“I see …,” she said. “Then we’ll bill this as a consultation.”
After we’d passed my credit card back and forth, she led me down a short hall, opened a door for me, and said, “Dr. Jim will be right with you.” I stepped inside, and she closed the door.
I sat, drumming my fingers on the portfolio in my lap. The cramped room was dominated by a stainless steel exam table. The paraphernalia filling an adjacent counter included medical instruments, sell-cards for pet medicines, and a baby scale. The walls were decorated with a couple of faded Currier and Ives prints, as well as charts showing the innards of dogs and cats. Bright fluorescent lighting competed with the blades of sunshine angling in from venetian blinds. Dogs barked from somewhere in back, where there must have been a kennel.
I heard a door open and close in the hall, a bit of farewell conversation, footfalls retreating toward the front, and then the turn of the knob as Dr. Phelps walked in to greet me. “Hi there, Brody. What a surprise to see you on the schedule this morning.”
I stood to return his greeting and to volley a few pleasantries, but he seemed distracted, looking about the room. After a pause, he asked, “Where’s Mister Puss? I thought—”
“Sorry for the confusion,” I said. “I just wanted to talk to you about—”
“Is something wrong with the cat? Is Mary okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I assured him. “But I need to discuss something with you.”
He shrugged. “Sure, Brody. More comfortable in my office. Over here.” And he led me across the hall.
His office was roomier, less sterile, and far more inviting. There was even a small, classic Chesterfield sofa of tufted brown leather. He took off his lab coat and hung it on a wooden peg behind the door, then put on the corduroy sport coat with knotted-leather buttons he’d worn to the pitch session at Mary’s. He gestured for me to sit on the sofa. “Now,” he said, sitting across from me in a maple captain’s chair, “what’s this about?”
A rap at the door interrupted us. The receptionist poked her head inside. “Thought I’d duck out for lunch and stop at the post office, Jim. Next appointment’s at one-fifteen. Phones are switched to the service.” When he thanked her, she left.
So we were alone. The room had the persnickety-sweet smell of cherry pipe tobacco.
“This is awkward,” I said, not knowing how to broach my intended topic. Was there a tactful way to ask him if he had killed Jason Ward?
“Yeah,” he said slowly, scratching behind an ear, “it’s awkward. You’re concerned about Mary? And her talking cat?”
“I am.” It was a convenient sidestep, but I was, in fact, concerned.
“Consider this, Brody. As children, we’ve all talked with animals, dolls, or imaginary friends—a normal exercise in creativity. At the time, those conversations seem very real, but we put the words in the other party’s mouth.” He went on to explain that the process was a sort of mental loop, not unlike déjà vu.
I reminded him, “But Mary’s no child.” Opening my portfolio, I jotted a few notes.
“Of course not. And I’m fairly sure she’s not feeble-minded, either. But the lessons of childish play can often be adapted to later-life struggles. That’s the purpose of play—it equips us with the foundations we’ll need to navigate the larger world.”
I tossed my arms. “But she’s told me, and I assume she’s told you, that she truly, literally, hears Mister Puss speak to her.” And only two days earlier, I’d gotten an earful myself. Or so it seemed.
“But”—Phelps raised a finger—“Mary said the cat spoke to her through his purr.”
Yup, I thought. That fit my experience, as well.
Phelps continued, “She said it was like being in a trance.”
Check.
Phelps asked, “That leaves a lot of wiggle room, doesn’t it?”
Did it?
“So,” said the doctor, “I look at it this way. My best theory is that Mary has simply been ‘channeling’ through the cat to clarify her own thinking. I’m sure Mister Puss could never tell her something she doesn’t already know.”
I wasn’t so sure about that.
Phelps concluded, “Bottom line, Brody: cats can’t talk.” He let out a hearty laugh.
That much, I had to agree with. I joined him in laughing. Still, I felt compelled to add, “At least, cats can’t talk … in a conventional sense.”
“Fine,” said the vet, smiling.
So we were back to square one. I still had no idea what to make of my tête-à-tête with Mister Puss. And I had yet to touch on the purpose of my visit with Dr. Phelps.
