Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard (24 page)

My bathing method for him now was to coerce the dog into the tub where I soap him up, then use the shower extension to rinse him. He tolerates this, but he’s definitely not fond of it. I use his leash when I’m washing him because it gives me better control. I clipped it to his collar and led him into the bathroom. Smart? That dog’s a genius when it comes to bathing. He seems to know whenever I even think about putting him in the tub and sometimes he runs from me or tries to hide. Of course, Big Boy doesn’t play hide and seek very well. He can’t seem to grasp how large he is and that whatever he chooses to take cover behind usually leaves his back end exposed.

I man-handled Big Boy into the tub and convinced him to sit. He looked just like a black and white spotted Scooby Doo. I opened the liquid soap with one hand while holding tight to his leash up near his neck. Talking to him the entire time, I covered him with suds. That big dog looked kind of cute, almost fuzzy. Just as I reached for the shower extension, Big Boy barked at a deafening volume and jerked loose from my hold on the leash. I grabbed for him, but slipped on the tile. He took off running out of the bathroom, barking like a mad dog.

Big Boy loped from room to room, barking constantly, and stopping occasionally to shake in that funny, almost spastic, way dogs do when they’re wet and don’t like it. I darted right behind him, shouting his name and grabbing for the dog or the leash. My living room furniture is suede. Imagine that after it’s speckled with suds.

He dashed to the front door and pawed at it frantically, barking even louder. I finally caught his leash again. Possibly the least thought-out thing I could do was to open the front door, but I wasn’t thinking at all. I threw the door open and Big Boy flew through it. He pulled the leash from my hand and took off down the street dragging it behind him while I sputtered his name mixed with some prize kindergarten cussing.

I had a friend back in Columbia who used to say, “I couldn’t keep that dog under my porch,” every time she broke up with one of the smooth-talking, womanizing bad boys that always caught her attention. Well, I couldn’t keep this dog on my porch, in my yard, or on my street. I couldn’t catch him. He ran off, dragging his leash behind him. My brothers had warned me that I needed to have Big Boy neutered because I wouldn’t be able to hold him back if he encountered a female dog ready to mate. I wished I’d listened to them. Finally, I gave up and walked back to my yard.

Forget the kindergarten cussing. I let loose with a stream of at least college level, probably post-graduate, words that I wouldn’t want my daddy or brothers to know I’d ever heard of, much less said.

Somebody keyed my car—a 1966 vintage Mustang convertible, the only thing I’d received from my divorce because my then husband was saddled with a ton of student loans he’d borrowed during his medical school education while I fed and supported him. I’d grown to love this car which now wore long, deep scratches into both blue sides. Most of the cuts were unformed slashes, but a few of them formed letters that spelled words as bad as the ones that poured from my mouth and the words I’d seen painted on the Mother Hubbard’s Beer Garden tent.

I fingered the marks. They cut deeper than just into the paint. I had an idea that those gashes would be obvious even after the sides were sanded. No wonder Big Boy had been so rowdy in the tub. He probably heard whoever was in our yard vandalizing my car, and his sprint down the street was in pursuit of the culprit.

Trying hard not to cry, I went inside and called Wayne. I know not to dial 911 for anything that isn’t an emergency, and I wasn’t quite sure if this qualified. It was a crime, but no person had been injured, just my blue baby.

When I got him on the telephone, Wayne said, “It’s okay to call 911 to report something like a keyed car, but you can call me personally anytime. It doesn’t have to be a homicide and there doesn’t have to be a corpse.” He chuckled and assured me he’d come over himself.

I’ve already confessed that I wasn’t thinking very clearly. What if there was a body out there? With my track record, that wouldn’t be a surprise. I decided to go back to the car and check it more carefully, then try to find Big Boy.

Not a body in the back seat. Not a body in the trunk. No bodies anywhere, but a weapon on the driver’s seat—an ice pick, a regular ice pick like people used in my granny’s youth to chip ice blocks in old timey ice boxes before refrigerators became common.

