Whiskey and Tonic, page 21
I shut my car door as quietly as I could, and my cell phone jangled. Damn. I’d forgotten to turn off the ringer.
“Whiskey? It’s Wells. I can hardly hear you.”
“Sorry." Tentatively I raised my voice. “Is that better?”
“A little. David Newquist called to tell me about Mooney and Norman. Apparently you had a thrilling morning.”
“Especially Mooney and Norman,” I confirmed. “And Kevin Sweeney and Fenton Flagg. Did Dr. David give you the human news, too?”
“Indeed he did. That’s why I’m calling. What are you up to?"
“Why?"
I scanned the LePadannis’ yard for a hidden camera. Was I on a new reality show . . . about people poised to commit felonies? Was Judge Wells Verbelow the host?
He went on, “David said you had a little incident with Avery.”
I doubted that Dr. David had put it that way.
“Uh . . . yeah. Unfortunately, we both lost our tempers. But I’m sure it won’t permanently damage our relationship." Because we’ve always hated each other.
“I hope that’s true,” Wells said. “But if it isn’t, I’d like to recommend a good attorney. Even if Avery doesn’t pursue legal action, you might want to retain his services in relation to Abra."
“You think I’m going to get sued?”
“I think you’re subject to litigation on several fronts.”
Wells was trying to be gentle, but there’s no way to make pending legal action sound like a picnic. Anyway, there I was, about to break into Providence, so he might have been right. I let him give me the name of an attorney, and I pretended to write it down.
“Is there any chance you could join me and Mooney for dinner at my house tonight?” Wells asked. “I know this is short notice, but Norman may be there, too. David asked if I could keep him for awhile. I have an extra kennel, so I don’t see why not."
I thanked Wells for the invitation and told him I’d have to get back to him since I wasn’t yet sure what my afternoon might yield. A felony arrest? A double pit bull attack?
Clumsily steering the conversation around to his missing friend Stan, I asked Wells if the surgeon had ever mentioned his two pet pit bulls.
“Interesting you should bring that up. While David and I were talking about Norman, I recalled something Stan said about his dogs. They’re not assistance animals, but they are highly trained and intuitive. Stan said he needed to say only a few key words, and they could practically read his mind.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know what those key words are, would you?"
“Probably ‘kill’ and ‘halt.’”
When I whimpered, Wells added, “You’d never go near dogs like that voluntarily. Unless the LePadannis were with you. I’m not sure what methodology they used, but if those dogs were trained for security work, you can be sure they were trained to kill on command.”
“What if they don’t hear the command?” I asked hopefully.
“They could have been trained to kill on sight. Or sound. Some dogs are taught to lie still, watching or listening for the approach of an intruder. Then, when their victim walks within range, they take him down."
By now my knees were so rubbery I had to lean against the side of my car.
Wells said, “Where are you, anyway?”
“Uh . . . on my way to . . . call on someone.”
“You usually are. Where?”
“Uh. Near . . . Pasco Point." Very near. “Why?”
“I was wondering if you were on your way to see Faye again today.”
“Did something else go wrong?!”
“Not that I know of. Her parents called me from Venezuela. They had a few questions about her care in their absence.”
I knew what that meant: they were running a character check on me. I wondered if they knew I’d left their only daughter vulnerable to an Aqua Net attack and a head-first fall over my balcony.
“Are they aware that she’s in the hospital?"
Belatedly I realized that I should have called Faye’s parents myself. Another point deducted from my side.
“Yes. I told them you’re checking on her regularly. And they’ve called her, too, of course, when they’ve been able to get phone service. The labor strike has made that problematic. The next time you see Faye, please tell her that her parents expect to leave Venezuela tomorrow.”
Just in time for her funeral. I didn’t say that out loud, of course. I wanted the judge to think I was a competent temporary guardian, my legal problems notwithstanding. Then I noticed that one of the landscapers next door was checking me out. And not in a flattering way. More in a “what-the-hell-is-she-up-to?” way. If they suspected I didn’t belong here, I’d have to work fast.
I told Wells I had to go and promised to RSVP him ASAP about dinner. Then I faced the arched, carved mahogany door that was my portal to Providence and prayed for benevolent pit bulls.
Chapter forty-two
Elegant enough to be a front entrance, the wide rear door was sufficiently recessed to conceal it from the prying eyes of neighbors and their hired help. Fifty yards to my right, the landscape guy was still watching me. But he conveniently faded from both my view and my mind as soon as I stepped onto the LePadannis’ terrazzo porch.
Of the two keys I’d taken from under Tammi’s desk, one was probably for the detached garage, the other for the front and/or back door. I studied the index card I’d found under Tammi’s phone. Assuming that I gained access to the house, my next challenge would either be to dodge raging pit bulls or enter the right code on the alarm keypad. But first I’d have to locate the alarm keypad.
I had sold literally dozens of homes armed with alarm systems. So I knew a few things about electronic security. For instance, a home the size of Providence typically contained several alarm keypads that communicated with the control panel. Generally, keypads were located near the doors used most often. Since the door before me was closest to the garage, I assumed it came with a keypad. But the LePadannis might have decided to place the keypad elsewhere. Or—scarier thought—they might have aesthetically concealed it. In either case, I would have to move quickly. And hope to God that the keypad had a generous delay setting to allow me enough time to find it before activation.
