Doggone Disaster

by Margaret Lashley

  Judy Bloomers. The thought of her made me reach for my phone. I needed to get as much information on the guy next door as I could, and pronto. Her line rang ten times, but Judy didn’t pick up. I left a message for her to call me back and returned to the backyard. Last night’s thunderstorm had made a mess of things. I straightened the lawn chairs and started picking up sticks and palm leaves strewn about the lawn. All the while, Goober watched me, stretched out in a lounge chair.

  “Any bright ideas?” I asked grumpily as I pulled a palm frond out from under his feet.

  “Nothing has yet sprung to mind.”

  I looked over at Laverne’s place and saw two fresh holes in her garden. I winced. When I’d sent Winky on his way, I’d noticed Laverne’s car wasn’t in her driveway. Neither was J.D.’s white Mercedes. “How about helping me fill the holes in Laverne’s yard?” I asked Goober.

  “Manual labor? No can do. I’m on vacation.”

  “Vacation? From what? You haven’t had a job since 1985.”

  “1987.”

  “Come on, Goober. Help me out.”

  Goober sat up and sighed. “I’ve already checked your entire yard, Val. There’s no trace of Buster.”

  “Well, you could cruise the neighborhood for him.”

  Goober smoothed his moustache. “Cruising. Well, that sounds like something I could handle.” Goober stood up and held out his hand. “But I’m gonna need money for gas.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have thought any different.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The spade hit something that made a hollow, tinny sound as I shoveled dirt into the fresh hole around Laverne’s prize rosebush. Worried it might be one of my missing earrings, I dug deeper and sifted the dirt. A bone about five inches long emerged. Hunks of bloody meat still clung to it.

  “Arghh!” I screamed and fell backward onto my butt. What the hell is going on here?

  I looked over into my yard for Goober. Then I remembered I’d sent him off to cruise the neighborhood for Buster. My neck hair bristled. If Tom were here, he’d have known what to do. But he wasn’t. Panic shot through me.

  I’m all alone – and a killer is lurking somewhere nearby! Maybe looking at me right now....

  I scooped the bloody hunk of flesh onto the spade, flung it back in the hole and gave it the world’s most hasty burial. As I scrambled to my feet, a low, angry-sounding growl emanated from the direction of my psycho neighbor’s overgrown hedges. I stifled a screech and leapt over Laverne’s picket fence as graceful as a deer, then tripped over my garden hose and barrel-rolled through the grass all the way up to the backdoor.

  I had my hand on the door handle when my cellphone rang, startling me out of what was left of my wits. I yanked open the door, whipped around inside, slammed it shut and locked it tight. My legs wobbled as I spoke into the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Val, what’s up?”

  “Winnie!” I noticed the spade in my hand and flung it away as if it were the smoking gun that could put me away for good. It skittered across the living room floor. “I...uh...nothing. What’s up with you?”

  “I was just calling to talk to Winky. He’s not answering his phone.”

  “Oh. I sent him to hand out flyers around the neighborhood. He probably forgot to take it with him.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Winnie laughed. “Thanks so much for watching after him the last couple of days. He was driving me crazy. I have to get my peanut-butter bacon bomb recipe just right before I send it off to the contest.”

  I studied the dirt trail left by the spade. “Oh. Right. How’s that going?”

  “I made another batch this morning with a pinch more salt. It was the best yet. The contest entry deadline is tomorrow. I just want to try one more thing before I mail off my recipe. I may need to pull an all-nighter. I hate to ask, but can you handle Winky for me for one more night? Goober said he’s got PTWS.”

  “Huh?”

  “Post Traumatic Winky Syndrome. He’s been saddled with Winky for three days.”

  Spending the night with Winky sounded better than being alone with a monster hiding in the bushes. Relief washed over me. I really must have been scared witless. “Well...okay. Sure. I really want you to win.”

  “Thank you so much!” Winnie exclaimed. “I couldn’t have done this without you and Goober keeping Winky out of my hair. I owe you. What can I do to repay you?”

