A Shot in the Bark (A Dog Park Mystery) (14 page)

"You sound so very serious. As you can see, I'm heading out right now. I'd be glad to help you if I wasn't on my way to class. You'll have to move your car."

"Mrs. Laroux, I'm Officer Davis," Brent said, "It's important that we interview you. We can do it here or at District Five. I know you want to be cooperative."

"What could possibly be so important that it can't wait until later?" Her sweet tone had Peter wondering if she had Southern Belles in her family tree.

"Murder, Mrs. Laroux," Brent shared apologetically.

"What are you talking about? Whose murder?"

"Luthor Morrisey's."

Peter eyed her carefully. She appeared surprised but not overly disturbed. He wondered if botox was interfering with her facial expressions.

"I thought Luthor shot himself."

Peter joined this delicate battle of wills. "We have reason to believe otherwise."

"Detective Dourson," her voice, still sugary, had steel beneath it. "I've told you everything I know."

"Actually, you haven't. Here on the front lawn? Inside? Or at the station?"

"Inside," she snapped, losing her coquetry. She led them to her living room. "Please sit." Her tone was ironic, bordering on derisive. A young Hispanic woman was dusting. "Rita!" Her voice now razor sharp. "I'm sure you have shopping to do." Experienced in her mistress's moods, Rita left without comment.

Catherine eyed them once she had seated herself. "What is so important that you had to invade my home and disrupt my day?"

Ah, Peter thought, she's gone on the offensive. "Mrs. Laroux, you surely understand that when facts surface which contradict what we've been told, it's vital to seek clarification as soon as possible."

"How do you know Luthor was murdered?"

Again on the offensive, Peter noted. "Just a moment, Mrs. Laroux, I need to record this conversation. This protects all of us from misunderstandings."

She watched him with slitted eyes and tight lips. Caesar and Cleo padded in and silently sat where they could observe the detectives, looking like a pair of baleful dolls from a horror movie. 'Creepy,' Peter thought.

Once the recorder was set up, Catherine demanded again, "How is Luthor's death murder?"

"We're not at liberty to say, Ma'am," Brent responded.

"Call me Mrs. Laroux if you must, but do not call me Ma'am!" Catherine snapped.

"No, Ma'am," Brent replied, no irony intended. Peter caught the laugh in his throat before it could erupt.

"And what does all this have to do with me?"

"As you can imagine, we are now going over all our interviews. When I spoke with you before, you stated your contact with Luthor Morrisey was limited to the park and that you had met him there and did not know him very well."

She lifted one eyebrow, giving him a disdainful look, no doubt honed by years of intimidating underlings. "And?"

"His phone records suggest otherwise."

"Do tell." She attempted boredom here, but Peter could see a hint of fear around the edges.

Brent took over here. "Please explain, Mrs. Laroux, why you called Luthor Morrisey several times a week, up until three months ago."

"That," her mien remained icy. "Should be obvious."

"We'd like to hear your explanation, for the record."

"We had an affair."

"How long did this affair last?"

"Two years, give or take."

"When did it end."

"You know when. Valentine's Day. When the calls stopped."

"What happened on Valentines Day?"

"He went away with Lia. Some little B & B, Ravenwood, I think."

"And?"

"He didn't take my call. He'd gotten serious about Lia, He wasn't entertaining anymore. So I moved on."

"Really?" Peter's voice held a deliberate note of disbelief.

Catherine narrowed her eyes, drilling Peter with a haughty look. "Really." The single word was as dry as the Mojave.

"How did you meet him?" Brent continued.

"He works . . . worked . . . at the art museum, installing exhibitions. I would run into him there."

"How often did you meet?"

"Why on Earth would you need to know that? It's been over a long time. That's all you need to know."

"Mrs. Laroux," Brent, eternally patient, continued, "perhaps you would like a lawyer who could explain to you what we need to know and what the . . .
definition
. . . of cooperation is?" He drew out the word and his Southern drawl intensified, somehow managing to be supremely polite and simultaneously insulting.

"Like Hell." She glared. "Bridge club."

"Bridge club?" Peter repeated.

