The First in the DelMarVa Mystery Series
The Mystery of the Dead Squirrels
by S.C. Torrington
Published by Susan C. Davis
Copyright 2014 Susan C. Davis
The squirrel had been dead long enough to have already lost its eyes and begin to flatten. Not road kill flat, but the kind that occurs as guts rot. I was brushing pine needles off my new wrought iron patio furniture to write outside when the small carcass materialized, snuggled among the final fallen autumn leaves.
Odd to see a dead squirrel then after watching so many fat, dumb, and happy ones skip around my tall Loblolly Pine-laden neighborhood. In fact, in the few months since moving in, I don’t believe I’d seen a dead squirrel along this dead end street.
Oh well. Staring at this decomposing squirrel wasn’t going to be one of those seven stupid Valentine crafts for my monthly preschooler column, unless I wanted to be fired. Again. Leave it alone, get to work, and remember, no glitter or hot glue.
The following day, a second squirrel appeared. Fresher. Still plump, but dead long enough not to still be cute. This time, the body was closer to the house, by the garage, resting on some leaves like a discarded stuffed toy. Curious.
I looked up, not sure what I expected to see. Dead squirrels draped over the pine branches like tinsel, waiting for a strong breeze? Nothing. Practicing the Poke It with a Stick Scientific Method, I pronounced the squirrel “stiff as a board.” I couldn’t observe any wounds--animal, man-made, or otherwise. This squirrel was simply fat, fluffy, and dead.
A few days later, I discovered another dead squirrel within a few feet of my more recent find. Same deal: fat, fluffy, and dead. Difference this time, the poor little thing hadn’t been dead long enough to lose its cuteness. Whatever happened could only have happened that night or early morning. Again, I looked up.
I should have let the situation fizzle out. Within days, all three squirrels would be sludge, life would go on, and I could get back to stressing over how to pay my bills out of pocket instead of my portfolio. My DNA, however, told me otherwise. One mysterious death is a tragedy. A second is a coincidence. But a third dead squirrel? That’s murder, Pumpkin.
Any sick or crazy-acting wildlife would have our Community Animal Control on high alert. The place was lousy with yappy little dogs and visiting grandkids. I dialed and was connected with Cindi. (I learned she spelled her name with an “I” after the accident.) I explained I’d found these three dead squirrels… blah, blah, blah… and had they had any similar reports?
“Freaky,” said the dispatcher. Turned out she’d recently taken a call from “Miss Minerva,” (like I was supposed to know who that was) about a bunch of dead squirrels along Marsden Creek near Red Horse Trail. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was squirrels,” said Cindi. “Let me pull out her report. I’m gonna put you on hold. Okay?”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
“It’s sad, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is.” But she’d clicked off.
After listening to their Rules and Regulations recording for the third or fourth time, I knew there was a problem. Cindi returned less than helpful.
“I was wrong,” she said.
“Oh, so it wasn’t dead squirrels, after all?” I concluded.
“No. There wasn’t any report about anything dead anywhere.” Silence. Then I swear I heard her take that little gasp we all do when trying not to cry before we speak. “I’m sorry.” And Cindi-with-an-I hung up.
Flabbergasted was an understatement.
I was more flabbergasted the next morning when I turned on the TV to catch the local weekend weather forecast and instead caught a press conference with our Chief of Police.
“The victim, Miss Cindi Stevenson, 23, the dispatcher at the Pinecone Cove Animal Control Center, was discovered by a passing bicyclist at 6 a.m. this morning in Osprey Point Canal, approximately one-quarter mile from the Ball Park Complex, North Side. She appears to be the victim of a hit-and-run accident. Initial examination suggests the vehicle was a truck or large SUV. Anyone with information should contact…”
I clicked off the television and stared at its dull, flat screen. I remembered my conversation with the girl at Animal Control. I knew her name was Cindi because she gave it in her “Hello” spiel. And I was pretty sure “Cindy” was misspelled on the notepad beside my kitchen phone along with doodles of squirrels with Xs for eyes.
