Steering drunkenly, I pulled over to the shoulder of the road, hit the brake, and shifted into park. Then I turned in my seat and lifted the head of the tank to rest on the center hump. It was labeled N2O. With one hand, I fumbled to close the valve; with the other hand, I worked the buttons to open all of the car windows.
The hissing stopped. Cold air filled the car. My head began to clear, but my thoughts raced.
I got out of the car and paced a few steps up the roadway and back again, repeating this a few times until I regained my equilibrium. Not a single vehicle passed in either direction as I struggled to comprehend what had just happened—and how it could have ended.
Seated in the car again, I shifted into gear and continued the drive back to Dumont. I had covered only several hundred yards when, up ahead, from a clump of shrubbery near a hidden intersection, I saw emerge the front end of a tricked-out police cruiser from the sheriff’s department. I slowed to let it turn out ahead of me, affording me an unobstructed view of Deputy Alex Kastle.
Watching as the rear of his car sped off toward the main highway, I recalled what Sheriff Simms had told Mary Questman after yesterday’s funeral: “Elections aren’t as clean as they used to be.”
No, they weren’t.
Unless I was seriously mistaken, someone had just tried to kill me.
P A R T T H R E E
Hearing Is Believing
When the doorbell chimed, Mister Puss darted into the front hall and waited near the door, twisting his neck to peer up through a side window.
Mary Questman called, “I’ll get it, Berta.” She’d been looking forward to the sheriff’s arrival all morning and had changed clothes twice for the occasion. Now, shortly past noon, her chunky-heeled Ferragamos clacked on the parquet floor and then softened for the last few steps along a Turkish silk runner. The lock clicked open as she turned the heavy brass knob and swung the door wide. “Welcome, Thomas. So nice of you to make time for me today.”
Sheriff Simms stepped inside, saying, “Always a pleasure, Miss Mary.”
Mister Puss nuzzled his shin.
Smiling, Simms leaned and offered a quick pat. “Good to see you, too, puss-cat.”
Mister Puss followed as Mary led Simms into the little parlor adjacent to the hall. Mary perched at the end of a tidy loveseat; the cat hopped up and sat next to her.
The Sheriff sat facing them. “I find this really embarrassing, Miss Mary.”
“Thomas? Whatever are you talking about?”
He shrugged. “Campaign contributions. You’ve been more than generous already. I wouldn’t dream of asking for more.”
“But I insist,” said Mary. “And besides, circumstances have changed—with that horrid deputy of yours.” She fumed at the very thought of Deputy Kastle, whom she considered nothing less than a traitor. “We can’t let him get away with this.”
“Can’t argue with that,” agreed Simms.
Mary had propped an envelope against a lamp on the table next to the loveseat, wanting to make a nice presentation. She plucked it up and extended it to Simms. “So I want you to have this. I hope it’s not too late to make a difference.”
Simms stood to accept it, then sat to open it. Mister Puss leaned in his direction, stretching his neck, watching.
Mary said, “If it’s not enough, I want you to let me know.”
The sheriff’s eyes bugged as he pulled out the check. “Thank you, Miss Mary. If this won’t do it, nothing will.”
Mister Puss pawed Mary’s arm and reached for her ear, purring loudly. Mary told the sheriff, “If I were younger, I’d be out there knocking on doors for you.” Mister Puss pressed his nose to her ear.
Cash is king.
“You’re far too kind,” said Simms.
“Now, why didn’t I think of that?” said Mary.
“Beg pardon?” said Simms.
“Would you prefer cash, Thomas? Unless I’m confused, there’s no limit on cash contributions—and I could give you far more.” Yes, she thought, Mister Puss had made a brilliant suggestion. Why hadn’t she thought of that? And tucked away in her bedroom, as always, was a plump roll of bills that would make her check seem measly.
Simms laughed. “Miss Mary, you amaze me. Actually, the same limits apply to cash, assuming it gets reported. And I’ve been elected to enforce laws, not skirt them. So this check will do very nicely.” Pocketing it, he added, “I’ll send a receipt tomorrow.”
