Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan) (25 page)

“Okay. You got any statements for the press?”

“You’ve got the thing about the man in the blue Ford we want to talk to?” In the neighborhood canvass that morning, Gabe reported, a lot of people had been away at work, but a retired man at the end of the block had confirmed Bo Morgan’s story that a man in a blue Ford had left the Colby house around four o’clock.

Nate rolled his pencil in his fingers. “Yeah, we’ve got that. Also that you’re following up a number of leads.”

“That sums it up, then,” Holly said.

“Can’t you say who looks most likely?”

She let a grin twitch at her mouth. “Sure. You can say that we’re especially interested in the movements of Dale Colby’s colleagues at the Sun-Dispatch.”

“Touché.” Nate smiled back weakly.

She started for the door. “I’ll talk to you later.”

She checked back with Gabe at the station house. A couple of things had come in, he said. Most notably, a detective named Lugano in New York wanted her to call. She dialed the number at Gabe’s phone, half-sitting on the edge of his desk.

“What’ve you got on this Ryan woman?” Lugano demanded.

“Nothing,” Holly admitted. “We’ve got a homicide, she was first on the scene. She’s also got four witnesses putting her miles away at the time it probably happened. What’ve you got?”

“The same. Nothing,” Lugano said. “She was a witness in a kidnapping here. Kid got back safely but the ransom disappeared. What can I say? We’ve been watching the Ryan woman and her husband because I have a gut feeling they know more than they’re telling. But they sure as hell don’t act like they got any cash out of it. Had high hopes once, she bought a Camaro. But it turned out to be used, and she’d got a big government contract at her business. So I’m left with a gut feeling.”

“Yeah, same here. Well, if anything shows up, I’ll let you know.”

“Ditto.”

Holly hung up and turned back to Gabe. “Damn. Nothing there. Any word from Doc Craine on time of death?’

Gabe rolled eloquent eyes toward the ceiling. “He’s getting mulish. ‘No one, including me, will ever know if you keep pestering me every ten minutes.’” His imitation of the irascible doctor was clumsy but recognizable.

“Yeah, I know that mood,” Holly said glumly. “Well, let’s concentrate on the guy Bo Morgan saw. Have the photos come in?”

“We’ve got Bates already, standard mug shot. I sent Driscoll to Maryland to pick up Moffatt’s. He should be back soon.”

“Fine. Moffatt’s is from quite a few years ago, he was only in college. But maybe it’ll do. Listen, I’m going over to Colby’s now to talk to Donna. Maybe I’ll pick up Bo Morgan and bring him back afterwards to look at the photos. You dig out a few others for a lineup, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Anything else?”

“Not on Colby. On the painting—you remember that stolen painting? Colonel Mosby on the battlefield?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Winks and a couple of Manassas detectives searched the whole tour bus. Nothing. And then old Taynton called back. Said it wasn’t the picture he’d reported missing after all. They found that one, fallen behind the chest where it’s hung.”

“So we can quit looking?” asked Holly hopefully.

“Not at all. There really was a broken frame on the steps, and those tools. So Taynton says he’ll call back to describe the painting that’s really missing, soon as he figures out which one it is. And we’re to stay on the job, he says. To honor our noble soldiers in gray.”

“Yeah.”

“Otherwise he’ll serve our heads on platters to the chief when he gets back.”

“He’s got the clout to do it, too. Damn. It must have been handed off to someone here in Mosby. Well, keep Winks on it. Find out if anyone else was around the museum this morning.”

“Right-o.”

In the unmarked car again, Holly paused for a moment to look over her notes. She’d learned a lot since last speaking to Donna Colby, and had plenty of new questions now: about the people Dale Colby was currently writing about, about his feelings toward his demotion and replacement as managing editor by Edgerton, about his son Mark and ex-wife Felicia. Donna, though doubtless still dazed by the sudden collapse of the life she knew, might be able to focus on specific questions about Colby’s last weeks.

But when she arrived the Colby yard was a scene of confusion.

