Saddled with Murder

by Eileen Brady

  “Gramps is like that too.”

  “Hey, things to look forward to,” Mari joked, although none of us were amused.

  I tried to put my client’s death in perspective. Accidents happen all the time. Eloise was in her late seventies hauling wood in a snowstorm. One of those accidents that happen in or near the house to seniors all the time.

  What my technician said resonated with me since I’d heard Gramps say the same sort of thing plenty of times. His brain felt young even if his body didn’t. He’d done dangerous things all his life and even now took risks. Anytime the phone rang at weird hours of the night I worried it was bad news about my Gramps. Hearing a story like the death of Eloise Rieven reminded me we all needed to be more careful.

  Suddenly I remembered the YouTube video. I wondered how many people had viewed that stupid thing now?

  * * *

  I’d managed to get through my morning appointments and was writing up notes when Cindy asked for a favor. Someone had to take care of Queenie, the bulldog, until Eloise’s son, Joe, could pick her up. Since she had an enlarged liver the chief wondered if we could board her, with Joe’s permission, instead of them sending her to animal control down in Kingston.

  And could we pick her up now?

  * * *

  Only fifteen minutes from the Oak Falls Animal Hospital, Eloise Rieven’s farmhouse had been sitting in the same place, in various states of repair, for over one hundred years. Sure, some of the many layers of paint had peeled off, and one end of the porch looked a bit skewed, but it still was a grand old dame of a home.

  “Slow down,” Mari said.

  We could see the reflections of the police cruiser lights ahead. I downshifted and stared out the driver’s side window as we approached the turn-in. My eyes followed a beautifully restored stone wall that met up with another, older, more tumbled down version that marked the beginning of Eloise’s property.

  “She wouldn’t repair that wall,” Mari said, noticing me looking at it. “Bragged that her place was the only homestead still in original condition in this entire region.”

  If original meant difficult to drive, then the rutted road that led to the house was extremely original. The holes were so large we slowed down to a crawl and still bumped hard enough for Mari’s head to hit the ceiling.

  The chief himself sat waiting for us in his car, most likely under orders from his wife and sister-in-law. When we finally parked, he got out and stretched his shoulders. From the tire marks everywhere, it looked like we must have just missed the crowd of emergency vehicles.

  “Hey, Mari. Dr. Turner. Thanks for helping us out with this.” A known animal lover, Chief of Police Garcia was very solicitous of animals involved in crime scenes or abandoned due to circumstances beyond the owner’s control.

  In the background I heard a hoarse “ruff,” which repeated every minute or so. “That sounds like Queenie.”

  “Yep.” We started to move toward the house. “That’s another reason I called. She won’t let anyone get near her, and she hasn’t stopped barking this whole time.”

  Mari followed close behind him. We were heading toward the back of the house walking through snow covered in footprints. While they kept chatting, I kept looking.

  A large tarp-covered cord or two of wood loomed around the corner. Painted on the snow butting up against it, a fluorescent outline marked the position of the body. Caution tape attached to thin metal poles cordoned off the area.

  “Is that where…?” Mari pointed to the image in the snow.

  “Yes.” Another “ruff” from Queenie spurred Mari and the chief along toward the back stairs.

  I stared at the outline while soft snowflakes began to fall. I hoped it would cover everything so Joe Rieven wouldn’t come back and find his mother’s body outlined on the ground. I hadn’t been so fortunate.

  As soon as they told me my mom and brother had died in a car accident two blocks from our house, I ran out the front door. My neighbor yelled for me to stop, but I kept running. Most of the crowd had dissipated, but the remnants of caution tape, shattered windshield glass, and the red-and-yellow investigator marks were still visible in the road. Twelve hours later there was no trace. Rush hour traffic swept by as it always did, oblivious that my life had changed forever at that intersection.

  I stood there until my Gramps found me, still holding the flowers I’d brought. There was no place to put them.

