Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan)

by P. M. Carlson

  Holly nodded and decided to risk another topic. “Mr. O’Connor, your wife seemed very familiar with police procedures.”

  “Oh, yes. She’s been called as a witness in homicides before.”

  Homicides! Whoopee, Schreiner, you’re on track now. Holly tried to hide her excitement. She said flatly, “I see.”

  But Nick O’Connor must have sensed a problem. He explained, “Yeah, she’ll do everything she can. She’s helped convict two or three already.”

  “Really?” She felt an unprofessional pang of disappointment.

  “The only one still open is a kidnapping from a couple of years ago. Maggie still gets calls every few months from the New York detective on that case. Lugano.”

  “I see.” Holly wrote “Lugano” in her notebook. Check to see if Dale Colby could be connected to that case somehow.

  “You seemed surprised when I said homicides,” Nick observed mildly.

  “It’s unusual.” Holly was guarded.

  “Yeah, but you must have been interested in something when you mentioned that she seemed familiar with police procedures.” His guileless brown eyes were concerned, eager to help. What the hell, she might fish out another fact. She shrugged and admitted, “I just noticed her shirt. Lots of people got arrested in the sixties for demonstrating.”

  He grinned. “Sure did. Almost got arrested myself, and I’m a vet.”

  Too old for Vietnam. “Korea?” asked Holly dubiously.

  “No, a few years later. I knew a little German, so they sent me to Berlin. The Wall.”

  “Then you weren’t in combat.”

  “No.”

  “And you were a protester?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice. Plenty of Viet vets protested their war. But someone older, someone stationed in Germany?

  “Yes, I was.” Elbows on knees, he was leaning forward thoughtfully, looking past her toward something far away and sad. “There was this kid one night at the Wall. Just a teenager. Came scrambling toward us from the other side. They machine-gunned him. He lay there in the searchlights and bled to death. And we weren’t allowed to help. We just—watched. It was so pointless. And he wasn’t the only one. So damn pointless!” He leaned back, passed a chunky hand over his face, and murmured, “‘Did heaven look on, and would not take their part?’ It changes your thinking, you know. That kid’s never left me. I try not to think about him, but he’s there. So when people started marching to stop some other pointless shooting, I marched too.” He glanced at her, found her studying him intently, and shrugged. “Sorry. You don’t need all that. The short answer is no, I’ve never been arrested for demonstrating and neither has Maggie.”

  “Okay.” She looked down at her notepad but found that the letters were blurry.Did heaven look on, and would not take their part? She riffled back through the pages blindly and remembered something. Gratefully, she changed the subject. “Oh. I didn’t ask you what you do.”

  “I’m an actor.”

  Oh, wonderful. All this case needed was an actor. Quoting stuff. Had he been putting her on after all? And asshole Schreiner practically blubbering over it. Holly was suddenly deeply weary. She wrote down “actor” and underlined it twice, slashing at the paper.

  “You might have seen me in one of those AT&T commercials recently,” he said, then added uncertainly, “If you ever have time for TV.”

  “Not often,” said Holly. “But I’ll watch for it.”

  He shook his head. “Hardly worth watching for. But it helps pay the bills.”

  “Yeah. Now, can you think of anything else that might help us, Mr. O’Connor?”

  “Nothing more at the moment. But I’ll keep trying.”

  “Thanks.” Holly looked at his friendly, homely face. Oh, hell, it was possible he’d really felt all that. Didn’t make any difference anyway, did it? She closed her notebook. “Let’s go next door.”

  The night was fresh, not cold but far from the hot dark blanket of humid air she’d grown used to over the past ten days. As she and Nick O’Connor walked across the damp grass toward the lit windows of the Morgan house, Holly tried to get her thoughts into formation, reviewing the story these people had given her. Dale Colby, hardworking reporter, temporarily housebound, disturbing some people as he inquired into that plane crash. The lawyer’s widow, Mrs. Resler, asking him to be discreet. Wealthy Moffatt’s son charging into the newspaper office swearing at Colby. Two congressional aides. The congressman himself, certainly the most visible target, deciding at the last moment not to go. The pilot, Corky Lewis: not much on him from these folks, but Colby had been interviewing his sister Priscilla, quoting her in his story. Holly would check the newspaper tomorrow, talk to the editor. Edgerton, his name was. Also the other reporter that Olivia Kerr had mentioned, the one who had worked on early stages of the story Colby was following up.

