Morning Glory Circle (5 page)

“Well, good luck,” Scott said. “I hope you have a backup plan.”

“We won’t need it, you’ll see,” Stuart said as Scott walked away. “Your problem, Scott, is that you’re not a team player, and your attitude stinks. You need to start thinking positive.”

“I’m positive your idea stinks,” Scott said under his breath. Behind him, he could hear the sound of the fire truck ladder being raised to assist in the banner application process, and Stuart yelling encouraging words to the intrepid volunteer who was climbing above the traffic below.

When Scott got back to the police station Hannah was there, trying to talk his deputy Frank into taking a trembling, growling little dog she was holding. Frank was backing up and shaking his head.

“I have a small child at home, Hannah, no way.”

Hannah turned as Scott came in, and he got a better look at the dog.

“What is that?” he asked.

“She’s a Chihuahua mixed with some other things. Isn’t she cute?”

Scott shook his head sadly as the little dog pulled its lips back to show two full rows of small, pointed teeth, and growled at him like a rabid chipmunk.

“Mixed with piranha, maybe,” he said.

“Ah, come on now,” Hannah said. “You aren’t afraid of an itty bitty wittle thing like this.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth when the small dog threw a wild, writhing, screaming fit, and Hannah quickly stuffed it back into its crate.

“Where’d you get the little precious?” Scott asked.

“I know. She’s awful, isn’t she? I traded four pit bulls for her to a no-kill shelter in Maryland.”

“Four pit bulls.”

“They were raised to fight and weren’t nearly as vicious. I thought I was getting the better deal.”

“It seems like she might need some extra work,” Scott said.

“Or an exorcism,” Hannah said. “Maybe I’ll try Father Stephen.”

“Father Stephen’s a cat person. I don’t know who would want to take that on,” Scott said.

“It would have to be someone hard as nails and mean as a snake,” Frank said.

“Too bad Theo’s dead,” Scott commented.

Hannah suddenly looked as though a light bulb had come on over her head.

“See ya!” she trilled as she went out the door with the dog in the crate.

Scott spent some time cleaning off his desk, considered addressing the station’s current budget deficit, and then decided that was too depressing. He couldn’t quit thinking about Margie and wondering where she was. He knew he was more likely to get a lead on her by walking around town asking for the latest gossip, and even though that was against his nature, he decided to try it.

He left the office and walked down to the service station to see if his friend Patrick wanted to shoot hoops later, but got a chilly reception and a ‘no, too busy’ brush off.

‘This is the price I have to pay,’ Scott thought to himself. ‘Now that I’m the chief of police I have to get used to the fallout from making unpopular decisions.’

Scott had cleared out the Rose and Thorn the previous night when they went way beyond fire code capacity due to a busload of rowdy tourists from one of the ski resorts. Fire Chief Malcolm Behr, who should have been the one to make the call, was unfortunately one of the more drunken revelers in the bar at the time, so he had a conflict of interest. Patrick, the bartender on duty (and primary tip recipient), was not too happy about losing the extra business. It looked like he wasn’t over it yet.

Scott went over to the veterinary clinic to see Dr. Drew Rosen, but the office was still closed. The yellow crime scene tape was no longer up but he still wasn’t open for business. There was a “Help Wanted” poster in the front window with Drew’s telephone number on it. Since Theo’s murder took place in the back room of the clinic the doctor was having trouble finding a receptionist. It didn’t help that the pay was low and the patients often pooped on or bit the help (and sometimes did both).

Scott walked down to Little Bear Books. Maggie was behind the front desk, talking on the telephone and holding what looked like a tame version of the little dog Hannah had just been trying to pawn off on Frank. The dog seemed calm and content now, curled up in the crook of Maggie’s arm with one of her long red curls draped over its little head. As soon as she got off the phone, Maggie gave Scott a look that reminded him of her mother Bonnie, complete with a “don’t you start with me” eyebrow raise.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Mary Margaret?” he asked.

