Roll Over and Play Dead (17 page)

With the exception of my uneven breathing, everything was peaceful. The goons had given up their pursuit, assuming I hadn’t imagined it. Their arrival shortly after my own was a coincidence of epic size, and as difficult to swallow as Caron’s daily lapses into martyrdom. I was no fonder of coincidences than I was of conferences. There had been way too many of both of them lately.

After a quarter of an hour of throwing rocks at crows and watching scratches ooze, I headed back to Churls’s house. I was unhappily aware of the heat as I climbed the muddy slope.

My aversion to sweat rivals my aversion to animals; my own experience in an aerobics class nearly resulted in therapy. Now my blouse was a second skin and I was licking salt off my lips and wiping it out of my eyes with each step. All in all, I was not a happy camper.

I approached the fence, although with more decorum and prudence than I’d displayed earlier. The backyard was deserted. I moved along the fence until I had a partial view of the front yard and noted with relief that Yellow Hair’s truck was gone. There remained only one obstacle, but my dress was already unworthy of the Salvation Army Thrift Shop, so I hiked it up and climbed the fence with only a few expletives.

Minutes later, however, I once again loosed a lengthy string of them as I gazed at my tires…my four slashed tires. A small legacy from the guys, I realized bleakly. One flat tire was a nuisance, but not an insurmountable problem, in that anyone who can read a manual (and loosen the lug nuts) can change a tire and be on her way within the hour. I myself had done so upon occasion, although I had been known to proceed very slowly and put aside my feminist sensibilities should a gentleman stop and offer to help.

In this situation, the manual would not help, nor would a good samaritan in a sedate sedan. I was at a dead end, in more ways than one. I sat down in the front seat and twisted the mirror to examine my face, which was hardly the win-some oval that met my eyes above the bathroom sink. The package of tissues in the glove compartment was empty, but I felt under the passenger’s seat and found a tissue Caron had discarded when she’d played Rambo.

I did what I could, then reached under my seat for my purse. I found a sticky cup, more wadded tissues, rubber bands, and an old magazine. Another legacy from the guys, I supposed, trying to think what treasures they’d stolen. They were likely to be disappointed with the smattering of change, and more so if they attempted to purchase anything with the lone credit card that had seen its limit in mid-December. My driver’s license would do them no more good than it would do me; the checkbook might make them privy to a balance of a few hundred dollars. My car keys were still in the ignition, but I wasn’t overwhelmed with gratitude for the favor.

It was certainly a nuisance, but in the overall scheme of the day, almost a minor one. I went up the driveway to the house, trying to decide whom to call, and was relieved of the necessity of a decision when I determined the telephone was dead. The water had not been disconnected, and I splashed my face and used a stained towel to clean off my arms and legs as best I could. I left the remains of the panty hose on the bathroom floor.

I sat down on the steps of the porch. It was well past noon, and there was no point in bemoaning the missed conference. It was rather pleasant. Birds were making noises, and bees and other mysterious insects were drifting around the high grass. A dogwood tree bloomed at the edge of the brush, and I wryly recognized a clump of dogtooth violets.

Propping my elbows on the step, I leaned back and surveyed my domain. It was not the worst place to be stranded, I told myself lazily, and for once I was not in imminent danger of being scolded by anything more articulate than a blue jay. Caron was no doubt storming the halls of the high school, wailing about my nonappearance. Peter was being a detective. Arnie was sipping booze behind bars and fretting over social security reforms. Daryl was ranting in the hospital, Jan was at work, and the Willow Street gangsters were putting up posters and debating the wording of a classified ad. Miss Emily was fleecing a casino under the kindly guidance of Mr. Delmaro.

And I was sitting on a porch doing nothing to alleviate the immediate problem—or solve the mystery of Churls’s death or find the missing pets or much of anything. The porch was not far from the spot where Arnie’s car had been parked, I thought as I mentally re-created the scene. What had Churls done with the cages in such a short amount of time? It was a good ways to the labyrinth of cages, and Vidalia and Colonel Culworthy had searched there. The shed on the opposite side of the house was no closer, and Daryl Defoe-Gallager had been inside it. Churls hadn’t taken them into the house, and he hadn’t taken them down the driveway. This pretty much ruled out all points on the compass.

