Heart of Barkness

by Spencer Quinn

  “But you like when I do. Remember when you said—”

  “Jordan?” Bernie said. “Go inside.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m going to have a quick word with Rita.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Do what he says,” Rita told him. “Make your mom some coffee.”

  “Instant okay?” Jordan said as he entered the RV. “I have trouble with the—” The door closed behind him.

  Bernie faced Rita. He glanced at the shotgun. I thought he was going to say something about it, but he didn’t. I changed my position a little bit.

  “Your dog going to attack me again?” Rita said.

  “Attack’s a strong word for what happened,” said Bernie. “Chet likes things peaceful, that’s all. Someone that seems wedded to a single shot 410—that makes him uneasy.”

  Rita gave Bernie a look. She leaned the shotgun against the RV and turned to me. “Happy now?”

  I was! And I’d been happy before. And would be happy again. This visit was going very well so far.

  Rita stepped away from the RV, walked over to the yellow car. Was it hers? I had a feeling that was a strong possibility. She ran her eyes over all the new dings—more like dents—from up on the mountain.

  “Not really his fault,” Bernie said. “He’s actually a pretty good driver.”

  “He’s incompetent at just about everything, like most men,” Rita said. “What do you want from me?”

  “Your help,” Bernie said. “Who killed Clint?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you think it was Lotty?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Any possibility it was you?”

  Rita’s eyes shifted toward the shotgun, just the slightest bit. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because he beat the shit out of your boyfriend, and you’re … you.”

  Rita nodded. “I considered it.”

  “And?”

  “What do you think? I’d use a knife? Cheat on my wedded husband over there?” She pointed to the shotgun, just leaning in the shade.

  Nineteen

  The door to the RV opened and Leticia came out. “What does he want?” she asked Rita.

  “He says he wants to find out who killed Clint,” Rita said. “I don’t know what he really wants.”

  Jordan called from inside. “Rita? I can’t get this goddamn thing to work.”

  Rita and Leticia exchanged a complicated look, not particularly friendly. Rita went inside and closed the door. Then she came out, grabbed the shotgun, and went back in.

  Leticia turned to Bernie. Her glossy black hair didn’t seem so glossy today, and her face was a bit puffy, like she’d been sleeping. Also she had a crease on one of her cheeks, the kind of crease you often see on a human just after they wake up. So: my guess was that Leticia had been asleep when we’d showed up. Wow! Had I figured that out all by myself? Was this how it was to be Bernie? At that moment, I felt a big yawn coming on. There’s no stopping big yawns, as I’m sure you know.

  “My son says you almost got him killed,” Leticia said.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” said Bernie. “Did he mention the part about saving his life?”

  “He said that was mostly the dog’s part.”

  Suddenly they were both looking at me, still in mid-yawn. I tried to hurry it along, but it was no go.

  “Chet, right?” Leticia said. “We had a dog when I was a kid.”

  “Patsy?” said Bernie.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Your mom mentioned it,” Bernie said. “Where were you at that time—you, your mom, and Patsy?”

  “It depends what ‘my mom’ means.”

  “Lotty, of course. What are you saying?”

  Leticia walked away, into the cottonwoods. We followed her. Cottonwoods smell like that fizzing drink humans sometimes down when they wake up and find they’re hungover. A nice smell, which I was enjoying when Leticia stopped and gazed across the wash.

  “Lotty wasn’t around much during my childhood. I thought I mentioned that.”

  “Just the bare fact,” Bernie said.

  He stood beside her. I took my place in the middle. We all gazed across the wash. Nothing moved on the other side except the air, shimmering a bit, meaning it was hot out there. But nice here in the shade, almost cool. Leticia wore a green and silver necklace that caught a ray or two shining down through the leaves. A fine sight, but she wasn’t happy. I could feel it.

  “Why does it matter to you?” she said.

  “She’s the central figure in this case. I need to understand her.”

  “What case? Her lawyer said she’s pleading guilty.”

