Ruff Way to Go Page 4

  “Unfortunately, we can’t check with Cassandra to ask about that possibility.”

  I gritted my teeth to keep from objecting to this cutting remark. I was already all but jumping out of my skin. I didn’t need him sniping at me, as well.

  “The thing is, Miss Babcock, you told me earlier it was less than fifteen minutes from the time you got there and read the note till we arrived. True?”

  I nodded.

  “So, again, what happened to the note?”

  “I don’t know. It blew away? The killer took it?” Despite the now unbearable heat in the stuffy room, I hugged myself, my turmoil causing my midsection to do an internal tap dance.

  This time I was the one to lean forward and force him to meet my eyes. “Sergeant Millay, all I know is, there was a note on a magenta colored sticky pad sheet fastened to the front door when I got there. And, no matter how this might look, I didn’t kill her.”

  He met my gaze unflinchingly and gave me no external clues as to what he was thinking. “Okay. Well.” He rose and bitched up his pants, which had slid slightly below waist level on his pudgy frame. “Thank you. Let us know if you think of anything more that might help us.”

  He gave me a little smile, which I didn’t return. I had a feeling I would be seeing his placid face in my nightmares.

  When I stepped out of the interrogation room, it felt as though I’d taken my first breath of air since this ordeal began. Mom was already standing by the door. She was taking great care to align her Day-Timer in her purse to her satisfaction. Straightening whatever objects happened to be on hand was something she habitually did when she wanted to appear busy and unconcerned. She’d likely done nothing but worry the entire time I’d been giving my statement.

  We said little during the drive home. It was now after seven p.m., and the sky at dusk was beginning to darken. My mom, though, seems to have an ability to emit soothing vibrations at times like these. That’s part of what makes her such a good flight instructor. What hit me as most extraordinary, though, was that Mom had to be bursting with anxious questions about what had happened right across the street from her home, yet she managed to refrain from asking.

  Finally, once we’d pulled into the garage, she said, “I get the feeling your session with Andy didn’t go well.”

  “You mean Sergeant Millay?” I asked, wanting to gently establish the fact that I did not enjoy the same kinship with the man that she did.

  She nodded.

  “No. In fact, it was awful.” I let out a sigh as I got out of the car and waited for her. I held the door for her, and we went inside the house together. The garage door opened to the kitchen, where our dogs were lined up to greet us. Pavlov, my German shepherd, was first in line, with Doppler, my cocker spaniel, in the middle. Mom’s collie, Sage, wagged his tail while I petted each dog in the proper sequence according to their self-determined hierarchy. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. I even feel guilty, though I did nothing wrong. It’s as if every mean-spirited thing I’ve ever done in my life that’s gone unpunished is now...sitting on my shoulders, mocking me.”

  Mom, showing a bit of favoritism, gave Pavlov and Doppler a quick, cursory greeting, but was now stroking her collie, Sage. “What have you ever done that went unpunished?”

  “Oh, there was”—though a few things had immediately popped into my head, I realized that there was no way I wanted to tell my mother, even though many years had passed—“not a single thing, now that you mention it.”

  “Thought so,” Mom said with a smile.

  Though she’d managed to help me turn down my anxiety by a notch or two—aided greatly by my being back home with my dogs—I now felt inordinately tired. I dropped into one of the captain’s-style wooden chairs at the table.

  Mom pulled out a chair beside me and took a seat. “Don’t worry about Andy.” In response to my furrowed brow at her use of his first name, she said, “Sergeant Millay, rather. He can’t possibly suspect you. You had no reason to kill Cassandra Randon.”

  “True, but I’m not going to sleep well till he catches whoever did this.”

  “Neither will I. Nor will anyone else in the neighborhood.”

  Except, perhaps, the killer. “Which is what bothers me the most.”

  “What’s that?”

  I met Mom’s brown eyes, so similar in appearance to mine, though hers were now surrounded by crow’s feet, which she preferred to call “extended laugh lines.”

  “I didn’t notice any unusual cars parked on the street. And there was a note for me on Edith’s door that disappeared by the time the police arrived. That means it had to be somebody in the immediate vicinity.” Somebody who was still there, watching me, when I’d first arrived, I silently added, giving myself the shivers.

  “Who could possibly have wanted to kill Cassandra?” I asked. “As far as I could see, she was a stay-at-home mother, leading a quiet life out here...far from the maddening crowd.”

  “That was my impression, too.”

  Remembering the horrific scene on Edith’s deck, a theory occurred to me that could explain both the murder and Shogun’s disappearance. “Maybe I was way off on paw sizes, and the prints I saw in the blood were from the husky, which could conceivably have attacked and killed Shogun. If so, maybe Edith went nuts and killed Cassandra accidentally. Cassandra might have bent down to grab the dog just as Edith was in mid swing with the...rock that killed her.”

  Mom shuddered a little at the image. I hated the theory myself, mostly because it meant an innocent dog had been killed, in addition to Cassandra. “That’s not at all likely, Allie.”

  “Did you know Edith well? Are you sure she wouldn’t have done it?”

