Maximum Security (A Dog Park Mystery)

by C. A. Newsome

  “Noticed like what?”

  “Anything unusual or different,” Brent said.

  “You mean like being happy?”

  “Stacy! What are you saying?” Monica gasped.

  “What? Like you think I never noticed how much you yelled at George? You think he liked that?”

  Peter intervened. “What can you tell us about George’s change in mood, Stacy?”

  “I can tell you what caused it.”

  “What was that?” Peter asked.

  “She caused it.” Stacy’s eyes darted sideways, gaging her mother’s response.

  “She?”

  Stacy dropped her bomb. “His old high school girlfriend. From Oklahoma. He was having an affair. He was happy.”

  “Stacy! Go to your room!”

  “Mrs. Munce, we are conducting an interview here. We will thank you not to interrupt,” Brent said in his most polite Atlanta drawl.

  “This story is preposterous!”

  “It’s the truth!” Stacy faced her mother, chin up.

  “Mrs. Munce, are we to understand that you didn’t know about this affair?” Peter asked.

  “Absolutely not! George wouldn’t do such a thing.” She glared at Stacy, who looked back impassively.

  Got her mother’s goat, Peter thought.

  “You want to know the best thing about it?” Stacy asked confidentially, her eyes gleaming.

  “What was that?” Peter asked.

  “She was old. And fat.” She turned back to her mother. “You spend all that time at the gym doing Zumba, and he’s running around with this dumpy looking woman.”

  Monica’s eyes widened dangerously. Brent gave her a warning look.

  “Stacy, how did you find out about this relationship?” Peter asked.

  “It was on Kindle.”

  “I don’t understand,” Peter said.

  “I picked up George’s Kindle by accident one day, and when I turned it on, there was this paranormal thriller on the carousel. It didn’t look like anything George would like, so I opened it up and read a few pages.

  “I still didn’t get it, so I checked the ‘shared notes and comments’ to see what people were saying about it, and there was all this stuff. They were writing to each other through their Kindles. Man, it was hot.

  “He must have got the idea when I told him about kids using the Oxford American Dictionary to chat with since they aren’t allowed to have their phones in school, but they can have e-readers.”

  “How does that work?” Peter asked.

  “It’s easier if I show you. Can I go get my Kindle?”

  “Sure.”

  Stacy returned with her e-reader and turned it on. First she opened up the dictionary and showed the book to the detectives. Next, she tapped a little conversation bubble at the bottom of the screen and the page turned black. Comments appeared in white, with user names in red and icons in the margin. She handed it to Peter, who began scrolling through the entries.

  “It’s all random stuff,” Stacy said.

  Peter had to agree. The comments included such gems as “U R so tuf” to “EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!”

  “Do we need George’s Kindle to see his comments?”

  “Nope. I bought the book so I could follow along on mine.” She took the e-reader back and returned to the main page. She scrolled down through her favorites, then stopped at a book featuring a picture of a naked woman, waist-deep in a dark pool of water, facing away. This was juxtaposed against an enormous, evil looking animal eye and parallel red gashes that looked like claws had ripped into something. The word “Blood” slashed across the top of the cover in vivid red.

  “I mean, this doesn’t look like his kind of thing, you know? It was smart, the book is by this indie author and I don’t think many people know about it. If I hadn’t picked up his Kindle by mistake, no one would have ever noticed. I mean, anyone can pick up your phone and read your text messages.” She gave her mother a scathing look. “But they’d never think to look here.” She opened the book and clicked on the “shared notes” icon, then handed it back to Peter, who held it so Brent could see.

  The most recent note was from “Buttercup,” whose icon was a yellow flower. Buttercup said, “Baby, talk to me. I’m dying. Don’t leave it like this.” This was dated two days after George’s disappearance. Under that, “Joe” said, “Sorry, we have to stop. Don’t contact me anymore.” This was dated the day George vanished.

