Muddy Mouth: A Dog Park Mystery

by Newsome, C. A.

  “You’ve been quiet about it. It seems a little strange, since you’re close to his team.”

  “I think their stance is, the less said, the better.”

  Peter nodded into his quinoa. “What about your dog park friends? Aren’t any of them curious about it?”

  Lia set her chopsticks down. “What are you getting at, Peter?”

  “A woman close to Leroy reported a break-in Friday.” Peter watched Lia carefully. “Her iPad took a picture of the intruder. I can’t imagine she has a gray-haired fanboy who wears camo. What’s Terry up to these days?”

  Lia shook her head. “Who was it? Was it Debby?”

  “The lady has a right to privacy. Funny thing, she was meeting with a reporter for The Huffington Post when the break in happened. Brent called them, and they knew nothing about the reporter or the supposed story.”

  “Sounds like the journalist pumped up their prospects to get the interview.”

  “Or maybe it was a ruse to get her out of her apartment. If I ask the woman in question, will she tell me the interviewer was a tall, skinny red-head with a Cleopatra haircut?”

  “Do you think Bailey was in on it?” Lia asked.

  “Did you know about this?” Peter asked.

  “They know you don’t want me taking risks. It would be like Bailey and Terry to leave me out of the loop if they were doing something you wouldn’t like. What do you call it? Deniability?”

  Peter looked at her steadily.

  “Peter, is this some kind of interrogation? If you want to know what happened, ask Terry. Or have Brent ask Terry. It’s his case, isn’t it?”

  She knows more than she’s saying, but saying so won’t help anything.

  “Babe, this is serious stuff. Nobody knows what’s really going on, so anything can happen. The only thing we know is we aren’t dealing with professional kidnappers, and that’s a problem.”

  “How do you know they aren’t pro?”

  “Pros don’t wait weeks to make a ransom demand.”

  “Oh.”

  “The Eberschlags did receive a ransom demand, but it was opportunistic punks. They had no clue where Leroy was.”

  “When was this? It wasn’t in the news.”

  “For once, we kept everything quiet. The Eberschlags aren’t talking about it. They were about to lose 50 thousand dollars when Cynth traced the email back to Elmwood Branch Library, where Debby Carrico works.”

  Lia gaped. “You don’t think she had anything to do with it, do you?”

  “No, it was teenagers at the library who overheard her talking about Leroy and thought they could pull a fast one.”

  “How did you catch them?”

  “Debby remembered the conversation taking place after school was out, a few days before and around the same time as the email was sent. We pulled all the regular kids over twelve into the conference room and put the fear of God into them. Kids that age can’t keep their mouths shut. We figured half the kids in that room knew about it. It didn’t take long for a couple of them to crack.

  “Thing is, a couple of the kids involved had access to guns. Kids with guns are much more dangerous than a pro with a gun.”

  “What’s going to happen to them?”

  “That’s up to the courts. But this case is pulling in more nuts than a pecan convention. We get a dozen bogus sightings a day, and technically, it’s not our case.”

  “I bet Brent loves that.”

  “He’s gotten philosophical about it.”

  “Peter, do you know for sure it’s Terry? Will he be arrested?”

  Peter shrugged. “Not my case. Let’s pretend we didn’t have this conversation and get back to our regularly scheduled programming. Then I can ask if you had dessert in mind.”

  “I thought you were bringing dessert.”

  “Babe, I am dessert.”

  “Babe is a pig.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  9

  Tuesday June 28

  “Egad,” Terry said. “Do I need to leave the country?” He petted Jackson’s head reassuringly. “Don’t worry, old boy. If I go, I’ll smuggle you and Napa out with me.”

  Lia surveyed the dog park parking lot. No strange cars. If Brent was coming, he’d already be here.

  “I think Bailey saved you. I bet the photo is blurry.”

  “How do you know?” Bailey asked.

  “I think Peter was fishing last night, to see what I knew. He deliberately only told me so much to see if I would fill in the blanks. If they could identify Terry from the photo, they would have gone to Terry. Peter would have shown me the photo. The photo is worthless, so he tells me they have it to see if I freak. They may do the same to either of you.”

