A Shot in the Bark (A Dog Park Mystery) (20 page)

"I really like you, Peter. You're so solid. And I feel like you really see me. I just don't want to jump in and fall flat on my face. After Luthor I'm having a hard time trusting myself, my judgement. But this is really nice. I don't think I've ever felt so comfortable with anyone before, just being, you know?"

"I think I do." He gave her a squeeze. "Shall we go find some food? Patronize the famous sushi bar? Discover what other delicacies are in store for us?"

"Might as well. After all the agony Catherine's put us through, Bailey and I better get our money's worth tonight."

"I can't believe what you and Bailey accomplished, it's amazing. I hope I get to see it when the plants are established. You did a really great job." He used the excuse of the stepping stones to hold her hand, then kept it after they crossed the water.

They stopped by the sushi station, where the chef was slicing a California Roll for Brent. "So this is the lovely Lia. How'd you get mixed up with this clown?"

Lia gave Brent a flirtatious look. "It's the itty-bitty car and the big red nose. Gets me every time. I can't help myself. Are you having a good time?"

"Nice party. I've met a few of your friends. Some guy named Terry in a wheelchair. Is he for real?"

"'Fraid so," Lia and Peter said in unison.

"He said he was helping you find a gun. Said something about how he thought he remembered seeing it before, but it turned out it was only some weird brand of air pistol."

Peter shook his head. "Barely out of the hospital, and he's already back on the case."

"Bailey was suggesting that she bring in some of her mystical friends and have a seance to get Luthor to tell us where he got the gun, then Terry went off on a riff about 19th Century table-tipping fraud. He offered to be in charge of manufacturing her special effects."

"Glad to hear his accident didn't slow him down any."

"Peter!" Lia scolded.

Nadine rounded a bush and spotted Lia. "Lia, have you seen Catherine?" she asked, distractedly.

"Not recently. What's wrong?"

"It's Marie and Terry. They're at it again."

"Surely not."

"Surely yes."

"How are Catherine's other guests taking it?"

"They're appalled, of course. Charlie's been looking for Catherine, but I don't think he's found her yet. I've got to put a stop to this somehow. It's just not right, it's a party, for Heaven's sake." She stalked off towards the band, shaking her head and muttering to herself.

Peter frowned, mentally gearing-up into cop-mode. Lia saw his face, read his mind. "Sorry, Detective, you may be the long arm of the law, but there's not a thing you can do." She gave him an appraising look and sighed, " I suppose you'll have to see for yourself."

She took him by the hand and led him around to the crowded deck. They pushed through to the center. Terry sat in his wheelchair, facing off with Marie. Terry's eyes were predatory slits behind his wire-rim glasses. Marie's head was canted to a dangerous angle, her eyes narrowed, her magenta bangs a bold stroke of defiance. Catherine's other guests were slack-jawed and gaping.

Marie spoke first, "Sarah Palin filed a complaint of sexual harassment against Dick Cheney for talking about her enormous rack."

"Oh, really?"

"But it didn't go anywhere. Turns out he was talking about the antlers on the last moose she bagged."

Terry grunted in a mild acknowledgment of the hit. He leaned forward and gripped the arm rests of his wheel chair. "In the Eighties, when Ronald Reagan was president, Bob Hope and Johnny Cash were still alive. Now we've got Obama, no Hope and no Cash.

Marie snorted derisively. "Why didn't Sarah Palin cross the road?"

Terry rolled his eyes in an attempt to display of boredom. "Gee, I don't know. Why?"

"She had a new laser-scope and it wasn't necessary."

"What will we have when they put Obama's face on a quarter?"

"I don't know. What?"

"Finally, 'Change you can believe in.'"

"Why did Sarah Palin bleach her hair?"

"No idea."

"It was time to shoot dinner and it was snowing outside."

Donna sidled up to Lia and Peter. "They have an audience. I don't think there's any stopping them."

A rail-thin, cultured blond leaned over. "How long will they keep this up? This is unbelievable!

"It could be hours," Donna moaned.

The blond shook her head. "It's like a train wreck. I can't help watching."

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Lia asked.

"Yes, in a very weird, sick way," the blond said, shaking her head.

