Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund

by Blaize Clement

  I said, “Thanks for the tail.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Do you know about the snake in my apartment?”

  “Sorry about that. I thought you’d be okay last night with Paco. We didn’t watch your place while you were gone.”

  “I was just on the phone with Paco. There was another one in a drawer under my bed where I keep my guns. I slept on it last night.”

  My voice went up an octave, and I recognized, with a kind of clinical detachment, the sound of rising hysteria.

  Guidry must have recognized it too, because he said, “We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

  I clicked off and laid my head on the steering wheel. I felt the way a lobster must feel when it’s been out of salt water too long, like I was shrinking inside my own skin. Every instinct told me Denton Ferrelli was responsible for his brother’s death and for those rattlesnakes in my apartment. Every instinct told me he was responsible for the truck that had tried to run me down. If he hadn’t done it himself, he had hired somebody to do it.

  This is war, I thought, and then almost laughed at myself for thinking it. How many times had I heard our grandfather say that? Probably half a million at least. If the county sent a tax bill he thought was outrageous, if the fishing commission declared a quota on red snapper, or if an invasion of no-see-ums sent him running for cover, he would bellow, “This is war!” Well, okay, so I’m my grandfather’s progeny. I don’t take injustice.

  I got out my nagging phone and called Information to get Denton Ferrelli’s office phone number. When I called it, a woman with a voice all in her nose obliged with the address. With the tail following me like exhaust smoke, I headed for one of the glass-fronted mainland high-rises facing the marina. I took a glass elevator to the penthouse and stepped into a lobby the size of my entire apartment. A sleek young woman wearing a red power suit sat in front of a telephone at an antique library table. She gave my hairy shorts a sneering glance and smiled frostily. If she’d known I had a .38 in my pocket and venom in my heart, she might not have looked so friggin’ smug.

  I said, “Tell Denton Ferrelli that Dixie Hemingway is here to see him.”

  She gave me a bunched-mouth little smile and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Ferrelli isn’t in.”

  This was definitely a woman who had let a career of answering a phone go to her head.

  I wheeled away toward the row of closed doors. “Never mind, I’ll find him.”

  She scrambled under the edge of her desk for an alarm bell, and I hotfooted it to the widest, most impressive-looking door and turned the knob. Denton Ferrelli and another man were sitting opposite each other in deep black leather chairs. Behind them, a glass wall overlooked the sun-sparkled blue marina and its rows of boats. It was a view that must have given relief to eyes strained from studying multimillion-dollar deals.

  The woman in the red suit ran up behind me and screeched, “I told her you couldn’t see her, Mr. Ferrelli!”

  Denton Ferrelli smiled lazily, those cobra-lidded eyes fixed in place. “Never mind, honey, I’ll take care of it.”

  I said, “The rattlesnakes were cute, Mr. Ferrelli.”

  He gave me a blank look that was either a terrific act or genuinely ignorant.

  He said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I assume it has something to do with your fetish for animals.” He tilted his head toward the man with him. “Leo Brossi, this is Conrad’s dog-sitter. She’s a big animal lover.”

  Brossi was a lot smaller than Denton, probably not taller than me, and slim as a knife blade. He had a deep leathery tan and hair the brassy pink of a copper pan that’s had tomato juice spilled on it. He looked up at me with a smirk.

  “Does that mean you like being fucked by big dogs?”

  I don’t remember what happened next because I sort of blacked out for a minute. When I came to I was punching Leo Brossi’s head with both fists and he was cowering in the chair and cursing. Denton had risen to stand next to Brossi, and he was leering at me. It was the leer that stopped me. Denton was getting a hard-on from watching me beat the crap out of Leo Brossi.

  I jerked my hands away and stepped back, breathing hard and thinking how nice it would be to see Denton Ferrelli sail through the glass wall into the marina.

  Behind me, red suit whinnied, “Do you want me to call the police, Mr. Ferrelli?”

