“And,” I said impatiently, “did you find anything else?”
“There was a lot of paperwork to plow through, and a lot of cross-referencing . . . I just didn’t have time to do it. Besides, if I remember correctly, it was getting close to lunchtime . . .” Kyle took another sip of coffee.
“In any case,” said Doug, “the end game was that your uncle needn’t have feared about the wildlife when we put up our house here. Our house is on the original foundation of the old Easty house. And it complies with all the legal ordinances and civil agreements. According to the law, your uncle’s place and ours are the only legal dwellings allowed on this land. To simply put it, all of God’s creatures can go about their natural business.”
“Except for Bobby,” remarked Marie-France, who abruptly looked away from us and dabbed her eyes with the bottom edge of her apron.
“Bobby?” I said.
“Marie-France’s little black dog . . . He was killed early this morning . . . by that thing out there—”
“Doug . . .” interjected Kyle, firmly, “we don’t want to travel down that road again.”
“Yes, Dear. We must leave it be,” concurred Marie-France while she muted a sniffle or two. “Bobby had a good and long life for a dog. He died protecting us. Let’s remember him at his best.” She gently wiped her eyes again. “Poor little guy . . . eleven years old he was, last month.”
“What do you mean that he died protecting you?” I asked out of curiosity.
I saw Doug straighten up in his chair, but before he got a single syllable out, Marie-France had started the narrative.
“Early this morning, about 5:30, or so, Bobby suddenly started barking at our back door. So, Douglas gets out of bed and lets him out to do his business; the poor fellow was getting old and—”
“ —Old Bobby and I,” interjected Doug, “were on similar bathroom schedules, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, we all do, Dear,” continued Marie-France. “We like to be proactive to avoid accidents. So, Douglas gets up to let Bobby out—”
“—And as soon as I opened the back door,” said Doug, “the little guy zipped off like a bat out of hell and disappeared into the darkness. I never saw him alive again.”
“After ten minutes or so, there was a blood-curdling yelp. We called for Bobby to come back inside, but . . . but he,” Marie-France’s eyes filled up. “Please excuse me. I must check on the pies in the oven.” Putting down her coffee cup, the heartbroken woman dashed off into the sanctuary of her kitchen.
“My wife was very attached to that animal,” said Doug Mapledale, apologetically. “When it got a little brighter and warmer outside, I grabbed my gun and went looking for Bobby. And it wasn’t long before I found him. He was just a lump of blood and fur by the ruins of the old estate. His head was crushed . . . Terrible . . . Marie-France and I buried his remains in the backyard. After that, I went out gunning for the thing that killed our little friend.”
“‘Crushed,’” I asked. “Bobby wasn’t, eh clawed or mauled?”
“There might have been claw marks. I don’t remember seeing any, though. To me, it looked as if the dog got thrown against the cement, his head crushed in the process.”
“At the chance of opening up a can of worms,” I asked, “do you really think that it was a catamount which killed Bobby?”
I saw that I earned dirty looks from my brother by asking that question.
“For an animal to fling a dog, with its teeth, hard enough to kill it, that animal must be large and powerful.”
“That is mere speculation on your part,” quipped Kyle before he devoured the chunk of cake on his fork.
“But,” continued Doug, “there are those gnawed carcasses of rabbits, raccoons, and woodchucks that I found scattered about over the past months.”
“A coyote, most likely,” mumbled Kyle with cake in his mouth.
“There was that chewed-up dead fawn I found by the road a few weeks ago.”
“It was probably hit by a car and became a four-course meal for local scavengers,” replied my brother, who, by then, was forking cake crumbs off of his plate.
“There are the sounds that Marie-France and I have heard—”
“Bobcat, maybe,” countered Kyle, “or trees rubbing against each other in the wind.”
“And those footprints in my garden,” said Mapledale, a little heatedly.
“Those dents in the dirt? The state game wardens had a different conclusion . . . possibly a fat coyote—not a catamount.”
