down my house,” she announced.
“What? Hello, Minnie? Are you okay? What about Major?”
“We’re fine.” And she meant it. “We’re at Dulles. Flying out before dawn. All packed. Have my passport and Major’s papers. We will not be back. Bowed out of our New Year’s party. Everyone understood-–“
“Whoa, Minnie, slow down,” I had to sit up to listen. “What happened?”
“You must have heard the emergency vehicles. My Stars, we could hear them inside the Community Center during our New Year’s rehearsal. But it never occurred to me it was MY house on fire.”
“Oh my God, Minnie. What can I do? How bad is it? What do they think happened?”
“Now you slow down, sweetie.” I heard her wink. “The fire was out by the time Major and I got there. More smoke and water than fire damage, but I’m sure it’s a total loss.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I despised the place. My husband’s solicitor is handling everything. That’s why I pay the little weasel. I’m walking away. And that’s precisely what you should do, too. This was arson, regardless of any cockamamie conclusion those investigators will come up with. They’ve already told me the fire started in the mudroom, where the freezer was. And the freezer was empty.” Miss Minerva paused. “Alice! Did you hear me? Where is Major’s squirrel? Our evidence. It’s gone! What do you make of that?”
I didn’t want to sound as alarmed as I felt, “I get your point, but you know, Min--.”
“Precisely. Stolen. No matter. I cannot wait. I am simply too old for this. Our flight leaves in less than an hour.”
“I understand Min. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, be extremely careful. It’s poison, you must realize, even without Major’s frozen evidence. And that poor, darling girl at Animal Control. Well, it’s obvious now that wasn’t an accident. Add my arson--“
Knowing this could be my last chance to interview my witness, I blurted, “Did you see those golfers outside your--“
“--my sun porch when we took afternoon tea?” Minnie finished. “Oh, my dear, I’m so glad you mentioned them. I didn’t pay them much mind until I went back to tidy up. So much pantomime: looking into their golf bags, fiddling with their clubs, getting in and out of their carts. The biggest galoot in the green Tam o’ Shanter kept glancing my way. I believe they were casing the joint. Isn’t that what you writers call it?”
"Yes, that’s what we writers call it.”
“Well, I must dash. Major needs his quieting medicine, and I need a stiff drink before we fly.”
“All right then, Minnie, call if you need anything. Kiss Major for me. Again, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not. Those hooligans did me a favor. Remember, sweetie, you can’t fight City Hall.”
I’m glad Minnie hung up. I didn’t want to tell her fighting City Hall was exactly what I planned to do.
That afternoon the local news televised a neighbor’s video of the appliance fire at the home of Miss Minerva and Major the Wonder Dog. The VFD’s spin had the fairway mansion falling victim to its elderly owner’s overtaxed memory and extension cords. Even her lawyer was quoted as questioning his client’s aptitude for independent living. The little weasel.
My vim and vigor to fight City Hall had tempered. The situation had gone from my cynical writer’s curiosity over a few dead squirrels to serious concerns about a murdered girl. And now, arson to steal one of those dead squirrels. Yet everyone else in Pinecone Cove, including the cops, wrote off the three connected incidents as mere unrelated accidents.
All those forensic shows I’d watched ad nauseam. How many paperback mysteries had I solved long before the last chapter? I knew the drill. ID my suspect. Start with the victim’s closest friends and work out.
By Sunday Game Day Specials, I was back in the same booth at the Rustlers Inn, trying to catch the same server’s eye.
“Hi, hon. How you been?” she said. “What can I get ya?”
“Good, thanks, Jennifer. Do you have any fresh coffee?”
“Coffee, yeah. But I can’t swear it’s fresh. I’ll run a pot. It’ll take a few minutes; then I’ll bring it over. Okay?”
“Great, thanks.”
I meandered towards the Cowgirls restroom beyond the pool table for a different perspective. Outside its swinging bar doors was a large corkboard collage of photos, business cards, and upcoming Karaoke contests. I recognized Cindi in her Animal Control uniform. Then I saw him.
There, in the background of a few snapshots, the galoot we saw outside Minnie’s on the golf course. In an Animal Control uniform too, and wearing that stupid green plaid pom-pom hat. The guy looked way too young to be her boss. Maybe he did the euthanizing or dead animal cleanup. Regardless of what he did on the job, at the bar it looked like he did a lot of drinking and staring at Cindi.