The wood of the step pressed into my elbows, slyly reminding me of its presence. I stirred myself into action and went down to the yard. The crawl space under the porch was nearly four feet high. In midday it was still dim; at night it would have made a lovely hiding place for, cages. I bent down and studied the dust.

The one clear footprint was familiar. I measured it against my own, and although I wasn’t positive that it was identical to the one by Miss Emily’s gate, it seemed to be of the same size and proportion.

I forced myself to crawl a short way under the porch, where I found three wooden boxes with meshed windows. They were empty, but still heavy enough to require tugging and extensive grumbling to extricate them from the hiding place.

I brushed the dust off my hands and gazed down with a proprietorial air at my discoveries. They provided one very small piece of the puzzle, but it was one more than I’d had a few minutes earlier. Churls had shoved the cages under the porch; the dogs and cat were sedated and unable to make themselves known to those of us who’d tromped up and down the steps, banged doors, shouted, and withstood the sheriff’s questions. After everyone had departed, someone had returned to remove the animals. And left a footprint in the dust.

I had no idea who this was, mind you, or the new location of Nick, Nora, Patton, and Astra, but it confirmed Arnie’s story (to some extent) and erased any lingering hints of metaphysical explanations.

As tempting as it was, I couldn’t sit back down on the steps and contemplate the butterflies. I left the cages where they were and walked to the road. There was no reason to lock my car, but I did so, pocketed the keys, and headed for the fringes of civilization.

There was no truck in Deputy Amos’s yard, but the sports car was parked in the shade. The young woman with the fanciful hair came to the door and said, “Yeah?”

“I’ve had some car trouble,” I said. “I was hoping I could use your telephone.”

“Haven’t I seen you before?”

“I was here a few days ago, when there was the…problem at NewCo,” I said, uncomfortably aware of my disreputable condition. “If I could just use the telephone, I won’t disturb you further.”

“Yeah, it’s okay with me.” She stepped back and opened the door. “You a friend of Rory’s or something?”

“Only in a professional capacity.”

“Is that so?” she said without interest. She stopped at the impressively large television to turn it off, then went through a doorway.

I followed her to the kitchen, which would not have earned approval from the health department. “I’m going to call Farberville, but I’ll pay the long-distance charge,” I said as I spotted the telephone on a fly-speckled wall.

She folded her arms and leaned back against the edge of the counter. “How’re you going to do that?”

“Your name’s Bethanna, isn’t it?” I said. She nodded impassively. “Well, Bethanna, whoever comes to pick me up will pay whatever you think is fair.”

“Don’t bother. You want some coffee?”

The aluminum coffeepot on the stove was black, and the mug nearby was being explored by several flies. The dishes in the sink were encrusted with unspecified matter. A cockroach darted out of sight under an open box of cereal. Then again, I had a possible witness.

“I’d love some,” I said with a bright smile. I sat down at the table. “There’s certainly been a lot of activity at NewCo, hasn’t there.”

“You’re telling me,” she said. She set a cup of coffee on the table, took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, and sat down across from me. “Now I remember you. You were here the night ol’ Newt got mauled by his dogs, right? He was a cussed bastard, but nobody ought to exit like that. Rory was sick to his stomach half the night, and still wakes up in the middle of the night all sweaty and scared.” She took a drink, belched softly, and gave me a puzzled look. “What were you doing down there this morning? Rory said nobody was supposed to go there after that other fellow got shot yesterday.”

“Did you notice when I drove past your house?” I asked, ignoring her rather reasonable question.

“Yeah, it was during a commercial, and I happened to see a car while I was putting the laundry out on the line. About three hours ago, wasn’t it? What were you doing all that time?”

I wasn’t sure she would appreciate a detailed account. “Looking for clues. Did you see a white truck drive past a few minutes after I did?”

“I think so, but ‘Name That Tune’ was back on and I was watching it. I’m real good at guessing the song titles. Darla says I ought to apply to be a contestant.”

