Hide and Snake Murder

Llewellyn Publications

Woodbury, Minnesota

Copyright Information

Hide and Snake Murder: A Shay O'Hanlon Caper
© 2012 by Jessie Chandler.

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First e-book edition © 2012

E-book ISBN: 9780738732275

Book format by Bob Gaul

Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover illustration © Gary Hanna

Editing by Nicole Edman

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Manufactured in the United States of America

Acknowledgments

Numerous nods of undying appreciation go out to many people, including Terri Bischoff, acquisitions editor and bearer of the dreaded whip of encouragement; Nicole Edman, my production editor, who has a keen eyeball for proper prose; Lisa Novak, my amazing, patient cover designer who did everything she could to make Doodlebug glow; Courtney Colton and Steven Pomije, who tirelessly work publicity; Katie and the rest of the sales crew who work so hard to get all Midnight Ink, Flux, and Llewellyn titles on shelves at bookstores and libraries; the proofreaders who hunt down all the missing or misplaced commas, periods, and lots, lots more; and last, but never least, thank you to Midnight Ink/Llewellyn Worldwide for allowing me to continue to have a venue that lets me share Shay and company with the world.

I could not continue to do this without the support of my wife and partner of almost seventeen years. Betty Ann, you rock. Thank you for all you do, every moment, every day.

Ellen Hart, you are, hands down, the queen of titles. Thank you for sharing this one with me. Lori Lake, Mary Beth Panichi, and Judy Kerr, you are the awesome threesome of brainstorming. It all started one dark and stormy June night!

Thank you to my Hartless Murderers, the BABAs, and all of my friends and family who read, re-read, and then once again went over this manuscript. The support, encouragement, and occasional thwap across the back of my head have been invaluable. I love you guys.

Ruta Skujins, this is a bittersweet moment. You helped me at every turn and gave me an outlet to sell my book at True Colors Bookstore, Minneapolis's last feminist book retailer. I'm so very sorry the store won't be around for book two. However, may our friendship and collaborations continue for a long, long time.

Pat and Gary at Once Upon a Crime Mystery Bookstore in Minneapolis and my ex-Borders cohorts: thank you for standing behind me.

Last, but never, ever least, a huge thank you goes out to friends and fans who took the time to pick up my books, read them, recommend them, and come and visit me at the crazy events I've been a part of in the last year. What a wild ride it's been, and may the ride continue on!

For my great uncle Hank,

Major General Henry Rasmussen,
Ret. (US Army), who I hope
is romping with Lucky Dawg in
the greenest of heavenly pastures.
You were, and remain, our rock.

One

Deepening twilight gave the
trees surrounding the asphalt-covered trail in Minneapolis's Loring Park a skeleton-like appearance. The spring wind gusted intermittently, eerily shaking the naked branches. Molding leaves recently uncovered by melted winter snow gave off a dank odor that only added to my unease.

Dawg, my eighty-pound, white-and-fawn bulldozer, or rather, Boxer, pulled on his leash, veering off the path periodically to follow some interesting scent.

Cell phone in one hand, I checked it every few seconds for a new message. Baz, aka Basil Lazowski, an old schoolmate and an unfortunate family friend, had texted earlier in the day. He asked if I'd meet him at the park at seven thirty that night.

When I got the message, I had to think about his request. Carefully. On a good I-Think-I-Can-Handle-Baz day, I deliberately practice calming, deep-breathing techniques whenever he's within ten feet. On a bad No-Way-I-Can-Handle-Baz day, he was lucky to remain alive in my presence.

I hadn't seen Baz for well over a year. Last I'd laid eyes on his roly-poly carcass, he'd been passed out in his aunt's backyard, literally mooning the moon. He was a sick gambler, and when he ran out of money, look out. Throw some booze into the mix, and he'd bet away anything he could get his hands on. Clothes included.

Baz was most definitely a pain. But he did respect the fact I wasn't attracted to the male species, and he didn't give me any lip about it. And he was certainly good for the occasional laugh, usually at his own expense. After thinking it over, I decided I was in a reasonable place for dealing with him, so I'd agreed to meet up.

I'd arrived at the park on time, expecting him to be there. Instead, a second text instructed me to keep walking the path around the pond. It sounded odd, but that was nothing new for Baz. Now it was almost eight, and the place was strangely quiet for being right on the edge of downtown Minneapolis. I grumbled and groused to Dawg as we strolled along. He snorted at me—compassionately, I decided—whenever he managed to wrench his face off the ground.

As darkness descended, familiar park landmarks blurred. Objects that appeared harmless in the daylight took on ominous profiles. I had to admit, the place was freaking me the hell out.

I was about to give up and hoof it back to my truck when my phone finally chirped again. The text read:

It's safe now. Walk to the east end of the park and cross the bridge. Meet me by the spoon.

Dawg's nose quivered as he meticulously sniffed the air. I said, “ ‘It's safe now'? What's that supposed to mean?”