Berta appeared from the hall and rapped her knuckles lightly on the doorway. “Excuse me, Mary. Will the sheriff be staying for lunch?”
Mary asked, “Won’t you, Thomas?”
“It’s thoughtful of you to offer, but I really need to—”
Mary raised a finger. “Now, I thought you might be busy, so I asked Berta to prepare something that would allow you to eat and dash, if you need to. So she made a lovely carrot soup—nice and hearty for a cold afternoon.”
Berta said, “Cornbread, too.”
Mary grinned. She knew what that meant.
Simms asked Berta, “Did you just bake it? I thought I knew that smell.”
“I make it with honey and a little cinnamon—that’s probably what you smell.”
Mary told her, “I think we’ve convinced the sheriff to stay, Berta.”
A few minutes later, they were in the dining room, a grand space with a long, gleaming mahogany table and twelve chairs, set with lunch for two. Mary sat at the head; Sheriff Simms sat near her along the side, where he could look out upon the front lawn through tall windows framed by silken drapes of misty rose.
Berta stepped forward and removed silver domes from two bowls containing a rich, creamy-orange soup.
“Looks wonderful, Berta,” said Simms. “Sure beats a sandwich at my desk.”
“I’ll be right back with the cornbread.” She winked at Mary, then left.
While Mary and the sheriff tried the soup, agreeing that Berta had worked some magic in the kitchen, Mister Puss peeped up from the edge of the table across from Simms, following their conversation with his golden eyes.
Mary set down her spoon and heaved a little sigh. Sitting back in her chair, she said, “I can’t help feeling a bit guilty, Thomas.”
Simms gave her a quizzical look. “You, Miss Mary? Guilty of what?”
She tossed her hands. “This whole FlabberGas mess—if I hadn’t encouraged Dr. Frumpkin with his business plans, none of this would’ve happened.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Simms. “First, if Frumpkin was intent on building a chain of gas clinics, he would’ve ended up pitching it to investors with or without your help. Second, and most important, Jason Ward’s death wasn’t accidental; it was homicide. So it’s safe to assume the killer had a strong motive and was waiting to strike whenever the opportunity presented itself.”
“That’s reassuring,” said Mary, adding, “in a perverse sort of way.”
Berta returned with a basket of cornbread, still steaming, and two bread plates, each holding a sizable slab of butter. Setting everything on the table, she nudged the sheriff’s shoulder, telling him, “Try it while it’s hot.” Then she disappeared.
Mister Puss lifted his nose above the edge of the table, sniffing. His eyes widened.
Mary and Sheriff Simms helped themselves to the cornbread. Tasting it, Simms responded with a rapturous moan. Mary broke off a crusty corner and held it off to her side, making kissy sounds at Mister Puss. When she dropped the morsel to the floor, the cat leapt from his chair and pounced on it. Then Mary buttered a piece for herself and nibbled it, swallowing with a petite, ladylike groan of approval.
Dabbing her lips with her napkin, she said, “The funeral yesterday—it was nice—I mean, nice for a funeral.”
Simms nodded. “It was a beautiful service.”
“But Father Sterling is slowing down now—getting on in years—it really shows.” Mary fed another tiny scrap of cornbread to Mister Puss, who was pawing her knees.
“Any t
alk of retirement?” asked Simms.
“Plenty,” said Mary with a laugh, “but not from Father Sterling.”
“Good,” said Simms, “I’d miss him. Sure, he’s a good-hearted old guy—you’d expect as much—but above and beyond that, he’s a truly gifted orator.”
Mary nodded. “He certainly helped bring a measure of closure to the Frumpkin family. I hope he was a comfort to them.” Mister Puss was begging again, so Mary pushed her chair back and patted her knees, inviting the cat to jump up to her lap.
“I hope so, too,” said Simms. “Murder takes such a terrible toll within the victim’s family. I’ve seen it too often.”
