Maximum Security (A Dog Park Mystery)

by C. A. Newsome

  “I suppose so.”

  “What do you do when a family has a loss? You take them food, of course. Then she has to be polite and invite you in. You just get her talking and see what falls out of her mouth. Notice things in her house, that sort of thing.”

  “So you want me to make her food, then take it to her and pump her for information.”

  “Exactly, but you don’t have to cook anything. I’ve got Esmerelda putting together a lasagna for you to take over there.”

  “You want Peter to kill me?”

  “What’s the harm? George was a regular in your park, wasn’t he? Isn’t this a natural thing for a caring person to do? And if you happen to see or hear anything interesting, well, you don’t have to tell Peter about it, do you? But it might give Kitty’s lawyer something to work with. You can get in there where a private detective is stuck outside, staring in the windows.”

  After her previous experience with Monica, Lia thought it unlikely the widow would invite her in. She supposed she could deliver a casserole, just to make Renee happy.

  “This is just a one time thing, right?”

  “Well, I was thinking, she’s not likely to spill her guts the first time you drop by, but if you went a few times and became more of a presence, she might relax a bit. Don’t you worry, though. I’ll have Esmerelda make up your care packages. The dog park really ought to be making a show of support, don’t you agree?”

  Lia shook her head, amused. ”You railroad Harry like this often?”

  “All the time.”

  “I’ll take the lasagna, but I’m not promising anything after that. And I won’t keep secrets from Peter. We made a deal about that.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Lia took a deep breath, then rang the doorbell. A deep, melodious chime sounded within. Monica Munce answered the door wearing neat camel-colored slacks and a boat-neck, business-casual tee. Both had been ironed. The pants had knife-edge creases.

  “It’s kind of you to drop by. As I said over the phone, it really isn’t necessary. Will you come in and have a cup of coffee?”

  Lia agreed, hoping she wasn’t going to float away after all the coffee she’d already had. She followed Monica through a spotless living room to the breakfast bar that fronted the kitchen. Everything was perfectly arranged, except for a stack of library books on a table by the door. She was certain the decorating scheme had been copied out of some paint store color guide, if not from Martha Stewart’s magazine. Monica looked ready for Dame Martha herself to drop in.

  She looked, but could not spot a dog hair anywhere. She hadn’t known George very well. Still, she couldn’t feel his hand in the house. His presence had been relegated to a montage of family photos on the hall wall.

  “Who’s into Suzanne Collins?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I saw The Hunger Games in your living room.

  “Oh, that’s my daughter, Stacy. All the girls want to be Katniss now. I hope you don’t mind sitting in the kitchen. It’s where I do everything.”

  “It’s lovely. You have such a beautiful home.”

  “Thank you. Let me take that. You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, but Stacy and I appreciate the effort. I do enjoy lasagna. If it wasn’t for the carbs, I’d have it all the time. What’s in this one?”

  Lia stammered mentally while Monica put the lasagna into the fridge, then poured coffee in sunny yellow mugs that matched other decorating accents.

  “Family secret?” Monica asked when Lia didn’t answer.

  Lia smiled and shrugged. “You know how it is.”

  “I certainly do.” She handed one mug to Lia. “I’ve got skim, if you want it. I’m afraid I don’t have any whole milk or cream.”

  “Skim is fine.” She topped the coffee using a small pitcher with a sunflower motif. “How are you getting along?” she asked once Monica was settled.

  Monica gave her a tremulous smile. “I don’t know if you’ve ever lost anyone. One day I’m okay and the next I fall to pieces again.” She sipped her coffee. “Then there’s the funeral.

  “I have to apologize for the other day. I’d just gotten off the phone with the morgue. They won’t release George until a forensic anthropologist has a chance to examine him, and it’s got me very upset.

  “It’s not like me to be so rude, especially after you’ve gone to so much trouble to find Daisy. Are you having any luck?” Monica gave her an open look that suggested interest. Lia failed to sense any genuine concern beneath the polite expression.

