Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan)

by P. M. Carlson

  Maggie would’ve loved it.

  All the same, Schreiner, right now the official nose is yours. Better get back to work. She shoved Maggie’s papers into her pocket and went back up the walk to ring the Colby bell.

  “Oh. Detective Schreiner!” Donna’s arm was around Josie’s shoulder. The girl looked sad and spent, but more alive somehow, her hurt nearer the surface. Tina, eyes red too, hovered in the background. Donna said, “Please come in. I’m so sorry I was upset when you were here before.”

  “It’s natural to be upset,” Holly said automatically. She followed them in and sat on the familiar sofa again. “I just have a few questions. I wanted to ask if you’d remembered anything about what your husband was working on. Especially this last week?”

  “I’ve been trying, ” Donna said, “but I don’t know if it will help. I remember a Mr. Bates came here to talk to him. Something about Resler. And a man from the environmental group that opposes the highway came by. And a lot of phone calls. Mrs. Resler, Mrs. Carson from the congressman’s office. A woman, Priscilla something, I didn’t know her at all. Dale seemed happy to hear from her. She gave him a name and he said it was a new lead. But it didn’t seem to work out.”

  Mitch, no doubt, refusing to cooperate with reporters. Turning the new lead into a blind alley, as he’d done with her. But Holly nodded. “Good. This is very helpful, Mrs. Colby. Now, we’ve been told there were tapes stored in this room. They’re missing now?” She gestured at the empty shelf.

  “Yes, Maggie was asking about them too. It must have been the man who broke in that took them. I think I would have noticed if they were gone.”

  Holly believed her. Josie, who had pulled away from her mother and was sharing a wing chair with Tina, said, “Except for one.”

  “Yes, I wanted to ask you about that one,” Holly said gently. “Do you still have it, Josie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you bring it in, please?”

  Josie slid from the chair and moved reluctantly from the room. Holly asked Donna, “What was on the tapes?”

  “Interviews,” Donna said. “The current ones were in his study. The ones he stored out here were older. He’d already transcribed the parts he wanted, but he’d hold them until the story was finished.”

  “Do you remember what story these were about?”

  Donna shook her head. “I didn’t pay much attention. The labels were in code, you know, KC for Knox plane crash. The people he worked with could tell you more about them. I really didn’t do much except answer the phone for him when I was home too.”

  “Mail?”

  “No. He always checked the mail. In case there was a tip for him or something.”

  “Did he ever talk about it?”

  “Sometimes. He mentioned a letter from Felicia yesterday morning.”

  “What was your impression of Felicia Colby?”

  “I thought—well, it’s probably not fair. We only heard from her when she needed money. She needed money pretty often. It was hard for her, raising that child alone.” Donna’s blonde head bowed suddenly, as though realizing she was now in the same fix.

  “Did she ever ask about Dale’s will?”

  “Not that I know about. Maggie said I should look for a will in his papers. He never talked about a will.” Donna’s mouth trembled. “He thought he’d live as long as—as other people.”

  “Yes.” Most of us think that. Some of us wish we didn’t have to. Holly glanced at her notes. Check with Gabe, see if they’d found anything in Colby’s papers.

  Josie came back in and tossed a tape into Holly’s lap. “Daddy’s stuff is erased,” she said. “It’s John Denver now.”

  “Yes, I know, but our people will still want to look at it. We’ll try to get it back to you right away, but—”

  “No. I don’t mean that. You can keep it. I don’t want to see it again. Ever!” She dove into the farthest wing chair and buried her face in the back cushion.

  “Josie, don’t cry!” Donna sprang up and ran to her daughter, her knee on the seat beside her. “Please don’t cry!” She had started crying herself. “Things will get better, really.”

  Tina joined her mother and sister and for a moment all three sobbed together. Whoopee. Holly slowly put the evidence bag into her shoulder bag. The kids come first, Maggie had said, and promptly had reduced that stoic little girl to tears. Wonderful. And she’d almost done the same damn thing to Holly. Mitch was full of it too, all that garbage about facing the pain. After eight years, why face it now? Be strong.

  Eight years of nightmares.

  Phony forgetting.

  Donna raised her head from her daughters. “I’m sorry, Detective Schreiner.”

