Notoriously Neat

by SUZANNE PRICE

  “You’re positive?”

  “Trust me, I oughta know,” Bry said. “Cleanin’ the kennels was my job. You’re lookin’ at a human pooper-scooper.”

  I left that alone, thinking Bry had a point about all that expensive puppy food. There must have been twenty bags in the pantry. But hadn’t a neighbor told the police she’d heard dogs on the night of the murder? Plural?

  “All right, Bry. What else?” I said. “You mentioned a couple of unusual things.”

  He motioned for Vaughn and me to stay put, hurried out into an adjacent examining room, and returned after a second with a folded sheet of bright pink copy paper.

  “This was behind one of those cabinets with medical whatnots on ’em . . . looked like it must’ve slipped behind it,” he said. “Turns up while I’m cleanin’ the floor this morning, and I put it away in a drawer. Don’t know what it means, or if it’s really too important, but I was gonna tell you about it anyway.”

  I unfolded the sheet of paper and my eyes widened. It was a recent La Dee Das recital program—or a photocopy of one—featuring the names of the vocal group’s dozen or so members. Five of the names had check marks beside them, including Natalie Oswald and Chloe Edwards.

  Scribbled atop the list was a single word: perritos.

  Staring down at the program, I recalled the conversation I’d had with Kimi Fosette back on Abbott Lane not half an hour earlier.

  “You heard a dog in Nat’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “A barking dog?”

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

  I thought about Kimi’s remarks. I thought about the neighbor’s testimony. Then I read over those checkmarked names on the program.

  The names, and the word penned above them.

  Perritos. It was Spanish for “puppies.”

  Though I couldn’t have explained why, not quite, the program was suddenly shaking in my hand.

  Chapter 18

  I could hear patrol car sirens shrieking from the direction of Main Street as Bryan and I raced from the Pilsner house to our parked vehicles—I’d pulled my Versa right behind his Ford Fairmont beater when I got there minutes before.

  “You mind if I ask what you’re thinking before we split up?” Bry said.

  It was a fair question. The problem was that I didn’t have an answer. My gut told me there was a connection between puppies, murder, Chloe’s secretive activities, and Orlando skipping out on house arrest. But I couldn’t have said what it might be if my life had depended on it.

  Edgily aware of the police sirens, I got out the Versa’s remote key fob, then realized I’d left its doors unlocked. As if nothing bad ever happens in the Cove. I supposed I was as lax about it as most.

  I put Skiball’s carrier in the front seat, and then scanned the La Dee Das program in my hand. The three checked names besides Chloe’s and Nat’s were “Ruth Ginken,” “Jackie Sutter,” and “Robynn Varriano.”

  “I’m sort of winging it,” I said. “Haven’t had a chance to think.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with that,” Bry said. “It’s my personal creed.”

  I reached up and ruffled his spiky hair.

  “You have your list?” I’d made two second-generation Xeroxes of the program on a copier in Gail’s office and given him one.

  “Right here.” Bry patted a zippered side pocket of his biker jacket, then exchanged an apprehensive glance with me. The sirens were very close now.

  “The Fog Bell’s my first stop,” I said. “I want to see if Chloe’s around. And I’d better let Ski out of her carrier—she’s ready for a claustrophobic meltdown.”

  He nodded. “Where to? For me, I mean.”

  “Jackie’s in Lanesville. She should be first. Then Robynn’s place in Annisquam . . . That way you can swing round the Cape without doubling back,” I said. “You’re positive you can find them?”

  Bry gave another nod. He’d used his cell phone’s wireless Internet connection to white page and Google map their addresses and directions.

  “Ruth’s farmhouse is right in town, so I’ll head there after the inn,” I said. “Stay in touch over the phone, okay?”

  “Right.”

  “And keep your eyes and ears open for Orlando.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And puppies.”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

  “And anyone or anything that looks like trouble.”

  “Uh-uh, uh-huh, uh-huh.”

  I looked at him and felt a tremendous swell of affection. “Bry, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe, like, twice your share of the cleaning?”

