“Miss?” one of the officers said. “We need to speak to you. Would you come with us, please?”
I glanced down at my injured hand, which was throbbing. Blood was already soaking through Beverly’s blouse. “Okay, but could you give me a ride to the emergency room while we’re at it?”
The next couple of hours passed in that same kind of semi-conscious state my brain seems to put itself into when I’ve got a really bad flu. The EMTs put some butterfly bandages on my wound, then took me to the emergency room at Boulder Community Hospital. Although having policemen as companions won me a lot of strange looks and a pariah-like treatment from my fellow patients, it didn’t seem to get me a doctor any sooner.
Despite my trauma, the officers asked me questions, and I answered them, while garnering random images from my surroundings. A nurse was criticizing the EMTs over something about my butterfly bandages. The family in the cubicle next to mine, distraught over their little boy’s head injury. The loud, elderly woman on the other side of me complaining in a thick German accent about how slow the doctor was in arriving. The pervasive masking odor of antiseptic that I was certain was now permanently embedded in my nostrils.
Then the doctor came bearing bad news. A wolf can’t be observed for a mere ten days for rabies the way domestic animals can. I would have to undergo both the two rabies immune globulin shots—today’s and in another three days—plus the full set of vaccinations. This meant a total of five vaccine applications; three this week, then one in two weeks, and my last in four weeks. That meant treatments to the wound itself as well as turning my butt into a pin cushion for extremely long needles.
Once my stitches were in place, my hand bandaged, and I was able to sit without crying out, the officers took me to the station house on 30th Street. We went through the very same lengthy set of questions that I’d already answered while in the hospital. I told them, once again, that it was clear to me that Ty Bellingham’s death had come not from teeth or claws, but from a knife. The police, in turn, made it clear that, for my own safety in case a killer had hoped Ty’s death appeared to be from the wolf, I was not to share this observation with anyone.
Eventually, I’d talked my throat raw. Then it was all I could do to convince them that I was capable of driving myself, if they could just bring me back to my car in front of the Bellinghams’ house.
An officer drove me in a patrol car. There was still no sign of Cheshire’s orange VW. The property was now surrounded with yellow crime-scene plastic tape, its perimeter teeming with onlookers. Having arrived in a squad car, four or five people rushed toward me and started shouting questions at me. A microphone was shoved in my face and the shutter of a camera clicked. I said nothing, kept my head down, got into my car, and drove away without a glance in my rearview mirror or any real thought of where to go now.
I was a couple of blocks away before a realization hit me: I had told Beverly Wood that Ty had been stabbed to death. There was no harm there, though. She was a friend. I’d just have to tell her not to repeat this.
The thought of Beverly allowed me to gradually make the connection that I was supposed to be at the softball game. The game had started at six forty-five, and was now probably half over.
I wouldn’t be any good to my team anyway. My thumb was throbbing despite the anesthetic. If the key to mankind’s success was opposable thumbs, I was halfway toward being a lower life form. Certainly a life form that did not play softball.
My mind and emotions in a tailspin, I drove toward the ball fields. I needed to tell Russell what had happened. Otherwise he might think that our minor spat had kept me from even showing.
I drove right through the red light on Valmont and was extremely lucky that my only consequence was a blast from another car’s horn and its driver’s one-finger salute. My heart raced, shocked at my having made such a potentially dangerous mistake, but at least this jarred me back to full alert. All I wanted to do was go to sleep and forget today had ever happened. The thing was, though, every time I closed my eyes, I had a vision of the wolf, Atla. Each time, I felt a horrible rush of fear that rattled me to the core.
All that kept me going was the image of myself in Russell’s arms. The hell with being strong; I’d never been as frightened in my life as I’d been in that kitchen. If Russell proved willing to console me, I would let him. I arrived at the ball fields east of town, parked, started up the long sidewalk toward the back field.
