Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund (9 page)
Read Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund Online
Authors: Blaize Clement
Guidry sat for a moment twisting his tall paper cup on the table, his face pensive as if trying to make a decision. He snapped the cup down on the table and looked up at me, his eyes clear and direct.
“Dixie, this is strictly confidential, but I want you to be careful. This murder has psychopath written all over it.”
I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat and stared at him. There’s a fine distinction between a sociopath and a psychopath, and homicide detectives are careful about it. Sociopaths kill for the hell of it, just because they can. Murder is a cool clinical activity for them. Because they don’t see their victims as fellow human beings, there’s nothing personal about it. But when a psychopath kills, it’s personal. Psychopaths kill with a passionate hatred born of irrational fury over real or imagined injustices. Like a venomous brain cancer that consumes reason, psychopathic hatred gains intensity once it’s unleashed, spilling over to include anybody in the way. When they’ve killed once, psychopaths not only feel personally vindicated, they want to kill again.
I said, “Why do you think that? The lipsticked grin?”
“When we removed Conrad Ferrelli’s body, we found a dead kitten under him. The coroner thinks it suffocated under Conrad. But before Conrad fell on it, the kitten’s legs had been broken.”
My stomach quivered. “I don’t understand.”
“My guess is that somebody broke the kitten’s legs and left it in the bushes for Conrad to hear crying. Conrad is on the street, hears the kitten, goes in to see what it is, and the killer gets him while he’s bending over looking at it. If I’m right, it wasn’t the murder that gave the killer satisfaction, it was seeing Conrad’s pain when he found that poor damned kitten.”
I felt swimmy-headed. The thought of somebody doing something so cruel to a kitten was almost more than I could take.
Guidry said, “Most killers get rid of somebody they think needs to die, and that’s the end of it. Psychopaths aren’t like that. They get their jollies from the
way
their victims die, not because they’re dead. Whoever killed Conrad Ferrelli wanted that hurt kitten to be the last thing he saw.”
way
their victims die, not because they’re dead. Whoever killed Conrad Ferrelli wanted that hurt kitten to be the last thing he saw.”
“Conrad always drove Reggie to the beach to run, so I don’t know why the killer thought he would be on the street. Or why he
was
on the street, for that matter. And how could the killer be sure Conrad would hear the kitten and come looking for it?”
was
on the street, for that matter. And how could the killer be sure Conrad would hear the kitten and come looking for it?”
“I don’t know. That’s the hole in my theory. I’m just saying it was somebody with a particularly twisted mind who killed Conrad Ferrelli, so I want you to be especially careful.”
My pulse was pounding at the base of my throat. I thought of the feeling I’d had when I came home that afternoon that somebody had been in my apartment. But it had probably been my imagination. It had probably been fear making me paranoid. No sense mentioning it to Guidry and having him think I was a hysterical nut case.
He said, “Don’t go out and try to solve this. It’s too dangerous. Lay low, keep your protection handy, and let me handle it.”
The conversation was over. We both stood up, and he gave my legs in the tall sandals another sweeping glance.
“I’ll see you, Dixie.”
He left me under the thatched roof and walked across the street to disappear inside Ethan Crane’s building. I hoped Ethan wouldn’t be asleep when Guidry got there.
S
tray rain clouds had moved in while Guidry and I talked, and on the drive home a few sprinkles plopped on the Bronco’s windshield. In the carport, I took the .38 out of my purse and scanned the locks on the storage closets. I wanted to make sure nobody had opened one and was in there ready to pop out at me. I was tense as a lizard under a cat’s paw. Passing clouds gave the air a curious transparency, so that everything seemed covered by yellow Saran Wrap.
tray rain clouds had moved in while Guidry and I talked, and on the drive home a few sprinkles plopped on the Bronco’s windshield. In the carport, I took the .38 out of my purse and scanned the locks on the storage closets. I wanted to make sure nobody had opened one and was in there ready to pop out at me. I was tense as a lizard under a cat’s paw. Passing clouds gave the air a curious transparency, so that everything seemed covered by yellow Saran Wrap.
Upstairs, I kicked off my high heels, climbed into shorts and a T, and scooted out to make my afternoon runs. Nobody tried to kill me, and nobody jumped out at me in any of the houses.
