Murder Came Second (9 page)

Chapter 7

I hate it when the phone rings in the middle of the night. I can never find it before the second ring, and by then I’ve had time to imagine that everyone I care for is either dead, injured or in a Turkish prison.

Tonight was no exception. It was ten to three, and when I finally got the phone to my ear, I couldn’t quite understand what the person on the other end of the line was saying.

“Hello? What? Who’s this?”

“Streak, darlin’, don’t be mean! It’s Bootsie! And I’m in town!”

“I am not ‘Streak’ and I don’t know any Bootsie. You have the wrong number and probably the wrong town, and why the hell are you calling anybody at three in the morning to say you’re here? Good-bye.”

Fargo picked that moment to jump onto the bed and land on my stomach. So I added a loud “Ooof!” to my farewells.

“What did you say, honey-babe?”

“I said oof. My dog just . . . Christ, why am I having this conversation?”

I heard Cindy give a smothered giggle as Fargo snuggled cozily between us.

“Streak, now be nice. I came just to see you, and this is the number you gave me, so it must be you!”

“I am trying to be nice. My name is Mergatroyd Mountbatten. And I do not know, nor wish to know you. Streak’s number is 4879773. Good-bye.” I hung up.

“Whose number was that?” Cindy asked.

“Captain Anders’s private line.” Anders was outstanding proof that not even Ptown could have cops that were universally smart and dedicated. He was dumb and obnoxious. He had gotten the job through the political clout of a former chief. The clout was now long gone, but how did you get rid of Anders? He never did anything dishonest. He rarely did anything at all. Fortunately, retirement was only a few years away.

“Hopefully,” I added, “Mrs. Anders will answer.”

“You really are dangerous when somebody wakes you up.” Cindy laughed. “Go back to sleep, Streak, darlin’.”

“Oh, God.”

We all sort of settled down and were quiet. Fargo was the first to begin to snore lightly. A short time later, Cindy’s breathing became rhythmic and deep.

And I began to think those calm and happy thoughts that come to us all in the middle hours of the night. What the hell was wrong with Cindy’s car? The mechanic had fixed it twice, but it still made that funny noise. The garage door opener moaned piteously with every use. I supposed I’d better get a new one before the damn thing stuck halfway. What had caused my back tooth to give a twang when the ice cream hit it earlier last night? God, I hated dentists! And mine had a billing system that made our defense budget look like Scrooge personified.

Then Fargo began to whimper and twitch his legs in his sleep. Automatically, I reached out and stroked his head. “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s all right. I won’t let it get you. Go back to sleep. You’re safe in bed.”

Cindy heaved a disgruntled sigh. “Why do you always wake him up? My brother says when they whine and paddle their feet like that, they’re having a wonderful dream about chasing rabbits, or maybe squirrels or a cat.”

“I have heard that,” I replied loftily, “But no dog has ever been able to reassure me that it doesn’t mean a five-hundred pound rabbit wasn’t chasing them. Therefore, I go to their rescue.”

“Oh. How thoughtful.”

They both went to sleep again. I lay staring at the window. When I realized I could see things outside, I gave up and got up. After dressing quietly, I made a pot of tea and thought about getting my camera and going out. But it wasn’t much fun alone. Before I could decide, two rather frazzled beauties joined me and all was normal.

After tea for two and a biscuit for one, we went to the beach.

As the dog ran ahead of us and we walked down to sea level, I was once again reminded of why I loved this place. A few miles offshore, a gray fog bank squatted on the horizon like a grumpy toad, and above it, cirrus clouds reflected the radiant orange-pink glow from a sun not quite risen above them. The ocean was almost calm, with no breakers out to sea, and only wavelets reaching the shore, rippling almost apologetically along the low-tide line. Even the breeze seemed shy, just touching your cheek and then fading, as if not wishing to intrude upon your thoughts.

Far down the beach, another dog appeared—maybe one of the Coasties had it with him overnight and felt secure in letting it run this early in the morning. It was a Dalmatian, I thought, lean and graceful. The two dogs spotted each other and began to run right toward each other, like knights in a tilting match. They covered the ground at amazing speed.

“Are they going to kill each other?” Cindy’s voice held alarm. She grabbed my arm and pointed.

“I hope surely one of them will give way. God, they must have a closing speed of fifty miles an hour!” I was getting a little concerned about a collision myself, and couldn’t decide whether it would be better to bellow at Fargo to come back, or not distract him.

Before I could decide, both dogs had slithered to a stop, scattering great clods of wet sand around them. Then began the sniffing ritual, followed by their backing off, facing each other and bowing with front legs low and extended, rear end and tail up in the air . . . the universal animal symbol of, “Want to play?” Yes, indeed! Fargo ran in a wide circle, the Dalmatian in hot pursuit. Then Fargo crashed into the water, leaping through the shallows and beginning that strong swim, which always makes me worry slightly that his next stop might be the Azores.

The Dalmatian followed him into shallow water and stopped, unsure whether she wanted to continue or not. She nibbled daintily at the water and shook her head in distaste. She took a few more tentative steps and stopped when a small wave splashed across her chest. Retiring to the edge, she barked and Fargo turned. I could almost see his shrug as he swam back to shore to rejoin his more timid companion.

