Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection

by Gordon Kessler

  She dabbed at her eyes and wiped the cloth under her nose before continuing. “I couldn’t hear anything in his house except for that weird Irish music, and that wasn’t like him to have it on first thing in the morning like that. He usually played it at night before he went to bed. Didn’t have a television. He didn’t have much at all, except for that high falootin hi-fi and all those DC’s or whatever they call ‘em. He belonged to some kind of a record club. Then there were his dogs. I guess I shoulda told those poor officers about those dogs.” She stared at the wall.

  Parker and Simpson glanced at each other.

  “I doubt if that would have made any difference, ma’am,” Parker said. “What happened after the police arrived?”

  “They had to break the door in to get inside. Then I heard some yellin’, and the young man came running out and kicked his gun clear under their car. I guess he didn’t mean to ‘cause he ran over and started to look for it, but I don’t think he ever did find it. He must not of remembered the shotgun sticking up inside their car. Then the man inside started screaming. I was a little scared, so I got inside. I couldn’t see anything except the young man standing outside his car, talking on the radio. He was so young. Not much more than a boy.

  “Then, he went inside the house, and I didn’t see or hear a thing until this nice young black man drove up.” She looked at Simpson and smiled.

  Simpson smiled back.

  “What can you tell us about Mr. MacGreggor and his dogs?” Parker asked.

  “He got the dogs about five years ago. They were just cute little— well, big puppies. He had them sent over from Great Britain. Mr. MacGreggor had an old army buddy that married an English girl and lived there. He was a big breeder of prize winning Great Danes, and the two old fools kept in touch through the mail. Mr. MacGreggor was pretty lonely in that old house by himself. I couldn’t be all things to him, you know. And his friend kept sending him pictures of his prizewinning dogs and kept telling him how gooda companions they made ‘cause they were so loyal and loving and such.

  “One day he finally gave in and asked him to send him a couple. They came from champion bloodlines, both of them. They were the only things he loved more than his music. He made sure they always had the best—the best dog food, silk cushions to lay on, a diamond on each of their dog tags big enough to choke a horse. . . . ”

  “Diamond dog tags,” Simpson said, shaking his head.

  “Yes, three carats. Both of them.”

  “Where’d he get his money?” Simpson asked. “I mean, his house is a run-down shack.”

  “You know, I never really found out. Whenever he needed anything, he’d pay for it in cash, usually hundred dollar bills. Once a month, I’d go buy money orders for him to pay the few bills he had.”

  Parker asked, “Did he get a pension check or Social Security? Money from a relative?”

  “No, I never saw a dime. And I opened all of his mail—with that letter opener that has a diamond at the base of its blade. It’s three carats, too. They gave it to him when he retired from that insurance company he used to work for. It was the only thing he owned that was worth much besides that record player. He thought the diamond was so pretty that he got one for each of the dogs when they finally showed up.”

  Parker said to Simpson. “Did you find a letter opener?”

  “No, and believe me, I’d remember one like that. We’ll check it out.”

  Mrs. Crane continued, “He didn’t have any relatives that I ever heard of, let alone rich ones. His wife died twelve years ago, and he didn’t have any children. He had one brother, but he and his wife were killed in a car accident about ten years ago. Now, they did have a son. That would be Mr. MacGreggor’s nephew. But they were poorer than church mice, and he hadn’t heard anything out of the boy since about four years ago. That was when the boy asked to borrow some money from him. Mr. MacGreggor was a real tight wad. He told him to go straight to hell!” she said, leaning into Parker’s face. “Never saw him again.

  “The only thing I can figure is the old man collected a whole mess of money on his wife’s insurance and rat holed it, and whatever else he’d saved over the years, somewhere in the house. I saw him take some money out of a shoebox once.”

  Simpson shook his head. “Didn’t find anything.”

  Parker raised his eyebrows. “I saw a shoebox lid in the crawl space when we were in the basement. The dust had been wiped from it. I didn’t find the box, though.”

  Parker looked back to the old woman. “What about the dogs, Mrs. Crane?” he asked. “Were they out of control over there?”