  And then there was the domestic front. A stunned widow, two unbelieving little girls. She hurt for those little girls. She’d seen too many children who’d lost parents, too many kids mangled and grieving. She hoped she wouldn’t have to talk to the kids long. But she’d have to talk to neat blonde stunned Donna Colby again, get a few more details about Colby’s life and last days. And get her view of the ex, for what it was worth. Felicia Colby had appeared opportunely, claiming she and her son had just driven down from Harrisburg, furious at Dale’s neglect of his son and then shocked into silence when she heard of his death. Maybe true. Holly had arranged to talk to her and the boy first thing tomorrow.

  And the others, this batch of Dale’s friends that he hadn’t gone to the beach with after all. His colleague the reporter, a red-haired Brenda Starr parody, bubbling over with solemn eagerness to help, yet always with an eye out for a story. Her husband the doctor, lanky, observant, but claiming not to know the Colbys well. His sister, the take-charge Maggie, able to bear children, break down doors, flip over dead bodies, interrogate police detectives, and stop wars in a single bound. Pah. Holly faced another unpleasant follow-up interview there. And Maggie’s husband, the husky gentle vet beside her now. An actor. Jesus, wouldn’t you know it. Fact and fiction, the true and the counterfeit, slithering like mud through her grasping fingers.

  So cool it, Schreiner. Why should it be any different this time?

  At the Morgan house her little crowd of witnesses looked up at her as she entered. Maggie, sprawled in a recliner with her daughter asleep in her lap, regarded Holly and Nick with lively interest. Jerry sat in a ruffled side chair that was too small for his gangly frame. His wife, perched on the arm of the sofa, was in the midst of pinning up her red hair but paused to look at Holly eagerly. Donna Colby sat on the sofa between her daughters, the younger drowsing with her head in Donna’s lap, the older watching Holly with exhausted anxious eyes. Across the room through the dining-room arch, a plump woman with a friendly nervous smile sat at the table with two teenage boys. Holly crossed to her first. “Mrs. Morgan?”

  The plump woman stood, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Schreiner. Thanks for letting us use your house.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble, really. I want to help.”

  Mrs. Morgan had told Higgins she and the boys had been out this afternoon, so they didn’t have to be interviewed right away. Holly turned to the others. “I’d like to thank all of you for your help tonight. As soon as you can, tomorrow if possible, please stop by the station and we’ll get a statement typed up for you to sign. I’ll be talking to several of you again too, so I’ll need to know where you’ll be tomorrow.”

  “That’s easy,” said Olivia. “Our house.”

  “The Colbys too?”

  “Well, until you’re finished with their place.”

  Holly was not pleased. Nick explained, “Donna’s other friends are out of town, and Jerry and Liv have more space than Betty here.”

  “Of course, I’d be glad—” Betty Morgan faltered. “I mean, if you’d rather—”

  Holly looked at the Col
bys: Donna exhausted, bruised by events; the girls so young to be facing this. She’d seen kids face worse. But it seemed cruel to make them stay here next door while their familiar home was made ghastly by police barriers, lights, chatter. She sighed. These witnesses would talk among themselves anyway. People always did. “It’s all right,” she said. “We’ll try to be finished with the house as soon as possible. If any of you will be at work tomorrow, please give Officer Higgins your phone numbers so we can reach you if necessary. You can go on now.”

