"What's insulting?" Peter asked.
Stony silence again.
"Mrs. Laroux?" Brent prodded.
Nothing.
"Tell us about your dogs," Peter said.
"You think Caesar and Cleo did it?" The sarcastic quirk of her lips had a nasty edge.
"We just find it curious," Brent commented. "You . . . ah . . . dump . . . Morrisey and then buy a couple dogs and start . . . frequenting . . . the park where Luthor and his girlfriend are sure to be." Brent's accent, Peter thought, was a weapon, investing myriad implications in a single word in a way that could not be defended against.
"I needed new interests, Officer. Dogs love you and they're there when you need them. I can't say that about too many people, can you?"
"The dog park? Do Pomeranians require that much exercise?"
"They require socialization. The other dog parks are in West Chester and out by Lunken Airport. Or down in Covington. I'm not driving thirty miles just to socialize my dogs. Luthor did not concern me. We were friendly at the park, that's it. You act as if I were stalking him."
"Weren't you?" Brent's voice was soft as butter and sliced like a Ginsu knife.
"No, I was not." Her eyes flashed hot, angry. Peter could swear he heard a low growl, but that could have been Caesar. Or Cleo.
"Go ahead and ask me, Gentlemen."
"Ask you what?"
"I'm presuming you think I had something to do with poor Luthor's death. I can't imagine you'll leave here without asking me where I was that Saturday night. So ask me, then leave."
"All right, Mrs. Laroux, where were you the night Luthor Morrisey died?" Peter inquired.
"Right here in bed. Just like I told you last time we talked."
"You mean the same day you told me Luthor pulled twenty-five grand out of his change jar?"
"Was there a question in there, Detective Dourson, or are you just bent on humiliating me?"
"Mrs. Laroux?"
She quirked an eyebrow.
"Don't leave town." It was a poor excuse for a parting shot, but Peter could see from her expression that it had scored well enough.
Once outside, he turned to Brent. "You did really well in there. What do you think?"
"I think I wouldn't want my johnson anywhere near those sharp little teeth of hers."
Peter choked. "How do you think it went?"
"She was all sugar and spice until you called her on lying to you. I don't think calling her 'Mrs. Laroux' all the time helped any either."
Peter grinned. "No, it didn't." He looked back at the house. Catherine was glaring at them from the porch.
"We'd better leave before she has the car towed. Don't know if she'll be in the mood for yoga after her little chat with us."
"I suspect not, Brent."
Peter and Brent were silent as they got into the unmarked and pulled out. Once they turned the corner, Brent said, "I wonder if she dumped him after he started blocking her calls."
"Interesting thought. Why do you think he was blocking her calls?"
"Because there's not one call after February 13th, according to the records you showed me. Before that, there's up to ten calls in one week. I figure she thought he was her personal toy and after she'd bought and paid for him, how dare he cut her off. I bet she tracked him down after he blocked her calls on Valentine's Day. She doesn't strike me as the sort of woman who likes taking second place to another woman. She'd want her boy toy to jump every time she snapped her fingers."
"I think we're in agreement," Peter said. "Perhaps her demands became too much for Morrisey. They tell me it's an unwritten rule for cheaters that you don't talk to your partner in illicit lust on holidays. Still, you gotta wonder why Morrisey would ditch the goose that laid the golden egg."
"And why the goose bought herself a pair of furry bookends, if it wasn't to allow her to intrude on his life with Lia. That business about needing to go to the park to socialize her dogs is bogus. She lives in Clifton, all she needs to do is walk them down the street. Dogs everywhere here. I think she was too insulted to just fade away."
"True," Peter agreed. "The question is, was she insulted enough to put a bullet in his head and a gun in his hand?" He spotted a UDF convenience store and pulled in. They grabbed coffee and Krispy Kremes and headed back for the car.
"Why are we being so stereotypical?" Brent queried.
"It makes the public feel more secure," Peter deadpanned. He selected a cake doughnut, held the bag for Brent. Took a sip of his coffee and watched the traffic on Clifton Avenue heading up to the University. "So what do you think of Mrs. Laroux? Did she do it?"
"She's narcissistic enough to not let it go when her boy toy dumped her. She's got to be fairest of them all so if something destroyed that little fantasy, I can see her deciding he has to go. But I don't know if I see her faking a suicide."
"How come?"
"Three reasons. First, narcissists don't think they'll ever get caught, so I don't think she'd go to so much trouble to cover it up. She would have left finger prints on the shells, something."
"Okay."
"Second, while I can see her shooting him, I think she'd be in a real pique. I think she'd act her anger out. I don't think she'd stop at one bullet in the skull. I think she'd go for the family jewels, tattoo 'asshole' on his chest in bullet holes, something."
"And number three?"
"This is the weakest point. I know a lot of society ladies have learned to put on whatever face they need to suit the occasion, but I do think, under the botox, she was genuinely thunder-struck."
"Good arguments. So when are you going to go for the detective exam?"
Brent grinned. "Next month."
"Good luck with that."
"By the way, I read Morrisey's manuscript last night."
"What did you think?"
"I'm still trying to figure out why a doppelganger from another dimension would care what anyone does in our little corner of the universe, and what use he would have for Earth currency."
Chapter 13
Friday, May 20
Lia pulled up the tarp and surveyed the stacks of finished pavers. Bailey peered under the plastic cover. "How are they doing?"
"We need to spray them down again, but they're doing fine. We're ahead of schedule, so we might be able to finish a bit sooner than expected."
"Let's not tell Catherine. If we say anything to her, she'll forget 'might' and hold us to a new deadline no matter what the contract says."
"True." Lia made a moue.
"Are you ready to pour the next batch?"