  “Oh, no! Why, they were the nicest, most even-tempered animals I’ve ever seen. That’s what was so surprising about all this. They were always very obedient, and Mr. MacGreggor just loved them to pieces,” she said with a hint of jealously. She paused. “Especially that Jezebel, or ‘Jazbo,’ as he’d call her. She was the sweetest and smartest dog I’ve ever seen, and biggest, too.”

  “You mean, next to Beelzebub,” Parker said, hoping the coroner was wrong.

  “Oh, no!” she said. “She was nearly a hand taller than him.”

  “Holy . . . ,” Simpson said, looking at Parker.

  “That’d put her at about forty two or three inches at the shoulder,” Parker said. “A record height, by as much as an inch.”

  “But she was as gentle as a kitten,” Mrs. Crane said. “She’d always greet me with her long ol’ tail just a whippin’ back and forth. Now that thing would hurt if she hit you with it. She’d be wagging it around and knocking things off the table when she got real excited. But she’d never hurt anyone on purpose. Now, I couldn’t vouch for Beelzebub so much, although he seemed friendly enough. It was just that he was kind of shy, maybe a little sneaky.”

  Parker handed Mrs. Crane his card. It had his home number hand printed at the bottom. “We won’t trouble you any longer, Mrs. Crane. But be sure to call me if you think of anything else that might be important. You’ll be all right?”

  “Oh, yes—yes, I’m fine.”

  “And, Mrs. Crane,” Parker said, as he rose from the chair.

  She looked up at him, innocently. “Yes?”

  “Beelzebub is dead, but Jezebel seems to have gotten away. There’ll be officers patrolling the neighborhood night and day until we find her, right, Jack?” Parker glanced over his shoulder at Simpson.

  Jack nodded to the old woman.

  Tony continued, “But if you see Jezebel, don’t go near her. Stay inside and call me right away, okay?”

  Mrs. Crane looked down at her handkerchief. “Yes, I understand.”

  Parker and Simpson turned and walked out the door. Haskins and his cameraman had left, but there was still a flurry of activity.

  “Damn it, Tony, what is this, anyway?” Simpson asked as they walked down the porch steps. “I’m getting the impression you think this is more than a dog attack. You think the damn dog ripped off his master and ran off to the Bahamas or something?”

  “Her.”

  “What?”

  “Her master. Jezebel is a she. You guys gonna make it to the picnic tomorrow?” he asked with his back turned, not responding to Simpson’s question as he walked to the truck.

  “Uh, yeah. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You know that.”

  “You’ll take care of the press for me, won’t you? Downplay it some. We don’t want a panic. But we do want to let people know she’s out there and to be on the lookout so we can catch her before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “Sure, Tony. Where are you going to be?”

  “I’m going to run ol’ Beelzebub out to Doc’s and have him examined. Maybe he can give us a little more insight on this. After that, I’ll be out with the posse.”

  Hill stood at the back of the Jimmy truck with the coroner and Tommy Chin, who had just arrived. She broke away and hopped into the passenger’s side when she saw Parker heading that way.

  “Chin, did Sarah fill you in?”

  “
Yeah, boss. Incredible.”

  “Will you handle things for a bit?” Parker asked.

  “Sure, boss.”

  “Get everyone down here that’s working today and everybody that’s on call. Have them go door to door to warn the neighbors within a mile of here and see if anyone’s seen this monster,” Parker said. He turned toward the truck.

  “You got it, boss.”

  Parker stopped and glanced back at Chin with a considered look. “Hey, Tommy. Call me if anything turns up. And be careful. If you can’t reach me by radio, I’ll be at Doc White Cloud’s.”

  “Sure thing, boss. Wish I could be at the picnic tomorrow. Tell Julie happy fifteenth for me, will you?”

  “There might not be a picnic if we don’t find this thing.”

  Parker looked in his side mirror as they drove away and saw Simpson standing on the lawn looking over the scene. He appeared somewhat awestruck.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tony Parker was eager to see his old friend Dr. Johnny White Cloud, and for more social reasons. He dropped Sarah Hill off at her apartment. Since she’d be on call, she’d need her rest if Jezebel wasn’t found by second shift.

