Muddy Mouth: A Dog Park Mystery

by Newsome, C. A.

  Chewy demonstrated a dangerous interest in the contents of the litter boxes. Sarah settled on scooping while Lia followed with fresh litter, keeping Chewy away from unapproved snacks. The cats soon learned the limits of his tether and took to strolling just beyond his reach. The first fifteen minutes were rough, with Chewy barking constantly while attempting to get a reaction from the cats. Finally he grumbled and took to Lia’s side, giving the kitties disgusted looks.

  With the noise level back to normal, Lia broached the subject of Leroy’s disappearance while they hauled kibble from room to room.

  “…so, my resource tracked the pings on the phone. It’s been in a number of locations in town. They group around Northside, Saint Bernard, Westwood, and Elmwood. I pinned those neighborhoods on a map for you.”

  “So he’s here?” Sarah asked.

  Lia couldn’t decipher the expression on Sarah’s face. “That’s the thing. My, uh, resource can’t figure out where Leroy is staying, unless he’s sleeping in a car. He can’t stay in a motel without leaving a digital footprint, and none of his friends show any changes in activity that suggest they’re hiding him. Was that article in The Huffington Post today right? The Austin police haven’t found anything new?”

  “We talked to George Wier yesterday. They think he was smuggled out in a blue van. They can’t say for sure because someone threw eggs at the security camera on the loading dock. That left a thirty-minute gap in the surveillance videos.

  “The guard monitoring the cameras was on an unauthorized break when it happened and it wasn’t noticed immediately. He’s pleading sudden and explosive diarrhea. It’s possible someone pulled the old Visine trick on him.

  “Other cameras picked up a Blue van leaving the hotel, but the light was out over the license plate. There are no other leads. We shouldn’t know that much, except a couple of the cops are big fans of George’s books. You can’t tell anyone.”

  “What’s there to tell?” Lia asked. “It’s still nothing.”

  “Sales of the books are going through the roof, and there have been more reported sightings of Lucas Cross than Elvis. If we weren’t so worried about Leroy, I’d be celebrating.”

  “Where are the sightings?” Lia asked.

  Sarah flung out an arm while holding a not-quite-empty scoop. Kibble flew across the room, bouncing on the floor. Chewy perked up his ears and chased down the bits he could reach, crunching them before anyone could take them away and tugging on his leash to get to the ones beyond the extent of his tether. A trio of kitties sat just beyond his limits, blandly munching on kibble. Chewy whined.

  “Oops. At least we don’t have to worry about picking it up. Reports are from all over. Bangor. Joshua Tree. Cabo San Lobos. Sydney. None from Belize.”

  Lia took a deep breath. “My, uh, resource, sometimes sees things.”

  “Sees things?’

  “Like a psychic.”

  “Oh?” Sarah seemed interested. “Does he have spirit guides and go into trances?”

  “I don’t know how it works, or even if it does work. He says he saw Leroy confined to an air-conditioned box in the middle of a wasteland, and Leroy was happy.”

  Sarah spewed, spraying spit, and doubled over laughing. She attempted to talk, but shook her head, gasping instead. Sarah sat on the kibble bin, head in her hands as her gasps turned into sobs.

  Lia, never comfortable with strong emotion, was at a loss. Chewy gave Sarah a puzzled look and nudged her knee until she gave in and patted his head. Finally she straightened up.

  “Sorry, it’s just so typical. Leroy, stuck in a wasteland? As in, he’s happy being in a drunken stupor? That’s brilliant. It would explain why he hasn’t come home. … I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just, that would be Leroy’s idea of the good life. Wouldn’t matter if he had a box, or if he slept under a tree. Still, it doesn’t explain where he is, does it?”

  Lia made a wry face. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Don’t ask your ‘resource’ about me. I’m afraid of what he’d say.” Sarah wiped her hands on her pants and stood up, resolute. She picked up the scoop and returned to shoveling kibble. “I’m not sharing this with Debby. It would just send her into a tirade. I can hear her in my head, as it is.”

  “Sorry,” Lia said. “Where does this leave Carol? How is she doing, anyway?”

