Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan)

by P. M. Carlson

  “So we can quit looking?” asked Holly hopefully.

  “Not at all. There really was a broken frame on the steps, and those tools. So Taynton says he’ll call back to describe the painting that’s really missing, soon as he figures out which one it is. And we’re to stay on the job, he says. To honor our noble soldiers in gray.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Otherwise he’ll serve our heads on platters to the chief when he gets back.”

  “He’s got the clout to do it, too. Damn. It must have been handed off to someone here in Mosby. Well, keep Winks on it. Find out if anyone else was around the museum this morning.”

  “Right-o.”

  In the unmarked car again, Holly paused for a moment to look over her notes. She’d learned a lot since last speaking to Donna Colby, and had plenty of new questions now: about the people Dale Colby was currently writing about, about his feelings toward his demotion and replacement as managing editor by Edgerton, about his son Mark and ex-wife Felicia. Donna, though doubtless still dazed by the sudden collapse of the life she knew, might be able to focus on specific questions about Colby’s last weeks.

  But when she arrived the Colby yard was a scene of confusion.

  Donna, screaming, came darting up the driveway, past the Colby Pinto and a black Camaro. Nick O’Connor was chasing Donna. Back by the front door Maggie held a weeping Tina in her arms while little Sarah clung to her mother’s sky-blue hem. As Holly pulled up to the curb, Nick reached Donna and seized her by both wrists.

  “Donna, it’ll be okay,” he said soothingly.

  “Josie!” she shrieked, looking around wildly.

  “Donna, it’ll be okay! I’ll find her!” Maggie called.

  Holly had pulled on the brake. Okay, Schreiner, cool and quick. Her damn revolver was in an ankle holster today, under the flare legs of her slacks. She snatched it out and leaped from the car. Without raising the gun she said to Nick, “Let her go.”

  “Oh, Christ, here comes Annie Oakley.” Maggie’s exclamation dripped contempt.

  Donna was still sobbing, “Josie,” over and over. Nick looked apologetically at Holly. “She’s kind of hysterical,” he explained.

  “Let her go.”

  He shrugged and released Donna’s wrists. Donna raced to the middle of the street and looked up and down. “Mrs. Colby?” Holly called.

  “Josie!” Donna sobbed as though the others didn’t exist. She turned and ran back past Holly to the garage to peer inside.

  Nick was standing quietly, watching the distraught woman. So okay, Schreiner, cool it, he’s no threat. She planted her foot on her car bumper, reholstered her gun and asked him, “What’s going on? Where’s Josie?”

  His sad eyes turned from Donna to Holly. “She’s disappeared.”

  15

  At the porch steps Olivia balked. “I could wait here, couldn’t I?” she suggested. “Without the van I …”

  “C’mon.”

  She pretended to stumble on the steps but even though her arm was slicked with rain, the sudden jerk didn’t loosen Ernie’s grip. Loosened her shoulder, though. Ouch. Hand-to-hand combat with this guy was clearly out even if she could somehow eliminate the rifle and dog. He bent his head and asked, “You okay?”

  “Uh—yeah, sure. A little woozy from, you know, the van.” She thought she heard voices. With a wrench of hope or fear or a combined thrill of both she realized there were people talking inside. Allies? Or assistant captors? She babbled on, “And the steps are wet.”

  “Okay, we’ll go slow.” He helped her carefully up the steps and across the porch. Olivia’s rabbity heart began bouncing when she saw Sergeant Rock behind the screen door, tail waving, tongue lolling from the enormous jaws in a doggie grin. “Look,” she said, “he makes me so nervous. Couldn’t we—?”

  “Yeah,” said Ernie, unsurprised. “He’s an attack dog.”

  “Well, I mean, couldn’t I wait out here?”

  He opened the door, shoved her in, and said mildly, “Just let me make this call.”

  Clearly there was no choice, so she said, “Okay.” He obeys Ernie, she told herself. Keep Ernie happy and everything will be A-OK. Right now you better notice every detail in case you need it to get away.

