gynecologist.

  Dick rose and headed for the makeshift bar. “Luanne, you met Agatha Anne last week at the lodge. Claire Malloy, this is Agatha Anne Gallinago, president of the Dunling Foundation and wife of Sid, who happens to be my partner in the office and on the golf course. Be exceedingly leery of her or you’ll find yourself stuffing envelopes and lecturing schoolchildren about the wonders of predatory birds.”

  Agatha Anne wiggled her fingers at Luanne, then crossed the deck to inspect me more closely. “I’ve heard of you! I absolutely loved all those stories about how you outwitted the police and solved their cases while they bumbled around like overgrown puppies. Are you here to help Dick?”

  “I came for lunch,” I said stiffly.

  Agatha Anne smiled as if I’d dazzled her with my wit, then went to Luanne and squeezed her hand. “Livia said you looked terribly upset this morning, but who wouldn’t after the Gestapo banged on the door in the middle of the night. You must have been a wreck the entire time Dick was being beaten with rubber hoses at that wretched man’s jail.” She took a glass from Dick and sank regally into a convenient chair. “Did they beat you with rubber hoses, darling, or has Gannet progressed to cattle prods?”

  “Rubber hoses all the way,” he said. “I’m going to take a shower before lunch. Claire, please stay and eat with us. If I said anything that offended you, I truly apologize, and if it’ll help to make amends, I can put a finger in your mouth and you can chomp down on it. Many of my patients find it gratifying.”

  I declined to bite and agreed to stay. Once he was gone, Luanne supplied me with a fresh drink and I sat down across from Agatha Anne. She reminded me of Sally Fromberger, an indefatigable woman with an innate need to organize those of us who are terminally disorganized. She and Agatha Anne had the same carnivorous glint, the same appraising smile. Both were likely to have been born with clipboards in their tiny fists.

  “You are going to help Dick, aren’t you?” she said.

  “He doesn’t seem to want my help.”

  Luanne gave me yet another stricken look. “Someone has to do something before he goes berserk and confesses to everything from the destruction of the Berlin Wall to Hurricane Andrew.”

  Agatha Anne leaned forward and in a conspiratorial voice said, “Poor Dick is falling apart right in front of us. Sid says the office staff are threatening to quit if Dick doesn’t start concentrating on his patients. It’s so difficult to find good dental technicians, especially ones willing to work with children. There are days when I call and can’t tell whether the patients or their mothers are sobbing more loudly in the background.”

  “All right,” I said, albeit grudgingly, “you can tell me about the accident, but after lunch I’m going back to town. I have cartons to unpack and invoices to decipher.”

  I was not especially surprised when Agatha Anne took off with the fervor of an evangelist. “The Dunling Foundation is a nonprofit corporation which controls a four-thousand-acre bird sanctuary. Livia and Wharton donated the land and the use of the lodge, but we rely on fund-raisers to cover our yearly operations. Last year we netted nearly two hundred thousand dollars, one hundred percent of which went for our projects. We’re very proud of the fact that no one on the board takes so much as a nickel in salary or even reimbursements for out-of-pocket expenses. It adds to our credibility in the community.”

  “What are your projects?” I asked politely, since I was sure she was going to tell me anyway.

  “Mostly educational things like providing programs in the public schools, distributing material to civic groups, arranging barge tours for interested groups who want to see the eagles in their natural habitat. We also sponsor a treatment facility for wounded birds and animals. Anders Hammerqvist does a marvelous job patching up wings and broken legs. He’s lived here for a good twenty years, and was doctoring animals as a matter of conscience when the Dunlings persuaded him to apply for a license and work for the foundation.” She gave me a stern look. “Only licensed facilities can take in endangered species.”

  I felt as though I’d been accused of harboring eagles in my bedroom. For the record, I actively dislike dogs and cats, but I’ve always liked birds, particularly the kind one watches from a sofa in a living room—rather than the kind that one stalks through thorny, tick-infested undergrowth. Eagles appeared to belong to the second category, but thus far no one had suggested I take a hike. “I understand Becca became a volunteer,” I said to nudge her back into a more intriguing narrative.

  Agatha Anne’s fervor faded, and she sat back in the chair. “Becca was so young and vivacious that we were all amazed when she voiced an interest in ou
r work. She had beautiful golden-blond hair, wide gray eyes, a perfect figure, and an irresistible smile. She was always so generous and cooperative that we were in awe of her. We simply adored her. Dick did, too.”

