The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set

by Elizabeth Sims

“At one point, they led us into a cul-de-sac and then turned on us,” he said.

  “Good God,” I said.

  “I never climbed so fast in my life. We made it to a rooftop, then got down a stairwell. We caught up with them in the next alley and used some garbage cans to choke down their flow, so to speak. Sylvan’s a master with that noose stick.”

  “Is Sylvan OK?”

  “Yeah, he went home. I went to Hancock Park and tried to return Ernest here to his owner, but the house is locked up and nobody answered my pounding. So, I’ll put him in a kennel in the morning until I can find my client.”

  “What about Gonzalo’s place?” I asked warily. “Doesn’t he have a backyard over in Los Feliz?”

  “Yeah, but he’s also got a wolfhound that mangled the last dog who came to visit. I can’t take the risk. Please, Rita. Gina? It’s only for the rest of tonight. You can close him in Petey’s room.”

  “We could put some newspapers down,” suggested Gina helpfully.

  “Why didn’t Sylvan offer to take him?”

  “His kennels are full, and he doesn’t want this guy handing along any fleas.”

  “Fleas, oh, great. Better they all jump off here.”

  Gina commented, “Yeah, and he could have picked up some other disease or something that Sylvan wouldn’t want passed to his dogs.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” I said.

  Gina volunteered, “I bet I could give him a bath.”

  “Rita,” George pleaded.

  My sister piled on, “Don’t make it such a big deal, Rita. We can handle this little favor for George, can’t we? I mean, he took on the whole feral pack tonight! I’ll get the newspapers out of recycling. I sort of forgot to put them out last week!”

  _____

  When George came by at 10:15 that morning, I was still logy with gin and sleep—the few hours I’d caught—and he grabbed the dog and split fast, spewing thanks over his showered and shirted shoulder.

  Gina and I had given Ernest some hamburger, and she had in fact attempted to give him a bath, but in the end couldn’t even coax him into the tub. We made a bed for him from an old flannel blanket I’d been planning to take to the mission. Gina had heard him growling in his sleep, but hadn’t thought much of it.

  When we inspected the small bedroom after first coffee, Gina remarked, “I think that dog’s got a personality disorder.”

  “God damn it,” I said. “I mean, real God damn it.”

  The dog had, with careful precision, rubbed much of his stinking black dirt on the rug, on Petey’s bed, even the walls along the baseboards. He’d slept, if at all, on Petey’s bed, which looked like a bucket of old, old sewage sludge had spilled on it. The last surviving Spider-Man sheet was unsalvageable. The frayed flannel “dog” blanket was untouched.

  It took one and a half bottles of Mr. Clean and every rag I owned to clean and deodorize Petey’s room after Ernest. It was not a happy job. But at last we were done, Gina threw open the window, and you’d never know a canine had been around.

  _____

  The afternoon endowment ceremony was a glorious convergence of high spirits, sunshine, TV cameras, music, and potato salad.

  Kip Cubitt was at his grandmother’s side in a tan suit. He walked haltingly, but tall and free. No more fear of the Whale, no more fighting off the coercion and the thuggery.

  Khani Emberton and Amaryllis B. Cubitt stood on the steps of the mission and said all the things you’d expect about The Heroism Of Ordinary Folks, and How We Can All Make A Difference Together.

  I yearned to hear an ethereal pearl or two from Amaryllis’s lips, but she kept it all on the surface.

  What I did observe, however, was new depth in the Iron Angel’s eyes. The old hardness was gone, and with it the guilt, the remorse, the dread—and the empty space left behind was enormous. Amaryllis seemed surprised by this, and I could see her beginning to fill that space with joy. Simple joy. That was what I saw.

  I envied her, because I believe she had let go of the past entirely, and was now focused on today like no one I’d ever seen.

  It had taken a bullet-studded cataclysm to open that door for her.

  I wondered what it would take to open it for me.

  As I say, there was picnic food, and perhaps three hundred people—streeties and swells alike—were fed.

  Diane Keever, as straight and proud in her wheelchair as Kip was without one, attended as Amaryllis’s special guest. George steered her around.

