by Nic Saint
“Let me see,” said Marge, coming up behind her husband and taking a random pluck of hair and inspecting it. “Looks fine to me, hon.”
“But on top?” Tex insisted. “Doesn’t it look a lot thinner on top all of a sudden?”
Marge stood on tippy-toes for a moment, but didn’t seem to share her husband’s concern. “Nope,” she said, tousling his hair affectionately. “Nothing to worry about.”
And then she went on her way, leaving him with a lingering doubt that not everything was okay up there. He sighed as he studied his face in the mirror. Getting old wasn’t a lot of fun. First his hair had gone all white in the space of only a couple of months, and now he was losing it? And then there were all those wrinkles, which hadn’t been there five years ago. Soon he’d be an old guy, and then what? He’d be Ol’ Doc Poole, and even as he imagined himself shuffling to his doctor’s office, and people greeting him with a mixture of respect and compassion, he felt sick to the stomach. And so when his mother-in-law came walking in five minutes later she encountered a noticeably glum-looking Tex.
“Don’t forget to eat the strawberries, Tex,” said Vesta. “They’re in the fridge.”
Tex grumbled something by way of response, and proceeded into the bedroom, where he put on his clothes and resigned himself for another day spent at the office advising people on how to stay fit and healthy. Maybe, he thought as he glanced out the window, it was time that he took some of that advice himself, and took better care of his own health.
And as he idly took in the scenery, he suddenly wondered what Max and Dooley and that small dog belonging to Kurt Mayfield were doing in the field behind the house. Looked to him as if they were holding some kind of meeting, standing near that old car wreck he’d told the town council to get rid of ages ago and which was still very much in evidence.
He shifted his attention to Ted Trapper, his other neighbor, and saw how that mild-mannered accountant was using the expensive pressure washer he’d recently bought and had bragged about to divest his deck of moss and other green eyesores. Then Ted caught sight of one of his precious garden gnomes, wavered a moment, then applied the high-powered tool on the gnome. Immediately the gnome exploded into a thousand pieces, and Ted’s anguished cry could probably be heard all through the neighborhood. Tex committed the moment to memory, to brighten up an otherwise dull day, and the only regret he felt, as he gave Ted a jolly wave, was that he hadn’t caught the scene on video.
He proceeded down the stairs and into the kitchen, and his daughter Odelia, who’d popped in to borrow some eggs, must have noticed that dear old dad was in one of his moods again, and came over to give him a rub on the back. “Everything all right, Dad?”
“I’m losing my hair,’” he grumbled as he looked in the fridge for those strawberries Vesta had mentioned. “Soon I’ll be bald, and who knows what else life has in store for me.”
Odelia couldn’t suppress a smile, and seeing it reminded Tex that he was being a total grump. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “It’s just that getting old sucks, you know.”
“I know, Dad,” said Odelia indulgently, smiling with all the radiance of youth.
“Ted is cleaning his gnomes,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “He bought himself one of those pressure washers—the most expensive one he could find at Costco’s—and he decided to try it on those damn gnomes of his. Of course it immediately fell apart. I could have told him, if he’d listen, but of course Ted always knows better.” The thought of Ted’s face crumpling tickled his funny bone once more, and so it was with a slight diminution of grumpiness that he poured himself a cup of hot black coffee and sat down to enjoy a hearty breakfast. “By the way, Max and Dooley are playing out by that old car wreck. You better tell them to stay away from there. They might hurt themselves.”
“Max and Dooley are always careful. They’ll be fine.”
He shrugged. In the Poole household the cats were mainly the womens’ concern. With no less than four cats divided between the two households, they were very well endowed with representatives of the feline species, and mostly Tex didn’t mind. The only thing he did mind was the hair. Even now, as he ladled a spoon of strawberry yogurt into his mouth, he suddenly noticed a white hair adorning the main strawberry, ready to be ingested by this unsuspecting human. With a shake of the head, he plucked it out and wondered how much cat hair he’d swallowed in his life as a consequence of having to share home and hearth with those cats. And as he glanced over to Harriet and Brutus, who were eating their fill at their respective bowls, he suddenly found himself wondering why it was that cats never got bald. And now that he thought about it, dogs were the same way. “Honey?” he said, deciding to ask the expert. “Have you ever seen a bald cat?”
