The Sow's Ear

by E. Joan Sims

  I whistled for Aggie and almost fell over with surprise when she obediently trotted after me down the hall and out the clinic door with the wisps of what had been her once glorious tail wagging proudly behind her.

  Without a word to anyone, I hastily opened the car door and boosted the Aggie up and in with the well-placed toe of my moccasin.

  “Mission accomplished, dog!”

  She didn’t understand that we were celebrating until I pulled in at the DQ and got her a doggie dish to go. We were the best of pals all the way home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “It’s manure.”

  “No, it can’t be!”

  “Look, Cassie, the paper bags even have the location of where the specimen was found written on them. Look, this one says, ‘Rowan Springs, Farm 239, Lot 2, Area 21.’”

  “It’s got to be some kind of contraband, Mom. I just know it is.”

  “Good old fashioned cow dung, nothing more, nothing less. And a great deal smellier than some I’ve encountered.”

  “Then, that’s it! Some kind of chemical agent designed to camouflage the odor of drugs—to keep the dogs from sniffing it in airports and stuff.”

  “Cassie,” I began patiently, “if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…

  Cassie sank down in a kitchen chair, her mouth drawn down in a pout that would work on anyone but a mother who had long ago gotten used to it. But all things considered, I was too happy to be back in her good graces to argue any more.

  “Oh, what the hell. It works for me. Call the DEA.”

  “Mom, don’t be silly. It’s just that I so wanted it to be a juicy little tidbit for one of Leonard’s lurid stories—you know, to do my bit and all.”

  I smiled at my lovely offspring. “Cassie,” I responded softly, “You’ve way more than done your bit over the years by growing up to be the sort of daughter I never dreamed I could have. Imagine me, the black sheep of the Sterling family, having a pearl like you?”

  She snuffled and grinned at me. “You mixed your metaphors. Besides, you’re not the black sheep and you know it.”

  “I may not have been when I was younger. I’m sure Mother and Dad were thrilled when I had the good sense to marry a bright young diplomat with a wonderful future. And they loved visiting us at the hacienda in San Romero. Who wouldn’t have? It was a tropical paradise. But when I misplaced your Daddy and things started getting really bad, I lost some of my standing in their eyes by heading for New York and Pam instead of coming back home with my tail between my legs.”

  “Grandad understood, I know he did,” soothed Cassie.

  “Maybe, but Mother thought I should have put you first and come home for your sake. Leave you with her, if necessary, and go to New York on my own. She’s never really forgiven me.”

  Cassie scooted closer and put her arms around me for a good hug.

  “I’m so glad you didn’t, Mom. I love Gran, and all, but I wouldn’t have liked being left behind—not even one little bit.”

  I hugged her back and swiped at that bit of moisture that somehow always appeared on my cheek when I had these little chats with Cassie. She always got to the heart of me.

  “Aggie looks a little odd, don’t you think? What is it about her that’s different?”

  “Er…I don’t know, sweetie.”

  “I think it’s time we started using the vet in Lanierville—just until Doc White comes back from his vacation. I swear her tail looks four inches shorter. Wonder what they did to her when you weren’t looking?”

  “I guess we’ll never know.” I sighed dramatically.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “So why do you think Haverstock took off like a scared rabbit? If he’s not guilty of something—if that really is cow’s shi…er, dung in those little brown bags—then why pull a disappearing act and leave a roomful of pissed off patients just because I arrived on the scene?”

  Horatio smiled—although for the merest fraction of a second it seemed like a well-mannered smirk.

  “Do you honestly not know how intimidating you can be, my dear? As an outraged mother—on a scale from one to ten, you are way off the chart.”

  “A virago?”

  “Roget couldn’t have said it better.”

  “Thanks. I just used the word in Leonard’s latest.”

  “Umm, somehow that doesn’t seem like the language our Leonard is wont to use.”

  “He has a new sidekick.”

  “A librarian or a school teacher?”

  “Nope. Guess again.”

  “A writer.”

  “Yeah,” I grinned. “How you’d guess?”

  “He did appear to bemoan his solitary state more than usual in your latest tome. I assume this person is of the feminine gender?” he added. “And redheaded?”

  We both enjoyed a companionable chuckle. Horatio was well aware that for years I had complained of not being able to take credit for my own blood, sweat and tears. Leonard Paisley was my creation, but it was he who took all the credit for my books. Horatio knew as well as I did that my new literary lady friend would be my way of “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

  “So, you think Haverstock is nothing more than a chicken-hearted little turd who thinks he’s God’s gift to women?”

  Horatio took a long puff on his pipe and carefully exhaled a perfect circle of wobbly white smoke the size of a cantaloupe. “Hummm.”

  I could get nothing more out of him, but I did notice that he was biting down on the pipe stem hard enough to bare his right incisor.

  We both sat there ruminating until I fell asleep. When I woke up about an hour later his chair was empty.

  After a satisfying stretch or two, I wandered around the house looking for somebody to bug. For some reason I was inexplicable lonely and when I saw Cassie and her dog on the back porch I made a beeline straight for her.