Maggie rubbed the little dog under the chin with the crook of her finger and it looked up at her adoringly.

“I’m dog sitting for Hannah while she goes on a house call with Drew. She was pretty desperate.”

“Just dog sitting, huh?”

“I’m well aware of Hannah’s tactics, but she wouldn’t dare try them on me.”

Scott reached out to pet the dog, which now looked so docile, and it bared its teeth at him.

“Here now,” Maggie hissed at the dog, in a perfect imitation of her mother. “I’ll not be having that.”

The little dog closed its eyes and snuggled against her generous bosom, but Scott thought he detected a brief warning glance in his direction, and the tip of one long, sharp tooth was still sticking out over its bottom lip.

“Have you seen Margie this morning?” Scott asked.

“No, what’s she done now?”

“Disappeared,” he said. “Went out early and wasn’t there this morning when Ruthie showed up to get Enid.”

“You think she’s run off?”

“It’s a possibility,” Scott said.

“Good riddance,” Maggie said. “I saw her yesterday and it was all I could do not to punch her lights out.”

“When was this?”

“It was early in the evening, out in front of the IGA. She asked me…” Maggie hesitated before continuing. “Well, she said something very rude and I told her off. Now that I know all the rotten things she’s done, I can hardly stand to look at her. She’s lucky not to be in jail.”

Scott wanted to stay longer, but the store was busy and he could tell he was in the way.

“I’m going to run across the street to ask about Margie at the grocery store,” Scott said, “but I’ll be back.”

As soon as he moved out of the way, senior citizen Mamie Rodefeffer slapped a book down on the front counter with such force that she startled Maggie, and caused the small dog to growl deep in its little throat.

“I don’t know why they make up such silly names instead of using normal names like Tom or Nancy,” Mamie complained.

The quarrelsome old woman fixed Maggie with a fierce glare, magnified through the thick lenses of her dirty cat-eye glasses. The over-excited, under-dressed couple featured on the cover of the offending article seemed to indicate a “pirate and convent girl” romance theme.

“‘Mamie Rodefeffer’ is a pretty unusual name,” observed Maggie quietly, as she rang up the paperback bodice-ripper.

Mamie, who had excellent hearing, waved her off in dismissal.

“I was christened Mary Margaret, which is a perfectly normal name, the same as yours and half the women in this town, it seems like. Mamie’s what my father called me.”

Maggie liked to tell her staff members that “Mamie” was short for “cockamamie.” She smiled as she thought it but didn’t say it.

“I hope it’s not too boring,” Mamie said, gesturing to the book. “I like lots of action.”

Maggie turned the book over and read aloud from the description on the back cover.

“‘Although determined not to be ensnared by Trinity’s smoldering green eyes, riotous golden curls, and long, silken limbs, nevertheless Captain Dominic Cordoba longed to probe the full depths of her wanton womanhood. In many ways still an innocent child, Trinity found this reckless pirate’s rough embrace awakened ravenous carnal desires hidden deep within her. The ecstatic joining of their savage passions threatened to drown them both in a whirlpool of liquid fire.’ Sounds pretty steamy to me, Mamie.”

“We’ll see,” Mamie said. “That last one I bought kept skipping over the juicy parts.”

Mamie finally seemed to notice the dog Maggie was holding. 

“What have you got there, Mary Margaret, some sort of baby possum?”

“It’s a dog. I’m watching him for Hannah while she runs an errand.”

The little dog gave Mamie a dirty look, one long fang still visible.

“Hannah Fitzpatrick!” Mamie snorted. “If she tries to pawn one of those mangy mutts off on me I’ll tie a rock to it and throw it in the river.”

“Her name’s been Hannah Campbell for ten years now and I doubt she’ll ask you,” Maggie said.

She handed the paperback and a receipt to Mamie, who thrust them down into one of the many ancient tote bags she carried everywhere she went.

