Steven and I call him Waggy. You love dogs, I understand?”
“Guilty as charged. I’m a certified dog lunatic.”
“As am I. But you might want to let him stay here while you make your determination. It could be upsetting for him to be thrust into a strange environment.”
“He’ll be fine; my house is dog-friendly. Where is he?” I ask.
“In his room. But Mrs. Timmerman would like to talk to you first.”
That’s not completely appropriate; she is the other one of the litigants pressing for ownership of Waggy, and I really shouldn’t be speaking to her without the opposing party present. On the other hand, appropriateness was never my forte, and I did say hello to Steven, so what the hell.
I let Martha lead me into what they probably refer to as the library, since the walls are covered with packed bookshelves. Most of them are classics, and few look like they have been read in a very long time. This may be a library, but it’s not a reading room.
Five minutes go by, during which Martha and I engage in small talk, mostly about baseball. She’s relatively likable, but I’m starting to get annoyed. “Where is she?” I finally ask.
“I’m sure she’ll be down in a moment.”
“Give her my regards, because I’m not waiting any longer. I’ll take Waggy and be on my way.”
“Mr. Carpenter.”
I look up and see Diana Timmerman, tall and elegant and completely unconcerned that she kept me waiting.
“Good guess.” I turn and ask Martha to bring me Waggy, and Diana nods that it is okay to do so.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Diana lies. “I’m Diana Timmerman.”
At that moment the phone rings, and Diana says to Martha, “I am available for no one today.” Martha goes off to tell the caller just that, and then to get Waggy.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you; it’s been a difficult time. Walter was a wonderful man. And with the authorities searching the house three times, going through his things as if he were the criminal, it’s been hard to get back to anything approaching a normal life.”
I nod understandingly, but all I really want to do is get out of here. “Murder investigations can be intrusive things.”
“Yes. Now, I did want to talk to you about Bertrand.”
“I’m sorry, but that would be improper. All conversations about the subject can only take place with both litigants present.”
She smiles without humor. “Well, then it’s unfortunate you didn’t get here fifteen minutes earlier. The other ‘litigant’ was just here. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him yelling at me from your car.”
She’s obviously talking about her stepson Steven, and I sense she wants to engage me in a conversation about him. But I’m getting more than a little tired of this; I feel like I’m trapped in an episode of
Diana looks toward the door, where Martha has silently reappeared with one of the cutest dogs I’ve ever seen. It’s a Bernese mountain dog puppy, a smile on his face and his tail wagging so hard that it shakes his entire body along with it. There was clearly more than one reason to name him Waggy.
I walk over and kneel on the floor next to him and start to pet him. He seems about to burst with excitement; his energy level is overwhelming. Finally I get up and take his leash. “Let’s go, buddy. But you might want to calm down a little before you meet Tara.”
“Will you be needing his crate?” Martha asks.
“Why would I need a crate?”
“He lives in his crate,” she says.
“Not anymore,” I say. “Not anymore.”
Martha walks me to the door and outside to my car. “Does Steven live here?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, he doesn’t.”
Martha says good-bye, petting Waggy before she gets into her car. She starts the engine and is beginning to pull out when I see Waggy’s ears perk up slightly. Somehow he senses what is coming before I do, but I don’t have long to wait.
The explosion is deafening, shocking, and somehow disorienting, and at first I can’t tell where it is coming from. But then the windows explode from inside the house, and the flames follow. Martha stops her car, and I can see her mouth open in a scream. Waggy barks, but both of their sounds are overwhelmed by the noise of the house coming apart.
There seems to be a second explosion, not nearly as loud, and then I see security guards come running, but it doesn’t matter how big they are or how many guns they’re carrying. If their job is to protect Diana Timmerman, they are now officially unemployed.
CRIME SCENES are really boring places to be once the crime is over.
The police on the scene want to question everyone who has the misfortune to have been there, but first they want to spend hours walking around looking thoughtful and consulting in hushed tones with one another. The rescue efforts ended a while ago, and Diana Timmerman’s body has been found and carted off by the coroner, but the place is still crawling with police, firefighters, and investigators.
I’m told to wait by my car for a detective to talk to me. It’s better than waiting in the house, since at this point there pretty much isn’t a house. Martha is waiting her turn in the back of a police car, though after maybe twenty minutes she gets out and stands next to it. If she thinks her visibility will speed things up, she hasn’t been at many crime scenes.
Waggy is hanging out with me, and not that happy about it. He still has that irrepressible smile, but he wants to get out and explore the area and hopefully get petted by the cops. I’m impatient as well, but I have considerably less desire to be petted.
The state police are in control of the operation, probably because of the nature of the incident. If it can be determined that the bomb is the work of a terrorist, then I’m sure the FBI will be called in. I’m not sure what distinguishes a terrorist from a regular person who blows up houses, but it’s probably a matter of intent and the message they are sending.
It hasn’t quite hit me yet that if I had been willing to chat with the late Ms. Timmerman a few more minutes, then Waggy, Martha, and myself would be leaving this area in jars. I can see and hear Martha periodically breaking into sobs, but I’m feeling pretty stoic. I’m sure later I’ll start twitching and moaning, but right now it just feels surreal.
Based on his tail movements, Waggy has already moved on.
It’s hot out, and I’m getting very cranky by the time Detective D. Musgrave of the state police finally comes over to question me. I know his first initial because D. MUSGRAVE is written on his shirt; I assume there are other Musgraves in the state police from whom he’s trying to distinguish himself.
“This your dog?” D asks, backing up in a defensive posture as Waggy tries to jump on his leg.
“Actually, he’s a ward of the court,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
I proceed to explain to D how Waggy came to be my client, but he doesn’t seem that interested, jotting only a small note on his notepad.
“So you were in the house before the explosion?” he asks.
“Yes.”
This causes a prolonged note-writing flurry; there seems to be no discernible relationship between the length of what I say and the time it takes him to transcribe his version of it.
D questions me about my visit to the house. In real life, the event took about ten minutes; under his excruciatingly slow questioning, it takes about an hour and a half. My mind wanders during his note taking, but most of the time I’m hoping that Waggy will piss on his shoe.