  “Not so far, but I’m hopeful. Some of the other people at the park who knew George are helping out. We’re contacting every vet and rescue organization and spreading her picture everywhere we can think of. Hopefully, we’ll get a call soon. Daisy is such a sweet dog. I hate to think about her running around, lost and frightened.” There was no dog dish on the newly waxed floor. Lia wondered where it went.

  Monica murmured noncommittally and sipped her coffee.

  “Do you have any idea when the funeral is going to be?” Lia asked. “Some of us at the park would like to pay our respects.”

  “Not yet. The coroner’s office has been giving me the run-around for almost a week now.” She gave Lia a thin, tight smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Everyone has questions, but nobody has any answers.”

  “So the police haven’t found out anything?”

  “Not that they’ll tell–”

  A knock at the kitchen door interrupted. Monica opened the door for a tall, good-looking young man wearing a hoodie with the sleeves shoved up and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his low-riders. Lia guessed he was eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Dark hair. Dark eyes under heavy brows held adult awareness. He bore the intense physicality of male hormones in overdrive, sauntering in without being invited as if he had the run of the place. Lia imagined she would have swooned over him in high school. And regretted it. He gave a little jerk when he saw her sitting at the counter.

  “As you can see, Jacob, I’ve got company right now,” Monica said, still holding the doorknob. “It’s not the best time.”

  “No sweat, Mrs. M. I’ll just get started on the, uh, leaves then.” He ran a strong hand with well-defined knuckles through errant bangs, shoving them out of his face. Lia wanted to paint his hands, his forearms. She imagined them gripping . . . clenching . . . something . . . a branch, a hammer, free weights? Something that would have those lovely muscles contracting, his tendons, popping, . . . saying so much with just those strong young arms.

  “Thank you, Jacob. I’d appreciate that.” Monica closed the door behind him and sat down. Lia noticed she was a little flushed. She followed Monica’s gaze out the back window, where Jacob was stripping off his hoodie, revealing a long lean torso. He dropped the jacket on the patio table.

  “A friend of Stacy’s?” Lia asked.

  Monica flushed. “Jacob lives in the neighborhood. He’s a student at the high school where I work. He takes care of some things around the yard for us, that’s all.”

  “That’s considerate of him,” Lia said.

  ~ ~ ~

  “That was a bust, and not of the recreational substance sort,” Brent said as he steered his Audi out of the parking lot of the auto parts store, onto Cheviot Road. “How many hunters have we interviewed today? Eight? Ten? What have we got? Zip. Zilch. Zero—”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Peter said, checking the next name on his list.

  “What would you say, Kemosabe?”

  “We’re getting a picture. So far, nobody has seen any strange cars and no one spotted the Zombie. No strange hunters. No one saw Stryker after he reported his bow missing. These guys see each other, year after year at the marksmanship exam and in the parking lots and out in the woods. They know each other’s blinds, and we’ve got them marked on the map. It would have been hard for our man to be in the woods without either him or his car being seen by someone, if he was there during the usual hunting hours.

  “From what they say, tha
t jury-rigged tree-house we found has been in the woods for years. Park maintenance was supposed to pull it down, but they haven’t gotten around to it. Nobody knows who built it, or when. It may never have been intended as a blind, since the word we’re getting is, that area is not very productive for hunting deer. Which is also why nobody spotted the deceased before Max did.”

  “Like I said. Nothing,” Brent repeated.

  “Nothing is something. So far everyone alibis out for the time period we have for the shooting, which is late morning to early afternoon. Everyone who was in the woods that day was gone before nine a.m. That means our perp was never there to shoot deer, and didn’t show up until the hunters were gone.”

  “How does that help us?” Brent asked.

  “We put that together with the report Stryker filed on his stolen crossbow. What else was missing from his house?”

  “Some crossbow bolts. Nothing else.”

  “Exactly. Nothing other than what our perp needed to kill Munce. Nothing else disturbed. Does that sound like your typical housebreaker to you?”