  Denton Ferrelli shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. The dog-sitter just got a little carried away.”

  Leo Brossi’s nose was streaming blood down his shirt-front, and it looked like one of his eyes was on the way to swelling shut. He was glaring from me to Denton like an agitated tennis fan.

  I said, “My name is Dixie Hemingway. I suggest you remember it.”

  I spun around and went through the door, feeling their eyes on me as I marched across the lobby to the elevator. I felt good. I felt damn good. I’d done a stupid, irresponsible thing, and I was glad.

  But on the ride down in the elevator, I remembered the blank expression Denton had given me when I mentioned the rattlesnakes. I didn’t want to believe it, but it was possible that he hadn’t had anything to do with the snakes in my apartment. And if he hadn’t, who had?

  In the parking lot, the tail was on his cell phone with a worried frown on his face. He looked relieved when he saw me come out, and hurriedly hung up. My own cell phone was ringing by the time I got in the Bronco. I didn’t need to look at the ID readout to know it was Guidry. I didn’t answer it. I wanted to savor this delicious feeling of victory for a while longer before I had to face the fact that I hadn’t won anything at all, and there was a good chance I had put myself in even more danger than I’d been in before.

  A little voice in my head said, Now see, that’s the reason why you can’t be a deputy anymore.

  The little voice was right, but I still wasn’t sorry. Hitting Leo Brossi had felt better than anything I’d done in a long time.

  17

  I took Tamiami Trail along the marina’s curve to Osprey Avenue, then turned on Siesta Drive to go over the north bridge and back to Siesta Key. I wanted to explore the odd look that had passed between Josephine and Pete and Priscilla when I told them about the truck trying to run me down. Too many people knew things I didn’t know. I don’t like being ignorant, especially when my life is on the line.

  At the Metzgers’ house, Priscilla opened the door and silently beckoned me inside. She was wearing a knit top about the size of a cocktail napkin, and her thin upper arms bore large purple thumb bruises. I followed her down the hall and looked anxiously at the baby in the playpen. She was unmarked and standing, smiling happily at her mother. When I looked at Josephine, she was watching me with a veiled woman-to-woman acknowledgment in her eyes.

  Josephine said, “Your bruises are looking better, Dixie.”

  She stressed your, and Priscilla reddened.

  I said, “Remember the truck that chased me? Can’t be too many of them around. I’d like to know if either of you knows somebody with a truck like that.”

  Josephine’s mouth tightened and her eyes flicked toward Priscilla, but she shook her head.

  “If I knew somebody was trying to kill you, Dixie, I sure wouldn’t keep quiet about it.”

  Priscilla blushed again, but she kept her head bent over her sewing machine. The baby squealed and pumped her chubby knees while she held the top rail of the playpen with both hands. I went over to the baby and picked her up. I couldn’t help myself. She gave me a beatific smile and drooled on my hand.

  Priscilla said, “Ooooh, gross!” and leaped up to dry my fingers with a tissue. “She’s teething,” she said. “I hope it won’t last much longer.”

  She spoke in a child’s breathless rush. I supposed she’d never spoken in my presence before because she hadn’t had anything to say.

  Josephine looked up from her sewing machine and Priscilla hurried back to her own place. She was stitching something that looked like a monster tutu. I reme
mbered when Christy had drooled like that when her teeth were coming in, but I didn’t remember being grossed out about it the way Priscilla was. The difference probably was that I had been twenty-six when she was born and I doubted that Priscilla was even eighteen.

  As I put the baby back in her playpen and helped her find her chew toy, Josephine said, “Dixie have you heard from Pete? He remembered something he wanted to tell you. Something about Denton Ferrelli and a man named Brossi.”

  Priscilla’s head bobbed up from behind her sewing machine, then she bent back to the tutu thing.

  The baby squealed at me, and I leaned over and smoothed the fine hair on her head.

  I said, “She’ll be walking soon.”

  Priscilla looked up and smiled proudly. “I walk her around a lot to give her practice.”