“Poor Dr. Frumpkin. Somehow, I thought he’d be stronger in the face of this tragedy, but I’m afraid the healing will be slow.” Mary didn’t want to give Mister Puss more of Berta’s cornbread, so she swiped a finger through the butter and offered it to the cat, who licked the swirl from her pinkie with a grateful purr. She said to Simms, “And then there’s Sarah. That poor woman, a widow so young, facing so much uncertainty.” Mary fed Mister Puss another swipe of butter. His purring intensified. “But on a brighter note,” said Mary, “little Olivia seemed to be dealing with everything surprisingly well. She’s been going through a difficult phase lately, but yesterday? She was quite the little lady.”
Mister Puss had pawed his way up Mary’s chest and stretched his snout to her cheek. Then he slid his nose to her ear. His purr droned.
There’s something wrong with that sasspot.
Mary laughed. Petting the cat, she said, “Yes, Mister Puss, you’ve already made your feelings perfectly clear on that topic.”
Simms eyed Mary with a look of evident concern.
Mary smirked. She understood that the sheriff, like most of her friends, had heard the gossip that she conversed with her cat. She also understood that they were skeptical—naturally—and even a bit worried. She herself had reacted the same way, at first, but now, a half year after Mister Puss had arrived, she had grown comfortable with a simple, objective conclusion: hearing is believing. She said, “Humor me, Thomas.”
He broke into laughter. “Of course, Miss Mary.”
The doorbell chimed.
Mister Puss shot out of the dining room and into the front hall. The sound of Berta’s footfalls emerged from the kitchen and moved toward the door.
The chimes rang again.
“Coming,” called Berta.
The massive brass knocker pounded on the door.
Berta opened it. “Mr. Norris—is something wrong?”
“I need to speak to Sheriff Simms. I believe he’s here?”
Alarmed, Mary called out, “Brody, love, we’re in the dining room.” She and Simms rose from their chairs as Brody rushed into the room, looking disheveled and flustered. His necktie was loose, with his collar unbuttoned. He carried his sport coat in one hand and a small leather portfolio in the other.
He said, “I’m sorry to intrude, but—”
“Nonsense, dear. What’s wrong?”
“Thomas,” said Brody, “someone just tried to kill me.”
Berta brought soup. Mary and Sheriff Simms huddled with Brody at the table. Mister Puss sat near Brody’s chair, watching from the floor.
“I should take some notes,” said Simms, slipping a pad from his pocket and opening it on the table. He clicked a pen and began writing.
“And I should review mine,” said Brody. He put down his soup spoon and unzipped his portfolio.
Berta delivered a fresh basket of cornbread, setting it in their midst.
Brody said, “The carrot soup is incredible, Berta. Marson was telling me about it—he loved the ‘aggressive spark of nutmeg.’ It’s a great pairing.”
Obliquely, Berta said, “It’s a little more complicated than that.” She turned to leave for the kitchen, adding, “But thanks—glad you like it.”
Mary told Brody, “You’ll love the cornbread.”
“Maybe later.”
Simms clicked his pen again. “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight: You visited Dr. Phelps at his vet office and concluded he’d had no role in the FlabberGas murder—assuming his story about the conference in Green Bay checks out. Then he showed you the work area at the rear of the office, and you saw that he keeps a supply of nitrous oxide, as well as oxygen and other gases. When you returned to your car and began driving back to town, you discovered a tank of nitrous in the backseat area—with the valve open, hissing.”
“Right,” said Brody, jotting a few notes of his own. “The car was cold, so the windows were up, and the heater was on, recirculating the air. The radio was on, playing way louder than I’d left it. So it took me a while to notice the hiss. And by that time, I was starting to feel woozy. I was barely able to pull over and stop the car.”
Mary fretted, “What a horrible turn of events. Why, you could’ve … you could’ve been …” But she was unable to speak the word she was thinking.
“And then,” said Simms, “you got out of the car and cleared your head. And now you feel normal, right? You don’t need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” said Brody. “Just shaken.”
Simms asked, “And that’s it? You drove directly here?”
Brody paused, crossing his arms. “One more detail.” He looked Simms in the eye, explaining, “After I cleared my head, got back in the car, and began driving again—out there in the middle of nowhere—someone pulled out of hiding, practically cutting me off, and then blasted away in front of me. Guess who.”
