Death on Torrid Ave.

by Patricia McLinn

  “Helping kids who need it the most.” She turned her earnest face toward me. “He works with at-risk students.”

  “That’s very admirable.” I was trying to figure out why he would have preferred Clara hadn’t revealed that.

  “No more than any other teacher in the building.”

  “And I bet Sheila got a deal on this place, because it’s going to take a lot to fix it up,” Clara said cheerfully. “A money pit. It’s a good thing that inheritance was generous.”

  “I was fortunate. The payoff for having the old-fashioned name Sheila. That’s why she chose me. Distant relative. Let’s go upstairs and see the office and closet where I want the shelves.”

  “Good idea.”

  “No.” Clara objected. “There’s so much more for Sheila to tell us about last night.”

  “What makes you think I have any more to say?” I tried to give her the signal to drop it.

  Something went wrong between my signal-sending and her receiving.

  “I can tell by your face. You wouldn’t have invited me over this morning unless you had more news than just that little bit. Oh.” Her gaze shifted from me to Teague and back. “Or would you?”

  This time Teague kept his eyebrows in order but sputtered out a chuckle.

  What was I supposed to say after that? “Let’s do the measuring first and then we can have coffee.”

  That gave Teague an out, which I fully expected him to take.

  “Sounds good. We can talk then,” he said. “Show me the way and I’ll get the measurements.”

  Which took longer than it needed to since we were accompanied by all three dogs and Clara.

  To get us all in the small room, Teague moved behind the desk, where I’d left my computer on.

  He looked at the screen, but didn’t react.

  The screensaver might have covered my searches to confirm what I’d thought about the snow on Bob’s jacket. In a low area protected from sun, it could have fallen at night and still been there in the morning. Or maybe he didn’t recognize the significance, since he hadn’t seen Bob’s body yesterday.

  “You’ve got a lot of books.” His gaze lingered on the mysteries and a selection of research books. Was I missing books every high school teacher would have? “Somehow, you don’t strike me as a teacher.”

  “That was my secret weapon in the classroom. I snuck up on them.”

  “Snuck?”

  Darn. Aunt Kit would gloat if that error got me in trouble. “Colloquial for sneaked, of course.”

  He smiled.

  That smile … I wasn’t sure I liked that smile. It reminded me of the smile of an interviewer accepting that you’d successfully fended off this intrusion into your personal life, but planning another one soon.

  “That’s the reason for more shelves, even though I left a lot of books behind when I moved. Traveling light.” Hoped that covered any gaps in my collection.

  He not only appeared unaffected by my coolness, but I could swear his mouth twitched.

  “You can’t see anything from back there,” I said. If the damage hadn’t already been done, no sense leaving him by the computer. “The shelves will be over here. What I thought…”

  He had opinions, including good ideas I hadn’t thought about. The dogs had no opinions, but that didn’t stop them from wanting to be in the middle of whatever we were doing. In addition, LuLu took exception to the sound of Teague’s metal tape measure extending and retracting. I couldn’t imagine this was the easiest quote he’d ever given.

  Still, I was impressed. For a high school teacher, he certainly seemed to know his carpentry. He understood what I was aiming for when I didn’t feel I had been particularly articulate. He gave a bid in the ballpark of the other two contractors — out of the seven I started with — who’d gotten that far. And with a tighter timeline.

  “What happens to the timeline if you get called in to teach?”

  Clara slid a disapproving look at me.

  “I could still work on this project nights and weekends and it shouldn’t take all that much longer. Say, add three days if you want me to do the painting.”

  “I do. Give me something in writing and let me think about it.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, you’re going to hire him. He’s more reasonable than the other quotes you got and he will actually do the work. Especially,” Clara said cheerfully, “because we could track him down at the dog park and make his life miserable if he doesn’t.”

  “Strong motivation,” Teague murmured.

  “Nothing like obliterating my bargaining power, Clara.”

  “I’ll have tea,” she responded. “While you tell us all about last night.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I did tell them all about bunco.

  But only after an interlude with the dogs outside careening around the yard and throwing up divots of what had once been grass with their sharpest turns, followed by coffee, tea, and a plate of the last few cookies left over from my baking and shipping.

  Teague praised the cookies, but Clara cut him off.

  “I told that deputy — actually deputies — yesterday that they shouldn’t entirely dismiss what Berrie said and they should look into the conflict between the Dwights and Bobs. I told them about the bad feelings and the arguments. Including what happened the day before yesterday.”

  “That doesn’t seem like much of a motive for murder,” Teague said.

  “You only saw them that once and Sheila hasn’t seen much more. A small slice of all the days and months and years of it brewing and simmering and building. Besides, there’s nobody else.”

  Teague flickered a look toward me.

  Great.

  I’d been hoping it was my paranoia.

  “You can’t think it was Sheila,” Clara said with more loyalty than tact.

  “I’m not thinking anything. But the deputies certainly seemed interested in Sheila’s actions and timeline.”

  “They’re picking on her because she’s a newcomer and—”

  Interesting they didn’t focus on O’Donnell then.

