Little Miss Snot Face had dosed the entire pot with Visine. I'm sure she believed that I was not aware of this old waitress trick for revenging on nasty customers. A few drops of Visine in a drink will cause one to lose control of their bowels. In most cases, said waitress gets to yuck it up while Mr. Grabby-Hands Non-Tipper hauls up his drawers and makes a run for the men's room. It can be dangerous though. With a certain heart condition it can lead to death. Too bad Miss Snot Face Blond didn't have a heart condition, I would have dosed her right back.
I thought about reporting her to Ken, but then she'd know she'd been successful. I decided to act as if nothing had happened to deny her any satisfaction. Since she had to dose the entire pot, she couldn't be sure she got it right.
She was particularly difficult to plan for. I knew little about her. I started walking my dog near the store when her shift was over to see what direction she went when she left. I did a bit of social engineering with one of the weekday clerks with whom I was chatty and learned her last name and looked her up in the directory. This was before Google Earth, Map Quest, Facebook and all those other internet sites that now make my task easier.
I drove by her house and noticed it was a charming cottage that was up a long, steep drive on West Fork Road. Opposite her drive was a gully with only a flimsy guardrail for protection.
I waited for the temperature to drop. I needed specific conditions, on a Saturday. Finally the weather shifted.
There is no place to park on West Fork Road. It twists and winds up through Mount Airy Forest with no berm. Shallow, rocky ditches line the uphill side with guardrails above a steep gully opposite. This meant I had to park a quarter mile away.
At 2:00 am, I turned off my engine and coasted down the hill. I pulled into her drive and unloaded eight boxes into the ditch, then coasted further down the hill to park in the drive of a repossessed home. I hiked back up the hill. I was wearing jeans and a navy blue hoodie with brown work gloves and hiking boots so I would blend into the darkness in case anyone drove by. Each box contained four gallons of water. One at a time I carried the boxes two thirds of the way up the drive, then trickled the water on the concrete, forming a long, wet path in freezing conditions. I worked slowly, emptying one box, repacking it with empty jugs, taking it down the drive, hauling up another box, building an ice patch layer by layer. When I was finished I jogged down to the car, drove it back up the hill, turned around, coasted down to Miss Snot Face's drive, loaded in the boxes of empty water jugs, then coasted the rest of the way down the hill. I drove to the Saint Boniface Church recycle bin and dumped the jugs and boxes. Naturally, I had ensured there were no fingerprints on the jugs.
Miss Snot Face did not arrive at work that day. The store opened two hours late and Ken was behind the counter. At that time, all he knew was that she hadn't responded when he called in at 7:00 a.m., and didn't answer her home phone or her cell. He had not been too angry to remember to put a pot of decaf on. And I savored the taste and aroma as I wondered if she had been found yet.
The newspaper later reported that the broken guardrail had been called in mid-morning by a passing motorist. When police found her, she was comatose, her Karman Ghia rammed into a tree. By that time, the ice on her drive had melted so there was no evidence remaining.
Her broken bones took many months to heal. Her coma persisted for three years until her family finally decided to pull the plug. It gave me three years of pleasure to imagine her conscious, trapped inside her comatose body, and unable to move or communicate. Of course, I don't know if she was aware or not. But I understand sometimes people are aware in comas, so I liked to imagine her relatives sitting in her room, discussing pulling the plug while she was totally aware and incapable of begging them not to kill her.
I normally do not gloat over removals. This woman had been deliberately malicious towards me and deserved my ire. I had mixed feelings about Terry. His generosity and good nature were at odds with his smugly erroneous opinions. I'd considered removing him just so I wouldn't have to listen to right wing rhetoric over my coffee, but had always refrained because at heart he was a decent, if misguided individual.
Terry's removal was damage control. He was too smart, his memory was too good. His coma was not pleasurable. It was worrisome.
Chapter 14
Wednesday, May 25
"Catherine, are those daggers I see shooting out of your eyes?"