  She watched them get up. Maggie gathered up her sleeping daughter tenderly as she stood. Nick murmured something to Donna Colby, then picked up Tina carefully. Olivia handed a business card to Higgins, then hurried to Donna’s side and helped her solicitously to her feet. Jerry too went to speak to Higgins, probably giving an office phone number. Maggie, cradling her daughter in her arms, said something encouraging to Josie, who was clinging to her mother’s side. They all shuffled out toward the front door.

  Maggie paused in the arch and looked back. “Detective Schreiner?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll probably want to talk to Bo Morgan.”

  Who the hell—oh, must be one of Betty Morgan’s sons. Holly looked back at the boys at the dining room table. One of them was studying her guardedly. He was maybe fourteen, stringy blond hair, gangly arms and legs, bad skin, an Incredible Hulk T-shirt. “You’re Bo Morgan?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced at his mother and added, “I mean yessum.”

  “And you have something to tell us?”

  “Oh, it’s no big deal.” Bo wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s just, like I was listening to tapes in my room this afternoon.”

  His mother bleated, “His door was closed! I thought he’d gone out with Randy and his friends! That’s why I told the other policeman no one was here! I just found out that—”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Morgan,” Holly soothed her. “Let’s hear what Bo has to say.”

  The center of attention again, Bo writhed unhappily. “It’s just, well, like I looked out the window and saw this guy over at the Colby’s.”

  “What kind of guy?”

  “Oh—sort of average. Old guy.”

  “Old as Officer Higgins? Older? Younger?”

  “About the same. Thinner.”

  Most of humanity was thinner than Higgins. She asked, “What time was this?”

  “I wasn’t like watching a clock.”

  “Well, maybe you can work it out by what you were hearing on the tape,” Maggie suggested.

  She was still in the archway. Holly glared at her. “Ms. Ryan, isn’t it time you took your daughter home?”

  But pleasure was dawning on Bo’s face. “Hey, yeah! I was listening to ‘Born to Run’ so that would make it—well, like three-thirty, about.”

  Maggie flashed a wide smile at Holly. She shifted her sleeping child to one arm as she reached for the doorknob. “Goodnight. See you tomorrow, Detective Schreiner.” The door slammed behind her.

  Holly unclenched her teeth and turned back to Bo. She found a new page in her notebook and asked, “About three-thirty, you said?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what did the man do?”

  “Just stood at the front door a minute. Then I guess someone answered cause he went in.”

  “Did you see him come out?”

  “Yeah. Maybe after—let’s see.” He screwed up his face, calculating song times, no doubt. “Twenty minutes later, about.’’

  “What did he do?”

  “Just walked to his car. Blue Ford, ’73.”

  “Good. He didn’t seem agitated?”

  “Nah. Just regular.” Bo rocked back in the dining chair. He was beginning to enjoy this.

  “So there was nothing different about him when he left?”

  “Nothing I could see. Except he had a package.”

  “He didn’t have it when he arrived?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I didn’t notice him till he was already at the door, and those bushes might of like hid it.”

  “What did the package look like?”

  “Brown paper. Maybe a grocery bag folded over. Shoebox size.”

  “Good.” Holly was pleased. This might be something. “Bo, could I look out the window where you saw all this?”

  Suddenly he looked uneasy. Had he been lying? Making up these helpful details? He muttered, “Hey, I don’t like people in my room.”

  His mother giggled. “He won’t let me clean it, even. And it’s such a mess!”

  Bo’s brother was hiding a smirk. Bo said sullenly, “She always gets my mags all mixed up.”

  Holly realized what the problem was. She explained carefully, “I just want a look through the window, Bo. I’m not going to check your housekeeping. And it’ll be a lot more trouble for everybody if I have to get a search warrant.”

  “Oh, of course you can look without a search warrant!” exclaimed Betty Morgan. But Holly waited for Bo to work things out in his head and give her a quick miserable nod before she followed Betty down the hall.

  His room was in the front of the house, the corner nearest the Colby’s. She walked around to the far side of the bed and looked out the window. The view was as he’d described it. Even lying on the bed he could see across the Colby driveway to their front porch. This kid’s testimony might someday be important.

