Notoriously Neat

by SUZANNE PRICE

  Finally I got out and went up the street, bringing Ski along in her carrier. I didn’t intend to ignore Vega and go too near the house with her. At the same time, I saw no reason to wait where I’d been. Maybe the bystanders gathered on the street out front could tell me something.

  “Well, look who’s here.”

  “Funny we no sooner see the police chief than she appears like magic.”

  “Yeah, how about that?”

  I stopped on the sidewalk and turned toward the emergency techs’ voices, thinking I’d been upset enough without having to deal with their deliberately loud, butter-knife-sharp repartee.

  “Tell me you two have nothing to do besides bug me at a horrible time like this,” I said.

  “Tell us how it is you show up right when we’re on another morgue run,” Hornby said.

  “Poof,” Hibbard said. “Every time. Like magic, I’m serious.”

  “Only goes to show.”

  I stared at them. They’d slammed shut their vehicle’s rear doors and were looking back at me from the foot of the driveway.

  “Show what?” I said.

  “We’ll give you a hint,” Hibbard said. “Four for four.”

  “That’s if you start counting with the Monahan murder.”

  “If you start with Monahan, right. Otherwise, fair play, we’ll call it three for three.”

  “Not that anybody’s calling you a jinx. Which was your unscientific expression, you may remember.”

  I took a couple of steps forward, shaking my head in disgust and disbelief. I knew all about men and women in their profession keeping an emotional remove. But were they really that un-flustered after having wheeled a dead woman into their wagon?

  “See you,” Hibbard said. “We were just leaving for the morgue anyway.”

  “Not that she couldn’t have thought to say good-bye to us.”

  “Not that she couldn’t have,” Hibbard said. “Or hi for that matter.”

  Hornby harrumphed. “Bet she thinks to say hi and good-bye to Chief Kissy-poo.”

  I froze again.

  “What?”

  “What ‘what’?” Hornby winked at his partner. “We just explained ‘what’ about something else.”

  “How many ‘whats’ you want us to spell out for you?” Hibbard returned Hornby’s wink. “We won’t mention this last one concerns a private conversation you were listening in on.”

  I glared at the techs, ready to shower them with the very same blue spew Joralemon the veterinary intern had managed to escape earlier that morning—and I mean language I hadn’t used since my days of dodging kamikaze New York cabbies. Before a syllable of that undiluted foulness left my mouth, though, Skiball produced a loud and very prolonged reeehiiiieeeii from inside the carrier.

  Hibbard suddenly dropped his gaze onto it, trying to peer through the front mesh. “Speaking of ‘whats,’ ” he said, “what’s in there?”

  “It isn’t that wallaby again, is it?” Hornby said.

  “I read in the paper it was a chimp or something, after all,” Hibbard said. “Not that it makes us less curious about why you lug it around everywhere. And how you get away with bringing it along to possibly contaminate a forensic collection area, though we do have our suspicions.”

  “Kissy, kissy, poo,” Hornby said, trading another wink with his partner just as Skiball made some more noise. This time it sounded kind of like wow-wow-wee, a good sign she was back to her usual self.

  “Look,” I said. “Is there any special reason you two enjoy harassing me?”

  “What do you mean ’harass’?” Hornby said.

  “There’s no reason we’d want to harass you,” Hibbard said.

  “Or anybody else for that matter,” Hornby said.

  “In fact, we’re being conscientious,” Hibbard said. “Trying to warn you that whatever kind of living creature happens to be in there—”

  “It actually sounds like an exotic feline, now that I think of it . . .,” Hornby said.

  “Marsupial, simian, feline, whatever, doesn’t make a difference,” Hibbard resumed, frowning at his partner’s interruption. “My point is that it’s bound to cause a mix-up. When you consider there’s already rumored to be canine involvement in the shooting.”

  I looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “A dog, for example.”

  “Possibly a dog.”

  “You can’t exclude other types of canines.”

  “Though, the incident having taken place in someone’s home, you’d assume a dog would be high on the list of candidates.”