  “If the photo is so bad, why do they think it’s Terry?” Bailey asked.

  “Peter said he didn’t think the woman in question had a fanboy with gray hair and camo, then he asked what Terry was up to.”

  “He has a point,” Terry said.

  “If you plan to surrender, leave me out of it,” Bailey said.

  “Peter suggested they might ask ‘the woman in question’ to describe her interviewer. He seems to think she’s tall and has red hair.”

  “At least he got that wrong,” Bailey said.

  “I forgot my Groucho Marx glasses. If they do ask her, I’m screwed.”

  Terry’s face crumpled in concern. “I am duly chastised. How do we weather the storm?”

  “Hold tight. I think Peter meant me to let you know that they know because they want us to squirm. I’m hoping this goes away. Whatever you do, do not mention Citrine. We know nothing about Citrine. Citrine does not exist. We don’t even know it’s a rock.”

  “I will essay to be more careful in the future,” Terry said.

  “Terry, there is no future. I’m out. I just had the most uncomfortable night of my life. I’m not putting my relationship with Peter at risk. No more Sherlock for me.”

  “What do you think?” Brent asked. He and Peter stood in the station parking lot at the start of shift. With the laughingly-named bullpen so crowded, this was the only place they could get a private word.

  Peter took a slug of his morning Pepsi. “I think I hate sparring with Lia. She never gave anything away, but she spent too much time thinking. She was slow off the mark for critical questions and sometimes her responses didn’t answer my questions. I hate when people do that. It’s a sure sign they’re hiding something.”

  “Maybe she was just worried about her friends. You didn’t push her?”

  “No, I didn’t push her. I don’t want my personal life to die an ugly death before this case ends. What do you plan to do?”

  “I haven’t decided. If it was Lia’s friend, then it has nothing to do with Eberschlag, and pursuing it is a waste of time when I could be chasing down reports that he was eating a banana split at Putz’s. If it was somebody else, we have no leads. But if you want to put a scare into the Scooby Gang, we can work something out.”

  “I like this hanging over their heads like the Sword of Damocles. I think the threat is more terrifying than the reality,” Peter said. “And if nature takes its course, it will wind up coming out without bringing out the rubber hoses.”

  “Damocles? Pretty fancy for a boy from Kentucky.” Brent’s head jerked sideways at the sound of a car approaching. He was not an expert by any means, but he recognized the growl of that particular Ford Mustang. It belonged to Cynth, a goddess among women. “Oh, my heart,” he sighed and watched out of the corner of his eye as she left her car.

  Cynth downplayed her gorgeous figure by wearing her regulation polos two sizes too big. Fresh scrubbed skin and a no-nonsense braid were meant to keep her fellow officers at bay. It never worked.

  Peter shook his head. “She hates you, you know.”

  “No she doesn’t. She wants me so much she can’t stand it, and only hates me by association with the passion she tries to deny.”

  “Uh-huh. … Hey Cynth,” Peter
called.

  “Hey yourself.” Cynth looked down her nose at Brent, a neat trick because she was four inches shorter.

  “Hey beautiful,” Brent said.

  “Peter, was someone speaking?”

  He grinned. “Just the wind. Lia said to invite you to the Northside Parade. You want to see the neighborhood weirdos make idiots of themselves in a misguided expression of community spirit?”

  “Sounds like fun. Who else will be there?”

  “Just me, two dogs, and the wind. Think you can stand a little wind?”

  “As long as you stay between me and the wind, I think I can handle it.”

  “Great. We’ve been given special dispensation to hang out on the library lawn. You might as well park here and take the bus up Hamilton Avenue. Just get there before 11:30 and bring water. There’s a cookout afterwards.”

  “We’ll see how it goes. I’ve got to get inside.” Cynth continued on to the station, her wheat-colored braid swinging in counterpoint to her hips.

  Peter watched Brent watching her. “She knows you’re looking.”

  “She’s crazy about me,” Brent said.

  Peter nodded his head. “I can see that.”