  A flit of a smile, and then I went around to my driver’s door.

  “Skyster?”

  I paused halfway inside the Versa. Bry had already raced ahead to his car and was looking back at me.

  “Careful,” he said, and turned his key in the door.

  I nodded and we drove off in separate directions, Bry turning north toward Route 127, while I went south toward the Fog Bell. With almost no traffic on Main Street, it was all I could do keep from pouring on the gas. It also wasn’t ten seconds later that I saw two police cars shoot toward and then past me in the opposite lane. Sirens howling, roof bars flashing, they were plainly headed for the Pilsner home.

  I whewed in relief, glad I’d held my speed down to the fifteen-miles-per-hour town limit. The last thing I wanted was to draw their attention.

  Chloe’s Beetle was in the garage when I got to the Fog Bell. About as glad to see it as I’d ever been, I parked just up from the garage on Carriage Lane, slid out of my seat, and went around to fetch Ski.

  As I reached in for her cat carrier, I noticed a crumpled tissue sticking partly out from under the passenger seat. I bent, picked it up, frowned. I’d been going through Kleenex in bunches lately because of my runny nose. But I kept the Versa neat-freak clean. A tissue—or any litter—on the floor was like snow in July. Plus, I couldn’t figure out what it was doing on the passenger side. Though with all my rushing around over the past couple of days, and bringing Ski in and out on vet runs besides, I supposed I might have dropped it there without spotting it.

  Shrugging, I tossed it in the nylon waste bag strapped to the back of my seat. Then I grabbed Ski’s carrier, went in the Fog Bell’s entrance, and knocked on Chloe’s door.

  No answer. I knocked again, waited. Nobody came to the door. I did hear Oscar wearing out a clarinet reed in his studio, not that he’d ever bother interrupting a practice session to acknowledge visitors or answer the phone.

  Maybe Chloe had gone on some nearby errands, I thought. She typically walked to the bank and post office, since they were just a few blocks away.

  Then it struck me that if she’d stepped out of the house, she certainly hadn’t heard about Nat. If she had heard, routine deposits and mailings would have been the last things to concern her. And because she steadfastly refused to use a cell phone, none of her friends who might know of what had happened could reach her after she left.

  I hoped she wouldn’t get wind of it through the town grapevine while she was running her everyday rounds. That would be a tough way to be hit with the news.

  With that unsettling thought in mind, I was about to hasten upstairs to drop off Ski when I heard a low whistling sound inside the house. I held up at the bottom of the stairs, listening.

  A teapot. Oscar had put water up to boil.

  All swell and wonderful, except Oscar never boiled water or anything else when he had his head in a cloud of musical notes. Chloe had banned it because he’d forgotten about whatever he put on the stove way too often, scalding pots and kettles, and once almost setting the whole house on fire.

  I listened some more as the whistling grew louder and louder in shrill discord with Oscar’s melodic strains.

 
I opened the door a crack. “Chloe?” I said. “You home?”

  Nothing but the steady whistle of the teapot and Oscar playing his clarinet back in the parlor. I poked my head in. “Chloe?”

  Wheeeeeeeee . . .

  Carrying Ski with me, I went through the door into the foyer. Chloe’s laundry room was to my immediate right, with the kitchen beyond it. I paused by the washer and dryer, looked through the open kitchen entry. The steam spouting from the kettle had started to fog the room and windows.

  Wheeeeeeeee . . .

  I went quickly over to the stove, turned off the flame, and transferred the kettle to a cool burner. It took a while for the whistling to peter out—that water had really been going.

  This was just too strange. Chloe definitely wasn’t around, but it was unthinkable that she’d carelessly leave the house with the water on . . . under normal circumstances. And although I figured it was probably a waste to ask Oscar if he knew where she was—Oscar barely knew where he was half the time—I decided I ought to give it a shot in light of what had happened to Nat.

  I was starting for the parlor when two things caught my eye, one beside the other: a hastily scribbled note on the side counter, and the blinking number one on the cordless wall phone and answering-machine combo above it.

