Roll Over and Play Dead (3 page)

Things settled down over the next few days. Caron sighed a lot and compared everything she ate to the dog food she was mixing on a daily basis, but the weather was on my side. A poster of three boys with spiky orange hair and sneers appeared on her bedroom wall; neither of us commented on it. Peter was off dealing with a family crisis, so I spent my evenings outwitting a series of bumbly inspectors and Caron spent hers gushing about Mousse on the telephone.

I was working on a fictionalized account of my monthly sales tax report for the state government when Caron and Inez invaded the store late one afternoon. They came in so tentatively, though, that I closed the ledger and gave them a bemused look.

“It’s the dogs,” Caron said morosely.

“The dogs,” Inez echoed.

“Surely it’s getting easier by now,” I said. “You must have a routine worked out.”

“We did,” Caron said. She drifted behind the science fiction rack, where all I could see was the top of her head. “They’re missing.”

I went around the other corner of the rack. “What did you say?”

“I said they’re missing, as in gone. We went to Miss Emily’s like we always do. The dumb flowers didn’t need water, so we mixed up that disgusting stuff and took it to the back porch. They usually come out from under the bushes when they hear us, but today they didn’t. Inez and I called and called, and then both of us crawled around and looked everywhere in the yard.”

Inez peeked around the opposite end. “Don’t forget about the gate being open,” she said, her eyes blinking behind the thick lenses. “I think it’s a clue.”

I was blinking as hard as she, if such a thing were possible. “Nick and Nora are missing, and the gate was open? Is this what you’re telling me?”

“It wasn’t our doing,” Caron said. Or whined, to be more accurate. Her repertoire is quite extensive. “We don’t ever set foot off the porch, because of the dogs trying to drool on our feet. We didn’t even know there was a gate until Inez found it. It’s sort of hard to see under the stairs.”

“It’s behind a forsythia,” Inez explained.

“But you’re quite sure it was closed yesterday?” I said.

Caron took a book off the rack and studied the lurid cover, which involved a nubile warrior in a leather bikini being sucked into carnivorous crimson slime. “Why wouldn’t it have been?” she said nonchalantly.

I’d had only fifteen years of motherhood, but I was adept enough to read between the words. I snatched the book out of her hands. “You did go to Miss Emily’s house yesterday afternoon, didn’t you?”

“Well, sort of.”

“What does that mean?” I said in the ominous voice of a maternal warrior in jeans and a T-shirt.

“It was Rhonda Maguire’s fault.” Caron was edging backward, licking her lips and shooting desperate looks at the front door. “She absolutely insisted that we come over and help her paint this incredibly neat banner to take to the concert. We worked out in the garage so we wouldn’t—”

“You were at Rhonda’s all afternoon?” I interrupted. “You didn’t bother to go to Willow Street and feed the dogs?”

“Oh, it’s not like that, Mrs. Malloy,” Inez said. “Caron paid Rhonda’s little brother to do it.”

“And he did it for fifty cents,” Caron tossed out, in case I wanted to praise her financial acumen rather than throttle her.

I did not. “So what do you intend to do about Nick and Nora? Miss Emily trusted me, and I was foolish enough to trust you.” I gave her an evil smile. “But not so foolish as to trust you with the concert ticket.”

“Mother, it’s not My Fault that the stupid gate wasn’t locked and the dogs made a break for it. Rhonda’s brother didn’t crawl under a bush to open a gate, for pete’s sake. I told him how to go through the house to the kitchen. He’s not that dorky.”

“He’s only eight, though,” Inez began. She caught Caron’s glare and scuttled around the end of the rack.

“What are you going to do?” I persisted.

“Read the lost and found ads in the classified?”

“Try again, dear.”

“Go look for them?”

“That’s right,” I said through clenched teeth. “You are going to search the entire neighborhood, knock on everyone’s door, literally beat the bushes, call them until your voice is completely gone, and find those dogs. Do you understand?”

“But I have all this algebra homework, and…” She noticed my expression, sighed loudly, and said, “Come on, Inez. Let’s go find the dogs and put them back in the yard. On the way home, we can swing by Rhonda’s house to pulverize that stupid little dork.”

On that cheerful note, they left. I tried to reimmerse myself in the tax figures, but all I could see was Miss Emily’s face as I told her the dogs were gone. She would maintain her dignity, of course, and gaze sadly at me. She might have to dab her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. Her chin might tremble. She might have a heart attack and die on the carpet.

