“Gonna have to call a squad car to get the two of them home,” he said to me. “Or do you think that Mrs. McClellan can drive?”
I shook my head. “I doubt it. Although she is in my wife’s extremely capable hands.”
“Nice woman, your wife.” He poked at the bullet hole with his thumb. To McClellan, whose inquiries about the absence of the FBI were becoming increasingly repetitive (and highly annoying), he said, “Not their jurisdiction,” and then suggested that McClellan go to the house and ask for a cup of coffee. Which he did.
A short, not unpleasant silence fell between Provost and me. The night was misty, with the promise of a late and unwelcome snow in the air. Provost had arrived within ten minutes of Joe’s phone call to the local police station. He was followed by a squad car containing two eager recruits. Provost immediately dispatched the two, armed with powerful flashlights, to the woods directly opposite the drive. I could hear them thrashing about in the shrubbery now. Searching for clues, I supposed, although what they expected to find in the dark, I couldn’t begin to guess. I cast a skeptical look in the direction of the bumps and crashes. “Have to be thorough,” Provost said cheerfully.
“You followed the same procedure at the scene of the Dr. Schumacher’s death?”
“Yeah,” he said, wearily. “Don’t expect to find much. But you never know.”
“And did you find anything of import in the brush there?” I asked with a fair degree of curiosity.
“Not in the brush, no. The only thing we found near the body was blood and hair from some roadkill. And the blood from the doc, of course.”
“A deer, I suppose,” I said.
“Hah?”
“I said the blood and hair were undoubtedly from a deer. It’s spring. The bucks are in rut. They aren’t road smart at the best times, and the rut makes them stupid.”
“No, it wasn’t a deer. Lab said it was some kind of mottled black-and-brown dog hair. Mighta been two dogs fighting, for all I know.” He rummaged in his jacket pocket and brought out a clear plastic baggie filled with clotted fur. “Here. I picked up a pile of it.” He chuckled. “Maybe you can tell me what kind of dog it came from, doc.”
I took the package gingerly. “Perhaps I can.”
He looked up at the sound of running feet. “Ah. Here she is. Thanks, kid.” Allegra had come racing back with a fistful of screwdrivers. Joe loped up behind her. Provost selected a squat, thick Phillips head, opened the car door, and began to remove the inside panel.
“Want a hand?” Joe offered.
Provost squinted up at him. “You know your way around a quarter panel, kid?”
“Worked summers in a body shop.”
Provost eased himself out of the seat. “Be my guest.”
“You’re after the bullet?”
“That I am, kid. You find it, don’t touch it. Just holler.”
We removed a short distance from the car. I was brooding on the dog hair. Surely . . . but, no. The Lab puppy had been found on Route 15. I tugged at my mustache. I patted my anorak pocket, where I had placed the packet for safekeeping. I would know soon enough. Finally, I asked, “Have you found similarities between this case and the death of Dr. Schumacher?”
Provost sucked his teeth. “Now, what makes you think there should be?”
I forbore to answer. It was blindingly obvious: two gunshots at occupied vehicles within a space of forty-eight hours?
Provost’s voice had a chilly edge. “People start thinking there’s connections between things, they’re going to be thinking things like ‘sniper’ and ‘terrorist’ and that’s not the kind of words I want rolling around Summersville like so many grenades with the pin half off.” Provost looked at me, his muddy brown eyes shrewd, his gaze assessing. “And we don’t want any kind of panic now, do we? ’Specially over what’s gonna turn out to be a couple of hunting accidents.”
“Found it!” Joe’s voice was excited. Provost nipped to the car. He and Joe placed the inside quarter panel on the grass.
The car was parked closely enough to the house to benefit from the kitchen lights. “I see it!” Allegra said. “It’s still in the side of the door. And it’s all flattened.”
“This kind of car’s pretty well built,” Joe said.
“Should hold up to a thirty-mile-an-hour collision,” Provost agreed. He withdrew a digital camera from his jacket pocket and took a few carefully angled photographs. Then he pried the bullet from the car door and examined it in his palm. “Much less the shell from a thirty-ought-six,” he muttered. “Huh!”