Stazio Field was a tribute to concrete and chain-link fences. Other than the softball fields themselves, there was remarkably little grass, the xeriscaping featuring heavily mulched gardens and lots of rocks. It’s a peculiar part of town, just outside the major population centers, and isolated by its geography—trees and craggy hills were the gravel pits are located. A softball island, of sorts. The lights were already on, though they weren’t necessary. It was barely even dusk.
The field my team used was the closest to the parking lot, and I walked up the paved hill along the fence. Our team was up to bat. In a bizarre coincidence, Hank Atkinson’s team was playing against us. They were all wearing their Hank’s Security Systems T-shirts, which all bore their team name: The Wolves. Hank was their pitcher. I scanned our dugout as I neared and saw Beverly and Tracy. It finally dawned on me that Beverly would have told everyone about my close encounter with the wild kingdom.
I didn’t stop to speak to my teammates in the dugout. Still watching for Russell, I slowly made my way along the fence. He was just stepping up to the plate. He, too, was obviously watching for me, because he stalled before entering the batting box, reseating his cap as he surveyed the bleachers.
He spotted me, and his face registered relief, but did not light up the way it always used to at the sight of me. Instead he immediately glanced down at my bandaged hand, then turned his attention to the pitcher and got ready to swing.
Beverly was on deck and had just selected a bat when she saw me. She rushed up to the fence that separated us. “Allida, hi! Is your hand going to be okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.” I gave her a wave with it. In the meantime, Russell took the first pitch, which was a called strike. “Your shirt’s seen better days though. It’s in a plastic bag in my trunk.”
Meanwhile, Tracy Truett heard us and dashed out of the dugout and up to me, her hard-rubber cleats against concrete giving her a jock-like swagger. She was a large, wide-shouldered woman. Her spiked, dyed-blond short hair poked out below the rim of her cap. The overall effect resembled a baseball cap squashed onto the end of a long-needled pine bough, but no one with any instincts for self-protection would dare laugh at her.
She rushed up to me and said with her usual gusto, complete with waving arms, “Beverly told us what happened. Holy Moly, Allida! What are you doing here? If I’d just done battle with a wolf, I’d be in Marguerita-ville by now!”
“I wanted to see Russell.” He took a wild swing at a pitch, missing the ball entirely. Normally, he was a good player, but he was already behind in the count oh-and-two.
She gestured with her chin in Russell’s direction. “What did you do to that poor boy?” By Tracy’s standards, her voice was quiet, but I wasn’t at all sure that Russell couldn’t overhear. “Even before Beverly got here and spilled the beans, he’s been barking at everybody—worse than your noisiest clients.”
He swung again and struck out, which is not easy to do in slow-pitch softball.
Tracy groaned. “He can’t play worth a damn, either. Go talk to him.” As she spoke, she’d put her hand on my shoulder and was gently pushing me toward the dugout. “We’re losing, eight to four. Can I put you in at second base?”
I held up my bad hand. “I can’t get a mitt on this hand, let alone hold a bat. You’d better put me on your disabled list for the rest of the season.”
“Oh, shoot! Beverly told us you were bitten, but I forgot.” She stared at my bandages. “Damn! It would have to be your glove hand. Tell you what, I can put you in at rover next week, and we’ll ju
st cover for you.”
Her tendency to focus exclusively on herself and on the immediate matter at hand—so to speak—was just her typical behavior, and I wasn’t offended. I deserted all pretense of resistance and returned to the dugout with her, and Russell came over to me. He sat down beside me, but avoided my gaze.
“Jeez, Allida,” he said quietly, shaking his handsome head. “I can’t believe this. You could have gotten yourself killed.” He sighed and finally studied my face, his eyes full of worry. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just a bit shaken. It seems so strange the way everyone’s here, including me, as if nothing had happened. Hank’s playing for their team. He’s Beverly’s neighbor, who was feuding with the guy who was killed.”
“Which one is Hank?” Russell asked, scanning the defense.
Whether or not it made sense, the feeling that this was all Hank’s fault suddenly overwhelmed me. Somehow, my emotions had decided without my brain’s consensus that the wolf never would have been in Ty’s house if not for Hank and his television commercials. I wanted my team to beat the crap out of his team.