  * * *

  The distressed “ruffs” got louder. A gray handicap ramp lay on top of one side of Eloise’s back stairs. Covered with rubberized ridges to prevent bulldogs and people from slipping, that must have been how she walked Queenie. While Mari scurried up the ramp, the chief and I chose the regular stairs.

  Mari waited at the top. “Last time I was here she’d set up a step-in shower in the mudroom that was perfect for washing the bulldogs. That’s where I put my grooming table.”

  The chief nodded. It wasn’t new information. He opened the door before stepping aside to let us through.

  Although the lights were on, the inside of the house stayed dim. Rough walls made of stone outlined the mudroom. A long, narrow hallway, made even narrower by the number of oil paintings and photos hanging on both sides, loomed ahead.

  I heard Mari speaking to Queenie and listened to the doggy yips of joy at seeing someone she knew. Following their voices, I exited the hallway into an airy sitting room. Two walls were lined with built-in bookcases packed with faded leather-bound volumes. Gold brocaded chairs flanked the fireplace, where Mari sat on the floor in front of cold embers. Queenie leaned against her, fiercely wagging her stump of a tail. My appearance also rated an excited yip.

  “Well, that’s more like it,” the chief commented. “Her harness and leash are on the chair. Do you want to get the bed and her bowls, too?”

  “Definitely,” said Mari, now packing up. “And Squeaky. Don’t forget Squeaky.”

  The ratty yellow duck, the bulldog’s favorite toy, was carefully packed up in a carryall marked “Queenie,” and then we all walked slowly back the same way we had entered and out the mudroom door. The ramp proved invaluable as the bulldog headed right toward it, relieving herself only a few feet from the bottom.

  Queenie hesitated as we approached the woodpile, anxiously whining and looking up at Mari.

  “Come on, honey,” Mari coaxed her along. “Want to go for a ride?”

  The dog looked dubious, obviously knowing her owner was missing and not sure why.

  “Let’s go.” My assistant gave a quick short tug on the leash and Queenie obeyed, like the good dog she was.

  * * *

  Once at the hospital, Queenie settled in, especially with some extra spoiling from the three of us. Cindy asked all kinds of questions, with Mari and me supplying the answers for a change. After getting an oversized kennel ready with her bed and Squeaky and food and water, the bulldog surprised us by climbing in and lying down.

  “It’s been a long day for her,” Mari noted.

  A bulldog snore gently lifted everyone’s spirits.

  “Same here.” Taking a break, I drank some water and shared a bagel with Cindy. “Glad we could help the chief out today. Seeing that woodpile was tough.”

  Cindy sighed and said, “You two have been through a lot.”

  “I still can’t believe Eloise passed like that.”

  “I’m stunned, too.” Echoing my thoughts, Mari sat in one of the lab chairs, rubbing her arm. “I met her when she was seriously involved in showing her dogs. Must have been in my teens. Very demanding, but very kind to me. That’s when she hung out with that Rhinebeck crowd of millionaires.”

  “Eloise?” I asked.

  “Eloise. She was a member of the Historical Society, the Hudson Valley Gardening Club, and the American Kennel Club. I remember because she tried to get me to sign up as a junior mem
ber.”

  “Doc Anderson’s mother had some kind of designation on her house from the Historical Society,” Cindy said. “He used to say, ‘I’d like to have a dollar for every house George Washington supposedly slept in up here.’ More likely it was Benedict Arnold, running for his life.”

  Our receptionist’s attempt to cheer us up failed.

  “Well,” Cindy said, checking the time, “we’ll all be in the history books if we don’t keep moving. Kate, you’ve got a couple of call-backs before the next appointment, and Mari, can you make sure all the morning labs are recorded?”

  Even in the wake of a tragedy like Eloise Rieven’s untimely death, the everyday world doesn’t stop for long. Especially when you have a Cindy to keep you on track and on time.

  As we hurried off to our chores, the bulldog snored and dreamed.

