Roll Over and Play Dead (8 page)

“I said I was sorry,” he retorted.

“Would you recognize the voice?” I asked, not at all sure I could produce or reproduce Arnie’s voice anytime soon.

“Whose voice?”

Annoyance flashed across Helen’s face, but she kept most of it out of her voice. “The man who took the puppies, George.”

He shook his head. “Nothing special about it, and the television was on beside the door. Despite the fact it was a shutout, the announcers were bleating statistics and pretending it was exciting.”

“George is so conscientious,” Helen said, rolling her eyes and smiling grimly. She took his arm and they left.

The gum-chewing receptionist returned and told Caron to follow her. I picked up a magazine and engrossed myself in a lengthy article about latest technological advances in radar guns and how best to utilize said data in court. Inez studied a dusty plastic plant for signs of life. Thirty minutes later the receptionist brought Caron back and took Inez away. Caron ignored my whispered demands to find out what she’d been asked, and went across the room to ascertain which department employees had been memorialized on a bronze plaque. Thirty minutes later it was my turn.

Sheriff Dorfer’s desk was a wasteland of folders, papers, manuals, gnawed Styrofoam cups, burned matches, and an ashtray piled high with the smoldering remains of cigars and fat gray ashes. He presided over it like a rednecked Buddha, while a woman with a notebook sat in the corner.

“Mizz Malloy,” he said sadly, “it looks like we’ve got ourself a murder, just as you suggested to Deputy Amos. I was real impressed with your powers of observation—so impressed that I asked a colleague in law enforcement about this observant woman bookseller. It was enlightening, what I heard about you. Damn near blinding.”

“How very kind of you,” I said, graciously electing to misinterpret his remarks. “Did you find the key for the padlock on the dog pen?”

He leaned back in his chair, propped one foot on the corner of his desk, and clasped his hands together on his rounded stomach. “What I heard about you,” he continued blithely, “was that you stick your nose into official police business because you seem to fancy yourself some kind of armchair amateur detective.”

“Amateur, yes, but I don’t think it’s fair to accuse me of idling away my time in an armchair, Sheriff Dorfer. When I read, I do so on the sofa or in the warmth of my bed. When I assist the police, I rarely do it at home.”

“They didn’t call it ‘assisting,’ Mizz Malloy. They accused you of interfering and of meddling. Of almost getting yourself killed on more than one occasion. Of keeping secrets and even telling lies to the good ol’ boys at the CID.”

I gave him a rueful look. “I never would have characterized you as a common gossip. I must say I’m disappointed and may express the sentiment at the polls next fall.”

“I don’t care if you write in Elvis for sheriff,” he said, now sounding a bit annoyed. “What I do care is that you get it through your head that I, unlike your detective boyfriend, will not tolerate you snooping around and trying to butt into my investigation. If somebody calls you to confess, you can pass it along to me, but if I hear one little word about you asking questions or talking to the suspects, I’ll lock you up so darn fast your head’ll spin till Halloween.”

“Then shall I presume my daughter is not a suspect? Although a taboo on conversation with her has some appeal, it’s not realistic on a day-to-day basis when I must inquire about her preferences for breakfast.”

He took a cigar stub from his shirt pocket and lit it with great ceremony. “I can’t see those girls pushing Churls into the pen with pit bulls,” he rumbled through the swirls of acrid smoke. “He was an old coot, but he was wiry and tough from dealing with the animals.”

“And with the bunchers who brought him stolen animals?”

Ashes cascaded down his shirt as he shifted his weight and glowered at me. “We don’t have any proof he dealt in stolen animals. I believe I said as much to you on more than one occasion, and your friends didn’t find hide nor hair of their pets, did they?”

“Did you find hide or hair of Arnie?” I asked nicely.

Things about his face seemed to bulge as if it were being inflated, and his red neck turned a shade darker. The stenographer opened her mouth, then clamped it shut and looked down at her notebook. I was about to inquire about his health when he said, “Thought you didn’t know whose car that was, Mizz Malloy. You and I are getting off on a real bad footing, like two bullies on the first day of school. Thing is, I am the sheriff and you are the bookseller. When this interview is over, I’m going to conduct an investigation and you’re going to sell books.”

