Throw in the Trowel (17 page)

“Just the best German dog trainer in the greater Chicagoland area,” Jillian said.

“What happened to Gustav?” I asked.

“He fired us,” Claymore said with a shrug. “He said someone wasn't being cooperative.” I wondered if Johann meant Princess or Jillian. “Text if you have any questions.”

“Wait,” I said. “You're leaving me with your German trainer?”

“Johann came down with the most horrific migraine while he was working with Princess,” Claymore said, “so he took an aspirin and lay down on the sofa. He said covering his eyes with a cold cloth eased the pain, but then he fell asleep.”

“He'll be up soon.” Jillian patted my shoulder. “Thanks, cuz. You're the best.”

Best what? Sucker? The door shut behind them and I turned to find Seedy sitting on her haunches in the doorway to the living room, watching something. She looked over her shoulder at me as if to say,
Seriously, what were you thinking?

I entered Jillian's expensively decorated living room and saw a stocky blond man in a black athletic outfit lying on the leather sofa, a washcloth covering his eyes. Seedy hung back, too fearful of the man to enter the room, while Princess dropped what I thought was a chew toy at my feet. The toy, I discovered when I bent down, was a baby's rattle.

“Let's take this to the kitchen,” I whispered, but apparently that wasn't what Princess had in mind, because she snatched it out from under my hand and ran around the room rattling it like crazy. The noise caused Johann to stir and then moan as he sat up.

He took the cloth off his face and squinted at me. “Yillian?” he rasped.

Obviously the pain had affected his vision. “I'm her cousin Abby. Jillian and Claymore had a function to go to.”

“Yillian is gone?” He pressed his hands together in prayer.
“Gott sei Dank!”
Then he fell back against the sofa holding his head and moaning.
“Ach,
mein Kopf!”
I believed that was German for,
Oh, my head!

“Would you like more aspirin?” I asked.

“Nuzzing
vill
make dis pain go avay,” he exclaimed, “but to leave dis
place and never return.”

Puzzled, I sat on the love seat adjacent to the sofa and put my elbows on my knees. “Aren't you used to working with misbehaving dogs?”

“
Ja, ja!
Dat is vat
I am trained to do! I vork vit
dogs. Your cousin believes dis dog is her
Junge
, her baby! ‘Should I burp her after I feed her, Johann? Do you tink she has colic, Johann? Don't you tink she should wear a baby bonnet ven
ve go out, Johann?'” He grabbed the sides of his hair. “How can I vork vit
a dog who is treated like a baby? How?”

He jumped up, then staggered back, groaning in pain. Clasping his head in both hands, he shuffled toward the door, sending Seedy scattering for cover. “
Fertig!
Done. You may tell Fräulein Yillian
that I vill send her my final bill tomorrow.”

The door slammed behind him, provoking Princess to go on a barking rampage. I pressed my fingers against my temples. Where did Yillian keep those aspirin?

At ten thirty that evening, my cell phone rang, and I grabbed it as though it were my lifeline. “How's it going, babe?” Marco asked. “Sorry about the background noise. It's jammed here, and a football game is on TV.”

“I can barely hear you,” I yelled. “Princess won't stop barking, Marco. Every time the furnace kicks on, she barks. Every time the refrigerator kicks on, she barks. If someone rings a doorbell on TV, she barks. I've tried petting her, I've tried feeding her treats—just let Jillian scold me for that!—I've tried playing soothing music, and nothing works. Even Seedy wants to help. She keeps trying to back her into the bathroom.”

“I'm sorry, Abby. Can you lock her in another room?”

“Tried it. She scratched up the door. I am never dog-sitting again. Ever. If I ever even think about saying yes, stuff something in my mouth. Seriously, Marco, if Jillian doesn't come home soon, I'm going to muzzle this little cretin with duct tape.”

I heard the sound of a key in the door, which started another round of furious barking.

“Marco, it's Jill. I'll talk to you later.”

I tried to catch Princess before she got to the door, but it was too late. She ran up to my cousin and pawed at her legs, wanting to be held. Jillian scooped up the dog before she did damage to her long black skirt and in a gooey-sweet voice said, “Did you miss Mummy?”

Princess licked her face and made her laugh. I turned to look for Seedy but didn't see her.

“Was she a good girl?” Jillian asked.

“Jill, your dog has a barking problem. Everything sets her off.”

Jillian straightened to stare at me in surprise. “Really? Johann said he would break her of that habit.”