He gave me my opening when he changed the subject, saying, “Mary seemed in good spirits yesterday. I was afraid that the murder, not to mention that morbid funeral service, might have upset her—or worse.”
“Plus,” I noted, “that nut-job deputy, Alex Kastle, keeps pushing the theory that the intended victim was Mary herself.”
“That, too,” Phelps agreed.
“It’s odd, though,” I told him. “From the start, Mary’s biggest worry was that Glee Savage, or even her own housekeeper, might end up being accused of the killing. Now that they’re off the hook, Mary seems content to let the investigation take its course.”
Phelps nodded. “I’ve been following it in the paper—who hasn’t? But that angle with the reporter and the housekeeper, that never made sense to me. How could they be involved with it?”
With a soft laugh, I explained, “Guess you had to be there. Believe me, when it happened, they both came across as plenty suspicious.” I paused, then noted, “But you weren’t there, Jim. Correct?”
“Nah, wasn’t interested.”
“I’m not surprised. At the pitch session, you told me Frumpkin was a huckster and FlabberGas was a fraud.”
Phelps studied me for a moment. “I also recall telling you that I thought Frumpkin should be stopped. Is that why you’re here?”
I played dumb.
He continued, “I understand you’ve been doing a bit of ‘background’ work for Sheriff Simms. So you’re checking me out?”
I couldn’t look him in the eye as I responded, “I guess so.”
“Look, I’ve been half-expecting to hear from one of you all along. Would you care to hear what I was doing at the time of the murder?”
I felt like such a jerk. “Sure, Jim.”
“You see, first of all, I didn’t even know about the Sunday demo, because I left Friday’s pitch session early, before Frumpkin announced the details. And second of all, like I told you, I wasn’t interested in FlabberGas as an investment, so even if I’d known about the demo, I wouldn’t have gone—unless, of course, I was up to some deadly plot, correct?”
“Yes,” I said so quietly that I myself couldn’t hear it.
“Which brings us to point number three, Brody. And here’s the corker: Even if I’d known about the demo, and even if I’d wanted to go, I couldn’t have. Why?” He grinned. “Because at the time of the murder that Sunday, I was in Green Bay—giving a speech to a roomful of cranky old veterinarians.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Really?”
“Yes, my young friend. Really.”
I hesitated to ask, “And … the night before that?” I didn’t want to explain that Simms had already concluded that the setup for the crime had taken place on Saturday night.
“Green Bay,” said Phelps as I dashed off some more notes. He elaborated: “It was a short weekend conference of our regional vets’ association. I drove up there early Saturday morning and drove back on Sunday afternoon. The final session was a Sunday brunch, and they’d invited me to deliver some closing remarks. The topic I proposed was ‘The Vanishing One-Man Practice,’ but someone on the board said it was sexist, so I changed it to ‘The Vanishing One-Doc Shop.’ Clever, huh?”
“Yeah, I like it.”
“So did they. Ate it up. I think there were maybe sixty of us dinosaurs, including a couple dozen ladies. E
xcuse me: women. Times are changing. Did you know that in vet schools, there are now way more women than men?”
“I didn’t know that—guess I never thought about it.”
He pondered this briefly, then helped me with my notes, giving me the name of his association and the details of the conference hotel, adding, “Check those out.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I told him, closing the portfolio. But we would indeed check his story. If there were sixty witnesses who’d spent the weekend with Dr. James Phelps in Green Bay while Dr. Jason Ward was being set up for death by laughing gas in Dumont, Phelps would be safely in the clear. And although that would represent yet another of the “blind alleys” Sheriff Simms had referred to, I remembered his encouraging words: “Then we get down to the final problem-solving.”
Phelps and I chatted amiably for a few more minutes, touching on the election and the new county museum and the colder weather, but soon, there was nothing left to say. He asked, “Anything else I can do for you, Brody?”
I was about to say no, but reconsidered. “Could you maybe show me what’s in back? I heard dogs. Is there a kennel?”