  With that task in mind she managed to ignore the big shepherd except for one fearful glance. She looked at the two doors. The screen had a hook, but Olivia saw that there was no lock. The inner wooden door, standing open now, boasted a dead bolt but had a twist knob inside. So with brief fumbling she could let herself out, if the opportunity ever came. Ernie hooked the screen, and shoved the door closed with his foot. Sergeant Rock sniffed at her civilly enough while Olivia resolutely looked past him at her surroundings.

  She was in the front corner of a living room. It didn’t seem to match Ernie’s outdoorsman personality. A pinky-beige carpet carved in a vaguely floral design stretched wall-to-wall and on into the dining room through an arch. The windows, one next to the front door looking out on the porch and one across the room at right angles giving onto the driveway extension, sported inexpensive mauve drapes that moved in the gusts of wind. Under the driveway window sat a sofa slipcovered in a dark cabbage-rose design. A worn green chair and a black rocker flanked the scuffed Danish-style coffee table before the sofa. The coffee table at least showed signs of Ernie’s presence: a filled ashtray, a couple of Field & Streams, an ample collection of empty Bud cans. Nearest to her, a low wide bookcase sectioned off a three-foot entry area by the front door. On the bookcase sat a big television that faced the sofa, back to her, its tangled wiring drooping unkempt over the bookcase as it headed for connections in the wall beside her. The voices she’d heard were coming from it, excited but on low volume: “Joy makes my dishes shine every time!”

  Ernie led Olivia around the end of the bookcase and across to the sofa, pausing only to say, “Sarge, sit,” to the dog. To her he said, “Please sit down,” but she obeyed promptly too. She wasn’t turning into a doormat, a shame to Steinem and Friedan, she told herself firmly. She was being rational. A man would do the same thing. Don’t upset a guy with a gun. And a dog. Not unless you’ve got a gun and a dog too. Besides, Ernie seemed calm enough, just determined that she would wait here a while. He’d even said please.

  But then he looked back at the dog. “Sarge, watch ’em!”

  The dog responded with an alert unblinking stare at her. Ernie wandered out through the arch and in a moment she heard him dialing a phone. She sat very still and walled off her fears. Think about other things. She looked around. On the TV, contestants in a quiz show burbled, their preselected all-American faces not too fat, not too old, not too pimply, all wearing eager expressions of all-American lust for the proferred refrigerators, vacations, cars. Well, Olivia could understand lusting for cars. Wouldn’t mind one right now herself. She turned her head to look out of the front window, across the porch and down the driveway toward the road. The disabled van sat tipsily in the ditch about two-thirds of the way down, a silvery shape half-hidden by the rain. Nearer the porch was the blue pickup, water sliding over it, giving it the look of a toy under its formfitting transparent plastic packaging.

  Ernie came back to the archway, receiver held to his ear, and stood looking at her absently, maybe listening to it ring. The rifle was still slung over his shoulder. In a moment he muttered “Shit” to himself and disappeared. She heard the cradle click. Olivia noticed that the phone was just around the corner in the next room, beside the arch, on the driveway side of the house. Ernie did not reappear. She heard his footsteps retreating toward the back of the house.

  Did that mean she could get up? Dash for the door, down behind the hedge, wait at the road for a passing car—well, no, there weren’t many of those, he’d find her easily, she’d have to make her way all the way to the construction site before she’d be safe. Hi, guys, sorry to bother you, she’d scream into the wall of noise from the roaring machines.

  If he didn’t catch her first.

  Wa
sn’t really a great plan, was it. If she couldn’t escape in the van, she certainly couldn’t on foot. Have to get hold of the rifle somehow. But she realized she could test the dog now. At least find out if he’d do anything without Ernie egging him on.

  She tensed her legs and leaned forward an inch preparing to stand up.

  Sarge did not approve.

  She hadn’t actually moved yet, but his ears went back, his head lowered, his lips pulled back from his formidable teeth and a rumbling thickened the air. Oh boy. She leaned back again in the sofa and the rumbling stopped.

  So. If she did get hold of the rifle she’d have to use it on the dog. How the hell did a rifle work? Only thing she’d ever done with a rifle was stick flowers in the barrel at a demonstration.

  Ernie appeared in the archway with a six-pack and a bag of cookies. Pecan Crisps. He placed them on the coffee table, shoving aside the previous collection of cans to make space for the new additions.

  “Want a beer, Olivia Kerr?” he asked.

