Read Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund Online
Authors: Blaize Clement
Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund (6 page)
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I turned over and tried to go back to sleep. I had to get up in an hour and a half, and I would need to be alert.
The killer could be anywhere, he could attack me at any time. Stevie had mentioned a bullet hole in Conrad, but she had also said that Guidry hadn’t told her how he died. Had she been assuming a gunshot, or did she know? If Guidry hadn’t told her, how did she know?
I sat up and looked at the clock. It was three o’clock, and I was wide awake. I got up and turned on lights, stuffed dirty clothes and Keds in the washer, shook in detergent, and turned it on. The homely sound of water gushing on my laundry at 3 A.M. was oddly comforting. Naked, I padded to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. While it gurgled and spat and hissed, I turned on Roy Orbison, cranked the sound up, and to the tune of “Pretty Woman” pushed the vacuum cleaner around with a lot of balletic bending and swooping. There’s nothing so empowering as running around vacuuming while Roy Orbison is singing and you’re buck naked.
As small as my place is, the floors were dust-free by the time the coffee machine made its final sputter. I stored the
vacuum away and went in the kitchen and looked out the window while I drank a cup of coffee. Roy Orbison had finished “Pretty Woman” and moved on to “Mean Woman Blues.” I was alert. I was composed. I was a normal woman drinking a normal cup of coffee on a normal morning. I was so normal, if I’d had a donut I would have eaten it.
vacuum away and went in the kitchen and looked out the window while I drank a cup of coffee. Roy Orbison had finished “Pretty Woman” and moved on to “Mean Woman Blues.” I was alert. I was composed. I was a normal woman drinking a normal cup of coffee on a normal morning. I was so normal, if I’d had a donut I would have eaten it.
I rinsed my coffee cup, turned the pot off, and ambled down the hall. I tossed wet laundry in the dryer. I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and flossed them. I took a shower and slathered moisturizer and sunscreen all over myself. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and put on rosy lip gloss, being careful not to meet my own eyes in the mirror. In my office-closet, I stepped into lacy bikinis and new khaki cargo shorts. I put on a black satin racerback bra. I pulled on a stretchy black sleeveless top. I put on clean white Keds and laced them up. I dressed as carefully as if I were getting ready for an important date.
I might end up on a metal autopsy table that morning.
Or I might shoot somebody and
he
would end up on the table.
he
would end up on the table.
Either way, I wanted to look nice.
B
efore I raised the metal shutters, I dropped the spare magazines in my shorts pocket and got my backpack on. I held my car keys in one hand and my .38 in the other, and I stood to the side while the shutters folded into themselves and disappeared inside a cornice above the French doors. Nobody was on the porch, and I didn’t see anybody when I went to the railing and looked over.
efore I raised the metal shutters, I dropped the spare magazines in my shorts pocket and got my backpack on. I held my car keys in one hand and my .38 in the other, and I stood to the side while the shutters folded into themselves and disappeared inside a cornice above the French doors. Nobody was on the porch, and I didn’t see anybody when I went to the railing and looked over.
That predawn hour is my favorite time of day, a sensual time that always makes me pause to breathe in life. The sky was oyster-hued, the air silky smooth and tasting of salt and new beginnings. Mourning doves were waking in the trees lining the drive, calling to one another and making yearning answer. On the shore, wavelets kissed the beach and sighed like a passionate woman. In the distance, I could see dark humps of dolphins at play.
Holding my gun close to my thigh with my trigger finger pointed down the barrel, I walked down the stairs and scanned the darkness under the carport. A great blue heron lifted from the hood of the Bronco and sailed away making an irritated gargling sound. I got in the car and put the gun on the floor beside me, then sat with the motor running for a minute. This was nuts. I couldn’t live like this. I couldn’t go creeping around looking behind every door and examining every shadow. If the killer was out there waiting for me, he would find me. I wasn’t going to be any safer for trying to see him before he got to me.
With that settled, I headed for the Sea Breeze to run with Billy Elliot. I parked in a visitor’s spot by the front door, and put the gun in my pocket before I got out of the car. I wasn’t going to go around scared, but I wasn’t going to be unarmed either. The lobby was deserted that early in the morning, and the muted whine of the stainless-steel and mirrored elevator taking me to the second floor was the only sound. Tom was still asleep when I got to his condo, but I could hear Billy Elliot’s nervous toenails on the tiled foyer. I unlocked the door and knelt to hug him and whisper good morning. Then I clipped on his leash and we took the elevator downstairs. Like thieves leaving a heist, we skittered silently across the shiny tile of the lobby to the glassed front door.
Billy Elliot needs a hard morning run the way some people need caffeine before they can think, and the Sea Breeze parking lot is a perfect substitute for his old racetrack. Cars park in the middle and around the perimeter of the asphalt, leaving a wide oval where we can run. I always try not to hamper his style with my inferior two-legged sprint, but no matter how hard I run, he still strains against the leash. In his dreams, he probably streaks around a track shouting hosannas because he doesn’t have to drag along a poky blond woman.