  Afterward, Gina and I grabbed trash bags and picked up litter with the rest of the volunteers. We lingered a few minutes with Amaryllis and Mrs. Keever, both of them looking ungodly fresh.

  Neneng would soon undergo the first operation of several to reconstruct her nose from her own facial tissue and skin, Mrs. Keever told us. “Doctor make new.” The stoic piano virtuoso would be scarred, but she’d have a nose.

  “Trouble is, she doesn’t have insurance,” said Mrs. Keever. “I’d pay for it, except I need—”

  “You need what?” Amaryllis broke in, formidably.

  “Except I need to give all that money back to your mission.”

  “No,” said Amaryllis, “you use that money to pay her bills, which I predict will add up. That’s a good enough use of that money, I judge.”

  I asked Mrs. Keever how she intended to get by, without Amaryllis’s payments.

  She gazed up at us with a smile, and suddenly I saw the face of Paramount’s Vera Luxon in that terrific photograph. I realized I’d never seen Mrs. Keever’s smile except in that shot. Right now her smile was fresh and real and it transformed her whole face, and she said, “I’m going to act again.”

  “You’re joking,” said George.

  “She isn’t,” I murmured, feeling my own face lift in a smile.

  “First, I’m going to get my knees replaced,” she told us in a steady, sweet voice, “then I’m going to refresh my skills with workshops in L.A. I’m moving here with Neneng, after I sell the farmhouse. I’ll gain weight, round myself out, and I’ll get an agent, and I’ll start going on auditions as a character actress. I can play Kindly Grandmother or Evil Grandmother!” She bared her teeth in a snarl to show us, and she was transformed again, and I thought yeah, that character could stir arsenic into your Ovaltine.

  “Well—go for it!” was all I could say. “Go for it!”

  I thought again of that tremendous photograph of her on the piano. Now, though, she was more beautiful than ever, that was a magical fact.

  I watched George watch Mrs. Keever admiringly. I guess he really goes for actresses!

  _____

  George Rowe found the Japanese gardener trimming a bush in Colonel Markovich’s front yard at nine on Monday morning.

  After a brief conversation, Rowe learned that Markovich had gone into the hospital for a minor heart procedure and was expected to be home tomorrow.

  For his part, the gardener learned that Ernest the plant-digging beagle was coming home and he’d better look for a gardening job that would suit him better than this one. Today.

  _____

  Gina learned that Special Agent Milton Fairbarn, unfortunately, was leaving Los Angeles for a new undercover assignment elsewhere, location not disclosed to us. I asked her, over coffee on Monday morning, if she was sad about that.

  Dismally, she said, “Oh, my God, no. I could never date a guy named Milton. I mean, Milton? Come on.”

  I realized his name had nothing to do with it; she was just sour-graping it to save face. Which was OK, I mean, I’d probably do the same thing.

  I flew to Wisconsin Monday night.

  Petey knocked me on my butt with the velocity of his greeting.

  Aunt Sheila had been forced to pay a ransom of twenty-five dollars to the Rawson family for the return of Uncle Fritz’s boar’s head. Whitey, the puppy, had run away.

  “As in, back to the Rawson place,” Aunt Toots muttered under her breath.

  “We’re very, very tired,” Sheila sa
id.

  They both did look a bit glassy.

  Back at home, my boy raced to his room to settle in. Then I heard him calling me.

  “What’s this? What’s this?” he demanded, pulling his toys from under his bed.

  I’d forgotten about his stash of toys and lost balled-up socks down there. Moreover I hadn’t realized the dog could have squeezed himself under that low bed, but of course he would have taken it as a challenge.

  Trikey, Petey’s stuffed triceratops, had been chewed thoughtfully from head to tail, especially the head. It had not been decapitated, exactly, but it certainly looked like a much different species now.

  “And look at my Lego bag, Mom! Look at my combo snorkel and diving mask! Who’s been in here? Mom!”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him a dog had been in his room, as in, we had a dog while you were gone but took him away before you came home. I just could not try to explain that, because I knew it would only traumatize him. Gina was at work, or she might have blurted the truth.