  The note, written in Chloe’s handwriting, read:

  Oscar,

  Had to rush out to an emergency La Dee Das rehearsal!

  Be back late. Lunch is in fridge!

  XXX

  Chloe

  I stood staring at it for a moment. An emergency La Dee Das rehearsal? What was that supposed to mean?

  Too, too strange. More than that, it puzzled and worried me.

  My eyes jumped to the blinking number one on the message indicator. Would it be wrong to play it back? Letting yourself into someone else’s house and listening to her voice messages were bedrock don’t-dos.

  “Under normal circumstances” again being the operative phrase.

  I jabbed the playback button and listened.

  “Chloe . . . it’s Jackie. I’m guessing you’ve already left. I just wanted you to know the boy’s been here. He’s on a scooter with a monkey and is on his way over to Robynn’s. I called her and she’s okay, thank God. I’m fine too. I’ll be waiting for you and Skip outside the house.”

  Jackie hung up without a good-bye.

  I stood thinking. There it was. Chloe and her fellow songbirds were obviously mixed up in whatever was going on with Orlando. But what was going on? And who was Skip? The message possibly raised as many questions as it answered . . . but it had answered a lot.

  I inhaled, exhaled, trying to decide on my next step. In his parlor, Oscar blew something jazzy. Let him be, I thought. Chloe’d had her reasons for keeping him in the dark about whatever she was involved in. Probably because she had known he’d be no help. Unless woodwind accompaniment was beneficial.

  I pulled my cell out of my bag and speed-dialed Bry.

  “Yo, Skyster,” he answered. “We must be on the same psychic freq; I was about to call you—”

  “Where are you, Bry?”

  “In Lanesville. At Jackie Whatsername’s digs. But it doesn’t look like anybody’s home.”

  “If you don’t see Jackie out front, she’s probably left,” I said. “Go on ahead to Robynn Varriano’s house. If nobody’s there, call me. Right away, okay?”

  “Okay.” Bry hesitated. “What’s up at your end? Sounds like you’re in a Code Red.”

  “I’ll explain later,” I said. “I have to ditch Ski so I can get to Ruth Ginken’s. And in a hurry.”

  Chapter 19

  The widow of a nationally renowned painter of rustic oils, Ruth Ginken lived in a restored brown-shingle farmhouse at Murphy’s Bend, a semi-countrified corner of town about three-quarters of a mile from the Fog Bell. The place was on more than two acres of land bordered by one of the Cove’s abandoned granite quarries, making it fairly isolated, and allowing me to drive there in just a few minutes on a treelined road that was free of any traffic.

  I’d come to within ten or twenty yards of Ruth’s private drive when I glimpsed the familiar black Lexus through the trees to my right, heading up the drive toward the road ahead. It was bumping along at a decent clip when it reached the turnoff and took a sharp left into the oncoming lane.

  Within seconds it had gotten close enough for me to see the occupants in front through its windshield. The silver-haired man was driving, surprise, surprise. Beside him in the passenger seat, Chloe resembled a fugitive from a cricket match—or maybe the Kentucky Derby—in enormous dark sunglasses and a floppy, wide-brimmed sun hat. Though I couldn’t make out the faces of the women in the crowded backseat, I had no doubt they were Ruth, Jackie, and Robynn of La Dee Das fame.

  As the Lexus approached, I honked my horn to catch the attention of Chloe and her friend behind the wheel—not that I should’ve needed to do that. Aside from ours being the only two cars on the road, Chloe would have recognized my Versa. She had to be able to see me as well as I could see her. Better, because I didn’t have a hat the size of the RMS Queen Elizabeth on my head.

  Instead of slowing, the Lexus sped up. When it momentarily came alongside me, Chloe and I looked at each other through our windows in a virtual replay of our last drive-by. I didn’t know what sort of reaction to expect this time around. But it wasn’t seeing her scrunch down in her seat and push her hat down almost to her eyebrows, which was precisely what she did.

