One Dog Too Many (A Mae December Mystery) (5 page)

W
hile Sheriff Bradley was meeting with Mae, Detective Wayne Nichols and Deputy Robert Fuller began “house to house” interviews with Ruby’s neighbors on Little Chapel Road. They arrived at the Ingram residence by 7:15 a.m. The houses were all located on large parcels of five acres or more. The Ryans on the north side and the Ingrams across the street had been Ruby Mead-Allison’s closest neighbors.

Wayne Nichols served as Chief Detective for Rose County and the neighboring counties on an as-needed basis. Deputy Robert Fuller aspired to be a homicide detective. He was of average height and weight, wore his scruffy golden-brown hair short and had gray eyes that could be piercing. His smooth skin
and owlish glasses made him look even younger than his actual age of twenty-six. Wayne would have preferred to work alone, but Ben insisted two people had to be present for all interviews. If he had to have a partner, Robert was certainly better than the laid-back Phelps. Fuller paid close attention to what was happening and often had astute observations to offer.

Wayne rang the doorbell.

Lucy Ingram answered the door looking more washed out than when he had seen her last. She wore pajamas and her feet were bare. Her light brown hair was wildly tangled. “Good grief, Wayne. You know I pulled a long shift last night. I didn’t even start work until nine and the ER was ridiculously busy. The ambulances were playing my song all night.”

Wayne knew Lucy’s job as an ER physician was extremely stressful. He admired how effectively she dealt with life and death situations day after day. They had been dating until a few months ago. A stab of remorse hit him
as he remembered how they had ended things.

“Sorry. I’m not here to ask you about the hit and run from last night. This is about your neighbor, Ruby Mead-Allison. I’m sure you’ve noticed the yellow crime scene tape we put up near her driveway.”

“Yes, I did. I wondered about it, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but Ruby was murdered. Her body wasn’t found until yesterday. I knew you’d be sleep-deprived, but we needed to talk to her neighbors as soon as possible.”

Lucy’s hazel eyes widened and she swayed where she stood. Wayne put a gentle hand on her shoulder and anchored her in place. The skin under her light pajama top was warm.

“How awful.” Her voice was quiet. “You two better come in. It’s cold out this morning. I’ll have the coffee going in a couple of minutes.”

They trailed Lucy’s slight form into her spacious home. The slate tiled entryway led into a gleaming new kitchen with stainless steel appliances, soapstone countertops, and a gray and silver tiled backsplash. Light streamed pitilessly through the oversized windows, highlighting the faint scars on Lucy’s intelligent face. She had never explained their origin. A lab accident? A fire? Maybe if they had managed to share such details, they would still be together, Wayne thought regretfully. But then he remembered Lucy’s words, accusing him of wanting to know everything about her while sharing none of his own background. She had been right. His past was sealed.

“This is the first time I’ve been in this room since you remodeled. The kitchen looks like a lab.”

“You’re right,” Lucy said with a half-smile. “I am what I am.” As a doctor, Lucy had once mentioned she preferred a simple, sterile environment at home as well as at the hospital.

They each took a chair around the clear Lucite kitchen table. A small crystal vase in the center held a few wilted daffodils but no water—another indication of the long hours she worked

“When was the last time you saw Ruby?” Wayne asked.

“The fifteenth, I think. Hang on. Let me get my cellphone.” She left the room briefly and returned to the kitchen carrying the phone and looking calmer. “I worked until nine and was home by ten. I remember now. I didn’t actually see Ruby that night, but there was a car in her driveway and her lights were on.”

“All right, good. Try to go back to that evening in your mind if you can. It’s been warm lately. Did you sit outside on your porch?”

“Yes. I was trying to get used to my shift change. This visit, by the way, is screwing me up again.” She glanced at Nichols and narrowed her eyes but then smiled as she shook her head.

“It’s not the first time my schedule has collided with yours, is it?” Wayne said with a grin.

Lucy turned to the
Deputy Fuller, who had been focused intently on their conversation. “Detectives make lousy boyfriends.”

“Or maybe ER physicians make lousy girlfriends,” Wayne said.

Robert shook his head, looking embarrassed “Please, can we get back to business?”

Lucy and Wayne exchanged wry looks.

“I sat out on my front porch until past midnight.”

“Can you see or hear much that goes on at the Mead-Allison residence from your porch?”

“Yes, I can. I often hear Ruby’s music, mostly her clients’ country songs. Sometimes I smell cigarettes, or something stronger,” Lucy raised her eyebrows. “If the wind is blowing just right, I can hear the sound of ice tinkling in glasses. I heard two people arguing that night but couldn’t make out what they said. It was Ruby and a man. She had a loud voice, so I know it was her, but the man was quieter. I didn’t recognize his voice. Then, later I heard the car pull out of her driveway.”

