Furbidden Fatality

by Deborah Blake

  It was awkward and uncomfortable, and periodically they’d have to stop to rest, or because Georgia’s hand slipped. Pepper trotted alongside without hesitation. The trail the bar owner had taken up to the hut was more direct than the meandering path Georgia and Kari had used, but it was still over a half an hour before they came out below the tree line far enough to get a cell signal.

  Georgia promptly called the sheriff’s department, who promised to send out a car and an ambulance, which showed up in way less time than it had taken them to make their part of the journey. Curtis Fry was bundled into the ambulance, accompanied by a burly deputy, and the shotgun was handed over to his partner, who politely but decisively invited the women to accompany him back to the sheriff’s department.

  There they were allowed to wash up and given some water (Pepper too), after which they were seated in an interview room where they waited some more. Too tired to even chat, Kari put her head down on her folded arms on the table, while Georgia talked to Pepper in a low voice, mostly telling him what a good boy he was.

  Eventually, the door opened and the sheriff himself came in, along with a youngish officer with a buzz cut so short you could see the outline of his head and a pristine uniform.

  “Ladies.” Sheriff Richardson nodded at them. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. This is Deputy Smith. He’s going to take notes. Before we get started, is there anything you need? Coffee? Water?”

  “Are we under arrest?” Kari asked, sitting up straight.

  “What? No, of course not,” Richardson said. “Did someone tell you that?”

  “They didn’t tell us anything,” Georgia said. “Just confiscated my weapon, gave us a drink, and stuck us in this room.”

  Richardson glared at the young deputy, who winced. “I’m very sorry,” the sheriff said. “I was just clearing up a few things before I came in to get your statements. The waiting room is full of drunken college students from an off-season frat party we broke up out on the lake. Canoeing while drunk, if you can believe it. I don’t even have a code for that in my manual.” He shook his head. “Sorry again. I just need to get your formal statements about what happened into the record, and then you are free to go.”

  He nodded at Georgia in what was clearly a gesture of professional respect. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to hold on to your revolver for a few days, but you’ll get it back eventually. Nice shot, by the way. I spoke to the hospital and it was a clean through and through. Mr. Fry won’t suffer any permanent damage to the leg, and he will be turned over to our custody as soon as the doctors have finished treating him.”

  He turned to Kari. “You might be interested to know, Ms. Stuart, that Mr. Fry blames you personally for his downfall. I believe he called you a ‘meddling busybody pest of a female.’”

  “Should I write that down?” Smith asked, pen poised over his pad.

  Richardson rolled his eyes. “I have got to get recording devices installed in these rooms,” he muttered. “County budget or no county budget.

  “No, Smith, that won’t be necessary,” he said in a louder voice. “Why don’t we just get the official statement now. Ms. Stuart, if you could start, please. From the beginning.”

  “The beginning?” Kari said. “If you say so. I guess it all started when I found Bill Myers’s body next to our fence.”

  Georgia snickered, and Kari glanced over at her, remembering the other woman’s years of professional experience. “Not that beginning?” she asked.

  Georgia shook her head. “Maybe start with why we were up in the woods in the first place?” she suggested.

  So Kari told the story of how Deputy Carter had given them the information about Myers looking for marijuana up in the hills, and how he had stolen Pepper to help him find it. Then she continued with the rest of the events of the day, right up though the point when they had been confronted by Curtis Fry.

  “You yelled snake?” Richardson said. “I probably would have jumped too. And I know there are no venomous snakes in those woods. Good thinking.” He tilted his head to the side as he looked from her to Georgia.

  “So had Ms. Travis informed you that she was carrying a weapon?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” Kari answered. “But I’d seen her hand straying toward her back a few times, and it was way too warm for a jacket unless you were wearing it to cover something up that you didn’t want seen. If it wasn’t a really ugly tattoo, I figured it was probably a gun. But I didn’t know for sure until she pulled it out and shot Curtis in the leg with it.” She and Georgia high-fived, grinning at each other.

  “I see,” Richardson said, fighting back a smile of his own. “Now, Ms. Travis, if you could go back to the point where you contacted Ms. Stuart about your dog showing up, we need to get your statement as well.”

  Georgia gave her rendition of the day, which mostly matched Kari’s, and Richardson nodded with satisfaction. “Excellent,” he said. “We’ll get those typed up, and if you could stop by sometime tomorrow to sign them, that should be all we need from you.”

  “Won’t we have to testify in court or something?” Kari asked. She had kind of been looking forward to standing up in front of a jury and going through the entire thing again. It was an interesting adventure . . . now that it was over, and they were all safe.

  Richardson gave a short bark of a laugh that had Pepper lifting his head to see what was up. “You watch too much television, Ms. Stuart. Most cases never make it that far, thank goodness. About three out of four plead out. Mr. Fry has already admitted to the murder, as well as to threatening you. His fingerprints are all over that meth lab, so we’ve got him on the manufacturing of illegal substances, in addition to about a dozen other charges. He’s going to be spending the rest of his life as a guest of the State of New York, thanks to you two.”

  “It was mostly Kari,” Georgia said. “I was just along for the ride.”

