Muddy Mouth: A Dog Park Mystery

by Newsome, C. A.

  “You went to see Debby? What happened?”

  “She was with somebody and they were fighting. The front window was open, so I could hear it. I was going to leave, but I guess she saw me through the window. Debby yanks the door open and yells ‘Get out of here, you ignorant twit’ and slams the door in my face.”

  “That’s awful! What do you suppose they were arguing about?”

  Citrine stirred her tea. “I didn’t catch much, just somebody saying, ‘why would I lie about something like that’ and Debby saying, ‘I won’t believe it until I hear it myself. Oh, wait, I can’t’. She was really snarky.”

  “Do you have any idea what they were talking about?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “When was this?”

  Citrine pursed her lips as she mentally counted back. “Not long after they returned to town. June 15th or 16th, I think.”

  “Have you talked to his friends?”

  “Dave and Orin?” This time the scowl was darker. “They offered to console me. Together. I don’t want to talk about them. He was their friend, and they hit on me.”

  “You said you didn’t know Leroy was Lucas Cross, but you knew he was a writer. What did he tell you about his writing?”

  Citrine’s eyes grew dreamy. “He said he was going to make me a heroine in one of his novels, a woman of fire and spirit who would save the world.”

  “And you never read one of his books?”

  “He promised to let me read something, but he disappeared. When I found out who he was, I tried to read Koi, but it was too violent. I think he found inspiration in me to try something more spiritual. Profound.”

  Her eyes drooped in what Lia thought of as a Pre-Raphaelite languor. Obviously born too late, and on the wrong continent. What is she on? She’s got to be making this up.

  Citrine sighed. “We may never know.”

  Bailey counted the houses as Terry drove down the brick alley behind Fergus Avenue. The street consisted of pre-World War II shotgun homes converted into multi-unit dwellings. They approached one with a tiny back yard and space for four cars to pull in. A quartet of city-mandated rolling garbage bins sat by the curb, their lids still closed. Each was spray painted with the address and unit number to deter theft.

  “It’s that one, the three-story brick painted four shades of blue. Guess the owner couldn’t decide what color to go with.”

  “Perhaps he used discounted paint and went with what they had.”

  “Cheap landlords. What can you do?”

  Terry pulled up by the bins. “Check her mailbox, see what unit she’s in.”

  Bailey hopped out of John’s truck and made her way to the side, where a hodgepodge of mailboxes were mounted on the side. She bee-lined for one painted virulent swirls of orange and hit pay dirt.

  “Number 2,” she said as she joined Terry. “Let’s grab our boxes.”

  It took less than three minutes to load Citrine’s garbage bags into the back of Terry’s truck. He drove around the corner and parked.

  “What do you think?” Terry asked. “Shall we undertake entry?”

  “She’s on the ground floor and her door is on the side. We can check it out without being noticed.”

  “Too bad we don’t have heat sensing equipment. It would be better to know if there’s anyone in there now.”

  “I have a low tech version,” Bailey said.

  “Really? Do tell!”

  “We knock.”

  Terry examined the lock while Bailey rapped on the door. When there was no response, Terry took out his wallet and extracted his library card. He examined the back to ensure he wouldn’t damage the magnetic strip, then slid it in the gap between the door and the jamb. One quick jerk up and forward, and the door popped open.

  “Idiot landlord should be shot for not installing deadbolts. Doesn’t he know this is a drug ridden neighborhood?” Shaking his head, Terry examined the card before he put it back in his wallet. “A little dinged, but still functional. Shall we?”

  Bailey handed him a pair of neoprene gloves. Belatedly, he wiped his fingerprints off the doorknob with his shirttail.

  “We need to be in and out,” Bailey said quietly. “Just take pictures of everything and we can figure out what it means later. Don’t disturb anything.”

  A grey, long-haired cat larger than any Bailey had ever seen, strolled out and meowed loudly. It had pumpkin colored eyes.

  “Must be where Citrine gets her color scheme.”

  “Aw. Cute kitty,” Terry said, leaning down to pet it.

