Drool Baby (A Dog Park Mystery) (Lia Anderson Dog Park Mysteries) (19 page)

"I don't know if I can stand on this foot."

"Marie," Anna called. "get on Lia's other side. Terry, Jim, get those dogs out of Lia's way. We're going to help you over to the table . . . Easy now, on
three. One, two, three."

Anna and Marie hauled Lia up and held onto her as she staggered over to the nearest table. Lia punctuated each step with a soft "Ow." Nine steps. "Ow . . .
ow . . . ow . . ."

Honey trotted up and sniffed at Lia, finding this unusual behavior more compelling than Kita and her stick. Kita stood there, bouncing on her front paws,
hoping Honey would resume the chase. When it became apparent that Honey had defected, Kita dropped the stick, whuffed in disappointment, and stalked away.

"Dammit," Lia said, "I won't be able to drive. How will I get the dogs home?"

Jim came trotting up. "How's your foot?"

"I think it's sprained."

Jim kneeled down and gently felt her ankle. "I don't think it's broken. But you should still go to the E.R., just in case."

"No insurance. I don't need a big bill right now. If someone can take me home, I'll put ice on it."

"But a doctor should look at it," Anna insisted.

"I'll go see a doctor if it doesn't improve in a couple days."

"If you insist. I can take you home. There's plenty of room for the dogs in the back of my Explorer. Marie, can you follow me in Lia's car?"

"Looks like Peter's going to be on park duty for a few days. Serves him right for dumping it on me since he moved in."

Anna and Marie helped Lia down to Anna's SUV while Jim and Terry corralled the dogs and loaded them in back. CarGo, miffed at the crowd in his personal
domain, moodily looked out the window and refused to acknowledge their presence.

Jim eyed the four dogs. "Are you sure you can handle this by yourselves? I can follow behind."

"Marie and I will be fine."

"Shit. Shit. Shit. Damn." Lia kept muttering under her breath as she leaned her head back against the headrest. Honey poked her head between the seats and
gave Lia a lick on the cheek and a worried look. Lia reached a hand back and stroked Honey's head. "Thank you. Sweetie. I know you didn't make me fall on
purpose." She resumed muttering. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Damn."

The tailgate of the SUV slammed shut and Anna climbed into the driver's seat. She caught Lia muttering. "Hurt much?"

"Enough."

"I really think you should see a doctor."

"Thank you for your opinion, Mom. I'll be okay with an Ace bandage and some ice. Just get me home before my foot swells so much I can't get my shoe off.
Can we just go?"

They drove in silence punctuated by Lia's mutterings. Anna helped Lia into her apartment and settled her on the couch while Marie brought the dogs in and
fed them. Anna propped Lia up with pillows from the bedroom, behind her back and under her ankle. Following Lia's instructions, she found an Ace bandage in
the bathroom closet.

"Thanks, Anna. I can wrap this myself, if you'll get the bag of frozen peas out of the freezer."

"Certainly. Let me make you a cup of tea while I'm at it. What would you like?"

"Chamomile would be great, thanks."

Anna went into the kitchen. Lia could hear her putting the kettle on to boil. Marie brought her the much abused bag of peas.

"Are you hungry?" Anna called to Lia. "I can't make your glop, but I can fry up an egg sandwich."

Lia listened to the homey sounds as she wrapped her foot and draped it with the peas. She lay back and shut her eyes, drifting off. The smell of chamomile
woke her up. Anna was standing over her with a cup of tea.

"Marie," Anna called, "what are you doing?"

"Looking for aspirin."

"Ibuprofen, in the medicine cabinet," Lia called back.

"Bring a towel for the peas, would you?" Anna yelled.

"I'm already on it."

"Anna and Marie what?" Peter exploded. Honey and Chewy started from their naps. Viola crawled under the couch.

"You don't have to yell. You're scaring the dogs.

"I wish I were scaring you. What were you thinking?" His voice, though lower, was still harsh.

"What do you mean, what was I thinking? I couldn't think. I damn near broke my ankle. I was too busy hurting."

"I can't believe Jim let you do this."