Catherine turned and smiled at Marie. The smile didn't reach her eyes and her expression was tense. "My goodness, what are you talking about?" Her voice was high and brittle.
"You seem unhappy with Detective Hottie." Marie's magenta bangs flopped over one eye.
"I don't see why he has to drag Viola up here. Lia's coming at the crack of dawn to avoid him. Lia doesn't need to be seeing that dog every day. I'm sure all it does is upset her."
"Has she told you that?"
Catherine sniffed. "She doesn't need to."
"I thought she was getting up at the crack of dawn to make your pavers."
"You make me sound like a slave driver."
Marie resorted to irony, "You? A slave driver? How could anyone think that? I'm sure she's still upset about Luthor, but she's also absorbed with your garden project. I think she's eager to get to the studio as early as she can."
"You think so?" Catherine relaxed.
"And I don't think she minds seeing Viola. She's always liked Viola. I think she sees her as the best part of Luthor."
"Perhaps you're right."
"So how is the garden coming?"
"I've got to keep my eyes on them every second, but it's going to be wonderful. You're coming to my party, aren't you? I'll be horribly upset if you don't."
"I wouldn't miss it. June 18th, isn't it?"
"Yes, and it's going to be so wonderful. We're going to have a sushi bar."
"You know I don't eat that stuff."
"A nice Asian girl like you? Afraid of a little smoked eel?"
"I'll stick with egg rolls, thank you."
"You really should broaden your palate."
Marie looked over Catherine's shoulder and spied Detective Dourson approaching. The man really must have a death wish. "What do you think, Detective? Should people eat raw fish?"
"Gollum seems fond of it."
"Gollum?" Catherine puzzled, "Who's Gollum?"
Marie laughed. "He means that creature in Lord of the Rings. Lived in a cave, crawled around with a fish flapping in his mouth. Didn't you ever see the movie?"
"How revolting."
"He lived a nice, long life," Peter added. "Maybe it was the fish and not the ring. As long as it's not Fugu, I'm in."
"As if," Catherine sniffed, "you can get fresh puffer fish in Cincinnati. Since you're such a big fan of sushi, Detective, you must come to my party."
"A party, Mrs. Laroux?"
"I'm celebrating my new garden with a Summer Solstice party on June 18th. We'll be starting at 5:00 p.m."
Marie turned to Peter in amazement. "You actually eat raw fish? You're from Kentucky. Why would a Kentucky boy eat raw fish?"
"I'm a Kentucky boy of unplumbed depths. I even know how to use chop sticks." He turned to Catherine. "I'd be delighted to attend your party. I see Viola is doing her daily duty, please excuse me, ladies." Peter trotted off while pulling a plastic bag out of his pocket.
"Weren't you just telling me you didn't want him at the park? Why did you invite him to your party?"
"Superior breeding never allows a little thing like personal feelings to interfere with one's social endeavors. I think a homicide detective will add intriguing cache to my petite soiree, don't you agree?"
Marie shook her head. "You amaze me."
"Why, thank you darling."
Peter deposited Viola's latest 'present' in the trash, then spotted Nadine flinging balls for her Basset Hound, Rufus. She smiled in welcome as he walked up. "Hello, Detective. How are you and Viola getting along?"
Peter smiled back. "We're g
etting used to each other."
"I hope that means you're keeping her. She's a sweet dog."
"I'm leaning that way. How long have you had your Basset Hound?"
"Oh, he's not really a Basset Hound."
"No? What is he?"
"Well, he was Beagle, then the grandkids got hold of his ears, and well, this is what happened." Her expression was all sincerity and innocence.
"Why, Mrs. Moyers, I do believe butter would not melt in your mouth."
Nadine laughed. "Seriously, he's half Beagle. Lia calls him a Bagel. She says that sounds better than calling him a Beasett. I've had him for four years now. He's still got a lot of energy, so I've got to exercise him. But what about you, Detective?"
"What about me?"
"We're all wondering about you. How did a fascinating young man like yourself wind up so far from home, and still single?"
