by Molly Macrae
“Sorry,” I said. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Ms. Estep was just telling us—” Clod started to say.
“What I told Joe and Kath earlier,” Sierra said. “The incident, while unfortunate, won’t keep the grand opening from going forward as planned, and unless there’s evidence beyond personal dislike, we won’t be hearing accusations.”
“There will, however, be an investigation,” Clod said. “I intend to look around and talk to your other co-op members.”
Sierra’s chin tipped a bit higher, but she nodded. Rogalla cleared his throat.
Clod, sounding pained, added, “Rogalla and the dog will accompany me.”
Belinda continued staring at the floor.
Then Clod did something proving that deep down, under the badge and the uptight brawn, he was a Dunbar; he spoke gently to Belinda. “Ms. Moyer, you’ve given me your statement. I’ll get it typed up, and at your convenience, you can come over to the courthouse and sign it. That doesn’t have to be before next week. Now, the only other thing I need for you to do is show me the tablecloth. Then I’ll leave you be.” He scowled at the rest of us. “Everyone else will, too.”
Assuming we were “everyone else,” Joe and I moved out into the gallery, but if Clod thought we’d disperse, he was wrong. Whether he wanted to hear it or not, I meant to tell him my theory of the flame test. Rogalla and Bruce might still think it advisable to sniff around, but it was a solid theory from a textile expert, and they should listen to it and sleep better because of it. Doggone it.
I stopped where I could still mostly hear and pretty well see what went on in Belinda’s shop. I saw Clod and Belinda move toward the trunk, for instance, but they blocked my view so I couldn’t see her open it. But we all heard the single, soft word she spit when she looked inside. In fact, it rhymed with spit. A frenzied tossing of things out of the trunk followed, then silence, and then a view of Belinda’s back and bent head when Clod stepped aside.
I ran back in and poked Clod on the arm so he’d look at me. I didn’t need more than one word, either. “What?”
“The tablecloth appears to have been moved or misplaced,” Clod said. “With all the excitement and upset over the vandalism, it isn’t too surprising. Stress does funny things. We’ll take a look around in here. I’m sure we’ll find it.”
I refrained from poking him again. “Belinda, would you like help?”
“We will take a look around,” Clod repeated.
“Fine.” I looked for Joe, so we could leave in unanimous dudgeon. He’d wandered off, so I had to make the most of my own dudgeon.
Joe waved from across the gallery when he saw me. He and Martha stood in her doorway. She’d put on a peacoat. It seemed obvious she wanted to be on her way and was doing us a favor by sticking round.
“I thought you might want to hear this,” Joe said when I reached them.
“The back door’s been unlocked off and on all week,” Martha said.
“Oh for—did you know that?” I asked Joe.
He shrugged. “I probably could’ve guessed, but I keep odd hours and use my key.”
“So instead of knocking on the front door, I could have gone around back and waltzed right in anytime I wanted?”
“Of course,” Martha said. “People were still bringing things in and had other people helping. And everybody’s excited to see what’s been done with the place. It was hard to keep them from taking an early look around, and we’ve all been happy to show them. I seem to remember you looking around earlier this week.”
Why did I suddenly feel guilty? Oh, right, because Martha had singled me out for her cutting sarcasm after Nervie and Belinda fussed at each other that day.
“Sierra arranged for live music tomorrow, too,” Martha said, “so the musicians were in and out with equipment and checking out the space and the acoustics in the gallery.”
“But doesn’t it seem unbelievably random or lucky that an excited stranger rummaged in Belinda’s trunk at the back of her shop, found the tablecloth, cut it, and burned a bit of it? And then either the same person or another one found the scraps, which didn’t look like anything at all anymore, and thought, ‘Gosh, I can’t possibly live without these,’ and spirited them away right under Belinda’s nose? Oh.”
Joe and Martha were staring at me.
“You must have loped away before Belinda discovered the scraps were missing,” I said. “Well, that’s the latest wrinkle in all this.”
“We didn’t hear a peep from over there,” Joe said.