Dawg woofed low. His floppy upper lip had caught on one of his bottom teeth, making his face look lopsided. I swear they slapped his schnoz on sideways when they put him together in the puppy assembly factory, and they gave him a size-five tongue in a size-three mouth.

We left the path and made our way across the long, light-blue footbridge connecting Loring Park to the Walker Art Center's sculpture garden. On the other side of the bridge, the grass crunched softly underfoot. I was relieved to be out of the darkness of the park and into the yellow-orange glow of streetlights. We crossed the sidewalk and entered the garden itself. I peered into the gloom, my heart pattering against my ribs.

The iconic red cherry in the bowl of a huge silver spoon came into sight, looking black in the twilight.

Dawg nudged my leg with his head and slurped my hand, his not-so-subtle hint that he wanted a treat. Some help he was. I dug out a Snausage from a baggie in my pocket and tossed it. It disappeared into the dark, drooly cavern of Dawg's mouth with a snap of big white teeth. His tongue travelled rapidly around his lips, and he eyed me with a look. Yup,
that
look. With a shake of my head and an aggrieved sigh, I dispensed two more Snausages into his perpetually hollow belly.

“Come on, mutt.” I gave the leash a tug and we circled the cold, inky water surrounding the sculpture and stopped at the end of the spoon handle. This was just too melodramatic. I crossed my arms, hugging my thick sweatshirt and navy windbreaker to me and shivered.

Dawg plopped his butt on my right foot and leaned against my leg. Wind whistled between both tree branches and the various sculptures spread around the area.

“Hey!”

The word echoed throughout the garden.

Already on edge, I shot forward, tripped over Dawg, did a half-somersault, and landed hard. I lay in the grass at the water's edge and gazed up at the round face of Baz the Spaz.

“What—the hell—are you—doing?” I wheezed, a hand on my chest trying to hold my hammering heart in. Dawg stood over me with one paw in my armpit and one next to my neck, snuffling my face with Snausage breath. I pushed him off me as I struggled to sit up.

“Sorry Shay, I didn't mean to startle you.” Baz extended his hand. After a moment of debate about if I ought to slap it away, I grabbed it. He hauled me upright—quite a feat considering that at five-seven I towered over him by at least five inches. Every time I saw him, he reminded me of that kid's song, “I'm a little teapot, short and stout.” His spare tire had expanded even more since I'd seen him last.

“What do you want? You've had me running around here for the last forty minutes.”

“I had to make sure you weren't being followed.”

I stood straighter and glanced around the garden before I caught myself. It wasn't hard to play into The World As Seen Through Baz's Eyes if you weren't careful. “Being followed? By who?”

“These two guys. I, uh … ”

“Uh?” I repeated and gave him a raised eyebrow.

The fringe of blond hair surrounding his shiny pate fluttered in a puff of wind. “I'm in a spot, here, Shay. I need to get a hold of Agnes.”

He lived with, or more accurately, mooched off of his aunt, Agnes Zaluski, not far my own Uptown address. Agnes was a good friend of Eddy Quartermaine, my landlord and surrogate mom. She and Agnes were members of the oft card-playing and occasionally crafty group, the Mad Knitters. They'd taken off two days before on a brief jaunt to New Orleans with Rocky, the mentally challenged all-around good guy I employed at the coffee shop I run, the Rabbit Hole. Rocky had been talking incessantly about their upcoming adventure for weeks.

I didn't think Agnes would've have departed without leaving Baz a way to get a hold of her if there was an emergency. “Doesn't she have a cell phone?”

Baz scrunched his nose up. “Are you kidding? You know that generation.”

I did. Eddy wanted nothing to do with mobile devices either. It was frustrating.

“And she was a little ticked at me when she left.”

Here we go. “Why was she ticked off at you?”

“I kind of asked her for some money—”

He clamped his jaw shut when he caught the expression on my face.

Dawg whined. Both Baz and I did a three-sixty, but saw no one. His skittishness was infecting me.

I heaved a breath and crossed my arms against the cold and the willies. “A little too much track time again?”

“The bet was a sure thing. Really. I don't know what happened.”

Gambling was always “a sure thing” with Baz. When he wasn't at one of the two racetracks in town or at one of the local casinos making sure his bankroll disappeared, he worked for Ducky Ducts Duct Cleaning: We Clean Your Pipes Slick as a Whistle, Guaranteed.

“Anyway,” Baz said, “she didn't leave me any contact information. I have to talk to her.”

Eddy was a planner. She'd carefully outlined hotels, phone numbers, and travel times on a piece of paper and tacked it to a small corkboard on the wall in her kitchen. I said, “They're somewhere in New Orleans, at the Hotel St. Mame or something. But why the subterfuge? Why not simply ask me for it on the phone?”

Baz squinted at me. “They're watching.”

I rolled my eyes. “Who's watching? You make no sense.” Even as the words left my lips, I peered around furtively again.

“Two goons. They trashed the house and kidnapped me and Wink.”