“No, I can’t say that I have,” said Marge, who was reading something on her phone.
“Dad, you really shouldn’t worry about losing your hair,” said Odelia, who was standing behind him, and was inspecting the crown of his head with deft fingers.
“I told him exactly the same thing,” said Marge, “but he doesn’t believe me.”
But Tex was too busy following up on this most recent brainstorm he’d just experienced. So cats and dogs didn’t lose their hair—ever? Not even when they got old and entered their senior years? It was definitely something he needed to follow up on.
“You have a tiny birthmark here, Dad,” said Odelia. “In the shape of a butterfly. So cute.”
“He has?” asked Marge, as she came to stand next to her daughter to join the inspection. “Oh, you’re right. Can you imagine I’ve been married to your father for twenty-five years and I’ve never seen this before?”
“What’s going on?” asked Vesta, who’d come stomping down the stairs and now joined the merriment. “What’s so interesting?”
“Tex has a birthmark in the shape of a butterfly,” said Marge.
“What do you know?” said Vesta as she also took a gander at the strange phenomenon.
“This is the first time I’ve seen this.”
“Of course it is. Before now, Tex’s hair was so thick and luxuriant you couldn’t see through the thicket. But now that he’s going bald all kinds of stuff will be showing up.”
Tex looked up sharply at this, causing Marge to yank at a small tuft of hair. “See?” he said. “Your mother is seeing it, too. I am losing my hair.”
“Of course you’re losing your hair,” said Vesta, who never beat about the bush or spared a person’s feelings if she could help it. “You’re getting old, sonny boy. Soon you’ll have a nice billiard ball for a head, and then all of those weird spots will become visible to the whole world.” She grinned at her daughter. “I can’t wait to see what else comes floating to the surface. He probably has a whole collection of weird spots. Spots in all different colors and shapes. Bumps, too.”
Tex uttered an unhappy groan, the thought of going completely bald affecting him powerfully, as it does most men.
“Ma, don’t say such things,” said Marge reproachfully.
“Why not? It’s the truth. Better to rip off that band-aid than to coddle.”
“Don’t listen to Ma, honey,” said Marge soothingly as she placed a tender kiss on the top of his head. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Oh, I don’t? Of all the men I know only two still have a full head of hair, and those are Dick Bernstein and Rock Horowitz, and the only reason for that is…” She hesitated when she caught Tex’s feverish and intent look.
“Yes?” he said. “What’s the reason they still have a full head of hair?”
“I’m sorry,” said Vesta, and snapped her lips closed and shook her head.
“Tell me!” Tex cried.
“I can’t! I promised them not to divulge their secret, and I may be many things but I’m not a tattletale,” said the woman who was probably the biggest tattletale in town.
Tex felt a powerful urge to throttle his mother-in-law, but years of training had taught hi
m to practice restraint, so he let the moment pass, and soon he was calm again.
“Don’t listen to Gran, Dad,” said Odelia, also placing a loving kiss on the top of her dad’s head. “You’re not going bald.”
And as Vesta popped a piece of bread in the toaster and Odelia left with her eggs, and Marge resumed reading on her phone, Tex found his eyes once again drifting down to Harriet and Brutus, who were now licking themselves, as they usually did once they’d eaten their fill. And that’s when he made up his mind: he would discover the secret to the perfectly healthy head of hair, and he would crack that secret code. Whatever it took.
3
After our discovery we hurried home to share this bit of news with Odelia, and hopefully get a full investigation going into the origin of those bones, which, I was almost certain, had once belonged to a human being.