"Now I can't imagine you want to hear my sordid history."
"Small town scandal? What could be better? There's got to be a sad story about some girl who didn't deserve you."
"Can't imagine she'd see it that way."
"What was her name?" Nadine asked, priming the pump.
"It was Susan. I knew her in high school." Peter sighed, giving in to the inevitable.
"And you were going to get married." Nadine stated this as a fact.
"Yup. But she didn't like the idea of struggling while I was in college, so we waited. I got the bug to become a cop. She wanted a lawyer for a husband. She tried to wait me out. I told her she was welcome to be the lawyer in the family, but I think her ideas were more traditional. Finally she admitted that she couldn't handle being stuck with a cop's pay-grade. She married this guy we knew at high school. He used to be a football hero. Now he owns a furniture store and they do commercials together on late night TV. I like small towns, but it was feeling too small. So I came here."
"Has there been no one since?" Nadine's genuine sympathy was like a balm to the still sore spot on his heart.
"Well, once you're a cop, some folks think it's all you are. Some women chase the badge, and some are put off by it, but I haven't found anyone yet who really sees past it. Some guys live the badge. I believe in it, but it's not who I am."
"You poor man. No wonder you're attracted to Lia."
"Say again?"
"We can all see you're interested in her. An artist might be good for you. To an artist, every grain of sand on the beach is unique. And she has a life of her own. She doesn't need to turn anyone into her own personal Ken doll. We all love her, of course. You would be much better for her than that Luthor Morrissey was."
Peter shook his head. He guessed the dog park was it's own kind of small town.
"It's okay," she said brightly, "we approve."
~ ~ ~
Peter decided enough was enough. What was the phrase, "Beard a lion in its den?" He wondered if it were possible to beard a lioness. Did they have beards?
Lia knelt on the floor to inspect a mold when she heard a rap. Peter looked in through her open studio door.
"Can I come see?"
Lia was annoyed at the little trill of pleasure she felt when she heard his voice. "Yeah, sure."
"How are you doing?"
Lia shrugged. "As well as can be expected, I guess. Good days and bad days."
Peter got a mental image of pulling teeth from a lioness. Perseverance was needed, he decided. "How goes the project?"
"It's coming along. We've got one more set of pavers to do, then while those are curing, we'll do the bench."
"I didn't know you were going to make a bench, too."
"Madam must have a proper bench from which to peruse her very expensive koi and achieve Nirvana. Lucky for us, it adds another eighteen hundred dollars to the price tag."
"So what are you doing now?"
"Getting ready to un-mold these puppies."
"What keeps the molds from sticking?" Peter asked.
"They have fancy mold release sprays. I find a liberal coat of vegetable oil does just fine." She carefully lifted the square of styrofoam from around the finished paver, set it aside, then turned the stepping stone over and peeled off the contact paper. Brilliantly colored bits of tile stared back at Peter.
"That's amazing."
"Thank you."
"Hard to believe that's busted up tile and concrete. What happens next?"
"Today I inspect the surface, clean off any stray bits of concrete, run a file around the top edge. Then they get stacked in that corner where they get soaked down and covered with plastic to hold the water in." She gestured to the amorphous, plastic draped pile behind her.
"Why do you keep them wet?"
"The longer you keep it wet, the stronger concrete becomes. It's a chemical reaction"
"I didn't know that."
Lia carried the paver over to her work table and set it down. Peter noticed she had set up a six foot folding table alongside it.
"Can I help?"
"Sure, I'll pop the molds, you set the pavers on the tables."
They worked silently with a pleasant, satisfying rhythm. Peter noted that it was an easy silence. He chose not to break it until both tables were full of concrete circles. "I haven't seen you at the park lately."
Lia gestured at the loaded tables. "I've been on Dawn Patrol at the park. I have to get in here and get cracking early. Mistress Catherine is a demanding taskmaster."
He looked directly into her jade eyes. "Is that the only reason?"
