Paws For Murder

by Annie Knox

  “That’s how it looks,” Sean said. “She asked him to come pick her up, he met her in the alleyway, he gave her the poison and then took the phone and left. It all makes sense.”

  “But who’s the mystery man?” Rena asked.

  “Only one way to find out,” Sean said. “Call the number.”

  “Let’s do this thing,” Rena said.

  “What do we say when he answers?” I asked. “‘Hey there, did you kill your girlfriend?’”

  Sean shrugged. “Whoever this guy is, he doesn’t know we have the phone. When he sees this number on the incoming call, he’ll either answer—in which case we’ll hang up—or, more likely, he’ll freak out and reject the call, in which case it will roll over to voice mail and we’ll have our answer.”

  Suddenly, Rena laughed. “I feel like we’re eleven and about to prank call the principal.”

  I knew what she meant. My heart was beating faster than a bunny’s and I had the insane urge to giggle.

  Sean smiled grimly. “This is the least funny prank call ever.”

  He placed the phone in the middle of the table, put it on speaker, and dialed the number.

  The phone rang once. Then again. And then we heard the subtle click as we were transferred to a voicemail system.

  “Hi there. This is Hal Olson from Olson’s Odyssey RV Emporium, the largest RV dealership in the quad state area. I can’t . . .”

  Sean hit the button to disconnect the call.

  “I guess we have our answer. Hal Olson.”

  “So what now?” I said.

  “You and I go have a talk with Hal.”

  • • •

  Olson’s Odyssey RV Emporium occupied acres of land just off the interstate, right outside of Merryville. They offered everything from full-sized recreational vehicles that could comfortably house a family of four to pop-up campers and camping gear.

  Hal Olson had grown the business from his parents’ mom-and-pop sporting goods store, which had mostly catered to local folks looking for camping gear and the fishermen attracted to Badger Lake, the mighty Mississippi, and its tamer tributary, the Perry River. Now, for some, Olson’s Odyssey had become a destination of its own. Families would take day trips from Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Duluth, Cedar Rapids, and even as far away as Chicago in order to treat themselves to one of the best selections of camping and RV equipment in the country.

  Hal spent much of his days wandering the lot, shaking hands with customers, grinning like the politician he hoped to become. As a result, it was not quite so surprising that his office was as modest as it was: no window, just a battered metal desk and a couple of filing cabinets. The only high-end touch was the ergonomic chair parked behind the desk.

  He showed us in, gesturing that we should sit in the wooden armchairs in front of the desk. He indicated his own chair as he sat. “Gift from Pris. Between the golfing, walking the lot, and an old football injury, my lower back gives me fits without the proper lumbar support.”

  He said it as though it were two words: lum bar. There was always a touch of good ol’ boy in his speech, even though he’d gotten an MBA from the University of Minnesota. I guessed folksy went over better with the RV-buying crowd. Or maybe he was getting a head start on the election. After all, everyone turned into a good ol’ boy when they ran for office.

  “So,” he said, “what can I do for you two? One of you looking for a camper?”

  “Actually,” Sean said, “we called earlier.” He pulled Sherry’s phone from his pocket and flashed it to Hal.

  All the blood drained from Hal’s face, leaving his sun-scorched face a sort of dusky orange.

  “Oh dear God,” he muttered. “Where did you find that? Have you gone to the police?”

  “Not yet,” Sean said. “But we will.”

  “Please, in the name of all that’s holy, don’t give that thing to the cops. It’ll leak to the media for sure, and . . . did she save her text messages?”

  “A few of them,” Sean answered. “Enough to make the, uh, tenor of your relationship quite clear.”

  Hal groaned and tipped his head back as though he needed to confer with the Almighty before he continued.

  “Look, you gotta understand, it was nothing serious. She came to me to ask me about my position on local development, pick my brain about business matters, and one thing led to another.”

  That didn’t sound like a probable scenario. What did Sherry care about local development, let alone business?

  “Your position on local development? Did she know you were running for office?”

  “No, I was playing that close to the vest. She wanted to know . . .”

