Crunch Time

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Unfortunately, melting and refreezing snow had formed an ice crust on the meadow. No matter how hard I tried, I could not run. My shoes crunched and slipped, and once I fell headlong on the frozen surface. I got up quickly, ignored a searing pain in my knees, and checked the surroundings again.

  Charlene still lay motionless in the driveway. The bald man appeared, carrying a box. Hermie, having broken through to an expanse of brown grass, rushed forward. I steadied myself and clomped heavily toward her back. She was about twenty yards from the house.

  “Stop!” Hermie screeched at the bald man. “You horrible creature! Stop or I’ll shoot!” Startled, the bald man dropped his box. Without waiting, Hermie raised her gun over her head and fired.

  The firecracker explosion of Hermie’s gun echoed in the chilly air. But then there was an even louder boom, and another. Had the bald man shot back? I heard Tom’s voice in my ears, or maybe it was just my mind imagining Tom’s voice, because there were no police cars, no other people, anywhere. Get down! Get down! the voice yelled. I fell forward onto the snow. Above me, the air splintered with another boom.

  I scrabbled across the icy meadow, then began to roll downward. I had to get to Hermie and make sure she was all right. Once again I imagined Tom’s voice: Always make yourself a moving target. My jacket, my clothes, my sneakers were soaked. Rocks ripped my sensible caterer’s support hose. My mind scolded, That’s the only sensible thing about you.

  Suddenly I was on snow, behind a building. In the distance, a car drove away. I blinked and looked for Hermie, but could not see her. After a few moments, I was aware of sirens. I lifted my head and scanned the meadow. Hermie lay in an unnatural heap on the tan grass. Her gray curls hung in a limp mess; her coat and dress resembled a dark, wrinkled map. Had I seen her foot move? I thought so.

  I hoped the shock of gunfire had only made her faint. . . . Dear God, let her only have fainted, I don’t want Brad to be without a mother, no matter how crazy that mother is. . . .

  I planted my face in the snow to try to shock my brain. Oh yes: the bald man, Charlene Newgate, Hermie Mikulski on a mission of mercy. Yet I could hear no human voices at all. In fact, the only noise I could hear beyond the incessant bleating of the sirens was the yipping and crying of what had to be fifty, no, a hundred little dogs. . . .

  I scooted to the corner of the dilapidated shed. Next to its outside wall was damp earth and dead grass. The whining of the dogs was bothering me so much that I shook my head and reached forward to pull open the door to the shed, just as darkness flooded my brain.

  Some time later, a blustery foghorn voice stabbed my consciousness, saying, Come out slowly showing your hands now. . . .

  Astonished by a sudden warm wetness moving back and forth across my cheek, then more moist warmth tickling my legs, I scrambled awkwardly to a sitting position. Beagle pups were whining and licking my skin where it was torn. I remembered teaching my Sunday school class about a dog licking Lazarus’s wounds—

  “Miss G.? Oh, Christ, Goldy? Are you all right? What the hell are you doing out here?”

  Someone, a man, Tom, had put his hands under my arms and was pulling me gently upward. The air still broke into slivers: sirens, voices, car doors slamming, dogs whining and barking.

  My mouth felt as if it were filled with flannel. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Is Hermie all right? Where is she?” When I turned to look, blades of sunlight reflecting off the snow blinded me. A frigid wind made my skin break out in gooseflesh. Tom pulled me close. I shivered against him. “Hermie?”

  “She’s fine. She passed out, it looks like.” Still holding on to me, he spun and yelled, “Will someone bring this woman a blanket?”

  Will someone bring this woman a blanket? Not Will someone bring my wife a blanket? Not Will someone bring my nosy, meddling, intrusive wife a frigging blanket?

  Then he hollered, “And will someone please round up these damn dogs?”

  I heard myself babbling, “Tom, please don’t let them take the puppies, please don’t round them up. That’s why Hermie and I came out here, to save them, not to have them sent to a pound. Not to have them put where they’ll be killed.” My words were tumbling out too fast, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “They’re not going to the pound.” Tom’s kind face finally came into focus in front of me. I realized his muscular arms were holding me up. “Don’t worry,” he said.

