He grinned at them as he stopped his chair just beneath the window.
“So I guess you’re using my good microbrew for communion,” he said.
“That’s right, mister, and your organic-shmanic blue corn chips for wafers.”
“Blasphemer,” he accused.
“Godless heathen,” Hannah replied.
“Come fix my lunch, woman,” he said, but the tender look he gave Hannah warmed Maggie’s heart. The man was drop dead gorgeous, a certified brainiac, and his mother lived over a thousand miles away. She could see how Hannah could forgive a few episodes of depression.
‘When he was good, he was very, very good,’ she thought to herself, neglecting to finish the rhyme.
Maggie and Hannah got Sam caught up on the gossip as they tag-team cooked a big breakfast for their lunch while he set the table. Just as they put the food on the table, they heard a vehicle coming over the ridge, and the house dogs took off barking.
Hannah looked out the window and reported, “It’s Patrick, and he’s got Ed with him.”
“I better get some more plates,” Sam said. “Get a bottle of whiskey out of the cupboard, will ya, Maggie?”
When the men arrived Patrick stuck his tongue out at his sister Maggie by way of greeting, but Ed looked pale and wouldn’t meet their eyes. Everything felt odd and uncomfortable, so Maggie and Hannah decided to have lunch in town, leaving the men to eat the feast they had prepared.
“He looks awful,” Maggie said to Hannah as they got in the animal control truck. “Did you see the huge knot on his head?”
“Better to leave them to eat, drink, and compare conspiracy theories,” Hannah said, as they bumped up the rutted drive.
“We have to help Scott figure out who did it,” Maggie said. “We can’t let Sarah beat him to it.”
“I bet the scanner grannies are peeing their pants over this,” Hannah said. “They’ve all had time to compare notes and eat lunch by now. I think it’s time to check in with a few of my regulars and see what’s what.”
She got out her cell phone and pulled over as soon as she had service.
Hannah was a virtual repository of Rose Hill gossip due to her frequent visits to the homes of these shut-ins, often arriving with a kitten or puppy they could hold and cuddle while Hannah made sure their prescriptions were filled and they had enough heat, food, and toilet paper. There were three different church committees in town whose members also performed these charitable visits, but Hannah freelanced without regard to denomination. She was more popular because she shared her cigarettes and could be counted on for the occasional bottle of beer.
When Hannah got off the phone she gave her report.
“Gladys Davis lives closest to the clinic, but Marlene Thompson says the students who live over Delvecchio’s Insurance Agency were having a wild party last night and Gladys couldn’t sleep, so she turned off her hearing aids. She didn’t hear anything after that.”
“That’s helpful.”
“Alva Johnston says she heard the Jamaican man you have working in your bookstore got arrested last night, so she thinks he might have killed Theo over a drug deal gone bad.”
Maggie’s face flushed.
“First of all, Mitchell was born and raised in Charlottesville, Virginia, and his dreadlocks represent a hairstyle choice, not a drug habit. Secondly, he was not arrested; he was picked up and held overnight for being drunk and disorderly. He is not a drug dealer. He is a sweet, gentle young man, a political science major, and my second best barista.”
“So you say,” Hannah teased her.
“You tell those old busybodies if they persist in slandering my innocent employee, his father, who is a prosecuting attorney, will haul their hip replacements into court.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Hannah said. “Someone else said they saw you out on the street in your pajamas early this morning. Care to explain that?”
“You know where I went, to the station to baby-sit Mitchell.”
“Uh huh. Looks mighty suspicious to me. Maybe you were bailing out your Jamaican drug-dealing lover. Admit it! He was having an affair with Theo, who you killed in a jealous rage!”
“Who said they saw me?”
“Nobody. I was just messing with ya.”
“You stink.”
“I smell better than your Jamaican drug dealer’s dead lover does about now.”