  He trailed off, narrowing his eyes at us. “Let’s just say it was a business matter. Had nothing to do with my political ambitions. But this”—he waved at the phone—“this could ruin me. If you take the phone to the cops, those texts will leak to the media, and then it’s sayonara mayor’s office.”

  I found it interesting that he was more concerned with the press getting their hands on his illicit texts than he was with his wife finding out about his affair. He hadn’t brought up Pris even once.

  “I’ll be good for this town, help it grow just like I helped this business grow. For the sake of Merryville, don’t give that phone to the police. Just let me have it back.”

  “I have to say,” Sean said, “your ego is mighty impressive. But this isn’t just about your reputation; this is about Sherry’s murder.”

  “What? You can’t think I had anything to do with that! Why would I kill the girl?”

  “You had a lot to hide, and Sherry wasn’t exactly discreet,” I chimed in.

  “Oh, no. She wasn’t about to tell anyone about our little fling. I’m telling you, it was just sex for both of us. She even joked about how her reputation would be ruined if people knew she was running around with someone as square as I am.”

  I was ninety-nine percent certain Sherry hadn’t used the word “square” to describe Hal Olson. I imagined a more colorful description of his uptight, establishment-loving self. But still, I could believe that Sherry might have been almost as motivated to keep quiet about the affair as Hal had been.

  On the other hand . . .

  “She sent you a text the night she died, asked you to come pick her up.”

  “But I didn’t. I got her text that night. It wasn’t like her to give me marching orders like that.”

  Sherry must have been a welcome change from Pris, I thought.

  “I told Pris about missing my wallet—which was true, you know—and then drove into town to find Sherry. I drove around your block about six times, but I didn’t see her.”

  He sighed. “I should have gotten out to look for her. Maybe if I had I would have found her before she died, been able to get her some help. You know, drop her off at the ER or something.”

  Because heaven forbid anyone actually see him with Sherry. He would have just dumped her at the door and sped off into the night.

  “That’s why I couldn’t bring myself to go to her funeral,” he added. “It would have been a good political move to go, but I just felt too guilty.”

  Oh dear. I hadn’t put it together until that moment. Hal hadn’t been at the funeral, but that’s where Val found the phone. If our assumption that the killer took the phone was correct, then Hal must be telling the truth.

  We’d found our mystery man, but he didn’t solve our mystery.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-one

  “Merciful heavens, Aunt Dolly, what are you wearing?”

  She tottered across the floor in four-inch platform sandals, a skintight black pencil skirt, and what appeared to be a rainbow sequined vest. With nothing underneath it.

  Behind her, Rena clasped her hands over her mouth and bounced up and down in barely concealed glee, and Ingrid Whitfield looked like she was about to lay an egg. Packer danced around in excitement over all the motion and commotion, and I was sure he’d get under Dolly’s impractical
footwear and make her fall. God, maybe she’d break a hip.

  Dolly shot me an arch look. “It all came out of your closet, missy.”

  “I was in a really dark place when I bought those sandals, and I designed the vest for a magician’s assistant in Madison who never coughed up the money for it. I’m not even sure why I kept it. But I sure never expected to see my sixty-six-year-old aunt wearing it.” I sighed. “With nothing underneath it.”

  She squeezed her arms close to her sides to plump up her cleavage and then did a little rollicking dance to illustrate just how bodacious her tatas looked in the vest. “This granny’s got it going on!” she hooted.

  “Okay,” Ingrid chimed in, “so a better question: Why are you dressed up like a two-bit hooker?”

  “Oh, you’re just jealous,” Dolly scoffed. “I got dressed up for Richard.”

  As if on cue, the door to Trendy Tails swung open and Richard Greene stomped in on a gust of ice-crusted air. He paused to shake the slush from his boots before stripping off his parka and venturing onto my lovely hardwood floors.

  “So where’s this leak that needs fixing?” he asked without preamble. “Can’t have an ice slick building up in that alley. Even bigger nuisance than the damn rodent.”