  “How long did you think you could get away with it, Mom?”

  My smile drooped and my stomach knotted up in a sudden cramp. My dirty secret was out. Cassie loved that wicked little pooch, and I felt lower than the lying worm I was and hated myself for not fessin’ up when I had the chance to convince her that pulling all the long hair out of the dog’s tail was just an accident. Now, no matter what I said, it would just look like a stupid excuse.

  “Cassie…”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  “I…no. I guess not, honey, but…”

  “And what really hurts is that you of all people—my own mother—thinks I’m really such loser that I can’t get a date on my own?”

  “Wha…what are you talking about?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about!”

  “No, I don’t. I thought you were mad about Aggie. You’ve got me confused.”

  “What about Aggie?” demanded my tall avenging daughter as she swirled around to confront me face to face.

  “Her tail…”

  “I know all about her tail. That stupid vet pulled out her beautiful tail just to get back at me for showing him the door. And don’t think I’m not going to make a complaint to the State Veterinary Association! I’m going to demand they yank his temporary license to practice in this country. But that’s not the point! I’m mad because you and Gran are trying to fix me up with one of her old crony’s grandsons. As if you didn’t know,” she added with a distinctly unlady-like snort.” She plopped dramatically down on the chaise. I closed my eyes for a moment when I heard the ominous creak, but when I opened them again she and the chaise were none the worse for wear.

  “In the first place…”

  “You’re just as meddling and nosey as Gran and that silly old Mavis Madden. Imagine! How in the world could she even begin to think I would go out on a blind date with that insane woman’s progeny. There’s got to be a piece missing off every one of that queer woman’s chromosomes. Does Gran believe that her spawn could escape those demented genes?”

  “Step-grandson.”

 
“And have you forgotten the day Mavis smacked poor little Aggie?”

  “Step-grandson, Cassie.”

  “Step…you mean he’s not a blood relative?”

  “No, he’s not. He grew up in Atlanta and graduated from Emory three years before you did.”

  “Well, maybe…no! I still don’t like being tricked. And I hate blind dates. No, no, no,” she wailed. “The answer is no!”

  And I was left alone and abandoned once again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning dawned bright and windy. Cassie had left before I got up and Mother and Horatio announced at breakfast they intended a trip to Wieuca City to investigate new light fixtures for the porch and patio. Alone again.

  Rather than hang around the house and feel guilty about not working on Leonard’s latest, I decided to drive down to the lakes and hang out there for the day—under the guise of research for “local color.” The wind picked up as I got closer to the dam and when I crossed over the road on top of the spillways I could see the waves splashing against the shore.

  With red warning flags flapping wildly overhead and spray sparkling in the sunshine, I could see why only a very few of the bigger boats dared venture onto the water. No fish, I decided, would be worth going out in that, and I changed my plans to go have “fresh catch” lunch at Catfish Pond. No sense in asking for trouble for anyone, fishermen included.

  I drove in and out of the narrow roads leading to rough pebble strewn beaches for a couple of hours looking for a sheltered place to park and ruminate, but everywhere I turned the wind blustered and blew—making my plans to sit on a picnic table and watch the world go by impossibly uncomfortable.

  I finally gave up on my fruitless quest and decided maybe the glassed-in dining room at Foxtrot Charlie’s might afford a respite from the weather and still allow a view of the lake.

  From a lovely corner table in front of a big glass window I ordered another grilled chicken salad, and just to keep my hand in—added steak fries. Grinning broadly at nothing at all but my audacity in combining what was good for me and what was not, I sipped on a truly delicious mint iced tea and watched foolhardy yachtsmen hurriedly load their boats back up on trailers and head for home.

  Somehow during my sipping and grinning, the picture of Andy’s face suddenly came to mind. “Leave this case alone,” he had said. And then he had ominously added something about “more than meets the eye” and “it’s dangerous.”

  Goosebumps suddenly appeared on my forearms, and I shook them off with an effort. “Nonsense,” I muttered under my breath. Bags of cow poo and a little faux Englishman who thought he was God’s gift to women weren’t in the least bit frightening. Stupid and silly, maybe, but scary?

  But there was something about the not so good doctor that raised my hackles. There was something about him … something that tickled my memory. But try as I might nothing came to me before my gorgeously overflowing salad was served, and after that I forgot everything but my appetite. I dug in and ate my way happily to the bottom of the bowl, completely forgetting the fries until they were limp and unappealing.

  Feeling virtuous and fat-free, I stopped at the wonderful new cupcake bakery on the way home and got a half-dozen of the flavors of the week, devouring one extra—a delicious bananas foster on the way home.

  The driveway was empty when I arrived, and Aggie didn’t even ask to go out when I entered the house. I figured Cassie must have come and gone again. There was no note on the kitchen table to let me know the whereabouts of my kith and kin, but the answering machine was blinking wildly.

  “Paisley. It’s Trudy. From the library,” she added unnecessarily. “You dropped a couple of microfiche behind the cabinet. I wondered if you had missed seeing them and wanted to come back. Or maybe it’s not important. Either way, they’ll be on my desk for a day or two. See you soon,” she added gaily, and hung up.