  Mom shook her head and fidgeted with a crumb that had wedged itself into the seam between the main section and one flap of the table. “I’ve never felt especially comfortable around her. She’s always struck me as being too preoccupied with appearances. I just meant that I couldn’t picture her going into a rage over another dog injuring hers. Edith has never impressed me as being all that devoted to Shogun. Besides, she’s so meticulous, I can’t imagine her doing anything as messy as committing murder, especially not on her own property.’’

  Plus there were those perfectly clean white pants of hers, which couldn’t have stayed that way if she was the killer. I sorted through images of Edith I’d collected throughout the day—sitting on our couch, so prim and proper; stepping into Cassandra’s house and calling her “Cassie,” although Cassandra had seemed tense. “I detected some...odd undercurrent going on between Cassandra and Edith when I was at Cassandra’s house earlier. What do you know about their relationship?”

  In a gesture akin to a shrug, Mom tilted one hand, which now rested on the table. “They seem to be the best of friends. They’re always dropping in on each other. The families moved into the neighborhood within a year of each other, four or five years ago. Even though the Cunninghams are a few years older and didn’t have children, the couples seemed to socialize frequently.”

  “That reminds me. Did you know the Cunninghams are getting a divorce?”

  “I’d heard rumors, and it certainly doesn’t surprise me that they’re true. Trevor once told me that Boulder was far enough out in the boonies for him, but that Edith had insisted on moving out here to run her dress shop where there wasn’t the stiff competition. As a matter of fact, a month or two ago, Cassandra mentioned to me that Edith was trying to convince her to become a business partner, but that she’d decided not to accept the offer. She was hoping to get pregnant again soon and wanted to keep being a stay-at-home mom.”

  “Was there anyone in the neighborhood who had a big grudge against her, or anything?”

  Mom tilted her head and thought for a moment. “While you were being interviewed at the police station, an officer spoke with me, too, and asked me that same question. But there really wasn’t. She was a sweet, quiet person.”

  Pavlov was standing by the sliding glass door, wait
ing to be let out, and Mom did the honors. Her face looked weary, almost haggard, when she returned and faced me. “Allie, as much as I hate to say it, this might have been some random act of violence, right here in our quiet little neighborhood. Some maniac driving by, perhaps, who happened to spot her.”

  I shook my head. “No, I can’t believe that, Mom. For one thing, there has to be some explanation for that note.”

  Pointless as it was for me to try to mentally solve this murder, I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t shake the fear that I’d stepped into the murderer’s trap somehow. In any case, there was no way to feel the least bit in control of my own safety and well being until I could begin to understand what was happening. And why.

  “What about Edith’s other immediate neighbors, Mom? Have you seen much of the Haywoods lately?”

  “No. They’re exactly the same as they always were—keep mostly to themselves, don’t seem to go out much, especially now that Harvey’s finally closed his hobby shop and retired.”

  “They should have heard me call for help. It’s hard to understand how they could have not heard me.”

  “Maybe they just—as the cliche goes—didn’t want to get involved.”

  “That’d be just like them, all right. But what’s going on these days with their daughters?”

  “One lives right here in Larimer County, I think. The other is married and off in the Midwest someplace.”

  The doorbell rang. I told Mom to stay put and let me get it, while Sage and Doppler joined me for my short walk to the front door. Though some work still had to be done with Sage, Doppler and Pavlov were trained to do a down-stay when I snapped my ringers and pointed at the floor if I decided I didn’t want them underfoot. This was one trick they were unlikely to be called upon to use anytime soon. Until the killer was in custody, the more dogs surrounding me, the better.

  I flipped on our porch light, though it really wasn’t all that dark outside, and swung the door open without checking through the peephole. I had to hide my strong visceral reaction at the sight of Cassandra’s husband. The moment I saw him, I remembered his name. Paul.

  He looked every inch the stricken man who’d just learned of the loss of his wife. His shoulders were now so stooped and his posture was so caved in that he seemed to be no taller than me. He was normally a sturdy looking man of average height. He had a pale complexion, with thinning, curly dark hair. My heart ached for the man. I didn’t know him well and, in fact, had only crossed paths with him a couple of times.

  I didn’t know what to do. Even though I barely knew him, I opened the screen door and put a hand on his upper arm, gave it a squeeze and said, “Paul, I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.”

  He looked at me as though he were in a total daze. He wore no coat and was shivering noticeably in the chilly evening breeze. “Allida. I came back from taking Melanie and the puppies to the park, and they were here. The...police, I mean. The sergeant told me she...that somebody had...” He shook his head. “It had to have been a hideous mistake. Nobody would want to kill Cassandra. Someone must have assumed it was Edith. Maybe a hired thug, whatever they’re called, who wouldn’t have known she was the wrong woman.”

  “Maybe so, Paul. I have no idea how or why this happened. How is Melanie?”

  He didn’t answer, blinking as he watched my face, as if he didn’t realize I’d asked him a question.

  “You found Cassandra, right? That’s what...” He let his voice fade as if his sentence took too much effort to complete. “Was she already...Did she say anything to you?”