  So I closed my eyes and lied, “Honey, I don’t know. It might have been the vacuum cleaner, you know?” I opened my eyes. “Yes, I was vacuuming under there while you were away.”

  He stared at me, hard. “A vacuum cleaner did not do this. Look—there’s like slobber marks on Trikey, see?”

  “I just have no idea, honey, it’s a mystery. Gosh, that’s too bad about Trikey. Maybe we can write to Santa to request a replacement.”

  Sadly, he said, “I don’t want another Trikey, I want a dog.” Hell, hell, hell.

  Chapter 36 – Wrapping Up With Zing

  On Wednesday morning, George Rowe delivered Ernest, bathed and flea-powdered, to Colonel Markovich.

  The Colonel was overjoyed, as was Ernest, who wagged so hard Rowe feared he’d snap his spine.

  He shook hands with Markovich’s retired-RN daughter, who had come from the East Coast to look after him for a couple of weeks.

  Rowe had spent a lot of time thinking about the Colonel and his lonely world, and his heart moved with compassion for the old man. He understood what the venerable war hero wanted, and what he didn’t want.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, taking a seat with the Colonel on the sun porch.

  “Wonderful!” Markovich laughed. “I haven’t a care in the world now that Ernest’s back. And a clean bill of health! Except for having to find a new gardener! The son of a gun didn’t even give notice.” He certainly looked chipper.

  And he was dreadfully curious.

  “I went to China on my own,” began Rowe with quiet intensity.

  Markovich bolted upright in his armchair, where the daughter had tucked him with a blanket and a cup of tea. “Yes?”

  “I realized you were absolutely right about the Chinese situation with champion dogs. You and I had spoken of flying over there together. I didn’t want to disappoint you, but the more I looked into it, the more I realized this situation called for speed.” Rowe sipped his shot of good whiskey, which the daughter had cheerfully poured for him at her father’s direction. Ernest followed her in to the kitchen, thinking treats.

  “Aha, of course,” said the Colonel. “I understand.”

  “My contacts in the LAPD put me in touch with CS-35, the unofficial arm of Interpol that operates in places where, for obvious reasons, Interpol can’t,” Rowe went on. “I’d been building relationships in the State Department on another case, so we were covered there. Between those organizations, I was able to, uh, synergize a strategy using a team of computer hackers operating out of Denmark.”

  The Colonel’s eyes widened. “Very impressive. Even I haven’t heard of CS-35. Was there code involved?”

  “Oh, yes,” responded Rowe. “You know how tricky the Chinese numerical system is, being abacus-based, very foreign to the American mind.”

  “I never understood it myself.”

  “It pays to be on the good side of cyber-mercenaries. Well, it turns out there’s this cartel based in a village in the upper Yangtze Delta—”

  “Brutal region.”

  “Very,” agreed Rowe. “Posing as a veterinarian, I made my way there, only to find that the cartel runs essentially a clearinghouse for abducted champions the world over. I saw breeds from everywhere—Peruvian Hairless, Caravan Hounds, Kai Kens, Redbone Coonhounds—you name it. I was able to trace Ernest with the aid of a freight manifest obtained by the Danish team, starting at the open-air meat market—which term, Colonel, I hate to use, but that’s exactly what it was—to a house controlled by one of the old tribal families deep in Manchuria. Intermarriage had resulted in a peculiar strain of aggression among the local people.”

  “I can imagine! Please go on, Mr. Rowe.” The old man’s eyes glittered.

  “Well, the place was more fortress than cozy home, if you understand what I mean. It took some doing, but I finally made my way in.” He paused. “Via—uh, well,” he stammered.

  The Colonel leaned forward, his cup and saucer balanced perfectly on one blanketed knee. “Go ahead, I’m unshockable.”

  “Via the bedroom of the mistress of the house.”

  “You dog, you!”

  Rowe chuckled modestly.

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Lucky for me, yes.”