The two women settled on Dairy Chef for lunch, and had the place pretty much to themselves. They sat in their usual booth, as far away from the front counter as it was possible to get, near the restrooms.
“I guess Sarah’s taking over the case,” Hannah said, around her first mouthful of fries.
Maggie did a great, although unwitting imitation of her mother’s pursed-lipped look of disapproval.
“She can have him,” she said, but her tone lacked conviction.
It seemed to Maggie that county sheriff’s investigator Sarah Albright had everything she lacked. Maggie was a tall, curvy woman with blue eyes, pale, freckled skin, and bright red curly hair. She never felt like anything about her appearance was under control. Her shirt was always coming untucked, her pants always felt too tight across her hips yet too loose at the waist, and a wild curl was always escaping from her hairdo. On top of that she was cursed by a rash-like blush which blossomed across her chest and face whenever she felt the slightest emotion.
Sarah, on the other hand, was tiny and perfectly proportioned. Her clothes were always a coordinated, fashionable ensemble; her shiny, precision-cut hair and flawlessly applied makeup were both flattering and stylish. She was well-educated and confident, and had a natural authority which people seemed to respect.
Sarah was always condescendingly courteous to her, but Maggie knew she was secretly wondering what Scott found so attractive. Maggie didn’t know either, but she resented the mental comparison she imagined Sarah made between them, in which the younger, slimmer woman easily won. When Sarah was around, Maggie felt like a giant red and white Macy’s Day parade balloon.
“You should have heard her coming on to him,” Maggie said. “She’s shameless.”
“You better not let him simmer too long,” Hannah said. “He might just boil over for someone else.”
Hannah tucked into her lunch with gusto while Maggie brooded some more.
“We need a comic book name for her,” Hannah said. “What should it be?”
“You’re better at that than me. You pick.”
“Tiny Crimefighter?” suggested Hannah.
“Better yet,” Maggie countered. “Tiny Trollop.”
“Tiny Trollop, the crime-fighting kitten,” Hannah said. “She’s the tiny paw of the law.”
Maggie took a bite of her now cold hamburger and made a face. Hannah had already finished her hamburger and a large order of fries, and was keeping an eye on what remained of Maggie’s lunch.
“What do you think can be wrong with her?” Maggie asked. “She seems so perfect.”
With this admission, Maggie lost her appetite and put her sandwich down on the tray.
“Well,” Hannah replied thoughtfully, as she picked up the discarded sandwich and added a thick layer of mustard and ketchup to it, “maybe she has really bad breath, like a coffee-drinking skunk with post nasal drip.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Maggie said. “Go on.”
“And unfortunately I fear there’s a bit of a chronic farting problem,” Hannah said.
“Poor thing,” Maggie said. “I hate that for her.”
“It’s very sad,” Hannah said. “These aren’t lady-like tooters we’re talking about. These are noxious methane gases that melt polyester and set cotton on fire. So dangerous is her flatulence that she is forced to wear asbestos panties.”
“Thanks,” Maggie said. “I feel much better.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Hannah said. “Are you going to finish those fries?”
Scott was deeply asleep when his mother called to see why he h
ad not come to dinner. He hurriedly showered, dressed, and ran over there, where she was pouting at the front door.
“It won’t be any good now it’s cold,” she said. “You could have at least called.”
Scott kissed her temple and apologized, then went to the kitchen, where a perfectly prepared meal was waiting, and it was still hot. She refused to eat, saying she wasn’t hungry. She cleaned the spotless kitchen instead, sighing heavily, while he ate.
His mother abhorred gossip, so he couldn’t ask her if she’d heard anything about Theo. He asked about his sister, got a blow-by-blow account of her latest phone call, and dutifully admired the newest pictures of his niece and nephew.
“They’ve invited me to come for two weeks next month, so I can be there when the twins are confirmed,” she said.
This led her to lament his missing Mass that morning.
“I was investigating Theo Eldridge’s murder,” he said.