“You fell for that one!” Mamie declared, pointing a knobby, blue-veined finger at the dog. “That little possum is yours for life!”

Maggie regarded the little dog and thought that maybe “Possum” would be a good name for it, if she kept it, which she probably wouldn’t.

Mamie patted her coat pockets to make sure she had her coin purse, house keys, and canister of pepper spray before taking up the ornately carved cane that was leaning against the counter and making her weaving, lurching way out of the bookstore. She knocked over a cardboard display of paperbacks with one of her swinging tote bags, and almost knocked over a customer who was entering the store.

“Your stock is getting old!” Mamie yelled back as she went out. “I’ve probably already read this one!”

The bookstore staff kept a list of what Mamie had read just so she wouldn’t duplicate purchases, and Maggie had consulted it before she rang up the sale. She added the most recent title to the long list and then went back to the romance section to straighten out the mess the older woman always made of it. The bells attached to the front door jangled and Maggie turned to find Scott walking back in with Trick Rodefeffer close behind.

“Out!” yelled Maggie, and Scott stopped in his tracks, thinking she meant him.

“Ah Maggie, aren’t you over that yet?” whined Trick, as he stopped just inside the door and looked to the left, where the list of people Maggie had banned from the bookstore was written on the dry erase board of shame.

“Not yet. Out!”

Maggie pointed to the door, and Trick sighed heavily before he slouched back out.

“What did he do?” Scott asked Mitchell, the pierced, tattooed, and dreadlocked young man who was working behind the coffee bar.

“Oh man, you should have seen it,” Mitchell said in a quiet voice, as he prepared Scott’s usual order of cappuccino and a blueberry muffin. “Trick brought a lady friend in here who was not Mrs. Trick, if you know what I mean. Maggie caught Trick slipping his hand up Not Mrs. Trick’s skirt and she went ballistic. It was awesome.”

“She doesn’t even like Mrs. Trick, I mean, Sandy.” 

“She told Trick this was not a whorehouse, and he was not to bring his whores in here.”

“Wow. What did Trick say to that?”

“He told Maggie she needed to get laid and lighten up. I thought she was going to have a stroke.”

“He’s lucky to be alive,” Scott said.

“Oh yeah, for sure,” Mitchell said admiringly. “She threw a teapot at him. It hit the wall over there and broke into about a million pieces.”

Scott took his cappuccino and over-sized blueberry muffin to his usual table at the end of the coffee bar, by the window. From this vantage point he could see a large section of Rose Hill Avenue, from the college entrance to his left to just beyond the diner at the crossroads to his right. He saw Trick outside, giving a young woman some money and then pointing at the bookstore. The young woman came in and ordered an extra large iced latte to go.

Hannah came in and plopped down next to Scott, then reached over to steal his muffin. He grabbed his plate out from under her hand and held it beyond her reach.

“You are not seriously thinking of leaving that dog with Maggie,” he said.

“Hey Mitchell,” she called out. “Scott’s buying me an extra large caramel latte with whipped cream and two cheese Danish.”

“Is that a bribe?” Scott asked her.

“Let’s just call it an alternative foster placement fee.”

“Alright, then. Where did you go with Drew?”

“To the Eldridge Inn. You know Connie’s old cat, the one who attacks all her guests? We had to put it down. Kidney failure. It seemed kinder to do it there, and Drew wanted someone to hold hands with Connie.”

“How’d she do?”

“She’s a mess, of course. You’d think someone that germ phobic wouldn’t have a pet in the house, but she adored that wicked old cat. It was eighteen years old.”

“Are the college president and his wife still staying there?”

“You mean since Gwyneth inherited the house they were living in and kicked them out in the snow? He is, but the wife’s gone to Florida to stay with their daughter. You know, I don’t think Connie and the president are getting along very well.”

“I hear she drives everyone crazy who stays there, following them around with sanitizing wipes and air freshener.”