Two patrol cars pulled up in front of the apartment. Wayne got out first, followed by a deputy. They inspected the Mustang.

“Somebody did a real job on this,” the deputy said. “Worst case of keying I’ve ever seen.” They looked at the ice pick lying on the seat, but neither reached for it.

“Callie,” Wayne said, “I can’t stay. Officer Aaron here is going to fill out the report. I got a call right after I talked to you.” He turned toward the deputy. “I know we would normally just do some printing ourselves, but with everything going on these days, call for forensics. We want this checked out thoroughly, especially that ice pick.” He hugged me casually around the shoulders and left.

“What does the sheriff mean about everything going on these days?” I asked.

“Just more vandalism than this town’s ever had before.” The deputy turned away from me and used his radio to call for assistance from St. Mary’s equivalent of CSI. Then he turned back and offered, “When we finish the report and the tech arrives, I’ll help you search for your dog.”

If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I
had
found a body in the car. The technician handled that ice pick as though it were a murder weapon. He photographed it from a dozen angles, fingerprinted it, and finally bagged it for evidence without ever touching it with his hands. His thorough examination of my car involved lots of photographs and black fingerprint dust.

“When you report this to your insurance adjustor, be sure to point out these holes in the roof of the car,” he told me and pointed to some spots so small I hadn’t seen them. Whoever had used the ice pick on the sides of the car had pierced openings through the ragtop cover.

Just as the deputy and technician prepared to leave, Jane and Frankie pulled into the driveway on their side of the duplex. My brother had forgiven me for slapping him and seemed genuinely concerned that something had happened to me that required law enforcement.

“What’s going on?” Frankie called as they got out of the truck.

“Somebody keyed my car and poked holes in the top,” I answered.

“It’s a wonder they didn’t flatten your tires while they were at it,” Frankie commented.

“I thought that, too,” the deputy said. “I’m thinking that whoever did this was scared off by the dog barking.” He turned toward me. “You said your dog barked, probably while this was happening, right?”

“Yes.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I didn’t want to look at my poor blue baby right then. I reached out for Jane’s hand. “What did the doctor say?” I asked.

“Who’s here?” she asked. “When we came up, Frankie said he saw policemen.”

“Just a sheriff’s deputy and a forensics technician. Somebody keyed my car.” I grinned at her and squeezed her hand. “What did the doctor say?” I repeated. “Am I going to be an aunt again?”

“We’ll talk about it inside. Give me ten minutes, then come over, and we’ll talk.” Using her cane, Jane took herself to the door, pulled her key from her pocket and let herself into her apartment. Frankie stayed outside talking to the deputy.

“I’ll help you look for Big Boy,” my brother told me, but that proved unnecessary. Big Boy came home with his tail between his legs, squatted behind the tree to tee tee like a girl dog, then went to the front door.

I hadn’t realized what he was doing, but my dog had tried to protect me and my car. I took him inside and gave him a banana MoonPie.

• • •

“I’m not pregnant. I’m crazy.” Jane’s staccato words surprised me. I’d decided that her moodiness, excess hunger, and morning sickness at all times of day meant she was going to have a baby. Her refusal to see a doctor before now had convinced me she just wasn’t ready to deal with it. She’d always said that motherhood wasn’t for her.

“That’s not what the doctor meant,” Frankie said, not in a mean way, but not in a loving tone either.

“He said it in nicer words, but what do you think he was insinuating when he advised me to see a counselor? You know what kind of ‘counselor’ he was talking about? A head doctor. A shrink.”

“Calm down,” I said, hoping to quiet her agitation while thinking about John and wondering if counseling was helping him.

“I don’t want to calm down,” she argued.

“It’s that job of hers, that Roxanne. That’s why she’s always so stressed.” Thank heaven Jane couldn’t see that smug, superior expression on Frankie’s face.