“What?”

“The two—”

“No, the kidnapping part.”

“Me and Wink—”

“Who's Wink?”

Baz eyed me. “Stop interrupting.”

“Fine.” My voice was tight. Baz was insane. Certifiable.

“Wink's a friend who comes over and plays PS3 with me.”

I opened my mouth to make a crack about a thirty-something, balding man playing video games but snapped it shut at the expression on Baz's face.

“So it's two in the morning. Last night. We're in the middle of a serious battle. Halo 2. These two guys with guns busted in the back door. Practically took it off the hinges.”

I raised a brow but didn't interrupt. Maybe he was hallucinating video games.

“One held us at gunpoint while the other trashed the joint.”

“Trashed
Agnes's
joint? She'll have a heart attack if she comes home to that, you know.”

“I didn't have time to clean. I've been hiding out all day.” He gave me a you-are-too-stupid-for-words glare. “After they couldn't find what they wanted, they took us to this place in Brooklyn Center by Twin Lakes. By the railroad tracks.”

I'd played in that area when I was a kid, leaving pennies on the rails for the trains to flatten. One time a friend and I were on the tracks and didn't hear the train until it was just about on top of us. Fortunately, we dove down the embankment just in time. The area was about as remote as you can get in the city.

“Then they shot Wink in the head. I'm pretty sure he's dead.” Baz shuddered. “They said I was next if I didn't give it back. They'd put one right between my eyeballs.”

Whoa. “They actually shot him? With bullets?”

Baz nodded and made a gun with his hand and pulled the invisible trigger. “Bang bang.”

Now I definitely expected to see a couple monsters brandishing submachine guns.

Dawg whined.

I frowned at Baz. “And then?”

“The two goons told me I better get it back. If I squeal to the cops, they'll finish the job. They said they'd be back soon. Then they disappeared.”

Holy crap. “What happened to Wink?”

“After they left, I used Wink's cell phone to call 911 and anonymously reported the shooting. Then I wiped my prints off it and threw it in the lake.”

Man, was I an accessory now that I knew all this? Not good. Not good at all.“Was he breathing?”

“It didn't look like it. Most of the back of his head was in chunks a few feet away.”

“God, Baz! Are you kidding me? You just left him like that?” The blood drained out of my face. I tried to take a couple deep, slow breaths.

“Well, what was I supposed to do? I couldn't carry him out of there!”

“No, but you could've waited for the ambulance!”

“Nuh uh. I wasn't about to hang around and let them haul me back to jail.”

“Why would they?”

A look of pure guilt oozed across Baz's face, and I knew he'd done something dumb again. Nothing ever changes. Some of the fog in his story was starting to clear, as well as the full impact of the words he'd said just moments ago:
They said I was next if I didn't give it back.

“Okay. What'd you swipe this time?”

“A stuffed snake. Nothing major.”

The man was about to get himself killed, and he says it's nothing. While Baz cleared out linty ductwork, he occasionally gave himself a five-finger discount on items from the homes he worked in. Agnes bailed her nephew out of the clink more than once for his Making-Other-People's-Stuff-Mine obsession.

“What makes the snake so valuable they'd kill for it?”

“Some kid's favorite toy? There's diamonds sewed inside it? How do I know? It looked like any other kid's stuffed snake.” If there'd been better light, I knew Baz's ears would be bright red and the veins in his neck would be standing out. With all the stupid things he got himself into, he was going to stroke out one day.

“Why didn't you give them the dumb thing, then?”

“I would've if I could've found it. The only thing I can figure is Agnes did something with it. That's why I need to talk to her.”

I sucked air between my teeth and let it out slowly. “As soon as I get home, I'll call you with the number to the hotel.”

“NO!” The word burst forth from Baz with vehemence.

Jeez. Dawg backed up, staring at Baz from between my legs. I knew how the poor pooch felt, but I didn't have anyone's legs to hide behind.

“If they shot Wink, who
knows
what they might do to an old lady. I'm afraid to go home. They could be watching my calls. If they find out where Agnes is, and if they think she has the snake with her, whether she does or not … She can be a pain, but I don't want her to get hurt.”

Look at that. Baz did have a part of a shriveled heart in there somewhere. “Come on, Baz, why would they hurt her? They should be hurting you.”

Baz gave me wounded look. “Because they're ruthless. Maybe they'd do something to her to get back at me. I dunno. And Eddy's with her. They could do something to them both.”

The thought of Eddy in danger brought me up short. Shivers started deep inside, and I was more than ready to skedaddle. “What do you want me to do, then?”

Baz looked over one shoulder, then the other, and pulled me down so his lips were even with my ear. “I'll meet you at Sebastian Joe's about in an hour/hour-and-a-half and get the number from you.”

“Fine.” I straightened and gave Dawg a gentle tug. We followed Baz and his peculiar waddle back across the bridge. How much could I believe out of this klepto loon? Did someone really get shot last night? With Baz, you never knew the truth versus his version of reality.