Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan)

by P. M. Carlson

  “Why did he go to jail?”

  “Apparently he got a bank to hire him. He’s smooth. Well-bred yet humble. A con job of some type because the bank was worried about its own liability when he blew up their armored truck.”

  Maggie was interested. “Blew up?”

  “His own words.”

  “So besides being a con man, he knows explosives.”

  “As in making a plane crash. Right. Plus, he knew Resler’s situation, and obviously the widow turned to him immediately when her husband died.”

  “Why was she asking Dale Colby to be discreet?”

  “She was upset at his suspicion that some of Resler’s clients might be ungrateful enough to blow up his plane. But meanwhile there’s dear Bob Bates patting her hand consolingly and getting her to set up the foundation.”

  “And what were they doing yesterday afternoon?”

  “He lives on the premises now. They say they were working on foundation business all afternoon. The call to Dale was just one example.”

  “Very interesting,” said Maggie. “A couple to keep in mind. How about Moffatt?”

  “Nate’s going to tackle him.”

  “Because someone in the construction business would know explosives too.”

  “Right. Now, what did you find out from your friend in Congressman Knox’s office?”

  “I found out she’s half in love with Knox. And maybe because of that, she’s most nervous about the accusations of Ann Kauffmann’s father. Ann was a college student, temporary aide to Knox’s office.”

  “Hanky-panky with a sweet young thing?” That always made good copy. Olivia thought of Wilbur Mills and Fanne Fox.

  “Yes. Mr. Kauffmann claims his daughter was done in as in Chappaquiddick.”

  “Wow.” Olivia took the last sandwich so she could think better. “But Dale didn’t say anything about that.”

  “It’s probably not true. Carol Carson denies it vehemently.”

  “Dale was always super-careful with his stories, too,” said Olivia. “Wanted to be in total control of the facts. That was his real strength as a reporter. Triple-checking.”

  “There’s another problem,” Maggie pointed out. “Let’s say for some reason Knox wanted to get rid of the girl. He could find someone to blow up the plane, I’m sure. But he wouldn’t blow up another aide and two major donors at the same time, would he?”

  “You’re right. Still, it’s worth nosing around. What are you doing next?” She stood up to inspect herself in the mirror over the mantel and brushed a crumb from her mouth.

  Nick said, “The police called just after Donna left to say the Colbys could go back home, except the one room should stay sealed. So we can help get them settled.”

  “Is Donna in any shape to talk to?” Olivia asked hopefully.

  “Still pretty zombie-like.”

  “You think she’ll let her hair down with her friend?”

  “Probably,” said Nick. “May or may not help you.”

  “I’m worried about Josie too,” said Maggie soberly, with a tiny jerk of her head toward the immobile girl in the dining room. “She just sits there like a stone.”

  “Poor kid.”

  “Anyway, Nick and I can get the Colbys settled in again. Then I’ll check on Ann Kauffmann’s story.”

  “Fine.” Olivia retrieved her bag.

  “I also want to call the woman in Harrisburg that Felicia mentioned. Nan Evans,’’ Maggie said.

  “Felicia’s alibi. Right,” Olivia said. “That’s great. I’ve got to meet Nate and my editor at two, and I’ll follow up on the pilot. We could meet back here late this afternoon.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Olivia looked at her watch as she puddle-hopped back to the van. Still plenty of time before she was due at the Sun-Dispatch meeting. With sudden decision, she pulled out the address she’d looked up in the phone book after she and Nick got back from the bar last night. She’d get the interview with the pilot’s friend out of the way now. Ernie Grant, she’d written. Appleyard Road off Vale.

  The hills northwest of Mosby were cut-velvet green, as though some titanic seamstress had dropped the rumpled fabric across Virginia, clipped areas yielding suddenly to the deeper pile of forest and underbrush in a gigantic pattern that couldn’t be read from Olivia’s lowly vantage point. It was like this investigation, Olivia thought. She was too close to see the logic of it. Fragments of pattern would attract her attention—Bob Bates’ influence on the widow Resler, Felicia Colby’s fierce battles for her son, Leon Moffatt’s fury at Dale in the office yesterday. But what was design, what was background?