"They score points, you know," Donna added.

"Seriously?"

"They can't repeat a joke and the one who runs out first has to buy at the next Burger-Mania lunch. Right now, I think Marie is winning."

"And what do you get for putting up with it?"

Donna smiled, "I get Terry."

Just then, the music stopped. After a moment of dead silence, a single drum started the familiar rhythm of the Conga. The sound got louder, as if it was moving closer. A tambourine joined in, then a cowbell. Slowly the crowd parted. Paul Ravenscraft, the band's bearded drummer, appeared carrying a djembe in an improvised parade harness as he rapped out the syncopated siren song. Nadine clung to the waist strap of his harness with one hand while she shook the tambourine with the other. She waved the noise-maker at Lia and Peter in a "come on down" gesture. Catherine gyrated behind Nadine with the cowbell, giving an extra twist to her hips on the downbeat. Jose, Bailey and Brent were behind her. Brent gave a "what the heck" shrug as he shuffled with the beat. The Conga line snaked through the crowd, picking up dancers as it moved along.

Lia grabbed Peter's hand and pulled him towards the expanding train of party guests.

"Must we?"

"You'd rather listen to bad Obama jokes?"

"Good point." He joined the line behind Lia, settling his hands on her hips. He decided this was much better than questionable political humor. The line circled the garden, then took a serpentine path around the house. The crowd around Marie and Terry dissipated, absorbed into the dance. Lia looked back at the deck. Terry was good-naturedly banging on the cowbell while Donna pushed his wheelchair around the deck in time with the music.

The line began to zig-zag across the flagstone patio, filling up the make-shift dance floor. Paul rejoined his bandmates as other instruments started to play. The band segued into the softly pulsating rhythm of an original tune. Lia turned around, into Peter's arms.

Peter froze. "You know, Kentucky boys can't dance."

"Do Kentucky boys keep time?"

"That we do."

"What if we just stay like this and keep time? You just have to sway a little. It's so crowded, nobody will notice us anyway." She wrapped her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes. Peter thought maybe Kentucky boys did dance, just a little.

Peter left Lia surrounded by high-maintenance women from Hyde Park and Amberly Village. It was all in the fingernails, he thought. He found fake fingernails a repellent reminder that some people had more money than sense. Money enough, perhaps, to commission a garden of their own? He figured the cooing was a girl thing and headed over to the bar for a beer, promising to bring a mohito for Lia. He pried Bailey away from Anna and sent her back with the mohito. As long as there was cooing, she might as well get some. Better her than him.

He found Brent, Jim, and Jose talking to a bear of a man who was Catherine's husband, Leo. Leo was a Steelers fan, in opposition to 90% of Cincinnati. He stated that only the brain-dead held to home-town loyalties in the face of superior skills and a solid winning record. Jim replied that true love is unconditional. Brent said he didn't care too much one way or the other, as long as he didn't have to go around calling himself a 'Cheesehead,' which was the fate of Cincinnatians who chose Wisconsin over Pittsburgh in the last Superbowl. Jose thought this was funnier than it deserved to be. When Leo asked what his game was, Peter suggested that baseball was a real thinking man's sport and turned the conversation to the Red's current season, the Reds being much easier to love than the Bengals.

He was sitting on the deck steps, enjoying the star-lit sky when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "There are severe penalties for deserters," Lia announced, mock-stern.

"How can I be a deserter when I sent you reinforcements and a mohito?"

"With that crowd, I needed tequila shots. Flaming tequila shots."

"I thought they were fans?"

She sat down beside him, placed a hand companionably on his knee. "They were nice enough. Socialites aren't my usual cup of tea, but I can stand it when they're talking about how wonderful a customized garden sculpture would look in their yard."

"So do you think you'll get some future business from this?"

"We'll see who's actually willing to buy. I especially liked Angie. She says she wants something designed to mark the solstice and equinox points, some kind of mosaic, Stone Henge-y thing. I think that's mostly to out-do Catherine."

Peter affected a huge sigh. "So young to be so suspicious."

"Hah. Says the man who wouldn't stick around to listen to it. But maybe one of them will come through. That or maybe someone will get a jones after they see it during the annual garden tour next month. It was nice of you to send Bailey over."