  “Uh—thanks, no.”

  “Cookie?”

  “Not just now.”

  “All right.” He tabbed open a can himself, pulled the worn easy chair around to a position near the TV, and sat down, shrugging the rifle from his shoulder and laying it casually across his lap. He was directly between Olivia and the door. He leaned back in the chair, one leg stretched out comfortably before him. “Sarge, c’mere,” he said.

  The big dog relaxed and trotted the few steps to his master, tail wagging. But Olivia remembered the rumble and didn’t move. Ernie scratched the animal’s ears, then softly told him to go lie down. Ernie lifted the can for a swig of beer. Finally he looked at Olivia.

  “The situation we’ve got here,” he said pleasantly, “is that I’ve got to make a phone call to check you out.”

  “Okay. Um, didn’t you just call someone?”

  “Wasn’t there. But I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She noticed that Sergeant Rock was not only lying down as commanded, he was dozing already. But dogs were not very sound sleepers. “And after you check, I can go?” she asked timidly.

  “Probably. I’ll help change the tire,” he assured her.

  “Is there anyone else you can check with? I can tell you numbers for my editor or—”

  He took a long swig of beer without answering.

  “I mean, maybe I could suggest someone to call.”

  “I’m checking what I should do,” he explained as though to a child.

  “Oh.” Olivia licked her dry lips. “I see. Your boss.”

  “Might say that.” Ernie smiled mirthlessly and put the beer can down on the carpet next to the chair. “Here,” he said, “toss me another Bud.”

  Olivia reached for a can. Could she fling it hard enough, and accurately enough, to hit him in the forehead, knock him out? Then grab the rifle, then—

  No. She couldn’t.

  Besides, she saw Sergeant Rock lift his head lazily from the floor, ears pricking at the mere tiny sound of the can being pulled from the six-pack.

  She tossed the can obediently at Ernie’s chest. He caught it one-handed, pulled the tab, and drank.

  “What was this guy Colby after?” he asked suddenly. “The one in the picture?”

  “He was just a reporter,” Olivia said. “Writing about the plane crash.”

  “Writing about that Congressman what’s-his-name?”

  “Yeah. And the people on the plane, you know, and their families.”

  “Cap’n Corky didn’t have a family any more. Divorced.”

  “Oh. But didn’t he have a sister?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” A frown crackled fleetingly across his face. “Yeah, a sister.”

  “Do, uh, do you have a sister?” Olivia asked, hoping it wouldn’t be a touchy question.

  “Nah. There’s just me. Dad died and Mother went off to Florida. Sold me her half of the farm.”

  “I see. It’s a nice farm,” Olivia said.

  He drank some beer and grinned. A heartening grin, really, his face brightening around his beard like sunshine breaking through clouds. “You ever worked on a farm, Olivia Kerr?”

  “Um, no, not worked. Used to visit my uncle.”

  “Thought so. See, it’s tough. Chickens, hogs, plowing, harvesting—the whole ball of wax.”

  “Yeah. I suppose you’re right. Maybe some people like working outdoors.”

  “This weather? They’re crazy.”

  Olivia looked out the window and nodded. This conversation was unreal. She was discussing the weather with a guy who might be Dale Colby’s murderer. How had he done it? Rifle, somehow, no doubt, he was a terrific shot. Her van bore witness to that. But there were no bullet holes anywhere in Dale’s den. Nor in Dale, Jerry said. Well, this wasn’t the time to figure how he’d committed that crime. It was time to prevent this one. And preventing it required discussing the weather. So be it. “Yes,” she agreed, “that rain is fierce.”

  “Regular monsoon,” he agreed. “Can’t earn a living with this weather going on. Don’t know whether to plant cactus or rice.” He grinned again.

  Cactus or rice. He’d made a joke. Olivia tried grinning back. She wasn’t sure if she succeeded or not. “Must be tough. How are the animals doing?”

  “They’re like me. They survive.” He finished the second beer, placed the can neatly by the other, laid his hand on the stock of the rifle, and looked at his watch. “I’ll try to phone again.”

  “Okay.”

  He slung the rifle over his shoulder and started for the phone. “Sarge, watch ’em.”

