A Shot in the Bark (A Dog Park Mystery) (5 page)

Another visit to Luthor's apartment was in order. Somewhere in there there had to be an explanation why a man unfamiliar with guns, who was intent on dying, would shoot himself with his non-dominant hand.

Desiree was the antithesis of Lia, Peter noted. The shapely bartender had a wild spray of coppery hair with lime green highlights. She had a ready smile and a Celtic trinity symbol revealed by an artful rip over her right shoulder blade. A band of bloody barb wire tattooed her left biceps. He couldn't see behind the bar to check out the rest of her outfit. He made a mental bet with himself that she wore jeans featuring butt cleavage. Peter thought the look was a bit tired and wondered about people who went overboard in their appearance. He had the thought that maybe a real artist didn't need to look like one.

He thought about Lia, long hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, plain T-shirt, serviceable khaki shorts, bare feet, short nails, no tats, piercings or jewelry. She was simplicity. Yet her paintings were anything but simple. She took the ordinary and made it lush and exotic.

Desiree put down the glass she was wiping. She glanced down the deserted bar. "Luthor was such a doll." Peter watched her face carefully. She'd become misty when he showed her Luthor's picture. It had him on alert.

"How long did you know Luthor?"

"He was a regular before I started working here last winter, but we didn't really start talking till Spring. Some time around Spring break? He was coming in a lot more often then."

Peter wondered if Luthor was more like the guy in
Sliding Doors
than Lia knew.

"How well did you know him?"

She gave him a guilty look. "Ah . . . geez. That girlfriend of his, she didn't get him, you know? Just because she can crank out pretty pictures of flowers and people lap them up, doesn't mean she understood what Luthor was going through with the book. He was writing something important, you know?"

Peter tamped down his impatience. Likely she'd gotten that opinion straight from Luthor, probably verbatim. "So you knew him pretty well. Did you see him outside the Comet?"

She looked away.

"Desiree?"

"Why do you have to know?" Her response held a touch of petulance. She pulled out a cutting board and started slicing lemons. She still didn't look at him. Peter gave her a moment.

"It's really important."

"Why is it important? He's dead! He shot himself. What else matters?" Tears gathered in her eyes. Peter knew better than to let her emotionalism distract him from the fact that she wasn't answering him.

"We need to know why, and everything matters." He kept his tone even.

She sighed heavily, giving up. "Look, there was this one night. He hung around after closing. We all have a few drinks after closing. He was wasted. I was a bit toasty. They'd broken up. We wound up necking in the parking lot and I took him home with me. He came around for a few weeks and then I found out she had her claws in him again. I couldn't deal. So I told him 'no more.' I wasn't going to be the Other Woman, and if he didn't know what he wanted, he'd have to figure it out. He tested the waters every once in a while, but after that he started to drift away. Stopped coming in so much, like that."

Peter privately thought Luthor did know what he wanted, and it wasn't to be stuck with one woman. Further questions revealed Desiree hadn't seen him for several weeks, and he hadn't called. She'd been working until closing the night he died. Whatever happened that night didn't appear to involve her.

Desiree provided names of some of the regular crowd but she didn't have numbers. He'd have to come back on a Thursday or Friday night to catch everyone. Desiree said she didn't think Luthor saw any of his drinking buddies outside the bar. Not much hope that interviewing them would reveal anything important, but it had to be covered. Maybe he could get Brent to do it.

His trip to the Northside Tavern turned up a waitress. Sharon was a black haired, dark-eyed waif who swore they'd been friends, but nothing more. According to Sharon, Lia was making him crazy, he kept trying to leave and she wouldn't let him go. He was too good for her. Lia had some mental problems and he couldn't break up with her until she was stabilized on meds.

Sharon had been out of town for her sister's wedding on Saturday night. She said she'd seen him on Wednesday, but hadn't spoken to him since.

No joy there.

By the end of the afternoon, Peter was convinced writers were being literal when they called themselves professional liars. He'd grab an early dinner and look at Luthor's phone records. Right now that looked like the only way to establish what he did Saturday night, if he did anything besides harass Lia.