  I smiled. “I did that too, with my little girl.”

  “You have a little girl?”

  “I did. She was killed when she was three.”

  I was shocked to hear myself say that. I’d never before spoken of Christy so easily, never before put her into a normal conversation like that. Somehow it felt right to do it, as if she were still with me, living in my words about her.

  The room was silent, both sewing machines brought to a halt, a tiny moment of recognition of Christy.

  I said, “I have a dog waiting for me. I’d better be on my way.”

  Neither of them said good-bye, just gave me silent waves. Nobody seemed to want to intrude on the moment that had just passed.

  As I was getting into the Bronco, Priscilla ran out and put her hand on my arm.

  In her sweet little-girl voice, she said, “What you said … about somebody chasing you in a truck?”

  “Uh-hunh?”

  “Well, the thing is, I may know somebody who has a truck like that—one of those trucks up on big tires … .”

  Her voice faded more with each word until it was almost nonexistent, as if she were losing all the air in her lungs as she talked. I waited a moment to give her a chance to go on, but she seemed unable to say more.

  “Priscilla, do you think you might know who tried to kill me?”

  “Oh, I don’t think he would really kill you. He probably just wanted to scare you. I mean, he’s not like that.”

  It has been my experience that women who say about violent men, he’s not like that are missing the obvious. I mean, if he does it, that’s what he is.

  I opened my mouth to set her straight and then thought better of it.

  “This person you know, can you tell me who it is?”

  “Well, if I did, would it get him in trouble?”

  It was such a dumb question that I couldn’t think how to answer it. What did she think, that I planned to send him a Hallmark card? When all else fails, go with the truth.

  “Priscilla, the person driving that truck is mixed up in something a lot bigger than trying to run me down.”

  “And that would get him in trouble?”

  I suddenly realized there was a note of hope in her voice. She wasn’t worried about getting the guy in trouble, she wanted to get him in trouble.

  “It would get him in big trouble.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it. Bye.”

  She whirled away and ran inside. I stared after her and gritted my teeth. Damn! Trying to coax Priscilla to tell me what she knew would be like training a cat to use a commode. Possible, but only with an incredible amount of patience, a trait I was fresh out of right then.

  I looked at my watch and groaned. It was after ten, and I still hadn’t made it to Mame’s house. With Mame’s old bladder, she shouldn’t be left so long without going outside. Guiltily, I jerked the Bronco into reverse out of the driveway and sped off so fast the tail parked at the curb fishtailed when he started after me.

  At the entrance to Secret Cove, I slowed to the ten-mile-an-hour limit on the narrow brick-paved street. In that green tunnel of leafy oaks, everything seemed serene and safe. Mame was waiting at the glass insert by her front door, and she did a little happy bounce at my feet when I came in. After I took her out back to pee in the bahia grass, she trotted with me to the kitchen and watched me put out fresh water and food for her. Then we ambled out to the lanai for her morning brushing. The sky was a smooth sweep of robin’s-egg blue, yellow butterflies were flitting around an overgrown bush of lemon oregano outside the lanai door, and a woodpecker was rhythmically drumming on a mossy oak in the backyard. If I hadn’t known better, I would have been lulled into believing the world was pure and innocent.

  After her brushing, Mame and I played chase-thetennis-ball until we were both winded, and then I nuzzled her good-bye and left her watching me through the glass by the door. The temperature was climbing toward 90 degrees now, and the air was beginning to suck the energy out of anything living. The tail had parked behind me in the driveway. His head was tilted back on his headrest and his eyes were closed. He was older than I had thought, his jaws soft and slack, with the look of somebody more accustomed to a desk job than following a woman around in the heat.

  When I slammed the Bronco door, I watched him in the rearview mirror. He jerked upright, quickly started his engine, and whipped into the street so I could back out of the driveway. Only problem was that he pulled out in the short direction leading to the Ferrelli house. The street was too narrow for me to pass him, and it seemed churlish to make him come back in and back out the other way, so I headed in the only direction he’d left me.

