by Joyce Harmon
There. I looked at my work and saw that it was good. More confidently now, I did a quick walk through the house. I didn’t touch anything, so I could honestly say the only crime scene touching I did was necessary.
The house was a one-story two bedroom house. The dining room seemed to have been converted into an eBuy depot. There was a table and chairs in the middle of the room, so it was still usable as a dining room. But elegant, not so much. Shelves ranged along one wall. The shelves were carefully labeled and crammed with products. I examined the labels and saw that Rose had shelves for ‘to be photographed’, ‘to be listed’, ‘current auctions’, ‘relist’, and ‘to be shipped’. There was also more shipping paraphernalia than I’d seen in our little post office.
Everything here was out in the open, and it looked fairly neat. I had no way of telling if anything was missing.
The main bedroom looked messier, but it looked like normal living clutter to my untrained eye. The guest room had been taken over by storage, and it was a wreck. I couldn’t believe that the woman who kept that dining area so organized would leave a store room like this. It looked to me more like a hasty search than random destruction, but what do I know?
A noise from the kitchen startled me. I swung around and hurried back there, to find Paco throwing up all over the kitchen floor.
It was only then I realized that I’d automatically given him a ‘dog-sized’ portion of food, forgetting that my dog weighed ninety pounds. And Paco, not having eaten for several days, had tried to eat it all.
“Poor little guy!” I cried remorsefully. “I’m sorry!” I’d meant well.
I ran to the living room to look out the front window. No sign of the authorities yet. What was keeping them? Of course, it’s a big county and a small department, so who knows where the responders were when they got the call.
I went back to the kitchen to check on Paco. He was still vomiting. Polly often vomits when she’s eaten something she shouldn’t, which is a common occurrence in the country with dogs allowed off-leash. But she’s matter-of-fact about it, like it wasn’t a big deal. Paco was doing this whole-body barf that was terrifying to behold. I was starting to worry. Had I killed him?
Back to the front window. Still nothing. Back to the kitchen. Still barfing.
After a moment’s hesitation, I plucked the phone receiver from the wall, and dialed Doc Harding’s office. (Why, yes, I have my vet’s office number memorized – doesn’t everybody?) But just as the phone started ringing on the other end, I heard the crunch of gravel and knew that the Authorities had arrived.
I hung up and went to the back door. First on the scene, in an unmarked car, was Luther Dawson. Luther ‘found any dead bodies lately?’ Dawson. Who else? He got out of his vehicle and drew his pistol.
He approached the back door and scowled at me; with his basset-hound features, his scowl is dreadful to behold. “I see you disobeyed instructions to get out,” was his greeting.
“Oh, knock it off, Luther,” I said irritably. “And put that thing away. I’ve been through the house and there’s nobody here but me and the dog. And Rose, of course.”
He holstered his weapon and entered the kitchen, rocking back as he crossed the threshold as if he’d taken a punch to the nose. Which I suppose he had, in an olfactory sense.
“Whoa!” he said. He looked over the kitchen, noting the dried blood and the scattering of ejected kibble, then walked cautiously around the table to view the body. After a moment, he said, “Uh-HUH!”
He turned back to me, pulling out his battered little notebook and flipping it open. “Okay, now Miz Rayburn,” he began.
Just then the phone rang. After eying it suspiciously through several rings, Luther went to the wall and answered. “Hello?”
He listened for a moment and then said, “Miz Jackson can’t come to the phone right now, who is this?” More listening, and then, “The vet’s office? A call from here?”
I raised a hand sheepishly. “That would be me.”
The scowl was back. Luther handed the phone to me. “Cecilia Rayburn,” I said into it.
“Cissy?!” It was Doc Harding. “Our Caller ID here shows a call and hang-up from Rose Jackson’s house.”
“That was me,” I answered. “I overfed a chihuahua and he was throwing up; I got concerned.”
“You looking after Rose’s Paco?” Doc asked.
