by Becky Clark
Three inches from my face was the mangiest, filthiest, most pathetic looking dog I’d ever seen. Medium-sized, but for all I knew half of that was mud. Staring at me with intense brown eyes. I slowly scooted backward in the snow. The dog took two steps toward me. Silently stalking.
“Shit,” I whispered to myself. The dog sat.
We stared at each other. It repeated the whimpering sound I’d heard earlier.
“What’s the matter … ” I bent to have a look-see. “Girl?” I held out my gloved hand for her to sniff. She placed her paw in it instead. I held out my other hand. She shook it too.
“C’mere.”
She came closer.
Often during big snowstorms, dogs use drifted snow to climb over backyard fences and escape into the world. I felt around her neck for any collar or tags. Nothing. “What’s your name?”
She cocked her head.
“Are you hungry?”
She cocked it again.
I rubbed the sides of her face with some snow and revealed a caramel-colored coat. “Where do you live? Why are you out here?”
She cocked her head twice more.
I suddenly felt ridiculous trying to have a conversation with a dog. Using the wall and the dog’s head for support, I stood and brushed the snow off my butt. If I had to fall again, I was thankful to do it in a fluffy snow bank this time. Nothing felt any worse than it had when I woke up this morning, so I flung the strap of the messenger bag across my chest. The dog startled, ears back, and raced behind the dumpster.
“I’m sorry! Come back. It’s okay.” I crouched and she peeked out, taking tentative steps toward me. I held out my hand and she barrelled toward me, again stopping three inches from my face.
I straightened up and looked around. Behind us was the sandwich-board sign on the sidewalk in front of Espresso Yourself. Handwritten in green marker was the invitation, Come on in! It’s warm in here. The coffee is hot and the customers are cool. I’d seen other dogs inside. Probably very much against health codes, but as long as the dogs behaved, nobody seemed to care.
I looked down at the dog and she looked up at me. Her tail flicked side to side, brushing the snow, but just a little at the tip, as if she didn’t want to hope for too much.
“Come on. Your prayers are answered. I’ll introduce you to Lavar and Tuttle.” I hoped their generous spirit extended to filthy dogs and midlist mystery authors skewered in the press for a murder they didn’t commit.
As I pulled open the door to swoon-worthy aromas of coffee, cinnamon, and sweet frosted delights, the dog hurried to a far corner. She turned three times and then settled in atop the heat register, nose buried in her tail, making herself right at home.
Waiting my turn behind two other customers, I drifted away on the hum of conversation and the delectable aromas until I heard Tuttle holler from the back, “Sweet baby Jesus! They doubled our blueberry butter braid order. Maybe now we won’t run out.”
“Charlee? The usual?” Fingers snapped in my face. “Girl, where you at?”
“Sorry, Lavar.”
“That’s okay. You got a lot on your mind. Nasty business, that.” He poured my coffee. “Still prayin’ for you. Even signed you up for a prayer bomb at church this morning.”
“A prayer bomb?”
“Yes’m. E’rebody prays for you at the same time. Whole congregation.” He pronounced it con-GREEEE-gation. “So if you feel the Spirit of the Lord at 4:15 this afternoon, you’ll know why.”
“That’s sweet. Thanks, but wouldn’t that be more of a prayer balloon, if it’s going—” I jerked my head upward.
Lavar followed my eyes and crossed himself. “I guess it’s both. Prayers go up and blessings come down.” He plucked a plastic-wrapped muffin from the display and held it up.
“Can I have one of those blueberry butter braids? And a bacon mini quiche.” I dug for my wallet but he waved me away.
“You got enough troubles.”
“You read today’s paper, I take it.”
He pressed a lid on the coffee and handed it to me, leaning close. “Had to. Told that reporter I’d only talk if he mentioned Espresso Yourself. Sumbitch never said a word.” He forced an extra quiche into my hand, tipping his chin toward the dog. “Nasty business,” he repeated. “Seems like somebody’s out to crucify you.”