  10

  Saturday, July 2

  Sarah, Alice, Carol, and Cecilie were inspecting the giant Browning Buckmark pistol as if it were a prize Weimaraner at the Westminster dog show when Lia arrived at the garage. She stood in the doorway for a moment, judging their mood. Chewy, who had finally succumbed to his limitations, sat at her heel. Sarah looked up. Caught, Lia smiled and walked in.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “It’s fabulous,” Sarah said.

  Alice lowered her glasses and tilted her head. “Much sexier than a Walther PPK.”

  Cecilie squinted through her wire rims. “I wish we didn’t have to toss it in the dump.”

  “I would have nightmares about children climbing on it,” Alice said. “And Jerry needs his trailer back.”

  “We’ll want something different for next year. We have to stay competitive,” Sarah said. “Think you can top this, Lia?”

  Lia’s immediate instinct was to widen her eyes, like a woodland creature trapped in headlights. Next year? Am I supposed to pull this off again? “I, uh, guess we have time to think about it. Has Jerry installed the smoke machine yet?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” Sarah said. “We’ll hang the banners and have a dress rehearsal. Then we’ll hang the person who suggested we wear cat suits. Who was that anyway?”

  “If you don’t remember, the guilty party won’t confess,” Alice said.

  “That was me,” Carol said, leaning on a cane. “Five middle-aged women in spandex will be mild compared to other floats.”

  Chewy sniffed Carol’s clunky support boot.

  “Are you up for standing on a float with your ankle still healing?” Lia asked.

  “I’m ready for a lighter brace, and I’ll hang onto the gun when I need support,” Carol said.

  “I don’t think any of us are in the right frame of mind to do this, with Leroy still missing,” Alice said.

  “We don’t fight it. We use it. Go dark,” Sarah said. “Like Tonya Harding in her Olympic bid after her ex-husband hired a thug to smash Nancy Kerrigan’s knee.”

  “She imploded after that and was banned from skating. Do you want us to wind up on the women’s boxing circuit?” Cecilie said. “Because I really hate getting hit in the face.”

  “We have 48 hours to figure out how to avoid that. I had new banners made up that will help. Did you bring an invoice, Lia?” Sarah asked, her eyes on the envelope in Lia’s hand.

  Lia gave it to Sarah. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

  “Carol will cut you a check first thing next week.”

  “Thanks.” Lia stood, chewing on her lip. Chewy, picking up on her nerves, whined.

  Sarah raised an eyebrow.

  “I need to let you know, I think we’ve done all we can to find Leroy. I’m so sorry we weren’t successful.”

  “I know,” Sarah said. “I’ve been wondering if there was anything for you to find.”

  Alice looked at Sarah over her black frame glasses for a hard moment. “You did your best,” she said.

  Lia shrugged and quirked her mouth before she turned to go. Chewy circled smartly and followed her out, glued to her heel.

  11

  Monday, July 4th

  Peter pulled his Explorer up to the U-Haul store next to the bedlam that was the parking lot of the Greater Bethlehem Temple Apostolic Church. The church was housed in a former grocery store, or perhaps it had been a roller rink. For years it sat with bare concrete walls and no windows, giving no hint to its purpose. Lia had never seen anyone go in or out, but the church must have a large congregation to afford renovations. Recently, an attractive entry with a porte cochere was added and the exterior walls were redone in a lovely cream color.

  The property had been drafted into service for the Fourth of July parade years ago due to one compelling feature: the parking lot was larger than a football field.

  Peter leaned over to kiss Lia good-bye but was blocked by Chewy, who sat on her lap, wearing his teal and fuchsia tulle ruff with a mutinous expression. Peter gave the dog a wry look.

  "Chewy!" Lia admonished. She set her squirming fur-child firmly on her other side and leaned in for a healthy smooch.

  "I'd tell you to break a leg,” Peter said, tapping the dent in her chin, “but that would make it hard to march. You have your water?"

  "Yes, sir, I also have doggie tutus, the travel bowl for Chewy, emergency poop bags and a pocket full of treats. Don't be such a worry wart." Lia opened her door. Chewy leapt out and she followed with her hip pack of survival gear and a garbage bag stuffed with tulle. Honey stuck her head out the back window and gave Lia a wounded look from the back seat while Viola climbed between the seats to claim Peter and the shotgun seat.

