Roll Over and Play Dead (9 page)

“I remember dogs,” he offered.

“The dogs at the animal shelter?”

“Yeah, I suppose.” He took a sip of coffee and recoiled. “Wowsy, Senator, this is strong stuff. Maybe I better dilute it with a shot of whiskey. Does my bottle happen to be handy?”

“No,” I said sternly. “Do you remember driving to NewCo last night?” When he looked even blanker than usual, I said, “The property owned by Newton Churls, an unpleasant man who traded in animals.”

“He’s something, ain’t he?” He craned his head as he looked around the office for his bottle. “Ol’ Newton Churls, huh? Now that I think of it, I did drive out there last night. Then I decided to enjoy the wonder of nature by walking back to town.”

“In the dark? Come on, Arnie, you didn’t see much nature while you stumbled down the railroad tracks. Why did you go out there in the first place?”

“I don’t recall,” he said loftily, although his eyes had flickered before he hastily averted them.

“Let me guess, then.” I went to the desk and put my fists on it so I could stare down at him. “My guess is that you went out in the shelter truck earlier in the week and picked up some roving dogs. Some of these you assigned a number and duly delivered to the shelter. Others received no number and were deposited somewhere. Last night you took them to NewCo to sell to Churls. How am I doing, Arnie?”

He gave me a patronizing grin. “Just like a politician to get things addled up. Wowsy, you boys can’t enact a bill without cluttering it up so bad it comes out like corned-beef hash.” The grin turned sly. “But I might see my way to clear it up for you—if I could have my bottle back, that is.”

Entertaining dark thoughts about the prevalency of blackmail, I fetched his bottle and banged it down in front of him. “Clear it up for me, Arnie.”

He took a lengthy pull on the bottle, wiped his mouth on his coat cuff, and after a few false moves, got his feet settled on the corner of the desk. “I have been known to sell a dog or cat to Churls. I figure they’re strays, gonna get killed at the shelter anyways, might as well let one of us come out smelling like a rose.”

His redolence in no way evoked images of roses, but I merely nodded, and in an encouraging voice, said, “So every now and then you took an animal to Churls. I assume he paid you handsomely for your endeavor?”

“That old fart?” Arnie cackled. “He paid like the miser he is, which means he moaned and groaned over every dollar and whined about how he wasn’t making spit for profit. Last night he wouldn’t even pay me. He claimed he was broker than one of your basic homeless derelicts and said I’d have to come back next week to get my money. Can you imagine the nerve of that guy?”

“What animals did you take him last night?”

He scratched his oily hair while he struggled out of the whiskey-induced haze. “Oh, yeah, it’s coming back. Last week I picked up a whole bunch of real good animals. Churls pays better for heavier animals, so I always keep an eye out for ’em. Anyways, I had four stashed in an old trailer not too far from the shelter, and last night I said to myself, I said, Arnie, if you want to celebrate the weekend in the manner to which you’re accustomed, you’d better get some—”

Feeling as though I were in a freezer, I said, “Describe the animals, Arnie. Now.”

“Two of those squatty dogs with the sad eyes,” he said obligingly, then stopped as footsteps thundered from the main room of the bookstore.

Sheriff Dorfer filled the doorway, his gun aimed squarely at Arnie. Other deputies, all armed, were behind him, struggling to see over his shoulder.

“Arnold Riggles, you are under arrest!” the sheriff thundered. He slowly turned his head to gaze at me, and lowered his voice to a growl. “And you, Claire Malloy, are under arrest, too.”

Being arrested was exceedingly inconvenient at that moment. Arnie didn’t seem to mind, but I had more important things to do if I was to find Nick and Nora and thus save Miss Emily from terminal distress.

Sheriff Dorfer grimly recited the Miranda warning. Arnie said that all made perfectly good sense to him, and what with me being a politician and all, why, I’d probably heard it a zillion times at all those senate investigations.

“Once or twice,” I said with a charmingly wry smile. “But don’t you think this is a bit extreme, Sheriff Dorfer? Arnie appeared on the railroad tracks only a short time ago. I offered him coffee and was reaching for the telephone to call you when you stormed the gates, so to speak.” I poised my hand over the telephone to emphasize how close I’d been to making the call.

