Crunch Time

Hermie, but could not see her. After a few moments, I was aware of sirens. I lifted my head and scanned the meadow. Hermie lay in an unnatural heap on the tan grass. Her gray curls hung in a limp mess; her coat and dress resembled a dark, wrinkled map. Had I seen her foot move? I thought so.

I hoped the shock of gunfire had only made her faint. . . . Dear God, let her only have fainted, I don’t want Brad to be without a mother, no matter how crazy that mother is. . . .

I planted my face in the snow to try to shock my brain. Oh yes: the bald man, Charlene Newgate, Hermie Mikulski on a mission of mercy. Yet I could hear no human voices at all. In fact, the only noise I could hear beyond the incessant bleating of the sirens was the yipping and crying of what had to be fifty, no, a hundred little dogs. . . .

I scooted to the corner of the dilapidated shed. Next to its outside wall was damp earth and dead grass. The whining of the dogs was bothering me so much that I shook my head and reached forward to pull open the door to the shed, just as darkness flooded my brain.

Some time later, a blustery foghorn voice stabbed my consciousness, saying, Come out slowly showing your hands now. . . .

Astonished by a sudden warm wetness moving back and forth across my cheek, then more moist warmth tickling my legs, I scrambled awkwardly to a sitting position. Beagle pups were whining and licking my skin where it was torn. I remembered teaching my Sunday school class about a dog licking Lazarus’s wounds—

“Miss G.? Oh, Christ, Goldy? Are you all right? What the hell are you doing out here?”

Someone, a man, Tom, had put his hands under my arms and was pulling me gently upward. The air still broke into slivers: sirens, voices, car doors slamming, dogs whining and barking.

My mouth felt as if it were filled with flannel. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Is Hermie all right? Where is she?” When I turned to look, blades of sunlight reflecting off the snow blinded me. A frigid wind made my skin break out in gooseflesh. Tom pulled me close. I shivered against him. “Hermie?”

“She’s fine. She passed out, it looks like.” Still holding on to me, he spun and yelled, “Will someone bring this woman a blanket?”

Will someone bring this woman a blanket? Not Will someone bring my wife a blanket? Not Will someone bring my nosy, meddling, intrusive wife a frigging blanket?

Then he hollered, “And will someone please round up these damn dogs?”

I heard myself babbling, “Tom, please don’t let them take the puppies, please don’t round them up. That’s why Hermie and I came out here, to save them, not to have them sent to a pound. Not to have them put where they’ll be killed.” My words were tumbling out too fast, but I couldn’t help myself.

“They’re not going to the pound.” Tom’s kind face finally came into focus in front of me. I realized his muscular arms were holding me up. “Don’t worry,” he said.

“I can stand on my own.” Yet when he let go of me, I wobbled, and he grabbed me. “No, I’m okay,” I told him. “I just—” I was looking at the driveway, where a tarp had been unfurled. It was the kind of tarp the sheriff’s department used to cover a body.

Charlene Newgate, her tufted brown hair disheveled, her fur askew, was on her feet, bending forward. Policemen flanked her as she was put into handcuffs.

I was shivering uncontrollably. “Who, I mean, who’s under that tarp—”

“It’s a guy named Stonewall Osgoode,” Tom said. “Animal Control already knew about him from when they came out to investigate Hermie’s puppy mill allegations. But you know what? I think he’s our bald suspect in the burning of Ernest’s house. The same one we think stole my gun from our garage.”

“Did Hermie, I mean, how did he—”

“We don’t think Hermie shot him. No way was that guy killed by a twenty-two at that distance.” He held me, then took a blanket a uniformed cop offered and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“Wait,” I said as Tom put his arm around my shoulder and started to lead me to a patrol car. I pivoted awkwardly and pointed across the meadow, into the trees, where a sharp wind sent veils and chunks of snow off the pine branches and into the air. “My van’s in the woods—”

“We know. I just got a radio call. Hermie’s is there, too.” We stood like that for a moment, but then he murmured, “We need you to come wait in one of our vehicles.” Tom led me back to a patrol car, where the heat was turned to high, thank God.

I watched there while Tom commanded his team. Uniformed police and plainclothes investigators went into Osgoode’s house and came out. The coroner’s van arrived. I averted my eyes while they did their job. If Hermie hadn’t shot Osgoode, and Charlene had been on the ground, then who had fired so unerringly? While I was rolling in the snow and Hermie had surprised Osgoode with her shot, had Charlene gotten up, taken Osgoode’s weapon, and killed him?

After what felt like an eternity but probably was only half an hour, Tom, his expression grim, returned to the patrol car. Before I could ask him what they had found and how soon would it be before I could go home, he said, “Armstrong’s coming. He needs to question you.”

20

I shook my head. “I can’t do this now.”

“Miss G., a man has been murdered. You don’t have a choice.” Tom softened his tone. “Do you want me to stay with you? I won’t be able to say anything.”

Did I want Tom with me? Hmm. Tom’s colleague, Sergeant Armstrong, was going to question me. Maybe I would have a chance to question him.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that the sheriff’s department had gotten there so quickly. Last night, I’d told Tom what I’d learned from Sabine Rushmore. The Animal Control section of the department knew the location of the legitimate cover for the beagle-breeding operation, because Hermie Mikulski had complained to them about it. And then this morning, I’d left a frantic message with Tom about where I was going.

Still, oddly, it hadn’t felt like more than a few minutes between the last explosion, a car maybe driving away, and the scream of sirens. I felt out of it and suddenly did not want to be questioned.

I reminded myself that I’d gotten into this mess because I was trying to help Yolanda, and that had led me into the quicksand of the Ernest McLeod murder. I had not been motivated to punish a puppy mill owner. But interrogations could take strange turns, and I didn’t want to feel unprepared. So I said, “Yes, Tom. Please stay with me. Thank you.”

We got into a patrol car parked behind Osgoode’s SUV, which still had its rear hatch open. Since I’d known Sergeant Armstrong, he had lost about half of the thin brown strands that he still combed over his shiny bald spot. His complexion was as pasty as ever, and his thin frame was now marred by a pot belly. Odd hours, stress-based eating, and lack of exercise will do that to anyone, but cops are particularly susceptible.

“Thank you, Mrs. Schulz.” Armstrong’s tone was formal. He’d asked me to sit next to him, while Tom stayed in back. Armstrong took out a small digital microphone and clipped it onto a dashboard knob. Then he retrieved a notebook and pen. I didn’t need to ask why he was using two modes of recording our conversation. Tom had complained relentlessly about the unreliability of the department’s tech toys. That was why my husband now insisted that all police take notes in addition to using what might end up as a blank tape, disc, or other device.

“You know the drill,” Armstrong said. “Start with when you got up this morning and bring us to you being here.”

I thought of how I should begin. I didn’t know what words I’d use to tell them about Lolly, without divulging what she’d done on Ernest’s behalf. On the other hand, I knew I had to say something about how I’d spent the morning, or there would be a gap as long as the Eisenhower Tunnel in my narrative. But I’d promised to keep her out of it. As Lolly would say, crap!

I turned in my seat and asked if I could tell them something I’d found out without saying where I’d gotten the information. Tom rolled his eyes. After a moment, Armstrong told me to go ahead. So, without names, I related the tale of the theft of the Juarez necklace from Humberto Captain’s place.

I looked in the rearview mirror and caught Tom’s eyes. He said, “This is the diamond necklace that for years