“Well, he didn't. She barked at every sound.”

The furnace kicked on and Princess began her high-pitched barking. “Princess, stop,” Jillian called. The dog ignored her and ran toward the heat register.

“Isn't there a command you can use?” I called over the noise.

“Yes,” she called back. “It's
Princess, stop!
” She walked toward her only to have Princess take off running, her tongue lolling from the side of her mouth as she circled the room. “Princess, stop!” she kept saying, following the dog.

I joined in the chase, the dog leading us into a spare bedroom, where she ran under the bed. Before I could get down on my knees, I heard a growl and then a yelp, and then out backed Seedy, dragging Princess by the tag on her gemstone-encrusted collar.

Jillian picked up her dog and held her beneath her front legs so they were face-to-face. “You are a bad girl! Just wait until I tell Daddy. I'm so sorry, Abs. I don't know what to say.”

“Wait until you tell Daddy what?” Claymore asked.

“Abby said she's been barking all evening,” Jillian said. “Johann may not work out.”

I was about to deliver Johann's message when Claymore handed me an 8 x 10 yellow envelope. “This was on the table under the mailboxes. Someone sent it to your old address.”

I tore open the 8 x 10 mailer and pulled out a color photo of a young woman with flowing black hair. She wore an aqua blue tunic top, a long, colorful skirt, and cork-soled sandals. She was standing behind a cloth-covered table at what appeared to be an art fair, and on the table in front of her were sculptures of birds, flowers, dogs, and cats. A sign pinned to the front of the table said:
DESIGNS BY THENIA.
Could she be a young Parthenia Pappas?

Judging by the clothing of the people in the picture, it appeared to have been taken in the midseventies. I flipped the photo over and sure enough, in the upper left-hand corner someone had printed:
Columbus, IN, October 1976.
I turned it over again and studied the woman's face. It had to be the Duchess. And that wasn't all that the photo showed.

Jillian peered over my shoulder. “Who's the pregnant hippie?”

C
HAPTER SIXTEEN

A
s soon as I was back home, I called Marco. “Can you talk now?”

“Hey, Buttercup. Hold on while I get to my office. It sounds quiet there. Are you home?”

“Yes, but that's not why I called. Someone sent an envelope to my old address with a photo inside of what appears to be a pregnant Parthenia at an art fair in Columbus, with a date on the back of October 1976. If this really is Parthenia, Marco, she lied to us.”

“If that's Parthenia, Abby, then someone from her past is making sure we know the truth, either to point us toward the real killer or to point us away from himself.”

“Who else would it be but one of our suspects? We haven't talked to anyone else about her. But which one of them would have possessed such a photo?”

“The likeliest person would have been Lila Cannon, who may have hired a private investigator to find Kermit. Doug was only fifteen, so I doubt he would have had the presence of mind or the funds to do that. Henry probably didn't care where Kermit was, and Rusty wouldn't have either, unless he wanted to find Kermit so Lila could divorce him.”

“But why not just come forward with the photo?”

“It's worth taking the photo to our suspects and asking.” At a loud cheer in the background, Marco said, “The Bears are winning. In about a minute, I won't be able to hear you, Sunshine, so let's talk later.”

Saturday

•   •   •

Later hadn't worked for me. Because of my evening with Princess, I was fast asleep when Marco got home. Then, after spending a restless night on the sagging mattress, I didn't sleep well until after Marco got up. So when I finally opened my eyes it was nine a.m., and the apartment was empty. In the kitchen I found a note that said,
Took Seedy to park. Coffee ready to brew. If you want to talk to Rusty, we can go when I get back. Luv you lots, M.

Love you lots, too, M,
I thought, as I poured myself coffee. Marco had put the newspaper on the table, still rolled up, so I sat at his small kitchen table and opened it. The banner headline announced that another armed robbery had occurred, this time at a convenience store in town. Great, I thought. That would push the cold case investigation even further behind.

Then I noticed a smaller headline below the fold:
BAR'S BONES STOLEN.

My stomach knotted as I read the article. Connor had quoted as fact my answers to what he'd asked me about, with no credit given to his police source. Marco was not going to be happy about that. I folded the paper and stuck it in the recycling bin. I'd have to tell him about the article, but I'd make sure he was in a good mood first.

By the time Marco and Seedy returned, I had showered and dressed and was ready to go. “Thanks for the coffee,” I said, giving him a kiss, “and for letting me sleep in.”

“I even brought the paper in for you.”