Simms and Mary asked in unison, “Who?”
“Ready for this?” asked Brody. “It was none other than Deputy Alex Kastle. In uniform. In a police cruiser.”
Mary gasped. This was beyond her worst suspicions—the deputy was not only a traitor, but the would-be assassin of her dear friend Brody.
Simms set down his pen, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he stifled a laugh.
“Thomas,” said Mary, appalled. “Surely you can’t find this funny.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Mary.” Simms sat back in his chair. “And my apologies to you, too, Brody. Obviously, someone attempted some serious mischief out there today. And I plan to get to the bottom of it. But I’m pretty sure Deputy Kastle wasn’t behind it.” He turned a page in his notebook and began drawing a grid.
“Why?” asked Brody. “Why do you think it wasn’t Kastle? I saw him.”
“I believe you, Brody. It makes perfect sense that you saw him. You see, that county road is sort of isolated and quiet—not much traffic—which tempts some drivers to roar through there. That’s dangerous enough in itself, but with all the curves and blind spots, it can be deadly. So we’ve set up an enforcement zone.”
Brody said, “A speed trap.”
“In common parlance, correct. Kastle found a nicely concealed observation spot, which he mans for about an hour most mornings. You saw him when, Brody? Maybe twenty minutes ago?” Simms checked his watch. “Kastle’s shift was just ending, and he must’ve been rushing off to lunch. I’ll have a word with him about the posted speed limits—doesn’t look good when citizens see officers ignoring the laws they’re supposed to enforce.”
With a disgruntled sigh, Brody shook his head, then ate some more soup.
“Granted,” said Simms, “this doesn’t prove that Kastle didn’t plant the gas canister, but it does explain why he happened to be there. Tell you what—I’ll take the canister as evidence and start looking into this. Can I borrow your keys?”
“Uh,” said Brody, hunching sheepishly over his bowl, “you won’t need them. The car isn’t locked.”
“Brody,” said Simms. “After what happened today?”
“Lesson learned. God, back in L.A., I wouldn’t dream of leaving the car unlocked, but here in Dumont, it seems like a different world.”
“Not so different,” Simms reminded him. “Be careful, now.”
After Simms left, Mary insisted that Brody should stay for a
nother bowl of soup, telling him, “You’ve had such an awful scare—you need your strength.” She sat with him as he ate it, and Mister Puss hopped up into her lap.
Between spoonfuls, Brody began drawing a grid on his pad, which sat next to his bowl on the table.
Mary peered down at it. “Sheriff Simms drew something like that as well. Is it a game?”
“Only in a manner of speaking.” Brody drew an X in one of the squares, explaining, “It’s a suspect grid. It helps make a visual comparison of everyone’s motive, means, and opportunity to commit the crime.”
“Oh, my,” said Mary, “how clever. So you just fill in the squares—and then you have your answer?”
“That’s the idea, but in practice, it’s not so clear-cut. At the outset, it’s great for eliminating certain suspects. But along the way, other details, other circumstances, other questions—they seem to muddy up the finalists.”
“What sort of questions?”
Brody paused before answering, “Questions like: What did they know? And when did they know it?” He paused again. “I wonder …” Then he flipped the page and started another grid.
Mary noticed that as Brody added X after X to his chart, he seemed to grow more agitated. She cooed at Mister Puss, who purred, and she gabbed about this and that with Brody, who looked preoccupied as he scratched and stabbed at the pad. She asked, “Why don’t you try some of Berta’s cornbread? I think you’d enjoy it.”
“Thank you, Mary, but not now.” He turned the page and drew another grid.
She tittered. “Sheriff Simms was so funny. He really doesn’t know what to make of Mister Puss. He must think I’ve lost my marbles.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case …” Brody’s eyes were focused on the grid as he slashed another X and then tried another spoonful of soup.
“Mister Puss doesn’t seem to care for little Olivia at all. He calls her a ‘sasspot.’”
Brody froze.
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