  Holly said gently, “It’s natural to be upset, Mrs. Colby. I’m finished with my questions anyway, unless you can think of something else.”

  “No.” She straightened, brushed a hand across her hair. “I can’t think of anything.”

  “Well, call me if you do. The girls too, okay?”

  Tina just snuffled, but Josie’s teary eye appeared, peeking over her shoulder. “Okay,” she said.

  Holly checked in with Gabe before she left. He was frantic. “Yeah, we got statements typed up and signed from most of them. Not Kerr, not Mrs. Colby. And Taynton at the Mosby Museum is going crazy. Can’t figure out which painting was stolen.”

  “Nothing was stolen, Gabe. Call off Winks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somebody bought a frame and burglar tools and left them on the steps. Practical joke.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I’ve got the receipts right here.”

  Gabe let out a whoop of laughter. “Christ! And old Taynton about to have kittens!”

  “Break it to him gently, Boy Wonder,” Holly warned. “He can still complain to the chief if we don’t handle it right.”

  Gabe was still chuckling. “Right. I’ll present it as the results of tireless police work.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “Let’s see. Felicia Colby’s friend in Harrisburg. This Nan Evans. We finally got through, she said yes, she saw Felicia in the ladies’ just before five yesterday.”

  “How about Doc Craine? Any word?”

  “Not yet. And I don’t dare call him again.”

  Holly sighed. “You’re probably right. Well, I’m going off to—” she glanced at Maggie’s scribbled note in her hand—“looks like Emmie Grant. Maybe Ernie. On Appleyard Road.”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “No idea. But the Kerr woman is supposed to be there. Wait, there’s something else here.” There was another line written under the address. She squinted at Maggie’s scrawl.Pelt is found?No, notfound. Friend, maybe. And was that anoin the first word?Pelot. Pilot! “My God, Gabe, it’s the pilot’s friend! Corky Lewis’s friend. His sister told me he met some Vietnam buddy last fall but I couldn’t get his name. Maybe this is the guy. Why the hell didn’t Kerr tell us?”

  “She left messages twice,” Gabe reminded her.

  “Yeah, and then she wasn’t there when I called back,” grumbled Holly. “Anyway, I’ll check this out. Back to you soon.”

  18

  Olivia stirred the scrambled eggs. “Do you like them well-done?” she asked timidly.

  “Medium.” Ernie stood at the kitchen door, rifle balanced lovingly in his hands. Sergeant Rock snored at his feet.

  She looked into the cupboard and pulled out a plate. “Is this one okay?”

  “Yeah. One for you too.”

  The inside of her cheek had stopped bleeding at last, though it still felt puffy. And so far she was doing well, keeping him happy. There had been no recurrence of that instant of uncontrolled fury when he’d thought she had called the police. Except for his growing irritation that the phone wouldn’t ring, he was being polite. He’d even noticed after a while that her cheek was swelling where he’d hit her, and had escorted her here to the kitchen, encouraging her to make hers
elf an ice pack. Her jaw still throbbed dully but the ice pack stopped the bleeding and the headache had diminished too. While she held the towel-wrapped ice to her cheek he had said that some scrambled eggs would taste pretty good. “Oh, do you want me to fix you some?” she’d asked eagerly.

  “Sure.” Ernie had grinned. It really was a nice grin. “How about you? Had any lunch?”

  “Um—a little.”

  “Some for you too. My guest,” he’d declared magnanimously.

  “Yes. Uh—where’s a bowl?”

  He directed her to bowl, skillet, eggs. When she picked up the heavy iron skillet he’d said in a tense voice, “No funny stuff, now.’’

  “What?” She’d jerked around to look at him in alarm, dropping the skillet onto the stove. It made an enormous clatter. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “Never mind.” His voice was peaceable again and the hands on the rifle relaxed. He picked up his beer, sipping slowly now. He watched her melt the butter, break the eggs, stir them into the skillet, start some toast. She worked carefully. The eggs had to be perfect so he would be happy.

  Now she spooned them onto the plates, two thirds for him, and added a slice of buttered toast to each plate. He said, “Forks in that drawer.”

  She found the forks. “Just put mine here on the counter,” he instructed. She obeyed, even though it meant sidling near the napping Sergeant Rock before she could leave the plate and retreat to the other end of the kitchen. The dog raised his head. Luckily he seemed interested in something at the front of the house, his ears pricking toward the dining-room door, away from her.