She looked away, bit her lip. "I've been wanting to let things settle a bit. Your last bombshell was a lot to take in"
"I'm sorry for that."
"You're just the messenger. It's not like you shot him."
"I can still be sorry."
"Thanks. I've been racking my brains and I still can't make sense of it. I still can't believe I never realized what Luthor was up to. I thought he was spending all that time writing. No wonder the book never went anywhere."
Peter considered what else Luthor had been up to that Lia still didn't know about. He couldn't tell her since Catherine had a right to privacy. But if he could, he wouldn't. He didn't think Lia was self-destructive enough to take a hammer to all Catherine's pavers, but it would not improve working relations. He imagined her embedding spikes into the bench.
She looked at him with a wry twist to her mouth. "I feel so guilty. I feel relieved that Luthor is out of my life but it was awful the way it happened and I feel guilty that I'm not grieving more." She took a deep breath. "And then I'm angry that he was pulling all this behind my back and I want to kill him. And then I realize that I can't because he's already dead. And then I feel guilty again."
"Sounds confusing."
"It is. I don't know if it's good that I have this huge, repetitive project that I can do while I'm not thinking clearly, or if it's a bad thing because it gives me too much time to obsess about it."
"It'll sort itself out."
"I hope so. So how is the investigation going?"
"I think I'm supposed to say, 'We are pursuing all leads.'"
"Are there leads?"
"Not really. We have questions, but nothing that places anyone in the park at 2:00 in the morning. Forensics hasn't turned up anything on Luthor, his car or the gun. Anything they picked up in the lot is useless because I'm convinced Luthor's murderer was a park regular, so their trace could be anywhere and we couldn't say when they left it."
"I just can't get over that. I keep looking at people, wondering who it could be, and I can't imagine anyone I know killing someone."
"Just about anyone will kill someone under the right conditions. Sometimes it's a matter of figuring out their conditions."
"Well, self-defense, sure, if someone's got their hands around your neck. But to plan something out like this? And be able to pull the trigger? That's cold. It's inhuman and evil."
"What about self-defense of a different sort? What if Luthor threatened someone's security or position in some
way?"
"How could he possibly do that?"
"I know this is hard, but what if we haven't uncovered all of his girlfriends? What if one was married?" Peter couldn't reveal his interview with Catherine, but he could put a bug in her ear.
"Luthor in an affair with a married woman at the park? The only person I can think of would be Catherine, and she has children older than Luthor."
"Did you and Luthor always go at the same time? Is it possible he knew people there that you don't know?"
"It's unlikely. Some of my friends go at different times and they would have mentioned if they'd seen Luthor. But you've been up there. It's dirty and muddy and people wear their grungiest clothes, and they're walking around, picking up poop. It's not exactly conducive to steamy affairs."
"I thought there had been some marriages between people who met up there."
Lia searched her mind for how to explain. "You see the same people all the time, and the crowd isn't big enough to easily avoid someone. When two people are on the outs, everyone knows it. When people hang together, everyone knows it. If Luthor was friendly with someone he met up there and then, say he dumped her or he was going to create a problem for her, everybody would notice. Like they've all noticed Catherine doesn't like you for some reason. She likes all men, so how is it she doesn't like you? Did she make a pass at you? You turn her down?"
Lia had just made a flying leap and landed too close for comfort. "You'd have to ask her. Anna suggested I'm not paying her proper attention and beyond that, my investigation is spreading bad energy all over her pavers. Rumor is, I'm the reason you're in and out at dawn these days, though Jim says it's because you're so busy with your pavers."
"Goodness, you've certainly found your way into the grapevine." She sighed. "Mostly, it's the project. Part of it's you because every time we talk it seem things get weirder. Part of it's them. I'm having a hard time dealing with the idea that one of them killed someone and could even be a serial killer. With that, and everything you've told me about Luthor, I'm wondering about my own judgment. I don't know what to think. It's easier just to come here and arrange tile scraps."
A Shot in the Bark (A Dog Park Mystery) Page 12