  It hissed and arched its back, revealing sharp, raptor teeth.

  “That’s not a cat,” Bailey said. “That’s a demonic presence. Leave it alone. I’m not going to retrieve your soul from hell if it bites you.”

  “Good advice.”

  Bailey looked around. Paintings on paper were tacked all over the walls. “Get pictures of all the art. I’ll shoot her bedroom.”

  “The lass seems to go for quantity over quality,” Terry said, “though there is a certain evocative sensibility.”

  “Yeah, she took a correspondence course from the guy who painted big-eyed girls.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, Walter Keane took credit for his wife’s paintings. A feminazi like yourself should know that,” Terry called after Bailey as she left the room.

  “Whatever.” Bailey opened the closet door to find a half dozen identical grey tunics hanging over several pairs of mannish, lace-up shoes and boots. More colorful clothing was jammed to the side. “No evidence of male occupation,” she told Terry as he wandered in.

  “By Jove, what is this?” Terry said.

  “What?” Bailey turned and faced a wall full of sketches she assumed to be Leroy.

  “Is this the shrine of an obsessed stalker?” Terry asked.

  “Plenty of artists are obsessed with their subjects. Doesn’t make them stalkers.”

  “Something creepy about these.”

  Bailey took another look. “I don’t know. It’s self-consciously emo creepy, not Ricardo Lopez crazy. She still has stuffed animals. Now, if Pooh Bear had a kitchen knife in his gut, I’d feel differently. Keep your eye out for signs she’s making acid bombs, just in case.”

  She took pictures of the array of bottles and trinkets on the dresser. “Shoot the food in her fridge and her kitchen cabinets, I’ll get the bathroom. Then we need to get out of here.” She checked her phone. “We’ve been here much too long.”

  “Won’t Lia text us when Citrine leaves?”

  “And if she forgets?”

  “Aye, Aye, Captain.”

  Bathroom surveyed, Bailey returned to the living room to see Terry tapping a password into an iPad.

  “Terry, don’t—”

  Terry looked up at her as he hit the last digit.

  A waitress was removing Lia’s empty plate when a police siren sounded from Citrine’s phone.

  “Will you excuse me?” Citrine asked. “That’s an emergency notification.”

  She tapped her phone, then stared.

  “Is something wrong?” Lia asked.

  “There’s someone in my apartment. I’ve got to call the police. Sorry, but I have to go.” Citrine shoved her chair back. The weight of her hobo bag pulled the chair over. It landed in the gravel. The hobo bag spilled its contents.

  “Dammit! Of all the stupid—Call 911 for me, will you?”

  Hell, no!

  “You call, I’ll get your things.” Lia dropped onto the gravel, mindless of the pain, and grabbed up make up cases, a scattering of colored pens, and a brocade change purse. She was reaching for a stack of folded paper when Citrine crouched down, phone to her ear, and said, “That’s all right, I’ve got this. … No, I was talking to someone else. Yes, I’m less than five minutes away. I’ll meet the police there.” She hauled the bag over her shoulder and strode out, the phone still to her ear.

  Once Citrine’s back was turned, Lia called Bailey. Pick up, pick up, pick up …

>   “What is it?”

  “Abort! Get the hell out of there!”

  Lia held her door open as Bailey and Terry carried their bags of trash up the walk.

  “Take it out back, will you? We can look at it on the picnic table.”

  Chewy, tethered to Lia, tagged along. Sensing some new game, Honey followed.

  “What the hell happened?” Lia asked.

  “What do you mean?” Terry asked, blinking like Hugh Grant.

  Lia looked at Bailey. “Is he serious? How did Citrine know you broke into her apartment? She was on the phone with the police when I called you. You’re lucky you got out of there in time.”

  “Mr. Mensa IQ, here, decided to break into Citrine’s iPad.”

  “Don’t you know they turn into a brick if you enter the wrong code too many times?” Lia glared at Terry. “Then she’d know someone had been there.”

  Terry looked affronted. “I do know, and it takes six failed log-ins. I planned to stop at five.”