“Have you ever seen that truck before?” I asked.

“Every now and then, or one that looked like it. Employees of Newt’s, maybe.” Bethanna took a long drink, still watching me with a faintly suspicious frown. “Thought you needed to make a call?”

“I do,” I said earnestly. “I guess you were too busy doing your hair yesterday to have noticed any cars or trucks going past your house?”

She patted her hair. “It takes me a good while, but everybody says it’s striking, so it’s worth it. I always leave the television on so I can listen to my game shows while I’m using the curling iron.”

“Did you happen to see any cars or trucks?”

“Most likely I did,” she murmured. “Say, don’t you like the coffee? I made it fresh this morning.”

I took a sip and managed a smile as the oily, bitter brew dribbled down my throat. “Delicious. Can you describe whatever you saw?”

“Lemme think here for a minute.” She screwed up her face and stared at the ceiling. “First I saw some guy walking down the road. ‘Wheel of Fortune’ had just come on when a little blue car went by. The category was titles, not one of my best unless it’s music or a movie. Turned out to be one of those tragic plays by Shakespeare. I’d heard of it, of course, but I couldn’t have guessed it in a hundred years. I would have had to buy all the vowels.” She held out her hand to allow me to admire a ring with a large diamond. “This is sweet, but they give away jewelry that cost ten thousand dollars or more. I get dizzy just imagining myself spinning the wheel and winning prizes like that.”

I tightened my fingers around the handle of the mug. “Did you see any other cars?”

“I didn’t pay that much attention. I was working on the title, and one of my rollers was coming loose. Rory came up from the barn and started shouting at me to find him a clean shirt.”

“What about the white truck?”

“Like I said, I wasn’t interested. You ever watch ‘Celebrity Charades?’ You know, the one where they get these television stars that haven’t been in a show for ten years and have ’em act out funny jokes?”

I admitted that I’d missed that one. “Let me ask you one more thing and then I’ll make my call,” I said, trying to align things in my mind. “Do you remember the night Newton Churls was attacked by his dogs?”

“Oh, yes. You showed up at the door just as I was going into town to meet Darla and another girl what works with her,” Bethanna said promptly. “There was all kinds of traffic that night, let me tell you.”

“By all means.”

“Well, first ’ol Newt goes by, probably coming back from one of those dogfights,’ cause he had his pit bulls in the back of the truck and they were yammering. Then comes this ancient car that looked like it was trying to get its tail feathers up so it could fly. Then comes this jeep with all these people of a different ethnic persuasion, if you get my drift. I thought that was pretty damn funny, in that Newt ain’t the most tolerant person I’ve met.”

I leaned forward. “And…?”

“You showed up and I left.” She stood up. “I got chores to do, and I want to be done by the time my soaps come on. I like to do my nails then. Help yourself to the telephone, and feel free to wait on the porch.”

“You didn’t see the white truck that night?” I asked.

“I already told you what I saw.” Bethanna went out the back door, and through the smudgy window I could see her begin to take stiff white sheets from the clothesline. She looked incongruous in her designer jeans and jewelry; her neighbors no doubt wore housecoats and aprons.

I needed to buy all the vowels and the consonants, too. Instead, I gritted my teeth and called Lieutenant Peter Rosen of the Farberville CID. It turned out he knew as many expletives as I did, if not more.

I wandered down the road to my injured car and sat on the fender. If I smoked, it would have been the ideal time to light a cigarette and gaze pensively at Newton Churls’s house at the top of the driveway, and at last achieve a burst of insight that would explain everything. I merely sat and swatted at an occasional mosquito.

An hour later, a surly simian arrived in a tow truck. He replaced one rear tire with the spare from my trunk, replaced the other with a spare from his truck, hooked the bumper of my car, and suggested I ride with him. As we drove toward the highway, he asked what had happened; I told him I didn’t know, and after that scintillating exchange, we rode to Farberville in silence.