  “How did they meet?” Luanne asked as she stirred her drink with a piece of celery and affected indifference.

  “Becca came three summers ago to stay with Scottie and Marilyn Gordon, who have the house on the second road past ours. She and Jan—Dick’s first wife—hit it off immediately. They went into town for lunch several times a week and played tennis so often that I finally had to speak to Jan about her responsibilities in the office. She did the books and paid bills, and we were beginning to get nasty notes from some of our suppliers. Jan was dark and unpretentious, but she radiated beauty in her own quiet way. Late that summer she drowned in a tragic accident. Jillian dropped out of school for a semester, and Dick talked about selling this house because of the memories. Sid and I were dreadfully worried about him.”

  “And this tragic accident?” I prompted her.

  “Jan loved to swim in the moonlight. There’d been a party. Dick rarely drinks too much, but this particular night he admitted he passed out the minute he hit the pillow. When he awoke several hours later, Jan was gone. He found her clothes in a pile near the edge of the water and called the sheriff’s department and the lake patrol. They found the body shortly after dawn. The coroner ruled it an alcohol-related accident.”

  I thought it over for a moment. “Was there any reason to suspect foul play? Did she often swim when she’d been drinking?”

  “She usually persuaded Dick or Jillian to swim with her,” Agatha Anne said, for the first time sounding uncomfortable. “On that particular night, Jillian had gone to bed with a summer cold, and as I said, Dick was in no condition to join her. They did a blood test and determined that her alcohol level was twice the legal limit. They also found an empty brandy decanter near her clothes.”

  “But Captain Gannet wasn’t satisfied,” I said, watching Agatha Anne carefully. “That’s part of the reason he’s continuing to investigate the second accident.”

  “Dick didn’t have an alibi—but how could he? Jillian had taken the type of heavy-duty antihistamines that come with the warning about operating heavy machinery, and it took him five minutes to rouse her after he called the police.”

  “And it happened more than three years ago,” I said. “If anyone had noticed anything, surely he or she would have come forward by now.”

  “There was nothing to notice,” Luanne muttered.

  Agatha Anne perched on the arm of Luanne’s chair to pat her shoulder. “Of course there wasn’t. Sid and I have known Dick since we were in college together twenty-five years ago. The idea of Gannet suspecting him makes me ill. I spoke to the sheriff, but he’s one of those fat, greasy politicians who’s more concerned with the next election than the mental well-being of a handful of rich people who vote in another county. Sid even offered to make a donation to his campaign fund, but the sheriff cackled like a wild turkey.”

  I didn’t point out that turkeys reputedly gobbled, because I feared an onslaught of ornithologically correct specifics. “Tell me about Becca’s accident.”

  “It was half an hour after sunset on the final Friday in March,” Agatha Anne said, wrinkling her forehead just enough to convey her scrupulous attempt to be precise without endangering her flawless complexion. “Georgiana and I went to Anders’s trailer to discuss the release date for a red-tailed hawk that some ignorant chicken farmer had shot with a crossbow. Dick and Sid were in town. I came home at six-thirty and found a message from Becca on my answering machine. She said she was going out to Little Pine Island because of a report that an eagle was hurt. I drove to the marina, but just as I reached the dock, the boat exploded.” She buried her face in her hands and shivered. When at last she spoke, her voice was husky and laden with pain. “There was a horrible red ball of fire and clouds of black smoke. Bits and pieces of the boat came splashing down as if they’d been hurled from heaven. There was no hope whatsoever of recovering what might have remained of the body.”

  “And you saw Becca on the boat?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, she was standing up while she drove, as she always did, with her hair streaming behind her and a can of diet soda in her hand. Bubo had seen her jump into the boat, and he was at the end of the dock yelling at her when I arrived. If only he’d been a little quicker, he could have stopped her, but he was inside selling bait or swilling beer or whatever he does to justify his salary.”

  “Bubo Limpkin is the manager of the marina,” Luanne added in explanation. “He’s a despicable excuse for a human being. Dick said they’ve tried to get him fired every summer since he came five years ago, but he sobers up and wheedles the owner into giving him one more chance.”