  “Being they’re the most common domestic canines,” Hibbard said. “Not that you heard any of this from us.”

  I sighed. “Okay, thanks for nothing. I should have figured you two were playing games.”

  Their mouths turned down in nearly identical frowns.

  “Now we’re insulted,” Hibbard said.

  “And wounded,” Hornby said.

  “Besides being disappointed, since we were giving you an honest tip,” Hibbard said.

  I hesitated. Call me a sucker for punishment, but their pained expressions seemed genuine.

  “Listen, no offense, but I know the definition of canine,” I said, deciding to rephrase my question. “What I asked was how a dog was involved in Natalie Oswald getting shot to death.”

  The techs looked at each other a moment. Then Hibbard made a lip-zipping gesture and turned back to me.

  “Sorry,” he said. “We don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “I lose my job on account I talked out of school, the wife won’t want to hear any excuses.”

  “My fiancée neither,” Hibbard said, nodding. “Believe me on that.”

  “If it’s got fur, leave it behind, is the rule of thumb,” Hornby said. “Take that advice and leave it right there. So you don’t blow any homicide investigations when those sleazy defense lawyers come flocking around to pick apart the evidence. Or do I have to say the name Barry Scheck more than once?”

  I scratched behind my ear. I wasn’t sure whether running into those two had left me more confused or aggravated—and frankly didn’t care.

  “See you another time,” I said, and walked on.

  I reached the group of bystanders, stopping at its periphery to seek out any familiar faces. After a quick scan I got lucky. Kimi Fosette from the tourist center was talking to one of the bathrobed older ladies. Or having to listen to her blab her ear off, from the looks of it. When we made eye contact, Kimi’s glance practically implored me to rescue her.

  I waved and called her name over the buzz of the crowd.

  “Excuse me, Amelia,” she said to the frantic gabber, pushing toward me. “Sky, what are you doing here?”

  “It’s kind of a long story,” I said.

  She nodded her head back at the woman I’d extricated her from, dropped her voice. “Not that your arrival wasn’t a godsend.”

  I gave a thin smile of acknowledgment. “I didn’t know you live on Abbott, Kimi.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “I’m on Hamlin. The next street over. My yard backs on poor Natalie’s.” She shook her head. “If it weren’t for Nat, I’d never have black-eyed Susans. She starts them in her nursery every spring.”

  I noticed that her face was very pale. “Kimi . . . do you know what happened?”

  “As much as anyone,” she said. “Because of what I heard.”

  “The gunshots?”

  “And the rest,” Kimi said. “The police took my statement. There was the singing . . . and then everything else. It was so sudden. I’d always told Nat to keep her door locked. But she never paid attention. As if nothing bad ever happens in the Cove.”

  She broke off, shook her head some more. I was thinking about the first part of what she’d told me. “Was Natalie in a La Dee Das rehearsal?”

  “No,” she said. “She was practicing solo this morning. Her voice was so lovely. She had her studio windows open upstairs, and I was out in the garden
to do some early watering. The weather may feel like winter, but our plants can’t be neglected. Or everything about spring will be spoiled . . .”

  Her head sank and she began to cry, the tears spilling down her cheeks.

  I put down Ski’s carrier for a minute, got a pack of tissues out of my shoulder bag, held it out. “Here. You can keep these.”

  Kimi nodded appreciatively, pulled a tissue from the pack. “Please excuse me,” she said, wiping her eyes and face. “Anyway it was so sudden. What caught my attention was the dog. It sounded excited. And then Natalie stopped singing.”

  I blinked, recalling what the EMTs had said.

  “You heard a dog in Nat’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “A barking dog?”

  “No,” she said. “Not barking. I suppose you’d call it yelping. Like a puppy. But the sound was clearly coming from Natalie’s windows,” she said. “The most bewildering thing is that she didn’t own a dog.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh yes, positive. She was devastated after her beagle, Molly, passed away last year. Natalie talked about adopting when she was ready for another pet. I have a friend up in Maine that runs a rescue center for Norfolk terriers, and we’d planned to go up there together this summer.”