“Not really a boarding kennel. Oh, sure, sometimes I’ll look after a client’s pet for a few days, but mostly the kennels—cages—are simply for holding animals before or after a procedure. Happy to give you a look.” He stood. “Come on.”
So I followed him out of his office, then down the hall to the back of the building and through a door into a sizable room, where I was instantly struck by a hospital smell of medicines and disinfectants, overlaid by a kennel smell of fur and dog breath and accidents.
The space was white and utilitarian, serving multiple purposes. There was an operating area with tables, lights, sinks, and such. One of the corners served as an office, with a metal desk, file cabinets, computer, and printer. Along one wall there were two rows of cages, large and small, containing a few hapless patients; a couple of them were bandaged and groggy, recovering, while the others panted and yapped, wagging their tails, ignorantly awaiting the knife. Huge padded gloves hung nearby for handling the frightened or uncooperative. On the opposite wall was a door with a window that led outside. And next to it—bingo—just what I was looking for, a row of cylinders, half a dozen, resembling scuba tanks. Some were painted metal, the others stainless steel, all of them topped with valves and gauges, which were connected to a tangle of hoses and plumbing that climbed the wall and crossed the ceiling to the surgical area.
Phelps was checking on a dog that had been fitted with one of those Elizabethan-looking cone collars—“How ya doin’ there, buddy?”—while I stepped over to give the tanks a casual inspection. I spotted several tanks of oxygen at once. The other one I recognized was labeled N2O. Buddy, it seemed, was a little loopy on nitrous oxide. Who knew?
“Jim,” I said, “what’s the nitrous for?”
“Works on these guys about the same way it does on people.” He patted the dog’s belly and closed the cage. “It helps stabilize an animal during and after procedures. If it’s a surgery involving other anesthetics, nitrous speeds their induction and then helps the animal recover faster. Lots of vets have switched entirely to injectable anesthesia, but I’m happy with the way things were.”
I took a closer look at the tanks. The different gases did indeed have different fittings.
“You know,” said Phelps, sounding wistful, crossing his arms as he leaned his weight against the edge of a countertop, “I’m getting old now, and starting to feel my age, and sometimes, it’s hard not to look back and wonder what you might have done different, or better. I’m a country doctor—an animal doctor—and some folks might tell you, ‘Sure, that’s real nice, real noble,’ but instead, you know they’re really asking, ‘What’s that hick actually done with his life?’ But animals are so innocent and pure. Just being entrusted with their care, by the people who love them, I’m telling you, Brody, it’s a reward not known by many men.” With a grin, he added, “Or women.”
This guy did not strike me as capable of murder. I said, “We’re grateful to have you here, Jim. And no talk of retirement—Mister Puss needs you.”
“Oh, I plan to be around awhile.”
“Great. Well, I won’t waste any more of your time. Thanks so much.” I shook his hand, a gesture that morphed into a hug. I told him, “I can find my way out.”
“Bah,” he said, “just go out the back. It’s quicker, and the front’s locked up.”
So I stepped to the back door. But as I reached for the knob, a piercing, hideous scream reached our ears from the parrot in the waiting room. Only half joking, I said, “Hope the snake didn’t get loose.”
Phelps laughed. “She just gets lonely out there.”
Outside, I pulled the door closed behind me and noticed a few gas canisters, presumably empties, sticking up from a crate against the wall. The only vehicle in the gravel parking area behind the building was a big old station wagon with Dr. Phelps’s name and phone number—seven digits—painted in faded gold lettering on the door. A second parking space was unoccupied; I assumed it had been vacated by the receptionist. A shingled outbuilding stood at the far side of the lot, looking as if it might once have been a stable, but its current use was not apparent; it may have been abandoned. Beyond it, juxtaposed with the angles of the shed, stretched a dry, harvested field—a scene that could have inspired an Andrew Wyeth painting. A crow cawed in the stillness.
My shoes crunched at the gravel as I followed the curving driveway to the front parking lot, where my car was now alone. Shortly past noon, the breeze still carried a biting chill—a mere hint of things to come—so I quickened my pace, opened the car, and got in. Thumping the door closed, I started the engine. The heater automatically switched to a high roar, rushing to counteract the cold interior. The radio blared Mozart, a piano concerto, played so loudly that the piano’s notes sounded harsh and distorted. Had I really been listening to the radio cranked that high when I arrived? Whatever. I turned it down several notches till it was barely audible above the noise of the heater.