  “So you think George was this ‘Joe’?” Peter asked.

  “I know so. At first, I didn’t think it was him, or anybody I knew. I just thought it was high entertainment, all this sex talk. But he mentions Oklahoma, and Mount Airy Forest, and,” she turned to her mother, “Daisy, who happens to be missing.”

  Stacy turned back to Peter and Brent. “And I noticed he was always in a good mood after ‘Buttercup’ posted a comment. There’s all this sex talk about what they want to do to each other, and then they’re planning to meet up. She flew all the way from Oklahoma to see him. They’re like Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning or something.”

  “How far back can you scroll on this thing? Do the notes stay in there forever?”

  Monica finally broke her silence. “Stacy, darling, why didn’t you tell me about this?” Her voice was dangerously sweet.

  “Why would I do that? Somebody should be happy around here.”

  “Ladies,” Brent interrupted, “this is not a productive direction for this conversation. Mrs. Munce, I understand your consternation at these revelations. It’s only natural. But please allow us to complete this interview. I’m sure whatever you and Stacy have to say to each other is much better said in private.”

  “Not hardly,” Stacy muttered.

  Monica sat back, lips clamped, the expression on her face an odd blend of mortification and rage.

  “Stacy,” Peter continued, “how do you know what this woman looks like?”

  “I saw her once, from a distance. I was driving past the store and George was out in the parking lot with her.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Not much. I saw her from the back. George was tucking her hair behind her ear. I just saw her for a second. Keeping my eyes on the road, you know.” She gave what Peter thought of as a “Valley Girl” shrug, with her eyes rolled up and her head canted at a Hollywood angle.

  “Can you describe her?” Brent asked.

  “I dunno. A little taller than George. Wider.” She smirked, looking at her mother from the corner of her eye. Monica’s mouth gave minute, jerky twitches. “Her hair was light brown, more ash than blond. You know, that old lady color.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  Stacy bit her lower lip and thought. “Looked like stretch pants . . . some kind of tunic or cardigan. Grey pants, burgundy top? Can’t say for sure. I was trying not to wreck the car.”

  “When did this happen?” Brent asked.

  Stacy chewed on her thumbnail. “After school . . . a week? Ten days ago? I don’t remember for sure.”

  “Mrs. Munce, I think we’re finished with Stacy,” Peter said. “We’re going to need George’s e-reader. I’d like Officer Davis to go with you while you get it.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know where it is. I have no idea where he kept it.” She avoided Peter’s eyes as she said this. She made no move to get up.

  “That e-reader contains important information about George’s last days. There’s no telling what’s on it. It’s very important to this investigation. If you really don’t know where to look, I can have Brent wait with you while I swear out a warrant and bring in a team to search for it. That will take several hours, of course.”

  Monica closed her eyes in an apparent effort to control herself. A tear escaped, signaling defeat.

  “Mrs. Munce,” Brent said, “we understand the contents of this e-reader are quite personal and potentially embarrassing to you. We will do everything in our power to keep private anything that is not germane to the inv
estigation.”

  “Mom,” Stacy said in a gentler tone than she’d used before. “I can show Detective Davis where to look.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Monica said stiffly, “I’m sure Detective Davis and I can find it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “That is one angry little girl,” Brent said once they were back in his car. “Remind me never to have kids. Either that, or drown them before they become teenagers. Speaking of angry–” He pointed his chin several houses down. “Check it out.”

  Peter saw a tall man– or was it a boy– at the open hood of an old Toyota. Instead of busying himself with the motor, he just stood there, scowling at them. Peter held his eyes as they drove by. The boy turned his head and spat.

  “Spooky,” Peter said.

  “You got that right. He won’t need a costume for Halloween. What about Mom? You think she really didn’t know about Buttercup?”

  “I think she’s a terrible liar. She couldn’t look me in the eye when she said she didn’t know where the e-reader was. She took you right to it, didn’t she?” Peter asked.