“Oh, hell!” I said as I threw down the pencil (the red one). I grabbed the fly-speckled
CLOSED
sign, set it in the door, locked the store, and drove to Willow Street.

There was no sign of the search party. I went around the side of the house and found the open gate beneath the exterior staircase. I was about to leave when I saw a footprint in the mud. It did not have the distinctive tread marks of a sneaker, I thought as I placed my foot alongside it. It was longer and wider than mine, and therefore likely to have been made by a man.

The open gate might be a clue, but this most definitely qualified. It had rained five days ago. This area was shady and the ground was still somewhat wet, and it was clear that a man had come under the stairs and walked to the gate. With easy ingress blocked by a forsythia on the other side, it seemed more likely that he had flipped up the U-shaped latch and pulled the gate open a foot or so. Nick and Nora had chanced upon this fortuity and made their escape, but not necessarily immediately. The gate could have been opened four days ago or within the last few hours, I reminded myself.

Lieutenant Rosen might have his fingerprints, but Claire Malloy-Marple had a footprint. All she had to do was figure out what to do with it. I was standing over it and frowning when I heard dry leaves crackle in the adjoining yard. Culworthy’s retriever loped to the fence, sat down, and stared hopefully at me, as if anticipating a doggie treat to appear in my hand.

In his dreams, right?

It did give me an idea, though, and I went around to the front of Culworthy’s house and rang the bell. He had a martini in his hand as he opened the door and an unfriendly look on his face. “Ah, yes, you’re the Malloy woman. Need something?”

“I was wondering if you might have a bag of plaster.”

“What for?”

“Someone opened the gate in Miss Emily’s yard, and the dogs are loose. There’s a footprint by the gate. I’d like to make a cast of it.”

“Good idea. Can’t have hooligans opening gates in the area. Dogs run wild, get in the garbage, that sort of thing.” He took a sip of the martini. “Yes, bag of plaster in my garage. Wait here, Malloy; I’ll take care of this for you. We can use evidence in court to convict the hooligans.”

I resisted the urge to remind him whose footprint it was, or belonged to, anyway, and waited on the porch until he came back with a bag of plaster, a plastic bucket, and a long wooden spoon. I led him to the side yard and showed him the footprint. “It looks very much as if it was made by a man,” I said. “And the only reason for him coming here is to open the gate.”

“Can’t have open gates,” Culworthy said. He splashed some water into the bucket from the faucet on the side of his house, and we discussed the quantity of plaster necessary to secure, as he insisted, the evidence for court.

It was rather entertaining, and I was beginning to be accustomed to his staccato speech. He was stirring the white mixture when the door above us opened. The renter, Daryl Defoe, came out to the landing, leaned over the railing and said, “What do you think you’re doing, Culworthy? This is private property.”

“Damn draft dodger,” Culworthy muttered without looking up.

“I heard that!” Daryl said, his dark eyes glittering with poorly disguised anger. “I did my year in ’Nam. You want to see the shrapnel scars on my leg, Colonel Culworthy? How about my stay in the Hanoi Hilton? You want to hear about the room service?”

Culworthy stirred more vigorously, splattering plaster on his creased khaki trousers. Agreeing with Caron’s assessment of the neighbors, I looked up and said, “Someone opened the gate and the dogs got out. Did you notice anyone in this area?”

Daryl came down the stairs, the Sam Spade trench coat now replaced by scruffy jeans and a slightly soiled dress shirt. His feet were bare. I realized he was not as young as I’d assumed when I first saw him. There were fine lines around his wide-set eyes and a crease in his forehead as sharp as the one in the colonel’s trousers. There were a few traces of gray in his collar-length hair, which looked as shiny as it had when I’d seen him in the rain. Then it had been wet; now I assumed it was simply dirty.

“So you’re playing detective,” he said to Culworthy’s back. “I didn’t know you’d been in military intelligence, if you’ll excuse the inherent contradiction of the phrase.”

Culworthy’s neck turned red; the spoon clattered in the bucket. I gave Daryl a stern look and said, “Did you see anyone down here in the last few days?”

“There were a couple of girls who’ve been in the house several times. They must be taking care of the dogs for the old lady.”