  “Too bad,” Bailey drawled, “it only takes three to trigger the security app. It takes a picture of the person trying to break in and sends it to the owner.”

  “Genius move, Terry,” Lia said. “Now the police have your picture. How will I explain that to Peter?”

  “I think we may be okay. I turned my head at the critical moment. If we’re lucky, all they have is a blur of my very hairy ear,” Terry said.

  “I hope so,” Lia grumbled.

  “You know,” Bailey said, “since you were there when Citrine called the police, it would be natural for you to call her to find out what happened. She’s never seen Terry, so she won’t know you’re connected.”

  “Or we can wait for her to blog about it,” Lia said, sighing. “If I call her, next thing you know, I’ll be her new best friend and she’ll feel free to hound me about The Huffington Post. That’s the last thing I want.”

  “Sorry,” Bailey said.

  Lia nodded toward the bags. “What do we have?”

  They untied the bags. Bailey handed out neoprene gloves and they removed the contents, piece by piece.

  Citrine’s diet ran heavily to Ramen noodles. She discarded the flavor packets, suggesting she was vegan, or perhaps paranoid about chemicals. Discarded drawings indicated a good eye and an insecure hand, as well as a tendency to be self-critical.

  “Do you suppose she re-writes her blog as many times as she restarts her drawings?” Bailey asked.

  “I don’t know, but it’s likely.”

  “Her bills are addressed to Cheryl Baremore,” Terry said. “That must be her real name.”

  “Hair chalk wrappers,” Lia snorted. “She said Taylor Jameson did her hair.”

  “Maybe she did the first time, and Citrine keeps it up herself?” Bailey suggested.

  “Why lie about it? If I could do my hair like that—I wouldn’t, but if I could, I’d sure let people know.”

  The review of Citrine’s garbage and the photos of her belongings revealed nothing more than her life as a cultural edge dweller with a desperate desire to be somebody— the hot artist/internet blogger engaging in a dubious grand passion with a semi-famous writer.

  Bailey looked at the photos again. “You know, we’ve been looking at what’s there. We haven’t been looking at what’s not there.”

  “What do you mean?” Terry asked. “We know there’s nothing that suggests contact with Leroy. If I had gotten into her iPad, we would know conclusively.”

  “We don’t need her email or her texts,” Bailey said. “What we don’t have are any gifts or detritus from Leroy. If she were in love with him and if she spent any time at all around him, she’d have something with a bit of Lucas Cross juju on it, even if it was a cigarette butt.”

  “Oh,” Lia said. “Like in Emma, her friend who made a treasure out of a bit of gauze she trimmed off when she bandaged the minister’s finger.”

  “Exactly,” Bailey said. “Or like Monica Lewinsky, who never dry cleaned that dress after it got Clinton’s DNA on it.”

  “I would say that’s taking sentiment to a revolting degree,” Terry said.

  “It may be history, but it’s still disgusting,” Lia said.

  “She’d at least have access to his pizza garbage,” Lia said. “Where’s the napkin that pressed against the lips of Lucas Cross?”

  “What conclusion do you draw from this observation?” Terry asked.

  “Either she’s making the whole thing up,” Bailey said.

  “Or Leroy was nobody to her until she found out he was Lucas and he was in the news, and she’s either convinced herself that she has this grand passion—” Lia said.

  “Or she’s using what little contact she’s had with him to further her virtual presence,” Bailey concluded.

  Terry stared at them. “No wonder I’ve been divorced four times. It’s not that I don’t understand women, it’s that you truly are incomprehensible.”

  8

  Monday, June 27th

  Peter glanced up from his computer to see Cal Hinkle standing hesitantly by the door. He waved the freckled young officer over.

  “This may not be important, but I thought Brent should see my report on a break in that happened last Friday.”

  Brent swiveled around. “Someone stealing swimwear from the Swedish Bikini Team? I’m all ears.”

  “No, sir. Someone broke into the apartment of a young lady who has a connection with Leroy Eberschlag. I don’t know if it’s connected, but I thought I should call it to your attention since you’re the official liaison.”

