Bad to the Bone

by Linda O. Johnston

  “Want me to take Biscuit?”

  “Sure,” I said. Even though that would limit Neal’s ability to play with his Bug for a short while, I figured that whatever was going on, I’d probably prefer not having the distraction of my dog with me.

  My bro looked good, as always, as I strode beside his six-foot frame the short distance to the main resort office. Tonight he wore a deep blue shirt tucked into matching blue pants, professional without being all dressed up. He stopped in front of a door I knew was the resort’s primary office, even though it had no sign on it.

  Elise’s office.

  I heard voices from inside. Sure enough, when Neal knocked, then opened the door without waiting for a response, I immediately saw the crowd that was gathered inside, standing in the middle of the nicely furnished but compact room, talking. Well, not much of a crowd, I guessed—but it consisted of most of the Ethman family living in this area: Elise Ethman Hainner, her brother Harris Ethman—the pet store owner—and their parents, Trask and Susan Ethman, plus Les Ethman, a City Councilman who was also my friend.

  I walked inside, with Neal behind me.

  I didn’t see Elise’s husband, Walt Hainner, but of course he was only an Ethman by marriage.

  What were they all doing here? And why did they want to talk to me?

  Suddenly, I wished I was in the bar with Reed and the dogs, sipping on a glass of wine. Or maybe the feeling wasn’t really so sudden.

  Harris was the first to approach me, his hands out as if in sympathy. Why? “Hi, Carrie. How are you?”

  Harris and I had only recently become friends of sorts. His wife, Myra, had been dead set against me opening my Barkery—“dead” being the operative word. I’d been the primary suspect in her murder for a while, so I hadn’t really had the chance to express my sympathy to Harris then. But I had, subsequently, and we’d become cordial enough to send customers to each other’s stores.

  As was usually the case when I saw him, Harris wore a Knob Hill Pet Emporium shirt. He was of moderate height, with narrow shoulders, dark hair, and a hint of beard. He looked like a normal human being, not necessarily royalty, despite how his family was viewed here in Knobcone Heights. And as always, his eyes turned down at the corners, which was a common Ethman trait. He wasn’t especially tall or especially thin, but now that I’d gotten to know him a little better, he seemed like a nice-enough guy.

  It had been his wife who’d been most upset about my Barkery, or so I chose to believe now.

  I put my hands out, too, and we engaged in a mutual shake.

  “I guess you’ve heard the latest news,” he began as his family members started drawing closer, tucking us in the middle. I supposed they all wanted to hear what I would say, although I didn’t know why.

  “You mean about Wanda Addler?”

  “Yes. You know, don’t you, that she came to the Emporium a few times recently? I gathered that she was taking over representing VimPets from Jack—but then he came in, too. Do you know what was going on there?”

  “Not really,” I said quickly. And I didn’t.

  “Do you think Mr. Loroco had something to do with Wanda’s death?” That was Susan Ethman. Was Harris’s mother concerned that her son was going to become a suspect in the murder?

  Should he become a suspect in the murder? Is that why I was here—because his family wanted to know my take on what had happened, and because they wanted to make it clear what a wonderful and innocent person Harris was?

  They hadn’t confronted me when I’d considered him a potential suspect in his wife’s murder. But if I’d zeroed in on him more then, maybe they would have.

  I turned to face Susan. She was short and definitely looked like a senior—a well-to-do senior. There were lines and ridges in her face, but her light brown hair was immaculately styled. She wore a lavender dress that flattered her thin figure and matching, low-heeled shoes. I suspected both were from designers that charged as much for their names as for their stylishness.

  “Honestly?” I began. “I don’t have an opinion about what happened to Ms. Addler. I met her only recently, and, yes, she worked with Jack Loroco, so he knew her better, I suppose, than anyone else here in Knobcone Heights. But we’re all aware that whoever knows someone the best isn’t necessarily their killer.” I looked over Susan’s shoulder and grinned at Harris. His smile back at me was wry, but he appeared accepting of what I said.

  “And despite her skills in having figured out what happened those two times before,” my friend Les, the Councilman, said, moving to my side, “that doesn’t mean she should or will get involved this time. Right, Carrie?”

  “Right, Les,” I agreed. But when I looked him straight in the eye I could see his amusement—and, possibly, his assumption that no matter what I said, I would somehow get involved.

  Maybe I was already, not just because I happened to know Jack Loroco probably better than most other people in Knobcone Heights did. I didn’t think he’d done it—even though I really had no knowledge yet about how Wanda had died, or what the murder weapon was or anything like that.

  I suspected I’d find out, intentionally or not.

  And, if necessary, I would use my knowledge—and the little bit of skill I’d developed the first two times—to make sure that Billi Matlock was treated fairly, even after her not-so-pleasant meeting in public with the murder victim.

  I considered this meeting very interesting, though. Were the Ethmans sounding me out only for my interest in the case and what I suspected?

  Or was this a backhanded warning that their entire privileged and connected family would be watching me?

  Were they, like Reed, telling me to stay out of it?

  Well, maybe I would. And maybe I wouldn’t.

  We’d all have to just wait and see.