  I let that sink in a minute. “Kimi . . . what happened after you heard those yelps?”

  “It’s just as I told the police officer. I heard Nat shout something. And then heard another voice answer her. A man’s. I don’t think he was speaking English . . .”

  I waited. She dabbed her eyes some more.

  “Do you know what language it was?”

  “I’m not certain,” Kimi said. “My guess is that it was Spanish. His tone was very harsh. Very angry. The shots came so quickly afterward—”

  That was when I heard Chris Martin tunefully advising lovers to keep on the road they’re on. I was tempted to completely ignore the ringtone, but it occurred to me it might be Vega calling from inside the house.

  “I’d better see who this is,” I said.

  Kimi nodded. I think she almost welcomed taking a break from her account of the crime.

  A glance at the phone’s outer display told me it wasn’t Vega after all, but Bry calling from the cell I’d gotten him on our company plan. I flipped it open, held it up to my ear.

  “Dudette,” he said. “Glad I didn’t get your vee-em.”

  “Bry, listen,” I said. “I need to call you back. I’ll explain later—”

  “We gotta talk right now, Skyster. Like this second. I’m at the Pilsner joint.”

  I hesitated. He sounded agitated.

  “Is everything okay over there?” I said.

  “With me, yeah,” he said. “But ask about the Orlando kid and his monkey, and I got all kinds of bad news.”

  Chapter 17

  “Have the police contacted you?” I asked.

  I was in the living room of the Pilsner home with Vaughn Pilsner, Bryan, and a cat carrier that contained an increasingly stir-crazy Skiball. Before speeding off from Abbott Lane, I’d called Vega on his cell and explained that Bry needed my urgent help. I could tell Vega assumed it involved a cleaning job. In fact, I’d counted on him making that assumption.

  “I returned from my morning stroll only minutes before you arrived,” Vaughn said. “And I haven’t even checked the phone messages.”

  “And there were none on your cell?

  He shook his head. “Mine only works half the time. I’m a bit prehistoric when it comes to using those things.”

  That didn’t quite answer my question, but I left it alone. Thanks to Bry, I knew he’d at least told the truth about walking through the door just ahead of me. In fact, we both were still wearing our overcoats.

  Still, I wondered if telling someone a partial truth was the same thing as lying. If the answer was yes, I’d lied to Vega. It wouldn’t be long before he found out, though. And that made me feel beyond awful.

  I looked at Bry. “Okay,” I said. “You’d better let us know exactly what happened.”

  He shrugged nervously.

  “Ain’t much besides that Orlando lit outta here, Skyster,” he said. “I was in the office cleaning the kennels.”

  “And he was in this part of the house?”

  Bry nodded. “Must’ve been right here downstairs. The phone rang, an’ he picks up. Starts talking real loud.”

  “Could you make out what he was saying?”

  “Nope,” Bry said.

  “How about whether he was speaking English or Spanish?”

  “Dunno. By the time I start paying attention, he’s off the phone. But I know right off he’s amped about something.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “Like I said, he made a racket. Slams the phone, starts running through the house.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I hear the back door open, look out the window, and see him hoofin’ out past the stables to the garage. He’s carrying one of those humongous gym bags, and the Mick’s kinda tucked into his jacket. Like you might carry a baby, y’know?”

  “And that’s when you saw him ride off,” I said with a nod.

  “On Doc Pilsner’s scooter, yeah. Or whatever you call that thing she used to buzz around in when she’d feed those stray cats around town—”

  “A Vespa,” I said, picturing her on it. She’d made those rounds every night, winter or summer.

  “Do you know which way Orlando went?” Vaughn said.

  “Started out toward town,” Bry said with another stiff little shrug. “But then he hung a left around the corner. Could ’a gone anywhere from there. I ran out to take a look but didn’t see him. He was really zoomin’.”

  I took a deep breath. “What did you do next, Bry?”