I sighed and thanked him, making way for the next customer. Suddenly the coffee shop seemed less friendly. If my pals would sell me out for a shout-out in the newspaper, what would my enemies do?
I pulled out a chair at a table near the dog. She opened one eye as if to say, We okay here? I unwrapped one of the quiches and broke off a piece. I held it down and she delicately plucked it from my fingers. I unfolded a paper napkin and placed it near her, plopping the rest of the quiche onto it. She cocked her head. If she were a person she would have placed a hand over her powdered bosom and exclaimed in a Southern drawl, “I do declare! Is this for little ol’ me?”
She nibbled at the quiche, clearly hungry but remembering her manners even so.
I was less polite, inhaling my butter braid in three bites.
I opened up the Denver Post again, avoiding the article about me on the front page. I just wanted some quality time to commune with my coffee and my newspaper. It’s not too much to ask. I leafed through the pages, getting caught up with the mundane and the horrific. So many times when I was reading an article I couldn’t help but think about the people involved. When they woke up they’d thought it was a regular day, like most of the other days in their life. But then a car slammed into them. Or they won the lottery. Or their business burned to the ground. Or they received a Nobel Prize.
Or they were murdered.
Or they were accused of murder.
I shook my head, trying to get back to my quality time with my coffee and paper. Just a regular Sunday, like all the others in my life. Even last Sunday. A lifetime ago. I sipped and turned pages, reading articles I normally wouldn’t just to keep my mind off my own troubles.
I gave the dog the second quiche, then stood to get her some water. Lavar used a damp cloth to wipe the counter.
“Can I get her a cup with some water?” I asked.
“Sure. When’d you get her?” Lavar filled a cup.
“About three minutes before we walked in here.”
He raised an eyebrow and handed me the cup.
“Yeah, she was around the corner whimpering. No collar.” I looked back at the dog, watching while she licked the floor around the napkin and then settled back in, nose to tail.
“Aren’t you in those apartments?” Lavar asked.
“Yep.”
“Do they allow pets?”
“Nope. Not anymore.”
“Hmm.”
“Indeed.” I had no idea what I was going to do about the dog, but while there were no customers around I wanted to ask Lavar about any break-ins. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up, though. I know this is none of my business, and I’ve been in the paper recently for criminal acts, but how secure is your business? Probably not like that. So, I have this friend who likes to steal books … Not like that either. Maybe I’ll have to rethink it.
“Thanks for the water.” I picked up the cup from the counter and moved toward my table.
Lavar said, “You know, maybe we could use a dog around here.”
I turned back.
He walked to the café doors that separated the kitchen and office area from the customer area. “Hey, King Tut! Double-time it out here.”
Tuttle came in wiping his hands on a towel. He smiled at me, then immediately pursed his lips. “Hey, Charlee.”
“Hey, Tut.”
Lavar draped one arm around his beefy shoulders and leaned his head close. “Look at the customer on the floor over there.”
Tuttle snapped up his head. “On the—?”
Lavar pointed at the dog. “Can I keep her?”
“Did she follow you home from school?”
“No. But Ch
arlee rescued her from a sad and lonely life on the mean streets and can’t keep her in her apartment.”
Tuttle looked between me, Lavar, and the dog about four thousand times before saying, “Sure. We could use a … dog around the place.”
I caught Lavar shooting Tuttle a look. Had he almost said “guard dog”?
I laid a trap. “I’m not sure how good a guard dog she’ll be. She came right up to me even though she was scared and cold.”
“Anything’s better than nothing,” Tuttle said. “We’ve had … some trouble.”
“Tut! Shh.” Lavar peered around the coffee shop.
“What?” Tell me all about the break-in, boys, so I can corroborate Suzanne’s alibi.
“It’s nothing.” Lavar waved at Tuttle. “He be jumping at shadows.”
Tuttle leaned close and whispered, “I think we have a ghost.”
“Do tell.”