“I wasn’t positive it was Arnie’s car,” I protested. “I suspected as much, but I didn’t want to give you misinformation. Did you find Arnie out in the woods?”

“Not yet, but he’ll turn up.” Sheriff Dorfer took the cigar stub from between his lips, studied it for a moment, then jabbed it out in the ashtray. “Darla, wake up and get ready to take the lady’s statement. I already heard all about the animals missing and your first trip to NewCo. Just tell about last night, and do it without embellishments.”

I took pleasure in relating not only each step I’d taken, but every thought that had crossed my mind, from the mindless fear for Caron and Inez to my conclusions about the battered box and the missing key. The woman scribbled furiously, stopping me often to ask how to spell the polysyllabic words I was throwing in for fun. The sheriff sat in silence, his arms locked and his small dark eyes boring into me as if he doubted a sense of altruism was motivating me into such detail.

I finally ran out of such details and listened politely while he reiterated his threats of incarceration should I meddle. I nodded to the stenographer, who was limp and pale, and sailed out of the office without further attempts to annoy him. One can only go so far with unknown opponents.

The chairs in the front room were uninhabited. The receptionist shifted her gum long enough to tell me the girls had gone (left to my own devices, I never would have suspected this), and began to peck on her typewriter with one hesitant finger.

I stopped in the parking lot, savoring the spring sunlight and mild breeze, and considered what to do. In my mind was a twenty-one-day calendar, and each day since Miss Emily’s departure had a red X on it. There were eight Xs, and a hand hovered nearby with the pen of doom.

I finally decided I’d best open the Book Depot and hope I sold enough books to finance Miss Emily’s prolonged hospitalization after she heard the bad news and collapsed.

I was sitting behind the counter, toying with phrases to explain my despicable lack of responsibility, when the telephone rang.

Jan Gallager sounded perplexed as she said, “Claire, what’s going on? A deputy was just here, looking for Arnie. He’s not here, and from the looks of the back room, he didn’t sleep here last night. The deputy said Newton Churls had been killed by his dogs.”

I gave her a synopsis of the situation, not burdening her as I had the witless stenographer. “Did Arnie ever mention Churls?” I asked.

“Not in my presence. Does the sheriff think Arnie locked Churls in the pen?”

“He was not inclined to discuss his theories with me,” I said. “I can’t see Arnie doing it, though. He’s a wastrel and a drunk, but he lacks the essential energy required to be evil. I wouldn’t accuse him of possessing a lofty degree of morality; he just bumbles along doing whatever seems most convenient and expedient.”

“I suppose,” she said doubtfully. “The deputies told me to arrange to have all the animals at NewCo brought here. I have no idea where we can keep them, since we’re presently at ninety percent capacity. Do you know how many dogs I’m to pick up?”

I tried to remember the prisoners in the side yard. “There were more than a hundred the first time,” I said slowly. “But I don’t think there were that many last night. I wasn’t doing any tail counts at the time, of course. However, I did notice some empty pens. That’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Not if there’s been a sale between the two visits,” Jan said.

“You mean Churls sold some of the animals to a lab?”

“They end up at a lab, but I’m talking about a middleman sale. The dealers take their animals to a specified location and sell them to buyers who have contracts with the labs. That’s one of the things that defeats us when we try to locate stolen animals—they’re liable to be three states away within a matter of days.”

I bit into my lip, trying not to envision Nick and Nora on a truck heading for either coast and a great deal of unpleasantness. “Has there been a sale since the animals disappeared?”

“Now that I think about it, no. The sales we’re aware of take place on Sunday mornings at eight o’clock. Members of the local animal rights group have attended some of them and were not at all welcome. One of the women was knocked down, and a reporter was threatened with a shotgun. One of the men required extensive dental work. The dealers don’t enjoy being observed.”

I checked my omnipresent mental calendar. “Is there any possibility the stolen basset hounds might be sold tomorrow?”

“If they were taken by someone other than Churls, they might be there. The only sale he’ll be trying to make is in hell, and I doubt the devil himself will be bidding on that soul.”

“But if we could go to the sale, we might be able to intercept the dogs before they’re taken out of the state. Do you know if there is one this week?”