  Sarah grimaced. “She’s jumpy. She won’t go out at night, though that’s a moot point while her leg is banged up. She can’t drive.”

  “If it isn’t Leroy, who do you suppose it is?” Lia asked.

  “The pings put him here, whatever he told Alice. I didn’t want to believe he’d hurt anyone, but I can’t believe that he’s in town and not connected to the attack on Carol. I’m so glad you and Peter were there to help her.”

  “You really think Leroy would hurt any of you?”

  Sarah sighed. “Leroy … he always liked the idea of an easy score, and he’s not a mastermind. That’s why playing Lucas Cross was perfect for him.”

  “But what would the point be? What could he get out of hurting Carol?”

  “I don’t know. She’s our accountant. Maybe money is involved.”

  “Can’t you convince her to go to the police?”

  “Not at this point. We need to find Leroy ourselves and figure out a way to bring him home that will keep us all out of trouble. But we can’t look for him, he’d see us coming.

  “Private detective?”

  “Do you know one that wouldn’t sell the story? That you’d trust your entire future with? Because we sure don’t.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Exactly. I was hoping you and your friends could look into it.”

  “What, precisely, did Alma tell you about me?”

  “That if she were in trouble, she’d trust you and Peter to sort it out. We can’t use Peter, so that leaves you.”

  Lia sighed. I’ll never get back to my painting. “I don’t work alone. I don’t have the skills. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll get the gang together and we’ll discuss it.”

  “I knew you were hiding something,” Terry said with a fierce certainty that reinforced his resemblance to Teddy Roosevelt.

  Lia scanned the faces in her living room. Every set of eyes, both canine and human, was on her. How do I wind up in these situations?

  “It wasn’t mine to share until I had the go-ahead,” she explained.

  “And now that you want footwork done, you’re bringing the peons in?” Steve asked, head tilted at a skeptical angle honed by years of negotiating for the sewer workers union.

  “Hey, no call to be mean,” Jose said. “If Lia couldn’t say anything, she couldn’t say anything.” He leaned down to scratch Sophie’s boulder head. “Mean people suck, don’t they, Sophie?”

  Sophie panted at Fleece, who panted back.

  Lia looked at Jim. “Are you mad at me, too?”

  Jim shrugged. “It’s just gossip until it has something to do with me. Now it has something to do with me, and you told us.”

  “It’s not that I want anything done. We’ve been asked to help in a very touchy situation. I’m not crazy about it. I can’t tell Peter, and I hate that. I want to know what you want to do.”

  “Do we get anything out of this?” Steve asked.

  “Pennies in Heaven?” Bailey suggested.

  “You want to profit from their troubles?” Jim asked quietly.

  Even in shorts and a tee shirt, he still looks like an old testament prophet. Or a saint.

  “Just asking,” Steve said. “There’s a lot of money in play. Isn’t that what this is about? That has to be worth something.”

  “I never thought about it,” Lia said. “I don’t know how much money they really have. Most of it goes to animal rescue organizations.”

  “What do you want?” Bailey held out her elegant hands, palms up. “We need to figure out what to ask for.”

  “Aw geez,” Jose said. “I don’t wanna take money away from stray cats.
”

  “When you put it that way, it starts to sound like taking bread from nuns,” Steve said.

  “I don’t like cats,” Jim said, dispelling the illusion of sainthood. “Do they help dogs, too?”

  “I’m sure they do,” Lia said.

  “Then I vote we help them. I don’t want anything,” Jim said.

  Bailey cocked a brow at Terry.

  “It would be unchivalrous to expect anything,” he said.

  “Are we all in?” Lia asked.

  “I’m new to this,” Steve said. “Do we have a group hug now, or what?”

  “What we do,” Lia said, is figure out how we’re going to find Leroy. And we do it before Peter’s baseball game is over.”

  “The Reds aren’t playing tonight,” Steve said.

  “Peter’s on the District Five team,” Bailey said. “How long do you think we have?”

  Lia looked at the clock, calculating. “We should have at least an hour.” She picked up her phone and tapped a message. “That’s for insurance.”