“Here’s your coffee,” said Jennifer, startling me.
“Oh, shit, thanks,” I took the steaming plastic mug. The coffee smelled weak. “It’s nice you still have pictures of Cindi up.” Trying not to sound too interested, I pointed with my free hand. “Hey, who’s this guy with the goofy hat?”
“Oh, that’s Scottie. He’s an asshole.”
Scottie, I shoulda figured. “Oh, yeah? Looks like he works at Animal Control, too.”
“Yeah, he’s the one who cleans up the dead shit. In his big, white, shiny truck. On call 24/7,” Jennifer imitated his brag and wrinkled her nose. “Cindi told me that once he cut the rack off a 12-point buck he picked up along 404, had it mounted, and then told everybody he’d shot it.” We shared smirks before walking away.
“Hey, what I said earlier about Scottie.” Jennifer was talking before she even got to my booth with my 99-cent check. “I mean he’s not a total asshole. He felt really, really bad that Cindi didn’t take the ride he’d offered her on the night she got hit. Her place was right on his way. But she got pissy with him and said she’d rather walk. Tequila will do that when you’re not used to it.”
I could barely get the five-dollar bill out of my pocket.
I didn’t remember leaving Rustlers or driving the quarter-mile to the Farm Store. But I found myself sitting in its parking lot, finally drinking a decent cup of coffee, adding Scottie (the co-worker, golfer, arsonist, hit-and-run driver, and murderer) to my lengthy list of coincidences.
A few nights before, in the center of the big blank sheet of watercolor paper, I’d drawn a tiny box around the key words, “Dead Squirrels.” By the time I’d finished my 24-ounce cup of Kona, the page was a Medusa map of moles, money, and murder.
“This is all speculation, Your Honor. But the State is not required to prove…”
Ay, there’s the rub. Proof. I could never publish on spec without facing serious litigation. Bad press may be good for a career, but it’s hard on the wallet. I couldn’t even afford to take my conjectures to the cops.
Speaking of the cops, where were they? What were our local yokels doing? Maybe the county lab already had forensic evidence like paint chips or a boot print. Maybe the fire investigator didn’t buy that hinky electrical short at Minnie’s. Yeah, maybe.
If so, where was the arrest or an announcement of a suspect or person of interest? Had the detectives even questioned the victim’s co-worker with the green Tam? Come on, this is Cop 101. Or maybe everybody’s in on it. A conspiracy.
Okay, take a breath, Alice. Think. What do you know? What do you need to find out? More important, what can you learn without getting yourself killed?
Start with the squirrels. Prove they’re collateral damage in some harebrained scheme to save that sub-par, over-budget golf course. That’s why Cindi was bumped off. And that’s why Minnie’s house was burned down. Produce evidence. Then you’ll have your scoop. Here’s your Geraldo Moment. Get out there and find yourself another fat, fluffy, dead squirrel.
Not just any fat, fluffy, dead squirrel would do. I needed another pristine, out-of-place piece of poisoned proo
f. The tides along Marsden Creek washed away Scottie’s furry little problems before Cindi and Minerva butted in. Now with them out of the way, why wouldn’t he go back to business as usual?
Wednesday morning, before even an Animal Control employee, on call 24/7, would be at work, I was perking my second pot of coffee for the thermos, and prepping my bug-out bag for the job. I added a few particulars like a tide table, waterproof 35mm camera, cell phone, muted but primed with 911, and my old Glock 22, fully loaded, with the remaining bullets loose in the backpack’s most accessible compartment. Pumpkin, if you need more than 15 rounds, you’ve got problems.
I couldn’t afford any more problems. At this stage of the game, I’d rather have the gun with every piece of ammo on me than, as my life flashed before my eyes, wish I had. This was no game. Not anymore.
Nervous but not quite scared, I traced my trek with Miss Minerva and Major the Wonder Dog past the picnic tables to that vague east path. Winter flora made for quick travel to the service road. Next would be Marsden Creek, the scene of the crime. I wasn’t going quite that far. Not yet.
Who would question seeing an old baby boomer bumbling about with binoculars and a Peterson Field Guide in her hands? That’s what I did, until I heard, then glimpsed, a white pickup haulin’ ass, down the service road, and gone. Traveling away from Marsden Creek. “Shit.” Once I sensed the coast was clear, I continued to my marshy Mecca, with the Glock and a handful of Gold Dots