At Mame’s I found her in Judge Powell’s study, lying on the Persian rug rung in front of a red leather sofa. She had an expression in her eyes that made me uneasy. Animals always know when their lives are drawing to an end, and when they do their eyes get a curiously sad and patient look.
I sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled her into my lap. She sighed and curled herself between my legs with her head on my knee. I thought she probably missed the Powells, so I made my voice as low as possible, hoping I sounded like the Judge.
I sang, “You can put the blame on Mame, boys, put the blame on Mame.”
In a few minutes she crawled out of my lap and trotted to the kitchen to eat some kibble. We made a hasty run into the yard to let her go to the bathroom, but streaks of lightning were flaring across the sky, and we didn’t stay out long. When I left her, she went to the door with me and wagged her tail good-bye.
The same cars that had been in Stevie’s driveway the night before were there again. There was a tasteful wreath on the door now, with a dull gray velvet ribbon topped by a clown’s mask. The mask was stark white, with red lips and a few black marks on the face, remarkably like the photograph of Madam Flutter-By.
When Stevie opened the door, she looked as weary as I felt. Dark circles were under both eyes, and new grooves bracketed her lips. Her face lit when she saw it was me, and she practically reached out and jerked me inside. She put a hand on my back as if she were afraid I would bolt if she didn’t, and steered me down the hall to the living room. The same crowd was drinking and smoking. Denton Ferrelli was standing at the side of the room, his stained face poker stiff.
Stevie said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you all to leave me alone with Dixie now. We have some things to take care of.”
Everybody looked at me standing there in my rumpled cargo shorts, and I could almost hear their sneers.
Marian, Denton’s bitch wife, said, “What kind of things?”
I could feel Stevie’s hand trembling on my back, and I felt like drop-kicking the highball glass out of Marian’s hand.
Stevie took a deep breath and said, “Marian, that’s really none of your business.”
Marian opened her mouth in a snarl, but Denton walked to her side and took her glass. He set it down on the table with a sharp click.
“Some people care more about animals than people, Marian. Let’s leave Stevie and her dog-sitter to their interests.”
He made it sound as if Stevie and I had something dirty going on with Reggie. We stood silently while everybody gathered themselves and straggled out. Denton was the last one out, and he turned to give me a long hostile look before he slammed the door shut.
Stevie seemed to sag, as if she’d used up all her starch in speaking up to them. She waved vaguely toward the kitchen. “I need to talk to you.”
In the kitchen, Reggie’s used food bowl sat on the floor, and the water in his other bowl was cloudy. Stevie sat at the bar and watched while I washed the bowls and put fresh water out for Reggie. I filled the teakettle and put it on the stove to boil and got down two teacups.
I said, “What about food?”
“What about it?”
“Have you had any?”
She considered. “I had some crackers.”
“When?”
She shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“Stevie, you have to eat.” I sounded like Michael.
I rummaged in her freezer and found a box of vegetable lasagna that I popped in the microwave. While it heated I tore romaine leaves into a salad bowl and drizzled them with olive oil. Michael would have clutched his chest at my cavalier way with it, but it was food. The microwave dinged and I slid the lasagna onto a plate and poured a glass of wine. While Stevie ate, I dropped teabags in a yellow teapot on the counter and covered them with boiling water.
Stevie seemed to have forgotten that she’d wanted to talk to me. She polished off the lasagna and salad and drank the wine in one gulp.
I poured her a cup of tea and one for myself and sat down beside her.
She said, “I do all right for a while, and then I feel like I can’t go on.”
“But you will. You’ll do whatever you have to do.”
“Was it like this for you?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to tell her that I couldn’t remember what the first few days had been like after Todd and Christy were killed. I’d been deaf and blind and numb. I had no memory of anything.
I said, “It will get easier.”
“When?”
“When it does.”
She nodded as if that made sense.
I said, “Josephine Metzger was hoping Conrad would be buried in the coat she made for him.”
Stevie looked surprised. “She said that?”
“She said he was one of them.”
“That’s true, he was. But Denton and Marian would have a cow if he wore that coat in his coffin.”