“What do you think happened to that person, Max?” asked Dooley.
“Murdered,” said Fifi decidedly. “As a dog, I have a superior sense of smell, and I’ll tell you right now that this whole thing smells to murder for sure.”
“It could be that the person simply died,” I said. “Not every person who dies is murdered, Fifi.”
“I know, but what human would go out to that field and die? There are better places.”
“You talk as if a person can simply pick and choose where they’re going to die,” I countered. “Death tends to sneak up on a person, Fifi. It doesn’t follow orders.”
Fifi thought about this for all of five seconds, then shook her head decidedly. “No, it was murder, Max. I’m calling it.”
“Fine,” I said. There was no point for me to argue the case, since there was no way to know for sure what had happened to this person—or even if it was a person. Until the police got involved, and a forensic investigator, the whole thing was shrouded in mystery.
“Of course it could be that this person died in their bed,” said Dooley, adding his own two cents, “and that dogs took the bones and dragged them all the way out here to bury.” He directed a quizzical look at Fifi, but the latter shook her head.
“Don’t look at me like that, Dooley. I’m not the kind of dog who goes and picks up stray human bones and then dispatches them to fallow fields far afield. I’m very choosy on the kinds of bones I like to pick, and human bones definitely aren’t in my wheelhouse.”
“You were going to bury them, Fifi,” Dooley pointed out. “You said so yourself.”
“I was thinking about burying them—thinking about doing something is not the same as actually doing it, Dooley. And I did ask you for your advice first, didn’t I?”
“Only because we just happened to pass by. If we hadn’t passed by, you would have gone and buried them for sure.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“You buried one of them.”
“One is none, Dooley.”
“What does that even mean!”
We’d arrived in our backyard, and so I went in search of Odelia to give her this big piece of news. I finally found her inside, in the kitchen, having breakfast with Chase. Judging from the smell they were having scrambled eggs and toast—an excellent choice, if I may say so. “Odelia?” I said. “You might want to have a look at some bones that were left in that field behind the house.”
“They’re human bones,” Dooley added. “And Fifi thinks they belong to someone who was murdered.”
“Very good of you to give credit where credit is due, Dooley,” said Fifi appreciatively.
“Max says there’s a skeleton lying in the field behind the house,” said Odelia, translating my words for her husband, who sat reading a comic book he’d borrowed from his father-in-law, and sipping from a cup of piping hot black coffee. He looked up at the mention of the word skeleton, and, not unlike a pointing dog, was ready for action. “A skeleton?” he said, sitting upright and ready to go where duty called. “Who found it?”
“Fifi,” I said dutifully. Though I didn’t mention the Yorkie was about to bury the bones, and if Dooley and I hadn’t arrived on the scene, that skeleton would probably never have been found. But then that’s dogs for you: they tend to go off half-cocked.
“I’m going to take a look,” said Chase, getting up while still holding onto his cup of coffee and taking a sip then putting it down. “Are you coming?”
“Absolutely,” said Odelia, and then both of our humans were off, with Dooley and myself and of course Fifi leading the way.
“An actual skeleton,” said Chase, sounding as happy as a kid who’s found buried treasure. “I wonder how it got there, and how long it’s been there, and who it belongs to. Are you sure it’s human, Max?”
“He’s sure,” said Odelia, without consulting me.
“Human skeletons have a tendency to decay,” Dooley explained for Fifi’s sake, “and the level of decay can tell an expert how long ago the person died. I saw a documentary about this on the Discovery Channel. There’s a place where they keep bodies in all kinds of different circumstances and then monitor the decay. It’s very yucky, but also interesting.”
“Trust me when I tell you, Dooley,” said Fifi, “that this person has been there exactly three months, three days and five hours—could also be six.” She stuck her nose in the air. “You don’t have to teach me bones,” she explained. “As a dog I’m an expert on bones.”
“You should have been a police dog, Fifi. They could really use a dog like you.”