  “—that’s even more reason we have to show them the truth. Why aren’t they out looking for Dwight?”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  His assurance clearly did not cut it with Clara. Me, either, for that matter.

  Clara, apparently looking for the silver lining, said, “It’s amazing people get along as well as they do.”

  “At the dog park?” Amusement tinged his disbelief. “We’re back to passions at the dog park?”

  “Less fervent, more murderous,” I murmured.

  That sobered him. “There’s no guarantee that it had anything to do with dogs in general or the dog park in particular.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means a dog trainer being strangled with a dog leash at a dog park makes me think it might just have something to do with the world of dogs.”

  He ignored that, as men tend to do when they’ve been out-thought. “The dog park at night is mighty convenient for a murderer — dark, isolated, unobserved.”

  “And prone to unexpected encounters with poop.”

  Clara and I exchanged a look.

  “What?” Teague asked.

  “We told the deputies,” Clara said. “There was an old poop smooshed wide, like someone had stepped — and slipped — on it. It wasn’t on Bob’s shoes.”

  The humor edged back in to Teague’s eyes. “You want the sheriff’s department to do a poop lineup of everyone’s shoes in the county.”

  I nodded slowly. “A sort of twisted Cinderella hunt. But the thing is, even if they found the shoe with the poop, the wearer could easily explain it — as long as he or she is a dog park regular. They should have done it right away. Too late now.”

  “Couldn’t they do DNA and—”

  Teague punctured her hopes. “Does North Bend County’s sheriff’s department have a lot of money to spare for dog p
oop DNA? Especially since it could have come from a different encounter with that dog’s poop.”

  “Good point,” I conceded. “Though it could have pointed to a few people.”

  Clara sighed. “What I don’t understand is what Bob was doing there at the dog park without Trevalyn and how did he get in? I cannot imagine him climbing over the fence, although I suppose he must have.”

  Teague looked from her to me. “If he was the first one there in the morning…”

  “Oh, no, didn’t you know? His body was there overnight. Or at least some of the night.”

  “What?” He faced me. “Did you know this?”

  “Of course she did,” Clara said before I could answer. “She saw the snow, too.”

  So much for keeping that to myself.

  “What snow?”

  “The snow on Bob’s body. So he must have been killed and left there from sometime during the night. But I don’t understand why he would have gone there at night. Who he would have met there. Without Trevalyn, with that leash — lead.”

  Teague leaned back in his chair. “Do you realize…? This thing is totally open. Does anybody have an alibi?”

  “Clara does. Her husband, Ned. And I suppose a number of other couples.”

  She looked at him, then me. “What do you mean?”

  Teague answered. “If Bob Coble was killed during the night, it means just about anybody could have killed him.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Because it would have to be somebody who could get Bob to go there at that time of night and there aren’t many people who could do that.”

  “Good point, Clara. Teague’s right that as far as opportunity it opens the field, but you are right that realistically it narrows it. But it still leaves a lot of possible whos. Let’s look at it from the what — what could lure Bob Coble to the closed dog park during the night, when he’d have to climb the fence?”

  “Money,” Teague proposed.

  “No.” Clara and I were unanimous.

  Silence descended. I drank more tea. Clara stirred hers. Teague ate a cookie. Then a second. Then a third.

  Clara and I looked up simultaneously.

  “A dog,” she said.

  “A chance to show off,” I said.

  “A chance to show off about a dog, would that do it?” Teague asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “But doesn’t that leave the field as open as before? Everybody we’ve considered has a dog, right?”

  Clara deflated. “Yeah.”

  Except Ruby, I mentally added, though she used to.

  “And that leaves the other question unanswered.” They both turned to me. “Why was Bob strangled with Trevalyn’s leash?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Deputy Eckles squashed all flair in my statement. Or style. Or voice. I made a stand on grammar. He didn’t appreciate it, but the man wanted me to affix my signature to a paper that included “It was a shock for Clara and I.”

  Me, Deputy Eckles. For Clara and me.

  When I’d arrived, I’d given my name, and said I was here to sign a statement, I was told Deputy Eckles would see me.

  I suspected he regretted that now.

  First, I’d read the statement carefully, finding several typos in addition to the egregious me. Then I’d insisted they be fixed.

  While we waited for the revised edition’s turn to emerge from an overworked printer, the deputy initiated this latest round of repetitive questioning.

  “I meant,” he picked up, “Clara Woodrow might not have seen one or the other dogs have contact with the body.”

  “What did you find that makes you think one of the dogs touched the body?”

  “Why do you ask that, Ms. Mackey?” His deadpan screamed suspicion.

  I leaned my elbows on the table and looked directly at him. “Deputy Eckles, surely no one you question can be as stupid as I would have to be to not draw that conclusion.”

  “Oh, he deals with some pretty stupid ones,” Hensen muttered.

  “Hensen,” Eckles snapped.

  There was a moment of tense silence, which I eased by leaning back once more. “So, you’re not going to tell me what you found?”

  “No.”