  “I am well aware of Ms. Stuart’s role in all this,” Richardson said, aiming a frown in Kari’s direction. “And it is not that I’m not grateful, because I am. But you’re lucky you weren’t both killed. I certainly hope that you will try to steer clear of sticking your nose into police business from now on.”

  “I would be blissfully happy never to come across another dead body in my backyard again,” Kari said. “All I want to do is get the shelter up and running, and get back to my life.”

  “I’m glad we’re in agreement,” the sheriff said. He went to stand up, and gestured for Georgia and Kari to get up too. “By the way, once you do open the shelter again, I might be interested in looking for a dog we could train to work for the department. I know they usually start with puppies, but I was reading an article the other day where a police force out in Montana adopted and trained rescue dogs, and I thought I might look into the possibility.”

  Kari perked up. “We often get dogs that are only a year or two old. Plenty young enough to train. I’ll ask Daisy what breeds she’d recommend.” Her heart sank temporarily. “She’s moving to her sister’s as soon as the issue with Buster is settled.”

  But then she realized something. “Speaking of which, if we’re finished here, would it be possible for me to talk to Marge Farrow? She’s still under arrest, right?”

  Richardson frowned at her. “She is,” he said. “The murder charges against her have been dropped, but she still has to face the embezzlement charges. The judge deemed her a flight risk because we haven’t been able to find all of the money she stole, so she’s still sitting in a cell out back until her trial comes up. Why do you want to see her? I didn’t get the impression your first visit went all that well.”

  “Hardly,” Kari said, making a face. “But she owes me a favor, and I’m about to collect.”

  Twenty-Two

  Marge walked into the visiting room, sat down in the chair opposite Kari, and folded her hands primly in front of her.

 
; “I don’t know why you’re here,” the former court clerk said, sounding as though she didn’t much care either. “I’ve already told you. I’m not going to reveal where Bill Myers hid that notebook until you find out who actually killed him and get the murder charges against me dropped.”

  Kari waited a beat and then said, “Curtis Fry.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Marge said, a baffled expression on her face.

  “Curtis Fry killed Bill Myers,” Kari said, allowing a small smile to slip out at the sight of Marge’s widening eyes. “It turns out that Fry had a meth lab in his grandfather’s old hut in the woods. The dog warden found it, using a retired police dog he stole, and made the mistake of trying to blackmail Fry into giving him twenty percent of the profits. So Fry killed him.”

  Marge raised one neatly plucked eyebrow. “He tried to blackmail Curtis Fry? Goodness. That’s even stupider than I would have expected from Bill Myers.” She thought about it for a moment. “But just about as greedy.”

  “Yup,” Kari said. “Apparently that was one scam too many.”

  “And you are quite certain that Fry is guilty of the murder?” Marge asked. “Or rather, I should say, the sheriff is quite certain?”

  “Fry confessed,” Kari said with a nod. “He’s at the hospital under guard right now, getting a bullet wound patched up. Once they’re finished, you might well see him in a cell down the row from you.”

  For once, the older woman actually showed something akin to surprise. “You shot Curtis Fry?”

  Kari laughed. “Me? Not hardly. I wouldn’t know one end of a gun from another. That was Georgia Travis. She went with me and her dog, Pepper, to try to see if Myers had other dogs stashed in the woods, and we ended up finding the meth lab—and Curtis—instead.”

  “Ah,” Marge said. “Georgia Travis. That makes much more sense.” She stared across the table at Kari. “Although, I will admit, you rather amazed me, actually solving this crime. I didn’t really expect you to succeed.”

  Kari laughed. “People are always underestimating the quiet women in the background.” She gave Marge a meaningful look. “You should know that better than anyone.”

  Marge tilted her head. “You do have a point there.” She tapped her fingers together thoughtfully. “I suppose you kept your half of the deal, so I might as well keep mine. Bill Myers’s notebook is hidden in his house.”

  “The police didn’t find it when they went through the place,” Kari said, doubt making her stomach sour. What if there was no notebook after all? Or what if Marge wasn’t really going to tell her where to find it? All of this would have been for nothing. Well, not nothing, since a murderer was in jail, but still, not the goal they’d been trying to achieve.

  “Of course they didn’t,” Marge said in an acerbic tone. “You don’t think he’d leave it lying right out in plain sight, do you? It’s in a special compartment in the bottom of his desk, in the corner of the living room. If you feel around underneath, you’ll be able to detect two small depressions in the wood. If you press them at the same time, the compartment will open and the book should be inside.”

  “Oh, okay,” Kari said. She hoped the woman was telling the truth. After all, Kari was responsible for her being behind bars, so there was no reason for Marge to keep her word, other than her own—undoubtedly somewhat twisted—idea of right and wrong.

  “It will be there,” the woman said, obviously sensing Kari’s lack of faith. “I’m not completely without honor. And I am grateful not to have a murder charge hanging over my head.” She rose from her chair and headed for the door, where a guard waited to take her back to her cell. Her eyes twinkled. “See you in two to five years. Maybe less, with good behavior. I’ll end up in the Bahamas yet.” She was still chuckling as she left the room.