  “What did you do?” Bailey asked.

  “I sent a text reminding Peter to stop at the store on the way over. Since I never asked him to pick up anything, he’ll have to call me to find out what I want.”

  “Smart thinkin’,” Jose said.

  “I’ll have to go to confession when this is over, and I’m not even Catholic,” Lia said.

  “It’s for a good cause,” Jim said.

  “What’s the plan?” Jose asked.

  Lia opened her laptop computer to display a map of Cincinnati cell phone coverage. The map was overlaid with transparent blue circles containing dates.

  “The blue areas are pings from Leroy’s burner phone. If you look at the dates, the most frequent pings are in Elmwood and Westwood.”

  “That’s a big area. How do you expect to find him?” Steve asked.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Lia said.

  The group sat, stumped.

  “People are creatures of habit,” Jim said. “What are his habits?”

  “Everyone says this guy likes to hang out in bars and bullshit,” Steve said.

  “He can’t risk places like Northside Tavern or The Comet, because people would recognize him,” Lia said. “I think he’d pick little Westside bars that cater to older residents, folks who don’t have internet.”

  “We goin’ bar hoppin’?” Jose asked. “‘Cause I don’t drink.”

  “You’re a born and bred Westsider,” Bailey said. “You know they don’t like outsiders. You’d be most convincing of all of us to walk into those little bars and get the regulars talking.”

  “If you ordered your beer in cans, no one would know how much you actually drank except the bartender when he tosses it away,” Terry said. “And then you’d be gone.”

  “I need a date. Which one of you ladies is going to be my date?”

  “I guess Bailey and I can take turns,” Lia said. “Are you up for this, Bailey?”

  “If it doesn’t go on too late. I get up at five.”

  “We’re all getting up early for parade practice,” Steve said.

  “We need at least two teams or this will take forever,” Jim said.

  “Terry, you can’t go. You’re sure to run into someone who flunked out of Alcoholics Anonymous and knows you don’t belong in a bar. Jim’s out,” Bailey said.

  “Why am I out?” he asked, affronted. “I can fake drinking a beer.”

  “You don’t have the right personality for bar hopping. I don’t think Bonnie would like it, either,” Lia said. “And there’s something else that only you can do. Steve?”

  “Sure, why not. A Westside bar will be a piece of cake after the sewers and the Homeless Association.”

  “Then we can split up. I’ll go with Jose, and Bailey, you can go with Steve. That way, each team will have a native on it.”

  “I’m on call tomorrow, can we do this Wednesday?” Jose asked.

  “That would be better,” Lia said. “Steve? Bailey?”

  At their nods, she turned to Terry. “Can you come up with a list of bars near the pings? I’ll email you a copy of the map. Check the times. Pings after eight p.m. are most important.”

  “What am I, chopped liver?” Jim asked.

  “You surveyed half the buildings in those neighborhoods. I’d like to send you the map and just have you study it to see if it suggests anything to you, what Leroy is doing in those areas when he’s not drinking, where he might be hiding.”

  Lia’s cell phone chimed.

  “That’s Peter.” She checked the screen and tapped out a return text.

  The group rustled. The dogs sense imminent departure and stretched, yawning. Lia counted tea glasses. Dammit. Better wash those.

  “What did you ask him to bring?” Bailey asked, snapping a lead on Kita’s collar.

  “Almond milk. What else?”

  5

  Wednesday, June 22

  Cecilie took a slug of her pre-swim energy drink and bundled her unruly hair under a bathing cap. Acai berry, my ass. The closest this stuff ever came to fruit was … No, don’t think about that. Why do they have to sweeten it so damn much? How old do they think I am, four?

  “Hey, gorgeous.” Edward sat down on the lounger next to hers. He retained a shadow of the good looks he had as a young man and was overly proud of his 60-going-on-55 year-old physique. Perversely, his lecherous tendencies grew as his attractiveness waned. Now that his doctor would not allow him to drink, he haunted the pool at Twin Towers Retirement Center, the only indoor pool in the area.