  I barely waited for that — no sense letting him realize he’d at least tacitly confirmed my supposition. “Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you any with that, but I can tell you neither dog touched the body from the time I first caught sight of it. And if Clara says they didn’t before I could see the body, then you have your answer.”

  He grunted. Not happily.

  The statement was delivered at that moment. I read it over again. Sighed over the plodding prose, signed, and stood.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

  “Are you?”

  That struck me as downright rude. I frowned.

  Eckles went on. “I hear you and the victim never got along.”

  I chuckled. “I hear Berrie Vittlow’s voice in that statement.”

  “Why would she say it if it weren’t true?”

  “Because I don’t adhere to her views on dog-training. That’s the same reason I mostly steered clear of Bob Coble in the four weeks I’ve been going to the dog park.” He didn’t appear to heed my emphasis on how short a time I’d known Bob. “I didn’t care for him — tedious and portentous.”

  “Pretentious?”

  “Portentous,” I repeated. “Given to making each and every utterance sound as if it were foretelling the future.”

  “So, you didn’t like him.”

  “I steered clear of him. Not the same thing.”

  “Over dog training.” He practically sneered at that.

  “Yes.”

  “This is a murder investigation. That’s far more important than a feud over dog training.”

  Did that mean he was ignoring Dwight Yagos?

  “I had no feud with Bob. I simply avoided him when possible, which all happened before he was murdered.”

  “Over dog training?” He dripped disbelief.

  “Ah, Deputy. You don’t know dog lovers.”

  “I do after this,” he grumbled.

  * * * *

  I’d left the hardware store, which, after the Torrid Avenue Dog Park, seemed to be where I spent most of my time.

  If you have never owned a house, you would be astonished to know how many trips to the hardware store are required each week.

  At least I’m astonished by it.

  Another gap in my life experience.

  I helped organize some of the upkeep on the Manhattan brownstone, but more was handled by Aunt Kit or the housekeeper. Plus, it had already been restored when we moved in. My house here was in the state TV real estate shows blithely call “before” for the nanosecond shot before they dwell lovingly on the “after.”

  This trip had been for faucet washers, since the one I removed during explorations to explain a persistent drip from the first floor powder room sink had disintegrated, partly in my hand, partly in the screwed off drain gizmo. That’s the technical name for it.

  Washers in my pocket, I moved on to the post office.

  I walked into a firestorm.

  Berrie Vittlow screamed, red-faced. Ruby, behind the counter, held onto its edge. Amy stood rigidly against the wall next to the door. The newspaper reader in the corner looked as if he’d been blasted back by an explosion.

  “You killed him. You all killed him. All he wanted to do was help you and show people the best way with their dogs and everything else. And you all rejected him. You killed his soul.”

  “Oh, come on, Berrie,” Amy said. “We’re all sorry Bob is dead, but that doesn’t blind us to—”

  “You aren’t. You aren’t sorry. You wanted him dead. You could be the one who killed him.”

  “Now, Berrie, we know you’re upset, but you can’t be saying things like that,” Ruby started.

  “You! You we’re among the worst of all.”

  That surprised me. Ruby had been a bit tart with
Bob when he got out of sorts about Gracie being in the post office, but their discussion hadn’t struck me as being anywhere close to as acrimonious as the ones at the dog park. I’d figured people didn’t get as worked up about the post office as they did about their dogs.

  Berrie’s comment now opened my thinking. The expression going postal hadn’t come from nowhere. Though in this instance Bob had seemed a far more likely candidate than Ruby. Except his candidacy carried the distinct drawback that he was dead.

  “You wanted him dead when all he wanted was the rules followed,” Berrie accused.

  I’ve taken care of Bob Coble.

  Ruby had said that. But surely…

  “The rules followed?” Amy said. “That’s hogwash. He used rules as a weapon. Look at the things he said about Ruby. The nasty—”

  “That’s a vicious, vicious lie. As bad as those other lies you’ve told about him. All of you.” She swung around at Amy. “All the lies you told, he was so much better with dogs, with everything than the rest of you can ever hope to be.”

  Ruby tried again. “Berrie, I know you are upset. I truly am sorry for your loss. But you cannot be saying things like that, especially not in my post office. You need to get ahold of yourself. Nobody is saying Bob Coble was all bad. He was as good as he could be to dogs and that says something important about a man. And that’s coming from me, threatened more than once by one of his lawsuits. Heaven knows I wasn’t the only one. The man would threaten to sue you as soon as look at you. Me, his neighbors, the people at the dog park, about every business in town and a lot of them beyond. He threatened to sue people the way some people go to church — once a day and twice on Sunday.”

  “He had every right to sue you. You and all the others breaking the rules. But he showed great restraint and generosity by not filing all the suits he could have. That’s the kind of man he was.”

  A woman about my age, perhaps a few years younger, and wearing a cloche hat with a lot more style then I ever managed, pushed open the door from the square, and froze.

  “What about the lawsuit he threatened to file against you, Berrie? After all the years you’ve been friends, after all the support you’ve given him?”