“My job pays my bills,” Jane snapped. “And if there had been a baby, Roxanne would have had to pay for it.”

“I work,” Frankie defended.

“Whenever you feel like it.”

I couldn’t stand up for my brother on that one. He won’t hold a regular job. Somebody always hurts his feelings or makes him mad, so he quits and works with Daddy when he needs him and does odd jobs for other people whenever they’re available. John has suggested Frankie start a handyman business, but Frankie would rather live day to day.

“You’ve had physical symptoms of pregnancy,” I offered. “What did the doctor say about that?”

“He gave me pills to regulate my cycle, and, like I said, he wants me to see a counselor.”

“And that’s what we’ll do.” I’ve never wanted to think one of my brothers could be a control freak, but I have to admit, Frankie sounded too authoritative when he said that.

“What can I do for you?” I asked. “Want me to order a pizza or something?”

“No, what everyone can do for me is go away. I’d like to be alone for a while. At first, I hated the idea of having a baby. I know visual handicaps don’t keep women from being good mothers, but I was afraid. What if something happened to it because I couldn’t see? What if I couldn’t buy what it needed because Frankie doesn’t have a regular job? There were all kinds of reasons why I didn’t want to be pregnant.”

She sniffled. “Now that I’m not going to have a baby, I wish I was. I know it’s not reasonable, but because I didn’t want children, I almost feel like I killed my baby.”

“You have to remind yourself that you didn’t
lose
the baby. There never
was
a baby,” I tried to console.

“So why am I so sad?” Jane paused. “What I’d really like now is for everyone to go away and leave me alone.”

“I’ll cook dinner,” Frankie offered.

“No, please just go to your father’s house and stay there tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Nothing Frankie or I said convinced Jane to change her mind. He left to go to Daddy’s with instructions to Jane, “Call me if you change your mind.” The problem was that even that sounded bossy.

21

Fully expecting to hear Jane crying through the night, I respected her wishes and went to my side of the duplex after Frankie left. Big Boy waited for me at my door with his leash between his teeth, and we headed outside for his business and a walk.

We were almost back to the apartment when the sheriff pulled up in his cruiser. “Hi,” he said. “I looked at the report on your car. You’re lucky the perp didn’t get to your tires. My deputy thinks Big Boy scared them off.”

“I wish he’d barked in time to scare them off before they did what they did,” I answered. “Then again, maybe he did, and I just thought he was mad about the bath. Why did the technicians make such a big deal with the ice pick?”

“Ice picks have been used for homicides. Used to be thought to be a weapon of the Mafia. I wondered if the ice pick in your car might have been used to kill the kid at the fair.”

“Was it?”

“I’ve been checking out a theft at a downtown church, but I did take time to call Charleston and ask the ME if that wound in the unknown’s back could have been made with an ice pick.”

“Could it?”

“Don’t know if it could have, but it didn’t. I felt like a fool when I remembered that the medical examiner recovered a .308 Winchester bullet that went from his back straight through to his heart. Barely stopped short of making an exit wound. I’m overworked and under staffed with all that’s going on in this town.”

“Maybe the ice pick didn’t kill him, but the fingerprints may lead to solving some other vandalism like the churches.”

“Robbing these churches isn’t simple vandalism. The one I was at tonight had a bunch of silver stolen—candlesticks, offering plates, communion ware—over two thousand dollars makes it grand theft.”

“I don’t know a dollar amount, but repairing my Mustang is going to cost big bucks,” I complained, “and the top will have to be patched, or probably replaced, unless I want to ride around with rain dripping on my head.”

“You’re right. Those holes will leak.”

Wayne followed Big Boy and me back to the duplex and stepped out of the cruiser. “I want you to be extra careful with all that’s going on these days.”

“And who saved whom?” I asked and pointed to the cast on his right hand. I knew that was dirty pool to remind him that I’d shot the man who smashed five of his fingers with a sledge hammer, but I did it anyway.