They trotted over to us to say hello. The female Dalmatian was a friendly beauty, and I pulled out a couple of small biscuits for each of them. At that point a young woman appeared down where the animal had begun her run. She was waving and blowing a shrill whistle. The Dalmatian looked up, gently accepted the treat and turned for home. Fargo followed her a few steps, and I called him back. The three of us walked over to a half-sunken tree stump and sat down. Fargo stared down the beach.

“Do you suppose he needs a playmate?” I said.

Cindy gave me a look over the top of her dark glasses. “Don’t even think about it. Let’s go home and go to bed. You must be delirious.”

I was in that sort of out-of-body state where you are so tired you are past tired and too wired to be sleepy. “Aha!” I leered. “The lady is propositioning me!”

“No, the lady has every intention of going to bed to sleep, perchance to dream.”

“Oh, Shakespeare. Right, the players are coming with their polyester-suited Hamlet. I can hear him singing that soliloquy now.” I picked up a stick and began a rap beat on the tree trunk. Cindy wasn’t the only one who could compose a song.

To be or not to be is the question, yessiree,

To off ol’ Claudius or leave him be?

An’ do I stab Polonius behind that drape?

Or watch sweet Ophelia wrap herself in crepe?

Of course there’s always darling mother

To poison her or smother . . .

Cindy gave me a withering look and stood. “Come on, Fargo.” She began to walk up the beach. “Let yo’ mama sit there and suffer slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. You and I will stop and buy the papers, not to mention a few pastries, and then we’ll have a lovely nap. Let’s go, boy. Anyway, I don’t like the looks of the alligator under that log.”

I knew they wouldn’t go far. They’d stop and look back and wait.

She broke into a jog, Fargo trotting happily by her side.

“Hey! Hold up! Wait for me!”

Chapter 8

Earlier in the summer a tourist had dozed off while driving his car through Provincetown’s snail-paced traffic. One could hardly blame him, but my friend Marcia Robby—also understandably— was not pleased to find his ancient and large Oldsmobile sitting in the front room of her antique shop. It had been my pleasure, as well as my job, to expedite repairs and to find her a place to live while repairs were made. I picked Green Mansions. I figured that Peter and the Wolf, combined with their Victorian décor, would make a good blend. And I had been right, she loved it there.

Marcia made out well with the repairs, with a lovely big bow window replacing the three small ones that had been knocked out, and an inviting new walkway with neat landscaping leading up to the door. The interior was much brighter and seemed more spacious. She had presented Peter and the Wolf with a giant, kitschy Victorian lamp as a thank-you for their hospitality, and they were delighted. And she had given me a lovely small round table, which now sat under our dining room windows, providing an intimate little dining table when Cindy and I felt privately formal.

I was using it at the moment to fill out some forms for a couple of insurance cases I had just closed. They were both straightforward and basically dull, which suited me fine.

One was at an older B&B, where a young woman claimed to have tripped on a frayed rug and taken a header down the stairs, managing to break both her leg and her wrist. She was, unfortunately for the insured and insurer, quite right. I took photos, sent them in with a report and warned the owners to make repairs in a hurry before someone else took to the air.

The other one was more fun, for me, anyway. A man in his forties had been walking up the driveway of a house advertising homemade fudge for sale. He claimed to have fallen over a tricycle that was blocking the driveway, and that he hadn’t seen. He claimed a painfully sprained back. I told the owners over the phone to make sure no one moved the tricycle until I could get down there to take photos. The way I saw it, the bright red trike was parked mostly on the lawn with one lone back wheel on the driveway, not even knocked over and leaving room to drive a small truck easily around it. And it was broad daylight.

I caught up with the victim coming out of X-ray at the hospital, clad only in one of those little hospital gowns, which he was trying simultaneously to pull down in the front and hold together in the rear. Well, don’t we all? I cannot imagine anyone being a hero in these circumstances. I flashed my private investigator’s license, my thumb carefully concealing the word
private
and gave him the bad news.

The insurance company would pay for whatever medical care he had received up to this minute . . . period. If he elected not to sign a release but to pursue the matter, the company would probably go after him for all medical and legal costs, plus my fee. When I showed him the Polaroids of the tricycle’s location, he signed.

I went back to give the good news to the owners, and they gave me a small box of fudge in return. That night, when Cindy asked me where the candy came from, I told her I’d taken it from a baby.

This morning I sat idly adding items to a grocery list Cindy had given me at breakfast, and realized that suddenly it was almost the beginning of August, past the halfway mark in our Season, and still Cindy and I had not had
that
conversation. My talk with Mom about it had come back to me sharply only last night.

During dinner, Cindy had mentioned that the bathroom and the kitchen were strongly in need of painting, but somehow she had sounded tentative, as if she weren’t sure she should bring it up. Like maybe she figured it was my house and she had no right to be telling me about the décor?

I felt awful. Had I made her feel she wasn’t a full-time partner? What the hell was the matter with me that I’d rather go chasing alligators and the fraudulently injured than have a plain and simple talk with the woman I loved? Sometimes I really worried that I had a blank spot in my emotions somewhere.

My first instinct, upon hearing her comments, had been to reply that I thought the rooms did not especially need painting. Thankfully, I had not made that statement! I looked around the kitchen and agreed it was a bit shabby, and that I’d noticed a little peeling in one corner of the bathroom. Yes, we should run over to Jake’s Hardware on Saturday and get some paint chips. Then we’d get Harmon in to do the work whenever he was free.