“Yes, I guess so,” I equivocated. I looked down at the little dog. “But he’s stopped vomiting. It was pretty scary there for a few minutes, but I think he’ll be okay. He hadn’t eaten for a while, and I don’t know about portion sizes for little dogs.”
“Hadn’t eaten – Cissy, what’s going on?”
Luther gave me a Look. I said hastily, “Doc, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back if Paco has any more problems.” And I hung up.
Luther said, “You fed the dog.”
“Well, look!” I gestured toward the corner. “She’s obviously been dead a good while. And the dog hadn’t been fed. What was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to leave like you were told and leave my crime scene alone.”
“Alright!” I capitulated. I went to the counter and picked up a roll of paper towels. “I’ll just clean up the dog mess…”
“Put that down!” Luther roared.
I hastily put the roll back down. “But that’s not crime scene per se,” I argued. “It wasn’t here when I arrived, so I thought…”
“And stop thinking!” Luther added.
Well, if he was going to get in such a state. “What do you want me to do?” I asked humbly.
“Go outside, but don’t leave,” he said. “Since you’ve hung around anyway, I’ll have some questions for you.”
We both raised our heads then, at the sound of sirens getting closer. But it wasn’t the Sheriff’s department arriving, it was the Rescue Squad.
“Déjà vu all over again,” I told Luther, and headed out to the back yard.
Luther stood in the door of the kitchen, as Buddy Haines leaped out of the ambulance and bustled toward the door, determined to resuscitate the lifeless.
“You’re not coming in here, Buddy,” Luther told him.
Pot-bellied Buddy, in his unflattering EMT jumpsuit, managed to sound surprisingly authoritative. “Don’t give me that, Luther, you know darn well…”
“I’m calling it,” Luther interrupted him. “Live folks don’t rot. Nobody’s coming in here but our crime scene techs.”
“Geez,” Buddy replied. “Rot, like rot?”
“You heard me,” Luther told him. “Go on, get on out of here. I’ll take responsibility.”
For a wonder, Buddy backed down. As the Rescue Squad ambulance backed away, we heard more sirens. Here came the crime scene techs. Luther gestured to the back yard. “Stick around,” he told me.
The back yard boasted a cracked concrete slab patio with a sad looking picnic table. I took a seat, wishing that a) I had one of those new cell phones, and b) if I had one, that there was coverage in Queen Anne County.
Techs bustled passed me into the kitchen, carrying cases of equipment, several giving me curious looks as they passed.
After a few moments, I heard a crash from the kitchen, a high-pitched yelp, and someone barking, “God DAMN it!”
Curiosity got the better of me. I went to the screen door and looked in. One tech was on his back on the floor and another was in a kitchen chair holding onto his ankle.
“It BIT me!” moaned the tech in the chair. “I’m gonna have to get rabies shots!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told him through the screen. “I’m sure Rose kept Paco’s shots up to date. Call Doc Harding and ask her.”
The tech on the floor was on his knees now, rubbing his backside. “What did I slip on?”
“That was probably the dog vomit,” I suggested helpfully. “I wanted to clean it up, but Investigator Dawson wouldn’t let me.”
Luther came to the screen. “Miz Rayburn,
if you don’t mind…”
“Tell you what,” I interrupted him. “I saw a dog carrier in the pantry. Why don’t I crate Paco and take him back to my place? You can come question me there. That should get Paco out of your hair and prevent any more unfortunate incidents.”
Luther gave me a hard look, and after an uncomfortable pause, he gave a long-suffering sigh and held the screen open. “The carrier and the dog, and don’t touch anything else.”
I entered the kitchen and went to the pantry, where I pulled the little carrier out from below the shelves. I noticed the bag of kibble and pulled it out as well.
“Luther,” I called over to him, “I’ll need the dog food too, and where’s a leash?”
Turning, I saw a leash and a small harness hanging from a hook on the wall. “That,” I said.