I put my arms around Marco's waist and smiled at him. “Like you pointed out before, Salvare, you're just a sweet kind of guy, and you get a kiss for that. Oh, and there was a small article in the paper this morning about the bone theft. Time to go!” And then I kissed him.

Naturally Marco had to read the article before we left, and, as I'd predicted, he wasn't pleased that Connor had attributed the information to me. “As long as you give him something, Abby, he'll keep coming back for more, so please don't say anything else about our investigation. Let me decide what to tell him. I've had more experience at this than you.”

I might have argued his autocratic position if I hadn't known he was right. And he had said please.

Seedy pawed at the front door, gave a yip, and looked back at us. Her leash was on, and she knew that meant we were going out. “She's a smart dog, Marco. You should have seen her drag Princess out from under the bed. By the way, did I tell you that both of Jillian's trainers fired them? I'll tell you all about it on our way to Rusty's.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “I can hardly wait.”

•   •   •

Blazing Saddles Saddlery was located on the county highway just outside New Chapel's eastern boundary. It reminded me of shops I'd seen in old Westerns, a low one-story wood-sided building with a false front and a hitching post near the door. Inside were all manner of Western and English riding outfits, more styles of Western boots than I'd ever seen, racks of belts, a wall of riding hats, a room devoted to saddles and riding equipment, a glass display case stuffed with silver and turquoise jewelry, and in the center of the floor, a life-sized horse wearing a turquoise warm-up coat.

I stared around in awe. “I feel like a kid in a toy store.”

“I'll see if Rusty is here,” Marco said, and strode toward the young woman behind the counter. In fact, all the employees seemed to be young women. Clearly, like Kermit, Rusty had an eye for the ladies.

With Seedy on her leash, I walked around the large space taking everything in. I came to the boot section and perused the aisles until I found the tan leather ones with stitched flowers on them. I had to admit, they were knockouts. “What do you think, Seedy?”

Hearing her name, she looked up at me and tilted her head, then turned and wagged her tail as Marco came around the corner. “Rusty's here,” he said. “He's coming out shortly.”

“What do you think of these boots?” I asked.

“Nice, but I've never seen you wear anything Western style.”

I held one up, trying to envision it on my foot. Then I turned it upside down and checked the price. With a sigh, I put it back. “Too expensive.”

“Who says it's too expensive?” Rusty asked, causing Seedy to scamper behind me. Rusty peered around me for a look at her. “Well, if that don't beat all. A three-legged doggy.”

Seedy hid her face against my jeans, crouched low to the ground, and tucked her tail beneath her. “She's afraid of men,” I said.

“Hey there, pup, I won't hurt you.” Rusty clapped Marco on the back. “Let's see if we can find Miss Abigail a pair of boots that fit. What size are you, darlin'?”

“Six and a half.”

“Tiny feet, big heart . . . or something like that. Let me go pull a seven. I have a feeling you might need a bigger size in these boots.” As he ambled off with his arthritic gait, he turned to say, “Chairs are against the wall. Might as well have a seat, Marco. You know how these little gals are once they start shopping for shoes.”

“Actually, we came to talk to you about our investigation,” Marco said.

“You're not in a big rush, are you?” Rusty called back. “Settle down. We've got time.”

He returned with two boxes of the boots, one in my size and one in size seven, so I handed Seedy's leash to Marco so I could try them on. As Rusty had predicted, the seven was more comfortable.

“Didn't I say so?” Rusty asked. “Now, let's talk price.” He leaned close to whisper something to Marco, then said, “Ain't that an offer you can't refuse?”

“That's quite a discount,” Marco said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Now, never you mind,” Rusty said. “Let's just say it'll be your weddin' present.”

I glanced at Marco wide-eyed. Would it be wrong to accept a gift from a suspect?

“Ring it up,” Marco said.

Apparently not.

After paying for the boots, which Rusty gave to us at cost, we sat at a table in the break room with glasses of his homemade sarsaparilla. He even set out a bowl of water for Seedy. I took her off her leash so she could reach it, but she wouldn't budge from my side.

The break room had three round wooden tables painted red, a sink set in a bright red laminate countertop, refrigerator, microwave, and black cabinets, with a shade-covered window in the rear wall. A door on the side wall stood ajar and I could just make out rows of shelves inside stocked with boot boxes.

“So,” Rusty said, opening the conversation, “someone stole those ol' bones out from under you, did they? Or so the newspaper said this morning.”

Marco glanced at me and I could see the disgruntled look in his eyes. Darn that Connor! “Yes, unfortunately,” was all he said.