  Chapter Nine

  After the hospital closed for the night and the world turned still, I sat down in my apartment with Buddy and decided it was time. Like it or not, I needed to watch the Secret Selfish Santa Wish party video. Call it a compulsion. Before she left, Mari had let slip that the litter box cake, Frank’s death, and the Christmas wish had been mentioned online by several bloggers and even someone’s Facebook page. She apologized once more.

  I had no idea what would happen when the online community discovered Eloise also had died.

  By the time I pulled YouTube up on my phone, the hits had more than doubled. We were now at 5,637.

  Considering the amateur quality of the video, the first part actually was pretty funny and showed a bit of skill. Mari used a movie-shooting-style clapboard app to start, then cut away to pictures of real litter boxes before zooming in on her uncomfortably realistic litter box cake.

  We certainly sounded like we were having fun that day. Whoops of laughter greeted the big reveal. Mari took full advantage of her camera’s features. She also frequently cut away to show a brief panorama of the treatment room and its occupants.

  Snippets of conversation could be heard from the “audience” along with Mari’s periodic narration. Then you heard Cindy introducing the game. It was only after several more shots of individuals chowing down on litter box cake that the phone swung back up to the front of the room. The film caught Cindy and me as she asked for my Secret Selfish Santa wish. I appeared decidedly uncomfortable. Encouraged by the crowd, I vaguely heard myself say “dissatisfied clients,” but the names Frank and Eloise were supplied by Mari. The last one added by Pinky—which was something Lassitor—I didn’t recognize.

  If I had stopped right there, my life now would be much simpler. Instead I smiled, waved my magic finger wand, and dramatically wished them to all “disappear.” The video ended with a rush of inaudible chatter and a few hands clapping.

  The whole scene lasted only a few minutes. As it turned out, those were a few minutes too many.

  * * *

  My delicious homemade dinner that night consisted of a packaged frozen meal followed by a tablespoon of peanut butter and jelly as dessert. The apartment felt messy and disorganized, the same as me. Dragging myself off toward the sofa, I started to clean up.

  Cleaning slowed down when Luke called. My hunky friend on whom I’d had a crush for the last few months had just arrived back in town on Christmas break from his law school studies. A former Oak Falls police officer currently on a leave of absence, Luke, I was certain, had been filled in by someone from town on all the graphic details of my two clients’ deaths.

  “Can’t keep out of trouble, can you?” he said when I answered the phone.

  “Thanks. That’s just what I need to hear,” I answered, annoyed at his lack of sympathy. But then Luke always came right to the point.

  “Sorry. I thought I’d lighten things up a little, but obviously that approach fell flat.” He stopped to regroup. “How are you holding up?”

  I took a pair of dirty scrubs and threw them in the laundry basket. “Okay. How much do you know?”

  While I waited for his answer, I continued straightening up.

  “Well, let’s see,” he began. “Crazy Christmas party video, Frank’s unlocked door, and you and Mari discovering his body. Eloise frozen. Miss anything?”

  Seeing a stray sock under the bed, I bent down to retrieve it then tossed it toward the laundry basket. It bounced off the rim and fell back on the floor.

  Distracted, I said, “That about covers it.”

  “How do you get yourself…” His voice tapered off. “Forget it.”

  “How do I get myself in these messes? Is that what you were going to say, Luke?”

  He lowered his voice and apologized, but this time it sounded as though he meant it.

  Scooping up the sock, I searched for its mate then put both in with the other dirty clothes. If I had to describe my relationship with Luke, it resembled my laundry situation—hit or miss. Lately, with him being away in school and the unwelcome presence of ex-girlfriend Dina, his high school sweetheart, lurking in the background, I’d say it was more miss than hit.

  Tired of explaining, I stretched out on the sofa, glad that the year was finally coming to an end. Luke echoed my thoughts.

  “All this nonsense is going to blow over soon,” he predicted. “Someday you’ll think back on it and find it hilarious. Except for the deaths part.”

  “You know,” I answered, putting my feet up, “I feel sorry for them both, but at least Eloise had her son and friends to mourn her. Frank died alone. His behavior alienated a lot of people, but perhaps there was a reason behind it that none of us knew about. Some kind of deep emotional trauma?”