“The tracks got distorted by the rain,” said Mapledale as he pulled out his cell phone from his pants pocket. “After I called those state guys, they took a day-and-a-half to finally get here.” Doug tapped his mobile phone several times. “But, I did take some pictures of the prints before the rain took its toll.”
Doug reached over the table and handed me his phone. “You take a look at these, and tell me what you think? Are those the prints of a catamount, or are they from a bobcat or even a coyote?”
“Sorry, Doug, I wouldn’t know a catamount’s paw print from —”
“—A bear claw,” cracked Kyle, giving me looks.
I took my brother’s jest with a grain of salt and wondered why I hadn’t just kept my mouth shut.
“You just take a look,” continued Mapledale. “A bobcat’s or a coyote’s foot is much smaller than a catamount’s.”
I took a peek at the picture, and I had no idea what I was looking at. “This is a picture of a paw print you found?” All I saw were some indistinguishable depressions in damp dirt. “Hmm.”
“Flip to the next one,” answered Doug. “I’m not the best photographer.”
With a swipe of my finger over the screen, another picture slid into view.
“That picture is better, isn’t it?” asked Doug with anticipation.
“Yeah . . . This looks like a paw print, all right.” I flashed the screen to Joe, who was quietly sitting next to me, sipping coffee.
“That it does.” Raising his left eyebrow as he gazed at the photo, Joe added, “That appears to be some type of paw print.” He leaned forward while still holding his coffee cup in both his hands and peered even more intently at the image. “But . . . and I say this not being an expert in the natural sciences nor to cast any dispersions on your discovery, Doug, but I wouldn’t know what kind of animal made this paw print. Nor could I say how big the creature was that made it. There is nothing in the photo to indicate to me any scale, except, maybe, that mangle bunch of roses in the background.”
“Roses?” said Mapledale.
“Yes, you said that you found this print in the vicinity of your garden.”
“That I did, Father, along its border. But we have a vegetable garden. I grow zucchini squash.”
“Then what is the red—”
“A half-eaten woodchuck.”
“Oh, . . . ooh.” Joe slowly sat back into his chair and returned to sipping his coffee.
I flipped through to the next photo, which clearly revealed a half-eaten carcass of some kind of furry mammal. With another finger flick, a new picture flashed onto the screen, and this one made my heart skipped a beat.
“Have you seen anything like that before?” asked Mapledale from the other side of the table, noting my reaction. “You don’t see that every day.”
“No,” I answered as my jaw dropped. I had stumbled upon not a scene of carnage but a nude picture of Marie-France thoroughly enjoying an outdoor shower by some palm trees. My fingers quickly moved on the phone to undo what I had done before any prying eyes could see Marie-France in all her glory. But I had no such luck.
My ineptitude with electronic devices had me suddenly looking at both Marie-France and Doug—naked as a pair of peeled potatoes. Then another picture popped up showing the two of them arm-in-arm, wearing only their smiles and gleefully waving at me from some sun-drenched beach. Frantically, my fingers fumbled about the device to reverse the slideshow. And in my haste, I inadver
tently switched the phone off.
“I’m sorry,” I said, belying my relief. “I’m not good with these gizmos.”
I returned Doug’s phone saying, “Are these the only pictures of your discovery?”
“Just the three. The other pictures on the phone are from our vacation in the Caribbean a few weeks ago. I still have to transfer them.”
“Yes,” I said knowingly, “I could see that Marie-France enjoyed the trip. You should transfer the pics into your private collection before you lose track of them.”
Suddenly, Doug’s face went pale like he had just remembered leaving the stove on.
“Did you have good weather on your trip?” asked Joe innocently.
“Great weather,” Doug said, somewhat haltingly. “The trip was a second honeymoon for us. We had a wonderful time.” Mapledale quickly tucked his phone away in his pants pocket and asked us if we wanted more cake.
It was then that Marie-France returned to us.
“Father,” said the red-eyed woman, “would you mind saying a few words at Bobby’s gravesite before you leave?”