He was not impressed. “You’re harboring a fugitive, Mizz Malloy.”

“No one told me he was a fugitive, so I wasn’t harboring him. I was doing my civic duty by sobering him up while we waited for you.”

“And impeding an investigation.”

“He hasn’t been here more than ten or fifteen minutes. It was a very minor impediment.” I stopped and frowned. “How did you know he was here?”

“The police took a report from some college professor who almost ran over a drunk out front. The driver was not happy about the encounter, and he noted the drunk stagger into the Book Depot. Some bright officer thought the description sounded like our missing suspect and passed it along to us.”

“How very astute of the officer,” I murmured while I desperately tried to think how to extricate myself from the mess and hit the road for Guttler. Sheriff Dorfer was not in a cooperative mood, based on the ferocity of the looks being sent in my direction and the tightness of his finger on the trigger. I spotted Deputy Amos behind him and waved, but he looked away.

For the most part, I am a law-abiding citizen. I have been known to jaywalk, and have received my fair share of parking citations (an oxymoronic phrase), but I have always stopped short of flagrant disregard for our boys in blue, or in this case, khaki. It is possible I’m not as conscientious with a certain plain-clothed detective, but at the moment that was irrelevant.

Thanks to Arnie, Miss Emily’s dogs had been at NewCo. They were no longer there. If someone else took them to the animal sale to be held in a little more than twelve hours, they could be in another state by noon tomorrow, and in a cold, stainless steel lab by evening. Arnie had mentioned four animals; the unspecified pair could be from the trio of Patton, Juniper, and Astra.

I resolved this moral dilemma and gave the sheriff a meek look. “I don’t think you have cause to take me into custody, but I will debate it at your office—after I’ve contacted my attorney. Come on, Arnie.” I grasped his shoulder and jerked him to his feet, and we followed the sheriff out of the office. Arnie, a murder suspect, was handcuffed; I, a modest meddler, was deemed unworthy of hardware. As we paraded past the counter, I surreptitiously grabbed the piece of paper with directions to Guttler.

But not as surreptitiously as I’d thought. From behind me, Deputy Amos said, “What’s that?”

“My last chance to save the basset hounds,” I said honestly, then shifted gears. “Oh, fiddlesticks, I left my purse in the office. Be back in a jiffy.”

Before he or any of the others could react, I dashed back to the office, snatched up my purse, and continued out the rear door. I was scrambling through the brush along the steep slope adjacent to the railroad tracks before I heard voices bellowing at me, and a good three blocks down the street before I collapsed behind a forsythia and dared to catch my breath.

I wasn’t sure if I’d committed a felony, a misdemeanor, or a breach of etiquette. Sheriff Dorfer might be in the throes of an apoplectic fit by now, but I could not take responsibility for that. I also could not stroll back to the bookstore and hop in my car, I realized as I removed a prickly twig from my hair, nor could I go home and try to arrange to borrow a car.

Headlights approached. I huddled in the dry leaves beneath the bush and made all kinds of wild resolutions to be kept if I was not apprehended. The car passed by, thus obligating me to radical alterations in my life-style and Caron’s, no matter how averse the latter was to adoption of the basic rituals of civilization, such as making her bed every morning. At the moment, however, I needed to do something, and I couldn’t decide what it was, having had no experience being on the lam.

Sitting under a bush was not productive, but walking down the sidewalk was downright perilous. Headlights approached from the opposite direction; I again burrowed into the leaves. The lights silhouetted a figure riding a bicycle in my direction. The car pulled alongside him, and I heard him being asked if he’d seen a red-haired woman acting suspiciously.

Although the response was inaudible, the cyclist shook his head and I caught a glimpse of a fuzzy ponytail. It was my customer, the science fiction hippie. I ducked my head as the car drove past, then waited until the hippie was in front of me and hissed at him.