I cleared my throat. “Out-of-season hunters, again?” I inquired, somewhat sarcastically.
“Might be.”
“Lieutenant?” The younger of the two recruits emerged from the brush somewhat the worse for wear. “Came up with squat, sir.”
“Kind of dark, maybe,” Provost said. “Okay, guys. We’ll try again in the morning. Franklin? You get that kid to help you get the door to the Lincoln reassembled and then follow Wilson, here. You,” he said to Wilson, as the second policeman emerged from the brush, “get Mr. and Mrs. McClellan home. Then you can both knock off for the night.”
I watched as the two young men went off to accomplish their respective tasks. To Provost, who seemed to be willing to stand there all night in contemplation of his big, flat feet, I said, “Were you looking for anything in particular, detective?”
He squinted at me. “Now, what’s got you all in a tear, doc?”
“Forgive the asperity,” I said with asperity, “but it looks as there’s a problem burgeoning here.”
“Burgeoning?” Provost’s eyebrows rose toward his scalp. “There’s nothing burgeoning here but your imagination, doc. We got some kid loose with his dad’s shotgun, is all. And the last thing I need is some amateur Columbo trying to stir things up.”
He zipped his jacket closed and moved off toward his car. “Good night to you, sir.”
“Good night, detective.”
“WHICH I meant sarcastically,” I observed to my beloved an hour or so later as we prepared for bed. “It is a mark of the unimaginative to refer to anyone offering professional support to an investigation as a ‘Columbo.’”
“Do you really think there’s a sniper on the loose?” Madeline said. She emerged from our bathroom fresh from the shower, trailing the scent of lavender, adrift in a swathe of chiffon.
“A sniper? Of course not.” I frowned. “Now, a murderer? Perhaps. I told you, did I not? The fur on the roadside where Schumacher was found appears to be an exact match for the Lab pup’s.”
“Brrr. Murder. It sounds horrible.” She jumped into bed and snugged against my shoulder. “Let’s not talk about it. It’s been one heck of a day, Austin. I need to let my mind curl up and settle down.”
I put my arm around her and we sat back against the pillows. “I take it the youngsters have bunked in?”
“I made up the AeroBed for Joe in your office. We can look for a more permanent bed for him tomorrow. Lila will have something I can borrow. And Ally’s in the guest room.”
“You inferred that there had been a disagreement between Allegra and her father,” I said after a moment.
Madeline nodded. “She didn’t say much else, poor child. But I’ll find out sooner or later.” She gave a sigh of content. “It’s going to be a riot to have them in the house, Austin. I miss having students around. It’s been the only clunker about this retirement thing.”
There was another, highly significant downside to my retirement that this pearl among women would never mention: the lack of a regular paycheck. I smoothed a tendril of her hair behind her ear.
She rubbed her cheek against mine. “You aren’t really grouchy about getting back into the consulting racket, are you, Austin?”
“As long as you’re happy, my dear.”
“I’m always happy,” she said. Madeline is prone to statements of simple truth. “And as soon as everybody hears you’re back on board as a show vet, we’re g
oing to be getting a lot of calls.” Her gaze drifted to the dresser, where the check from the Earlsdown account sat propped against the mirror. “And what with the kids here to take up the bull work in the practice, things are going to work out perfectly.” She yawned. “What a strange day it’s been, Austin. What do you suppose is going to happen next?”
I kissed her.
“Now, this,” she said a few moments later, “is exactly what I hoped was going to happen next.”
Six
I gazed rather dubiously at the substantial remains of my oatmeal. It was nine o’clock in the morning and I’d lingered over breakfast, reluctant to ingest any more of what Madeline styled a “heart-healthy” meal.
I eat oatmeal six days a week, generally without complaint in the rush to complete my day. But Joe had taken care of morning chores before he’d left for an early morning class at Cornell. Allegra was tending to routine duties in the clinic. My morning hours stretched before me, unhampered by appointments or the necessity to pitch manure or eat my oatmeal so quickly that I didn’t taste it. Now that I had time to eat it at my leisure, I wanted eggs, bacon, and potatoes. I hate oatmeal. When the phone rang, I picked up the receiver with some anticipation. Any diversion would be beneficial.