Donna, screaming, came darting up the driveway, past the Colby Pinto and a black Camaro. Nick O’Connor was chasing Donna. Back by the front door Maggie held a weeping Tina in her arms while little Sarah clung to her mother’s sky-blue hem. As Holly pulled up to the curb, Nick reached Donna and seized her by both wrists.

“Donna, it’ll be okay,” he said soothingly.

“Josie!” she shrieked, looking around wildly.

“Donna, it’ll be okay! I’ll find her!” Maggie called.

Holly had pulled on the brake. Okay, Schreiner, cool and quick. Her damn revolver was in an ankle holster today, under the flare legs of her slacks. She snatched it out and leaped from the car. Without raising the gun she said to Nick, “Let her go.”

“Oh, Christ, here comes Annie Oakley.” Maggie’s exclamation dripped contempt.

Donna was still sobbing, “Josie,” over and over. Nick looked apologetically at Holly. “She’s kind of hysterical,” he explained.

“Let her go.”

He shrugged and released Donna’s wrists. Donna raced to the middle of the street and looked up and down. “Mrs. Colby?” Holly called.

“Josie!” Donna sobbed as though the others didn’t exist. She turned and ran back past Holly to the garage to peer inside.

Nick was standing quietly, watching the distraught woman. So okay, Schreiner, cool it, he’s no threat. She planted her foot on her car bumper, reholstered her gun and asked him, “What’s going on? Where’s Josie?”

His sad eyes turned from Donna to Holly. “She’s disappeared.”

15

At the porch steps Olivia balked. “I could wait here, couldn’t I?” she suggested. “Without the van I …”

“C’mon.”

She pretended to stumble on the steps but even though her arm was slicked with rain, the sudden jerk didn’t loosen Ernie’s grip. Loosened her shoulder, though. Ouch. Hand-to-hand combat with this guy was clearly out even if she could somehow eliminate the rifle and dog. He bent his head and asked, “You okay?”

“Uh—yeah, sure. A little woozy from, you know, the van.” She thought she heard voices. With a wrench of hope or fear or a combined thrill of both she realized there were people talking inside. Allies? Or assistant captors? She babbled on, “And the steps are wet.”

“Okay, we’ll go slow.” He helped her carefully up the steps and across the porch. Olivia’s rabbity heart began bouncing when she saw Sergeant Rock behind the screen door, tail waving, tongue lolling from the enormous jaws in a doggie grin. “Look,” she said, “he makes me so nervous. Couldn’t we—?”

“Yeah,” said Ernie, unsurprised. “He’s an attack dog.”

“Well, I mean, couldn’t I wait out here?”

He opened the door, shoved her in, and said mildly, “Just let me make this call.”

Clearly there was no choice, so she said, “Okay.” He obeys Ernie, she told herself. Keep Ernie happy and everything will be A-OK. Right now you better notice every detail in case you need it to get away.

With that task in mind she managed to ignore the big shepherd except for one fearful glance. She looked at the two doors. The screen had a hook, but Olivia saw that there was no lock. The inner wooden door, standing open now, boasted a dead bolt but had a twist knob inside. So with brief fumbling she could let herself out, if the opportunity ever came. Ernie hooked the screen, and shoved the door closed with his foot. Sergeant Rock sniffed at her civilly enough while Olivia resolutely looked past him at her surroundings.

She was in the front corner of a living room. It didn’t seem to match Ernie’s outdoorsman personality. A pinky-beige carpet carved in a vaguely floral design stretched wall-to-wall and on into the dining room through an arch. The windows, one next to the front door looking out on the porch and one across the room at right angles giving onto the driveway extension, sported inexpensive mauve drapes that moved in the gusts of wind. Under the driveway window sat a sofa slipcovered in a dark cabbage-rose design. A worn green chair and a black rocker flanked the scuffed Danish-style coffee table before the sofa. The coffee table at least showed signs of Ernie’s presence: a filled ashtray, a couple of Field & Streams, an ample collection of empty Bud cans. Nearest to her, a low wide bookcase sectioned off a three-foot entry area by the front door. On the bookcase sat a big television that faced the sofa, back to her, its tangled wiring drooping unkempt over the bookcase as it headed for connections in the wall beside her. The voices she’d heard were coming from it, excited but on low volume: “Joy makes my dishes shine every time!”