Whether or not it was proper for a priest to say words for the interment of a dead dog, I do not know. But I did know my friend well enough that he would never refuse to offer comfort to those in pain if it were in his power to do so. It was a quality that Joe had which I always felt that I lacked.
#
CHAPTER 11
It wasn’t long before we all found ourselves at a far corner of the Mapledales’ fenced-in backyard, standing shoulder to shoulder over Bobby’s tiny grave. The sun had broken through the morning clouds and threw rays of golden light upon the makeshift wooden cross that marked the dog’s final resting place.
As Joe improvised a homily about St. Francis of Assisi’s affection for God’s creatures, my eyes wandered upon a small in-ground pool located at the other end of the yard. Rectangular in shape, I estimated the pool to be about twelve feet long and eight feet wide. The pool was too large and too expensive-looking to be a wading pool. But it appeared to be too small to serve as a swimming pool. Was it a hot tub, I wondered. Eventually, curiosity had gotten the best of me. So, after respects were paid to old Bobby, I asked Doug about it.
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it? It’s a lap pool.”
“A lap pool?”
“Yeap, and it’s heated,” Mapledale said with pride.
“Heated, you say.”
“Swimming is good for my back muscles,” Mapledale continued. “I want to keep active, doing laps, as long as I can during the year.”
“I enjoy the pool too,” remarked Marie-France as she walked up to her husband and lovingly embraced his arm. The trauma of the day had appeared to have loosened its grip on her. “There is nothing more relaxing for me than lounging in nature’s sunlight and a good swim.” She underscored her thoughts with a smile . . . a smile similar to one in her photos.
“Isn’t the pool a bit small for swimming?” I remarked as I forced my thoughts from Doug’s cell phone pics to his backyard amenity.
“Lap pools needn’t be very large or deep,” said Mapledale, who then eagerly walked us over to a narrow end of the pool. He squatted at its edge and pointed at what a four-foot-long grate several inches below the water line, located in the sidewall of the pool. “From that vent, a jet stream of water can be switched on to various strengths, letting me swim against the current in place.”
“How strong of a current?” I asked.
“Pretty strong. The current could knock someone off his feet at full force if he were standing within three feet of the vent. Yeah, I try to swim at least four times a week. It’s very therapeutic.”
No doubt. Though Doug’s eyesight and hearing were waning, his body looked to be in relatively good shape.
In any case, the time had come for us to say goodbye and to take our leave. As we walked down the driveway, I had a few questions for Kyle.
“Hey Kyle,” I said, as diplomatically as I could, “back at the house, you said that Uncle Raymond died of a stroke? Why did you say that?”
“Because that’s what the county’s ME told me. Poor Uncle Raymond died of a stroke and not by a blow to the head, as I . . . er, we thought initially. The bash to his head happened after he died, apparently.”
“When did you learn—”
“As I said, I got a call from the doc while you and Peterson were spelunking down in Uncle Raymond’s secret tunnel.”
“And you thought it best to spring that piece of information on me in front of the Mapledales?”
“Sorry,” said Kyle, somewhat sarcastically. “But I got distracted. You see, just when I got the call about Uncle Raymond’s death, I had to rescue my brother who was . . . being shot at and in the process dropped my phone and—”
“—How about right after my rescue, when everything was resolved, eh?”
“What can I say? It slipped my mind. I was doing my job, conducting police business as the county’s primary public safety officer . . . concerning myself with the health and safety of those I serve . . .You know, it’s been a rough time for all of us,” said Kyle with an apologetic sigh.”
“Okay, okay, okay . . . no harm was done,” I said, ending the discussion. My opinion about my brother’s lack of consideration and judgment would have to wait. He was too defensive at the moment to appreciate any guidance that I had to offer. Besides, a more intriguing question had just presented itself to me. Sensing that everything was copacetic between us, I asked, “Have you given any thought as to why Uncle Raymond was whacked on the head after he was dead?”
“That very thought crossed my mind too,” said Kyle pushing up the brim of his hat.