Peter had never experienced anything like it. He'd brought home an Edgar Allen Poe from Dewy's Pizza. (He didn't know what garlic and olives had to do with Poe, but who really cared about a name?) And now Viola sat exactly eighteen inches away from him, her eyes tracking every bite, drool intermittently hitting the floor. After eating two slices, he closed the box, pulled out his notebook and looked up a number.

Lia answered on the third ring, thank God.

"What can I do for you, Detective?"

"I have a dog problem."

"Oh?"

"I'm trying to enjoy a nice pizza and Viola's staring at me and slobbering all over the floor."

Lia laughed.

"It's not funny. I can't eat like this."

"Well, Detective, you'll have to distract her."

"Distract her? With what? She acts like pizza is a tractor beam."

"Oh, it is, Detective, it is. You distract her with the crust, and she'll take it to some corner where nobody can take it away from her. And if you're lucky and the pizza is not too hot, you might make it half way through the next slice before she's back."

"Can't I just give her some kibble?"

"She knows the difference. She's not stupid. You'll have to share."

"And that's not bad for her?"

"It's better for her than a lot of dog foods. No chicken beaks in pizza."

"Ugh."

"Don't give her onions, chocolate, or grapes, and very little sweet stuff. She loves apples and carrots, and she especially likes avocado."

"Avocado?"

"Her favorite outside pizza and liver treats. Some people say dogs shouldn't get it, but in small amounts, it's fine."

"You know a lot about this. Sure you can't take her?" Peter hoped the desperation in his voice would engage her sympathies.

"Three dogs is very different from two. You ever try walking three dogs at the same time?"

"Um, no, and don't want to."

"Exactly. Any other Doggy Daddy advice you need?"

"Now that you mention it, I don't think she's house-broken. I take her for long walks and she does nothing, then as soon as we get home she'll find some corner and do her business."

Lia sighed. "I should have thought of that. Sorry. Viola's a complicated little girl. She was abandoned at an early age, and she gets anxious, especially in new situations. She feels especially vulnerable when she's using the bathroom. I think that comes from her Border Collie intelligence. She thinks more like a human than other dogs. You like anyone watching you in the bathroom?"

"Good point. What do I do about it?"

"She'll get over it as she feels more comfortable, but she's always had a shy bladder. Luthor would take her to the park and she'd find some nice, private bush to violate. You really have to watch her to pick up after her. You might get some disposable training pads from the pet store. She knows what they are and she'll use them. If you want, I'll teach you a little song we would sing to her on walks. It's a signal she knows."

"Are you saying she won't pee because I don't sing to her?" His incredulity was apparent.

"Viola's very special. Dogs are like people. They all have their quirks."

"Huh."

"It's a big change, having a sentient creature around all the time. They have needs and personalities, but they're still easier than children. Viola's been spayed, so she'll never come home pregnant, and while she may want to drive, she can't reach the pedals. She'll never wreck your car."

"You have a point. But you're scaring me. You sound like you think I should keep her."

"No, Detective, I think she's going to keep you. It's okay, you'll like it. Bring her up to the park sometime if you need some pointers. Dogs are easy and fun if you keep a few things in mind. Otherwise they can run your life."

"I just may do that."

Peter used the crust from his two previous slices to give him a head start on the next one. The pizza had lost much of it's heat by the time he'd gotten off the phone, but the advice had been worth it. He pulled out the Morrisey file.

The autopsy report set time of death between 2:00 a.m. and 3:00 a.m. Luthor had been shot by a .38 caliber gun that had been held against his right temple, according to stippling left on his skin. He had gun shot residue on his right hand.

All this was textbook for suicide, except for Mrs. Morrisey's insistence that her son had been left-handed. She stated he had no interest in guns and hadn't even researched them for the book he was writing. "He said he didn't need to because all the guns in his book were from an alternate universe and didn't operate like Earth guns." Her even tone over the phone made it impossible to tell how Mrs. Morrisey felt about her son's ingenuity.