“Nothing specific, but stuff seems to be moved around some mornings when I come in. Books shelved wrong, chairs moved, stuff missing. That kind of thing.”
Lavar rolled his eyes. “It’s jus’ his imagination.”
“Don’t you track inventory? Can’t you tell if something’s been stolen?” I asked.
Lavar shrugged. “We don’t have what you’d call a system.” He used air quotes.
“So, if someone broke in and stole your books, you’d never know it?”
“If they stole all of them, I bet we’d figure it out.”
Tuttle nodded. “Probably.”
Oy vey. No slam-dunk corroboration of Suzanne’s alibi, but definitely tipping the scale closer. I leaned toward them and whispered, “You need more than a dog, boys,” before delivering the water to their new dog.
I held it low enough so she could drink. “Found you a home but didn’t lock down the alibi,” I muttered. In baseball when you bat .500, it’s considered off-the-charts successful, but here it felt an awful lot like failure. When she finished drinking, I rubbed her velvety ears. “But I’ll get to see you whenever I want, so that’s something.” The dog closed her eyes and leaned into the ear rub. I wondered how she’d found herself out in the world. Clearly she’d been trained and loved by someone. “Lavar? Tut?” I waited while they turned toward me. “You should take her to the shelter or a vet and have her checked for a microchip. Someone might be missing this one.”
“We were just talking about that. She needs a bath, too,” Tuttle said.
At the word “bath,” the dog scrabbled on the linoleum, toenails looking for purchase as she tried to push herself further into the corner. I reached down to rub her ears again. “Not this minute, sweetie. Relax.”
She did, but eyed Tuttle suspiciously.
I went back to my newspaper and coffee. I turned pages in the Lifestyles section until I came to a full-page spread with photos of well-dressed local philanthropists posing in front of, and sometimes with, zoo animals. There was one of the Channel Nine news anchors each holding a ferret. An elephant hugging the governor with its trunk. Balding John Elway flanked by two enormous football players struggling to hold the ends of a huge snake draped around his neck. And last but not least, Kell, holding hands with a chimpanzee. I smiled. When did this fundraiser happen? Why hadn’t Kell mentioned it?
I read the blurb at the top of the page. Last Sunday night. Oh, that was why. Because the next critique meeting was when all hell broke loose. I looked at more of the photos but didn’t recognize anyone else. Until I got to the last one.
Melinda and her husband smiling at the camera, a colorful parrot perched on his shoulder.
She and Kell were at the same party, the night before she was murdered. And he didn’t think to tell us that?
Twenty-One
I swirled the dregs of my coffee and stared at the photo of Melinda, all angles and sharp features visible in an elegant strapless gown. Henry, softer, with his rounder face, wore an impeccably tailored suit that showed off his perfect V-shaped torso. This had been her very last party and she didn’t even know it. Weird to see her reincarnated like this, and looking so happy. I tried to think of when I’d really seen Melinda happy. Getting book deals made her happy. Rejecting bad authors made her happy. A perfectly cooked rib-eye steak made her happy. Her zippy little car made her happy. But then I was stumped. Was she happy? I didn’t know.
Were any of us really happy? I tried to think what people would assume about my life after I was dead. They’d know coffee made me happy. And movies. And lasagne. And writing, at least up until recently. I studied Melinda and Henry again. The closer I examined the photo, the less happy she seemed. She smiled straight ahead at the camera, even though her handsome husband was gazing at the huge red-yellow-and-blue parrot sitting on his shoulder. And they weren’t even standing that close together. No touching, arms by their sides.
I studied the photos of the other women at the event. Each one wore the same perfect smile. Not too toothy, not big enough to create wrinkles. Their public smile.
The one Melinda flashed for the camera too.
Henry was clearly more captivated by the parrot than by his wife, but was that normal? They’d been married a long time and he probably didn’t have a parrot on his shoulder for very much of it. The only thing I really knew about Henry was that women looked at him like he was a diamond necklace and they wanted to wear him. And that he was going to be my new agent, whether I liked it or not. He was holding me to the letter of my contract despite the circumstances. He was clearly a tough businessman, despite his love for tropical birds at the zoo.