“Would you like me to bring it back?”
She blinked back tears and grinned. “Would you? Conrad will love it.”
“I’ll stop there in the morning before I come here.”
I washed up her dinner dishes and left her drinking tea and staring into space. Whatever she’d wanted to talk to me about had drifted away into some mournful void.
A heavy rain shower hit me on the way home and stayed with me all the way. All the blue had left the sky and left it yellow gray, not unlike my mood. Michael was still at the firehouse on his twenty-four-hour shift, and Paco would be leaving soon for his secret job at the telemarketing firm where he wore a transmitter taped under his shirt. I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, and my stomach was pleading for something cheesy, salty, or fried. Preferably all three. In my refrigerator were some jars of mustard and mayonnaise and jelly. In my cupboard were a couple of cans of chopped tomatoes bought in a rash moment when I thought I might make spaghetti sauce sometime, along with a box of Cheerios gone soft with age and humidity.
At my driveway, I kept going, dejectedly making my way through depressing rain to the only possible solution. In the drive-through lane at Taco Bell, I ordered four taco supremes with extra everything. I pulled into a parking
space in the front lot and ate them while I watched normal people pass by in twos and threes. I told myself there were lots of other people sitting alone in their cars eating in the rain.
space in the front lot and ate them while I watched normal people pass by in twos and threes. I told myself there were lots of other people sitting alone in their cars eating in the rain.
Millions, maybe, or at least a few thousand. One or two, probably.
I knew it wasn’t true. Of the six billion or so people in the world, including the ones in China, I was probably the only one doing that. It was damned depressing.
It was still raining when I got home, and Paco’s car was gone. It was dark under the carport, and I held my gun in one hand while I got out of the Bronco and ran upstairs. My fingers actually trembled while I unlocked the French doors, and I kept my gun out after I got inside. I stood inside the door and tested the air, sniffing to see if I got the same feeling of a recent intruder that I’d got earlier. Everything felt normal, but I still did a search before I went back and lowered the hurricane shutters. If anybody was in there, I didn’t want to trap myself inside with them.
I stood a long time in a warm shower and then crawled into bed with the .38 on the table beside me. I felt like I’d been up for a month or two, and tomorrow probably wouldn’t be much better. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was a pet-sitter, damn it, not a deputy sheriff. I shouldn’t have to be concerned about anything except my pets. Like Mame, who was alone across town while rain beat on her roof. Mame, who was old and deserved better than having her people go off and leave her for such a long time. With Mame on my mind, I fell asleep. Feeling sorry for Mame didn’t make me any happier, but it was at least better than feeling sorry for myself.
T
he rain had stopped when my alarm went off at 4 A.M. I groped my way to the bathroom and went through my morning routine: splash face, brush teeth, pull hair into ponytail, step into shorts, wiggle into a T, tie clean white Keds, sling on backpack, pick up gun. I raised the storm shutters and opened the French doors, scanning the dark porch corners for any lurking killers as I stepped out. The air was sauna-damp, but an early sea breeze kept it from being stifling. The sky was gun-metal gray but clear, and along the rim of the horizon was a pale pink foretelling of dawn. Wavelets broke on the beach with the fizzing sighs of Alka-Seltzer plopping in water, and a few early birds were comparing tales of what they’d done during last night’s rain.
he rain had stopped when my alarm went off at 4 A.M. I groped my way to the bathroom and went through my morning routine: splash face, brush teeth, pull hair into ponytail, step into shorts, wiggle into a T, tie clean white Keds, sling on backpack, pick up gun. I raised the storm shutters and opened the French doors, scanning the dark porch corners for any lurking killers as I stepped out. The air was sauna-damp, but an early sea breeze kept it from being stifling. The sky was gun-metal gray but clear, and along the rim of the horizon was a pale pink foretelling of dawn. Wavelets broke on the beach with the fizzing sighs of Alka-Seltzer plopping in water, and a few early birds were comparing tales of what they’d done during last night’s rain.
Downstairs in the carport, my Bronco was still the only one at home. Michael’s shift at the firehouse would end at 8 A.M., and nobody knew what Paco’s schedule was. A couple of egrets on the Bronco’s hood sullenly watched me get in the car and then took off with a great fluttering of white wings. On the twisting lane to Midnight Pass Road, heavy oaks were still dripping rain, and flocks of parakeets alarmed by my passing caused more drops to scatter when they flew away.