  Ernie put down the beer can next to his plate and forked eggs into his mouth. She waited nervously until he mumbled, “Go ahead, eat.” Then she ate. She couldn’t taste the eggs but he wanted her to eat.

  The dog was still looking alertly toward the front of the house. Suddenly he barked and lunged out into the dining room.

  Ernie threw down his fork, grasped his rifle with both hands, and motioned impatiently to Olivia. “Sofa,” he snapped.

  She hurried to obey as Ernie added, “Watch ’em, Sarge.” The dog dropped to his haunches and glared at Olivia. Ernie flicked off the TV and took up a stance beside the window.

  She could hear it now too, what was troubling the dog. Faintly in the distance, voices. Hope and terror twined tight as a braid inside her. The voices were drunken, yowling voices. Coming closer.

  They were trying to sing.

  They were trying to sing “Blowin’ in the Wind.”

  They were coming up the drive.

  Ernie muttered, “Shit. Couple of drunks. What the shit do they want?”

  “The ann-sher,” yodeled Jerry’s voice, “is blowin’ inna wind!”

  “Wind!” Nick’s baritone, just as uncertain of the notes and half a beat behind, came in at last. He added, “Whatsa next versh?”

  “Next. Something something roads?”

  “No. That’s firsh versh.”

  “Look. Here we are!” Jerry declared grandly.

  Someone started banging on the door. Sarge, distracted from Olivia, looked at it and barked.

  “Watch ’em!” Ernie corrected him sharply. The dog’s attention returned to Olivia.

  “A dog. Hey! Nice doggie! Nice pooch!” Nick’s head lurched by the window. She thought he saw her. Oh, God, they were upsetting Ernie. They mustn’t upset him! But the banging on the door resumed.

  “Shit,” muttered Ernie. With sudden decision he stepped to the door and swung it wide, rifle at the ready. Jerry grinned at him boozily through the screen door.

  “Hi,” said Jerry.

  “What do you want?”

  “What do we want.” He tugged vaguely at the door but it was hooked. His brow furrowed with the effort of thought but his eyes had found Olivia. She looked at him with despair.

  “A phone!” said Nick’s voice.

  Jerry beamed. “Thass right, a phone! The car went in a ditch.” He waved vaguely toward the road. “Need a tow truck.”

  Nick stumbled into view, knocking Jerry aside, and grabbed the doorjamb for support. “Tow truck, yes! Need a phone.”

  “Look.” Ernie gestured with the rifle. “You two get back to your car. I’ll call the truck.”

  They grinned at him stupidly.

  “The goddamn tow truck is coming!” he enunciated loudly at them. “Now move!”

  “Move. Yessir!” Nick let go of the doorjamb to salute. Overbalancing, he fell against the screen. His fist punched through the wire. “Oww!” he howled. “I’m bleeding! Shit! Oh, God! Ow!” His thrashing arm loosened the hook as he jerked his hand out. “Look!” he whimpered at Ernie, pulling open the screen door far enough to thrust his scratched hand inside. “I’m bleeding!”

  “You’re puking drunk.” Ernie was disgusted but wary enough to step back, keeping the rifle barrel from Nick’s drunken grasp. “Come on. Move! Get out of here!”

  “Blood? Lemme see!” Jerry jerked the screen wide and stumbled toward Nick, peering at the arm. “Jesus! It is blood!”

  The rifle cracked.

  Olivia flinched at the sound. Sergeant Rock growled at her. Ernie pumped another round into the rifle. Jerry and Nick tumbled into the room, diving drunkenly over the low bookcase to escape the noise. “Hey, somebody’s shooting!” Nick yelped to Ernie. “Better come inside, buddy!”

  “Jesus.” Ernie was exasperated. “Look, you guys see this?”

  He jiggled the rifle. Except for the warning shot, it had remained pointed at Jerry, carefully maneuvered out of reach of their stumblings, swinging smoothly to follow their moves. He jiggled it again. “This is a rifle. Understand?”

  Nick sat up, peered over the bookcase, blinked at it. He looked like a giant baby trying to focus. He said, “Yesh. Rifle.”

