A Shot in the Bark (A Dog Park Mystery) (8 page)

"Good question. What kind of gun?"

"Luger 9 millimeter. It's more than thirty years old, not registered."

"Fascinating. And as untraceable as they come. Luger, huh? Not the kind of piece you'd find for sale in a bar parking lot, I'd say."

"No," Peter agreed, "Not something that old. This one was pristine. Someone cared for it. I'd say he got it at a gun show, but then it would have been registered."

"Not a family piece?"

"No, not at all. The Morriseys don't own guns."

"Curiouser and curiouser. You check old posts on Craig's list?"

"One of the guys did. Nada."

"You, my man, have a true mystery on your hands"

Keep still. That's Rule Number Seven. It's hard watching Detective Dourson talk to Terry, hard not to barge in and either derail their conversation or at least find out what they were saying. Better not. Showing my face to Terry when they might be talking about guns might jog his memory. I'm dying to know what they're saying. Is Dourson's presence as benign as he pretends? Lia looked upset when she left. They must have been talking about Luthor. I can get her to tell me about it later.

I'm going to have to come up with some story in case Terry asks me about the Luger. He only saw it for a moment. Does he remember what make it was? Terry's mind is a repository of endless depth. I need a story for what happened to it, something plausible. Let him bring it up if he must.

Or would it be better to admit I own a Luger, then be distressed that it's missing? Is it plausible that Luthor would have stolen it? What's worse? Owning the suicide weapon, or not being able to produce an old Luger when he remembers? If he remembers.

It all depends on Terry. Will he remember?

Peter was startled out of his musings by a deft touch on his arm.

"Detective, I feel so neglected," Catherine purred. "You'd rather listen to Terry's odious opinions than talk to me."

"Purely business. Tying up loose ends."

"I'm sure I can tie up a loose end as well as anyone."

"Maybe you can. How well did you know Luthor?"

"Oh, about the same as everyone else. That is, excepting Lia, of course." She gave a little laugh. After all, he was young enough to be my son. Why do you ask?"

"We're trying to figure out where the gun came from."

"I don't think I can help you there. Are you sure you don't have any other ends I might . . . tie off?" Peter avoided rolling his eyes, barely.

"I was confused about one other thing."

"What is that, Detective?"

"Luthor seemed to dress rather well, don't you think?"

"I always did admire a well put together man."

"So where did he get the money?"

"What do you mean?"

"His clothes seemed a bit rich for his finances. Did Lia give them to him? Was that why he didn't want to break up with her?" He saw a flash of something in Catherine's eyes. Then it was gone.

"Lia?" Catherine tittered, "Have you see the way she dresses? I can't imagine her going to the trouble of dressing a man. Can you?"

"Hmm," Peter was non-committal.

"Nothing against dear Lia, you understand, but personal appearance isn't a passion with her."

Peter took in the champagne hair, artfully cut and highlighted to match her beloved Pomeranians and wondered what Lia, with her flip flops and no-nonsense ponytail, thought of it. Catherine, on the other hand, did have a passion for personal appearance. He decided to push a bit more.

"Luthor was a real puzzle."

"How so, Detective?" Wide hazel eyes looked perhaps a bit too innocent.

"You've got a would be writer with a nothing job. He likes his beer, but that seems to be his only vice." He paused. "What's he doing with twenty-five grand in his apartment?" Did he see a jolt of fear before she looked away?

"Perhaps," her affectedly winsome smile returned, "He got it the same place Ollie North did."

"How so?"

"From his change jar."

Peter didn't get the reference. He made a mental note to ask Alma, his octo-generian neighbor.

Lia's passion might not be personal appearance, Peter mused, but Catherine was obsessive about it. None of his interviews suggested a connection between Catherine and Luthor. Still, she was the only person in Morrisey's orbit who might have 25K to spare. Was she capable of murder? She might be if blackmail was threatening her lifestyle. He didn't have anything solid yet, but at the first hint of probable cause he'd be all over her financials.