  Instantly, the dog was on the alert again. Not a good idea to try to slip by him in his sleep, Olivia decided. He didn’t wake up like her, slow and muzzy-headed until she’d had her coffee. He was ready in a flash, ready to—to—never mind. The point was, it was definitely not a good idea to try anything unless he was somehow locked up. Maybe, if she could get a solid door between him and her—But she couldn’t reach the front door before Sarge. The arch to the dining room had no doors, and Ernie was in there dialing now. The only other door to this room was straight across from her. Through it she could glimpse a carpeted hall. Bedrooms, maybe, or stairs. But since the dog sat in a direct line between her and that door, it was of no immediate use anyway.

  The windows had screens. But even supposing she somehow slashed an opening and escaped, Sarge could then get through too.

  So could a bullet.

  Maybe whoever Ernie was calling would tell him to let her go. After all, she didn’t really know anything. And Ernie, now lounging against the side of the archway, phone at his ear, thought she knew even less. He’d learned only that she knew he’d known Corky Lewis years ago, and that she was a colleague of Dale Colby’s, who’d been killed. But he didn’t know she’d found the Donovan’s Bar napkin that linked him to Colby’s home. And he didn’t know that Nick and Maggie knew about him.

  Not that they could help. She hadn’t told them she was coming here.

  Hadn’t told Edgy or Nate yet either.

  Hadn’t told the cops about any of it. Damn, that Detective Schreiner would look pretty good right now.

  And getting to that phone to call anyone was even less likely than escaping.

  She longed to be back doing rewrites on Joanne Little and Patty Hearst.

  “It’s Ernie.” He spoke suddenly into the receiver. “I—” There was a brief pause. He kicked at the baseboard. “Look, Rosie, it’s urgent! Just tell me—” He broke off again, glared at the receiver. “Shit.” He ducked into the corner beyond the archway, slammed the phone down, stalked back to the chair, slid the rifle from shoulder to lap again. For a minute he sat with his eyes closed, muscles tense, then slowly relaxed as though willing himself to unwind. He opened his eyes and looked at his dog first. “Good boy, Sarge. Lie down.” When the animal had flopped onto the carpet again, Ernie looked back at Olivia. “Sorry,” he said politely. “We’ll have to wait for a return ca
ll. Everybody’s always so busy. Hurry up and wait, you know?”

  “Yeah.” She rubbed her palms together nervously. They were damp. “I spend hours waiting for people to call back too.”

  He studied her a moment with those opaque dark eyes. “A reporter,” he said. “Suppose you were reporting about me? What would you want to know?”

  Hoo boy. A lot of stuff, Ern. Like how’d you manage the locked room? Why’d you do it? Why won’t you let me go? And so on. Olivia stamped down her journalist instincts and said carefully, “Let’s see. You didn’t know Dale Colby, so it wouldn’t be a news article. A feature, maybe. Human-interest story. So I’d probably ask you what it’s like to be a farmer these days.”

  “Being a farmer. That’s human interest?”

  “Sure. City people want to know because it’s all new to them. Other farmers want to see if you’ve got the same problems they’ve got.”

  “Yeah. Money,” said Ernie. “But I got that fixed.”

  “Oh?” she said cautiously.

  “You see those houses they’re building down at the corner of Vale?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sold that lot to them about a year ago. Put the money in the bank, get a nice check every quarter. Enough to buy beer, anyway.”

  A sizeable check if he kept up his present rate of consumption, she decided. She said brightly, “That’s good. With real estate going up so fast around Mosby, this farm must be more valuable every day.”

  “You got it. Just sitting here, it’s valuable. Don’t have to work it at all.”

  “So you’re thinking of selling it all?”

  “Nah.” He waved an arm toward the window behind Olivia. “See the woods back there?”

  She twisted around to peer out. Was the rain easing? Beyond the driveway and rough lawn, the Virginia woods started up abruptly: tall trees, creepers, bushes. Look long enough and one of Colonel Mosby’s men might materialize. She said, “Yeah.”

  “I won’t sell the woods. Half this place is woods. Good hunting patch, backs up to the river. Lots of deer. So I’ll sell off lots by the road. Let ’em build their tacky little houses down there. Sarge and I can hang out here, go hunting. No hassles.”