“Yeah?” he said as he put his foot on the pavement, not sounding at all surprised at being addressed by a bush. For all I knew, it could have happened to him on a regular basis, and according to the official record, it was how Moses got his start.

“It’s Claire Malloy,” I whispered.

“Groovy. What are you doing in the bush?”

Fifteen minutes later I was perched on the back of his bicycle and we were wobbling up Thurber Street toward the perceived sanctuary of Miss Emily’s house. My hair was hidden under a red bandana and I was wearing an army fatigue jacket and his pair of wire-rimmed glasses. I kept my head plastered against his back as though so overcome with lust that I was reduced to nuzzling his ponytail. He pedaled along blindly but contentedly, no doubt salivating at the prospect of a dozen free books.

A deputy sheriff’s car passed us, but the occupants were scanning the pedestrians, and the cyclist and his lovesick girlfriend attracted no interest. Within five minutes we arrived at Willow Street. He assured me I could keep the outfit, and with a wave, pedaled down the street.

I stood at the curb. Both floors of the house were dark; Miss Emily was sipping tequila in Taos and Daryl Defoe was most likely at the Book Depot wondering why I wasn’t. Wishing I’d watched more television detective shows and therefore learned the gentle art of evading the authorities, I took the key from the mailbox and let myself into the house.

I had a hideout and a disguise, but no transportation to Guttler, Missouri—a problem I’d never envisioned having to face in this lifetime. I closed the heavy drapes, enveloping myself in a cloud of dust that provoked half a dozen sneezes, and switched on a small lamp next to the telephone. I knew Miss Emily was a tippler, and after a brisk search of the cabinets, settled on the settee with a glass of sherry and called my apartment.

“Hello?” Caron said breathlessly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s you, Rhonda,” she said. “Did you finish painting that really neat poster for the Mousse concert?”

“Shall I presume we have company?”

“Yes, I adore the drummer!” she gushed. “He’s the baddest of them all, don’t you think? Well, the lead singer’s kinda cute if you like older guys. He’s practically twenty, you know.”

I could imagine the stony-faced deputy in the middle of the living room, getting stonier as he realized he might have to listen to a lengthy exposé of relative merits of each member of Mousse. I wasn’t sure I could stand too much of it, myself.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m going out of town until late tomorrow afternoon or so. If a true emergency comes up, the animal shelter director will know where I am. I’m not going to tell you because I don’t want you to be tortured, nor do I want you to blurt it out at the mere mention of being momentarily inconvenienced.”

“Let’s not get bitchy, Rhonda. Sometimes you’re worse than my mother, and that’s not easy to be. She majored in it at college and did a graduate—”

“Spend the night at Inez’s house, all right?” I banged down the receiver and took a long sip of the sweet sherry. Luanne was still out of town, so I couldn’t beg the use of her car. I called the number of the animal shelter and listened to a dozen plaintive rings. Jan Gallager was not listed in the directory, and when I called information, I was told rather snootily that at the customer’s request, the number could not be given out.

I wondered if Miss Emily might have a car parked in the garage beside the house. If she did, it was likely to be of antique vintage, but I went into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and began to hunt through junk-filled drawers for a car key (or a crank).

As I moved past the window above the sink, I saw a light flash in the yard. Gulping unattractively, I switched off the overhead light. Could the sheriff have remembered the addresses of the stolen animals and sent men to search for numero uno on his most-wanted list? And if so, were they armed with assault weapons and instructed to take no enemies? Should I prepare for tear gas and/or hand grenades? I went back to the window, but there was no flicker to be seen, much less the glint of moonlight on the barrel of an Uzi.

I’d never had much respect for the heady heroine in a gossamer negligee who creeps up to the tower, fully aware that the murderer knows darn well she’s got the sole proof of his guilt clutched in her sweet yet sweaty palm. A simple telephone call to the police would almost always suffice.

I, however, crept to the living room and peeked through the drapes, in that a simple telephone call to the police would result in an even less tolerable situation. Someone was behind the thick trunk of an ancient elm tree; a tiny light flickered twice and then went dead.