"I met Luthor at that dump of his on bridge club days. My husband just assumed I was having cocktails with the girls afterwards. We met two, three times a month. Is that what you wanted to know?" The tilt of her head mocked. Him? Herself? Peter didn't know.

"Were you in the habit of giving him gifts, Mrs. Laroux?"

"Perhaps one or two. What does it matter?"

"The man's closet doesn't fit his income."

"Surely you don't think I wanted him with me dressed like an under-employed writer? I bought him a few things to wear. I enjoy dressing a man properly."

"Did you give him money, Mrs. Laroux?"

"Now, why would I do that?"

"Mrs. Laroux, right now we're just interviewing. However, if we're not satisfied with the results, we can always get a court order for your bank records. If we were to get those records, would we find cash withdrawals totaling twenty-five thousand dollars?"

She sat, stoney.

"Mrs. Laroux?" Peter inquired again.

Nothing.

"Of course, if we serve that court order, it's likely your husband will hear about it and be brought into this investigation," Peter continued.

"I can't believe it."

"Can't believe what, Mrs. Laroux?" Brent asked.

"He said he needed the money for gambling debts. I thought I was saving him from being beaten with a tire iron. And he just stashed it away. Lia said you'd found it in his apartment. I don't think he spent any of it. I didn't know he wanted me for his retirement fund."

"Did all the money come from you?" Brent asked.

"I don't know. I didn't keep track, did I? It's so insulting."

"What's insulting?" Peter asked.

Stoney silence again.

"Mrs. Laroux?" Brent prodded.

Nothing.

"Tell us about your dogs." Peter questioned.

"You think Caesar and Cleo did it?" The sarcastic quirk of her lips had a nasty edge.

"We just find it curious," Brent commented. "You . . . ah . . .
dump
. . . Morrisey and then buy a couple dogs and start . . .
frequenting
. . . the park where Luthor and his girlfriend are sure to be." Brent's accent, Peter thought, was a weapon, investing myriad implications in a single word in a way that could not be defended against.

" I needed new interests, Officer. Dogs love you and they're there when you need them. I can't say that about too many people, can you?"

"The dog park? Do Pomeranians require that much exercise?"

"They require socialization. The other dog parks are in Westchester and out by Lunken Airport. Or down in Covington. I'm not driving thirty miles just to socialize my dogs. Luthor did not concern me. We were friendly at the park, that's it. You act as if I were stalking him."

"
Weren't
you?" Brent's voice was soft as butter and sliced like ginsu.

"No, I was not." Her eyes flashed hot, angry. Peter could swear he heard a low growl, but that could have been Caesar. Or Cleo.

"Go ahead and ask me, Gentlemen."

"Ask you what?"

"I'm presuming you think I had something to do with poor Luthor's death. I can't imagine you'll leave here without asking me where I was that Saturday night. So ask me, then leave."

"All right, Mrs. Laroux, where were you the night Luthor Morrisey died?" Peter inquired.

"Right here in bed. Just like I told you last time we talked."

"You mean the same day you told me Luthor pulled twenty-five grand out of his change jar?"

"Was there a question in there, Detective Dourson, or are you just bent on humiliating me?"

"Mrs. Laroux?"

She quirked an eyebrow.

"Don't leave town." It was a poor excuse for a parting shot, but Peter could see from her expression that it had scored well enough.

Once outside, he turned to Brent. "You did really well in there. What do you think?"

"I think I wouldn't want my johnson anywhere near those sharp little teeth of hers."

Peter choked. "How do you think it went?"

"She was all sugar and spice until you called her on lying to you. I don't think calling her 'Mrs. Laroux' all the time helped any either."

Peter grinned. "No, it didn't." He looked back at the house. Catherine was glaring at them from the porch.

"We'd better leave before she has the car towed. Don't know if she'll be in the mood for yoga after her little chat with us."

"I suspect not, Brent."

Peter and Brent were silent as they got into the unmarked and pulled out. Once they turned the corner, Brent said, "I wonder if she dumped him after he started blocking her calls."

"Interesting thought. Why do you think he was blocking her calls?"