With a jolt, I remembered that Kell had said he was on the red-eye returning from Chicago last Monday. How could he have been at a fancy fundraiser in Denver Sunday night, then fly home from Chicago early Monday morning?
My tremor intensified and I wrapped both hands around my coffee. I really needed to connect with his secretary to confirm he was on that flight. But even if she verified it, why would he have made such a quick trip? It made no sense. I checked the article for the date of the fundraiser again. Yep, last Sunday.
The music in Espresso Yourself had changed from Irving Berlin to Cole Porter and I listened to a haunting arrangement of “Night and Day.” AmyJo still hadn’t arrived, and I considered calling her. Instead I called Kell.
I got right to the point. “You and Melinda were at the same fundraiser for the zoo the night before she died and you didn’t tell me?”
“Were we? Half of Denver supports the zoo,” Kell replied. “I don’t know about Melinda, but I’m on a million nonprofit boards. I don’t do anything, just throw money at them and show up to their parties. Presumably it’s the same for her and her husband.” Kell corrected himself. “Was the same.”
“Do you know her husband?”
“I don’t think so.” Kell spoke to someone in the background. “Hey, Charlee, I’ve got to go. Is that all you wanted?”
Is that all I wanted? Hmm. No. I wanted a fully stocked refrigerator. I wanted my royalty payments higher. I wanted the police to arrest the murderer so I could get on with my life. I wanted Kell not to be a murderer. “Just one more thing. You went to Chicago after that party and came home barely a few hours later?”
It took him a moment longer than was reasonable to reply. When he did, his voice had a somber tone. “Yes, Charlee. I did. I had to.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I clicked away but toyed with the phone until it went dark. The first notes of “You’re the Top” wafted through the coffee shop along with the image of my mom singing it to me as she brushed and braided my hair into pigtails. I drifted on the clouds of nostalgia until the song ended. I thought about calling my mom, but I knew it would be a bad idea to talk to her in public. Meltdown potential was too high.
I reached down to rub the dog’s soft ears again. I straightened when AmyJo plunked herself at the table.
“Goalie spit, it’s cold out there.”
“It must be, if it makes you use such foul language.”<
br />
She pulled off her gloves and unswaddled the 9,000-foot-long scarf around her neck, piling it in a heap on top of the newspaper. “Doing your crossword?”
“Nope.” I turned the paper so she could see the photo of Melinda and Henry, but kept to myself the fact that the Sunday crosswords were simply too difficult for me.
She read the caption on the photo and her face fell. “That was her last party.”
I nodded, then pointed at the photo of Kell. She studied it, then glanced up at me. “He was there, too?”
“Yeah, but he says he didn’t even realize it.”
“Do you believe him?” AmyJo struggled out of her knee-length puffy coat and draped it on the back of her chair, apologizing way too much to the man behind her.
“I don’t know. Why would he lie?”
AmyJo leaned in conspiratorially. “Why wouldn’t he?” My raised eyebrows and tilted head had apparently stirred up her conspiracy theories. She glanced around the coffee shop and whispered, “Maybe he and Melinda had a lovers’ spat.”
I wasn’t sure why, but I leaned in too and whispered back, “They were lovers?”
“I don’t know. But it makes sense.”
“It makes no sense.” I sat back in my chair. “Kell’s so nice and she’s so … not. Like a panda cub dating a razor blade. Can’t picture it. But even so, you think he’d kill her? Could a kitten slay a dragon?”
“If the kitten was rich enough, he could hire someone to slay the dragon for him.”
“But why?”
AmyJo played Connect the Dots with some coffee stains on the table. “To prove he’s not a kitten? To get some real-life experience to change his milders into thrillers?”
I thought about our critique group conversations involving the early drafts of Mercury Rising. Kell had loved the murder scene, even when it wasn’t polished. But did he love it because of the writing or because it was just the information he needed?