Lia and Bailey eyed the stack of paver molds. It had taken the better part of a day to cut 12" circles out of 3" thick, 18" squares of foam insulation to form the sides of the molds. Each foam square would be paired with an 18" square of 1/2" plywood, which would be the bottom.

The mosaic designs would be arranged right side up on a template. A sheet of contact paper would be adhered to the tops of the tiles to hold the design in place. This would be flipped and laid on top of the plywood, and the template removed. The styrofoam form would be placed around the design, then concrete would be poured in the hole, on top of the tile. When it was unmolded, the finished paver would be turned over to show the face of the tiles.

Lia nodded at the stack of styrofoam molds. "We've got forty forms. Depending on how inspired I am, I should be able to set up the mosaics for those in one to two days. Then a day for us to pour the concrete. Those can set for two days while I lay out the next batch on the extra set of plywood squares. The trick is going to be keeping the finished concrete thoroughly wet while it cures."

"We could get some kiddie wading pools and keep them submerged."

"That would work, but they wouldn't hold enough pavers. After we pop them from the molds, we're going to wind up stacking them at least five high. We could cover them with wet burlap and plastic, spray them down every day."

"Put styrofoam shims between to protect them? Then we'd be able to spray in between the pavers."

"We'd have to be careful. Don't want the stacks falling over because the shims made them unstable."

"Good point."

Lia rolled her shoulders to get the stiffness out. "I'm so glad she went for the random confetti background, it will make it so much easier to produce a few hundred of these. And even though there are six repeating symbols, every paver will be unique."

Bailey nodded in agreement. "That's what I thought. So while you're getting this going, I'll go out to Catherine's with Jose and stake out the area for him to roto-till. After he does that, we can mark the path, the beds and the pond. He can dig out the path and lay down a bed of sand."

"Will he pound it down with that funny vibrating thing?" Lia asked.

"Funny vibrating thing? Is that a technical term or are we talking artificial appendages?" This came from Anna as she stuck her head through the doorway. "I tried to call your cell. You know your mailbox is full?"

Lia sighed. I still haven't found my phone. But I'm not looking very hard. I'm not looking forward to clearing out those messages."

"We could try calling it," Bailey offered, "but I suspect the battery would be dead by now."

Anna strolled over and perused the stacked forms. "Oooh, I see lots of pizza in someone's future. Pizza and caffeine. So is Madame Butterfly paying a fast food surcharge for wrecking your diet?"

"I'm going to move my spare juicer in here and pick up a 15 pound bag of carrots at Whole Foods. My diet won't go totally down the toilet."

"Hear that, Bailey? Our girl not only has a juicer, she has a spare juicer. How many people do you know have spare juicers? But enough about art and food. Let's talk about sex. I ran into Catherine and Marie at the park. They tell me you were having quite the tete-a-tete with Detective Peter."

"It was nothing. More questions about Luthor."

"What more could he possibly want to know?"

"A lot, apparently. Mr. I'm-Too-Broke-To-Take-You-On-A-Real-Date had twenty-five grand stuffed in his Lazy Boy."

"No!" exclaimed Anna and Bailey in unison.

"Where on Earth did that come from?" Anna asked.

Lia's expression became troubled. "Anna, that's the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Or I should say, the twenty-five thousand dollar question. That's so impossible, my circuits are fried. I don't even begin to know where to go with that. Bailey, would you have thought Luthor had even spare change to drop in the cushions of his recliner?"

"He did always dress nice," Bailey observed.

"He said his mom sent him clothes. I never questioned it. Now I'm wondering if 'Mom' is some burly guy in Columbia with a shaved head."

"Luthor didn't travel enough to be a mule," considered Anna.

"He could have been picking up packages at the airport for someone," Lia said.

"Really, Lia, you think his Corolla would make it that far?" Anna responded.

"I don't know," Bailey frowned. "Luthor had an elastic view of the world, but drugs? I can't see it."

"I know," replied Lia, "But what can you see that isn't worse?"