  “You spoke to her lawyer?”

  “I saw him yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “At the public defender’s office in the Valley.”

  “How is it possible she can’t afford a lawyer?” Bernie said.

  “She’s broke,” said Leticia. “Like most artists.”

  “But she wrote ‘How You Hung the Moon,’ for god’s sake.”

  “Old news.”

  Bernie kicked a little stone. I went and picked it up, dropped it at his feet, but he didn’t notice.

  “Do you think she killed Clint?” he said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Anyone else who might have done it?”

  “Not Jordan, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not,” said Bernie. “How did you feel about Clint yourself?”

  “I never even met him. Lotty keeps people in separate worlds.”

  “Why?”

  “Part of her mystique.”

  Bernie gave her a sidelong look. “Jordan never met Clint either, but he hated him.”

  “Jordan’s a big fan of Lotty’s. Not just the music, but Lotty the person.” Leticia gave Bernie a sidelong look of her own. Their sidelong looks met.

  “What went wrong between you and your mother?” Bernie said.

  Leticia blew air between her lips, making that lip-flapping sound. I can do that, too, although only by accident. The human lip flap means something, but I’ve never figured out what. “Where to begin?” Leticia said.

  “How about your earliest memories?” said Bernie.

  Leticia stared at Bernie, kind of like she was studying him. Her face was no longer puffy; the crease in her cheek had disappeared. “Are all detectives like you?”

  “We—the good ones, at least—probably share some basic traits.”

  “Name one.”

  Bernie thought for what seemed like a long time. Then he happened to see me, still standing over the stone I’d brought back. “Doggedness,” he said.

  Whoa! That sounded so important, like maybe the biggest thing I’d ever heard. I wished I’d been listening just a little closer to what had gone down, so maybe all would be clear. And if not all, then at least part.

  Meanwhile Leticia was nodding yes, like doggedness was the right answer to her question, whatever that had been. “Okay, Senor Detective,” she said. “First memory—me and Aunt Rosita, out back with the chickens. I had names for all of them—Foo Foo was my favorite. She’d peck grains from my hand. Then this blond woman is standing over me. I’d never seen anything so lovely in my life. Like a storybook queen, or something. She says, ‘Well, well, my little Mexican baby. Mama’s come to take you home.’” Leticia glanced at Bernie. “Glad you asked?”

  I sure was! Otherwise I’d never have found out about Foo Foo. A chicken, unless I’d missed something. Chickens can be fun. They’re like tennis balls in some ways. Would I be meeting Foo Foo anytime soon?

  “And the storybook queen was Lotty?” Bernie said.

  “Correct. From soon after I was born—can’t tell you exactly how long because Lotty has several versions—until that day, I lived with my aunt Rosita in Tesabe.”

  “Down on the border?”

  “Yes. But not long after that scene—might have been the s
ame day—Lotty plunked me in this two-tone Caddy—she had a thing for Caddies, still hasn’t grown out of it—and drove us to Austin. She had a new quote ‘manager’ and things were looking good. She explained on the ride, talked practically nonstop, talked and sang. Even made up a song called ‘Leticia’ right off the top of her head.” There was a long pause. “Her voice was … nicer in those days.”

  A jackrabbit appeared by a bush on the far bank. Jackrabbits have been an interest of mine going way back. Those ears! Bernie says they can hear sounds from the next county, wherever that may be. And what great leapers and hoppers they are! I’ve had no success when it comes to—

  I felt Bernie’s hand on my collar, very gentle, but there. So friendly of Bernie! I sat down, got nice and settled. When I looked across the wash again, the jackrabbit was gone.

  “Do you remember the song?” Bernie said.

  “That doesn’t sound like a detectivey question,” said Leticia.

  Bernie spread his hands and said nothing.