“What time was that?”

“Around eleven or eleven thirty.”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“Not for a while. Ruby probably went into the house and shut off the music. The lights were all off by then. At about one a.m.—I was still trying to stay awake to get my body used to working nights again—there was a second vehicle in her driveway.”

“
Was it was the same car?” Wayne asked.

“No, it wasn’t. The moon was full
and I could see it was a truck. A pickup.”

He gave her a slow, encouraging smile. “What else?”

“Shortly after the second vehicle arrived, Ruby’s back door opened. That door always squeaks. After that, I didn’t hear a thing. I fell into bed and slept like a stone. Nothing wakes me after a sixteen-hour shift. Sorry.”

“Very helpful info. One other thing,” Wayne said, “how did you get along with Ruby? Would you say you were friends?” Robert sat up a little straighter, absorbing every bit of Wayne’s questioning style.

Lucy seemed to be taking her time responding and Nichols waited, watching her closely. He wanted to carry out this interview by the book, despite their former relationship. Law enforcement training repeatedly stressed the importance of never letting personal feelings get in the way of professionalism. Besides, Robert was watching his every move.

“We used to be, before she sued me.”

Wayne leaned forward, listening intently.

“It happened during my kitchen remodel. I had to have an excavator dig up my septic tank. Ruby thought the digging changed the drainage from my downspouts, forcing the water across to her driveway.” Lucy’s voice shook and her neck and chest flushed. “Instead of talking to me about it, she had her attorney file a motion to stop construction and sued me for damages.”

“How were things resolved?”

Lucy gave a short laugh. “I had to pay her off in order to finish my kitchen.”

“So, she was scrappy then, like you?” Wayne teased.

“No, not like me. I’ll only fight if I have to. If Ruby thought that someone had hurt her or her property, she would go after them with everything she had. She pestered me about wanting to buy the lot next door for a while. When I told her I wasn’t interested in selling, she was furious. I don’t know why she even wanted it. Poor David was completely under her thumb, and once she had dominated him she lost all interest in the marriage. Everything was a battle with that woman.”

“This is really helpful. Thanks for the coffee. If you remember anything else about the evening of the fifteenth, please call me,” Wayne said. “I hope you can get back to sleep. Sorry to have disturbed your schedule.” He hated seeing her look so exhausted.

Robert drove the patrol car down Little Chapel Road and into the Ryans’ driveway. A pickup truck was parked in front of them. Robert jotted down the license plate number of the pick-up, remembering Lucy saying that she had seen a truck in Ruby’s driveway the night she died. An attractive blond woman came out of the house and walked over to the driveway.

“I’m just leaving. I’ll get out of your way,” she said.

Detective Nichols and Deputy Fuller introduced themselves.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Beth Jensen. I was just bringing some soup and homemade bread to the Ryans. Mrs. Ryan is down with the flu. Mr. Ryan is still limping from his fall on the road yesterday.”

“Mrs. Jensen, we’re going to be dropping by later today to talk with you. I’m sure you know by now that your neighbor, Ruby Mead-Allison, is dead. We need to talk with everyone who lives on the street to see what they remember from the night Ruby died.”

“I know. It’s horrible,” she shuddered. “I’ll be home the rest of the morning.” Beth left hurriedly, getting into her truck and pulling up into the grass to turn around. She sped around the patrol car and out of the driveway, pieces of gravel spraying from under her tires.

The two men walked to the door. Wayne couldn’t stop thinking about Lucy and the night they had broken up. They had been talking about Lucy’s decision to go to medical school when he sensed her starting to pull back. They sat on her living room couch, close together. Her body stiffened, and she edged away. The room was warm and the fire glowed with embers, but their conversation had moved them into new territory, dark and cold as a stream in winter.

“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready.” He touched her cheek gently.

The side of her face shone in the firelight. She appeared upset. Suddenly, she glared at him. He was stunned to see that she was furious. “It’s always one way with you, isn’t it, Wayne?”

He hadn’t responded in his momentary confusion.

She went on in an angry voice he’d never heard from her before. “You really want to get to know me? You want my whole life story? Well, this is a two-way street, my friend. I’m not going to tell you one more damn thing unless you tell me your stories—all of them. This is supposed to be a relationship, you idiot, not an interrogation.”

The icy stream tugged hard on his feet. He couldn’t step into the water, knowing he’d slip and fall. Then the darkness would cover him.