It was Victor.
“You hear about Benny Grazley, Austin? Shot dead as a doornail,” Victor breathed heavily into the phone. “Stopped for gas on his way to a farm call this morning and blam! Guy was only sixty-two years, for Pete’s sake.”
Astonishment kept me momentarily mute.
“Austin? You with me, here?”
“Where? How? When?”
“About seven this morning, from what I hear. He stopped at the Citgo station on Fifteen. On the way to a farm call at the McClellans. Got out to fuel up and blam!”
There was considerable background noise on the phone. I took the receiver from my ear, frowned at it, and replaced it. “Where are you? What’s all the noise?”
“I’m at the Embassy, of course. The whole town’s here and they’re up in arms, let me tell you. They’re calling this guy the Summersville Sniper. There’s talk of bringing out the National Guard.” Victor snorted derisively into the phone. “Idiots. But it’s a helluva thing, Austin.”
“He had children, didn’t he? And a wife?” I’d met Benny several times over the course of the years, but our paths rarely crossed. My regret was for the man taken before his time and his mourning family, rather than that of a more personal grief. And my shock over the murder was profound. “Madeline and I will send our respects.”
“Yep. Sixty-two years old,” Victor repeated. “The prime of life.”
Victor, it need hardly be said, had just turned sixty-two.
I was terribly confused. What was happening to our veterinarians?
The huskiness of Victor’s breathing increased. “Austin?”
“I am still here, Victor.”
“Talk down here at the Embassy is that someone took a potshot at you last night. That true?”
Speculations of several kinds whirled through my mind. Were the shootings random, the work of a conscienceless sniper? Too many facts mitigated against it. Three veterinarians had been shot at. Two veterinarians were dead. All three had some connection with McClellan. And there was the fur from the puppy three miles where the puppy had been found. And the dog couldn’t have dragged itself three feet, much less three miles.
Had someone taken a potshot at me, personally? Nonsense. It would be hard to find a fellow less inoffensive than I. So McClellan had to be the target of some strange conspiracy. Possibly.
“Austin?”
“I am still here, Victor. As to your question, all I can say is that I was in vicinity of a shotgun shell last night, yes. Was it aimed at me, personally? I doubt it. At my profession? Doubtful.” I chuckled. “I may be wrong; perhaps someone is out to shoot all of the veterinarians in Tompkins County.”
Victor did not find this as ludicrous as I; he hung up the phone with an abrupt squeal.
I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. This case—for it was at this juncture that I began to think of this as a case—had features, but no form. Bodies, but no rationale. Facts. I needed facts. The vet tech at Benny Grazley’s clinic was a former student. If I could reach her, perhaps she could tell me something of Grazley’s last hours. Clarissa something. That was her name.
With luck, Clarissa would answer the phone herself.
I was, however, frustrated in my initial attempts to reach Benny Grazley’s clinic. Busy signals have a great deal in common with that common household pest, the fly, that is, the buzzing creates a substantial amount of annoyance in the hapless listener. When someone finally answered the phone and a male voice said rudely, “Yeah?!” I was not at my most benign.
“What do you mean, ‘yeah?’” I demanded in return, “Is this the Grazley clinic?”
“Who is this?”
I have a favorite reply to this obnoxious query, and I used it: “Who is this?”
“State your business, please, sir.”
Anything less courteous than the tone of voice in which this was delivered cannot be imagined. “My business,” I said with no small degree of asperity, “is with Clarissa Markham. And unless you are she, my business is none of your business.”
Whoever it was put his hand over the receiver. A new voice came on the line. Male, calm and cheerful. “This is Simon Provost. Can I help you?”
Simon Provost. Wal-Mart Man. The lieutenant.
I hung up.
I was considering my options as Madeline and Lincoln came in the back door. She greeted me with her usual affectionate embrace and said, “Ally’s a Georgia peach, Austin. I can’t think how our clinic got along without her.”