  “I fired it.”

  “That made the noise?”

  “Yes!”

  “Hey,” Nick said importantly to Jerry, “that rifle made the noise!”

  Jerry was on hands and knees, staring queasily at the carpet. “I don’t feel sho good,” he murmured, and pitched forward onto his face almost at Olivia’s feet. Had he been hit? She couldn’t see any blood. But she could smell alcohol fumes.

  “All right,” said Ernie patiently to Nick. “You know it’s a rifle?”

  “Yeh,” Nick agreed solemnly.

  “And what I shoot next is you.”

  “Hey, no, not me!” Nick’s big-baby face crumpled, on the verge of blubbering.

  “Then sit on the sofa!”

  In an overanxious attempt to please, Nick clambered to his feet, teetered, and fell back into the end of the sofa farthest from Olivia. Satisfied, Ernie swung the rifle to point at Olivia as he spoke to Sergeant Rock. “Good dog, Sarge. Down.”

  The dog dropped. Olivia, nerves taut, sensed Nick’s flicker of tension, acknowledgment that the animal too was a lethal weapon under Ernie’s control.

  Ernie, still behind the bookcase, rested the rifle on the top of the TV, still aimed at Olivia. With his left hand he ripped the cords from the TV and stereo and tossed them to Olivia. “Tie him up,” he instructed. “Tie his hands behind his back. You! Turn so she can tie your hands and I can see it.”

  Nick obeyed. The thought of faking the knot crossed Olivia’s mind but she rejected it instantly. Ernie would catch her, she knew. Become enraged. Shoot them both. Shoot them all three, because Jerry would try to help. And a second reason was that she was terrified that Nick might try something stupid. She knew better than he that Ernie was balanced on a razor-edge, barely in control. They all had to do things his way or he’d explode again.

  Better keep Nick quiet, keep Ernie calm. She pulled the knot tight around Nick’s wrists.

  “Now the other one,” commanded Ernie.

  She obeyed, crossing Jerry’s wrists behind him and tying them as he lay reeking on the floor. He whispered, “Not so tight,” but she didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Now get their
ID. Maybe in their wallets. Put the ID here on the TV.”

  Olivia obeyed. She found Nick’s driver’s license and pulled it out. With a sense of panic, she noticed the Actors’ Equity card behind it. Ernie mustn’t learn that Nick was an actor. Mustn’t even think they might be faking. She shuffled the dangerous paper behind a library card and, heart hammering, turned to Jerry’s ID. Hospital card would be best, she decided, and slid it with Nick’s driver’s license onto the top of the TV for Ernie to inspect.

  “Sit down,” Ernie commanded her. She returned to the sofa. “Sarge. Watch ’em.” But Ernie didn’t wander off this time. He kept the rifle aimed at foggy, worried Nick, his eyes shifting from him to limp Jerry to oh-so-obedient Olivia. He studied the cards on the TV with quick little downward glances. “Doctor. Damn,” he said. “And the other one from New York. Not cops, anyway. You would of been in bad trouble if they were cops, Olivia Kerr.” His attention shifted back to the disheveled pair beside her. “Maybe old buddies celebrating.”

  He seemed to be talking to her, so Olivia said, “Maybe.” Her throat was tight and dry, her mouth still puffy and unresponsive. It was hard to get the words out.

  “Ole buddies,” Nick agreed in a worried voice. “Hey, buddy, easy with the rifle, okay?”

  “Do what I say and things’ll stay cool,” Ernie said.

  “Okay. Whassa matter?”

  “The matter is, you didn’t leave when I said leave.”

  Nick nodded solemnly. “Sorry,” he said. “Needed tow truck.” Sarge growled and Olivia tensed. She hadn’t done anything! But the dog’s ears were swiveled back. Emie looked at the door and Olivia followed his glance. “Shay!” Nick exclaimed in delight. “It’s my wife! Hi, Maggie!”

  But it wasn’t Maggie. It was Detective Schreiner. An icy knot clenched in Olivia’s stomach. A cop. Bad trouble, Ernie said. He would erupt. They’d all die. She prayed that Detective Schreiner would accept Nick’s lie, not say she was a cop.

  The detective scanned the scene, frowning, and asked calmly, “What’s going on here?”