  “Richard,” Dolly gushed. “You’re our hero!” She sashayed to his side and leaned in close, resting one hand gently on his forearm. “I can’t believe you came out in all this weather to help us.”

  His tufted brows knit together in confusion. “I just live next door, Dorothy. And it’s just barely snowing.”

  Dorothy? No one ever called my aunt Dolly “Dorothy.”

  She threw back her head, her free hand pressed against the skin above her cleavage, and laughed like a giddy schoolgirl.

  I wanted to squinch my eyes closed, slap my hands over my ears, and start singing at the top of my lungs . . . anything to block out this scene of my beloved aunt tarting it up for Richard Greene. But at the same time, I just couldn’t seem to look away.

  “The leak is just outside the kitchen door. The spigot next to the back steps.” Aunt Dolly ushered Richard into the old kitchen.

  “What is she doing?” I asked Rena. “Did she have a stroke or something? I mean, what’s up with those clothes?”

  “Like she said, she found them in your closet. She’s hoping to woo Richard Greene so he’ll drop the planning and zoning complaint against Trendy Tails.”

  “And she thinks putting her bosoms on display is going to do the trick?”

  Rena shrugged. “I don’t see the harm in her flaunting her, uh, assets? Isn’t that what she called them?”

  Within minutes, Richard and Dolly were back in the store. “Not really a leak,” Richard groused. “Just didn’t tighten the tap enough.” He shot a look at Ingrid. “Thought you mighta known that.” Ingrid threw up her hands, unwilling to get involved in this particular situation.

  Dolly batted her eyes like a practiced coquette. “That’s why we need a big strong man like you around,” she purred. Merciful heavens, she was laying it on way too thick.

  “Nah,” Richard scoffed. “Just get one of these strong young things”—he pointed at me—“preferably the big one there, to do it for you next time. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  The big one? True, the McHale girls weren’t exactly petite—Lucy was the shortest of us at five-seven—but I bristled at being dubbed “the big one.”

  When he left, I turned to Aunt Dolly and stared at her expectantly.

  “Okay. So my plan is not working quite the way I’d hoped.” She plopped down in a chair by the big red table. “I’ve stopped by the Greene Brigade three times, even brought him cookies once. He just complained that the crumbs would attract that ‘varmint’ that’s been living in his shop.”

  While I couldn’t entirely approve of my aunt’s tactics, she looked so dejected sitting there in her completely inappropriate outfit.

  “Maybe the blush is off the rose. Have I lost my feminine mystique?”

  “He just doesn’t recognize a good thing when he sees it,” I said, walking over to rest a hand on her shoulder.

  Ingrid shook her head. “Gonna take a lot more than a little glitz and glamour to turn that old coot’s head,” she said.

  The sequined vest definitely constituted glitz, but I wasn’t so sure about the glamour part.

  “No,” Ingrid continued, “you want to catch a man’s attention, you have to play hard to get. Make him jealous. Nothing more powerful than the green-eyed monster.”

  “Is that how you snagged Harvey?” Rena asked.

  Ingrid smiled a smug little smile. “Partly. Mostly he just couldn’t resist me. But when we talked or chatted online, I may have thrown in a few comments about my ruggedly handsome neighbor.”

  “You sly boots,” Rena said through her laughter. “So if you used Richard to make Harvey jealous, maybe Dolly could use Harvey to make Richard jealous.”

  The smile disappeared from Ingrid’s face. “No way. No one’s even pretending that Harvey is anything but mine.”

  Talk about the green-eyed monster, I thought. And then it hit me.

  Ever since Sean and I had returned from our visit with Hal, I’d been trying to pin down a thought drifting around in my brain, and Ingrid’s mention of jealousy made it all come together.

  “Rena, what about Pris? What if Pris knew that Hal was catting around with Sherry? Could she have been jealous enough to bump off Sherry?”

  Rena hopped up to sit on the table, tailor-style, warming to the idea instantly.

  “Sure. While Hal wasn’t at the funeral, Pris was. Pris could have stolen Sherry’s phone the night of the murder and then Val could have stolen Sherry’s cell phone from Pris’s purse.”