“And Belinda rarely just peeps,” said Martha.
“She might be in shock at this point, and who could blame her? Cole thinks the stress got to her, and she doesn’t remember moving them. He and Rogalla are going to knock themselves out being helpful and find them for her. I bet they don’t find them, and I bet even more that this whole thing is an inside job and the unlocked door has nothing to do with it.”
“The unlocked door complicates things, though,” Joe said.
“Belinda leaving her shop tonight complicates them, too,” Martha added.
“Oh, Belinda.” I felt like banging my forehead against the wall. Banging Belinda’s forehead against the wall would have felt better, though only in the short term; in the end I would have felt obliged to join Clod at anger management. “Why did she go and do that?”
“Why shouldn’t she?” Martha asked. “None of us are required to be here, and most of us won’t be keeping regular hours. They aren’t that kind of shops.”
“I know. I’m just whining on behalf of a tablecloth that can’t whine for itself anymore. Where did she go? How long was she gone?”
“She went looking for anyone who would listen to her tale of woe. It’s been like a B-grade drama around here with B-linda b-moaning and b-wailing.” Martha yawned, then, and told Joe she’d see him in the morning. “And I assume you’ll show up at some point, too?” she asked me.
“I wouldn’t miss it. It’ll be great.”
“We’ll hope for the best, anyway, with strong coffee in the morning and whiskey when it’s over.” She covered another yawn and went down the stairs.
After Martha left, I said, “I wonder if I should’ve told her Cole wants to talk to everyone.”
“He can catch her tomorrow,” Joe said. “She’s exhausted, but you can tell she’s keyed up, too. She isn’t usually that snarky. It’s this thing with Belinda. You know, she might not last long at the Vault.”
“I wouldn’t blame her. Poor Belinda.”
“I meant Martha. I’d be sorry to see her go.”
Joe was nice like that. The jury still seemed to be out on whether Martha and I were going to like each other, but I’d even heard Joe say he was sorry to see Clod go a time or two. Speaking of whom, he spotted us and marched across the gallery.
“Thought you two might have gone by now,” he said, his voice hitching upward along with his belt.
“Find anything?” Joe asked.
“No, no, she was right.” He looked aggravated and sucked a tooth to prove it. “The tablecloth’s gone.”
It hadn’t taken much time for him and Rogalla to search Belinda’s shop and come to that conclusion. It took infinitely less time for me to show I could be snarkier than Martha.
“The tablecloth was already gone,” I said. “Someone reduced it to a box of scraps. And now that’s disappeared out of Belinda’s trunk and out of her shop, and the question is how. How?” That might have come out more like howl.
“Rogalla and I have done what we could in the amount of time we’ve had since Ms. Moyer discovered the disappearance. We made a thorough search of the shop.” The starch in Clod’s voice would have made Jell-O stand at attention.
“A small shop inside a much larger space,” I said, never having been a fan of Jell-O. “And Rogalla’s a volunteer fireman. He’s an accountant. Why don’t you call in backup? Where are Deputy Munroe and Deputy Dye?”
“Other priorities, other
cases,” Clod said. “Including a murder.” It was clear he’d rather be working on that case.
There was no snark from me on that point. Gar’s murder put a mere tablecloth into perspective. But I still wanted to be sure Clod treated Belinda’s case seriously, too. “The scraps definitely aren’t in Belinda’s shop. They might still be in the building, though.”
“We can’t know that without tearing the whole place apart.”
“And the tablecloth is already torn apart, so what’s the use? Is that it?”
“Sierra will have a heart attack if they tear the place apart tonight,” Joe said. At a look from me, he added, “Or she could suck it up and run up and down the stairs a few times.”
“What about Bruce?” I said. “He’s supposed to be sniffing around for more signs of attempted arson. So maybe he can sniff out the singed scraps while he’s at it. Or if someone grabbed them and ran, he can point which way they went.”