  “You’re too nice,” he countered. “Frank was a grumpy old man. Period.”

  “You don’t become that person overnight,” I argued. “Besides, there was someone who liked him.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “His cat.”

  “I’m sure the cat will move on,” he predicted.

  That was Luke, optimism with a side of sarcasm.

  * * *

  “Queenie’s being picked up today by Joe Rieven, Eloise’s son,” Cindy said when I went into the reception area to check on a record. “Sorry to see her go. She’s such a sweetie.”

  “Glad we could help out,” I told her, “especially given the circumstances. I hope he isn’t upset about the video.”

  My receptionist pointed her index finger at me, like a kindergarten teacher. “Stop blaming yourself. This has nothing to do with our party.”

  I pointed right back to her and said, “Death wish video. That’s what they’re calling it online. How can I prove it’s impossible to wish someone to death?”

  “I’ll have to think about that.”

  A “ruff” from the treatment room meant our guest was feeling ignored. Bulldogs take a lot of care, which started me wondering about Queenie’s new home. “How well do you know Joe Rieven?” I asked Cindy. A native of Oak Falls and proud of it, she knew just about everyone in town.

  “Pretty well. He’s quiet, keeps mostly to himself now that he got divorced,” she explained. “I see him at church every Sunday. He’d bring Eloise to the ten o’clock service, then she and her friends went out for brunch. A good son.”

  That dovetailed with the little I’d heard about him, which was, “Joe was a good son to his mom.”

  The basic facts of his life sounded pretty simple. Graduated from high school then joined the Marines. Came back to town and started doing construction. Met a girl from Maine, got married, and moved to Bangor. Being married didn’t last long—no children—got divorced, and eventually moved back to Kingston where he got a job at a lumber mill.

  “Someone told me Joe’s a very good fly fisherman,” Cindy added when I pressed her for more details. “I think he’s won some contests. Most of his friends are fishermen, too. My hubby said he knows a bunch of them. They went on some fancy trip to
Alaska last year.”

  I’d seen pictures of those fishing and nature tours. Alaska looked spectacular. “Was he catching salmon?”

  “Probably. You can ask him yourself, though.” The phone rang as Cindy retrieved some papers from the printer.

  “What do you mean? I’ve never met him.” I tried to get Cindy’s attention while she listened to the caller.

  Using a Sharpie, my ever-resourceful receptionist wrote Queenie Rieven on a manila envelope with our logo printed on a label at the top. She covered the speaker with her hand and whispered, “He’s picking up her exam and shot records in about twenty minutes.”

  * * *

  I was busy looking up a new protocol for osteoarthritis when she texted me:

  JOE’S HERE

  Hurrying to catch him before he left, I walked out into the reception area hoping I wouldn’t have to guess who he was. I didn’t. Cindy was having a conversation with a man holding the manila envelope. Queenie sat next to him on a leash.

  “Oh, Dr. Kate,” she said as if my entrance was a surprise, “I’d like you to meet Joe Rieven.”

  About my height, five foot ten, with a neatly trimmed brown beard and calm brown eyes, Joe wore a ski jacket with his Fly Fishing USA baseball cap.

  I held out my hand. “So sorry for your loss,” I told him. “Your mother loved her bulldogs, especially Queenie.” I bent down to give the dog a hug.

  Joe said, “Thank you.”

  “Are you keeping her?” I was curious if the older bulldog needed a new home.

  “No, I wish I could. I’m in a second-floor apartment with no elevator. Queenie’s going to live with Julie, one of my mom’s best friends,” he explained. “Julie’s got Queenie’s sister and a house with a fenced yard. She’s known her since she was born. I’m sure Mom would approve.”

  It sounded like a perfect arrangement. Joe looked to be in his late forties, early fifties, with a prominent beer belly. I’d hate to think of him carrying a sixty-pound bulldog up and down the stairs three times a day. “Is Julie close by?”