  “Well, I can think of something. How about a dozen peanut butter bacon bombs? Throw in free delivery and you’re debt is paid in full.”

  “Ha ha! Okay, it’s a deal. I’ll drop them by tomorrow when I pick up Winky.”

  “Great. I’ll keep an eye on him until then.”

  I hung up and noticed Goober walking up the driveway. I opened the door. “Any luck?”

  “Nope. I circled around the neighborhood twice. I even checked the roadkill. Just a squirrel and a possum. But I almost flattened some jerk on a skateboard.”

  “Red-headed kid with purple headphones?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Buster and I had a run-in with him yesterday. The kid practically ran us over. You don’t think he’d have done anything to Buster, do you?”

  “Who knows?” Goober shrugged. “He didn’t look the serial killer type. But then again, who does? Speaking of closet psychos, where’s Winky?”

  “Still handing out flyers.”

  “Good.” Goober put a finger to his chin. “What say you and I do a little brainstorming while we still can?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Grab a notepad and pen. And a couple of beers. Let’s figure out a list of possible scenarios of what happened to your pooch.”

  “Do you think Buster ran away, or someone took him?”

  “Well, that’s what we need to figure out,” Goober said. “And, just so you know, I always think better with a belly full of tacos.”

  I WAS PULLING UP IN my driveway with a twenty-pound sack of tacos and a case of beer when I saw Winky huffing it down the street toward my house. He waved and then headed up the walkway that lead to the front door of my psycho next door neighbor’s house.

  I nearly drove into the ditch. “No! Winky! Not there!”

  He didn’t hear me. I slammed on the brakes, shoved the car in park, scrambled out and ran toward him. I rounded a line of unkempt shrubs just in time to hear him ring the doorbell. I cringed. I was too late. I crouched behind a bush and peeked around it. Winky was standing at the door holding a flyer in one hand, scratching his butt with the other.

  No one answered the door. “Winky!” I whispered, then nearly fainted when he mashed the doorbell again. “Winky!” I whispered louder.

  “Huh?” Winky turned to look in my direction. I saw the doorknob start to jiggle. I tucked my head back behind the bush and braced myself for an Olympic sprint. I heard the door creak open. Against all good sense and reason, I couldn’t resist a peek. I stuck an eyeball around the bush. The door opened wider to reveal the hairy ape-guy standing at the threshold wearing a chef’s apron. He was wielding a bloody meat cleaver.

  “Good lord a mighty!” Winky hollered. Then, before I could blink, Winky flashed by me, nearly knocking me over. As he whizzed by, he caught sight of me hiding in the bushes and shot out a hillbilly scream that nearly pierced my eardrums. I shook my echoing head, then switched gears and scrambled off behind him, the two of us fleeing on foot like two kids just who’d pulled the school fire alarm.

  I caught up with Winky at the front door. He was yanking on the knob like it was a stingy vending machine. I unlocked it and we tumbled into the house.

  “What’s up with you two?” Goober asked as we stood, doubled over, trying to catch our breath. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “A dang...swamp monster’s more...like it,” Winky wheezed.

  Goober looked to me to provide some sanity in the situation, but I didn’t have much left to offer.

  “Winky...rang big
foot’s doorbell,” I panted. “He came...at him...with a cleaver!”

  “My, my,” Goober said, scratching his chin. “The plot thickens. This definitely calls for some serious taco eating and beer drinking.”

  I shot Goober an incredulous look. “Are you insane?”

  “No. The brain requires protein to process complex problems,” Goober said. “Like solving the mystery of the missing mutt?”

  “Fine,” I hissed. “But someone has to go outside and get the tacos out of the car.”

  Goober stared at Winky and me. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not going out there!” Winky bellowed.

  “Me either,” I said.

  “Sissies,” Goober said. “As usual, I have to do everything.”

  A FEW BEERS LATER AND Winky was back to his usual self. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  “Nobody said they’d seen Buster?” I asked him.

  “Not a single, solitary soul, Val,” Winky said, then crammed half a taco into his maw.

  I shook my head and looked at Goober. “What do you think that means?”