"Let me?" Lia forgot herself as her voice rose. "Since when does Jim 'let me' do anything?"

Honey whimpered. Lia took a deep breath.

"What was I supposed to do? Tell my good friends, 'Excuse me, but my boyfriend thinks one of you might be a serial killer, so you can't help me'?"

"You were supposed to bring Jim along."

"Oh, right, bring a man along. Well, he must not have thought it was a big deal either, because if he had, he would have come anyway. This is ridiculous."

"'This' is Bailey in an institution, Terry in a cast and two people dead. You need to take 'this' seriously."

"Well, it's not Anna. We know that from her receipts. I don't think it's Marie, either."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

Peter heaved the mother of all resigned sighs. "Maybe it's okay. How long were they here?"

"I don't know, they helped me in, Marie fed the dogs. Anna made me some tea and a sandwich."

"They were in the kitchen? Were you with her?"

"Of course not, I was camped out on the couch."

Peter strode into the kitchen. He returned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Lia, you know what was on the kitchen table?"

"No, what?"

"The Bucky book."

"Oh," Lia said in a tiny voice.

"How long, exactly, were either of them alone in the kitchen."

"Marie was in there long enough to feed the dogs. Anna, just long enough to boil water and fix me a sandwich. Peter, they didn't look at it," Lia pleaded.

"You know this how, exactly?" Peter forced himself to be calm.

"Either one of them would have said something. They would have asked me about it. But they were perfectly normal."

"Lia, Baby," Peter sat down and put his arms around her. "I know you're hurt, and I know they're your friends, and I know you want your friends when you're
hurt. But please, listen to me. Bucky has normal down to a science. I wish I felt as sure of them as you do, but I don't."

"Just hold me, okay?"

Peter obliged, and privately considered all the ways he was going to wring Jim's neck.

It was time. There was nothing more to be gained from this situation. It had been my hope that interacting with these two daily would raise the emotional
stakes, as it were. I needed to break through my usual detachment if I was going to experience another death like Catherine's. But these two were pathetic.
After three days I was bored, even with Gina's histrionics. I needed to cut my losses and clean things up with as little fuss as possible.

Gina's car, the car Roger bought her, the one they had supposedly driven to Florida, had been hiding in plain sight at a hospital parking lot. It's now in
the drive. I left my car around the corner. The most vulnerable part of this plan was the possibility of being seen with Gina's car. I believe I avoided
that problem by wearing a hat and sun glasses. Everything went as planned and there should not be much in the way of evidence. Still, they do so much with
forensics these days. Maybe not as much as on those shows, but enough.

I carried Roger and Gina's slop buckets up to the toilet and emptied them. I rinsed them out, then stacked them and placed them in the broom closet. Roger
and Gina were well out from their last dose of Rhohypnol. I unlocked Roger's cuffs first, and dressed him in the clothes he had been wearing when I first
drugged him. The handcuffs, hospital gown, chain and lock went into a plastic garbage bag in my tote bag, where I'd placed the ball gags I'd removed when I
gave them breakfast. Then I unlocked and dressed Gina, though I did not go so far as to put make up on her.

The pair were heavy and hard to maneuver but it was important for them to appear as normal as possible. I disliked touching them. Bodies are so ugly. I'd
had enough of caring for bodies a long time ago. In a way, this brought it all back. Those months of caring for him. I'd gotten tired of it. And I did
something about it.

Distasteful or not, I am experienced at maneuvering dead weight, and I made short work of dressing them.

I'd removed the empty Ensure cans every evening in my very roomy tote. The stained mattress couldn't be helped. I could have left Roger and Gina on the
floor, but I was afraid the cold concrete might penetrate their drug-induced sleep. I needed them to stay out. Someone might wonder about the mattresses.
Or they might not.

I looked around to see if I'd left any other evidence of Roger and Gina's incarceration. I carried my tote bag upstairs and left it by the front door.
Another bag sat there. I picked this one up and carried it down stairs. Back in the basement, I pulled a pair of latex gloves out of the bag. Perhaps not
worth the effort, but you never knew.