Fifi gave us a wistful look. “I wish,” she said fervently. “But I’m too small to be a police dog.”
“Would you like to be a police dog?” I asked now. I’m not a big fan of dogs in general, but it is true that they have a certain usefulness when set about performing a specific set of tasks. Not as useful as cats, obviously, but then most cats have no interest in entering the field of policing, and dogs do, since their natural tendency is to obey orders, something cats feel goes against their innate sense of independence. And if you say: but, Max, you follow orders all the time, then I’m going to tell you that I don’t. I respect Odelia, and if she asks me to do something, I weigh the request, then decide for myself whether to engage or not. Big difference!
We arrived at the spot indicated, and Chase looked about as giddy as a puppy ready to try out a new bouncy ball. “It’s a skeleton, all right,” he announced happily. “Max called it.”
“Actually I called it, Chase,” said Fifi.
“Fifi called it,” I told Odelia, who decided not to translate this message for her husband, since it didn’t make any difference. Also, Chase was studying the scene now, an intense frown cutting a groove in his brow. He crouched down and inspected the bones, getting close and personal with the remains. “If I’m not mistaken there’s parts missing,” he said. He then darted a curious look at Fifi. “The dog been at it, you think?”
“Must be,” said Odelia.
“It wasn’t me!” said Fifi, clearly resenting the accusation. “I didn’t touch them!”
“You touched one bone, Fifi,” Dooley reiterated his earlier statement.
“One is none, Dooley! One is none!”
“There’s one more bone over there,” I said, and pointed Odelia in the right direction.
“I think it’s time we called your uncle,” said Chase, as he rose again and took out his phone. He now directed a curious look at the car wreck which sat only a dozen or so feet away from the skeleton. “Whose car is that?” he asked as he put his phone to his ear.
“The land belongs to Blake Carrington,” said Odelia. “So the car must be his, too. I know Dad has been begging the town council for years to get rid of it, but no luck so far.”
“Years, huh? I wonder if this poor schmuck has been lying here for years, too. Alec? Yeah, I think you better get down here. To the house. We found a skeleton in Blake Carrington’s field. Oh, and better get Abe out here as well. Looks to me like it’s human.” After he’d disconnected, he frowned pensively. “Odd,” he said, glancing around.
“Wha
t?” said Odelia as she snapped a couple of pictures of the skeleton with her phone.
“This field is surrounded on all sides by houses, right?”
“Except on that side,” said Odelia, pointing in a south-southwestern direction, if I wasn’t mistaken.
“So how come it took Max to finally make the discovery?”
“It wasn’t me,” I said quickly as Fifi opened her mouth to speak.
“I see what you mean,” said Odelia, nodding. “You think someone recently put this here?”
“I mean, people come here all the time, right?” the burly cop said, indicating what looked like the remnants of a fire. Plenty of cigarette butts lay in its vicinity, and a couple of crumpled beer cans and even an empty bottle of Scotch.
“Could be that they didn’t notice?”
“That they were having a party next to a dead person? I doubt that very much, babe. They might be high on whatever substance they like to imbue, but they’re not that high. No,” he said as he rubbed his impressive chin. “I think this person was recently dumped here. Which makes me wonder: why now? And why here?”
4
Since there wasn’t anything more for us to do out there, we decided to return to the house and have a bite to eat. The smell of breakfast had reminded me I hadn’t had anything to eat in at least one or two hours, and if I wanted to keep up my strength it was imperative I stock up on the necessary nutrients and vitamins ASAP. And so we left the humans to poke around that field for possible clues as to how that body could have gotten there, and were soon enjoying a nice and healthy snack. Fifi had returned home as well, since Kurt was already hollering her name. Kurt gets worried when Fifi wanders off, and is never happier than when he can keep an eye on her. Dog owners are like that: if their precious pet wanders off, they freak out. Cat owners are exactly the opposite: if their precious pet doesn’t wander off, that’s when they freak and think something is wrong.