  “Hard to say. The leash was mangled, Val. Something could have grabbed him...for, like...dinner.”

  Winky started to open his mouth.

  “Don’t you dare say werewolf,” I warned him.

  Winky poked his chin up. “I wasn’t gonna. I was gonna say ‘gator.’ Could’a even been a shark. If’n Buster fell in the water, I mean. When I throwed them fish guts off your seawall it was a regular feedin’ frenzy out there.”

  I gulped. I hadn’t thought about that. “Okay,” I said, and wrote on the notepad. “That’s one theory. But let’s say he didn’t get eaten by a gator or a shark. What else could have happened to him?”

  “Alien abduction,” Winky offered.

  I popped him on the arm. “I’m serious!”

  “Well, he’s right, in a way,” Goober said. “Somebody could have taken him.”

  “But who?” I asked. I shot Winky a dirty look. “Don’t say aliens.”

  Winky switched gears and employed his open mouth to insert another taco.

  “Well, there are quite a few suspects, if you think about it,” Goober said.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “Laverne was pretty ticked off over Buster digging in her yard. I think she was kidding, but she did threaten to get rid of Buster if he did it again. And he did. Last night.”

  “Is that why you were filling in those holes?” Goober asked.

  “Yes. And...there’s something else. I found a hunk of dead animal in one of them.”

  “Oh my lawd!” Winky said, and eyed his taco suspiciously.

  “She and J.D. were both gone this morning,” Goober said. “They could have been getting rid of his body.”

  “Or just droppin’ him off in front a Walmarts,” Winky offered.

  I shook my head. “I can’t believe Laverne would do such a thing.” But I wrote it down in the notebook anyway.

  “What about J.D.?” Goober asked.

  “He does have ties to criminal types,” I said, shrugging. “You know, it was his nephew who broke into my house last year looking for that dead finger.” A light-bulb went off in my head. “Oh my gosh! His nephew knows where I live!”

  “Hmmm,” Winky said. “Come to think of it, he does look a little haggardly lately.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “J.D.”

  “Well, he is shacked up with Laverne now,” Goober said.

  The two guys exchanged glances and snickered.

  “What?” I asked. “I don’t get what’s so funny.”

  “Well,” Winky said, “That’s a lot a work in the sack for J.D., you know.”

  My eyes turned to slits. “Moving on. There’s also that bratty kid on the skateboard.”

  “Long shot,” Goober said. “What would be his motivation?”

  “I dunno. Just because he’s a jerk?”

  “Possibly,” Winky said. “My Uncle Elmer was a jerk.”

  I sighed. “Or there’s the weird guy who called about Buster from the flyer. He said he’d take Buster – even though it wasn’t his dog.”

  “He doesn’t know where you live,” Goober said.

  “True. But Tom says that’s easy enough to find out from somebody’s phone number.”

  “Okay,” Goober agreed. “But if Buster was loose wandering the streets, any random person could have picked him up. Just like Tom did.”

  “Buster wouldn’t go with them,” I argued. “He’d miss us.”

  “Really?” Goober asked, one eyebrow lifted. “How long have you and Tom had him? Two days?”

  “Two and a half.” I looked out at the empty doghouse. “I’ve got to get that dog back.”

  “For the diamonds,” Goober said.

  “Forget the earrings,” I said. “Tom will be pissed...and heartbroken. He trusted me to take care of Buster...and look what happened.”

  “What happened?” Winky asked, as if he’d just joined the conversation.

  “We’re still trying to figure that out,” Goober said. “Have another beer.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Winky said, and grabbed another from the case.

  “That only leaves one other suspect,” I said. “Somebody’s gonna have to go check out the guy’s place next door.”

  “Doggie Dahmer’s?” Goober said. “No way!”

  “I ain’t goin’ back over there,” Winky bellowed. “I didn’t believe you at first, Val. But you wasn’t ‘zageratin’. That guy’s meaner’n my Aunt Vera. And she done been banned from public toilets in three counties.”

  I opened my mouth. “Don’t ask,” Goober blurted. I shut my mouth.