"I just figured you might like some back-up."

"It made it easy for me to make sure she got her share of the credit. And I think she's going to get some landscaping work out of it. So thank you."

Peter shrugged, took a pull on his beer. "No biggie."

"So how are you enjoying the party?"

"It's been nice. I met Leo."

"He's a force to be reckoned with, isn't he?"

"He's something. Brent and Jose seemed to have hit it off." He looked down and found Lia's hand in his.

"Really?" Lia's raised eyebrow mirrored Peter's own disbelief at this odd combination.

"Kid you not. Mr. Atlanta Metrosexual meets the West Side's Slider champ."

She shook her head. "How will they ever find a bar where they both can drink?"

"One of life's great mysteries. They may have to settle for Bar-B-Que and ice tea. Terry's been giving astronomy lectures." He gestured with his long-neck. "That big W up there is Cassie-something-or-other."

"Cassiopeia. The queen so vain the gods decided to punish her by giving her daughter to a sea monster."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"Greek gods are not big on fair. So what did you have planned for the rest of the evening?" She gave his hand a little squeeze.

Peter contemplated this question while he took a pull on his beer. "My dance card appears to have a few vacant spots on it."

"Not surprising, since you don't dance. What say I say my good-byes and you say your good-byes and you swing by my place? We can see about filling those spots on your dance card."

"Sounds fair to me."

Lia stood up, tugged on his hand and pulled him up. "Ain't nothin' fair about it, Kentucky Boy."

Peter rolled over and snagged his phone off the bed-side table. He froze for a moment, confused by a fringed, amber lampshade. Slivers of daylight revealed unfamiliar slashes of color. He shook his head, remembered where he was, and smiled. Then he looked at the screen. Groaned. Dispatch. The time was 6:43 a.m. Shit. Thank God he only had a few beers last night. A hangover after less than 5 hours sleep would be murder. He sat up and flipped the phone open. "Dourson."

"Detective, we have a suspicious death at 843 Hosta Terrace. You flagged that address on one of your cases. I know this is your day off, but I thought you would want the call."

"Thanks. Who's the deceased?"

"Her name is Catherine Laroux."

"I'll be right there." He rolled over and looked at Lia. Should he tell her? What a way to spoil the mood. Not yet. She'd find out soon enough. He stroked her hair.

"Mmmph"

"I gotta go."

"Do you have to?" she murmured, half asleep.

He nuzzled her neck. "Yeah. Work." Nipped her earlobe.

She turned her face so that their lips met. "See you later, Kentucky Boy," she breathed into his mouth.

By the time Peter was dressed, Lia had fallen back asleep. So much for romance, he thought, and kissed her on the back of her head as he left.

Peter winced when he saw crime scene investigators tromping all over the labyrinth. He ducked under the yellow tape, flashing his badge at the officer posted there, and was directed to the center of the maze. He sighed as he saw the path, established by other officers, cutting straight through the garden. He knew he couldn't walk Lia's mosaic path because it might contaminate evidence, but he regretted the damage to the plants. Then it occurred to him that he was more concerned about the garden than he was about Catherine. Maybe because he never met a flower who would sleep with its friend's boyfriend, if flowers had boyfriends, which they probably didn't, seeing as how pollen was delivered by bees. Kinda like getting sperm in the mail. A depressing thought which explained why all the flowers got along and gardens were such peaceful places. Nothing to fight over.

He spotted Catherine lying in the mulch at the edge of her koi moat, her silk caftan soaked and crumpled up around her legs, her halo of dandelion-fluff hair sodden and lank. Brent was already there, talking to Dr. Jefferson. "Amanda, Brent," he nodded, "What have we got?"

Amanda Jefferson was a sturdy black woman sporting a heavy mop of braids down her back. She stood up from where she had been kneeling by the body. "Can't say for sure until the autopsy, but it looks like a - no pun intended - garden variety drowning." Gardener showed up shortly after sunrise, found her floating in the pond here and hauled her out, then called us."

"Bailey? Bailey's here? Where is she?"

Brent pointed back towards the house. "She's on the deck. She's really upset."

"I imagine so. Do we have any idea about time of death?"