An hour after that, my tires had been repaired and my promise to send a check received with an unhappy grunt. I drove home. The day had been a total disaster, and had it not been for the cheery postcard from Miss Emily in the mailbox, I might have admitted defeat and found a nice, dark closet in which to reside. It seemed Miss Emily had found a casino with a trapeze act, and Mr. Delmaro had taught her an incredibly clever system to win at the two-dollar blackjack table. She sent her love to Nick and Nora.

I changed into jeans and a T-shirt, dabbed cream on all visible scratches, untangled my hair, then stood in the kitchen and gulped down a scotch and water for medicinal purposes. I didn’t want to stay at home, where Peter could track me down. I didn’t want to go to the Book Depot, where Caron could (and surely would) do the same.

Besides, I was beginning to have a glimmer of an idea that might explain at least part of the muddle. I drove to the animal shelter, parked beside Jan’s car, and marched inside. The woman behind the counter gave me an unenthusiastic nod.

“I need to speak to Jan,” I said.

“She’s in her office, but she doesn’t want to be disturbed. We’ve had a difficult day.”

“So have I.” I pushed open the door and went into the office. Jan was slouched in a chair, smoking a thin, black cigarette and thumbing through a stack of papers. Her khaki pants were wrinkled, her shirt stained with sweat and dusted with dog hairs. “I want to talk to you,” I said as I sat down on a wooden chair.

She looked dully at me. “I had to euthanatize thirty dogs today, Claire. It’s the most humane thing we can do, and we do everything we can to comfort them. I talk to them, stroke them, and sing softly until they’re relaxed, but afterward I want to curl up and cry. Daryl’s still in serious condition and the sheriff wants my lawyer and me to come to his office after work. All in all, I’m not in the mood for a chat.”

“I’m sorry about the dogs,” I said. “But this has to do with dogs that can be saved and returned to their owners, and your lies are making it harder. Let’s talk about Daryl Gallager, shall we?”

“Gallager?” Her hand trembled as she put out her cigarette and carefully closed the folder in her lap.

“As in your brother, Daryl Gallager,” I persisted. “I found the old yearbooks. You two were in the same class at Farberville High School. Daryl was drafted and served a year in Vietnam. Now he’s back here, attending the college, and the both of you are hiding his identity. I would hypothesize he’s wanted by a law enforcement agency of some kind. How about the U.S. Army?”

“That was twenty years ago,” she said with an unconvincing laugh.

“The only thing that might keep them interested all this time is if Daryl went AWOL, so let’s try that. It might explain his animosity toward Colonel Culworthy.” If I could have paced, I would have, but the office was smaller than my own and I had no desire to stub my toe every three steps. I settled for crossing my legs and flicking my foot impatiently. “It’s rather tricky to go AWOL when one is surrounded by rice paddies on the far side of the globe, so let’s assume he was in the States at the time. In a hospital because of his leg wound?”

Jan rocked back in her chair and sighed. “He developed some severe psychological problems while he was in ’Nam. He and another private in his platoon were captured and held prisoner for more than three months before they were rescued. The conditions were barbaric. They were brought back to a mental hospital for evaluation, but Daryl panicked, attacked an orderly, and escaped. He’s afraid he inadvertently killed the orderly, and for that reason, he’s convinced they’re still after him.”

“Held prisoner,” I repeated, recalling the horror stories that had emerged as the vets had returned home to ambivalent welcomes. Carlton had avoided the draft by dieting to an unhealthy weight, but I had several old college buddies who’d come home enveloped in an impenetrable aura. “His apartment is completely devoid of personal effects and clutter. Does he have a problem with claustrophobia?”

“And cages,” she said.

“So he did let Nick and Nora out of the pen, and Patton, too.” I stopped for a minute as I remembered the painful clash of emotions in his eyes when I’d so bluntly asked him about it. “He let them out, but then he realized he’d endangered rather than liberated them. That’s why he’s been so determined to help us find them.”

“He was devastated when I told him what he’d done.”

“Especially when he recognized Newton Churls,” I said, staring at her until she flinched. “You told me you recognized him, and you and your brother grew up together in that part of the county. When Daryl went with us to NewCo, he and Churls recognized each other, didn’t they? Then Daryl had two things to worry about—the fate of the animals and exposure by Churls. We even had a deputy sheriff with us.”