  “I can stand on my own.” Yet when he let go of me, I wobbled, and he grabbed me. “No, I’m okay,” I told him. “I just—” I was looking at the driveway, where a tarp had been unfurled. It was the kind of tarp the sheriff’s department used to cover a body.

  Charlene Newgate, her tufted brown hair disheveled, her fur askew, was on her feet, bending forward. Policemen flanked her as she was put into handcuffs.

  I was shivering uncontrollably. “Who, I mean, who’s under that tarp—”

  “It’s a guy named Stonewall Osgoode,” Tom said. “Animal Control already knew about him from when they came out to investigate Hermie’s puppy mill allegations. But you know what? I think he’s our bald suspect in the burning of Ernest’s house. The same one we think stole my gun from our garage.”

  “Did Hermie, I mean, how did he—”

  “We don’t think Hermie shot him. No way was that guy killed by a twenty-two at that distance.” He held me, then took a blanket a uniformed cop offered and wrapped it around my shoulders.

  “Wait,” I said as Tom put his arm around my shoulder and started to lead me to a patrol car. I pivoted awkwardly and pointed across the meadow, into the trees, where a sharp wind sent veils and chunks of snow off the pine branches and into the air. “My van’s in the woods—”

  “We know. I just got a radio call. Hermie’s is there, too.” We stood like that for a moment, but then he murmured, “We need you to come wait in one of our vehicles.” Tom led me back to a patrol car, where the heat was turned to high, thank God.

  I watched there while Tom commanded his team. Uniformed police and plainclothes investigators went into Osgoode’s house and came out. The coroner’s van arrived. I averted my eyes while they did their job. If Hermie hadn’t shot Osgoode, and Charlene had been on the ground, then who had fired so unerringly? While I was rolling in the snow and Hermie had surprised Osgoode with her shot, had Charlene gotten up, taken Osgoode’s weapon, and killed him?

  After what felt like an eternity but probably was only half an hour, Tom, his expression grim, returned to the patrol car. Before I could ask him what they had found and how soon would it be before I could go home, he said, “Armstrong’s coming. He needs to question you.”

  20

  I shook my head. “I can’t do this now.”

  “Miss G., a man has been murdered. You don’t have a choice.” Tom softened his tone. “Do you want me to stay with you? I won’t be able to say anything.”

  Did I want Tom with me? Hmm. Tom’s colleague, Sergeant Armstrong, was going to question me. Maybe I would have a chance to question him.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that the sheriff’s department had gotten there so quickly. Last night, I’d told Tom what I’d learned from Sabine Rushmore. The Animal Control section of the department knew the location of the legitimate cover for the beagle-breeding operation, because Hermie Mikulski had complained to them about it. And then this morning, I’d left a frantic message with Tom about where I was going.

  Still, oddly, it hadn’t felt like more than a few minutes between the last explosion, a car maybe driving away, and the scream of sirens. I felt out of it and suddenly did not want to be questioned.

  I reminded myself that I’d gotten into this mess because I was trying to help Yolanda, and that had led me into the quicksand of the Ernest McLeod murder. I had not been motivated to punish a puppy mill owner. But interrogations could take strange turns, and I didn’t want to feel unprepared. So I said, “Yes, Tom. Please stay with me. Thank you.”

  We got into a patrol car parked behind Os
goode’s SUV, which still had its rear hatch open. Since I’d known Sergeant Armstrong, he had lost about half of the thin brown strands that he still combed over his shiny bald spot. His complexion was as pasty as ever, and his thin frame was now marred by a pot belly. Odd hours, stress-based eating, and lack of exercise will do that to anyone, but cops are particularly susceptible.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Schulz.” Armstrong’s tone was formal. He’d asked me to sit next to him, while Tom stayed in back. Armstrong took out a small digital microphone and clipped it onto a dashboard knob. Then he retrieved a notebook and pen. I didn’t need to ask why he was using two modes of recording our conversation. Tom had complained relentlessly about the unreliability of the department’s tech toys. That was why my husband now insisted that all police take notes in addition to using what might end up as a blank tape, disc, or other device.