  I looked at Agatha Anne, who was checking her reflection in the mirror of a gold compact. “And you’d reported a suspicious odor to him that same day?”

  She snapped the compact shut and dropped it into her pocket. “That’s right. I’d thought about taking the boat out that morning, but there was a faint odor in the cabin. I hunted down Bubo and told him to check the propane tanks, and he said he would.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone else?” I asked.

  “I mentioned it to Georgiana, but Becca had gone into town and it didn’t occur to me that she might be using the boat later that same day. The Dunlings never take out the boat without first consulting me. They’re terribly considerate, considering it was their money that funded the foundation and paid for the boat.”

  “But don’t forget the quiche,” Dick said as he came onto the deck, dressed in a fresh shirt and shorts. His face was smooth and his hair combed, but his eyes were still red and his eyelids puffy from a night of sleeplessness. “The fact that it was quiche rather than a meatball or a carrot stick really bugs Gannet. He’s convinced we get dressed in tuxedos and mink coats and stand around sipping champagne, stuffing ourselves with caviar, and making fun of the local rubes. He looked distinctly skeptical when I told him Wharton had already started the charcoal for hamburgers when Becca lost her temper.” He went to Luanne and put his arm around her waist. “The lasagna is bubbling, so perhaps we might set the table soon. Agatha Anne, you will be joining us, won’t you?”

  She shook her head. “I really do have to sign papers at the insurance office. The claims people have been dragging their heels all along, to the point I had to threaten to call our attorney.” She offered me a manicured hand that had never probed an alien mouth. “I do hope we’ll see you again, Claire. This has been such a thrill for me. I feel as though I’ve finally met Nancy Drew.”

  I was about to offer an equally insincere reply when we heard a gunshot.

  3

  I hurried to the rail and searched for the source of the shot. Sailors and skiers were eyeing the shore with appropriate alarm, and a pair of fishermen were frantically reeling in their lines in preparation to flee the cove. The birds that had been at the Dunling Lodge feeders were well on their collective way to the far side of the lake.

  “It sounded close by,” I said, wondering why the others were still seated and more interested in their drinks than in a potential homicide.

  Agatha Anne laughed. “Wharton has declared war on a groundhog that lives near his vegetable garden on the other side of the lodge. He’s tried all manner of traps and poisons, and even attached a hose to the exhaust pipe of his car and tried to asphyxiate the creature in its burrow. The day he tried dynamite has become a local legend. Lately, he’s been crouching behind a bush with a shotgun. Livia’s furious because the noise frightens away the birds and terrifies the hikers, but Wharton is beyond listening to her or anyone else. Nobody dares use the G-word in his presence.”

  “Wharton misses the good old days,” Dick added, “when the enemy had the courtesy to stand up and offer himself as a target. This groundhog plays dirty. The garden is enclosed by a chain-link fence, three strands of electrif
ied wire, and a final buffer of concertina wire. With the addition of guard towers and spotlights, it could serve as a prison camp. None of us could steal a tomato if we were starving, but the groundhog never misses a meal and seems to thrive on whatever poison Wharton feeds it. Livia swears it must weigh twenty pounds.”

  I studied the yard around Dunling Lodge, but no one clad in camouflage was on the prowl with a shotgun. “Your group doesn’t object?” I asked Agatha Anne.

  “Wharton’s groundhog is the only one that’s endangered. They’re pests and have been known to spread rabies. I must run along to the claims office. If you encounter Wharton, for God’s sake don’t wiggle your nose and whistle at him.” She went down the steps and around the corner of the house.

  Luanne mumbled something about silverware and went inside. Dick waited until the sliding glass door was closed, then perched on the rail beside me and said, “Now that you’ve heard the details, can you pick out the clue that will exonerate me?”

  “Both of the incidents sound like accidents,” I said with a shrug. Despite his relaxed smile, there was an edge to him, an undertone of anxiety in both his voice and his demeanor. It didn’t seem likely that he’d been involved with his wives’ deaths, but I wasn’t pleased with Luanne’s mindless denial. I’d encountered congenial murderers in the past, from college students to white-haired teachers who were benignly cleansing the community of undesirables. For all I knew, the man sitting by me might find divorce a morally abhorrent way to end a marriage. However, for Luanne’s sake, I forced myself to return his smile. “Surely Captain Gannet will find other crimes to occupy himself.”