“I didn’t feel particularly overburdened before, did you?”
“Of course not, sweetie. But seven days a week, four weeks a month, fifty-two weeks a year was getting a bit much for you. And me,” she added, with suspicious haste. “Just think of all the things this will free you for, while Ally and I work around here.” She smiled happily. “Guess what? You know how I haven’t had time to get to the patient files and transfer them to the computer? Well, you know how I really, really didn’t want to? Know what Ally’s doing right now?”
The question was rhetorical. I made no answer, but merely smiled back at her. The fresh air had made her complexion glow and her hair escaped in auburn tendrils from the knot on top of her head. Madeline thought she was fooling me about why she wanted two strong young people to take over the more onerous chores in our practice. The signs of worry I had seen in her lately, around her eyes and her full-lipped mouth were gone.
My news about Benny Grazley would surely bring them back. “I had a phone call while you were out.”
“Hang on a minute. I’ll get us both a cup of coffee and you can tell me all about it.”
Madeline shrugged herself out of her worn Burberry jacket and draped it on the brass coat stand. She kicked off her green rubber boots and headed toward the coffeepot. “You made a fresh pot. Hooray.” She poured herself a cup, refilled mine, and settled at the table, facing me.
“Brace yourself, my dear. There’s been another shooting.”
By the time I finished recounting the facts as I knew them, her face was pale. “This is just awful. Just awful. What can we do? A sniper in Summersville. I just can’t believe it.”
“I don’t believe it myself.”
“But what else could it be?”
I frowned. “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But I confess to having some fairly wild thoughts about conspiracy and murder.”
Madeline’s eyes narrowed. “You’re feverish,” she declared. She reached across the table to feel my forehead.
“I am not feverish. You know that little part-Lab pup in the clinic?”
“Of course,” she said a bit impatiently, “the one we picked up day before yesterday. The one you thought was a cruelty case. With the funny marbled coat.”
There is a dark side to humankind. And one of the darkest corners is the abuse of animals. I had indeed thought the little pup an abuse case. The X-rays looked very much as if someone had struck both forelegs with the proverbial blunt instrument—perhaps a baseball bat.
“One of the items in evidence at the scene of Schumacher’s killing is a clump of dog hair. Marbled dog hair.”
A number of emotions chased across Madeline’s face. Disgust prevailed.
“You mean,” she said slowly, “someone could have broken the pup’s legs, left it on the side of the road where Larky would be sure to see it, and waited for him to get out of the van and help her. And then shot him to death?!”
“It’s possible.”
“It’s horrible! What ever made you think such a thing?!”
“Because we found the pup on Route Fifteen. Larky was shot on State Route Forty-one. And my dear, you saw for yourself. There is no way on earth that pup could have dragged herself a good three miles. The murderer—I should say the putative murderer—took the puppy away.”
Madeline put her palm over her mouth and murmured, “My word, my word.”
“So,” I said briskly, “if there is a purpose behind these shootings, as I am beginning to suspect there must be, we need some information. And I’d like you to get it for me. I’d like you to call the Grazley Clinic and ask for Clari Markham. Remember her?”
“Clarissa? Of course, she works as a vet tech for Grazley. Certainly, my dear. But . . .”
“Why can’t I get the information myself? Simon Provost is fielding phone calls, that’s why.”
“Oh.” Madeline bit her lip to keep from smiling. “I see.”
“I fail to find anything humorous in my refusal to speak to that idiot Provost.”
“You always did hate to be kicked in your dignity,” Madeline said sunnily. “All right, let me have the number.”
Clarissa was a gold mine of information. Someone purporting to be Mrs. McClellan had called the clinic service at six, demanding Grazley’s services for an emergency. Apparently delighted at the prospect of reclaiming one of his wealthiest clients, Grazley hadn’t questioned the call, but taken off in his Jeep almost immediately. He had called back to the clinic twenty minutes later, complaining that he was almost out of fuel.
The Case of the Roasted Onion Page 7