"I've got the tarps on the floor. You start mixing the topping concrete and I'll lay out and oil the first ten molds."
They worked efficiently. Once the topping was ready, they split it into two batches and used a combination of pouring, scraping with a spatula, and tapping the base of the molds to force the concrete down between the tiles. It was slow work.
Bailey finished her smaller batch and began adding water to the regular concrete that would form the body of the pavers. While she did this, Lia laid precut eleven inch circles of chicken wire into the molds for extra strength. Bailey scooped the new mix into the molds. Lia pulled the edge of a planed one-by-two across the top in a zigzag motion to level out the mix, scraping the excess over the rim into a gallon milk container with the top cut off. Bailey followed behind Lia, tapping the sides of the molds with a paint stirrer to cause trapped air to rise to the top. Lia started the row over again, using a trowel to 'finish' the concrete with strokes that resembled icing a cake. This step caused aggregate to sink below the surface.
While she did this, Bailey dumped the rest of the concrete onto a slag pile outside, dropped the tools into a five gallon pickle bucket half-full of water, and hosed out the tub she'd used to mix the concrete.
"Ready for a break?" Lia held out a Starbucks Frappuccino ice-cream bar for Bailey, then ducked back into her dorm fridge to get another for herself.
"Do I get a Fr
appuccino bar after every set we pour?"
"Hah. We'd both blow up like Jabba the Hutt on Prozac if we ate that much ice cream."
"Let's see, three hundred pavers, divided by ten, that's thirty bars apiece. Surely we could handle that?" Bailey asked.
"Next time we bid a job, I'll have to add in the cost of ice cream and a week at a spa to work it off." Lia nibbled delicately at the chocolate as she relaxed on a stool.
"Make the spa in Costa Rica."
"Sure, Bailey, whatever you want. I assume you also want a pair of hunky masseurs to feed you grapes after your yoga sessions?"
"Can they be twins?"
"Absolutely."
"If only."
"Hey, we keep doing this, we might get to build our own little spa down in Costa Rica."
"You can forget the spa. Just send the twin masseurs." Bailey deposited her ice cream stick in the trash. "Any word on Terry yet?"
"He's stable. Right now they feel the coma is helping him heal. If it goes on too long, they'll re-evaluate his condition."
"That's so rotten. Weird, I got that call from him at the park, and a few hours later he's in the hospital. Can you believe he thought Luthor got that gun from me?"
"Where'd he get that idea?" Lia asked.
"Not sure. I don't recall ever showing Dad's gun to him. I might have told him about it, since he's such a gun nut. Terry seemed to think he'd laid eyes on an old Luger somewhere around here. Where do you suppose it was?"
"No telling. As many gun shows as he goes to, I'm surprised he can keep straight what he's seen where. But then, his brain is a repository for trivia."
"So, is Donna taking care of Jackson and Nappa?"
"Jose is helping out. He's been tossing them in the van and taking them to the park. Donna's a wreck, she spends every minute she can at the hospital."
"By the way, what's been happening with the delightful Detective McDreamy? I've seen him at the park a couple of times recently, but never when you're there. I could have sworn he liked you."
"I dunno. He's talked to me about Luthor a few times. It's upsetting, all the stuff Luthor was into. And me not knowing anything about it."
"Is finding out where the gun came from so important?"
Lia wanted so badly to share with Bailey the last revelation, that Luthor had been murdered, that the gun was critical. But Detective Dourson hadn't given her the go-ahead. She ignored the question. "I feel a bit guilty, he called as I was getting ready to come here and I didn't pick up. Didn't want to deal with him. He's been really decent, and he is attractive. You know I like long, lean men with puppy-dog eyes. But every time I talk to him, I find out something even more horrible than the last time we spoke."
"That would tend to put a girl off. Poor guy. So instead of shooting the messenger, can I have him? I promise to treat him badly."
Lia smirked. "I'll have to think about it."
~ ~ ~
Despite Brent's observations, Catherine was still the only true person of interest in the Morrisey case. But without a connection to the gun or the cell phone, there was no case. He hadn't shared his theory of a serial killer with Captain Roller. Brent had cautioned him on that point, and he was right. Inventing unsolved homicides out of yet unidentified deaths was not a good career move. With nothing but instinct to support his theory, he'd be asking for trouble. He wondered how Terry was doing. Jim told him about Terry's call to Bailey right before his accident. He wished he could pick his brain. It might be the break he was needing.
Catherine was avoiding him at the park. Apparently she hadn't told anyone about his visit with her Wednesday. Probably didn't want anyone finding out about her and Luthor, and figured keeping her mouth shut about the whole thing would keep a lid on it. Better for him for the time being. She kept staring at him with murderous looks from across the park. Jim asked him what he'd done to make her angry. He'd just shrugged. Lia wasn't taking his calls. He guessed he couldn't blame her. At least he had Viola, and he could count on one female to like him.
~ ~ ~
My favorite removal was a convenience store clerk. I bought a cup of decaf at this store every single day, for years. Then a snotty little blond began working Saturdays, and there was never any decaf when I went for my paper. She always said she would make a pot if I was willing to wait, which I wasn't. This went on for several months until one day I went in and found a full pot of freshly made decaf. Ken, the manager was at the register. I expressed to him my delight that it was available. He said, "I keep telling them that if they brew it, people will buy it."
The next Saturday, Miss Snot Face was back on the register and there was a full pot of decaf. She was ever so friendly when she sold me my coffee. Thirty minutes later, I was in the Kroger's parking lot. I was at least 100 yards and a key away from the nearest restroom when my bowels loosened.
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 a.m., 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 f
ound 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?"
A Shot in the Bark (A Dog Park Mystery) Page 11