  She turned and surveyed the room quickly. A chaos of posters, rock albums and tapes, electronic equipment, huge stacks of Marvel comics, candy-bar wrappers, soft-drink cans. But the bed was made. She lifted the nearest corner of the bedspread with her toe. There was his stash: papers, a bag of grass, plus a couple of bright pills. An easy reach from his pillow. Mom looking the other way, consciously or unconsciously. Well, Holly wasn’t into illegal searches tonight.

  When she looked up again, Bo was standing in the doorway watching her, eyes terrified.

  Holly joined him and closed the door behind her. “It all checks out, Bo,” she said. “You have a good view of their door. Let’s get down all the facts. This could be a real important statement.”

  The boy nodded mutely and followed her back to the dining room.

  6

  At the upstairs den door, Olivia gripped the knob and pulled the door partway closed. “Okay, everybody, if you need anything, just let us know, okay?”

  “Okay.” Donna, still puffy-faced but no longer weeping, was sitting stiffly on the edge of the open sofa bed. Tina was already lying on the other half, her eyes wide open, her lower lip trembling. Her mother was smoothing back her hair from her forehead in little mechanical strokes that couldn’t have been very comforting. Josie huddled alone on the extra cot, legs pulled up, her face hidden against her knees.

  It was nearly midnight. Olivia had finally phoned her sleepy editor, who’d told her to stick with Donna now and check in early tomorrow. Before they’d left Betty Morgan’s, while Schreiner was interviewing Jerry, Maggie had urged Donna to call her relatives and friends. Obediently, she had: her sister Jill, the nursing home where her mother lived, her cousin Ann, a teacher at Honey Creek School named Linda who promised to notify the principal for her. But at the mention of Dale’s parents in Richmond she broke down. “No—the detective said to call them from Betty’s—but he says—” She covered her face with her hands.

  “What’s wrong, Donna?” Maggie asked her gently.

  “He says—he says he’ll take them!” Donna murmured.

  “The girls? Of course not! He doesn’t have the right!” Maggie exclaimed vehemently.

  Tears were trickling down Donna’s cheeks. “He doesn’t?”

  “Of course not.” Maggie slid an arm around Donna but her blue eyes were fixed on the girls. “The girls stay with their mother. Don’t worry about that. Donna, Dale had insurance, right?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, he never told me. But I think he did.” She was sobbing openly now. “I never thought about being without Dale. What am I supposed to do? I don’t
know how to—I just can’t believe what happened! I can’t!”

  “It’s hard to believe when someone close to you dies,” Maggie said softly, stroking her hair.

  “Yes.” Donna dabbed at her nose. Tina was crying too, gripping her mother’s blouse with both hands.

  “Dale’s father is upset too,” Maggie pointed out. “He’s not thinking about what he’s saying.”

  “Maybe not,” Donna sobbed weakly. She clung to Maggie, who had held her and Tina for a long time until that first wave of open grief had passed.

  Josie had watched them from her chair in the corner. She still hadn’t cried.

  That was two hours ago. Now Olivia closed her den door on the three Colbys, aching for them. But what else could a person do? Hug them, give them beds, help them get through the hours.

  And make sure Dale’s killer was caught. Damn it, that was worth something too.

  Olivia hurried past the room where little Sarah slept and down the angled oak staircase to the living room. She paused at the door. Jerry, Nick and Maggie were sitting barefoot around the coffee table in uncharacteristically serious discussion.

  “I like that idea,” Maggie was saying. “Guy breaks down the door, gets in and out, and somehow wedges the door closed from the outside. Maybe ties a string to a door wedge and pulls it under the door that way. So the next guy who tries to open it—yours truly, as it happened—thinks she was the one who split the wood. But really it was broken all along.”

  “Right,” said Jerry. “But was there a wedge? Did you see anything?”

  “No. But it might have gotten pushed back behind the door as I opened it. Brute Force Ryan, that’s me. Anyway, the cops will find it if it exists. There’s another problem too.”