  The nice little nap my full tummy was yearning for began to disappear into the distance as curiosity loomed large on the horizon. Two more files, two more possibilities. The hope of finding out even the tiniest tidbit that might spread some light on the mysterious marks on Millicent’s withered skin made getting back in my car and driving to the library a small price to pay.

  “Wow,” beamed Trudy, “you didn’t waste any time. I’m getting curious, Paisley. Working on a new book?”

  “Maybe, just maybe,” I told her, adding under my breath, “If I’m lucky, and Billy is luckier.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was obvious that Trudy, or some of her helpers, had been busy down in the basement. The dust of years and years had been impossible to completely remove, but the surfaces were a good deal cleaner and smelled pleasantly of disinfectant and furniture wax.

  The microfiche reader even sported a new bulb and started humming immediately when I turned it on. I still didn’t know what I was looking for, but I scanned every inch of the ancient newspaper clippings with a fresh eye and was quickly rewarded with a curious story on page three of the March 3, 1954, edition of the Lakeland County Times.

  SECOND SISTER SUCCUMBS

  TO UNKNOWN CAUSES

  Abigail Poole succumbed earlier this week at Lanierville General Hospital, apparently to the same unknown disease process that killed her younger sister last month. Eliza Poole died February 13th of this year.

  The doctors who attended both young girls admit they are somewhat mystified as to the cause of death but wish to assure the public that there does not seem to be any contagion in the offing. Both of the sisters were good students, and while somewhat reticent and shy, were well liked by their peers at Saint Anthony‘s Academy. They lived with their father, James Arthur Poole, at 312 Market Street in Rowan Springs, their mother, the former Hannah Haygood of Wieuca City, having died in childbirth several years previously.”

  As I read the article I realized that my initial excitement was ill placed. The date was right, but no “m’s,” or “n’s,” or even “w’s.” I imagined lots of people died of unknown causes back in the fifties, especially in a little town where autopsies would be considered a rarity and not the norm.

  Since no one was there to see or hear, I didn’t even bother to suppress a huge yawn and issued an indelicate and slightly banana flavored burp before I scrolled to the next page. Fifteen minutes later I came across a follow up to the story I had just dismissed.

  Mystery Deepens in Sisters’ Deaths

  Authorities are looking into the strange deaths of two young girls in our community. Sisters Abigail and Eliza Poole, daughters of Mr. James Arthur Poole of Rowan Springs, died early this year of mysterious causes. Medical doctors working on the cases professed puzzlement over the strange symptoms present in both young girls before they weakened and succumbed to illness.

  Teachers at Saint Anthony’s Academy reported Eliza Poole left school several times during the month previous to her death complaining of strange pains in the abdomen. She was reported as “pale and shaking” on more than one occasion and while neither her father, nor the live-in housekeeper took the girl to the doctor, she appeared to have overcome her symptoms for a period of time. On the day of her death, she attended school as always, but that same afternoon the housekeeper could not rouse her after a nap.

  The doctor on call at the local clinic pronounced her at home. She was thought to have died of natural causes. A congenital heart defect was suggested.

  Miss Abigail Poole’s illness took a quicker course. She was rushed to Lanierville General Hospital after suffering much the same symptoms, albeit much more severe, and was pronounced dead on arrival on at that hospital.

  Because of the mysterious nature of the deaths, laboratory studies are being performed on samples taken from both young women. Results are pending.

  “Well,” I whispered. “The game seems to be afoot!”

  Barely suppressing my excitement, I hurriedly changed the microfiche and quickly scanned the second one. Immediately, the much larger headlines jumped out a
t me:

  Murder in Rowan Springs?

  Outside Investigators have been called in to view the evidence in the recent deaths of two young women who resided with their father at 312 Market Street. The father, James Arthur Poole, had been invited to answer questions on several occasions, but so far has not been able to shed any light on the case. He denied the allegations of some of his neighbors who stated that he had been having inappropriate relations with his live-in housekeeper, Mrs. Margaret Nance Whitelaw, a widow, who had moved in when his wife passed away. The two girls had, on occasion, confided to school mates that Mrs. Whitelaw was trying to “take their mother’s place” in the home.”

  Mrs. Whitelaw, so far, has refused to talk to the authorities.

  Laboratory studies performed during the last month have reportedly raised some disturbing questions but police have not divulged any further information. Anyone having knowledge of these mysterious incidents is asked to come forward. Please contact the Rowan Springs Police Department from 8-5pm on week days at telephone number 2224.

  “Wow!” I whispered, and “wow!” again. I had found the initials I was looking for, and I had not one, but two mysterious deaths, and two new leads. One, the police chief in 1954—if he was still alive—and if not, the police archives; and two, the name of the housekeeper—and maybe mistress of Mr. James Arthur Poole. It wasn’t until that afternoon when I was crowing to Horatio about my endeavors that he informed me I had more than that: the address of the deceased girls, and therefore the neighbors, and the school where they were students.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Torn down?”

  “’Fraid so, my dear. About ten years ago according to the city records. Something about a Quickie Mart.”