  “You know the drill,” Armstrong said. “Start with when you got up this morning and bring us to you being here.”

  I thought of how I should begin. I didn’t know what words I’d use to tell them about Lolly, without divulging what she’d done on Ernest’s behalf. On the other hand, I knew I had to say something about how I’d spent the morning, or there would be a gap as long as the Eisenhower Tunnel in my narrative. But I’d promised to keep her out of it. As Lolly would say, crap!

  I turned in my seat and asked if I could tell them something I’d found out without saying where I’d gotten the information. Tom rolled his eyes. After a moment, Armstrong told me to go ahead. So, without names, I related the tale of the theft of the Juarez necklace from Humberto Captain’s place.

  I looked in the rearview mirror and caught Tom’s eyes. He said, “This is the diamond necklace that for years Mr. Juarez has been claiming Humberto stole from him?” Tom’s tone was incredulous. “That was what the break-in at Humberto’s was all about? Jesus, Goldy, how long have you known that Ernest stole the necklace?”

  “I just learned about it! And after I heard the tale of the necklace, I had to deal with Hermie. Plus, I left you a message. So, give me a break, would you?”

  Tom said, his voice peevish, “You said you were going out to the puppy mill with Hermie. No mention of a necklace or of Ernest breaking into Humberto’s place to perform grand larceny.”

  “Well, I was going to tell you, once I got through the Hermie mess.”

  “Let’s get on with the story of you coming out here.” Armstrong struggled to keep his tone neutral. Clearly, he didn’t want to get between his boss and his boss’s wife.

  I shivered and said, “Well, let me think.”

  Tom, in spite of his apparent anger, drew a thermos out of somewhere and poured me some black coffee. It was hot and strong and made me feel better than I had in several hours.

  “Did Hermie say she was going to shoot somebody?” Armstrong asked.

  “No. But you’ve seen her . . . left hand? When she tried to close down a Nebraska puppy mill, somebody fired at her. She lost two fingers.”

  Armstrong’s face was impassive. “We know the whole story. She had a toy gun and she was trespassing. When the guy had finished moving a box of puppies, she jumped out of nowhere with her Kmart Kalashnikov and told him to put his hands up. He had a gun and he shot the toy thing out of her hands, which he was perfectly within his rights to do to a trespasser whom he thought was armed.” Armstrong exhaled. “Did she tell you she’d taken shooting lessons? ’Cause that’s what she told us she was going to do after the toy-gun incident.”

  I said, “Yes, she told me. But I really am sure she didn’t intend—”

  “Why did you bring two vans? Why not just come in one?”

  “It was just the way it worked out. I called her, thinking to leave a message. She answered, which surprised me.” I gave Armstrong a helpless look.

  Armstrong’s dark eyes were frighteningly opaque. “And why were you calling her today?”

  “Because I thought she might talk to me, instead of the cops. Hermie was single-minded in her desire to close down the mill, which was housed in sheds hidden from view. She hired Ernest to get the exact location, which was somewhere on the property of what appeared to be a legitimate operation.” Thinking of those poor, darling puppies, I shook my head. “One of the dogs Ernest adopted, adopted by my friend Marla, got sick. The veterinarian called Marla and said she had to phone the other owners of the adopted beagle pups and have them rounded up and brought in.”

  Armstrong said, “Do you know why?”

  “I don’t. Maybe while they were all crowded into that dilapidated shed, they got canine flu or something.”

  Armstrong glanced at Tom, which I caught in the mirror. Tom gave an almost imperceptible nod. Armstrong said, “The dogs didn’t have the flu. They were being used to smuggle marijuana seeds.”

  “What?”

  Armstrong raised his thin eyebrows at Tom, who again nodded. Armstrong handed me a Colorado driver’s license. “First of all, just for the record, this guy out here, Stonewall Osgoode? He’s the one you saw torching Ernest’s house?”

  Staring blankly from the license photo was the bald guy who’d tossed two Molotov cocktails into Ernest McLeod’s greenhouse. “Yes,” I said. “This is the guy. You might want to show this picture to my son, Arch. He stabbed Stonewall Osgoode with a weeder when Osgoode was trying to break into our house.”