  She drove past a great gash in the earth, a construction project, green stripped away by giant Tonka toys that grunted across the muddy landscape, carving it into a different shape. At one end of the gash a couple of houses with matchstick skeletons were rising from the bared earth, substanceless until a skin of clapboards would make them suddenly real and solid. Above her, ranks of clouds nosed their way balefully over the crests of the hills like a pack of furry dark beasts grazing the sky.

  Appleyard Road was the next right. Olivia almost overshot it, but managed to pull the van around by veering into the wrong lane briefly. The road, narrower than Vale, twined upwards, tucked into the folds of the hills. On her right, on the other side of the hill from the construction project, the land was divided into fields by a wire fence, but they were overgrown meadows rather than tilled crop fields. On ahead were woods, posted against trespassers. Old woods. Ghostly in their dampness. Union soldiers in these parts had lived in dread of Colonel Mosby’s raiders, who materialized from these very woods to strike and melt away, back into genial civilian farmers once again. She remembered a fragment of Melville’s poem about Union cavalry troops returning to camp after one such bloody encounter: “Each eye dim as a sickroom lamp, All faces stamped with Mosby’s stamp.”

  The mailbox peeped suddenly from the massed Queen Anne’s lace beside the road. Grant, it said. Good Union name. Beyond it, half-hidden by the high grasses, a wide crushed-stone driveway led back toward a cluster of buildings. Red barns, solid but peeling in places. A sturdy square white house with a full-width porch sitting in an acre or so of ragged lawn. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a shadow moving in the patchy hedge beside the drive. She drew up behind a Chevy pickup truck, as close to the house as she could get, and peered out suspiciously at the hedge. No one. Mosby’s ghost, maybe.

  Olivia squinted at the house. The windows facing the porch were cracked open, the curtains within stirring in the breeze. And the truck was here. So maybe someone was home, though in the country you never knew. Could be out riding a tractor or feeding the hogs. She picked up her tape recorder and notebook, gave the silent hedge one more careful look, and opened the van door.

  An explosion of noise sharp as guncracks, a flash of fang and brown fur. Olivia shrieked and slammed the door again in the face of the raging dog. German shepherd, part of her mind catalogued, while her heart kicked in her chest like a rabbit in a sack. Goddamn German shepherd.

  “Sarge!” A male voice broke authoritatively through the hoarse bombardment of barking. “Off!”

  Sudden silence. The big animal, tan with smoky black saddle and mask, trotted wagging past the front of the van toward Olivia’s savior. “Lie down,” the man said conversationally, and when the dog dropped, “Good dog. Hey, lady, you can get out now!”

  “Are you sure?” Olivia’s mouth was dry. Her heart was still thudding.

  “Sure I’m sure. Old Sergeant Rock, he won’t do a thing unless I tell him to.”

  What would Woodward or Bernstein do? Or Gloria Steinem? They’d get out and get the story, Olivia decided unhappily. She pushed down the door handle, eyeing the dog unwaveringly. Nothing. She pushed the door open a crack. He didn’t budge. She took a deep breath, sternly instructed her knees not to collapse, and climbed out.

  Sergeant Rock lay calmly on the porch.

  “You’re a brave la
dy,” said the man.

  “Thanks, I guess.” If this was what brave felt like, she’d hate to try fear. She flicked her gaze to the man for a brief instant. A short dark beard, nice smile with dimples, but dull brooding eyes.Dim as a sickroom lamp. He wore jeans, a maroon plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a Day-Glo orange vest and billed hunter’s cap. Upright against his shoulder, pointed casually at the porch ceiling, was a rifle. Fancy telescopic sight, the whole gleaming with the sheen of loving care.

  Sergeant Rock blinked sleepily at her.

  “He’s a very obedient dog,” Olivia said, as much to convince herself as to the man.

  “Oh, yeah. He’s been to school. Attack dogs like this, they get heavy-duty training. Total control.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Olivia licked her dry lips. “Um, I’m looking for Ernie Grant.”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Olivia Kerr.”

  “Hi, Olivia Kerr.” He grinned again, the smile lines disappearing into his beard. “And Sergeant Rock you’ve already met.”