  Cecilie tried to be good natured about Edward’s flirting, what else could you do, except ruin your own day? This morning her back was acting up more than usual and she didn’t have the patience. She desperately wanted to punch him in the throat. Today he wore his American flag Speedos. Cecilie figured he had a different pair for every day of the week. Anything to get the widows at Twin Towers looking at his package. What there was of it.

  “Edward, if you’re talking to me, you need your prescription checked. I’m no more gorgeous than you are charming.”

  Edward pouted. “Can’t a man flatter a pretty woman in a bathing suit? You didn’t use to be so mean.”

  “No, I wasn’t. Before I got mean, I was stupid. And that was thirty years ago. Thirty very long years that have warped your memory. It didn’t happen then, it isn’t going to happen now, and don’t bother pretending that it might. Now go on. I have to do my physical therapy.”

  Somehow, that man is going to turn our conversation around so that he’s convinced I can’t get enough of him. Ugh. Damn back. Well, the sooner I get swimming, the sooner it will loosen up.

  Cecilie’s spine had been fused in surgery several years earlier. She figured she was carrying a pound of titanium screws in her vertebrae. 18 vertebrae, each with two screws, 36 screws. More like two or three pounds. One of these days she’d find out how much a titanium screw weighed and do the math. Daily swimming was the only thing that kept the pain within bounds. She still had to take massive doses of pain killers just to feel normal. And if I don’t feel normal, cleaning litter boxes is hell.

  Cecilie took one last swallow of the hated energy drink and set the bottle at the side of the pool. She tugged the straps of her racing bathing suit in place and walked down the steps into the water, ignoring the chill as it rose up over her calves and thighs. She took a shallow dive to immerse herself before swimming over to the far left lane.

  This was a single lane that she liked to commandeer for herself. The other three lanes were double lanes that had to be shared. The backstroke was easiest on her spine, but she kicked up enough water to drown a mermaid. So, she kept to the solo lane out of politeness and concern for public safety. That, and she had difficulty navigating on her back. She couldn’t see where she was going. If she shared a lane, she was likely to ram her titanium reinforced body into the other swimmer.

  Her lane hogging had not endeared her to others at the fitne
ss center. For some reason the snotty receptionist, Janet, objected to her desire to keep the lane for herself even though it was only big enough for one person to use at a time. She looked up to see Janet glaring at her over the strings of buoys marking the lanes. To hell with her. I’ll be in here for less than thirty minutes. Wait till her body falls apart, and see how she feels about needing a little consideration.

  Cecilie turned on her back and began slowly stroking her way across the pool, gradually speeding up as her muscles warmed and relaxed. She fell into the rhythm, stroking to the far side of the pool, pushing off for the return lap.

  The 12th lap, time for a break. She pulled herself up at the side of the pool, grabbed her water bottle, and finished off her energy drink. A few minutes to catch her breath, and it was time for two laps of the breast stroke. Her version of the breast stroke was all arms so she could rest her legs. Face down in the water, she began to drift in her mind, and to relax. the relaxation became deeper than she expected. A fog came on her, her eyes drifting shut against her will as she struggled against the lead in her arms. When she started to sink, she no longer had the awareness to panic.

  The first thing Cecilie noticed was the chill of air on her skin and something thumping her back as she lay on her side. She must be laying on concrete, it was cold and hard and scraped her skin. She convulsed and vomited a combination of pool water and acai drink onto the pool apron. As she continued coughing, the hand began soothing circles. It took all her effort to slit her eyes open. Three pairs of feet lined up before her, two in pumps and the other large, masculine and barefoot.

  Someone, the only someone who was actually doing anything, propped her up. Cecilie twisted around to see Alice kneeling beside her, concern on her face. She turned back and identified the feet as belonging to Edward, Janet, and the director of the fitness center.

  “What happened to you?” Alice asked. “I walked in and you were floating facedown in the water. Edward pulled you out. We thought you had a heart attack.”

  “I suppose you called for an ambulance,” Cecilie rasped, resigning herself to hours of prodding under harsh fluorescent lights.