“What do you mean?” He was angry, too. “I told you I was raised in foster care. You know a police captain befriended me and helped me get into the police academy. I’ve told you everything.”

She threw up her hands, exasperated. “No, you haven’t. What you’ve told me is only the script, the goddamned script! It’s what you tell everyone. It’s your cover story. Everybody knows that much. It’s not enough anymore, Wayne. I want you to trust me enough to
let me in.”

The darkness rose. He clenched his fists. They argued for a while longer, but he couldn’t tell her anything more. His past lay like an oil reservoir, dark and untapped beneath the layers of his well-rehearsed life story.

“So, I’m just not worth it?”

God, he didn’t want to end the relationship with her. Lucy was the smartest, sexiest woman he’d ever known. “Give me some more
time, won’t you?”

She shook her head sadly. “No
way. You have to show me yours before you get to see mine, my friend. When you’re ready, you can come back.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to come back.
He wished he had the guts, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

D
etective Nichols and Deputy Fuller were approaching the front door to the Ryans’ house. Wayne needed to concentrate. Thinking about Lucy and his past wouldn’t help the investigation. A woman had been killed. He wanted to find the bastard who had done it. Catching Ruby’s killer was the only thing that mattered right now.

Detective Nichols rang the doorbell. When Mr. Ryan opened the door, his thick, white hair was damp and still bore the tracks of a comb. He was casually dressed, but his posture was almost military, his manner quite formal. His beautiful pointer, growling quietly, stood at his feet.

“Can I help you gentlemen with something?” The man’s eyes were wary.

“Good morning, Mr. Ryan. I’m Detective Nichols and this is Deputy Fuller. I wonder if we might talk to you. I know you’re aware that your neighbor Ruby Mead-Allison is dead. We need to talk to everyone on the road to help us discover what happened.”

“Come in.” He turned to the dog. “Go on, Tószt, get into your bed.” He held the door open for the men and led them back to the kitchen while the dog went to lie down. The room was tidy but crowded with knickknacks and heavy oak furniture. Dark oriental rugs covered most of the linoleum floor. The scent of menthol mixed with that of a lemony furniture polish in the air.

They stood at the kitchen counter until Mr. Ryan got situated at the table, and then they sat down with him. Mr. Ryan looked at Wayne and gave a sharp shake of his head. “Her death wasn’t an accident, was it?”

Wayne shook his head.

“I figured as much. Ruby lived a life filled with conflict. She was a strong-willed person, very opinionated. Well, you probably aren’t here to ask me what I thought of her. What can I help you with?”

“Can you remember what you were doing the night of March fifteenth? Four days before your dog discovered the body.”

Jack Ryan nodded. “I remember that night because it was quite warm, for March anyway, nearly seventy until late evening. The dog wanted to go out but I didn’t let her. I finally got her to lie down by taking her into our room. By the way, my wife Eveline has a bad case of the flu that’s going around. I took her to the doctor late yesterday because she was having trouble with a cough. She’s resting now.” He gave the two men a stern look.

“We’ll try to be quick, sir.” Wayne’s tone was conciliatory. “Please go on about the night of the fifteenth.”

“Yes, well, I took out some trash after the dog got settled down. A car was leaving Ruby’s driveway.”

“Do you remember the time?”

“Around eleven.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

“During the night Eveline got up to use the bathroom. When she came back to bed, she said something about Ruby having more company than any young woman ought to.”

“Why would she say that?”

“She said she saw David Allison’s car parked in Ruby’s driveway about 9:30. Then later on that evening she saw another vehicle.”

“I need to ask Mrs. Ryan if she can identify that second vehicle. Can you have her call me when she wakes up?” The detective handed Jack Ryan his card.

“Yes, I will, Detective. I hope you catch the killer soon. I know we’re probably not at risk, but we’re worried. This is usually such a safe place. When you get older,” he smiled, “you worry about being out in the country so far from streetlights.”

The two men drove down the road to the Jensens’ house, a brick ranch-style home painted a soft yellow with green shutters. Two large maple trees stood in the front yard. Beth Jensen answered the door. She quickly bent down to grab a gray kitten trying to escape.

“Good effort, Weevil.” She held the kitten to her chest as she stood up. The woman’s eyes matched the kitten’s green ones.

“Hello again, Mrs. Jensen,” Detective Nichols said. “We finished early with the Ryans and need to talk to everyone on the street. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Please, come on in.” Beth opened the door wider.