  “In fact,” Leticia said, “I do remember a bit, really just a fragment.” And then she sang, “Leticia, never gonna miss ya, again.” I liked the sound of her singing voice—way better than her talking voice, the opposite of what usually happens—but Leticia didn’t seem pleased. “Country music lyrics tend to be nothing but fantasy in my opinion,” she said, “and Lotty’s a fantasist if ever there was. Two years later there was a new quote ‘manager’ and I was back with Aunt Rosita in Tesabe.”

  “Is she still alive?” Bernie said.

  “She died my junior year in high school,” said Leticia. “I’ve been on my—I’ve made my own way since then.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Breast cancer caught way too late. No doctor, no insurance—the usual ramshackle shit that goes with having no money.”

  “Sorry for your loss,” Bernie said.

  Leticia shot him a glance. “Kind of long after the event,” she said. Then she added, “But why should there be a rule? Thank you. She was a fine person. Collected butterflies, which was a bit unusual for someone of her background.”

  “Did you inherit the collection?”

  “That would have been nice,” said Leticia. “But by the time I got home—I’d been on the class trip to the Grand Canyon—it was gone.”

  “How were you related?” Bernie said.

  “We weren’t,” said Leticia. “She was an old friend of Lotty’s. I just called her aunt—actually Tia, Tia Rosita.”

  “What was her last name?”

  “Flores.”

  “Did she have children of her own?”

  “No.”

  “Was she married?”

  “I think she had been in the past. And there was a boyfriend or two before she got sick.”

  “Do you remember any of their names?”

  Leticia shook her head. “We’re not talking till-death-do-us-part type boyfriends.”

  Bernie went still. Why? I had no idea. Leticia was watching him.

  “What?” she said.

  He gave his head a little shake. Don’t forget we’re a lot alike in some ways, me and Bernie. “Even a first name might help,” he said.

  “Was that what you were just thinking about?”

  Bernie smiled at her, the kind of smile you see between friends. “Not exactly.”

  Leticia’s eyes shifted very quickly and for no time at all to one of Bernie’s hands, the hand that doesn’t get to do any of the big jobs, like throwing balls or pulling triggers. I’d seen that glance before between men and women, but what it was all about remained a puzzler.

  “I don’t see the relevance,” she said, “but one of them might have been called Flaco.”

  I could feel something rev up in Bernie’s mind, but his face gave no sign of it. “You’re probably right about the relevance,” he said. He looked back at the RV. “Does this ring a bell—big guy, six-five, two-fifty, well-dressed, well-spoken, uses hair gel?”

  “No,” said Leticia. “And Flaco was just a little guy.”

  Bernie handed her our card. “Let me know if a big guy like that shows up,” he said. “And just for now, staying out here’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the break-in.”

  “I get that it was a warning,” Leticia said, “but what about?”

  “We’re working on that,” Bernie said.

  “And meanwhile we’re in danger?” She gestured toward the RV.

  “I wouldn’t put it that strongly.”

  “But,” said Leticia.

  “You got it.” Bernie took out a pen. “We’ll need the name of that public defender.”

  Leticia said the name. Bernie wrote it on his hand. While he was doing that, she gave him a close look, maybe trying to see the inner Bernie. She had a treat in store.

  * * *

  The courthouse, which I’d been inside of several times, including once as Exhibit A, stands across the street from a shady little downtown park, where Bernie and I sat on a bench with Haskell, the public defender, me actually not sitting but lying underneath so I had the shade of the bench as well as the shade of the trees. Why not be nice to yourself in this life?

  We deal with public defenders sometimes at the Little Detective Agency, but all I know about them for sure is they tend to be on the young side. Haskell reminded me of Charlie’s jittery little buddy Murrow, called Murrow the Minnow by all the other kids at our Fourth of July blowout until Bernie said, “Kids?” Haskell and the Minnow even had that same expression on their faces, like they’d just been surprised. I kept my eye on him through the slats of the bench seat and tried to concentrate on their conversation, not easy, what with my mind wandering back to that party. Sausages! Burgers! Frisbees! Steak tips! It checked all the boxes. The only negative were the fireworks, and one firework in particular called Rocket to the Moon that took a rather strange flight, at one stage possibly passing right through old man Heydrich’s house.