  “She did pretend to dither a bit, but yeah, she knew where it was. How about you? If your old man wrote hot letters to his floozy, would you read them?”

  “My dad’s favorite floozy was a cow.” Peter had a quick vision of his father talking dirty to Flossie as he was milking her. Flossie was wearing a red satin garter belt edged with black lace and fishnet stockings. It was a disturbing image. He shook his head, as if what had been seen in his mind’s eye could be dislodged that way.

  “You boys from Kentucky sure know how to pick ‘em. Cynth is going to have fun with this. I think after she pulls all the posts off this book, I’m going to ask her out for drinks. She might be needing some company.”

  “You leave her alone. You toy with her affections, and we’ll be blackballed down in IT. We need her skills. She’s not your type, anyway.”

  “Don’t know about that. Take off those glasses, unbraid that hair, you don’t know what you’ll find. Could be interesting.”

  “It could,” Peter said, “make our lives a living hell. Not your life, our lives. You go near her, and I’ll tell her you were a bed-wetter up into middle school.”

  “That’s a dirty, filthy lie, and it’s beneath you.”

  “And it’ll be all she ever thinks about when she looks at you. Wonder if she’ll be able to keep it to herself?”

  “Blackmail is against the law, Brother.”

  “Go ahead, press charges. I want to see you explain it to Roller,” Peter said. “We’ve got to find that woman.”

  “Buttercup? You think we can get Amazon to give her up?”

  “Maybe, but that will take more time than I care to think about.”

  Maybe she was caught on the security tapes at Dollar Hut.”

  “Why don’t we head over there and find out?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Life had sucked the marrow out of Carleen Thomas and was unlikely to give it back. She was hard and stringy for a woman in her thirties. The chipped state of her pink pearl nail polish suggested that the inches-long, dark roots snaking through her hair were neglect masquerading as fashion. Flecks of black mascara peppered her cheekbones. Her store smock was stained and her lips were pinched. She reeked of cigarette smoke.

  “I really liked George. I can’t believe he’s dead. We didn’t know what to think when he didn’t show up for work Monday.”

  “I’d like for you to remember back to the week before he disappeared,” Peter said. “We’re looking for a woman who may have visited him here at the store. She would be a little taller than him, and overweight.”

  “You mean regular fat, or Cincinnati fat?”

  “What do you mean by ‘Cincinnati fat’?” asked Brent.

  “Can she find clothes at Walmart?”

  Brent looked perplexed. “I guess so.”

  “Then she ain’t Cincinnati fat.”

  Peter gave Brent a look. Brent stifled his snort, turning it into a cough.

  “We’re guessing maybe thirty, forty pounds overweight,” Peter said. “Light brown hair. Conservative dresser. But we’d be interested in hearing about anyone who came to see him recently.”

  Carleen snapped her gum. “Nope, nobody came to see George, not that I saw. Hey, Shondra,” she called to a young black woman. “Come talk to these police officers.”

  Shondra had cornrows braided into extensions that were gathered loosely in a long tail. She wore green nail polish with red rose decals and cheap tennis shoes. The light that had gone out of Carleen still burned brightly in her. Whoever Carleen had met on the road, Shondra had yet to make his acquaintance. “What?” she inquired, smiling at Brent.

  Peter introduced himself and Brent and explained their mission.

  She shook her head. “Can’t think of anyone.”

  “How about your relationship with George?” Peter asked. “How did you get along?”

  She shrugged. “He was nice, for a boss, but we didn’t have no relationship.”

  “We understand he was concerned about one of his employees. Would either of you have any idea who that would be?” Brent asked.

  The two women looked at each other, shrugged.

  “He was always helping somebody out,” Shondra volunteered. “When they screwed up Maria’s food stamps last month, he took her grocery shopping.” She nodded at Carleen. “He helped Carleen find a divorce lawyer a while back. Could have been anybody.”