  And then they all went shooting down the road in the direction I’d just come from. What the heck?

  I went on to Ruth’s drive, backed slightly in, U-turned, and raced on after them. I was unconcerned with town speed limits or the police now. All I cared about was getting to the bottom of things.

  It didn’t take long before I’d caught up to the Lexus. Barely a car length behind it, I hit the horn again. The silver-haired man kept going steadily forward. I honked a third time. He didn’t slow.

  That was it. With no vehicles in sight in the opposite lane, I swung my wheel to the left passed the Lexus, and cut in front of it. I kept going at a fair clip until I’d pulled what I thought would be a safe distance ahead, and then tapped my brake pedal, keeping my eyes on the Lexus in my rearview.

  I had assumed the silver-haired man would be watching my brake lights. Mistake. Whatever he was watching, my rear lights weren’t in the picture, and his front fender bumped my tail end hard enough to whip me forward in my seat and send the Versa into a brief skid. If I hadn’t been strapped in, my head would have bashed against the dash and the situation would have gotten very ugly—though I wouldn’t have been in any condition to know about it. Or anything else. For a while or maybe forever.

  My tires screeched as I somehow kept my wits about me, got control of the Versa, and bounced to a stop on the road’s gravel shoulder, my right bumper grazing a tree for an added jolt. Then, next thing I knew, the Lexus had veered to an abrupt halt on the shoulder ahead of me. Its doors flung open and everyone came pouring out and rushing over, the driver and Chloe leading the pack.

  “Oh no! Oh my!” I could hear Chloe yelling outside my window as she jerked on my door handle. “Sky, are you all right? Answer me, please! Please, dear, please, please answ—”

  Shaken up but otherwise intact, I fingered the button to unlock the door. Chloe hauled it open with such force that she stumbled back into the silver-haired man, her floppy hat tipping sideways to hang by its chin strap.

  “Chloe, will you cool out?” I looked out at her. “You’re being a total flake.”

  She pushed forward again and threw her arms around me, her hat still askew.

  “Sky . . . what have I done?”

  “You mean besides almost kill both of us?”

  I suddenly wished I hadn’t said that. Not because Chloe didn’t deserve it, but because it made her tighten her hold on me so I could hardly breathe. She was crying hard, her cheek pressed wetly against mine.

  “Sk
y, forgive me. I only meant to protect you,” she sobbed. “You’re my best friend. It’s easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend. I think Henry Thoreau said it. At first I didn’t understand. But then I realized it’s because we expect terrible things from enemies. I’d never want to kill my friend—”

  “Chloe.”

  “Yes?”

  “I appreciate the hug and Thoreau quote. But you’re choking me while you babble,” I said. “How about letting me unhook my seat belt?”

  She loosened her grip enough for me to do that.

  “Are you all right, young lady?” This was from the silver-haired man, who stood peering down at me from over her shoulder. “I think I should call an ambulance.”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t need one.”

  “Are you certain? I accept full responsibility and will cover any medical expenses—”

  “Seriously,” I said. “I’m good.”

  “What about your vehicle? If you need bodywork or other repairs . . . ?”

  “We can worry about it later,” I said. “I think I just scraped that tree. Don’t think there’s more than a dent in my side.”

  He swallowed with relief, offered his hand. “My deepest apology, then,” he said. “I’ve waited months to meet you, Sky. My name is Skip Averil. You may have heard of the Bayside Inn? I operate it with my life partner, Davies Kearns. It’s quite elegant, though we do try to be reasonably affordable.”

  We shook. Only in the Cove will somebody make a long-winded introduction and pitch their B&B all within three minutes after driving you off the road.

  Shrugging free of my seat belt, I shifted around, swung my legs out the door, and sat looking up at Chloe, Skip, and the three worried-looking women who’d been riding in the Lexus’s backseat.

  “I need you to tell me what’s been going on,” I said to Chloe.

  She looked at me. “Sky . . . did you hear about Natalie?”