  “No . . . .”

  “Everything suggests that our perp specifically went after that bow to use as a murder weapon, that he knew exactly where Munce would be in the woods and when he would be there. It’s tedious, but what we’re doing is ruling out the possibility that Munce’s death was a crime of opportunity. There’s nothing random about this. It narrows the field.”

  “Kate Onstad is the one person we know for sure knew George was going to be in the woods that day,” Brent said.

  “How’d she know about the bow?” Peter asked.

  “I’m working on that.”

  “What about her tire?”

  “She had an accomplice?”

  “Ah, the ever-popular unknown accomplice,” Peter said. “Whoa - pull in here.”

  Brent turned the car into the next parking lot. He saw the sign over the store’s glittery display window and groaned. “Don’t do it, man. No good will come from this.” He scrambled out of the car after Peter, followed him into the jewelry store, caught up with him at the ring counter.

  The glossy woman behind the counter smiled at Peter. “What can I help you find today?”

  “I’m just looking. I’ll let you know if I need help. But thank you,” Peter said. Her smile drooped a little and she moved off to the side.

  “What part of ‘I love you, Peter, but I need my space’ did you not understand?” Brent hissed.

  “I understood it. I just don’t think it has to be a deal breaker. Why does all this stuff look like it came out of a gum-ball machine?” He turned away from the display of engagement rings and wandered over to a case containing estate jewelry. “I like this much better.”

  He eyed a ruby surrounded by small, rectangular emeralds. “I like this one, but it’s not quite right for Lia. Too big.”

  “The question isn’t whether you think it’s a deal breaker. The question is whether she thinks it’s a deal breaker.”

  The pearl with diamonds was pretty, but too . . . conservative? Bland? Snooty? . . . for Lia.

  “I guess it’s up to me to show her that it’s not.”

  “You think a big, fancy ring is going to do that?”

  “No, she doesn’t like big and fancy. I think the right ring will help. It will show her that I understand her. And none of these are the right ring.” He held up his hand in an abbreviated wave to the woman behind the counter and walked out.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was after ten when Viola ran to the door. Lia put aside her book and let Peter in. When she opened the door, he was leaning against the jamb, his eyes closed.

  “Beer?” Lia offered.

  “You have to ask?”

  “I guess not. You look beat. You should have gone home.”

  “My two best girls are here.” He leaned down and gave Lia a kiss, then got down on the floor to rumple the fur around Viola’s neck. She jumped up and kissed his face with light, happy flicks. He sat on the floor and let Viola, Honey and Chewy climb on him, petting whichever head was nearest each hand. Max snorted and lay her head on her paws.

  “She misses you,” Lia called from the kitchen.

  “Can’t be helped. Until we get a handle on this case, I’m not going to be available much. How’d it go at Renee’s today?”

  Lia handed a bottle of Beck’s down to Peter. He stopped petting Chewy to take it. Chewy head-butted his hand, causing a bit of beer foam to spill out the top. Peter grimaced, then shrugged.

  “It was fine. We squared away the details. Taking the pictures was the easy part. Now I get to paint it. She asked me to take a lasagna to Monica and Stacy Munce.” Lia held her breath, waiting for Peter’s reaction.

  He shook his head. “I know Renee is the soul of compassion, but something tells me this is about something else.”

  “You know Renee, anything for a bit of good gossip.” Lia reached out a hand. Peter grabbed it and stood up, shedding the trio of furry four-paws.

  “And did you find any good gossip?”

  In the light of Peter’s scrutiny, her discoveries seemed silly. She decided to avoid ridicule and not mention Stacy’s reading proclivities. “I don’t know. One of the neighbor kids is hanging around. He seems to have a thing for Monica.”

  “Seriously? What does he look like?”

  “Tall, broody, dark hair.”

  “Brent and I saw him the day we went by. You think the very proper Mrs. Munce goes for bad boys less than half her age?”