“Who do you think did it?” Rusty asked.

“Someone who's running scared,” Marco said, then leaned down to pet Seedy, who had ventured out from beneath the table and was staring up at him, her long ears facing forward, as though on alert. She cast a nervous glance in Rusty's direction, then slid her face under Marco's hand.

Rusty took a drink of his tea. “Got any suspects?”

“A few names have come up,” Marco said. “Nothing serious yet.”

“You still think those bones have something to do with Kermit?” Rusty asked.

“We do,” Marco said, “but our information about him is still somewhat sketchy. All right if we pick your brain?”

“Go ahead and shoot,” Rusty said, as I took out the notepad and pen, “but I think you're wasting your time chasing your Kermit theory. He took off with his girlfriend, plain and simple.”

“Then how would you explain the bones?” Marco asked.

“My guess is that a couple of itinerants slipped down those basement steps with flasks of whiskey one night and got into a drunken brawl,” Rusty said. “You know how easy it is to forget that back door is propped open—or at least it was for my crew. So maybe one did the other in, then got scared and buried him in the dirt. That floor was just sitting there open for weeks.”

Marco couldn't hide his skepticism—or maybe he didn't want to. “Did you have a problem with itinerants?”

“Not regular-like, but every so often we did. A few of 'em were always drunk and lookin' to make trouble. I'd chase 'em out with my shotgun and that'd be the end of it for a while.”

“Wouldn't you have noticed that the dirt was disturbed?” I asked.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Rusty shrugged. “I didn't pay much attention to the hole in the floor until Kermit stopped showing up, and I knew I had to do something about it.”

Marco propped his chin on his hand and thought about that for a moment. “Let's say you're right about the itinerants. Digging a hole takes time. Wouldn't you or one of your staff have caught the murderer in the act?”

“Depends on whether we found him before closing or if he stayed the night,” Rusty said. “You'd be surprised how easy it is for someone to hide down there.”

Marco nodded, a frown on his face, as though he were adding up the times the back door had been left propped open on his watch. “It would still take a shovel to dig a deep enough hole.”

“Kermit's tools were just layin' around, Marco, where he left 'em. How do you think he dug up that floor in the first place? He broke up the concrete with a sledgehammer and then shoveled it off to the side. You asked me about his key chain before. I'd bet that's when it dropped out of his pocket.” Rusty paused. “You never found the keys, did you?”

“No, but we haven't sifted the dirt yet,” Marco replied.

“Bet you won't find 'em,” Rusty said. “He probably fished 'em out of the dirt and didn't bother with the leather, especially if it broke apart.”

Marco pondered some more. “So you don't think there's a chance that it was Kermit buried in the basement?”

“No, sir,” Rusty said.

I had one eye on Seedy, who'd grown brave enough to venture out and was now sniffing along the perimeter of the room. She stopped at the storage room door to peer cautiously inside, her ears flat and her tail down, as though she expected something sinister to pop out at her.

“Don't you think it's odd that Kermit never had any contact with his kids?” I asked.

“Miss Abigail, you'd have to know Kermit to understand. Life was all about him. If Kermit was having a good time, he didn't much care about anyone else.”

Marco said, “Do you remember asking Doug whether his dad was abusive?”

Rusty scratched his forehead. “No, I really don't, Marco, but, as I told you before, my memory ain't what it used to be. If Doug says I asked, then I probably did. I can tell you that Kermit had a terrible temper.”

“Did you ever talk to Kermit about it?” I asked.

Rusty seemed surprised that I'd ask. “About how he treated his family? No, ma'am. It wasn't any of my beeswax.”

“Did Lila ever try to find Kermit?” I asked.

“Yes, she did,” Rusty said. “She hired a gumshoe.”

“A detective?” I asked.

“Former detective,” Rusty said. “Ol' Pete Morgan. Retired from the force and became a private eye. He died back in the nineties.” Rusty leaned back and got a faraway look in his eyes. I had a feeling a story was coming.

“Yeah, good ol' Pete. His grandson is deputy prosecutor now. You might know Greg, Miss Abigail, seeing as how you worked for Attorney Hammond and all.”

I knew the extremely handsome Greg Morgan very well. I'd had a major crush on him in high school. Sadly, he'd had a crush on himself, too; also on women's breasts, and I hadn't had any to speak of. Then I went away to college and returned with a whole new profile, literally. His interest in me changed drastically after that. But so had my taste in men.