Luther had been talking to one of the techs, something technical about blood and fibers, and turned to me with a sigh. “Sure,” he said. He handed me the leash and harness. The harness looked too small to fit even Tough Stuff.
“Where’s Paco?” I asked.
The tech who got bit pointed toward the living room. “He ran that way.”
“Grady, you go with her,” Luther told him.
I went into the living room, with Grady limping behind me. “You should put some hydrogen peroxide on that,” I told him.
The tech who’d slipped called after us, “That thing needs to be put down.”
“Aw hell,” Grady called back to him. “You startled him when you fell is all. This is his house and all these strange people and then you go crashing down. He was defending himself, poor little feller.”
I was silently relieved that the tech with the most reason to file a complaint against Paco was taking that attitude. And speaking of Paco, where was he? If he came this way, he must be in the living room. I opened the carrier and placed it in the middle of the living room floor, and Grady and I proceeded to search.
We found him eventually behind the sofa. Grady bravely pulled the sofa away from the wall and moved toward Paco, who dashed around the other side, where I snatched him up quickly and popped him into the crate.
“Allll-right!” Grady said admiringly, offering me a palm to slap.
“Nothing to it,” I said modestly, slapping his palm. “I’ve crated a lot of cats and they’re much more flexible. They can twist and turn like little dervishes. Dogs are child’s play by comparison.”
I hoisted the carrier, which rocked and shuddered as Paco raced around inside looking for a way out. Going back through the kitchen, I saw the stretcher and body bag were here.
“I’ll just head on out then,” I told Luther.
“Straight home and stay there!” he said.
“Yes, mother,” I replied meekly, and made my escape.
I put the carrier on the passenger seat and headed out. Even if I’d wanted to disobey Luther for some reason and take the scenic route, I would have quickly changed my mind. Paco started a shrill whine and kept it up all the way home. I spoke soothing nonsense as I drove; he didn’t seem to be paying attention.
As we got back to my house and I pulled the carrier out of the car, he finally fell silent. What a relief! For me, at least, but the little guy looked traumatized, crouched in the carrier and looking around at unfamiliar surroundings.
I carried the case into the kitchen. Claws skittered on the floor and Polly charged in to greet me. But right over the threshold, she came to a screeching halt, almost going into a skid, as she saw what I was carrying. She gave me a look that was the distilled essence of astonishment, and it finally occurred to me to wonder if bringing Paco here was such a good idea.
I heard a low menacing sound from about head height, and turned to see Tough Stuff on top of the refrigerator. He too was expressing dismay at his human’s latest insanity.
You’d think that Paco would realize by now that he was well behind enemy lines and that caution was of the essence. But no, he went into a frenzy of shrill defiance. Was he simply suicidal?
What to do? Deploy the baby gates.
I dragged the baby gates (all dog owners have them) out of the hall closet, and put one across the door into the laundry room. I put a bowl of water on the laundry room floor, then carefully extracted Paco from his carrier and leaned over the gate to put him on the floor. He stopped barking (whew!) and began a reconnoiter.
Then I took a second baby gate and placed it above the first one, hopefully blocking access to the laundry room for cats as well as dogs. Tough Stuff was bigger than Paco, and he didn’t put up with disrespect.
Now what?
I needed expert advice. I went to the phone and dialed the vet’s office and asked to speak to Doctor Harding. She came to the phone immediately. “Cissy? What’s going on?”
“I don’t think I can get into that, Doc,” I told her. “But I’ve got Paco at my house. He hadn’t eaten, probably for several days, so I fed him and stupidly gave him too much. I think he threw up everything he ate. Can I feed him, and what and how much?”
There was a pause. Finally Doc said, “Do you have his regular food?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s a dry food.”
“Okay. Just give him a few bites at a time, and let it soak in water for a while first to soften up. Only a few pieces every several hours.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“A day or so ought to do it,” Doc said. “How long will you have Paco?”
“I really don’t know.” I heard gravel crunch outside and Polly sounded the dog alarm in case I didn’t know that someone had entered her realm. “Doc, I’ve got to go.”