At Tom Hale’s condo, I parked in a visitor’s spot by the front door and went inside the deserted lobby to the elevator. Billy Elliot was waiting inside the door, snuffing and
dancing on the tiled foyer. I hugged him hello and snapped his leash on, whispering so as not to wake Tom, and then we both trotted down the hall to the elevator and across the lobby to the front door.
dancing on the tiled foyer. I hugged him hello and snapped his leash on, whispering so as not to wake Tom, and then we both trotted down the hall to the elevator and across the lobby to the front door.
As soon as he sniffed fresh air, Billy Elliot stretched his long body out ready to race. I heard a motor running and looked to the side of the lot. It was the same pickup on those ridiculous big tires, idling with its lights off. Maybe this lot was being used for a drug drop or something. I pulled Billy Elliot back until we got to the big open space and then let the leash play out.
Billy Elliot took off like a comet, and so did the truck. The difference was that Billy Elliot was running away from me and the truck was driving straight toward me. I swung my head to look toward the sound at the same moment he turned on his high beams, catching me in their glare like an unsporting hunter.
In seconds, the truck was on me, so close I could feel its heat, so close I could feel the vibration of its speed under my feet. Paralyzing fear shot through me like sick electricity, sheer animal panic like I’d never felt before. I had been afraid before, afraid of drunks with guns, afraid of wrecking when tires slewed on wet-slick streets, afraid of snakebite when I saw a rattler at my feet, but this went beyond fear. The death that is always there, always hovering, always ready to slam its foot on anything that moves, had arrived. Somebody in that truck intended me to die, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
There was nowhere to go: no ditch to fall into, no wall to climb over, no time to run away. Throwing the leash handle clear, I spun around to face my death. The giant tires were so close I could see the deep grooves in their tread. The noise was deafening, like a banshee’s scream.
Suddenly a man’s calm voice high on the right side of my head said,
Hit the dirt, Dixie.
Hit the dirt, Dixie.
I dove for the pavement, sliding flat out between the tires, face turned to the side, mashing ribs and cheekbone and pelvis into the asphalt. Hot exhaust fumes swept over
me, so close they ruffled my hair, and then a rush of cool air signaled that the truck had passed over. I couldn’t see it, but I heard it roar out of the parking lot onto Midnight Pass Road.
me, so close they ruffled my hair, and then a rush of cool air signaled that the truck had passed over. I couldn’t see it, but I heard it roar out of the parking lot onto Midnight Pass Road.
Mewling and gasping for breath, I clawed my way to my feet and crab-ran toward the side of the lot. I stumbled between two parked cars and dropped to the curb when my rubbery knees refused to hold me up anymore. Choking on bile and grit, I put a shaky hand to feel the wetness on my burning face, but it was tears, not blood. My nose was running and my blubbering mouth leaked saliva down my chin. Adrenaline poured through my veins in an overwhelming rush, shaking me so hard my teeth rattled. I hugged my thighs and rested my chin on my scraped knees, gulping air like an asthmatic, trying to quit crying, trying to quiet my galloping heart.
A scraping sound brought me to my feet, my hand digging into my pocket for the .38. I’d forgotten about it until now, but even if I’d remembered, it wouldn’t have been any good to me against that towering truck. But I could sure as hell use it now. I used both hands to hold it stiffly at arm’s length. The peculiar sound was coming closer. If that truck driver had left a friend to finish me off, I was going to blow the blue-eyed shit out of him. Whoever was coming, he was dragging something on the asphalt, something metallic, like a chain. Jesus, somebody planned to beat me with a chain. I whipped a look to both sides behind me to see if there was more than one of them. I didn’t see anybody, but the sound was coming closer.
Through the spaces between the cars, Billy Elliot streaked into view, oblivious to everything except the joy of running, still happily following his simulated race track, dragging his leash behind him and not missing me at all. I stuck the gun in the waistband of my shorts and walked unsteadily to the the end of the cars that hid me.
“Billy! Come!”