  Lia petted Honey’s silky head while Chewy tugged on his leash. "Take care of my baby, Dourson."

  "Take care of mine, Anderson. We’ll be watching for you from the library steps."

  The crowd of costumed people milling around the parking lot of the church resembled the cantina scene in the first Star Wars movie. Floats were parked at the upper end of the lot, with marching groups filling the rest of the space. The morphing cacophony of color—only some of which was red, white and blue—was enough to induce motion sickness.

  Lia grabbed the first person she could find with a clipboard and golf shirt, pegging the woman as a volunteer organizer. The woman checked her list and directed Lia across the lot, away from the monstrous gun Lia created.

  She spotted Terry first, due to his insistence that he wear camouflage, and joined the group at their assigned spot in the line of floats and vehicles that zigzagged across the asphalt.

  Lia pulled a ruff out of her bag and handed it to Terry. “Green, tan, and brown for Jackson,” she said, “so you’ll match.”

  Terry sighed. “If he has to wear a ruff, at least it’s a manly ruff.”

  “‘Manly ruff’ is an oxymoron,” Steve snorted as he stooped to slip a red and orange tutu over Penny’s head.

  “What do you think?” Lia asked. “I thought the color would show well with her black fur.”

  She continued to hand costumes around. Sophie, Nick’s mastiff, dazzled in pink and purple, while Chester and Fleece sported traditional red, white and blue. Bailey and Renee compared tutus for Kita and Dakini, and decided to switch, with Dakini wearing green hues accented with gold and Kita in blues from sapphire to midnight, touched with bronze. The humans, with the exception of Terry, wore khaki in order to make the dogs stand out more.

  The interminable wait was made longer because they were forced to stand. Lia looked enviously at the Ladies Lawn Chair Brigade, a dozen women who performed dance routines using vintage aluminum folding chairs. They currently relaxed on their props, chatting. Whoever came up with their concept knew what
they were doing.

  “I don’t know why we had to check in by ten-thirty,” Bonnie said. “Some of us aren’t twenty anymore.”

  “I bet it takes an hour to work their way down the line to make sure everyone is in the right spot,” Bailey said.

  “Take Chester for a stroll,” Renee suggested. “If you walk by the lawn chair ladies and wilt a bit, maybe one of them will feel guilty and offer you her seat. If you wait a minute, I’ll go with you. Then you can lean on me and look frail.”

  Lia looked up at the pale, grey sky, wondering if it would rain. The Browning Buckmark loomed over the crowd, overshadowed only by a giant, upended plunger built by a local plumber. The parade would go on no matter what the weather. At least we don’t need the dog booties. With no sun, the pavement won’t get hot enough to burn paws.

  “We might get a sprinkle or two," Jim said, reading her mind. "Nothing more."

  "Balderdash," Terry said. "We're in for a frog strangler. I checked radar."

  "I hope we don't get any thunder," Bailey said, tweaking Kita’s tutu into a more attractive arrangement. “Kita doesn't like it. How long do you think the rain will last?"

  "All afternoon. We'll be drenched by the time we pass The Comet,” Terry opined. “That is, if they can get this show on the road. If not, we'll drown before we’re out of the parking lot. Today's barbeques are toast. Nobody wants soggy bratwurst.”

  "No rain," Jim insisted. "We'll be fine."

  "If we don't get a downpour during the parade, I'll wear a Bill Clinton tee shirt every Saturday until Labor Day," Terry said. "Sure you don't want my spare pocket poncho?"

  "Deal," Jim said. "Keep your poncho. You'll need it to catch the tears you'll be crying when you lose this bet."

  “Jim, I wish you wouldn’t bet,” Bonnie said.

  "Wait a minute," Bailey said. "What does Jim do if he loses?"

  "I'll wear any tee shirt you choose every Saturday. Till Labor Day," Jim volunteered.

  "Done. I'm going to stretch my legs. We've been standing here too long,” Terry said, chortling to himself as he meandered into the crowd, Jackson trotting obediently after him.