“Huh,” Clod said, with familiar Dunbar understatement. “Okay, yeah. I like that.” An interesting light grew in his eye as he nodded. It was a light his anger management guru might consider problematic. When he went to tell Rogalla it was a go for Bruce to start sniffing, his regulation deputy boots had an unusual bounce to them.
“Is it okay if we tag along?” I called after him.
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“We’ll start him out on a circuit of the space here on the second floor,” Rogalla was saying as Joe and I joined them. “Though I want you to understand this is less than scientific. Bruce has a good nose, but he’s primarily an earth dog, programmed for rodents and diving down burrows. That’s why he gets so excited when he sees a possum.”
Clod raised his hand. “Possums aren’t rodents.”
“I know that,” Rogalla said. “Bruce knows it, too. But they look like ungainly and overgrown rats, and they make use of other animals’ burrows, and unless you’re willing to do a side-by-side rat and possum sniff test, I suggest you don’t quibble over minor details with an expert.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” The interesting light in Clod’s eye had spread to his smile. “No quibbling from me. We’ll follow your lead.”
“And yet,” I muttered to Joe, “neither of them will listen to the textile expert who probably has more credentials and interest in what’s going on than the dog who just flopped down to take a nap.”
“I am not traipsing around after the dog,” Belinda said. “And if you’d believed me in the first place, I wouldn’t now have to go put my shop back together.”
“I’m sorry for your trouble, Ms. Moyer,” Clod said. “I’ll file my report and keep you informed.”
“And let me know if the dog finds anything.”
“I will,” Clod said.
“So now what are you going to do?” Sierra asked. “Just have the dog sniff around?” She glanced quickly toward the back stairs. “You won’t need to dismantle other shops?”
“We’ll be as quick as we can while still being thorough,” Rogalla said. “As for dismantling—”
“There will be no dismantling, Ms. Estep,” Clod said. “If you have other matters you need to attend to, by all means do so.”
“Before tomorrow? Are you kidding? Find me before you leave, though, okay? I’ll probably be in my office, but if not, then I’ll be . . . around. Al has my cell.”
“Okay, Al,” Clod said. “Take it away.”
Chief Inspector Bruce of Scotland Yard got back to his feet at a word from Rogalla. The two of them trotted toward Martha’s enamel shop with Clod close behind.
“Are you going to watch them?” Joe asked. “Because I might—” He tipped his head toward the main stairs.
“Oh, yeah, of course. I’ll bark if they find anything.” But before I followed Bruce and his buddies, I dashed to the back stairs. Sierra had just reached the bottom when I leaned over the railing and called her.
“Sierra, hi, have you got a minute?”
“What? Oh, well, no, not really.”
“Sorry, I just wanted to ask about something you said earlier.” That I’d told myself not to ask about again. “When I asked if people had been coming in, you said no. But they have been. All week.”
She blinked up at me. “I think you said ‘wander.’”
“I might have, but that’s kind of what they did.”
“No. They didn’t. The way you said ‘wander’ implied random people. That didn’t happen.”
After she’d gone through the door and couldn’t hear me, I added, “That you know of.” She would have been busy with arrangements for the grand opening all week. Up, down, in, out, sometimes stuck in her office—and sometimes, as Nervie had made it sound, unfindable. How much had she missed?
When I caught up with Bruce and his expert nose, it didn’t appear I’d missed much. Bruce looked longingly at a rack of tooled wallets in the leatherworks shop.
“He passed on the pottery next door,” Clod stage-whispered to me.
“Nothing of interest up here,” Rogalla announced. “Let’s head on down to level one.”
“What we non–nose experts call the first floor,” Clod whispered. I moved out of range so he wouldn’t be tempted to narrate every other step of the way.
Bruce took a quick trip around the lobby, stopping for a sniff at the front door. The information and sales desk held no interest for him. I was interested to see Joe duck out of view in his shop before Clod caught sight of him. I didn’t give him away by pointing and yipping. Neither did Bruce. What did catch Bruce’s attention was something in Floyd Decker’s antique shop.