  “Hawt dayum.” Though fragrance was forbidden in the bullpen, it was hard not to smell magnolias whenever the Georgia transplant spoke. “Let’s hear it.”

  “911 received a call from Cheryl Baremore shortly after noon on Friday. I responded to the call.”

  “Who on earth is Cheryl Baremore?”

  “I believe she is better known as Citrine, one name only, and has a popular blog that features her relationship with Eberschlag, A.K.A. Lucas Cross.”

  “Ah, her. What did they take?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “How did she know she had an intruder?”

  “She was at lunch, having an interview for The Huffington Post, when she received notification on her phone that someone was trying to unlock her iPad. It sent her a photo of the intruder. She called 911 and met me at her apartment. The intruder was gone before either of us arrived.”

  “Any sign of forced entry?”

  “No, sir, but the lock could be easily slipped with a credit card.”

  Peter, who had returned to his paperwork, shook his head.

  “What was disturbed?”

  “Nothing, except the iPad.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Wiped.”

  “At least you have the photo. Do you have a copy with you?”

  “Yes, sir, though it won’t do much good.”

  Peter swiveled around to look at the photo with Brent. The intruder’s head was turning when the picture was snapped. It consisted of blurs of pink skin, grey hair, and patches that resembled camouflage. By some fluke, the only portion of the photo that could be identified was an ear that sprouted white hair.

  “This is an older gent with an affection for camo,” Brent said. “Does she have any idea who it is?”

  “No, sir. Do you have any thoughts about this?”

  “She probably has a stalker. I doubt if it’s connected, but you never know. Thank you for calling this to my attention. If I need any more information, I’ll let you know.”

  “Any time, sir.”

  Peter watched Cal navigate the treacherous path out of the bullpen. “Why do you let him do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Call you sir all the time.”

  “If yon tadpole is under the mistaken impression that I outrank him, it would be rude of me to disabuse him. If he isn’t, he’s the only one here that has any manners.” Brent stood up. “I feel like stretching
my legs.”

  “I feel a bit stiff, myself.”

  Peter followed Brent outside to the edge of the parking lot, where Mount Storm Park verged onto the station. The lower end of the park was a nearly-impenetrable tangle of trees and undergrowth.

  “Sometimes I wonder if Peter Max’s cow liked to cavort in our parking lot for kicks late at night,” Brent said.

  “Sometimes you have too much time on your hands.”

  “It made me think. That cow is like the current situation. She became an international celebrity when she jumped a six-foot slaughterhouse fence and hid in those woods.”

  Peter smiled. “You think Eberschlag is back in the trees, mooning us right now? Guess that’s as good a theory as any.”

  “That would be something, wouldn’t it? Something puzzles me. The lady of your heart is working for the Lucas Cross machine, yet she is silent on the matter of his disappearance. How can that be?”

  “Good sense on her part?”

  “Such an innocent you are. Are you certain the Scooby Gang isn’t up to something?”

  “You noticed it too.” Peter sighed.

  “Furry ears and camo? It’s not a positive ID, but it is troubling.”

  “Well, damn.”

  Peter found Lia stirring a pot in the kitchen, Chewy tied to her side. He bent down to pet the schnauzer. “Jail sucks, doesn’t it, little guy?”

  Viola, jealous, nosed in under his hand. “Okay, princess, you’re the boss.”

  “Don’t I get a hello pat?” Lia asked.

  He stood up and gave her a smack on the rear.

  “Hey! If you want to eat, be nice,” she said.

  “Smells good. What is it? Wait, let me guess. If we take out everything you can’t eat, what’s left?” He nuzzled her ear from behind. “Must be buffalo with kale and jicama.”

  “Smarty pants. It’s beef stir-fry on quinoa. Grab a plate. It’s heavy on garlic and onions, so don’t feed Viola under the table.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “So tell me,” Peter asked, once the meal was well underway, “Do you hear anything from Sarah about Leroy?”

  “Last I heard, the police in Austin were stymied. That was a week ago.”