“I don’t appreciate your tone, young man. You could still have let me know you were going to miss church and be late for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, as all his resistance drained out of him. “I got busy and didn’t think.”
“Didn’t think about me, you mean,” she said. “I’m just your mother, I know. I don’t rate up there with murderers and people from the county sheriff’s office. I didn’t know where you were or what had happened to you. You could have been lying dead by the side of the road, for all I knew.”
She dissolved into tears and he got up and hugged her, even as she pretended to turn away. It felt stuffy in the house, and Scott had an urge to open a window and let some air into the room. His mother had a horror of drafts, however, and he knew from experience that all the windows were painted shut.
When Scott left his mother’s house, awake again from several cups of coffee, he drove out the narrow dirt road known as Possum Holler to Drew Rosen’s house. As he pulled up he could see Drew was attempting to shovel his walkway with a flimsy plastic shovel. Scott pulled a heavy steel shovel out of the back of his SUV and assisted, making better headway using the proper tool. After they had the path cleared Drew thanked him, but he was obviously not glad to see him. Scott returned the shovel to his vehicle and faced the man.
“You want to do this outside or inside?”
Drew invited him in.
The old house was shabby and drafty, and Scott felt sorry for anyone who had to live like this. The recuperating black lab was stretched out on a broken down couch on top of a puffy sleeping bag, and merely acknowledged their presence with a wan lift of the head and listless thump of the tail before going back to sleep. A fire blazed in the large gas box stove, but the warmth only radiated out a few feet before a perpetual icy draft dissipated it.
Scott pulled a chair out from a wobbly kitchen table, on top of which sat a big wooden bowl with an oversized tabby cat in it. Duke opened one golden eye to consider Scott before yawning, stretching, and repositioning himself for a better look. Scott accepted Drew’s offer of tea and reached over to rub the top of the big cat’s head.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Drew said, watching with some concern.
“Duke and I are good buddies,” Scott said. “He sometimes accompanies me on my rounds at night.”
Drew gave Scott a dubious look, but Scott nodded.
“He does. And sometimes he comes home with me and sleeps in my kitchen.”
“I’m sorry if he’s making a nuisance of himself,” Drew said. “I advise my clients to keep their cats indoors, but if I try to keep him inside he attacks me.”
“He’s good company,” Scott said. “I don’t mind at all.”
“When I bought the practice the vet’s widow told me Duke was the clinic blood donor cat. The first time I tried to draw blood from him he got more out of me.”
“Owen loved cats, but his wife hates them,” Scott said. “That was probably the excuse he gave her for keeping the cat around. No wonder he doesn’t like you.”
There was a short, reasonably comfortable silence, and then Scott reminded Drew why he came.
“You need to tell me more about the altercation you had with Theo,” Scott said. “You didn’t mention he was your landlord. You also claimed you didn’t recognize his body, but you called Hannah this morning and told her he was dead. When you lie to me and leave stuff out, my imagination fills in all sorts of horrible reasons why.”
Drew stiffened, and at first Scott thought he was going to deny it, but then he sighed heavily.
“Okay,” he said. “You were probably going to find out anyway.”
Scott sat back and sipped his tea while the vet talked.
“Before I took over the practice I looked at the books, so I knew a large part of the revenue came from being the official vet to Theo’s breeding business. He paid Owen a set amount per month for vetting all the dogs, plus bonuses for each litter. I recently discovered, however, that there were no litters, except on paper.”
“What do you mean?”
“Theo had a kennel full of male dogs he would stud out for a fee, but Owen’s files contain documentation, including AKC registrations and vet records, for females Theo didn’t have, and litters that were never born.”
“I don’t understand,” Scott said. “How can it benefit him to have fake dog papers but not dogs?”
“Let me explain,” Drew said. “Theo probably figured stud fees were easy money. He takes a horny male dog to a bitch in heat and nature takes its course 99.9% of the time. Whether or not a litter results, Theo gets paid something. If there’s a litter he gets paid more, or gets his choice of pups, depending upon the deal.”