Sitting there in the lot, I decided to call Sheriff Simms and report on my meeting with Dr. Phelps while it was fresh in my mind. I took out my phone and tapped his cell number.
He answered at once. “Hey, Brody. What’s up?”
“Is this a good time, Thomas?”
“Perfect timing,” he said. “Mary Questman asked me to drop by. Just got here—outside at the curb.”
I told him I’d met with Jim Phelps, which he hadn’t known I was planning to do. I explained, “After you left the church hall yesterday, I had another brain wave, which shifted my suspicion from the rug guy, Zakarian, to Phelps, the vet. So I made an appointment and talked to him. Looks like another blind alley, though—he seems to have an airtight alibi.” I paused, astonished. Was I, a mild-mannered architect, now acquiring an everyday lexicon that included such terms as airtight alibi?
Simms asked, “Where was Phelps at the time of the murder?”
I gave him all the details: Green Bay, the conference, the speech, the hotel.
“Okay, Brody, we’ll look into it. If it’s just a blind alley, fine—we’ll cross one more person off the list.”
After hanging up with Simms, I checked e-mails and found that more than a dozen had piled up since I’d left the office. Scrolling through them, I found nothing urgent. Nothing from Marson. Nothing that even caught my interest. Then, pow, the last one on the list. From: Dahr Ahmadi. His message was brief: So sorry we weren’t able to connect yesterday. The funeral left Francis completely drained. Needs lots of attention. Soon, though. xoxox.
I had no idea how to respond—or even if I should respond. I sat there awhile, mulling this. Then I put the car in gear and set the phone on the passenger seat, next to my portfolio and the morning paper, which I’d tossed there earlier on my way to work. The front-page stories were getting monotonous, as well as foreboding. Peeping above the fold was a headline to the daily follow
-up: FIVE DAYS TILL EARLY VOTING.
Turning my gaze from the newspaper, I looked out the windshield and toed the accelerator, easing the car out of the gravel lot and onto the smooth pavement of the quiet county road.
Gaining speed, my tires thrummed on the asphalt, joining the persistent rhythm streaming from the radio and the whoosh of the warm, recirculated air that filled the car. I focused straight ahead as fence posts flicked past on either side of the road like alternating strobes, strung together by barbed wire in my peripheral vision. The dashes of the stripe down the center of the two-lane blacktop flashed white-and-black, white-and-black, as trees rushed to the side of the road, then retreated into the fields and disappeared. Here and there, concrete embankments pinched the highway where corrugated drainpipes slipped beneath the intersections of remote and rustic side roads. Out in the middle of nowhere, the stone pylon of a historical marker appeared, tall and phallic, commemorating what? Perhaps an Indian battle. Or a settlers’ trail. Or a long-gone schoolhouse that had taken a stand in the wilderness, a stand against the wilderness itself.
The car was getting hot. The music was getting modern, loud, and strident. For some reason, I felt curiously detached from my surroundings.
I turned off the heat. I turned off the radio.
And in the relative silence, I heard a different sound, a sound I hadn’t noticed before. It was a hiss—not an organic sound, not like the voice of a snake, but a steady, high-pitched pneumatic sound, like leaking air.
I lightened my foot on the accelerator, slowing the car, wondering if that would cause a change in the hiss, but it did not. In fact, as the car slowed to a crawl, the hiss seemed all the louder. Without the road noise to mask it, the hiss seemed to come from the backseat.
Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed the sporty little plaid jacket I sometimes wore while bumming around, running weekend errands, and I recalled tossing it back there, on the seat. But now it was on the floor—or rather, it appeared to be covering something on the floor. Feeling short of breath, I reached back to grab the jacket, and as I dragged it away, its zipper clanged along the length of a metal tank that it had concealed. The hiss, no longer muffled, seemed to shriek within the confines of the car.
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