Both men followed her blond ponytail toward the back of the house. Unlike the other two kitchens they had been in that day, this one looked like a place where people actually cooked. The whole house was fragrant with the smell of fresh baked bread.

For a moment, Wayne flashed back to his seventeenth summer, hitchhiking in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula—the memory of the only good woman he’d known while in his formative years. He was walking down a dirt road. Dust, soft as baby powder, rose in a cloud with each step. The sun warmed his shoulders as he approached an old farmhouse with a wraparound porch. A red barn in need of fresh paint stood behind the house, next to a fenced paddock full of black and white cattle.

He walked up the porch steps, past pots of red and yellow flowers, and knocked on the front door. It was nearly threshing time. He hoped the farmer would have work for him. A large pleasant-faced woman answered, flanked by two small children, a boy and a girl. The little girl’s hair was intricately braided and the boy had short red curls and freckled cheeks. The woman gave him an inquiring look.

“I’m looking for work.”

“Come in then.” She opened the door all the way. “The rest of the men won’t be here for a day or so. You’ll sleep in the barn like the rest of them. I bring food down there three times a day. It’s good grub. A man can’t work unless he’s fed. The milking shed has a shower. You leave your dirty clothes in the basket. I wash every day. Do you have other clothes with you?” She spoke with what sounded like a Finnish accent. “You’re very young. Where did you come from?”

He shrugged and turned away. She had a kind face. The aroma of bread baking awakened his hunger pangs. The woman was like the bread, warm and fragrant. He ached to have had a mother like her, to have grown up here, to be her son.

“What’s your name?” She put a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “I’m Alene Hagström and these two are my grandkids—Ray and Clarice.”

He thought for a minute and then gave her a name he had read in a book. “It’s John, John Chisolm.”

“Not from around here then. Where are your folks?”

He said nothing.

“All right then. Go down to the milking shed and take a shower. Wait a minute.” She left the room and returned with underwear, dungarees and a clean, faded shirt. “Take these with you.
Mr. Hagström will show you where you will be sleeping.”

He worked there for four weeks and Mrs. Hagström fed them three squares a day, good food—potatoes, meatloaf, tomatoes, green beans, and gravy. He learned how to tie large sheaves of yellow straw with twine, standing them upright in the open stubble of the wheat field. He worked
all day in the hot sun, throwing pitchforks of wheat into the combine harvester as it pulled the wheat straw into its whirling mouth and spit out golden wheat heads into a wagon. When he leveled off the pile of grain in the wagon, the wheat moved through his hands like solid rain.

One day Clarice, the granddaughter, came down to the barn in the middle of the afternoon, carefully balancing a tray with a tall glass pitcher of red juice and fresh cookies.

“Grandma says I should tell you it’s bug juice.” She put the tray down and wrinkled her freckled nose. “Really it’s Kool-Aid.” She giggled and ran off.

The wind in the sugar maples had begun to sing of summer’s end when Mr. Hagström came to him to say he needed to move on. He was washing the milking machines when the older man walked up.

“You need to get on the road, John.” The rest of the men were already gone, and the wheat rested in silos, golden as a lake at sunset. “I don’t have any more work for you, and I don’t feed men who aren’t working.”

Mrs. Hagström called to him as he walked down the driveway. She went into the house and came back out with a jar of preserves, some apples and bread. “You can keep the extra clothes, John. If you get down to Gros Cap, there’s an Odawa settlement there. You’re part Odawa, I think. They might take you in for the winter. Good luck.”

Her kind voice still echoed in his mind. Robert bumped his shoulder, forcibly recalling him to the present. Robert and Beth Jensen were both looking at him.

“Sorry. Lost in thought.”

Beth cleared her throat and offered the men hot tea. It had a clean lemon scent. The three of them sat down at the kitchen table.

“Mrs. Jensen, your neighbor Ruby Mead-Allison died on the night of March fifteenth. Do you remember what you were doing that day and evening?”

She tipped her head to the side and wrinkled her brow. “Oh, yes, I do. The kids were on spring break that week. Bob and I drove up to see my parents in Ohio. Let me double-check the calendar. Hang on a minute.”

She walked over to her pantry door and ran her finger across the calendar hanging there.

“Yes, right. We didn’t get home until the night of the seventeenth.”

“Well, that makes my job easier.” Wayne smiled. “Unfortunately, it also means you can’t help us figure out what happened. One last thing, did you drive the pick-up?”

“No. It doesn’t have room for the kids and all their stuff. We left it in our locked garage while we were gone.”

After a few more pleasantries, the men left, but not before tasting Beth’s warm bread and complimenting her on her baking skills.