  Ten

  “So what was that really about?” I asked Neal a minute later, after we’d walked out of the office and he’d closed the door behind us. I was a little peeved that my brother hadn’t said anything. On the other hand, he had remained with me, like backup.

  What would he have done if they’d gotten nasty?

  “I think they wanted information more than anything.” Neal began leading our way through the typical crowd toward the back of the lobby, where the bar was located on one side.

  “Maybe. You don’t think they were warning me to stay out of any investigation?”

  “You’d have to ask them. All they seemed to do was ask what you knew, but I sensed … well, you might be right that it wasn’t all they intended.”

  We reached the bar door, and before Neal pushed it open I said, “But you didn’t ask them what they really intended. You didn’t say anything while they were badgering—er, questioning—me.”

  He looked me straight in the eye with an expression I read as frustrated. With me?

  But what he said clarified what he was feeling. “I like working here, Carrie. I brought you in there because they asked me to. I stayed because I wasn’t sure what was going on and wanted to be there for you, although I had no reason to think they’d get nasty. But I’ve experienced times when the Ethmans gang up … well, never mind. As long as they were relatively nice, I figured you, of all people, could handle what they might dish out. Right?”

  I couldn’t help it. I smiled at my little bro. Well, not so little if you counted his height. “Right,” I said, then pushed past him into the lounge.

  It was even busier than the lobby, with people occupying all the stools at the bar and most of the small, wood veneer tables. It wasn’t hard to find Reed, though. He sat against the far wall and, instead of having people sitting with him, he’d offered one of the seats at his table to my small-sized Biscuit. Hugo’s head rose above the table at Reed’s other side.

  Neal and I soon joined them, with Biscuit continuing to sit on one of the seats. A server came over and looked do
wn at Biscuit first. “Have you decided yet what you want?” The twinkle remained in her eyes as she turned to look at me instead. “I don’t suppose you have this youngster’s ID with you, do you? I suspect she isn’t old enough to order anything from the bar.”

  “Except water,” I confirmed. I chose a glass of cabernet, and Neal ordered the same kind of imported beer that sat on the table in front of Reed.

  “So, everything okay?” Reed asked when the server left.

  I gave him a quick rundown of what had happened. “I think they were just sounding me out for my knowledge and opinion,” I said.

  We all changed the subject, then, and started chatting again about whether Neal would lead one or more hikes around Halloween and whether the weather would cooperate.

  My drink soon appeared, as did Neal’s. My brother took a large sip of his beer, and the expression on his face told me there was something on his mind.

  “What’s going on, Neal?” I traded quick looks with Reed, who clearly didn’t know why I’d asked.

  Neal took a deep breath. “I think my bosses asked the wrong person in that room what they knew.”

  Now, that certainly piqued my interest. “What do you mean?”

  He looked around. The tables around us were fully occupied, and the people sitting at them seemed engaged in conversations. If Neal was concerned anyone would eavesdrop, the likelihood appeared small.

  He still took his time answering, swigging his beer a couple of times first. “The thing is—” His voice was low, especially considering the loud voices chattering around us. I leaned toward him, and so did Reed. Biscuit and Hugo seemed really interested, too, but just watched us humans without getting closer.

  “Yes?” I finally prompted.

  “I think they asked the wrong person about who knows what. Not—” Neal held his hand up to silence what I intended to say. “Not that I am getting involved in any investigation or anything like that. But—well, I hope the cops don’t decide to question me. I can’t imagine they’d think they had any reason to, of course. But—”

  “But tell us,” I finally hissed quietly, staring into my brother’s eyes.

  “Well … I saw Harris Ethman having a drink with Wanda here in the bar a couple of nights ago. They knew each other. And—well, I had the impression that they were arguing.”

  That wasn’t a good time for me to press my brother for additional details. But I gathered he really hadn’t heard anything anyway. He’d just happened to notice them together, since he was aware of my prior dislike of Harris and my more current dislike of Wanda.

  We all chose not to talk about it further, though. Instead, after Reed paid for all of us—nice guy—we picked up our drinks and the dogs’ leashes and walked next door to the restaurant. It was fairly late, and I think all of us were getting hungry, including Hugo and Biscuit.

  We were seated, as anticipated, outside on the balcony after walking through the restaurant with the dogs. Heaters were turned on above us, since the air was crisp.

  Even so, there were people out here, too, sitting nearby, so talking much wasn’t a good option.

  Not that we’d stopped thinking about it. I already seemed unable to separate myself from this latest murder—now partly thanks to my brother. Even if we weren’t discussing any aspect of it, the idea that a third murder had happened in this town blanketed us with a slew of questions that had no answers. Not yet, at least.

  I’d asked Neal if Janelle was going to join us that night for dinner, but she wasn’t. Neal was going to stop at her apartment later, though, at least so he could accompany Janelle and her dog, Go, on a walk.

  Reed began a new conversation then. “I won’t get into the gory details, but I’m happy to report that we saved the life of a pregnant Weimaraner today. She’d been out for a walk and, thanks to her extra weight, apparently lost her balance on a hillside.” He proceeded, as promised, not to get too gory about it, and it sounded as if both mama and her babies should be fine. The Weimaraner belonged to someone who’d recently moved to Knobcone Heights and had participated in dog shows with her mama dog, and had just bred her for the first time.