  Ingrid tutted softly. “Girls, this is all just a lot of ‘who shot John.’ I’m not saying Pris is innocent, but you have no proof at all.”

  Rena looked deflated, but I held my ground. “The morning after Sherry died, I went over to the Olson house, and Kiki coughed up this red string. I swear I saw Sherry wearing a red string around her wrist.”

  “Sure,” Rena said. “That was her Kabbalah bracelet. It’s supposed to ward off the evil eye.”

  “Didn’t do the poor girl much good, did it?” Dolly commented.

  “No, it sure didn’t.”

  “Why on earth would Priscilla Olson have been creeping around our alley in the middle of the night?” Ingrid asked.

  Rena cocked her head. “Maybe she was out looking for Sherry. If she knew about the affair, she might have been biding her time until she got Sherry alone, and she knew that Sherry had been lurking around Trendy Tails. Or maybe she just followed Hal that night and did the one thing he didn’t: get out of the car and go searching for Sherry.”

  “Weak sauce, girls,” Ingrid insisted. “First, you’re assuming that Pris knew Sherry was Hal’s mistress. If I were Pris and suspected my husband was having an affair, my suspicions wouldn’t likely land on Sherry as the other woman. Second, you have to assume that she would think to look down the dang alleyway to find her. And, finally, you have to assume Sherry would have taken something from Pris and eaten it.”

  “Okay, it’s a little problematic. But if she did know that Sherry was the other woman, it would be logical for her to come back to Trendy Tails to look for her. And she didn’t have to find Sherry in the alley . . . maybe she found her on the sidewalk and lured her into the alley.”

  I could see Ingrid was ready to argue the logic, and I admitted it was a bit of a stretch, but I held up a hand.

  “Let’s assume for the sake of argument that Pris was in the alley that night. If she was jealous and wanted to cover up the affair, she would have wanted the phone. She would have struggled with Sherry to get the phone that she kept in Gandhi’s sling. In the process, the Kabbalah bracelet comes off and somehow ends up in Pris’s bag. When Pris gets home, Kiki eats the string and then barfs it up the next morning.”

  “I’m telling you, that’s not e
nough,” Ingrid insisted. “Red string? That could have come from anything. Kiki was here the night Sherry died.” She gestured around the showroom. “That cat could have found a stray piece of yarn or string in here, for all you know.”

  “You’re right,” I replied. “It’s not like I could go to the cops with this theory. But it’s the only theory we have at the moment. At a minimum, I think it warrants a little talk with the other Olson.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-two

  I invited Pris to Trendy Tails on the pretext of discussing the Halloween Howl and our pet costume parade.

  She breezed in the door, ten minutes late, shaking snow from her luxurious red wool cape as she swept it from her body with dramatic flair. After hearing the bell, Packer had come bounding out of the kitchen to greet the guest, but the sudden gust of snow sent him scurrying away again.

  While I hung up her cape, Pris wandered around the store, looking at my merchandise with a practiced eye.

  “Are these Jolly’s work?” she asked, peering into a glass case that held collar dangles made of semiprecious stones set in sterling.

  “Yes. Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “Mmmm,” she hummed noncommittally. “You have quite a selection. Surely you haven’t made the rest of this stuff.”

  “Oh, no. Some of the items I’ve purchased wholesale, and some from local artisans. But most of the clothing and bedding are my work. I had a lot of the stock on hand before the grand opening, but between running the store and sewing, I hardly have time to breathe.”

  Pris laughed. “Yet you seem to be finding time to poke around about Sherry Harper’s murder.”

  “You’ve heard?” I asked carefully.

  “Word gets around,” she said. “I ran into Ken West yesterday, and he mentioned that you were grilling him about the night Sherry died. He didn’t take too kindly to being treated like a common criminal.”

  “I didn’t know you and Ken were friends.”

  “We’re not, really. I asked him to cater an event for the garden club, and he’s somehow convinced Hal to invest in his new restaurant.”