  “Yes, I sure have. Um, I was wondering if you’d talked to a guy named Dale Colby recently.” She was poised to leap back into the van if the dog or the rifle moved. Drops of rain were beginning to fall again, but she sure as hell wasn’t going onto that porch.

  But Ernie Grant merely shook his head. “Dale Colby. No, I don’t know him.”

  “Middle-aged guy, sandy hair—can I show you a picture?’’ She glanced fearfully at the dog.

  “Just a minute.” He swung open the front door. “Sarge, inside!” The dog ambled in politely. Ernie Grant shut the door on him and smiled at Olivia. “He wouldn’t do anything, but you still seem nervous,” he explained.

  “Yeah. Thanks. He’s quite a dog.” Olivia pulled out the photo of Dale and walked up the porch steps. Ernie leaned the rifle next to the door behind him and studied the picture.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head again. “Never met him. How come you ask?”

  “Well, he was a reporter.”

  “A reporter?” Wariness flared in Grant’s dark eyes. Olivia decided to go step-by-step.

  “Yes. He was working on a story about a plane crash. Do you remember? Back in January. Representative Knox’s plane?”

  She had his attention now. The skin around his eyes had tensed as he studied her face. “What about it?”

  “Well, I was told you knew one of the guys in that plane. The pilot. Corky Lewis.”

  He stared at her, unmoving. She wasn’t sure he’d heard.

  She said nervously, “Well, did you?”

  “Did I what?” His gaze was on her but his thoughts could have been on the moon.

  “Were you a friend of Corky Lewis?”

  “A friend.” The dimpled smile returned suddenly. “A friend of ole Cap’n Corky. You want to know if I was his friend.”

  “So you did know him!” She had begun to wonder if the bartender had somehow misremembered. “Well, I was wondering if you could tell me a little about him.”

  “What’s it to you, lady?” He was wary again. “What are you really after?”

  There was a story here, all right. There was also Sergeant Rock and that rifle. Olivia wished she’d brought Nate along. Or Nick. She held out her palm in a gesture of appeasement. “Sorry! Let me explain how I got involved.”

  “Yeah. Do that.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, the immemorial no-nonsense position. Olivia decided to avoid nonsense.

  She said, “Dale Colby was a friend of mine. He got killed while he was working on a story about the plane that crashed. He was talking to a lot of people. The congressman, and that developer Moffatt, and the lawyer’s widow. So I thought maybe he’d talked to you. And—”

  “He didn’t. Why would he talk to me?”

  Olivia smiled nervously. The Donovan’s Bar napkin glowed in her memory. This man, not Moffatt or Bates, had been at Dale’s despite his claims not to know him. And she realized uneasily that the nearest humans were those guys in the bulldozers back around the hill at the turnoff. Working in that clamor of mechanical noise they’d never hear a scream or even Sergeant Rock’s barking from over here. Olivia said soothingly, “Well, Dale talked to a lot of people. But if he didn’t talk to you, well, that’s all I wanted to know.” She moved down the steps toward the van. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “Wait.”

  Olivia turned, still backing toward the van. “Yeah?” she said in what she hoped was a friendly confident voice.

  He came down the steps toward her. “This Dale you keep talking about. What paper is he with?”

  “Mosby Sun-Dispatch. And so am I.”

  “You’re a Sun-Dispatch reporter too?” He looked incredulous.

  “Yeah. But if Dale didn’t talk to you, that’s okay, never mind.” She swiped raindrops from her forehead, took another step back.

  “Hey, I think you ought to come inside a minute.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Olivia soothed. “Sorry I bothered you.” Her fingers finally found the handle of the van door.

  “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to make a call.” He jerked a thumb toward the farmhouse door. “C’mon.”

  “Well, make your call and I’ll check back with you a little later, okay?” Olivia wrenched open the van and jabbed her keys into the ignition as she slammed the door behind her. She spun the wheel and started backing up. She had to make a K-turn to clear the pickup truck and switch directions without going into the ditch. But the driveway was plenty wide.

  Ernie Grant was running up the steps back toward the farmhouse door. She was free. Or was he going to release the dog? But Sergeant Rock couldn’t get into the van anyway. Olivia completed her turn and began to roll down the driveway. She’d be back, of course. Bring Nate, maybe even tip off the cops. Because there was one hell of a story here. She could taste it.