  “Huh,” Kari said. She knocked on the door on her side, and it opened to reveal the sheriff, leaning against the wall across the way.

  “Did you get what you came for?” he asked, sounding mildly intrigued.

  “I hope so,” Kari said. “If you’ll allow a deputy to let me into Bill Myers’s house, I’ll be able to find out.”

  “I’ll take you myself,” Richardson said. “This I have to see with my own eyes.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The sheriff stopped his car in front of a modest two-story house on the outskirts of town, and he and Kari (who had been happy to be seated in the front seat and not in the cage in the back) got out. Kari didn’t know what she’d been expecting, exactly—maybe something gloomy and neglected, with spiky plants and a permanent gray cloud overhead.

  But Bill Myers’s house was painted a sunny yellow, bordered by neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs, with a gravel driveway that led up to a closed freshly painted garage. The front door had aromatic rosemary bushes on either side, and bright red geraniums filled planters in front of the two windows that faced the street.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Kari said, looking at the house. “Are those plastic flamingos under that tree?”

  Richardson gave a barking laugh. “I know. It wasn’t what I was expecting either. Either Myers kept the house exactly the way it was when his wife left him five years ago, or he had a serious personality disorder. Don’t worry, though. The inside isn’t quite this cheerful.”

  “Thank goodness,” Kari muttered. Trying to reconcile this pleasant home with the distinctly unpleasant man she’d met was giving her a headache.

  Luckily for her peace of mind, the inside was distinctly gloomy. It was clean enough, and there was nothing obviously negative about it, but it definitely lacked the charm of the outside. The entryway was bare except for a small table with a brass bowl on it, presumably for keys and things, and a plastic mat that held two sets of shoes and a pair of winter boots.

  The living room was almost as stark. A gray suede couch faced a gigantic wall-mounted television, and matching gray curtains hung over the windows, blocking the view of the outside world. It was like being inside a cave. Shelves on the wall held rows of paperback books, mostly old westerns and a few mysteries. There was, in fact, a cactus on one windowsill, and a few rather gloomy seascapes hung on the walls.

  If Myers had spent his ill-gotten gains instead of simply squirreling them away until his retirement, it certainly hadn’t been on his décor. The house already smelled stale and disused, even after this brief amount of time, although the faint scent of cigar lingered from an ashtray near the couch.

  But Kari’s eyes were immediately drawn to the antique desk in the corner. It had a standing lamp with a green glass shade next to it, and an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair pulled up in front of it. A number of small cubbyholes on the left were filled with various pieces of paper—probably bills and other such debris from daily life. Some of the cubbies were empty, since the police had taken anything they deemed of interest, and a dust-free spot on the desktop marked where a laptop had once rested.

  Sheriff Richardson cast a dubious eye in that general direction. “I don’t know, Ms. Stuart. We searched that desk pretty thoroughly for anything that might have a bearing on Myers’s murder. There didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. And my computer guys said there were no files of any interest on his laptop either. Just normal emails and business records.”

  “Ah,” Kari said, pulling out the chair and dropping to her knees so she could feel around underneath. “But you didn’t have Marge Farrow to let you in on the secret.” She held her breath, hoping that Marge hadn’t just been having one last laugh on the woman who put her in jail.

  Her searching fingertips slid over rough wood for a minute before sinking into two slight depressions about twelve inches apart. If she hadn’t known to look for them, she might not have even picked up on the difference in textures and depth. But now she mentally crossed her fingers, said a brief prayer, and pressed.

  Nothing happened.

>   So she pressed a little harder, and the ancient mechanism gave a subtle click, followed by the tiniest of creaks as the hidden section fell open. The book inside practically slid into her waiting hands.

  Heart beating fast, Kari placed the notebook carefully on the top of the desk. The sheriff came up behind her to peer over her shoulder at it.

  “Huh,” he said. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Kari finally let out her breath. “Yeah, me too.”

  It didn’t look like much. It was an old-fashioned-looking leather-bound book. The black covering had faded a little and was worn around the edges as if it had been handled often. It smelled ever so slightly musty, although that might have been from the compartment where it had been stored rather than the book itself.

  “Doesn’t look like much,” Richardson said. “Hardly worth risking your life for, I’d think.”

  “That depends on what’s inside,” Kari said. She opened the notebook slowly to reveal lined pages covered with small blocky handwriting and neat columns of numbers. Jackpot!

  The page they were looking at had a date at the top from about four months before. Underneath that there were three names, with addresses and phone numbers; another name, presumably of an animal; and a note for each one. For instance, the first example said:

  Bob McCoy, Reinbold Road, “Fang” (terrier-Chihuahua mix, 4 years old), loose dog without license or tags/first offense. $20 fine.

  In pencil at the end of the line, the same hand had written, return in a week for repeat.

  Sure enough, when Kari flipped forward to the page that was dated a week later, the same name and dog appeared, with the notation loose dog without tags/second offense. $40 fine.

  Richardson shook his head. “I can’t believe he wrote all this down. I can’t decide if it was arrogance or some sort of obsessive-compulsive behavior.”