Ernie led Olivia around the end of the bookcase and across to the sofa, pausing only to say, “Sarge, sit,” to the dog. To her he said, “Please sit down,” but she obeyed promptly too. She wasn’t turning into a doormat, a shame to Steinem and Friedan, she told herself firmly. She was being rational. A man would do the same thing. Don’t upset a guy with a gun. And a dog. Not unless you’ve got a gun and a dog too. Besides, Ernie seemed calm enough, just determined that she would wait here a while. He’d even said please.

But then he looked back at the dog. “Sarge, watch ’em!”

The dog responded with an alert unblinking stare at her. Ernie wandered out through the arch and in a moment she heard him dialing a phone. She sat very still and walled off her fears. Think about other things. She looked around. On the TV, contestants in a quiz show burbled, their preselected all-American faces not too fat, not too old, not too pimply, all wearing eager expressions of all-American lust for the proferred refrigerators, vacations, cars. Well, Olivia could understand lusting for cars. Wouldn’t mind one right now herself. She turned her head to look out of the front window, across the porch and down the driveway toward the road. The disabled van sat tipsily in the ditch about two-thirds of the way down, a silvery shape half-hidden by the rain. Nearer the porch was the blue pickup, water sliding over it, giving it the look of a toy under its formfitting transparent plastic packaging.

Ernie came back to the archway, receiver held to his ear, and stood looking at her absently, maybe listening to it ring. The rifle was still slung over his shoulder. In a moment he muttered “Shit” to himself and disappeared. She heard the cradle click. Olivia noticed that the phone was just around the corner in the next room, beside the arch, on the driveway side of the house. Ernie did not reappear. She heard his footsteps retreating toward the back of the house.

Did that mean she could get up? Dash for the door, down behind the hedge, wait at the road for a passing car—well, no, there weren’t many of those, he’d find her easily, she’d have to make her way all the way to the construction site before she’d be safe. Hi, guys, sorry to bother you, she’d scream into the wall of noise from the roaring machines.

If he didn’t catch her first.

Wasn’t really a great plan, was it. If she couldn’t escape in the van, she certainly couldn’t on foot. Have to get hold of the rifle somehow. But she realized she could test the dog now. At least find out if he’d do anything without Ernie egging him on.

She tensed her legs and leaned forward an inch preparing to stand up.

Sarge did not approve.

She hadn’t actually moved yet, but his ears went back, his head lowered, his lips pulled back from his formidable teeth and a rumbling thickened the air. Oh boy. She leaned back again in the sofa and the rumbling stopped.

So. If she did get hold of the rifle she’d have to use it on the dog. How the hell did a rifle work? Only thing she’d ever done with a rifle was stick flowers in the barrel at a demonstration.

Ernie appeared in the archway with a six-pack and a bag of cookies. Pecan Crisps. He placed them on the coffee table, shoving aside the previous collection of cans to make space for the new additions.

“Want a beer, Olivia Kerr?” he asked.

“Uh—thanks, no.”

“Cookie?”

“Not just now.”

“All right.” He tabbed open a can himself, pulled the worn easy chair around to a position near the TV, and sat down, shrugging the rifle from his shoulder and laying it casually across his lap. He was directly between Olivia and the door. He leaned back in the chair, one leg stretched out comfortably before him. “Sarge, c’mere,” he said.

The big dog relaxed and trotted the few steps to his master, tail wagging. But Olivia remembered the rumble and didn’t move. Ernie scratched the animal’s ears, then softly told him to go lie down. Ernie lifted the can for a swig of beer. Finally he looked at Olivia.

“The situation we’ve got here,” he said pleasantly, “is that I’ve got to make a phone call to check you out.”

“Okay. Um, didn’t you just call someone?”

“Wasn’t there. But I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

“Oh. Okay.” She noticed that Sergeant Rock was not only lying down as commanded, he was dozing already. But dogs were not very sound sleepers. “And after you check, I can go?” she asked timidly.