"Oh, Lia," Anna apologized. "I've gone and gotten you all upset. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it was just simmering there below the surface."

"Sweetie, we don't have all the facts. We don't know for sure what that money was doing there. It might not have even been his."

"Yeah, he could have been holding it for the big burley guy with the shaved head. Somehow it doesn't make me feel better."

"You don't suppose he got a book deal?"

"And took it in cash? And didn't tell the whole world?"

What rotten luck. Who would have thought Luthor could hang on to twenty-five dollars, much less twenty-five thousand? And that Dourson would find it? Now he's got more questions, and he'll continue digging.

So far, I have been peripheral to this investigation. This is my third investigation. I've never been a "person of interest," though this time there are more loose ends that could trip me up.

My first removal was too close to me. It was exciting being in the spotlight, though it was very exhausting and I had to keep up the pretense much longer than I cared. I became a virtual prisoner in my own home just to avoid people. But the bliss! It was worth the risk to have serenity again, with the added pay-off of an inheritance. That first removal was such an epiphany. That I could remove people who disturb me! The blights on existence that make life less than pleasant for the rest of us could be eliminated. This exhilarating truth made my self-imposed confinement both necessary and difficult. I wanted to skip down he street and sing tra-la-las. Not a good look for someone in mourning.

I spent my time in planning. Thinking how it could be done, deciding who might be next and how long I should wait. I rated the people around me. Considered their good and bad points. It really all boiled down to who was making life unpleasant and was unlikely to change

I felt like Santa Claus, making a list and checking it twice.

My second removal came a year later and I don't think anyone would have argued with my choice. He was a stupid man, misogynistic, always yelling at his kids, the dogs. Drinking beer on his porch wearing a Marlon Brando undershirt (I refuse to call them "wife-beaters") displaying an unpalatable physique. His was the only worthwhile opinion on any matter, and I'm sure if he ever apologized to his wife for anything, she'd have fallen over in a dead faint.

He was tricky, having so many people around him. My break came when one of his children complained that they never had peanut butter in the house. Dad was allergic and almost died once.

I waited until he was leaving for his annual hunting trip, then left a bag of brownies in his truck. I made them with peanut oil. He went into shock in his hunting blind and wasn't discovered until his buddies missed him hours later. I'd put the brownies in a plain white bakery bag, layered with tissue. The police figured he picked them up at some country store during his trip. There were too many miles and too many back roads to find the source. The only fingerprints on the bag were his.

There was a token investigation, centered around his wife. She was properly bewildered and was not a baker. A search of the house did not reveal chocolate or peanut oil. She received her life insurance, sold the house and moved away. This was a relief to me because she was just the sort of woman to find another just like him. And if she didn't, her boy was getting old enough to start displaying behavior he learned at Papa's knee. Their house was soon occupied by a young couple who refinished the floors, tore out the cabinets, and exorcised the ghost of Archie Bunker, Jr.

Removal number three was a supervisor who thought nothing of demanding that I work on the weekend and deliver reports to her home after hours. None of which was necessary. On one occasion, she was home with a cold. I brought along a bitter herbal powder. I told her it would help her symptoms and offered to fix her some in some water. She was touched by my consideration. I laced it with sleeping pills. When she passed out, I put on rubber gloves and rinsed out her glass to eliminate any residue. I wiped my fingerprints off the jar of herbs, and pressed her hand to it. Then I put it in her cabinet. I dragged her into the bathroom, removed her clothes, and ran bath water. When it was half full, I placed her in, pulled up on her ankles so that she was flat on her back under water. She never woke. I had read how it is impossible to rescue one's self from drowning when the feet are held up like this. I held her feet up for five minutes, just to be sure, then carefully repositioned her legs with bent knees, to look like she had been sitting in the bath, passed out, then just slid under. I scattered her clothes around as if she'd dropped them on the floor in a drugged stupor. On the way out the door, I dropped a few more pills on the table, picked up my report and left. I was never there.