  “Oho! Haha!”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “Uh, afterward, you understand me, she led me straight to the underground kennels. Ernest was there. He’d been in a fight or two.”

  “Yes, I saw his ears!”

  “Judging by the looks of the other dogs, Ernest gave as good as he got.”

  “I’d expect that of him.”

  Yes, thought Rowe. A blind date might just work out between Markovich and Mrs. Keever. My God, yes, a possible Hollywood ending. But that could wait.

  “Finding Ernest, of course, was merely the tip of the iceberg. I had to get us both out of there safely.”

  “How did you do it?” The old man clasped his hands. “A fortress in Manchuria! Oh, do go on!”

  _____

  I was surprised to see George at my door again in the middle of Thursday afternoon. I’d just folded a load of laundry and had been reviewing the syllabus for one of my law classes, thinking about getting over to UCLA and buying my books. The doorwall was open, and the sunshine streaming through the plants on the patio brought a hint of autumn coolness, over the fragrance of the madly lush basil. It was September now.

  “Actually,” he said, “I’m here at the request of Petey.” His bruises and welts were beginning to fade, and all of his energy was back.

  “What!”

  “He called me up.”

  “He’s not supposed to use the phone!”

  Petey piped, “I used it at Aunt Sheila and Aunt Toots’s! They trained me on it.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I said.

  “I called people. My friends. Ronnie Rawson.”

  “Oh.”

  “I can use the phone and I want my own phone and Mr. Rowe is a private investigator, everybody knows that, and he’s gonna teach me how to be one too so I can solve what happened to my toys!” George gave me a wink over his head, and there was nothing I could do.

  “We gotta find clues!” Petey tugged his hand.

  I felt the cold creep of guilt in my gut, and I realized my boy had crossed a threshold, whether I was ready or not. My free exercise of parental fibbing—well, those days were over.

  “Wait,” George told him. He eased himself to the living room rug and told the boy, “Before you investigate, you’ve got to gather your facts.”

  Petey plopped cross-legged, rapt.

  “It’ll help when you learn how to write, but until then—”

  “Would you like some coffee?” I asked in defeat.

  George smiled up at me. “I’d love some, Rita, thank you.”

  “What’s this?”

  “I stopped for doughnuts.”

  “Doughnuts!” shouted Petey delirious
ly.

  I made coffee and poured milk and threw down some pillows, and the three of us ate fresh doughnuts around the coffee table in the afternoon’s glad golden light.

  “Now, you’ve got to seize your opportunities,” George told my boy. “And a man needs the right equipment.” He drew a very nice folding magnifying glass from his pocket. “Here, this is yours.” The leatherette cover was ball-glove smooth.

  Petey stared. “For keeps?”

  “For keeps. You’ll need it. Don’t lose it, now.”

  “No way!” Petey gripped the tool tightly.

  I smiled to see that George was just a little awkward with the boy, but Petey loved him. Plainly, it wasn’t the gifts: Petey perceived something in George, some quality that resonated with him.

  “You can’t be reckless,” George went on, “but don’t be afraid to be bold.”

  I listened to this man who loved me talk to the son I loved, and I watched the boy’s face looking seriously into his. Once, George’s knee accidentally touched mine and I felt that zing. He pretended he didn’t feel it, either.

  We helped ourselves to more coffee and milk and doughnuts, and the sun kept piling in, and for a long time that afternoon we talked about truth and secrets and mystery, and the many, many ways there are to get to the bottom of things.

  __________

  Get a book group guide for The Extra here.

  ON LOCATION

  Rita Farmer Mystery #3

  “Fast-paced, atmospheric mystery...Sims shines in her deft characterizations, and in the descriptive passages that call the gloomy Northwest skies ‘stomped-newspaper gray’ and the Puget Sound waters ‘slaty and ominous’. The rains are so vividly depicted that readers may find themselves reaching for a warm jacket—even in midsummer.”

  --Seattle Times

  “On Location is primarily a thriller—with a twist—combined with adventure. It confirms Sims’s skill and demonstrates her versatility in heart-pounding, page-turning style.”

  --Richmond Times-Dispatch