  Doc White Cloud and his wife Patsy were more than friends to Tony Parker. When Parker was a freshman in high school, his father died from a heart attack. He didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and the White Clouds became a part of his family. He worked at Doc’s clinic after school, on Saturdays, and a regular forty hours per week during the summer. He cleaned out cages, groomed and fed animals, and did other odd jobs.

  Parker’s interest in veterinary medicine was born there. The White Clouds treated him like a son, not having children of their own, and after Parker’s mother died of cancer while he was overseas, the relationship seemed to help them all fill the parent/child gap.

  Dog days of summer, Parker thought as he pulled away from Hill’s apartment building. Doc had told him about the “days of the dog” when he was a teenager, working at the clinic. It was the period during the summer that the earth passed closest to Sirius, the Dog Star. According to Doc, the combined heat of it and the sun made those few weeks the hottest of the year. The “dog days” was the time dogs and humans go mad and bad things happened. It was the end of August now, and it seemed the dog days were hanging on a little longer than usual.

  Parker pulled down the tall hedge-lined, gravel drive and then into the parking lot. He wasn’t the only customer of the morning. In front of the white house converted into a clinic was a well-kept black, sixty-three Chevy pickup parked between Doc’s turquoise Lincoln Continental and the white clinic van. An outside phone bell rang twice as Parker stepped out of the truck.

  “Tony Parker, fancy seeing you again so soon,” Mrs. Bumfield said. She opened the driver’s side door of the old truck, and her big ugly Heinz fifty-seven whined from the back. “How ya doin’?” She held out her hand for a shake and looked over her shoulder at Eldon Bumfield as he came out of the office door. “Look who’s here, Eldon. Tony Parker, the man that saved the town of Sand Creek, Kansas, and my kitten.”

  “Tony, how the devil are you?” Bumfield asked. Brown tobacco juice seeped from the corner of his overloaded cheek, and he wore what looked like the same overalls and beat-up straw hat with green plastic sun visor.

  “Just fine. Good to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Bumfield. No more ferocious skunks, I hope?”

  “No, sir,” Bumfield answered. “You got the last and only one, thank the good Lord. How’s that bite?”

  Tony flipped his hand. “Hasn’t given me any problems.”

  “I sure want to thank you again for getting my kitten out of that tree,” the woman said. “I don’t know what I woulda done. ‘Course, she wouldn’t have been up there if Dawg hadn’t been in one of his bad moods. Seems like he gets that way about once a month. ‘Think it’s some kind of male dog menopause or somethun. Lucky we had you out there for that skunk when we did.”

  Mr. Bumfield looked at his wife and frowned. She caught the clue.

  “Oh, me, here I am carrying on so. You know, I do that sometimes, when I’m excited about seeing somebody. Anyway, Tony, thanks for saving my Little Pussy,” she said.

  Bumfield looked at her and shook his head. “Watch how you say that. Dawg might get the wrong idea.”

  Mrs. Bumfield hit the man with a swipe of her homemade patchwork purse, and they all chuckled.

  “So, isn’t Dawg feeling well?” Parker asked, reaching over to pet him.

  “Oh, yeah,” Eldon Bumfield answered. “We just brought him in to be treated for mange. Every dog in Sand Creek has had to be treated. All thirty-five or so have had it to some extent. We were gettin’ concerned that the thirty-one human bein’s might get it if we didn’t nip it in the bud.”

  Parker stopped petting Dawg and wiped his hand on his trousers.

  Bumfield reached over the side of the pickup bed and took Dawg by the collar.

  “Come on, Dawg,” he said. “Now don’t you give me a hard time.”

  He assisted the big beast over the side and to the ground in a clumsy skirmish, then trotted him to the office door and inside. Within fifteen seconds he had deposited Dawg and jogged back out, hustling to the pickup. His meaty upper body jiggled like Jell-O slapped with a spoon.

  “Well, better go,” Bumfield said, getting into the passenger side of the truck. “Come and visit us sometime, Tony. I know Tricia would like to see you again. All she’s been talking about since yesterday is how you climbed up in that tree and rescued the kitten.”