  Armstrong said, “Anyway, Osgoode, our vic here, was running a full-service marijuana operation. In his house, we found a map. We’ve just had a radio report from a helo. They found his garden way in there.” He wagged a thin hand toward the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. “When we had that big forest fire, followed by floods? Some service roads in extremely remote areas were never repaired. That’s where Osgoode’s growers set up camp. But you know hikers in Colorado, not afraid to go anywhere. The growers were armed. Any time hikers came near, there were shots. We’ve had quite a few reports of gunfire, but we didn’t have the location of the grow operation until today.”

  “Wait,” I said, “what does this have to do with the seeds in the puppies?”

  There was quiet in the car for a moment, until Tom said, “When Armstrong says Osgoode had a full-service operation, it means that, at this point, our theory is that Osgoode grew some of it, probably hiring locals to guard it. You know guys around here. They shoot off a round if they hear wind in the woods. But the full-service part? Osgoode, we’ve discovered, flunked out of veterinary school. But he knew enough to do surgery. In addition to the map in his house, we found surgical instruments in that far shed, the one with the metal roof. He was smuggling some of the seeds he’d bought from who-knows-where to other growers. Somebody wants a regular beagle? They buy a puppy from his legitimate breeding operation. Somebody wants hemp seeds? They buy a spayed female pup from the shed. When he spayed them, he inserted canisters of seeds. Those are the puppies Ernest took, probably because he figured out something hinky was going on. Marla’s puppy got sick when the dog’s internal organs got tangled around the canister. Her dog’s all right now, and they think the others will pull through. But the damage to them was done by Osgoode.”

  I said, “That son of a bitch.” I rubbed my forehead. “Do you think Hermie knew about this?”

  “She’s denying it,” Tom replied.

  I took a deep breath and remembered Ernest’s greenhouse before it was destroyed. “Listen. The day after Ernest stole the puppies? He put their chow next to his own medical marijuana plants. I think he was trying to send us a message, just in case something happened to him. ”

  Armstrong said, “Ah, that would qualify as reaching.”

  Tom said, “Most investigators tell other people what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. Or they leave a note. You know, like in a file?”

  I recalled what Ferdinanda had said Ernest had told her, right before he left for town on foot. If something happens to me, ask the bird. It still didn’t make sense. “Maybe he did leave a note somewhere,” I said. “His files, every
thing, got burned up in the fire. But I found the puppy chow next to the marijuana,” I repeated stubbornly. “It was after I’d searched all over his house for it. There was no reason for it to be there.”

  There was silence in the car for a few minutes. I’d lost the thread of my narrative, and my brain was too addled to pick it up.

  Tom said, “Remember that hiker who brought a bleeding puppy into our town’s veterinarian? Way out on a hiking trail? It was a female puppy that hadn’t been spayed. She somehow managed to escape, lucky little thing. We figure Osgoode, or someone working with him, tried to shoot her, and that’s why she was bleeding.”

  Armstrong said, “Back to Hermie. She didn’t mention the weed. But how did she know to come in the back way to the puppy-mill shed?”

  “She got a . . . oh, God.” I sighed. “She got an anonymous phone call telling her where the secret sheds were that were housing the puppy mill. Whoever it was told her to come armed, because the mill owner had a gun.”

  “So that’s why she brought a firearm today?”

  “Yes,” I said tentatively. I didn’t want to betray Hermie, but she was probably giving a similar statement to the police right now. I rubbed my forehead. “We were set up.”

  Tom said, “Who else knew you were going to be here?”

  “I told you, Tom. I called you.”

  “Right. But who else knew you were going to meet Hermie?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Think,” said Tom.

  I closed my eyes and went over the events of the morning. “Okay. I mentioned to Yolanda, Ferdinanda, and Boyd that I was going to try to track down Hermie.”

  Tom said nothing. Armstrong took notes.

  “How did you decide to park where you did?” Armstrong asked.

  “Someone had marked the trail with rope. Hermie followed it. And yes, at that point I thought we might be walking into a trap. I couldn’t get any cell phone reception, or I would have called you. But there was no way I was going to let Hermie go it alone against an armed puppy mill owner.”