Jan began to pace, but apparently she’d had practice. “I haven’t discussed it with him, Claire,” she said nervously. “I haven’t talked to him since…since you filed the report.”

“That’s not true. He must have been here when I called Saturday afternoon. You told me about the dog sale in Guttler. How else would he have known about it?”

Her flight plan included a circumnavigation of the desk, an about-face at the door, and a final turn behind my chair. She executed all this successfully while saying, “Yes, he was here when you and I discussed the sale, and he borrowed my car that afternoon. He came out here to ask me if I thought he could trust you.” She halted and met my eyes. “I told him he could.”

“You should have trusted me,” I said, then told her that I’d asked Peter to make inquiries about Daryl’s military service. “The Pentagon has other things to worry about, and I cannot believe they’ll prosecute a POW for what was likely to have been a psychotic episode. On the other hand, Sheriff Dorfer can’t—and won’t—overlook a homicide. When the commandos arrived at NewCo, Daryl slipped around one side of the house to investigate a shed. Did he continue to the back, find Churls about to loose the pit bulls, and shove him into the pen?”

Jan sank down in her chair and lit a cigarette with what now resembled palsied hands. “I don’t know. He swore he didn’t.”

“What happened at NewCo yesterday morning?”

“I did go there to look for the ledger. Dogfighting is big business, and so is the sale of animals to laboratories. Newton Churls did some major financial transactions—and I want those names. I’m afraid Sheriff Dorfer may be involved. If his name’s in the ledger, then the ledger’s history, as in ashes.”

The animal control officer opened the door. “Jan, there’s a call from the regional office of the USDA.”

“I’ll have to take it,” she said to me.

I nodded briskly at the officer as I went through the reception room. Once in my car, however, I gnawed on my lip and tried to fit this latest information into the scenario, which, in a contorted way, was beginning to make some sense. Daryl let the dogs out of the yards. Arnie picked them up (along with Astra), kept them a few days, and took them to NewCo. Churls hid them under the porch. Someone removed them.

I found myself driving to Miss Emily’s house, as good a destination as any. There were a few bills in the mailbox; I dropped them in a basket in the entry. The African violets were in need of water and a pep talk. Once I’d sprinkled and encouraged them, I went out to the back porch and glumly watched the last of the late afternoon sun splash over the honeysuckle vine. I would have welcomed a dorsal assault from the basset hounds from Hell, or even a splatter of slobber on my shoes.

I went back through the house, locked the front door, and was on the way to my car when Vidalia called to me from across the street. I waited, trying to hide my reluctance, as she scurried up, beads clattering and a chartreuse scarf rippling in her wake.

“Oh, my goodness, dearie,” she gasped, “you look dreadful, simply dreadful.”

“Thank you. It’s been one of those days.”

She blinked at me, then clasped her hands together. One final ray of sunshine glinted on her gold tooth. “Yes, hasn’t it? I did Astra’s chart, and something very significant is about to happen. I was so overcome with elation that I had to make myself a cup of chamomile tea and lie down with a damp washcloth on my forehead.”

“Is pesky old Pisces nearing the cusp?” I asked dryly.

“What an odd thing to say,” she murmured. She looked over my shoulder and began to wave wildly. “Colonel, oh, Colonel! You must tell me Patton’s date of birth! We’re on the verge of a major revelation. It’s in the air, and so intense I can almost see it!”

“Balderdash,” grumbled Culworthy as he joined us. “What happened to you, Malloy? Wouldn’t pass muster like that.”

“She had one of those days,” Vidalia confided with a giggle. She put her hand on his arm and drifted into him. “Now, you really must tell me the date and time of Patton’s birth, Colonel. I’m sure there’ll be a conjunction of some sort.”

“Balderdash, woman!”

“Oh, but Colonel,” she trilled, “I know something’s going to happen. Look, you do, too. Your mustache is twitching like a dear little caterpillar.”