“How much did Theo make on each try?”
“Anywhere from a couple hundred to a couple thousand is my guess. Breeders are willing to pay more for champion bloodlines, and to prove lineage he needed AKC registration papers, health tests, and vet records. He probably started out with some purebreds, but those dogs are expensive. Also, breeding dogs is a risky business. Bitches and pups can die in whelping, there’s no guarantee any of the pups will be show quality or good breeding stock, and it’s a lot of hard work.”
Drew took a moment to swallow some tea and then continued.
“Due to the limited availability of new breeding stock, dogs will sometimes have medical problems due to line breeding, which means a breeding couple has at least one ancestor in common. When this happens, some offspring may display genetic mutations, like odd color coats, physical defects, or behavioral problems, which keep them out of competition. If the breeders don’t put them down as pups, they have them neutered so undesirable traits won’t be passed on.”
“Put them down for the wrong color coat? That’s pretty cruel.”
“It’s called culling,” Drew said. “Raising and showing dogs is expensive. You are making an investment you hope will pay off in titles, stud fees, and puppy sales. Why would you waste money on stock that will never earn its keep? Breeding champion bloodline dogs is not a business for the faint-hearted.”
“I had no idea,” Scott said.
“Most of the breeders I know personally are in it because they love the dogs,” Drew said. “They make sure healthy, non-standard pups are spayed or neutered so as not to be bred further, and then they keep them as pets or find homes for them. In this way, they keep their reputations and the integrity of their businesses intact. But you can see how indiscriminate breeders might create a surplus of non-revenue-producing dogs.”
“Disposable mutts.”
“You could say that. I think Theo got his dogs from disreputable breeders, or picked up dogs that were not actually from champion bloodlines but looked enough like purebreds to pass. He then created paperwork as if he bred them. He started with females which existed only on paper, claimed one of his “champion” males was the sire, and falsified litter registrations with medical records from a vet to back them up. He found some male dogs that fit the breeding standards closely enough to pass
and bingo, he had another generation bringing in stud fees, and he most likely paid little or nothing for the dogs to begin with.”
“And he got them from breeders?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Drew said. “There are ethical and unethical breeders, just like in any profession. There’s a lot of money and prestige at stake, and not everyone plays by the rules. He may have stolen some of the dogs, or got them from shelters or puppy mills.”
“Why didn’t the people he sold his services to figure out his scam when they got funny colored pups and gun shy bird dogs?”
“My guess is he stayed clear of professionals, and preyed on backyard breeders inexperienced enough to be fooled.”
“So with Owen gone, Theo needed a new vet to sign off on the paperwork.”
“He may have had paperwork stockpiled with Owen’s signature, or he may have been forging Owen’s name since he died. Either way, using a dead vet’s name was bound to catch up with him, especially if he sold his services anywhere locally. People do call and check out these dogs. They’re spending a lot of money, and if they want to know about temperament and health, the vet can give them that information. The reason he came to my office yesterday, besides looking for the black lab, was to demand I provide my signature to the scam.”
“And you told him no,” Scott said.
“Not only did I tell him no, I threatened to go to the police–you,” Drew said.
“I assume he wasn’t pleased with your answer,” Scott said, imagining Theo blowing a gasket.
“Well, first he fired me as his vet,” Drew said. “Then he said I ought to sleep with one eye open, because I was living in a fire trap. And he would know, being the slumlord.”
“Did you know the house next door burned down after the owner refused to sell it to Theo?” Scott asked him. “No one believed it was an accident.”
“I knew it burned down but not how,” Drew said. “Wasn’t that Maggie’s house?”
Scott nodded, tipped his chair back, and ran his hands through his hair, putting these puzzle pieces in place. Drew rose and lit the fire underneath the kettle to make more tea.
Rose Hill Page 5