  I clapped when Reed was done and even stood to give him a congratulatory kiss on the cheek, which stirred up Biscuit and Hugo. Of course I had to pet them, too.

  Good. We’d gotten past our previous unwanted topic of con-

  versation … not.

  Apparently the owners of the Knobcone Heights Resort weren’t the only ones around who were interested in rumors that were more than just rumors. Our server that night, once again, was Neal’s prior romantic interest, Gwen. I wasn’t very hungry, so I stuck to a salad with a burger on the side … which was more for Biscuit and Hugo than me. Reed ordered a steak, probably for the same reason, while Neal asked for a roast beef sandwich.

  When she seemed ready to go place our orders, Gwen stopped. She looked at me, not Neal, which seemed a little odd. Until she asked, “Have you heard what happened to that Wanda Addler who ate here a few times?”

  I closed my eyes briefly and nodded. “We’ve heard some rumors, at least.”

  People in this town certainly liked to gossip about murders—but I’d learned that before.

  “Well, I haven’t seen anything, of course,” Gwen said, “but lots of people who come here talk, including some members of the police department. Did you hear anything about what happened to her?”

  “No,” I said warily, assuming we were about to be hit on the head by some of the rumors.

  Probably not a good analogy, I thought immediately. Jack had said Wanda was stabbed, but what if she’d died of a head wound? I still didn’t know.

  I sat up straighter and looked with more interest at Gwen. What she knew, or thought she knew, might not be correct, but I wanted to hear it.

  “What I heard,” she began, “is that she was found early in the morning behind some apartment complex. She’d been stabbed—with part of a poop scooper, of all things. They’re still trying to confirm where it came from—Mountaintop Rescue, maybe, since it looks like a kind they use there. Supposedly the shelter’s owner—your friend, isn’t she, Carrie? Our Councilwoman Matlock. She and Wanda had met and seemed to dislike each other, or at least Billie disliked Wanda. Maybe it was because of VimPets, or because of its representative here, Jack—I don’t know. But at least some people now think Billi Matlock is involved. And I know—well, Carrie, you’ve solved some murders before. Are you going to try to figure this one out?”

  I didn’t need to let Gwen know one way or the other, even though she’d provided me with some interesting information—or rumors, at least. “I’ve gotten involved in enough murders,” I told her. “We’ve got a good police department, and I’ve met some of the detectives.” Unfortunately. And they certainly hadn’t done the best job of figuring out the other murders. “I think I’ll pass this time.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that,” Gwen said. “When I heard about it, I couldn’t help visualizing whoever did it having access to more poop scoopers—and maybe even using one on you. Please be careful in any case, Carrie.”

  I caught Neal’s eye then. He looked concerned. And when I looked over toward Reed, his expression wasn’t exactly readable, maybe because of the number of emotions in it. I thought I saw worry and anger and some commands like Stay out of this all written there somehow.

  And I had to admit to myself that the rumored cause of death was really horrible—not that all murder weapons aren’t horrible.

  “I’ll definitely be careful, Gwen,” was all I said. I’d already said I wasn’t planning to get involved.

  But I doubted I’d told the truth.

  My mind also started revolving around our earlier conversation. Neal had seen Harris Ethman talking to Wanda here.

  Harris owned the Knob Hill Pet Emporium.

  The Pet Emporium sold lots of pet supp
lies—including poop scoopers of many sizes, including large ones. Probably the same kind they used at Mountaintop Rescue.

  But if it had been Harris, why would he have been anywhere near Jack’s apartment building? Following Wanda there?

  “Carrie? Are you okay?” Reed stared at me as if I’d just sprouted horns. Neal was looking at me, too.

  “I’m fine,” I said, then took a sip of my wine. “Hey, Reed. My next shift at the clinic isn’t till Saturday. Do you have any interesting appointments scheduled then?”

  I recognized that he was unlikely to know, and, besides, anticipated appointments generally consisted of checkups and shots, though people could schedule regular surgeries like spaying/neutering.

  But we started talking about the clinic then, which was a great way to change the subject of our conversation.

  Even though part of my mind was still picturing Wanda and a poop scooper …

  Eleven

  Our meals came at last. Gwen asked if we wanted anything else, then left.

  I did want something else: peace of mind. And maybe to get out of the restaurant, since from the moment I’d gotten to the resort Wanda’s murder had been forced back into my thoughts and mashed around there, along with different scenarios about who might have done it.

  No matter what it looked like, I really preferred not to get involved.

  I hadn’t wanted to get involved with the other murders either, of course. But the situations had kind of forced me into it. This situation seemed as if it might do the same …

  “Don’t even think about it,” Reed warned, as if reading my mind. I’d been staring at my salad, my wine glass in my hand, and supposed it hadn’t actually been too hard for him to see into my thoughts.

  “I’d really rather you stay out of it this time, too, sis,” Neal said. What, he was also reading my mind? I was a lot more skilled at reading his, most of the time.