  Then the world lurched.

  Green unkempt hills zipped upward to the left, thick tangled weeds of the ditch careened toward her in a blur, clarifying at last into the rain-sparkled cheeriness of Queen Anne’s lace and black-eyed Susans nodding welcome a few inches from her eyes. Her forehead rested somehow on the steering wheel.

  Ernie Grant was opening her door, slinging the rifle back over his shoulder, grabbing her wrist to help her out. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said gently. “Just hang around until I make my call, okay? I’ll help you change your tire in a few minutes.”

  Her tire. Olivia gaped at the van, which tilted drunkenly into the ditch, rain sliding down its roof, front tire flat as an old toothpaste tube. Mystified, she rubbed her forehead with her free hand.

  “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Bumped my head.”

  He peered at it solicitously without releasing her wrist. “It’ll be okay. C’mon, let’s go in.”

  There was no choice now.

  Help would come eventually.

  He said he wouldn’t hurt her.

  Her job until then was straightforward if not simple.

  Survive.

  But one tiny unregenerate corner of her mind was dancing, thinking, what a story!

  Mosby, Virginia

  TUESDAY

  AFTERNOON

  AUGUST 5, 1975

  14

  Kent Edgerton was five eleven, maybe a hundred eighty-five, brown hair, brown eyes. The managing editor was wearing a short-sleeved button-down oxford shirt with khaki trousers, no tie. Holly had refused his offer of coffee. She was wired enough already, after that talk with Mitch. But she had herself back in grip now. Focus on Dale Colby, Schreiner. On details that might add up to answers. No need for coffee. Besides, the Sun-Dispatch’s scuffed urn looked like the twin brother of the sludge producer back in the station house.

  But Edgerton had taken a foam cup of the stuff himself before leading her to his office, which was built at the end of a big room where people typed in cubicles, answered phones, and moved in and out in response to purposes she couldn’t guess. The
office had interior windows so Edgerton could watch the activity in the large room. He took his coffee to a big battered desk already strewn with empty cups as well as stacks of papers.

  “How long did Mr. Colby work here?” Holly asked him after the preliminaries.

  “Must be fifteen, sixteen years,” he replied. “I’ve only been here eleven years myself. He told me he’d worked in Harrisburg before.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “As a newspaperman, yes. Socially, not much. We each had our own circle of friends.”

  “Who was in his circle of friends?”

  “Don’t really know.” He sipped at the coffee, small eyes surveying her as she was surveying him.

  “Neighbors? Drinking buddies? Poker players?”

  “God, I never thought about it. I knew him only as a newspaperman. Seemed to be a workaholic.”

  “Tell me about him as a newspaperman.”

  “Reliable,” said Edgerton promptly. “Compulsive checker of facts. Really solid stories. Kept the best files of any of us.”

  Holly nodded. It fit the picture of Colby that was forming in her mind. Workaholic, yes. A neat person, clothes unrumpled even in squalid death, married to a woman who kept a neat, unrumpled house. Tidy, no loose ends. In his job as in Holly’s it was difficult to tie off all the loose ends, but apparently he did his best. She glanced out the interior window at the big room. Most reporters’ cubbyholes had surfaces stacked with paper, used coffee cups like Edgerton’s, notes taped crazily to walls and file cabinets. Dale’s home office had been much better organized. The desk surface had been orderly: phone book squarely next to the phone, the oval dish of lemon drops lined up with the axis of the desk, even the dirty lunch dishes stacked neatly in a corner to be taken away. The latest equipment all through the house: IBM Selectric, labeled files, Sony TV, thermostat, even coffee maker. No sludge for Dale Colby. His bedroom closet neat, shoes lined up. Tools on the garage pegboard hung carefully, each on its own silhouette. Only that lamp out of place.

  “What was Colby’s reaction when he found something that didn’t fit?” Holly asked.

  “Like a hound dog on a scent,” Edgerton said. He’d finished his coffee already. “Most of us have that basic instinct. But he was especially likely to keep working at a story until everyi was dotted. Dale took inconsistencies almost as personal insults. His greatest strength was his tendency to keep after stories until he understood every nuance.”