  “Broke out my cell right there on the street,” he said. “I was on my way back to the house when I phoned you.”

  “And you never thought to contact the police?” Vaughn said.

  From the incredulous look Bry gave him, you’d have thought Vaughn had asked whether he’d considered dialing Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.

  “When in doubt call Skyster. That’s my motto,” Bry said. “I—” He broke off, cocked his head toward the front of the house. “You hear that?”

  I shook my head no. “Hear what?”

  “I dunno . . . sounded like somebody got into a car out front.”

  I realized I had noticed something like that. But I’d been concentrating on Bry’s story and was mainly concerned with the sort of cars that would arrive blaring police sirens.

  Vaughn quickly stepped out into the foyer, returned. “I didn’t see anyone. And the only vehicles in front of the house belong to the two of you.” He shrugged. “It must have been a neighbor.”

  Though his explanation was good enough for me, I could tell it didn’t do too much to settle Bry’s nerves. But his jumpiness was understandable. The momentary diversion had said everything about the serious trouble Orlando was in—and our pressing need to figure out what to do about it.

  I glanced down near the foot of the sofa, where his electronic tracker lay discarded at the edge of a large Persian rug. The bracelet was bent and pulled apart as if he’d used pliers to clip it off his ankle.

  “The police won’t take long to show up,” I said.

  “No, they won’t,” Vaughn said. “At the bail hearing it was explained that an alarm sounds at the Middleton correctional facility. They then notify the local authorities.”

  I nodded. “It’s probably best to let them handle this mess. Bry can fill them in—”

  “Removing a police monitoring device is a felony,” Vaughn interrupted. “Orlando’s bail will be revoked and he’ll be back in prison.”

  He was right, and I felt terrible about that. But Orlando had known what he was doing.

  “He fled house arrest,” I said. “You can’t protect him from the consequences.”

  “Sky, please hear me out,” Vaughn s
aid, shaking his head. “I’m convinced Orlando wouldn’t have done it without some desperate reason. The district attorney has already started building a case that he killed Gail. This will only substantiate it . . . unless I can show his intention wasn’t to escape trial.”

  “Do you have any idea what it was?”

  “No,” Vaughn said. “I only wish.”

  “Have you informed the DA that Gail was Orlando’s mother?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  He didn’t answer. His silence said everything, though.

  “You expected me to leak the story to the Anchor , didn’t you?” I said. “That’s how come you told it to me in the first place.”

  Vaughn looked at me. I looked pointedly back. Skiball mewled in her carrier as if to second my indignation.

  “As an investment counselor, I always dealt in calculated moves,” he said. “My thought was that the public should learn of it first. That it might put pressure on the prosecution even while they formulated their case.”

  “And you were under the impression I’d be all too eager to jump at a scoop. Being a lowly small-town columnist trying to go big-time.”

  “It was a mistake,” he said. “I sincerely apologize.”

  I pressed my lips together, pouched my cheeks with air, and slowly blew it out. I didn’t like knowing Vaughn tried to manipulate me. I liked it less that he’d automatically taken me for an opportunist. But I believed he was being truthful about his motives and that made it easier to understand.

  “Skyster,” Bryan said. “There’re a couple things I scoped in the clinic. I mean, stuff that makes my brain go ooga-ooga. I want the two ’a you to see them before the cops get here.”

  I nodded and carefully set Skiball’s carrier down on the sofa. A moment later we followed Bry out into the entry foyer, through the door to the veterinary offices, and then back to a large floor cabinet in the kennel area.

  “This’s the pantry,” he said. “Take a look inside.”

  He opened the pantry’s door and I saw that it was filled with ten-pound bags of puppy food—the same high-end brand I fed Ski.

  “Gail ran a boarding kennel,” I said. “What’s so odd about her stocking up on puppy food?”

  “I been comin’ here to clean twice a week, Skyster,” Bry said. “She’d always tell people to bring their own dog food. When you change it all of a sudden, it can give poochie stomach problems. Plus the doc wasn’t even boarding any puppies.”