  Parker smiled, thinking of cute little Tricia and her doll and of the Bumfields’ down-home hospitality. He remembered the tapestry on their living room wall depicting a group of dogs playing poker and thought how appropriately it fit in. He waved as they pulled away.

  Dr. White Cloud stepped out the office door. He was a short and stocky man with long, coarse, salt-and-pepper hair, braided into a ponytail. His darkly tanned skin was like leather, covering his large-featured face, and he wore turquoise and silver jewelry on his fingers, wrists and neck.

  “Thanks again for saving my Little Pussy,” Mrs. Bumfield yelled as they drove away waving.

  Doc grinned wide. “Tony, how wonderful you’ve come to visit.” He also waved to the Bumfields as the left. “And I can see you’re still proudly serving, or should I say servicing, the community.”

  “Hey Doc, give me a break,” Parker said, grinning back. “How’ve you been?”

  They shook hands and patted shoulders, then turned toward the door.

  “Real good, Tony. Yankee over those ear mites?” Doc asked.

  “Oh yeah, he’s fine. How’s that big, ugly, slobbering mutt of yours?”

  “Patsy’s all right. I just try to stay out of her way.”

  Parker laughed and softly backhanded the old vet on the shoulder. “I meant Red, your dog, not your wife.”

  On cue, a short Native-American woman nearly as wide as she was tall came through the doorway, smiling. She wore a long white dress with large pink and blue flowers.

  “Look, Patsy, honey,” Doc said, showing the woman a quick smile. “Tony’s here.”

  “Tony, oh, Tony!” She ran up to Parker with her two long, braided pigtails slapping her back and gave him a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bear hug.

  The old vet stepped back. “Damn, Tony, next thing you know, you’ll be saving her pussy, too.”

  Patsy didn’t hear, or maybe didn’t care to hear, Doc’s foolishness. “Oh, Tony, it’s so good to see you. How you been? When are you and the family coming over for supper like you used to?”

  “How about after we come back from vacation, week after next? Would that work?”

  “You bet, Tony. We’ll have a nice roast. I’ll fix it up just the way you like.”

  Doc patted Tony on the back. “So, you must be here to finally make me an offer on my practice and let me retire.”

  “No, not yet. I have decided to quit my job and go back to school full time starting the seco
nd semester. I’ve got a year left, you know. Julie’s going to go back to teaching while I’m up at K-State. When I’m finished, then I’ll be able to make you an offer.”

  “Julie mentioned you were going back to school when she brought Yankee in. Sounds good, Tony. Happy to hear it,” Doc said with a big smile. “Make sure that offer’s one I can’t refuse, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Doc. You folks are going to make it to the picnic tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry to say, we’re not. Just got word Patsy’s uncle down in Ponca City passed away yesterday. He was ninety-three. Have to go to one of those family powwows, tomorrow. You know what I mean,” Doc said. “They put him in the ground on Monday, and we’ll be back that night.

  “I’m sorry to hear about that, Patsy,” Tony said. He turned back to Doc. “A real powwow, huh?”

  “Not really. This’ll be a white man’s wake. Patsy’s mother’s family. It’ll be the same as when Uncle Arlo died. The men sat around on the porch, talking about how they were going to miss poor old Uncle Arlo. We watched baseball on a little black and white TV while passing bottles of wine around, Ripple, I think. The women were inside doing God knows what. Whew, I had a headache from that wine for two days. It won’t be anything like your powwow last New Year’s Eve. Remember? You and Jack were juggling those antique depression glasses, and I ended up wearing Julie’s bra. Hope she’s not still mad at me for getting into her underwear drawer.”

  “Naw, I’m sure she isn’t. She laughs every time she thinks about it.”

  “Now that was a powwow any red man could appreciate.”

  “But Doc, I’m a white man.”

  “You just think you are, Tony. Deep down inside, I know you’ve got some Native American blood in you. There was an Indian in the wood pile somewhere down the road; I’ll just bet my reputation on it.”

  “Your reputation as what, Doc, a Native American or a veterinarian?”