I gestured at the fit-looking red-haired man on the mound. “The pitcher.”
“Him? That guy’s a bigot.”
“He is?”
“Yeah. He hates short people. As if he’s some sort of towering giant. He made derogatory remarks about my height during his at-bats.”
Russell was our catcher. Since he was always in a squatting position during opponents’ at-bats, it was really odd that anybody would tease him. He rarely engaged in those hey-batter-batter taunting of the other team members, and I’d never heard him complain about an opposing team’s behavior.
Our batter hit a double. I got to my feet and cheered with abandon as Beverly rounded third base and ran home. I almost forgot my injury and clapped, but remembered in time, and rushed out of the dugout to give her a right-handed high-five, along with some of our teammates. She had to lower her hand to reach mine. Afterward she put her arm around my shoulders, and we returned to the dugout together.
“I’m so glad to see you here, Allida. I feel so guilty. I should never have called you in the first place. Now I wish I’d called the police. I honestly wasn’t sure that those were human shouts I’d heard, they’d sounded so….” She let her voice fade and shuddered. “I thought they just had another dog there, or something.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Bev. Do you have any idea who could’ve gotten the wolf into Ty’s house like that? Did you see a gray van with tinted windows, or anything?”
“No. I already told the police. I didn’t see or hear anything. But then, I’d only just returned from my contract job when I heard those noises next door.”
“That’s right,” I said, just now remembering how strange that timing was. “You’d only left your house a couple of hours earlier with Rebecca. Why were you home so soon?”
She clicked her tongue. “Rebecca and I got into an argument just after you left. We wound up going to the site in separate cars, and once we got there, we agreed it’d be better if I just reassured the homeowners that everything was going fine. She finished most of the work alone.”
“I see,” I said, though I didn’t really. Why rush out of the house on a Saturday if this was a one-person job? “Too bad for Ty’s sake you weren’t home earlier. The killer might have parked right in his driveway.” Though I felt ashamed of myself, I was testing her. She merely nodded, her lips pursed, giving me no insight.
We took our seats. Russell was used to witnessing my jock-like sports mentality emerge at games, but even he was watching me with raised eyebrows, as if surprised at my exuberance in the light of today’s events.
Just then, Hank threw a brush-back pitch at our batter, which, considering this was slow-pitch, could not have been accidental. This was a female batter, because by co-rec softball rules, men and women alternate their at-bats. The umpire reprimanded him, and he held up a palm in a mock apology, chuckling all the while.
In unison, our male contingent shot to their feet and shouted their protests. Russell pointed at Hank. “Hey! Watch yourself!”
Hank ignored us and threw the next pitch, which was a strike.
“Did you see that?” Russell asked me in disgust. “What a jerk! He threw that ball right at Cindy’s head!”
He sat down on the edge of the bench beside me, but stared at Hank, muscles primed to charge the mound if he threw another brush-back.
“I agree. Hank’s acting like a total idiot. But it would have been an equally asinine thing to do to a male batter.”
“No, this is way worse. He knows Cindy won’t punch him out, though that’s what he deserves.”
“Oh, come now. If he were actually to have deliberately hit Cindy with that pitch, what do you think would have happened? He’d have had every guy on our team, and perhaps even on his own team, charging the mound. It would have been much safer to throw at a man.”
“The guy’s a turd,” Russell grumbled as if he hadn’t heard me. “The first inning, he got into the batter’s box, kicked dirt in my face, and said if I didn’t like it, I could blame my parents for my short genes. Then he hit the first pitch over the fence.”
In the meantime, our batter was not so fortunate and popped up to Hank, ending the inning. As the rest of the team grabbed their mitts and headed out to their positions, emptying the dugout, Beverly slid over beside me and patted my knee. “You hangin’ in there okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “How about you? I’m surprised you can even begin to concentrate after what you just went through.”
