Chopping Spree

“I can’t take care of this hound another night!” Darlene shouted, coughing. “He howls and cries and he’s driving Gus and me nuts! Come and get him, will you? He’s late.”

“Who is late?” I tried again, with deliberate loudness, like an American bellowing English at a European.

“Jesus H. Christ, Goldy! The puppy is late! That’s his name! Late! How many times do I have to tell ya?”

“Thanks, Darlene!” I sang into the phone. Studiously avoiding the word late or its cognate, later, I said, “I’ll be over… after dinner… say, half past seven. Where do you live?”

“Where do you think?” she shrieked, as a dog howled mournfully in the background. “Next door to Barry Dean, fer chrissakes!”

To save us further miscommunication, she slammed the phone down and broke the connection.

Maybe I could bring Darlene and Gus a box of chamomile tea. She seemed to need it.

Regarding the central question now running my life, who murdered Barry Dean, I now had new input. Barry Dean had left me his dog. No question, that would really clarify my thinking on this case.

CHAPTER 11

Ia met Tom’s hearty greeting at our front door by falling into his arms. “I need help!” I gargled. The reason I didn’t add “My son’s driving me crazy!” was that Arch was right behind me.

“I’ve got a glass of sherry waiting for you in the kitchen,” Tom replied, without missing a beat. “Driving to Elk Park Prep can be awfully demanding.”

Arch grunted before announcing: “I’m starving!”—in case I hadn’t recalled that crucial information.

“Dinner’ll be ready in less than five!” Tom replied, his voice jovial.

Arch hefted up his backpack, lacrosse stick, and bag, and vaulted up the steps two at a time. The door to his room slammed resoundingly.

“I can’t drink sherry,” I told Tom as I plodded into the kitchen. “I have to drive somewhere tonight.”

“Tell me you didn’t take on another catering job. Tell me you’re going to stay and enjoy these enchiladas.”

“After dinner, I have to go get a dog. His name is Late. Wait a second. I’ll tell you all about it later, while we eat.”

Tom smiled, winked, and wisely decided not to ask me how I’d become ensnared in canine rescue. Instead he peered into the oven, nodded approvingly, then removed a large pan of fat enchiladas. A thick layer of melted Cheddar cheese bubbled over the dark, pungent enchilada sauce that in turn smothered the rolled and stuffed tortillas. Tom called upstairs.

“Hey, Arch! The enchiladas are done! In fact, they’re overdone! Next time don’t let your mother take so long!”

Arch roared with rage.

When Tom turned back to the kitchen, chuckling, I said, “Don’t start. He already blames me enough for… oh, everything. And please don’t use the word late. It has to do with the dog that I need to go pick up.”

Tom ignored me, which was a good thing. Two minutes later the three of us were digging into sour cream- topped enchiladas bursting with Tom’s melange of spicy beef, beans, onions, garlic, black olives, and picante. I moaned with pleasure. Arch shot me a disapproving look which said Even at home, Mom can embarrass you!

My mind returned to the parking-lot confrontation between Shane Stockham and Ellie McNeely. Later, when Arch had gone upstairs to do homework, I would tell Tom about it, to get his ideas. In any event, I was back to feeling uncomfortable about catering at Shane and Page’s mini-mansion the next day. Maybe I’d feel better if I could talk to Ellie and find out why she’d argued with Shane.

When my inner mind shrieked, You’re so damn nosy, I forked in another delectable bite.

“Anybody talk to Julian today?” Arch demanded.

I recounted the high points of my visit to the jail. Tom had also dropped in on Julian, but had left when the defense lawyer showed up. My son then asked when he could go see Julian, and I said probably this weekend. Arch’s mood lightened a bit. This made me think that perhaps the cause for his anxiety had not been my usual mom-misbehavior, but his worry about Julian, who was like a big brother to him.

“I’m wondering,” I ventured at length, “does anybody mind if we adopt another dog for a while?”

“Uh-oh,” Tom groaned.

Arch, however, brightened. “Sure! I can help. What kind of dog is it?”

“It’s a basset hound.”

“Miss G.?”

“OK, it’s Barry Dean’s basset hound. Barry left it to me.”

“He left it to you?” Tom echoed. “We’re just now getting his lawyer to talk about the will. How could you know about what he left and to whom?”

“His neighbor called. Darlene, the woman who owns that used-stuff store on Main Street. Apparently Barry called her yesterday before he died. Said if anything happened to him, I was supposed to take care of his dog, who is really a puppy. Darlene’s going to have a conniption fit if she has to have him another night.”

Somehow, my wonderful husband absorbed and translated this. “Miss G., why do you think Barry would ask you to take care of his dog? Are you saying he had a premonition that he was going to get killed, and called his neighbors to make provisions for his puppy?” he asked mildly.

Arch, his curiosity piqued now that he’d chowed down five enchiladas, raised his eyebrows. He’d wanted a second dog ever since we acquired Jake, a bloodhound who’d been mistreated before we took him in. Now Arch saw his chance coming. I did not want to ponder what Scout the cat would think of another dog adoption, however. Things could get ugly.

“I don’t know why Barry wanted me to have his puppy,” I told my family truthfully. “But I really think I should go get him.”

Tom mumbled something about letting the cops know what I was doing. Also, the department would need to find out if Barry had said anything else to Darlene. I told him the cops could talk all they wanted to Darlene, to me, and what the heck, to the dog.

We finished our meal thrashing out logistics for the week, who would be where when, how the driving would work, and so on. Such are the joys of contemporary domestic life. Arch and I thanked Tom for the fabulous dinner. Tom offered to do the dishes, and I accepted with gratitude.

“I’ll come with you, Mom,” Arch piped up unexpectedly as he finished loading the silverware into the dishwasher, a job he had done without being asked. “I got most of my homework done in school. While you’re driving, I’ll take care of the dog.”

“Why, thanks, Arch. I’d love your help.”

And so off we went.

“You’re late,” Darlene announced ungraciously as she swung open the door of her log cabin. Short, slender, and about sixty, Darlene wore an emerald green turtleneck and a fashionable-ten-years- ago black velvet skirt and vest. Her salon-dyed light orange hair was meticulously arranged in an Annette Funicello bubble, and her impeccable-but-heavy makeup glowed in the light from an overhead chandelier made from antlers. She looked like a perfectly preserved dried apricot.

“Very late,” she added, with the quirk of an arched, red-penciled eyebrow.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself to be pleasant. I smiled and said, “Let’s not use the dog’s name, OK? Darlene, you remember my son Arch? He loves dogs and will help me get Late home.” From inside the cabin, Barry’s hound howled so loudly I suspected he’d heard me.

O-woo! O-woo! Get me out of here!

“C’mon in, he’s waiting for you!” Darlene closed the door behind us. She added, “He’s in the kitchen. I had to