  All I had to do was turn right at the looped end of the street and drive the extra distance past the summer-closed waterside properties to Stevie’s house. But in the short stretch to the turn, I thought about what Priscilla had said about the truck. She obviously knew something, and my guess was that Josephine and Pete did too. Josephine had evidently decided to wait and let Priscilla tell me in her own time, but Pete might be persuaded to talk.

  I slowed to a stop and pulled out the card Pete had given me with his clown class address. On the back, he had scribbled the days and hours he taught. Class was going on right now, so with the deputy tail close behind me, I headed north, back over the bridge toward Lockwood Ridge Road.

  Sarasota has been a circus town since the late twenties, when John Ringling made it the winter quarters for the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. My parents grew up seeing famous performers like Lou Jacobs, Emmett Kelly, and the Flying Wallendas on the street. They watched the filming of The Greatest Show on Earth, and during the world premiere went to the big circus parade down Main Street. Sarasota High School kids still perform high-wire and trapeze acts at Sailor Circus, and a second generation of the original Sarasota circus people have established Circus Sarasota, a European-style onering circus. Circus is so much a part of Sarasota that I’d always taken it for granted, like the manatees and dolphins.

  Pete’s clown class was in a one-story white stucco building with circus murals painted on the outside walls. A huge black-topped parking lot surrounded it, but there were only about two dozen cars. I parked the Bronco and went into a deserted lounge with a long bar running along one side and a scattering of round cocktail tables in the middle. I threaded my way through the tables, following the sound of laughter, and found another room that had the look of a restaurant’s main dining area, with all the tables rearranged so people could see the speaker. Pete stood at the front of the room, and everybody else was intently watching him.

  He grinned when he saw me, and I waggled my fingers at him and took a seat at a table by the door. I had expected the class to be young people, but they were mostly middle-aged or older, with a sprinkling of teenagers. All of them had friendly open faces and bright inquisitive eyes.

  Pete took up his lecture where he’d left off. “You’ve learned wardrobe, juggling, and makeup. From now on we’ll be concentrating on skits. Before this course ends, we’ll go to some hospitals and perform skits. In the circus, skits are called gags. There are some standard gags like the Firehouse Gag that every clown k
nows, but you’ll be creating your own gags too. You have to do it the same way a movie director plans a scene—seeing it the way the audience will see it. A gag has three parts: the beginning, the middle, and the blowup. You set the situation in the beginning, lead the audience to believe a certain outcome in the middle, and surprise them with a different outcome in the end. My old friend Angelo Ferrelli—known to you as Madam Flutter-By—was a master at creating clever skits.”

  One of the teenagers said, “Was he an Auguste?”

  Pete looked pained. “No, he was a Whiteface. For those of you who don’t remember, Auguste makeup is in natural tones. In traditional skits, the Whiteface clown has the dominant, more dignified role, while the character or tramp clown is the one who gets kicked in the pants or hit with a pie. Tramp makeup is scruffy and unshaven like Emmett Kelly. Regardless of type, a clown is called a joey, and when a joey dies, we say he’s done his last walkabout.”

  Pete disappeared behind a screen and, in what seemed like only a couple of seconds, reappeared transformed by a wild red wig, a round red nose, and baggy plaid pants. He and a woman named Loretta then demonstrated a skit that hung on her explaining how to fold a bandanna, while Pete followed instructions using a banana. It was silly and childish and made me laugh so hard I forgot about murder and fear and venomous snakes.

  The skit ended with Pete looking foolishly at his plastic-lined pockets, where he had put his folded banana. Behind him, Loretta was surreptitiously squirting shaving cream onto a paper plate.

  She balanced the filled plate on her fingertips and said, “Hey, Pete!” When Pete raised his head, she hit him square in the face with the pie, which for some reason caused us all to howl uproariously. Loretta tenderly brushed away the foam with a soft whisk while students furiously scribbled notes.