  “She was blushing. But she doesn’t have to go for him. She just has to be willing to manipulate him, don’t you think?”

  “True. So the high school counselor is willing to destroy a young life by making this kid a party to murder? And another thing. I know this kid thinks he’s a bad-ass, but I bet Stryker would eat his liver before he ever got close enough to him to even know about his bow.”

  “So you think whoever stole the bow has to be a brute?”

  “Just try driving a Honda Fit up there and see what happens. It’s not a place for civilized folks.”

  “Now you’ve got me curious.”

  “Promise me you won’t go digging around up there, no matter what Renee says.”

  “Relax, Kentucky Boy.” She brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t even know where ‘there’ is.”

  Day 8

  Wednesday, October 16

  Renee was at the park with Dakini, waiting on the far side of the corral as Lia and Bailey walked up the drive. “Well, how did it go?” she called through the fence.

  “How did what go?” Bailey asked.

  “Hello to you, too, Renee.” Lia let the dogs in the corral. Glancing over at Bailey, she said, “Renee drafted me for undercover work. She has me spying on the Widow Munce. What brings you here, Renee?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be here? This is a lovely park. Oh, look, is this Max? What a handsome girl. Your mom tells me you’ve been very enterprising lately.” She put her hand up to the fence and let Max sniff her palm. Dakini turned her head, a canine version of rolling her eyes.

  “Uh-huh.” Lia poked her tongue in her cheek.

  “Well, I thought it might be better if I talked to you here instead of possibly disturbing Kitty. I don’t know how she’d feel about our little investigation. You have to tell me how it went. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  Lia unclipped Honey, Chewy and Viola, and opened the inner gate. The three dogs bolted for the back of the park. She swung the coiled training lead off her shoulder and hooked Max into it before releasing her walking leash.

  “You’re not taking any chances with that one, are you?” Renee asked.

  “Not at all. Let’s get back to our table and then I’ll give you a full report.” The three women crossed the park and settled themselves on top of the old picnic table. Lia reflected on how different this setting was from the antiseptic kitchen she’d visited the day before.

  “How was she?” Renee primed.

 
; “Very polite. Much nicer than she was when I stopped by to ask about Daisy. Well put together. She irons her tee shirts.”

  “Seriously?” Bailey asked.

  “And she waxed her floor recently. I could practically see myself in it.”

  “Well, people react to grief in different ways,” Bailey said.

  “I don’t know how much she’s grieving. She looks like she’s grieving, but it feels kind of put on, as if that’s how people expect her to act. There was something creepy about it, like she was getting off on the attention.”

  “You mean, like Munchausen by proxy? That would be really weird if she killed her husband just to get sympathy,” Bailey said.

  “So, besides being an able housekeeper, what else did you notice?” Renee asked.

  “One of the neighbor boys has a crush on her, and she knows it.”

  “Really?” Renee drew the word out, adding an extra syllable. “How about that. How did you figure that out?”

  “He showed up at the back door and walked in like he lived there. Then he fumbled when he saw me. She hustled him out, and she over-explained why he was there. She was blushing.”

  “Well now,” Renee said. “I wonder if Monica’s young swain has himself an alibi? What do you think, Lia?”

  “He’s fit enough to climb a tree and shoot off a crossbow. Peter pooh-poohed the idea, but I wouldn’t be too hasty. Another thing. Someone in the house is reading The Hunger Games. Monica said it was Stacy.”

  “Why is that significant?” Bailey asked.

  “How many teenaged girls do you know who have read that book and didn’t want to pick up a bow and arrow?”

  “So we need to look at Stacy and Jacob,” Renee said.

  “I’d like to take a look at Jacob. Was he hot?” Bailey asked.

  “Wes Bentley hot,” Lia said. “Very broody looking, like he was in American Beauty, except without the knit cap and the unibrow. He’s still in high school. I wonder if she knows him in her professional capacity as school counselor. We could be looking at a very improper situation.”