"Because there's not one call after February 13th, according to the records you showed me. Before that, there's up to ten calls in one week. I figure she thought he was her personal toy and after she'd bought and paid for him, how dare he cut her off. I bet she tracked him down after he blocked her calls on Valentine's Day. She doesn't strike me as the sort of woman who likes taking second place to another woman. She'd want her boy toy to jump every time she snapped her fingers."

"I think we're in agreement," Peter said. "Perhaps her demands became too much for Morrisey. They tell me it's an unwritten rule for cheaters that you don't talk to your partner in illicit lust on holidays. Still, you gotta wonder why Morrisey would ditch the goose that laid the golden egg."

"And why the goose bought herself a pair of furry bookends, if it wasn't to allow her to intrude on his life with Lia. That business about needing to go to the park to socialize her dogs is bogus. She lives in Clifton, all she needs to do is walk them down the street. Dogs everywhere here. I think she was too insulted to just fade away."

"True," Peter agreed. "The question is, was she insulted enough to put a bullet in his head and a gun in his hand?" He spotted a UDF convenience store and pulled in. They grabbed coffee and Krispy Kremes and headed back for the car.

"Why are we being so stereotypical?" Brent queried.

"It makes the public feel more secure," Peter deadpanned. He selected a cake doughnut, held the bag for Brent. Took a sip of his coffee and watched the traffic on Clifton Avenue heading up to the University. "So what do you think of Mrs. Laroux? Did she do it?"

"She's narcissistic enough to not let it go when her boy toy dumped her. She's got to be fairest of them all so if something destroyed that little fantasy, I can see her deciding he has to go. But I don't know if I see her faking a suicide."

"How come?"

"Three reasons. First, narcissists don't think they'll ever get caught, so I don't think she'd go to so much trouble to cover it up. She would have left finger prints on the shells, something."

"Okay."

"Second, while I can see her shooting him, I think she'd be in a real pique. I think she'd act her anger out. I don't think she'd stop at one bullet in the skull. I think she'd go for the family jewels, tattoo 'asshole' on his chest in bullet holes, something."

"And number three?"

"This is the weakest point. I know a lot of society ladies have learned to put on whatever face they need to suit the occasion, but I do think, under the botox, she was genuinely thunder-struck."

"Good arguments. So when are you going to go for the detective exam?"

Brent grinned, "Next month."

"Good luck with that."

"By the way, I read Morrisey's manuscript last night."

"What did you think?"

"I'm still trying to figure out why a doppelganger from another dimension would care what anyone does in our little corner of the universe, and what use he would have for Earth currency."

Lia pulled up the tarp and surveyed the stacks of finished pavers. Bailey peered under the plastic cover. "How are they doing?"

"We need to spray them down again, but they're doing fine. We're ahead of schedule, so we might be able to finish a bit sooner than expected."

"Let's not tell Catherine. If we say anything to her, she'll forget 'might' and hold us to a new deadline no matter what the contract says."

"True." Lia made a moue.

"Are you ready to pour the next batch?"

"I've got the tarps on the floor. You start mixing the topping concrete and I'll lay out and oil the first ten molds."

They worked efficiently. Once the topping was ready, they split it into two batches and used a combination of pouring, scraping with a spatula, and tapping the base of the molds to force the concrete down between the tiles. It was slow work.

Bailey finished her smaller batch and began adding water to the regular concrete that would form the body of the pavers. While she did this, Lia laid precut eleven inch circles of chicken wire into the molds for extra strength. Bailey scooped the new mix into the molds. Lia pulled the edge of a planed one-by-two across the top in a zigzag motion to level out the mix, scraping the excess over the rim into a gallon milk container with the top cut off. Bailey followed behind Lia, tapping the sides of the molds with a paint stirrer to cause trapped air to rise to the top. Lia started the row over again, using a trowel to 'finish' the concrete with strokes that resembled icing a cake. This step caused aggregate to sink below the surface.

While she did this, Bailey dumped the rest of the concrete onto a slag pile outside, dropped the tools into a five gallon pickle bucket half-full of water, and hosed out the tub she'd used to mix the concrete.