There must have been something in my quavering voice that told him this was no time to fool around, because he
slowed to a trot, made a wide turn, and came at a gentle jog to sit in front of me. His tongue lolled out of his grinning mouth, and he seemed more satisfied than I’d ever seen him.
slowed to a trot, made a wide turn, and came at a gentle jog to sit in front of me. His tongue lolled out of his grinning mouth, and he seemed more satisfied than I’d ever seen him.
I got his leash and shakily reeled it to the handle.
“Don’t think running without me is going to be a regular thing.”
Billy Elliot fell in behind me, stoically enduring the shortened leash and my plodding steps back into the building. As we went into the lobby, we met a couple of plump middle-aged men and their plump middle-aged dogs. The men gave me startled looks and pulled their dogs close to their sides. Billy Elliot snorted, as if to say that I might not be much to look at, but he was still sleek and svelte.
In the elevator, I reacted like the men downstairs when I saw my reflection in the mirrored wall. My shorts and T were smeared with black road grease, and my right cheek looked like somebody had rubbed it with sandpaper. My nose was still streaming and my knees were oozing blood. I wiped my nose with a quivering hand, and realized my palms were scraped. So were my arms.
By the time we were off the elevator and at Billy Elliot’s floor, my heart had calmed, at least enough that it didn’t seem to be trying to leap out of my chest with every beat. But I was still shaky, and my legs still felt like silly putty. I had to use both hands to get the key in Tom’s door. When I got it open, the lights were on and I smelled coffee.
From the kitchen, Tom yelled, “Morning, Dixie! Want some coffee?”
After a couple of inaudible bleats, I managed to yell back that I didn’t have time, but thanks, and we both yelled good-byes and I left. If he had known what shape I was in, Tom would have ministered to me like a mother hen. But I didn’t want him to see me begrimed and shaking and snotsmeared. I felt ashamed, as if almost being run down by a maniac in a big truck was like getting caught with my hands in my own pants. Like a hurt animal, I wanted to crawl off in the bushes and lick my wounds.
I slunk down the hall to the elevator. On the way down I leaned against the wall, my body thrumming with pain. The lobby was clear, and I bolted through the doors and slammed into the Bronco. Like a homing pigeon, I turned south on Midnight Pass Road and drove to my apartment.
When I pulled under the carport, sunrise was just beginning to pink the milky horizon, and wavelets were gently sucking at the beach. I was glad Michael and Paco were still gone. I didn’t want them to see me bruised and scraped. I took the stairs two at a time, unlocked the French doors, and hurled down the hall to the bathroom, peeling off clothes as I went.
I stood in the shower and sobbed while water lifted asphalt grit from my pores. It wasn’t so much physical pain that made me cry, it was the shock of knowing somebody hated me enough to squash me like a cockroach. I hadn’t felt hated since my fourth-grade teacher had struck daily misery into my heart with her sighs and baleful looks. I had finally announced at the supper table that I wasn’t going to school ever again, and my grandmother called the teacher and asked her what I was doing that made her dislike me so much. The teacher was a little taken aback, but she admitted it was just plain annoying how I wasn’t Working Up to My Potential. My grandmother told her my dad had died over the summer, my mother had run off to start a new life, and I had plenty of time to Work Up to My Potential after I got my life in order. The teacher promised to be nicer to me and I went back to school, but for the rest of the year her disappointment was like little hooks of gravity pulling me down. I felt the same way now. I hated being hated.
When I was all cried out and clean again, I patted dry and applied liquid Band-Aid to my scrapes. Then I looked hard at my reflection in the mirror and told myself that I had spent three years overcoming the sick weariness that goes along with being a victim, and I wasn’t going back there. The person driving that truck would love to know I felt humiliated, and as long as I did, he might just as well
have killed me. That son-of-a-bitch had another think coming if he thought I was going to slink around in fear.
have killed me. That son-of-a-bitch had another think coming if he thought I was going to slink around in fear.
I put on fresh Keds and a clean bra and underpants, this time not going for fancy lace or satin because I didn’t give a shit how my underwear looked when I shot the bastard who had come after me. I was going to find him and I was going to make him feel as much fear as he’d caused me.
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