I hung up and saw out the window that Luther had arrived. I shook off a feeling of guilt. After all, I did come straight home and I did stay here, and he didn’t actually say not to call anyone. I made one important call and I didn’t even mention the murder. Reminding myself of my complete rectitude, I went to the door and let Luther in.
Luther was the county’s chief crime investigator. Don’t let that hang-dog basset look fool you; he’s twice as smart as the Sheriff. At least.
“Ma’am,” he said politely, entering the kitchen. He ruffled Polly’s ears and added, “Hey there, girl.”
Paco set up a shrill fusillade of protest. Look at me, I’ve been locked up!
“Maybe we should move into the living room,” I suggested.
“Good idea.” We moved out of the kitchen. Gesturing back over his shoulder, Luther added, “That’s gonna get real old real soon.”
“Tell me about it!” I agreed. “What are you going to do with him? What happens with pets when their owners die?”
“They wind up at the pound, unless friends or relatives take them.”
“Oh no!”
The authorities in Queen Anne County are not bad, heartless people. But as with all local governments, money is tight. Not much gets spent on housing animals that no one wants. The accommodations are meager and the residencies are short.
“Maybe he ought to stay here until we can notify next of kin,” Luther suggested.
“Who would that be?” I asked, gesturing to the best chair, the wingback that hadn’t received too much claw attention yet from Tough Stuff.
Luther sat down and brought out his little notebook. “I think it’s me that’s supposed to be asking the questions,” he said mildly.
“Oh, right!” I hastily sat down on the sofa and prepared to be a model citizen. Luther is amazing when you come to think of it; I probably get on his last nerve, but he never shows it.
“Tell me about finding the body,” he said.
“Okay. Let’s see. I was out delivering some wine to Washington House and on the way back, I realized I was driving by Rose Jackson’s house, so I thought I’d stop by…” This was tricky. Should I bring up the other break-ins?
Luther solved the problem for me. “I heard the phone message,” he said tonelessly.
“Oh! Then you know what I wanted to ask her about. You know Julia and Amy both h
ad break-ins and they were two of the big buyers at your grandmother’s auction. Rose was another big buyer, so of course I wondered…”
“And it didn’t occur to you to call me?”
Ouch. Because it hadn’t so much as crossed my mind. “Well,” I said sheepishly, “Julia talked like not much was going on about her break-in, so I didn’t think the department would be interested. And it was just a notion, after all.” He was still giving me that look that made me feel incredibly guilty. “Come on, Luther! I called you as soon as I knew there was a crime!”
“You knew there was a crime when you saw the damage to the door,” he pointed out.
“Wellll – but by then I was right there. And Paco was barking like crazy and, I don’t know, it just seemed…”
“Never mind,” he said with a sigh. “Go on.”
“I went in and I called for Rose, I saw the blood on the floor – and you know the rest.”
“The rest including feeding the dog, causing him to barf all over my crime scene.”
I missed the faint crunch of gravel, but Polly, who’d been taking up half the sofa and seeming to listen politely to our conversation, jumped to the floor and padded into the kitchen. Paco began his shrill keening again as the door opened.
Luther and I waited in silence as footsteps crossed the kitchen to the laundry room door, and an exasperated male voice exclaimed, “Aw, HELL no!”
My beloved husband was home.
“Cissy?” he called. “Where are you and why is there a little yapping dog in the laundry room? And if you think for one minute we’re going to keep it…” Jack appeared in the doorway and stopped. “Oh, hello, Luther.” He gestured back toward the kitchen. “Cissy? – “
“That’s Rose’s Paco,” I told him. “Remember I told you about the chihuahua?”
“What’s it doing here?”
“Rose is dead, Jack. I found her in her kitchen with her head bashed in. And with all the police and crime scene business going on, I brought Paco here.”
As I was speaking, Jack slowly lowered himself onto the ottoman. “Oh, not again!” he moaned. “Luther, make her stop!”