She winced a little and rose. “There wasn’t anything I could do for Ty by sitting home. I needed to get out of there and get my mind off him.” While backing toward the pitcher’s mound she gestured at the opponents’ dugout. “Hank’s here, too.”
“I noticed, but then, there was certainly no love lost between him and Ty.”
“He didn’t do it, you know, if that’s what you’re thinking. Hank would never do such a thing.” She pivoted and walked to the mound.
Why would she defend Hank? Earlier this afternoon, he’d threatened to kill Ty, who threatened him back. He also had access to the wolves. Plus, the fact that he was a poor sport might carry through to his daily behavior.
The hairs at the back of my neck rose as I got the uncomfortable feeling that somebody was watching me. I whirled around in my seat and saw a dark-haired woman in a peach pants suit. Paige Atkinson. She must have been in the ladies’ room when I arrived. Even from a distance, I could see her complexion was blotchy and tear-stained, her eyes red. Maybe the concept that her ex-husband was dead had sunk in.
In the corner of my vision, I noticed that Hank had left his teammates. He rounded the fence behind the plate, heading my way. He walked right in front of his wife in the process, seemingly without noticing. He looped his fingers through the chain link behind our dugout.
“Allida. What did you tell the police about me?”
His face had an unnatural sheen to it, and there was a familiar fragrance. Cocoa butter. Maybe he was trying to enhance his tan. “In reference to what?”
“The murder, of course,” he snapped. “Did you tell them about our argument earlier today?”
“Of course,” I repeated back to him.
“I’m innocent. I didn’t let that wolf loose in his house.”
“I’m glad.”
“Ty probably swiped the wolf all on his own. He had this thing about dogs. Seemed to think being with a big, strong dog compensated for his small…inadequacies.”
“Did you ever know Ty to arrange a dog fight?” I asked.
Hank shook his head. “Not that I saw for myself, but then, it’s not like he’d have given me an invitation. He knows I’d have had him arrested on the spot.”
A large man from their team rose and gestured gruffly in our direction. “Hank! Come on! You’re in the hole!”
Hank hesitated, started to say something to me, then
jogged toward his teammates.
For the first time since we’d met, Paige Atkinson smiled at me and held my gaze, as if she, too, had something she wanted to say. I’d already formulated a negative opinion of her and didn’t relish spending time with her, but I was curious as to why she seemed to be trying to establish friendly contact with me. I left the dugout and sat down next to her.
“I’m glad to see you made it here,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you’d even be back on your feet. This is all…such a terrible shock.”
Strange that she hadn’t seemed all that shocked when it was happening, that she’d dragged her feet about calling the police while her ex-husband might have been screaming for help. “You…didn’t have a key to the Bellinghams’ house?”
Immediately she tensed and her eyes grew fiery. “You’ve been talking to Beverly Wood, haven’t you? That bitch told you about my having been married to Ty, didn’t she?”
“My friend Beverly, who is not a bitch, mentioned it, yes. Remarrying and living next door to your ex is the kind of thing people tend to talk about.”
She turned her head and glared at Beverly on the pitcher’s mound. “Next time you talk to her, you might want to mention that, no, I don’t have any keys to Ty’s house. He changed the locks. But I happen to know that she still has a key from when she and her lesbian friend were supposedly working on his kitchen.”
I really hated what felt to me was no more than an assumption that Rebecca was a lesbian because she worked in a male-dominated field and didn’t wear “girlie” clothes and makeup. But I was more concerned with the non sequitur about the kitchen remodeling. “Supposedly?” I repeated.
She had set her jaw and shot me an angry glance. “Don’t get me wrong. They remodeled his kitchen, all right. But knowing what a slut Beverly is, I doubt they confined their activities to just the one room.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I sat in silence, my stomach topsy turvy. It was appalling to me how much hatred there was in this world. Life was short enough anyway without having to waste so much energy on rancor and hate. Why stay in a house next to your ex and live a cold, vindictive existence?
4 Woof at the Door Page 7