“Maybe he sustained the injury when he hit the floor,” interjected Peterson.
“Maybe . . . but not likely,” countered Kyle, who started to look unusually pensive.
“How so?” asked Joe.
“Uncle was discovered face down in front of his refrigerator. His injury was on the back of the head, his wound clearly in sight. The blood trickled down his head to the floor . . . No, I think he was hit from behind. Pretty much as Claire described it. If the blow didn’t cause his death, it was inflicted very soon after it.”
“Why hit a dead man?” I asked.
“Maybe the intruder hated the old man and couldn’t help himself,” blurted Peterson, ignorant to the effect of his words.
“Maybe the assailant didn’t know that Uncle Raymond was already dead,” calmly suggested Joe, as he gave an admonishing glance to the deputy.
“Or maybe . . . ” Kyle never finished his thought as we reached the end of Mapledale’s driveway. He looked about the mountain vista around us as if he were searching for a flight of geese. Then his eyes settled on something some yards away—the Mapledale mailbox. Then my brother muttered again, “ . . . Or maybe—”
It was an amusing edifice to see on a country roadside. Made of wood and five feet in height, this carved bear stood on its hind legs, greeting passersby. Its toothy grinning snout had a little door that provided access to the creature’s mouth for depositing mail.
Then my brother muttered again, “ . . . Or maybe—”
“Maybe what?” I said and waited. Impatiently, I asked again, “Or what?”
“Or maybe we are barking up the wrong tree.”
“The wrong tree! What tree? What are you talking about?”
“Maybe,” confidently expounded Kyle in a loud, pretentious manner, “there wasn’t any criminal activity involved with Uncle Raymond’s death at all.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Kyle,” I countered, unwittingly resorting to adolescent sibling banter. “Uncle Raymond may not have been killed by a blow to the head, but he was hit! Beating a dead person must be a crime, misdemeanor, or something, even in Vermont.”
All eyes were on Kyle, as I, and the others, anticipated my brother’s response, but none was forthcoming. Oddly enough, my brother just calmly stared at me, or, better put, calmly looked through me. A
self-satisfied smirk grew on his face, but he said nothing.
“Well,” I asked, annoyed and frustrated, “please explain, Brother Mycroft.”
My brother folded his meaty arms as if he were giving himself a hug. “Peterson,” Kyle began—his manner almost professorial—“remember the Christmas tree robbery a couple of years back, The Hyden Trees Case.”
The deputy snapped to attention; his trek down memory lane showed on his face. “I remember the case, but I don’t believe there was a case named—”
“It may have been called The Downs Rhodes Hundred Yards Case.”
Peterson’s eyes lit up, “Oh, The Downs Rhodes Hundred Yards Case! Yes, it was about the Hyden Trees Farm Caper.”
“That’s right. It was reported that a person, or persons, was snooping about the Hyden Tree Farm. The place was a little off from Mr. Rhodes place by the rock cutaway.”
“Right,” knowingly answered Peterson, who then abruptly began patting himself down in sort of a panic, “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I’ll have to go back to the Mapledale’s. I left the . . . patrol car keys there.”
“Peterson, you’d forget your head if it weren’t attached. Go on then; be fast about it. We’ll wait for you here.”
Peterson zipped off, and, with his leaving, my patience ran out.
“Kyle! What does a Christmas tree robbery have to with Uncle Raymond?”
“It may have a lot to do with what has happened here today. Have you all seen this mailbox?”
I could not have cared less about the bear mailbox. Again I asked Kyle to explain the connection between a Christmas tree thievery and Uncle Raymond’s death, but he wouldn’t answer. Instead, he busied himself playing with the bear’s right ear that served as the mailbox’s flag.
Joe and Cobourne were at a loss for words. They merely exchanged worried glances among themselves, then with me, and finally to the object of Kyle’s attention. What was my brother doing, I asked myself?
“Kyle!” I said with enough, eh . . . gusto to get his attention—along with anyone else’s within fifty yards—“what in the world are you doing?”
The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery Page 12