In his younger days, Floyd could have played Mr. Rogers’s stunt double. Now he was beyond the days of doing stunts, but he still had a passing resemblance to Fred Rogers, right down to the cardigan. Floyd’s sweater had buttons, though, instead of a zipper. He had one of the larger shop spaces, twice what Belinda and the others had on the second floor, so about ten times the size of Joe’s shop. Floyd was delighted to have Bruce come in and look over his antiques.
“Most of what I have is eastern Tennessee in origin,” Floyd said. “I’m afraid you won’t find any cabers to toss or heraldic shields, young fellow. What’s he looking at?”
It wasn’t obvious. Bruce was doing his minor-adjustment moves the way he had when we’d been outside looking at the mural.
“He’s triangulating,” Rogalla said.
I might have heard a muffled guffaw from Clod.
Then Bruce was on the move. He left Floyd’s, bypassed Simon Grace’s bookshop in the vault, and took us down the hall and around a corner toward the infamously unlocked back door. He stopped to sniff at two unmarked doors opposite each other, the restrooms farther along, and then continued on to the back door. He sniffed all along the bottom of the door, and then he reared back and did his jazz hands.
“Possum come a-knockin’ there, Brucie?” Clod asked.
Bruce ignored him. Rogalla and I did, too. Bruce dropped back to the floor, sniffed around, and let Rogalla walk him back to the bookshop. Simon wasn’t in. Bruce sniffed the space without much interest. When he’d made his way around the shop and returned to the door, his ears and nose perked up. He followed them back to Floyd’s, where he did his jazz hands again.
“Does he want to shake?” Floyd asked.
Bruce wanted to turn around and head for the back door again. He repeated his sniffing and his jazz hands at the door and then back to do it again in Floyd’s. When he started for the back door a third time, I stopped following and let Simon’s miniature bookshop lure me into the vault. It looked as though he’d taken apart an old bookshop from a street in London, made the necessary modifications, and fitted it carefully into its new home. Why Bruce hadn’t found it attractive I didn’t know. And I didn’t feel like I’d miss anything by peeking into one of the locked glass-fronted bookcases, because the guys with the badges weren’t being subtle or quiet.
“I’m sorry I have to point this out to you, Rogalla,” Clod said, “but Bruce
isn’t a real convincing sniffer dog. I’m not so sure he’s a possum dog, either. Not unless a possum and all his kin moved in here while no one looked.”
“We’re still working, Dunbar. We’d appreciate it if you’d keep quiet.”
“I’m just saying that according to the Chief Inspector and his jazz hands, Floyd Decker’s shop is infested with possums and they’re running up and down the hall to the back door every time we turn around.”
I poked my head out of the vault to interrupt. “Maybe he does the hands thing for singed linen, too. Maybe he’s tracking the scraps.”
Clod and Rogalla looked at me. Bruce looked down the hall toward the door.
“Why don’t you let him out to see where he goes?”
“That’s the next step,” Rogalla said.
“Yeah, right,” said Clod.
The door, happily or not, was unlocked. We followed Bruce outside to an area of crumbling asphalt with a few cars. Bruce sat down and scratched his ear. He reminded me of the way Clod sometimes looked when he worked through a finer point of detection.
“The Chief Inspector has fleas, Rogalla,” Clod reported.
After scratching, Bruce seemed to have made a decision. He turned around and trotted back to Floyd’s and showed him his jazz hands.
“I’ve got it. I know what it is,” Rogalla said. “You must have an old possum fur coat in here, Floyd. Gotta be.”
“Well now, I don’t believe I do,” Floyd said. “No clothes for sale at all. But I know where I can lay my hands on one, over in Johnson City, if that’s what you’re after. I can’t have it for you tomorrow, but sometime next week, if that’ll do you.”
While Rogalla explained why he didn’t want the coat, I realized Clod wasn’t with us anymore. When Bruce headed for the back door again, I found out why. Clod had gone to find a roll of toilet paper. He’d put a match to it, doused it, and set the smelly, smoldering, sodden mess in the middle of the hall.
“To see what Bruce does now,” he said, that light in his eye burning as brightly as the toilet paper must have.