As we came out of the condo and trotted into the parking lot, I noticed a dark wannabe monster truck—a small pickup raised on ridiculously huge tires—idling with its lights off at the edge of the lot. I gave it a second glance because it was the kind of show-off vehicle that flaunts Confederate flags and semiliterate bumper stickers, not the sort of vehicle that people living at the Sea Breeze drive. Then Billy Elliot pulled me in the other direction, and I turned away from the truck and followed him, not hitting my full stride yet because it takes a minute or two for my muscles to get the message that it’s not a bad dream, they really do have to run like hell that early in the morning.
Billy Elliot strained at the taut leash until we got to the end of the line of cars parked in the middle of the lot. As
we turned into the open area, I let the leash play out to its full extent and began running in earnest. Behind me, the pickup pulled out of its spot, drove to the exit into the street, and sped away, its indistinct form looking like a prehistoric monster in the darkness. It was still without lights, which meant the driver was either extremely unaware or had been in the parking lot for some illicit purpose. Neither is unusual in Florida.
we turned into the open area, I let the leash play out to its full extent and began running in earnest. Behind me, the pickup pulled out of its spot, drove to the exit into the street, and sped away, its indistinct form looking like a prehistoric monster in the darkness. It was still without lights, which meant the driver was either extremely unaware or had been in the parking lot for some illicit purpose. Neither is unusual in Florida.
It was around 6 A.M. when I worked my way to Secret Cove and Mame’s house. Everything about her was listless, including the way her tail drooped. I knelt beside her and inspected her ears and felt her nose. She wasn’t feverish, and she didn’t have any sign of infection in her eyes or ears. No limping and no sore spots. But she wasn’t feeling well, and most of the food I’d given her the day before was still in her bowl.
I considered calling her vet and asking if holding a dead man’s finger in her mouth yesterday could have given Mame indigestion, but I didn’t want that piece of gossip to fly all over the key. Besides, I knew what the real problem was. Mame was almost at the stage when she would want to crawl off to hide and face her death alone. It’s the way animals handle the end of life. Perhaps humans should do the same.
I led her out the side door of the lanai and let her squat in a circle of Asiatic jasmine in the backyard. We played fetch-the-ball for a few minutes, but she walked stiffly after it, and I got the feeling she was indulging me. I lifted her to the table on the lanai and brushed her auburn coat until it gleamed. Long-haired dachshunds don’t really need to be brushed every day unless they’re shedding, but I do it anyway because they like it. Besides, I like it for myself. There’s nothing like grooming a pet to get you calm and centered. Mame raised her nose and closed her eyes, with a dreamy look that caught at my heart. Her world was closing in, moments of satisfaction coming in smaller and smaller bits.
By the time I left her, she had perked up enough to trot behind me to the door. She even wagged her tail when I kissed her nose good-bye. I think she did it to make me feel better.
Lights were on at Stevie’s house, and she opened the door before I rang. Her long dark hair was hanging free, and she was dressed a lot like me, shorts and a sleeveless top. She looked pale and tired but a lot more focused than she’d been when I left her last night.
She said, “I’ve already walked Reggie and fed him, but would you mind coming in for coffee?”
It was more request than invitation, so I followed her to the kitchen, where she gestured toward a table in a windowed alcove.
“There are some bran muffins if you’d like one. We have a cook twice a week, and she bakes up goodies when she’s here and freezes them.”
Bran muffins didn’t sound like goodies to me, but I sat down and took one from a basket and broke off a chunk. Stevie slid two mugs of coffee on the table and took a chair opposite me.
She said, “I lay awake all night thinking about what Conrad would want me to do. He would want me to be strong. He would want me to take charge. So that’s what I’m going to do. Because if I don’t, Denton will.”
The muffin tasted healthy but blah. I took a sip of coffee to wash it down.
I said, “Denton gave me the creeps last night. Is there something wrong with him?”
“Nothing except innate meanness. He and Marian are both despicable people.”
“Stevie, I’m sure Lieutenant Guidry asked you, but is there anybody you know who had a grudge against Conrad?”
Her lips firmed in unconscious resistance. I waited, knowing that silence is often the best way to encourage somebody to tell what they’re reluctant to say.
She said, “About a year ago, a man showed up here claiming to be Conrad’s cousin. He said his father and Angelo Ferrelli were brothers, that they grew up in the same village in Italy. He claimed his father had originated Madam Flutter-By, and that Angelo had stolen it. He wanted money.”
I blinked at her, wondering if the muffin had made me stupid. “Stevie, I understood about three words you just said: cousin, brothers, and money. The rest was Greek. Or maybe Italian.”
“Sorry, I guess I always assume everybody knows who Angelo Ferrelli was. He was Conrad’s father—Denton’s too, of course, although not spiritually, like Conrad. Angelo Ferrelli was a famous clown with the Ringling Circus. He was known as Madam Flutter-By.”
I must have still looked blank. She said, “I have a picture of him.”
She got up and left the room. While she was gone, I wadded the rest of my muffin in a paper napkin. Stevie came back and set a framed photograph facing me on the table.