After a moment of silence, Jan said, “I don’t have the information. Call Brian Runnels and see if he knows anything. He’s active in the group. But you need to realize that this could be dangerous; those men are not benevolent businessmen. Even the ones who deal with animals from legitimate sources can become uncomfortable if they think they’re being monitored.”

I assured her that I would be prudent, then found Runnels’s telephone number and called him. His wife said he was in his greenhouse but agreed to fetch him. He sounded amiable as he told me there was a sale the following morning in a tiny town. I scribbled down directions, trying not to express dismay at the purported five-hour drive to Guttler, Missouri. He sounded less amiable as he echoed Jan’s warnings about possible danger.

“I’d go with you if I could,” he concluded, “but my daughter’s in a pom-pom squad competition and the finals are tomorrow afternoon. We’re taking a gaggle of them out to dinner afterward.”

I thanked him for the information and hung up. A litter of college boys came in, but I lacked enthusiasm to categorize them as anything but nuisances and was still slumped by the counter when they wandered away.

It seemed important to attend the sale and look for Nick and Nora. Assuming Jan Gallager and Brian Runnels had not been trying to frighten me for their own dark purposes, it was likely to be dangerous. A woman by herself would provoke speculation, if not outright suspicion. Furthermore, I thought as I slid deeper into gloom, if I found the dogs, I would then be obliged to take action in order to retrieve them, and I would be doing so in the face of hostility and shotguns.

So I needed a date, in a manner of speaking. Peter was not available, and I certainly couldn’t call Sheriff Dorfer and demand an escort. Caron and Inez would be of no use, nor would flighty Vidalia. Colonel Culworthy was not a tactful sort (snort, snort), and would have the dealers snarling at us within minutes of our arrival. George Maranoni was not an impressive presence. The process of elimination having worked well, I was down to Daryl Defoe. He was not burly, but he’d mentioned a year in Vietnam.

I was about to telephone him when a customer came into the store. Several others followed, and I was kept occupied for the better part of the afternoon. The beer garden was again beginning to draw a happy hour crowd by the time I’d dealt with the final trickle, and I remembered Daryl was coming at seven in order to confide in me. All I had to do was stuff him in my car and allow him to confide all the way to Guttler, Missouri, and with any luck at all, all the way back while Nick and Nora drooled on his shoulder.

I took the
CLOSED
sign to the front door and was putting it in place when I happened to glance at the railroad tracks that ran along the west side of the Book Depot and the east side of the beer garden. A man in a baggy raincoat was trudging down the middle of the tracks toward Thurber Street. Stumbling, I corrected myself. He had a bottle in one hand, and he paused every few steps to take a drink from it. As he passed the wooden fence that protected freight trains from long-necked glass projectiles, I could hear him whistling.

The sign slipped out of my hand as I continued to stare at this familiar figure in a familiar state of inebriation. When he reached the edge of the street, he peered cautiously in both directions, then nearly stepped into the path of a convertible. The driver cursed, but Arnie took a mouthful of whiskey, sprayed it on the hood of the car, lifted the bottle in salute, and ambled ahead.

“Yo, Senator!” he said as he approached me. “How’s it going?”

“Fine, just fine. Where have you been, Arnie?”

“Taking a hike. I’ve been taking a nice hike so I can enjoy the wonder of nature on this fine spring afternoon. Say, Senator, do you think I could avail myself of the facilities inside this fine establishment? The wonder of nature has created the call of nature, to put it delicatelike.”

I escorted him to the tiny rest room in my office, snatched the bottle from his hand, and shoved him inside. By the time he emerged, I’d started coffee and hidden the bottle behind the self-help rack.

“Tell me more about your hike,” I commanded as pleasantly as I could.

He cocked his head and sucked noisily on his lips. “Well, I got to admit certain details are a little bit fuzzy,” he said. “I don’t recall starting out, but we both know I did because you have to start somewhere, doncha? I mean, if you don’t start, then you’re sitting at home watching television and having a beer instead of out taking a hike to enjoy the—”

“Stop, Arnie,” I said before I strangled him. It occurred to me that Sheriff Dorfer might feel I ought to call and report Arnie’s appearance—rather than question him at my leisure. However, I poured my suspect a cup of inky coffee and settled him in the chair behind my desk.