“You know that dead girl is the same one you talked to, Allie,” I said to myself. “Shit.”
Monday afternoon provided the first online update. The coroner’s report explained Miss Stevenson could have survived her non-life-threatening injuries from being struck by the vehicle. Unfortunately, she drowned in the canal. Her blood alcohol level was .11; legally drunk, meaning it was her own dumb fault.
What wasn’t explained was how Cindi-with-an-I, I saw then, got from the side of the road, down the hill into the wide concrete duct. I’d walked that access road often enough to see how rolling down its embankment, choked with kudzu, would be no easy feat, drunk or sober. I was surprised with the last rain being more than a week earlier, the canal held even puddles. Maybe without the relentless summer sun to dry up the runoff, there would still be channeling water.
“Yeah, maybe.” I rolled my father’s eyes.
The Rustlers Inn, a local favorite, was hosting a Friday night fundraiser for funeral expenses on behalf of Cindi’s family in Utah. I clicked the link. Scrolling though the bar’s photographs of a young woman in a khaki uniform, happy, hugging friends, toasting with a Coors Light, I had no doubt. This was my Cindi. So what got her killed?
Two-thirty, Friday. I arrived early at the Rustlers to see what I could see and get out before the Happy Hour mourners. Nursing a nasty unsweetened iced tea and waiting for my Jalapeño poppers to cool, I ran scenarios of ways to ask my server (whose name I’d already forgotten) about Cindi’s accident.
“Would you like to make a contribution to the fundraiser we’re having tonight to raise money for funeral expenses for our friend Cindi who got killed last week in a hit-and-run accident right down the street?” she said, holding a coffee can with a smudged black-and-white ink-jet photo of Cindi taped around it. “I’ll give you those poppers at Happy Hour price.” Jennifer (per her hand-written nametag) held out the can at the same time I bit into my first deep-fried appetizer. Even her French manicure needed a touch-up.
“Yeah, sure,” I sputtered, gesturing for her to sit while holding a paper towel to my mouth to catch the still-too-hot creamed cheese. “What happened?”
Jennifer recounted the accident’s details, as I’d read them online. Then she shared how Cindi would come into the bar on Friday nights, have a few beers, chat up the locals, but always walked home before midnight. “We called her Cindi-rella. But she sure did love her job.”
I cast my bait. “Nobody can love her job ALL the time.”
“That’s the damn truth.” My fish bitched, then bit. “But, you know, it’s funny. The night Cindi got hit, she started bawling about her boss making her hang up on some lady just because she’d called to report a buncha dead squirrels. When I asked her what was the BFD, she said she’d been taking alotta reports about dead squirrels. And THAT was why her boss got so pissed off.”
I was digging out a ten-dollar bill to cover my poppers, dishwater drink, Jennifer’s tip, and Cindi’s contribution when the waitress leaned across the booth to ask, “Do you want to hear the really freaky part?” I looked up. “I only work down here from Thanksgiving through New Year’s, then back for the summer beach crowds. Last month, when I first moved into my rental on the South Side, I found two dead squirrels in my backyard, too
,” Jennifer was whispering. “But I toss ’em in the trash.”
“Freaky indeed.”
“Never told Cindi about them though, until last Friday night. That’s when she started getting really loud. So I bought her a shot of Patrón.” The waitress paused and looked down at the photo of her friend on the coffee can. “It’s sad, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is,” I said and handed her a twenty.
I drove the route that Cindi would have walked from the inn to her apartment across the Expressway. I passed the accident scene and parked in the Ball Park’s side lot. I could see Osprey Point Canal still churning from the previous night’s rare winter thunderstorm. Granted, on observation, maybe there had been enough water in the canal on the night of Cindi’s accident to drown. People can drown in only a few inches of water. Right?
Sitting in the parking lot, spinning my above-the-fold exclusive, “The Mystery of the Dead Squirrels,”
The Mystery of the Dead Squirrels Page 1