  As sincere as Paul’s heartbreak seemed to be, I’d skated on thin ice enough times as a child to recognize those same tremors below my feet that I now felt. Cassandra would have trusted her husband if he’d told her to meet him at the neighbor’s house; she might have read that note and stepped into his ambush. Just in case, I wasn’t going to mention the dog tracks I’d seen nor anything else that might be construed as my knowing anything important about the murder. “No, she didn’t. It was too late by the time I got there. I’m so sorry.”

  He gave me a sad nod. “I...don’t mean to...I told the sergeant I was just going to get a couple of things out of the house. He doesn’t want us staying at our house now. Even though they searched it already. Our house, I mean. They probably thought…” He let his voice trail away, and I wondered if he meant that they thought he might have been responsible for his wife’s death.

  “At least you and your daughter have each other.”

  “Yeah, but without Cassie—” His voice caught. “Then there’s...the dogs. They’re all back at the animal shelter now. We can’t have them at the hotel with us. And I don’t know if we’ll ever want to live in this neighborhood again. Not after this. Besides, he was a criminal. Their former owner was, I mean. Maybe he had something to do with my wife’s death.”

  “I’m sure that can’t be the case. Cassandra told me today that he was in jail.”

  “Yes, but what if...” He stopped and shook his head. “None of this makes any sense. There’s no point. I just...I want my wife back. I can’t do this alone. I can’t raise Melanie by myself. I’m not a good enough parent.”

  “Cassandra told me you were a wonderful father, and I’m sure that’s true.” I was beginning to yearn for my mother to step in for me. She was so much better with this sort of thing than I was, and she knew Paul. But I could tell from the sound of running water through the pipes that she was currently otherwise occupied and probably couldn’t overhear.

  “It was only because of her.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant; probably that he was only a good father because of his wife’s support, but I let it pass.

  It struck me then that a person’s death has a dreadful ripple effect, a passing along of emotional pain in an ever-growing circle. As much as I detested myself for feeling this way, I wanted to close the door, not to have to witness Paul’s agony at his tragic loss. At the same time, I wished I’d been more open and available to friendship with Cassandra. I would never get the chance now.

  “Did Edith tell you what my wife was doing at her house? When I left with Melanie, Cassie told me she was going to be making dinner. But she hadn’t even gotten anything started.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. Sometime after four-thirty, though, because that’s when I got home. Early. I even came home early today. To see the dogs. If only...”

  Finally I heard my mother’s footfalls coming from behind me. I stepped aside, but Paul, to my surprise, backed away from the door at the sight of my mother. He made a small pushing gesture at her and said, “Marilyn. I’ve got to go. I can’t survive this.”

  “Paul. I’m so sorry.”

  Mom ignored his initial attempts to walk away and reached out for him. Then she held him as he sobbed in her arms. I had to look away. At least Paul, in his shock and grief, wasn’t treating me as a suspect. That might change, though, once he’d had a chance to let this all sink in.

  My vision happened to fall across the street. Trevor Cunningham was parked in front of his former residence, watching the three of us, as if waiting for our conversation to finish.

  Mom released Paul from the hug, and Paul pulled himself together enough that it seemed he would at least be able to drive. As we watched him get into his car, Mom called out, “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

  Meanwhile, Trevor started to approach Paul, but then froze as Paul held up a hand, said something under his breath, and drove off. Paul’s words seemed to shake Trevor. He dropped his chin, his overly long, center-parted hair immediately falling into his eyes, and his long, pointy nose again giving me that unmistakable impression of a human silky terrier. The muscles in his jaw were still working as he headed up our walkway.

  He looked up when he reached our porch, his gaze locking on my mother. “Hello, Marilyn. This is all so...overwhelming. Tragic. Cassie Randon, of all people. Someone who would never hurt a fl
y. You gotta wonder what’s coming to the world.”

  Mom nodded. “I can’t believe it. If you can’t be safe in Berihoud, you’re not safe anyplace.”

  “True.” Trevor Cunningham sent a glance my way, then gave Mom a shake of the head, followed by a second look at me.

  “I suspect you’re here to speak to my daughter about your dog.”

  Trevor winced and nodded, the long top strands of his hair once again falling forward into his eyes. He dragged his hair back into place as he spoke. “I...feel guilty for worrying about Shogun at a time like this, but yes, I am. He hasn’t shown up yet, has he?”

  “No, he hasn’t. I’m sorry. We’ll keep an eye out for him, though,” Mom said as she went back into the house, shooting me a look that meant: Holler for me if you need support.

  I felt a bit awkward standing outside with a guest on what still felt to me like Mom’s porch and not my own. “Did you want to come in?” I asked Trevor, half hoping he’d say no.

  He shook his head. “I’ve only got a minute or two, Allida. I don’t want to be here long enough to have to cross paths with Edith. The police seem to think I had something to do with Cassandra’s murder. I didn’t. I swear to you. I went straight to my office after I left yours and didn’t leave until I came here.”

  At least the police were spreading their innuendos around. “How did you find out?”

  “Edith called me,” he said through an instantly tightened jaw. “She insists that I came here early this afternoon and kidnapped Shogun, which is just plain nuts.”

  I nodded. “If it’s any consolation, the sergeant acted as though they were suspicious of me, as well. Maybe that’s just their way.”