Crunch Time

going to let Hermie go it alone against an armed puppy mill owner.”

“Did you see anything?” Tom asked. “Someone hiding, or even something that didn’t look right?”

I ran the scene through my mind. I’d been so intent on trying to convince Hermie not to shoot, I hadn’t been paying much attention to Osgoode . . . or to Charlene, who’d trailed after him, whining.

“Charlene Newgate,” I said. “His girlfriend. We could hear her when we were at the edge of the woods. She was screaming at him, begging him not to go. She threatened to go to the police. He . . . punched her hard, and she went down. It looked as if he knocked her out, but maybe he didn’t.”

“You never saw her move again?” Tom asked.

“No. Is she all right?”

“He broke her nose,” Armstrong said. He inhaled. “Okay, so someone left markers saying where you should park. Why there?”

“I guessed it was so we could approach without being seen.”

“It was a man who called her?” Armstrong said sharply.

“Hermie never said whether it was a man or a woman. She was focused on closing what she saw as a mill. I tried to keep her inside her car, once we were up in the woods. She pushed so hard on the door that I fell over. That’s why I couldn’t keep up with her,” I said, my tone apologetic. “She was racing across the open meadow, right at Osgoode.”

Armstrong said, “I need to know exactly what you heard.”

“Hermie screamed at Osgoode, threatening him.”

“Her exact words?”

I told them. “Then she lifted her gun, which was a twenty-two, and fired into the air. It sounded like a firecracker. Right after that, there was a boom, like a blast from another gun. I didn’t see where it came from. It was just loud. I thought I could hear you in my ear,” I said to Tom. “You were telling me to get down, so I fell and rolled in the snow. I heard two more of the same big explosions after that. I think I kept rolling, because I landed out in back of that shed. Oh, wait. I might have heard a car drive away.”

“From where?” Armstrong asked.

“I couldn’t tell. My ears were ringing from the gunfire. I was soaking wet and couldn’t see Charlene or Osgoode. I opened the door to the shed, then blacked out. Next thing I knew, I heard your bullhorn and then all of a sudden beagle puppies were licking my face and my legs. That’s it. I’m sorry I don’t know more.”

Neither Tom nor Armstrong said anything.

“What about Charlene?” I asked finally. “She threatened to go to the police. Was it because of the marijuana?”

Armstrong said, “She was conscious when we got here and sitting up in the driveway. Osgoode had a twenty-two, but it was in the car and hadn’t been fired. There’s no sign of another gun. And Charlene said she’s not talking until she sees her lawyer. I doubt we’ll get anything out of her any time soon.”

Damn it. “Look,” I said, exasperated, “I’m convinced Charlene is in this up to her neck. She’s never had any money, and now, all of a sudden, she has lots of cash. She’s got a new car, new clothes, furs, and she’s put her grandson into a relatively expensive parochial school. Osgoode was getting something from her. So, where’d he get that kind of money? Did he have, if you’ll pardon the expression, seed money?”

Armstrong said nothing. After a moment, Tom said, “We’re checking his financials, seeing if he had a safety deposit box, that kind of thing. We’ll be using law enforcement computers to see if he pops up. The Animal Control people and a veterinarian are checking out all the puppies. Our guys and DEA are out at the the marijuana grow now, cutting it all down. It wasn’t mature, so he could not have made lots of money yet. Not on the seeds, not on the buds. The only thing we’ve been able to find out is that Osgoode only rented this house a few months ago, and he paid in cash. Our guess is he was just starting his operation.”

“He flunked out of veterinary school,” I said. “Where did he get the cash he had to start all this? Charlene’s not attractive, she’s difficult to get along with, and, from what I could see, she’s quite a bit older than Osgoode. So what gives?”

“Miss G.,” Tom said patiently, “we’re working on all that.”

“Do you remember the dinner party at the Breckenridges’ house?” I asked. “Sean Breckenridge recently took photographs of beagle puppies. They could have been from here.”

“Tell me about that,” Armstrong said.

So I did. I added that Sean’s wealthy wife, Rorry, had hired Ernest McLeod to prove that Sean was having an affair. My mind reeled. But then what? Would Sean have had the fortitude to shoot Stonewall, to cover things up? I wondered. Almost as an afterthought, I said, “All this that’s happened out here? It might be connected to Yolanda.”

“To Yolanda?” asked Armstrong. “Yolanda Garcia, the chef Boyd is protecting?”

“Look,” I said, “isn’t it possible that the same person who torched Ernest’s house, stole Tom’s forty-five, and was lurking outside our house, also burned down her rental?”

Armstrong said, “Do you think Yolanda knew this guy Osgoode?”

“I’m not sure.”

Tom said, “That reminds me. We found a stab mark in Osgoode’s back. Where Arch got him with my weeder. And his closet had size-eight shoes. But we haven’t found my gun in Osgoode’s house.”

I said, “You should put pressure on Sean Breckenridge to tell you if Osgoode was the one whose puppies he photographed. If he won’t answer your questions? Prick the back of your hand with a sterile needle and show him the blood. He’ll faint, but when he comes around, if you threaten to do it again, he’ll talk to you.” Armstrong shook his head. I rushed on. “You could show Osgoode’s picture to Yolanda, see if she recognizes him from anyplace.”

Armstrong asked me for Sean’s contact information. Then there was silence in the patrol car.

“So, are you going to talk to Arch?” I asked, but faltered, imagining Tom asking my son, This dead guy? Is he the one you stabbed with a garden tool?

Armstrong read my mind. “You can be there when we question your son, if we even need to do that.”

“Osgoode was shot with a thirty-eight,” said Tom, his voice matter-of-fact. “We found three shells near the garage, so whoever killed him was hiding back there. Also, Goldy, we can’t be sure, but the shells look like the same ones we found last week—”

“Last week?”

“From the gun that killed Ernest McLeod. In addition to not finding my forty-five, we have not found a thirty- eight,” Tom said.

“Are you saying Osgoode didn’t kill Ernest McLeod?” I could hear the incredulity in my voice. All along, I’d thought, The bald guy with the Molotov cocktails, the bald guy outside our house, he’s the one who murdered Ernest.

“I’m not saying he didn’t kill Ernest,” Tom replied. “I’m only saying the gun he had with him, in his car, is not the one used to shoot Ernest.”

I slumped in my seat. I felt tired, cold, wet, and dispirited.

“Do you have your keys, Miss G.?” Tom asked me. I patted my pockets and shook my head no. “Let me take my wife home,” Tom said, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket and handing them to Armstrong. “See if your guys can find her key ring in the meadow, and if you can’t, use these for her van.”

“We have Mrs. Mikulski’s set, too,” Armstrong said. “You want us to drive her van to her house? I think the ambo took her down to Southwest Hospital.”

Tom said, “Yeah, call Hermie’s son at CBHS.” Tom turned to me. “What’s his name, Brad?” I nodded. “Let Brad know what’s up. If he has his own car, he can probably pick her up at the hospital when she’s discharged. And, hey, Armstrong? Make sure you examine the markers where Hermie and Goldy turned off the main road. Call me if anything else comes up.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Okay, Miss G., let’s go.”

I pulled the blanket close around myself and walked slowly toward Tom’s Chrysler. I was dreading the bawling-out I would get from him. But then something caught my eye. In fact, it had been right in front of me all the time.

Osgoode didn’t have the silver BMW he’d given Charlene out in the driveway. He’d been packing up a Jeep Grand Cherokee that was so dusty it was hard to tell it was black. In the passenger-side rear window were stickers: