Roll Over and Play Dead (14 page)

He sat down on the commode and graciously pointed at the cot. “Sit down, Senator, and rest your feet. Say, you’re all slicked up today, aren’t you? Going to the White House for lunch?”

“Perhaps later,” I murmured as I sat on the edge of the cot. “I didn’t realize they served cocktails in cells these days. I was expecting bread and water.”

Arnie took a pint bottle from his pocket. “Wanna snort?”

“Where did you get that?”

He waggled his finger at me, saying, “Wowsy, Senator, that’s highly confidential—top secret and for your eyes only and all that kinda stuff.” He took a drink and screwed the cap back on. “So what happened to that pizza?”

“Do the deputies know you’ve got whiskey in here?” I persisted. “It’s not against the regulations?”

“Might be,” he said, scratching his ear. “Anyways, to what do I owe the honor of your majesty’s presence?”

I decided to ask my questions before I was deified. “Can you describe the animals you took to Newton Churls a few nights ago?”

“Lemme think.” He took another drink, sucked noisily on his teeth, and finally said, “Those two fat, squatty hounds, a retriever, and the nastiest ol’ black cat I’ve ever seen. I mean, this one could scratch the warts off a witch’s rear.”

“How did you manage to get them in the truck?”

Arnie smiled smugly. “I always carry some goodies in the glove compartment. The hounds came bounding up like they was too dumb to walk, and I tossed them some Doggie Woggies. The retriever was in the same spot the next day. As for—”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You did have to let them out of their fenced yards, didn’t you?”

“Oh, Senator, I am disappointed in you. I wouldn’t never do that. I just watch for strays, and when I see one, I say to myself, I say, Arnie, you—”

“The dogs were loose?”

“They were snuffling on the sidewalk when I saw ’em. The cat was prowling around an alley on the other side of the street. I opened a can of sardines, and it liked to knock me down.”

“And you didn’t pick up a large poodle?”

“Those fur balls come in different sizes?”

I had no reason not to believe him, if only because he was incapable of devising lies at the moment. “What exactly happened at NewCo?”

He scratched his neck, took another drink, and finally said, “It’s on the murky side. My boss stayed around till almost dark, doing paperwork and playing with the puppies. As soon as she left, I took the truck over to the trailer and loaded the animals—in more ways than one, if you follow my drift.”

“No, Arnie, I do not follow your drift.”

“They’ve got these pills out at the shelter that calm the animals down. I borrowed some so we could have ourselves a peaceful drive. Once everybody was snoozing, I went by a tavern for a game of pool and a drink or two.” His hand drifted to his arm pit for a lengthy indulgence. “Well, anyways, I drove out to ol’ Newt’s place about dark, unless it was later, and unloaded the animals.”

“Yes,” I said, leaning forward. “Then you and Churls had an argument about payment, right?”

“First we had another argument, then we had that one.”

“You had another argument? What was it about, Arnie?”

His face was beginning to sag; either gravity or alcohol was taking control, and his voice was blurry. “Gambling, Senator. Now I’m as opposed to gambling as anyone, but every now and then I attend a sporting event and it adds to my interest if I wager a buck or two.” Despite a hiccup, he managed to take yet another drink from the rapidly depleting bottle. “Speaking of interest, I keep meaning to ask you about the regulation of the prime lending rate, Senator. It seems to me—”

“Finish your story, and then we’ll discuss the fiscal policy,” I said quickly. I held out my hand. “On second thought, I’d love a snort.”

He gave me the bottle. “To your continued health. Okay, Newt started griping about how I owed him money from the last fight, and I had to admit he had a point of sorts. He said he’d pay me a few bucks—just to tide me over the weekend—and I said I’d bring some more strays the next day. Then all of a sudden, Newt says he’s got company and for me to get the hell down the hill and wait till he hollers to come back.”

“Did you hear or see anyone?” I asked, clutching the bottle tightly.

Arnie screwed up his face, then sighed. “Nope, but I’d picked up a bottle of rotgut to amuse myself on the drive, and it is possible I wasn’t at my keenest, sensorially speaking. I went down the hill a piece, like he said, and found a log to sit on. It was kinda peaceful for a long time, and I was drinking and looking at the stars when I heard shots and voices and I said to myself, I said, Arnie, there ain’t no call to get yourself involved in what’s going on, and I just went on down the hill till I came to the railroad tracks.”

I tried to visualize the events. “So you never went inside Churls’s house, right?” His head bobbled, and I interpreted it as a confirmation of sorts. “And when you left the backyard, Churls was there with the four animals you’d brought?”

“Front yard, Senator,” he corrected me with a crooked smile. “Trying to trick ol’ Arnie, were you?”

The cell door opened and Sheriff Dorfer filled the doorway. He looked at the bottle in my hand, then at Arnie, who was grinning dopily and swaying as if in a hurricane. I hurriedly handed the bottle to Arnie, stood up, and resettled my glasses on my nose.

“I was just leaving,” I said with measured dignity. “How thoughtful of you to unlock the door for me. If you’ll excuse me now, Sheriff Dorfer, I must run along to the Book Depot to sell some books. That is, after all, my primary calling.”

He stepped back, as did the deputy behind him. I nodded at Arnie, and went out of the cell and down the corridor, my head held high and my knees no steadier than Arnie’s smile. No bellow stopped me, nor did a bullet between my nicely contoured shoulder blades, and I made it to my car safely. A yellow envelope informed me that I’d parked in a reserved space and would be twenty-five dollars poorer because of it. I told myself that the sentence was mild.

When I arrived at the Book Depot, I called the high school and told the secretary I’d been detained unavoidably, although I did not elaborate. The conference was rescheduled for the following morning at eleven, when Mrs. Horne had her planning period. I called the hospital and inquired about Daryl, and was told he was critical.

I thought about all the paperwork I’d left undone, the cartons of books I had not unpacked, the invoices I had not checked, the orders I had not placed, the dusting I had neglected. I then opened Caron’s notebook, found a clean sheet, and did my best to construct a chronology of everything that had occurred since Miss Emily rode into the sunset. I lacked specific times, but I was fairly certain I’d jotted down all the pertinent events, and I was frowning at the list when my aged hippie came into the store.

“I have your jacket, bandana, and glasses at my apartment,” I said. “I’ll bring them here in the morning.”

He came to the counter. “That was kinda neat, wasn’t it? Like, I’d never realized what an intense woman you are. Your hands like seared my body. Any chance you’d like to ride out to the lake this evening? I’ll pedal and you can hold me all the way.”

His leer was so unfocused that I wondered about the depth of his hallucinogenic experimentation twenty years ago. “I don’t think so, but it was very kind of you to give me a ride. Why don’t you pick out your free books?”

“Groovy.” He was not overwhelmed with disappointment as he wandered around the science fiction rack, and every now and then he read aloud a title and giggled.

I returned to my chronology, not sure what good it was doing but aware that it was de rigueur in mystery novels—the source of my training and enlightenment. The bell above the door jangled.

Lieutenant Peter Rosen was back in uniform, and in a snit, if his scowl was to be considered an omen. I closed the notebook as he came across the room.

I was going to greet him politely, but he said, “I just got a call from Sheriff Harvey Dorfer. Damn it, Claire, less than twelve hours ago you promised to—”

“And how are you?”

“I’m dandy. You, on the other hand, are within inches of being locked up in the county jail, and I’m not going to be able to prevent it.”

“Will you bring Caron to visit me on Sunday afternoons?”

He was not in the mood for agreeable repartee, it seemed.

“The sheriff was so angry he was almost impossible to understand. He sputtered for five minutes before I realized what he was talking about. Contraband was mentioned, as was—”

“I did not take that whiskey bottle to Arnie,” I said, seizing what I suspected was my only area of innocence. “In fact, I asked him several times where it came from, but he wouldn’t tell me.” Peter bristled, but before he could speak, I said, “Where do you think it did come from? He’s been in jail for two days, and I would think he would have been searched when he was booked.”

“He was,” Peter said levelly. “That’s why the sheriff assumed you smuggled in the bottle in a large shoulder bag.”

“The sheriff assumes incorrectly. Instead of hurling accusations at innocent parties, he ought to review his security measures. Did Arnie have any other visitors?”

Peter crossed his arms and let out a sigh that hinted (or reeked) of frustration. “The only visitor Arnie’s had is an attorney from the legal clinic, and she swore he was drunk when she arrived, and still drunk when she slammed out three minutes later.”

“Martian sex slaves,” said a disembodied voice laden with awe.

“A customer,” I explained. “I did get some answers from Arnie before we were interrupted. He found Nick, Nora, and Patton on the sidewalk, and lured them into the truck with something called Doggie Woggies. If we believe his story, then we still don’t know how the three dogs got out of their fenced yards.”

He was seething, but the corner of his mouth twitched and I could tell he was intrigued professionally. “So what did our boy do with the animals?”

“He kept them in a trailer until he had a chance to drive out to NewCo to sell them to Churls. He said something about owing Churls money for a gambling debt, too.”

“Pit bull fights across the state line,” Peter said. “I asked the sheriff, and he was willing to share the information with a fellow law enforcement agent. He is not quite so pleased to be cooperating with an amateur who keeps popping up like a dandelion in an otherwise well-manicured lawn.”

“He is a classic example of anal retention,” I said as I resisted the urge to pull out my notebook and make a notation about Churls’s bookmaking activities.

“The sultry sirens of Venus,” drifted the voice from behind the rack. “Swept into a whirlpool of sexual slime…”

Peter wiggled his eyebrows at me. “How about I come by tonight to sweep you into a whirlpool? I haven’t had a chance to properly make amends for my absence, during which you managed to enrage a sheriff and attend a murder and a shooting.”

We agreed on a time, although I admitted reservations about being swept into any variety of slime, and he wandered away to investigate whatever crimes were being committed on the superficially peaceful streets of Farberville.

The hippie appeared with an armful of books, repeated his invitation for a moonlit ride, and left. My first customer of the day had cost me about forty dollars, I estimated. If business picked up, I could be bankrupt by the end of the day.

I was thinking about George Maranoni when Caron and Inez trudged into the store. Caron dropped her books on the counter and said, “Well?”

“Well, there’s something slightly wrong with George’s story,” I said, drawing a circle around his name. “I can’t quite bring it into focus, though.”

“That’s Not What I Meant,” Caron snapped. “Am I expelled or not?”

“I missed the appointment; it’s rescheduled for tomorrow.”

“You might hear from Mrs. Horne before then,” Inez said timidly. She was going to continue, but Caron’s elbow bouncing off her ribs may have deterred her.

I put down the pencil. “Why am I going to hear from Mrs. Horne before then?” I inquired coolly.

Caron crossed her arms as Peter had done, and her noisy sigh was as frustrated. “It’s not my fault, you know. I merely explained my position to Louis Wilderberry, who talked to all the sophomore football players, who asked me questions. Then Rhonda Maguire decided she wasn’t getting any attention, so she announced she was making a petition for everybody to sign, and pretty soon the entire class was huffing and puffing and Mrs. Horne said I was an instigator. I had to look it up in the dictionary, for pete’s sake!”

“Rhonda claims she’s the instigator, but she just wants Louis to invite her to the school dance,” Inez said.

Caron stuck out her lower lip. “She thinks she’s some kind of flab fatale. Louis happened to appreciate the maturity of my reasoning, and now Rhonda’s trying to butt in by telling everybody I’m just too squeamish to touch a dead frog.”

“Are you?” I asked.

“Of course not! If I wanted to touch a dead frog, I would. I happen to think it’s morally wrong, that’s all.” The lower lip reached its limit.

I realized I had, too.

I looked up George Maranoni’s address in the telephone book, told the girls to mind the store, and drove to Walnut Street. The Maranonis lived in a yellow Victorian house that, like Miss Emily’s, had seen better days, although theirs appeared not to be subdivided into apartments. The paint had flaked off on the woodwork, and several windows on the third floor were covered with cardboard. The grass was shaggy, leaves clotted the untended flower beds, and weeds lined the unpaved driveway.

I parked at the curb and went up creaking steps to the porch. The antique doorbell required a twist, but I heard nothing inside and resorted to the less exotic technique of knocking. I was about to leave when George opened the door a few inches.

“Yes?” he said blankly.

“I came by to talk to you.”

“About what?” he said in the same voice.

Wondering if he’d been drinking, I hesitated for a moment, then said, “About Juniper’s theft and the puppies.”

“Juniper? I don’t know about Juniper, but I gave the puppies away last week. Sorry.”

He closed the door. I lifted my hand to knock, but thought better of it and was heading for my car when Helen Maranoni drove into the driveway. As she got out of her car, she gave me an odd look, and I realized I was still wearing some vestiges of my ACLU disguise.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I wanted to ask your husband a few questions about the man who took the puppies. He wasn’t…cooperative.”

“He’s ill,” she said, holding up a sack from a pharmacy. “I don’t like to leave him, but I had to get his prescription refilled. It seems to cost more every time.”

“I hope he feels better,” I said, somewhat guilty about my earlier suspicion.

“Thank you. He has a recurring problem with arthritis, and these damp spring days make it worse. Do you have any new information concerning Juniper’s whereabouts?”

I told her about the animal sale in Guttler and then related what had happened that morning at NewCo. She was appropriately shocked to hear Daryl had been shot.

“The woman at the animal shelter is under arrest?” she said, frowning. “If she’s a criminal, might she not have lied about the stolen pets, too?”

“An employee at the shelter admitted that he picked up Nick, Nora, Patton, and Astra last week and attempted to sell them to Newton Churls. He denies any knowledge of Juniper, I’m afraid. Is it possible she escaped somehow and went looking for her puppies?”

Helen glanced at the house. “No, the gate is secure and the fence is more than high enough to keep her from jumping over it. Furthermore, Juniper’s quite devoted to me and would never go off for this long. Even when she engaged in the illicit liaison with some neighborhood mongrel, she was barking to be let in that same morning.”

“How did she get out?”

“It’s hard to say,” Helen said, glancing again at the house. “I wasn’t aware she was out until I heard her at the front door, and had no idea that she’d…done what she did until the vet examined her for an unrelated problem. I was astonished, as was George, and we agreed to have her neutered as soon as she’d recovered from having the puppies.” Her face sagged, and she wiped at the corner of her eye. “The puppies are just darling. We want to keep them, but we’re on a strict budget and the food and vet bills would have been too much for us.”

“Maybe if you advertise again, they can go to a legitimate good home,” I said soothingly.

“And the shelter employee says he wasn’t the one who came to the door and took them?”

I mentally replayed the key conversations. “We keep being interrupted when we talk, but I don’t think he did. He claims he picks up strays, and I can’t see him following up on an ad in a newspaper. It would require more concentration than he’s got.”

“I keep having nightmares about the animals at that horrible man’s house,” Helen said. “I must say he deserved his fate. You agree, don’t you? He was going to put a helpless puppy in a pen with vicious animals that have been trained to kill.”

“He wasn’t a very nice person,” I said.

She regarded me coolly. “He certainly wasn’t. We’re much better off without that sort in our community. Anyone who raises pit bulls ought to be forced to take responsibility for whatever the animals do.”

“I suppose so,” I said uneasily. “Churls would have been charged with murder if his animals had killed someone.”

“They make an effective weapon, don’t they?” With a sharp nod, she went inside the house and closed the door.

I drove around the corner and parked in front of Miss Emily’s. Praying for a miracle, I cut through the side yard, grabbed the gate so tightly the wire cut into my fingers, and called for Nick and Nora. It was not my day for divine intervention, alas, and I was heading for my car when a sheriff’s department car drove up.

“Deputy Amos,” I said without enthusiasm, “are you in the process of serving an arrest warrant?”

He limped across the sidewalk. “No, the sheriff wanted me to take another look at Defoe’s apartment. We’ve having a helluva time figuring out why he and the Gallager woman went back to NewCo this morning. She insisted she needed a file, but we found it in her office and now she’s clammed up.”

“How’s Daryl?”

“Critical. We’ve got a deputy at the hospital, and we’re hoping Defoe’ll sing when he regains consciousness.” Deputy Amos gave me a faint smile as he continued past me to the stairs.

In that he seemed to be in a garrulous mood, I followed him. “Did you find the spot where Arnie buried the money?” I asked as we went upstairs.

He was startled, either by my presence or my question. “How did you know about that, Mrs. Malloy? Did Arnie tell you anything that might indicate where he buried it?”

“Oh, no, Sheriff Dorfer mentioned something to me. Did you find anything?”

“Yeah, a four-foot copperhead in a bad mood, enough aluminum cans to fill a garbage bag, and a patch of brush covered with seed ticks. I had to strip buck-naked and let Bethanna pick ’em off me with tweezers half the night.”

We were on the landing. He seemed unsure about the situation, but I wasn’t through with him and he was no match for a quick-witted amateur sleuth. I resolved his dilemma by going inside the apartment. “I noticed something peculiar when I was here this morning,” I said over my shoulder. “I couldn’t find a single piece of paper with Daryl’s name on it.”

“That is kinda peculiar. What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know if it means anything.” I went into the bedroom and noticed the photograph on the dresser was gone. “Did Jan admit she and Daryl are…close friends?”

“She squirmed around until Sheriff Dorfer showed her the picture. She said they’d known each other for some time, but she says he didn’t go out there to NewCo with her and she didn’t hear the gunshot, much less shoot him herself.” Deputy Amos looked uncomfortable as he came in the room. “I’m not sure you ought to be in here, Mrs. Malloy. It’s not a crime scene or anything, but there may be evidence.”

I obligingly went into the kitchen. “I’ve already told you I was here this morning,” I said, adding a lack of logic (surely a misdemeanor) to my list. “Did you or your girlfriend see a car going toward NewCo this morning?”

“I asked Bethanna, but she was doing her hair and it takes her forever and a day. She said she heard a car, maybe two, but she wasn’t paying any attention to anything but her curling iron and didn’t check the time. I was way down at the barn, doing some chores. I can’t see the road from there and I wouldn’t hear a tank drive past the house.”

“What about the other people who live along the road?”

“We’ll ask them,” he said from the doorway. “Listen, Mrs. Malloy, the sheriff is likely to be real pissed if he finds out you were here and asking me questions.” His Adam’s apple rippled as he swallowed nervously. “I think you’d better run along.”

“It’s been lovely,” I said. I gave him a polite smile, and then went to my car and considered what, if anything, I’d learned. Not much, I told myself. Jan had admitted she knew Daryl, but she hadn’t explained why she had been secretive, unless Deputy Amos had developed a sudden reticence.

I drove back to the Book Depot, where Caron and Inez were amusing each other (and alarming customers) with a vitriolic condemnation of Rhonda Maguire’s most recent act of treachery. I sent them away. I made a few notes, then picked up the feather duster and drifted around the racks, relocating dust and trying to come up with a motive for keeping their relationship, or any relationship, a secret. Infidelity headed the list, of course. Jan didn’t wear a wedding ring; it seemed probable that she was single, and I presumed Daryl was, too. Jan didn’t seem the sort to cheat on a male friend, either. Her job did not preclude a relationship, and she was certainly old enough to engage in one. I needed to talk to her, but I doubted Sheriff Dorfer would settle for an irate call to Peter if Ms. Malloy of the ACLU appeared at the women’s detention facility. And the cells were damp enough to frizz my hair.

After an internal debate between the two increasingly divergent sides of my conscience, I called the animal shelter. The officer sounded distraught, which made me feel all the more wicked as I identified myself and said, “Jan wanted me to pick up a few things at her place and take them to the jail. Does she still live in that duplex across from the campus?” I held my breath, because if the officer said yes, I had put the noose around my own neck and kicked over the stool.

“I didn’t know she’d ever lived by the campus,” the woman said, puzzled. “She has a house out this way.” She then proceeded to give me the address in a small subdivision, and graciously informed me that the key was where it always was, which was under the flowerpot by the door.

I graciously thanked her. The Book Depot was supposed to stay open until seven, but I stuck the
CLOSED
sign on the door and drove to Jan’s house. It was small and nondescript, indicative of her salary, and wedged among others that differed only in color and degree of maintenance. Hers was neat, as I would have guessed.

I circled the block, looking for unmarked police cars, and parked in front of the house next door. The key was under the flowerpot. Once I was inside, I realized my muscles were tensed and my heart pounding too fiercely for one so practiced in crime.

The living room was pleasantly normal, with well-used furniture and a few houseplants. A knitting bag lay on the sofa. The magazines ran the gamut from
Vogue
to
Field and Stream
, including several unfamiliar ones with dogs and cats on the covers.

The kitchen and bathroom were unremarkable, both clean and equipped with the usual things. The first bedroom seemed to be uninhabited on a regular basis. The second was Jan’s, I decided, as I went in and looked around curiously, although for what I had no theories. The bed was made and there were no clothes scattered about. I picked up a small frame and was not surprised to see Daryl’s face. His hair was much shorter, almost as short as Colonel Culworthy’s, and he was wearing an olive drab fatigue jacket. His T-shirt displayed the peace symbol, however, and he was grinning mischievously. In the background was a lush tangle of tropical plants.

All this told me nothing of interest, since he’d mentioned a year in Vietnam. I replaced the picture and eased open the drawer of the bedside table. Unlike her consort, Jan saved letters. Reminding myself that I was trying to help her rather than indict her, I took a yellowed envelope from the stack and squinted at the faded printing. It was addressed to her, and the postmark was of the old-fashioned variety that offered a date. The date was more than twenty years ago.

I pulled out the letter written on notebook paper, but before I could unfold it, I heard the front door open. A kaleidoscope of faces flashed through my mind, including Yellow Hair and Baby Bear, Sheriff Dorfer, and a whole slew of people who would be annoyed at my presence. I managed to stuff the envelope in the drawer and was edging toward the closet when Jan came into the room.

“Fancy finding you here,” she said wearily. “I went by the shelter on my way home, and Linda mentioned that you were being so kind as to bring me a few things.” She sank down on the bed and pulled off her shoes, letting each one fall to the floor with a thud. The lines on her face seemed deeper, harsher.

I did my best to look contrite. “I’m sorry about this, but I was trying to help you—and Daryl. I don’t believe that you shot him. Has the sheriff changed his mind?”

“I was released on my own recognizance, with orders not to go out of town for any reason. They won’t charge me until they see how Daryl does.”

I held up the frame. “Look, Jan, I know about you and Daryl. What I don’t understand is why you’ve been keeping it a secret.”

She went to the closet and took out a plaid bathrobe. “It seemed easier.”

“What seemed easier—skulking up the stairs to his apartment late at night? You’re single and old enough to be involved with someone. Why go to all that trouble?”

“I have to deal with people in the community. Some of the shelter funding comes from the city, and the rest from the Humane Society,” she said as she began to change into the robe. “I feel more comfortable without any gossip drifting about or speculation concerning my private life.”

I resisted the urge to push her into the closet, lock the door, and make her talk. “That’s utter baloney,” I said, allowing my irritation to be heard. “You’re on a major ego trip if you think the city board directors or the members of the Humane Society have the slightest interest in your private life. They might not care to read about your involvement in a drug bust or some dreary crime. Do you honestly think they care if you date a single man who’s about your own age?”

Jan gazed impassively at me. “I’m old-fashioned about it, I suppose.”

“No, you’re lying about it,” I said.

She averted her eyes as she went past me and into the hall. The bathroom door closed. I toyed with the idea of sneaking a look at the letter in the drawer, then went into the kitchen, put on the teakettle, and was preparing a tray when she came down the hall.

“You’re still here,” she said flatly.