This was so exciting that I returned to the kitchen window and watched as a light flickered near the honeysuckle on the fence. I wasn’t exactly frightened by all this fire-flyish behavior. Whoever had murdered Newton Churls had no reason to stalk a mild-mannered bookseller. On the other hand, I did make sure the front door was locked as I went into the inky bedroom and stumbled through piles of magazines to the window.

I held back the sheer and watched yet another light. I returned to the living room and sat down near the telephone, just in case an ax crashed through the door or I heard howls. When a board creaked on the porch, I drained the sherry and tried to think of a reasonable explanation to smooth the sheriff’s ruffled ego.

Nothing much came to mind, so I waited patiently for the deputies to pound on the door and demand entry. The board squeaked more loudly. The situation was becoming entirely too melodramatic for my taste. Caron would have reveled in it, threatening to swoon, fluttering her eyelashes, reeling about with her hands clasped in the traditional Gothic pose, making outlandish remarks, and having a lovely time.

The house seemed to be creaking from its floorboards to its attic. It was a hundred years old, I told myself calmly, and the wind picked up since the time I’d lost my mind and dashed out the back door of the bookstore. I wasn’t trapped. I was safely installed in the haven of my choice; the doors were locked, the drawbridge drawn, the drapes closed to thwart erstwhile Peeping Toms.

It was possible that my hand was trembling as I refilled my glass, but I managed to do so with only a small splash on the toe of my shoe and on the dull patina of the hardwood floor. There may have been a trickle of adrenaline in my blood, and a nascent lump in my throat. The hardy heroines did survive, I reminded myself as my eyes darted between the doorway to the kitchen and the nearby front door, with occasional detours to the ceiling when a particularly loud creak caught my attention. The police or the hero or the mounties always showed up at the ultimate moment. I was safe. Perfectly, perfectly safe.

A stick cracked somewhere in the backyard. Had Nick, Nora, and Patton been there, the sneaky soul would have been announced with barks and snarls of indignation. As it was, they might be on their way to Guttler while I sat on the settee awaiting further developments.

I was still reasonably composed when the back doorknob rattled. I was on the verge of hysterics when I forced myself to tiptoe to the doorway and peer around it. Two wide, white eyes stared through the glass at me from under a great mass of gray hair, and I could almost hear the beads rattling.

I turned on the light and curled my lip, expecting Vidalia to smile in return, but instead she gasped and ducked out of view as if she’d caught a glimpse of the bride of one of those silly B-grade movie monsters. I went to the front door, turned on the porch light, and stepped outside, more than a little irritated with the neighborhood loonies.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I said flatly.

George poked his head out from behind the elm tree. His voice was high and waspish as he said, “Identify yourself or I’ll call the police.”

“Name, rank, and serial number,” snapped an unseen but familiar voice from around the corner of the house. “Armed, you know. Can’t be held responsible if you’re wounded.”

“Colonel,” Helen said uncertainly from her post, wherever it might have been, “I think that’s—”

“Hold your positions!” he interrupted. “Keep her covered until we’re satisfied.”

Vidalia’s face hovered above a shrub, as if it were a helium balloon on a string. “I do believe, Colonel, that we’ve made a teeny tiny mistake.”

“No,” I said, “you’ve made a great big mistake.” I pulled off the bandana and glasses. “Would you like to come inside for tea and cookies, or would you prefer to play cops and robbers in the dark? It’s a very nice night, and I really won’t have my feelings hurt if you stay out a little longer. Just don’t stay out past your bedtimes.”

I went inside and sat down. There was a spurt of discussion in the yard, and then the group trudged inside with varying amounts of embarrassment and found places to sit.

“Care to explain?” I asked.

Colonel Culworthy harrumphed. “Neighborhood watch. Pet patrol sort of thing. Secure the streets in case someone tries to steal another animal.”

Vidalia flashed her gold tooth at me and said, “Colonel Culworthy organized us, of course. I’m assigned to this block, and when I saw a light inside Emily’s, I flashed my light three times. Three means possible intruder. Two means message acknowledged, and three—pause—two means”—she gave me a panicky look—“something else.”