  “Besides, he done seen me,” Winky said. “He’ll know the fig is up.”

  “Jig,” I corrected.

  Winky looked at me cockeyed. “Who’s Jig?”

  I turned to the only half-sober guy in the room. “That leaves you, Goober.”

  “Yeah. Let the poor intellectual do your dirty work,” Goober griped. He sighed with resignation. “I guess I owe it to you. I was the one who lost him, after all. So, what’s the plan?”

  “I don’t exactly have one,” I said. “Just snoop around his house, I guess. See what you can find out. You know, check out his backyard for suspicious...activities. But we’ll need a cover story for you. In case you’re...uh...spotted.”

  “Taco delivery,” Winky offered, and slid the last taco into his mouth.

  “We don’t have any tacos,” I said, and held up the empty bag.

  “All right then,” Winky mumbled through his full mouth. “Health inspector.”

  “It’s a house, not a restaurant,” I argued.

  “I’ve got it,” Goober said. “Cable guy. It makes sense. He’s just moving in. He’ll want cable. I mean, what kind of psycho doesn’t have a TV?”

  I shrugged. “Could work. But what about a uniform?”

  “I have a jumpsuit in my trunk for just such occasions,” Goober said.

  I looked at him funny.

  “Don’t ask,” he said.

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We waited until dusk to set our plan in motion. Dressed in a tan, threadbare, one-piece jumpsuit, Goober looked like a delivery man who had taken a wrong turn ten years ago and just kept going. He was teetering on the middle rung of a six-foot ladder. The ladder was itself was straddling the chain-link fence between me and my nutso neighbor.

  “Be careful, Goober,” I whispered as I handed him a flashlight. “Winky says there’s graves back there.”

  Goober’s eyebrows raised an inch. “You’re just telling me this now?”

  I cringed. “I didn’t want to worry you. Come back alive and there’s half a bottle of Jack and a Zagnut bar waiting for you.”

  Goober paused in mid-step. His moustache twitched as he weighed his options. “Okay,” he shrugged, and continued his climb until he’d reached the rung th
at was even with the top of the fence. He looked back at me and Winky. “Don’t forget to turn the ladder around, in case I need to make a quick getaway.”

  “We’re on it,” Winky said, and gave him a freckled thumb’s up.

  Goober poked a huge, orange-tennis-shoed foot around in the bushes, trying to part the branches. “Geronimo,” he said, and jumped into the wild tangle of hedges. The string of muttered cursing that followed had Winky and I exchanging muffled giggles. We hauled the ladder up over the fence and turned it around in my yard. We were about to reinsert it into the bushes when a strange, guttural grunt stopped us in our tracks.

  “Was that a human bein’?” Winky whispered.

  “I don’t –”

  The bushes across the fence came alive with crackling and rustling. We whipped our heads to the right and saw an orange sneaker and a long, tan pant leg poke out of hedges and bob up and down like the world’s worst chicken impersonation. A second later, the rest of Goober appeared, his facial expression making the world’s second-worst chicken impersonation.

  “Where’s the freakin’ ladder?” Goober yelled. Winky and I stood there frozen, the ladder in our hands, looking like two petrified idiots trying to change a light-bulb.

  “Argh! Get outta my way!” Goober yelled and grabbed the top of the fence with both hands. He swung a long leg over. His shoelace got tangled on a branch and he fell, face first, onto my side of the fence. Unfazed, he scrabbled himself back together like a half-squashed grasshopper and took off toward my back door.

  Winky and I stared at each other, still frozen in place by moronic shock. A snorting growl from the crackling bushes thawed us out quick. We dropped the ladder and ran like the last two humans in a zombie apocalypse.

  I made it through the sliding glass door after Goober. Winky scrabbled in right after me. He slid the door shut and slammed the lock in place.

  “What happened?” I asked Goober between gasps for air. He was rifling through my kitchen cabinets. “Are you okay?”

  “He didn’t have a TV,” Goober said, and slammed a cabinet door. “He had a Doberman.”

  A loud, deep rumble emanated from outside. The three of us jerked like a trio of Mexican jumping beans.