“Why didn’t you volunteer to do it?” I asked. “After all, you’re right upstairs, and it wouldn’t have been much trouble to feed the dogs for your own landlady.” Thus relieving wishy-washy bookstore proprietors from the obligation.

“I sometimes stay in the computer room at the college for two or three days at a time, surviving on stale sandwiches and coffee from the vending machines. Miss Emily knows it and was worried that I might forget the dogs.” He gave me a concerned look. “She’s devoted to them. I hear her out in the yard, talking to them and tossing a ball and that sort of thing. I hope you get them back before she comes home.”

“Nice you noticed,” Culworthy growled. “The plaster’s thickening. Back, both of you. Must proceed cautiously and follow proper procedure in order to secure the evidence.”

Daryl and I obediently stepped back so Culworthy could proceed cautiously, etc. We were all standing around the white puddle when Vidalia appeared.

“Have any of you seen Astra?” she demanded shrilly.

“In your window yesterday,” Culworthy said. “Looked like she was napping.”

“I mean today,” Vidalia said. She was dressed pretty much as she had been when I first saw her, and now the hem of her skirt was threatening the puddle of plaster.

I caught her arm. “Your cat disappeared today?”

“Oh, yes, and I am so very distraught. I’ve had Astra for twelve years, ever since she was a tiny kitten no bigger than a ball of fuzzy yarn. She’s always had the finest food, and she has her own wicker basket right by my bed with a matching bedspread. Whatever shall I do?”

Unlike my imagined scenario with Miss Emily, Vidalia had no intention of remaining dignified in the face of disaster. She was twisting her hands together and moaning steadily; tears clotted in the mascara and ran down her face in black ribbons. Culworthy and Daryl looked totally bewildered by this histrionic display, so I tightened my grip on her arm and pulled her around to the front yard.

“Tell me about Astra,” I said.

“At dawn this morning I let her out for her playtime. She loves to chase the birds; her little eyes are so very merry when she comes to the door and demands to be let inside. Even her yowls are merry.”

“And she disappeared?”

“It’s entirely my fault,” Vidalia moaned, beginning to rock back and forth and hiccup like a coffee percolator. “I was doing her chart. With Virgo rising, it’s been an exciting month for both of us, and I was making an adjustment when I realized I’d been working all morning and it was almost time for our lunch. I went to the backyard, but Astra wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I called for her, and then walked all the way down to the library and over to the supermarket. What do you think could have happened to poor Astra? She’s delicate. Do you think some vicious dog could have…?”

She began to crumple. I caught her, realizing under all the ruffles and accessories that she was very small and thin, and helped her to the porch. She sank down and buried her face in her arms, yowling but not at all merrily.

Culworthy appeared. “What’s wrong with the woman?” he barked, although I could hear concern under his gruffness.

“She let Astra out this morning, and she ran away,” I said.

“No, she would never do that,” Vidalia said between sobs and hiccups. “Astra never leaves the yard. Well, once she chased a squirrel into the next yard, but she came back and apologized.”

“Damn shame,” Culworthy said. He sat down next to Vidalia and patted her shoulder. “Shouldn’t think she went far. She’ll be back for dinner.”

“I have a nice piece of fish for her. She does so love it broiled with a bit of butter.”

I frowned at Culworthy. “Could Astra’s disappearance have anything to do with Miss Emily’s dogs? It’s hard to overlook the coincidence.”

Vidalia wiped her face with a tissue from her cuff. “Emily’s dogs have disappeared, too? This is dreadful, simply dreadful. Whatever will she do when she returns home?”

Before I could think of a response, Caron and Inez trudged up the sidewalk to the porch. In that they were unaccompanied by basset hounds, I sighed and said, “Did you knock on every door in the neighborhood?”

Caron nodded. “Nobody’s seen the dogs. There’s a lady up the street who says her dog is missing, too.”

“I wonder,” I said slowly, “if the animal control officer might have been in this area.”

“Like the dogcatcher?” Caron said, turning pale. “He took the dogs to the pound to asphyxiate them?” She sounded seriously upset, but I suspected it had more to do with the upcoming rock concert than the fate of anyone’s pets at the local Auschwitz.

“And poor Astra—she’s dead?” Vidalia began to cry again.

“Nonsense,” said Culworthy, giving me a dirty look. “No one asphyxiated Astra.”