I picked up Roger's bolt cutters from the jumble on his work bench and carried them over to him. I wrapped his fingers firmly around the handles to create
fingerprints. Then I carried the bolt cutters over to the water heater. I bent low and opened the panel that protected the pilot light. I turned the dial
to 'off' and waited for the flame to go out. I stood up, and reaching behind, clipped a tiny hole in the gas line. I bent the line to open the hole up so
it would flow freely out into the basement.

I had one more thing to do. I had found conflicting information on the internet regarding whether natural gas was lighter or heavier than air. Apparently,
there was more than one kind of gas and I wasn't sure which this was. If it was lighter, it would fill the room from the ceiling down. If it was heavier,
it would fill the room from the floor up. In that case, Gina, that nasty piece of work, and Roger, would asphyxiate.

So I carried my bag back to the steps. I pulled out a twelve-hour votive candle and placed it on the steps, halfway up. I figured whether the gas was light
or heavy, there would be half a basement full of gas before it blew up. It should be enough.

It should take a couple hours for the gas to build up. I knew there was a chance that there would not be the correct mixture of gas and oxygen to produce
an explosion. In that case, Roger and Gina would simply asphyxiate. So I counted on asphyxiation and hoped for an explosion.

I collected Maddie and Lacy and put them in the back yard, then locked the house. I stashed the tote bag behind the driver's seat of my car. I mustn't
forget to wipe the cuffs and chains down and dispose of them later.

I decided on an extended visit to the dog park. Roger's house was about a mile and a half from the park. I was sure you could hear a house explode from
that distance. I should take along a book. It could be a long morning.

Roger cracked an eye. This wasn't the first time he'd played dead. In 'Nam, there had been a time when he'd kept still amid the gore of shredded bodies for
more than three hours, waiting for the Viet Cong to move along. It had saved his life then, though forty years later it still gave him nightmares.

He continued to lay there as she walked across the floor upstairs, until he heard the front door closing. It had been harder this time, playing possum
while she removed the cuffs and dressed him. He'd had to stay limp while she struggled to pull on his pants and shoved his arms through the sleeves of his
t-shirt. It brought back memories of the Viet Cong prodding bodies with rifles. They'd somehow missed him with their bayonets, but the dreams followed him
home and never left.

This time, he pretended unconsciousness, not death. He had concentrated on staying calm. While he was supposed to have a pulse, an elevated pulse might
give him away. It had been hard to hold the excitement at bay. He was free. He thought about rising up and attacking her, then. But he was too weak from
inactivity and a starvation diet. So he waited, feigning unconsciousness until he heard the door shut.

Roger was barely conscious. The drug swam in his blood, leaving him groggy as a teenage boy at his first frat party. Except his joints were stiff and
screamed as he moved. He had to think. He smelled gas. He pushed himself upright, sitting. Roger spotted the candle on the steps. He shoved up on his
hands and knees, carefully stood, then stumbled over to the stairs and blew it out.

He had to get out. He had to get Gina out. The basement door, the one to the back yard, was blocked with piles of junk. He couldn't get out that way. The
gas valve was also obstructed with piles of junk, so he couldn't turn it off. Roger cursed the laziness that created this disorganized mess of things he had
no use for. He staggered over to Gina and dragged her limp body up into a fireman's carry. It bowed his back, and his joints screamed in further protest,
but Roger could not leave her behind.

Now was the tricky part. He'd have to go up the steps, carrying Gina. Gas floated. It would be collecting at the top of the stairwell. They could still
asphyxiate. He stumbled to the stairs. Roger hung onto the rail with one hand, the other arm wrapped around Gina. He hauled himself from step to step by sheer
force of will as unused muscles sent daggers of pain through him with every step. Too much time! Gas was still pouring out with every foot of progress
he made.

As Roger neared the top of the stairs, he grew dizzy from holding his breath. He fumbled for the knob, shoved the door open, and dropped Gina on the floor. No
longer able to carry her, he dragged her to the kitchen door, his lungs bursting. He unbolted the door and flung it open, sobbing fresh air.

Anna was looking for an eight letter word for 'monster' when they heard an explosion. "Goodness!" She flinched. "What do you suppose that was?"