  Maybe more on that later. Right now Haskell was tapping his foot like crazy and saying, “… really doesn’t want to see anybody.”

  “I get that, Haskell,” Bernie said. “You’ve said it three times.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Little.”

  “Don’t say you’re sorry. And don’t call me Mr. Little.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “Did you tell her specifically that I wanted to see her?”

  “Yes, sir. ‘Mr. Little wants to see you.’ Those exact words. I didn’t know not to call you Mr. Little at that point in time.”

  Through the slats, I caught an interesting gleam in Bernie’s eyes, kind of menacing. Haskell, busy picking up some papers he’d just dropped, missed Bernie’s look.

  “And,” Haskell went on, licking his thumb and trying to wipe a dirt smear off a page, “Ms. Pilgrim said especially not him. Her exact words. Sorry. Oops. Not sorry. Sorry.”

  Now he caught Bernie’s expression and quickly turned away, like it could actually hurt him.

  “I need you to think,” Bernie said.

  “Sure,” said Haskell. “What about?”

  Bernie took a deep breath. “How to get Lotty out of this mess.”

  “Boy,” said Haskell, “that’s a tough one. The problem, Mr., uh, is she’s dead set on pleading guilty. So I’ve been more or less strategizing the end game, if you will.”

  “Go on,” said Bernie, his voice getting quiet.

  Haskell wriggled around, got more comfortable. “Well, with no aggravating circumstances I can see, I think we can rule out the death penalty. That sets us up for negotiations with the DA. We’ve got a little time—there’s two weeks till the arraignment.”

  “Negotiations for what purpose?”

  “Why, to go for reduced prison time,” said Haskell.

  “Reduced to what?”

  “Don’t hold me to it, but I’d be happy with ten years, maybe twelve.”

  There was a long silence. “Do you have any idea how old she is?” Bernie sai
d.

  “That turns out to be a tough one,” said Haskell. “There’s conflicting evidence.”

  “But she’s not young.”

  “No, sir—sixty-five at the very least.”

  “So plus ten would make—”

  “Seventy—” Haskell stopped himself. “Uh, I get what you’re implying.” He shook his head. “But I just don’t see the DA taking any less. Ms. Pilgrim totally ruled out self-defense. I also tried a crime-of-passion angle, involving…” He flipped through the papers. One fluttered, unnoticed, down my way. I gave it a few licks, not sure why.

  “… one Ms. Marr,” Haskell went on. “Adele Marr. Ms. Pilgrim said the name was unfamiliar to her, and when I mentioned Ms. Marr’s alleged involvement with Mr. Swann, she got … incensed, I would say, and asked for another defender.”

  “Oh?” said Bernie.

  Haskell looked down. “But the boss said no one was available.”

  They sat in silence. My paper had become mostly wet shreds. I ate them up, just keeping things tidy, more than anything.

  Bernie raised his hand, patted Haskell’s knee. “Do you think she’s guilty, Haskell?”

  “I can’t see any other explanation for the death, especially with the confession.”

  “But leaving all that out, just in your heart, yes or no.”

  Another long silence. At last, Haskell said, “No.”

  “Then let’s get her out on bail,” Bernie said, “so we can work on changing her mind.”

  “Uh, Mr., um, Bernie?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is no bail. The judge turned us down this morning.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Flight risk.”

  “For god’s sake,” Bernie said. “Who’s the judge?”

  “Hyde.”

  “He’s still alive? A bottle-a-day man for decades?”

  “I’ve heard that,” Haskell said. “Maybe his liver’s the only decent part of him.”

  Bernie laughed, gave Haskell one of those second looks.

  “Speak of the devil,” Haskell said, pointing to the courthouse steps across the street. A red-faced old guy with a cane was making his way to the street, and listening to a man at his side, a man I knew.

  Bernie started to rise, then stopped himself. “What’s he doing with Boomer Riggs?”