He harrumphed a response, but I was too busy staring along the sidewalk to note it for posterity. Helen and George Maranoni were approaching us. In Helen’s hand was a leash, and at the end of the leash was an enormous brown poodle with a bow on the top of its head. Its curly hair and soft brown eyes reminded me of Peter, although I was quite sure he would never be caught with a pink ribbon dangling down his neck…or a matching one around his tail.

George shuffled beside her, his head bent as if he were studying the cracks in the pavement, and his hands flopping at his sides. Helen saw us and smiled smugly.

“See?” Vidalia said, shaking Culworthy’s arm. “Strange and wonderful things have already begun to happen. Juniper’s back. It’s only a matter of time before my dear Astra is nibbling salmon and your Patton is romping in the backyard.”

“Look who’s back,” Helen announced.

“When did Juniper return?” I asked.

George had not yet acknowledged us, but Helen smiled more broadly and said, “Only an hour ago. Isn’t it a miracle?”

Vidalia was hopping up and down hard enough to rattle Culworthy’s dentures. “And Astra shall be home, too! Helen, George, I am so very, very thrilled for you! And so is Colonel Culworthy!”

“What happened?” I asked Helen, ignoring the trills and harrumphs from the two behind me. “Did she just come to the door?”

Helen bent down and stroked the fuzzy brown head. “It’s a little bit complicated, but it seems Juniper wasn’t stolen after all. George took her to the vet’s to have”—she gave me a pinched look—“an operation, then forgot to mention it to me. I became aware of it when the nurse called and told me to pick Juniper up.”

“George is still having a problem with arthritis?” I inquired delicately.

“That’s not what it’s called,” George said, startling all of us. “Just a spot of forgetfulness every now and then. It comes with age, along with aches and pains and social security.” He wiggled his bushy white eyebrows and leered at me, then took the leash from Helen’s hand and led Juniper down the sidewalk. She watched him for a moment, her expression pained yet tender, then hurried to catch up with him. As they went around the corner, she slipped her arm through his.

“She really mustn’t let him wander around late at night,” Vidalia said sadly. “He might lose his way.”

“Already has,” Culworthy said, although without a trace of gruffness.

Vidalia finally convinced Culworthy to come to her apartment to provide the necessary information for Patton’s chart. Martinis were mentioned. I drove back in the deepening twilight, thinking morosely about the Maranonis and the inevitabilities that would beset them as George’s condition deteriorated. He hadn’t forgotten to put on his glasses when he gave away the puppies. He had no memory of it whatsoever, but he and his wife were too proud to admit it.

As I headed down Thurber Street, I noticed there was a light on in the main room of the Book Depot. Perplexed, I parked in my lot, hurried across the gravel, and discovered the door was unlocked. It was unnerving, but not all that frightening with the flow of traffic on the street, the raucous music from the beer garden, and the pedestrians ambling along the sidewalk. I eased open the door, wincing at the squeaks, and called, “Caron? Inez?”

There was no answer, and no mop of red hair popped through the doorway of the office. I hesitated for a minute, unsure if this warranted an hysterical call to the police or simply more methodical attention to security whenever I left. The telephone rang. I threw caution to the wind and went to answer it.

“Mrs. Malloy,” said an icy voice.

I recognized it. “Mrs. Horne, I am so very sorry about missing the conference this morning, but the most amazing—”

“Where are the frogs?”

“Where are the…frogs?” I echoed. I’d dedicated a week of my life to stolen dogs, and for a moment I wondered if I’d misunderstood her.

“That’s right—where are the frogs?”

“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Where are they supposed to be?”

“They are supposed to be in the cold storage room in the high school cafeteria, Mrs. Malloy.”

“And I gather they’re not there any longer? Is there any chance they hopped away?”

“This is hardly the time for humor,” Mrs. Horne said, although I wouldn’t have had too much trouble determining that from her tone of voice. “I have been calling your home and the store since school was dismissed five hours ago. May I add that it is now nine hours since your second scheduled conference with myself, the principal, a representative from the school board, and the chairperson of the faculty disciplinary committee?”