I did a double take, and Conrad’s androgenous way of dressing suddenly made sense. Madam Flutter-By wore crisp white trousers and a matching cutaway coat, but the coat nipped in at the waist and its long skirt fanned out like a woman’s peplum. It also had exaggerated leg-o’-mutton sleeves with black ruching at the wrists. He wore a closefitting hat with a crown curiously rounded to give the suggestion of a prim librarian’s bun. His face was stark white, with only five marks on it: two curving high on the cheekbones like long black tears, two arched above his eyes like blackbirds in flight, and one between the painted brows in a black teardrop. The only color was a wide bright-red mouth.
I thought of the red grin slashed on Conrad’s face and felt ice running up my spine.
“Tell me again about that man’s claim.”
“His name was Brossi. He said his father was Angelo’s brother and that Angelo had stolen Madam Flutter-By from his brother when they were boys in Italy. He wanted money.”
I still didn’t get it, so she explained it slowly, the way you’d explain long division to a three-year-old.
“The name Madam Flutter-By is registered, like a patent or a trademark. The makeup, that white face with the distinctive black marks and red lips, can’t be used by any other clown. If his likeness is used in any way, his estate
gets paid, the same way Disney gets paid if somebody runs a Mickey Mouse cartoon on TV or puts a Mickey Mouse face on a kid’s lunch box or watch face. There were Madam Flutter-By films, Madam Flutter-By charms, and oil paintings and coffee mugs and pillows and thousands of other things with his face or form on them. They’re collector’s items today.”
gets paid, the same way Disney gets paid if somebody runs a Mickey Mouse cartoon on TV or puts a Mickey Mouse face on a kid’s lunch box or watch face. There were Madam Flutter-By films, Madam Flutter-By charms, and oil paintings and coffee mugs and pillows and thousands of other things with his face or form on them. They’re collector’s items today.”
“So if that guy Brossi was telling the truth—”
“If he was telling the truth, his father should have got some of the money Angelo made.”
“But Angelo was the one who actually made the idea work. His brother must not have had Angelo’s talent, or he would have become famous himself.”
“That’s what Conrad said, among other things. Mostly, he said his father had created Madam Flutter-By, that nobody else had ever done the act, and that Brossi was a fraud. But I’m not sure if he could be positive about that. It was so long ago, and in some little place in Italy. Who knows who first came up with the act?”
“Do you know where Brossi went?”
“He didn’t go anywhere. He owns a telemarketing firm here in Sarasota.”
I said, “Did you know Madam Flutter-By?”
“No, but I knew Angelo Ferrelli. He had already retired from the circus when I met him, but he was a lovely man. Highly intelligent, cultured, witty. Conrad is a lot like him. Was. Conrad adored him. Denton was ashamed of him. Of course, Denton was ashamed of Conrad too.”
I tried to think of a way to say it tactfully and couldn’t, so I just said it. “Was Denton embarrassed by the way Conrad dressed?”
She grinned. “He hated it. Marian too.”
“Is that why Conrad did it?”
“No, Conrad just liked wearing that crazy stuff. Growing up in a circus family, I guess it seemed normal to him. Sometimes I thought he could have been a little more sensitive to Denton’s feelings about it, but it was a point of pride with him. You know, to be who he was, no matter
what other people thought about it. He was that way when I met him.”
what other people thought about it. He was that way when I met him.”
“Where was that?”
She looked startled for a moment, as if she’d opened up something she hadn’t intended. “We were both in drama at Yale.”
Since my education consisted of two years of community college and six months at the police academy, that sentence alone exposed a social chasm between us. It also meant that Stevie could be a very good actress, pretending grief for a husband she’d killed herself. But I didn’t think so.
I said, “When Brossi came—”
“Conrad practically threw him out of the house, and the man told Conrad he would be sorry. What he actually said was
One day you will see me again and be sorry
.”
One day you will see me again and be sorry
.”
“You didn’t tell Lieutenant Guidry about this?”
“I didn’t think about it until just now. Brossi never contacted Conrad again, or at least not so far as I know.”
“If Brossi raised the issue now that Conrad’s gone, what would happen?”
“Now he would be dealing with Denton. I don’t know what Denton would do.”
“Brossi’s the only person you know of who had reason to hate Conrad?”
“He’s the only one.”
The truth lay on the table between us, as tasteless as the bran muffins. Denton Ferrelli had hated Conrad too. Maybe he had settled old scores with his brother.
“Stevie, I saw Conrad’s car yesterday morning, with Reggie in the backseat. It went past when I was leaving the Powell house and turned onto Midnight Pass Road. I thought Conrad was driving, but he couldn’t have been because just a few minutes later I found his body.”
“But Reggie wouldn’t have got in the car with a stranger.”
“Exactly.”
She stared at me with unfocused eyes. “You think Denton killed Conrad, don’t you?”
“I think he may have had something to do with it.”
I didn’t need to remind her that Denton and Marian formed a duo. One of them could have killed Conrad while the other drove his car away with Reggie inside. I could see on her face that she had already figured that out for herself, but she didn’t want to believe it was possible.
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