These two tidbits had been enough to delay ruling on the death, and in the interest of clarification, Peter had been asked to continue investigating.

Peter read further. Toxicology was negative. Nada. Zip. Clean as a whistle. Peter frowned. Usually when a man eats a gun, he has a few drinks first. Cold steel is hard to face sober, and everything he'd learned about Luthor indicated that he was not brave or stoic, more like the type who can't look when he gets a shot. How does a guy like that pull the trigger?

None of this was impossible, but it wasn't comfortable. He might have been acting the obsessed and wounded lover but he had two other women in the wings.

He picked up the report on Luthor's phone. First was the contact list, next was the list of calls. He skipped to the last page. Saturday evening was one long list of outgoing calls to a number Peter recognized as Lia's. The last one was 12:57 a.m. Sunday morning. After 1:00 a.m., a new set of calls appeared, to Lia's cell phone. Twenty over a period of thirty minutes, again all outgoing. Peter wondered what Morriesey's other women would think about the way he was hounding the woman who "had her claws in him."

Then, at 1:35 a.m., an incoming text from Lia's cell.

Huh

Looked like the two phones traded texts. He looked at the bottom of the report. There were no texts stored in the phone for the wee hours of Sunday morning. Whatever they had been, they were gone now.

He was going to have to buy flowers for Cynth in IT for pulling all this off the phone. In the old days, it would have taken a court order to get it from the service provider, and even if they'd had sufficient cause, they might not have bothered. Hooray for technology.

Lia said her phone was lost. Maybe it wasn't lost. Maybe it was stolen. If so, someone else used the phone to text Luthor, pretending to be Lia. Did they set up a meet?

If Lia had lied, then she was hiding something. But what? Whatever it was, he didn't think she was at the park when he died. The woman had been in shock after finding him. If her two friends hadn't taken such good care of her, he would have called for EMTs and sent her to the Emergency Room.

He didn't like the idea that she might be more involved in this than she was saying. It didn't play with the person he'd met. But he had to admit he was a sucker for green-eyed women with long legs, and his BS meter might be malfunctioning.

Well, nuts. He'd been hoping for a tidy resolution that would allow him to find out more about Ms. Anderson with a clear conscience. He scratched Viola absently on the head. There was a silver lining to this. If Lia was feeling guilty about driving Morrisey to suicide, she could stop.

Unless she was the one who killed him.

"Lia, darling, how
are
you?" Catherine neatly inserted herself between Lia and Jim on their bench. The hug she gave Lia had Lia's coffee tipping precariously. "How terrible for you. I wanted desperately to be here for you Sunday, but the police wouldn't let me through. I hope they told you; that young detective said he would. I made him promise. You wouldn't know, I'm sure you were in shock." She turned to Jim and touched his shoulder. "Jim, did he tell you?" Lia rolled her eyes so only Anna could see and resolved to ask her later if Catherine was batting her eyes. She swore she could hear lashes fluttering.

Lia had decided to rejoin what she called the General Population. (And didn't the mad scramble on this side of the park resemble a prison yard sometimes? A prison yard with barrel racing?) Mostly people were giving her space. Except Catherine.

"I really wanted to bring you a casserole so you wouldn't have to worry about food but I just had so much company, there was no way I could do it. I'm so sorry about Luthor, but you know, I never thought he was right for you. What an awful, awful thing for him to do. You must be devastated." She turned to Jim. "I heard you saw him, too. Was it awful?"

This time she paused in expectation of an answer.

"It was grim, Catherine. You wouldn't have wanted to see it."

"I'm sure it would have
destroyed
me to see something like that. I don't think I'd ever be the same again. I don't know what the world is coming to. I've got to run Caesar and Cleo to the groomers. She took Lia's hands in hers and pressed them. "Don't you worry, we're all going to take care of you. Caesar, Cleo, come baby cakes, it's spa day! Jim, you must walk me to my car." Jim obligingly escorted Catherine and her yapping Poms across the park.