  “He have a problem with anyone here at the store?” Peter asked.

  “George was nice to everybody,” Carleen insisted. “He didn’t play favorites, and nobody gave him trouble, except for maybe not showing up on time for work.” She looked pointedly at Shondra.

  “Whatever,” Shondra said. “Now we got you instead of him. He could have used a favorite if you ask me.”

  “How so?” Peter asked.

  “Man seemed sad, a lot. He was always nice, but just kinda down.”

  “How about lately?” Peter asked.

  Shondra shrugged. “Now that you mention it, I did see him smiling some last couple weeks. You notice that, Carleen?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Maybe he got that favorite after all.”

  ~

  Peter and Brent talked to Maria and an older man named Duane, discovering nothing. Carleen gave them the number for Dollar Hut’s head of security for the district. They could have copies of the video files for the past two weeks, but it would take at least twenty-four hours to pull and copy them.

  “That gives us twenty-four hours to figure out a way to dump that chore onto someone else,” Brent said. “You suppose we could lay this on Hinkle? He’s not bright enough to wiggle his way out of it.”

  “He’s covering the bottle bomb interviews at Hughes High School for us.”

  “I guess we should be grateful. If not for your girlfriend’s dog, we’d be running down teeny-bombers right now.”

  “Besides, it would be pointless to give the tapes to him. Our girl could do the Harlem Shake naked in front of the camera and Hinkle would miss it,” Peter said.

  “I’m not sure what good reviewing the tapes will do. We won’t catch Munce laying a big wet one on Buttercup in the parking lot. He knows where the cameras are. How will we know who it is? Do you know how many overweight, middle-aged women with medium length, greying hair there are in Cincinnati? It’s at least fifteen percent of the population.”

  “She’ll be the well dressed one,” Peter said.

  ~ ~ ~

  Lia had never heard anything like it. The sound emanating from the living room was definitely canine in origin. It was a rhythmic groaning that rose and fell like a car engine trying, and failing, to turn over. She walked into the room and spotted Max with her tailbone pressed against the lower edge of the futon couch frame, rubbing her sacrum back and forth across the wood edge. The noise, apparently, was ecstasy.

  Lia sighed. Max looked up and grinned
sheepishly, caught in the act. Then she resumed her gyrations and her indecent orations.

  “Whatever floats your boat, girl,” Lia told her. “At least you aren’t into humping legs.” The phone rang.

  “What, on God’s green Earth, is that noise?” Peter asked when she picked up.

  “That,” Lia said, “is Max, committing a bizarre form of self-gratification against my furniture.”

  “You’re letting the children see this?”

  “Their innocence is lost forever. Do you think Brent wants a dog?”

  “Wreck his carefree bachelorhood? Doubt it.”

  “Do you suppose if we snuck her into his car when he wasn’t looking that he’d keep her?”

  “Lia, if you don’t want the dog, just take her back.”

  “I can’t do that. I don’t know where she’ll end up.”

  “So, how’s my girl?”

  “She’s fine. I don’t know how she can sleep through this racket.”

  “I meant my best girl.”

  “I thought Viola was your best girl.”

  “How about my best two-legged girl?”

  “She’s good, too. I managed to hook up with Renee today.”

  “What mad scheme does your favorite patron have up her sleeve now?”

  “She wants a larger-than-life portrait of Dakini. She says that’s to make up for her curator friend backing out on the sculpture commission the museum was going to give me. Last time she spoke to them, the curator dithered something about one of their biggest donors and her latest boy-toy artist. Apparently her nepotism outranks Renee’s nepotism.”

  “What’s Renee need a painting of her dog for? She’s got Dakini right there, all she has to do is look at her.”

  “Philistine.”

  “You can’t be talking about me, I’ve never been near the Middle East.”

  “Hick.”

  “Keep abusing me, and I won’t come over.”

  “Promises, promises. You bringing dinner?”