Not knowing the layout of Tammi’s house was a distinct disadvantage. Guessing would eat up precious time. Especially when I was trying to keep an eye peeled for pit bulls.
Wishing I had Odette’s photographic memory for figures, I willed myself to memorize the two possible pass-codes: 485075 and 041148.
Then I inhaled deeply, slid one of the two keys into the lock, and turned it.
The key clicked obligingly. I pushed down on the solid bronze lever, and the heavy door swung toward me.
I listened for the rapid click-clack of approaching dog claws on tile but heard nothing. Cautiously I set one foot inside as my eyes scanned the wall for a keypad. All the walls. I saw no keypad.
Where could it be? The foyer was spacious as rear foyers go—about ten feet by twenty with a high arched ceiling and creamy stucco walls. I took three long strides to the nearest wall art, a rectangular fabric collage in what I would call warm Tuscan colors, and pulled up a corner. Nothing there.
My eyes leapt beyond the foyer into the immense, sky-lighted kitchen. So many mahogany cabinets, some running from ceiling to floor. Theoretically, the keypad could be in any one of them.
But I doubted it.
Tammi’s words rushed back into my consciousness. We’d been at the Magnet Springs Country Club for a fund-raiser last winter. She wasn’t talking to me although I knew she wanted me to overhear her comment to a fellow “Mrs. Doctor." The other woman had complained about her state-of-the-art alarm system going off in error and repeatedly summoning the annoyed local cop . . . who happened to be Chief Jenkins.
Tammi said, “Why deal with alarms that break down when you can have a system that never fails?”
“What’s that?” asked the other woman.
“Pit bulls, trained by the best. Stan and I don’t need electronics.”
At the time, I had thought Tammi meant that they didn’t really need the alarm system they already had. Now, though, I believed she meant that they used pit bulls in place of an electronic alarm.
I stuffed the index card back in my pocket wishing that I’d brought mace instead. Even pepper spray would have consoled me. Now I clutched that other card, the wallet-sized Dogs-Train-You-dot-com Guard Dog Commands Cheat Sheet, downloaded, printed and laminated for me by Chester. Although he intended it for use with Abra, somehow I could never get my hands on the card when she was wreaking havoc. Today I had remembered to remove it from my wallet.
Of course, I had no way of knowing if the LePadannis’ pit bulls knew Dogs-Train-You-dot-com vocabulary. Odds were good that at least a few commands would translate. Unless the trainer had used Spanish or Korean or some other tongue. No point contemplating that nightmare.
Weighed down by stillness, the house felt eerie and deep. More foreboding than the fog-swathed silence of Winimar. Here the quiet had an artificial quality that unsettled me. I fought the urge to say “Hello!” just to see if the air could carry a human voice.
Slowly I crossed the wide slate-floored kitchen toward the archway leading to the rest of the house. One of the largest kitchens I’d been in, this one was square and measured roughly thirty feet by thirty. One wall was all glass, overlooking a small courtyard lined with daffodils and containing two wrought-iron benches. The kitchen’s other walls were mostly covered in cabinetry; one end of the room featured a built-in mahogany banquette that easily seated twelve. In the center of the room stood an S-shaped granite-topped island with two additional stainless steel sinks, bi-level counters, and a black ceramic cooking surface. The room’s color scheme, besides rich mahogany, was a mix of ivory and gray with terra cotta accents. Sunshine streamed in from both the skylight above and the south-facing glass wall, making everything shimmer.
I wished I’d remembered to bring gloves. Veering toward the refrigerator, I pulled my sweater sleeve over my hand like a makeshift oven mitt and jerked open the mahogany-paneled door. No light popped on; the air wafting out was only slightly cooler than room temperature and tangy from berries and soft cheese gone bad. The power had been cut Saturday night, for sure.
I spotted a notepad on the granite island. In the same printing I’d seen on Tammi’s index card, I read “Feed Romeo and Juliet." In this household Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers probably had four legs each. And they couldn’t have been cats because Tammi disliked felines more than I did.
Ahead of me through the arch was a broad corridor from which two sunny rooms flowed. My eyes followed the hallway to its conclusion: the large central room where Brandi had played out her drama. I could see only a bronze floor lamp, a dense carved coffee table and part of a white leather couch—all pieces that I’d glimpsed Saturday from my vantage point near the garage. Brandi had stood behind the white couch, beating her red rose bouquet against the sofa table while Dr. LePadanni sat immobile in a white leather chair to her left. I couldn’t see her table or his chair from here, but what I could see of the room fit my memory.
What had happened to Dr. LePadanni? And where were Romeo and Juliet, the presumed hungry pit bulls?
I started down the corridor, the room ahead opening like a white flower. Just before I took the step that would reveal Dr. LePadanni’s chair, I inhaled a scent that closed my throat. Though a uniquely rank combination, it brought to mind the odor that had assaulted me last summer when I’d unlocked my shed to discover a dead raccoon.
I tried to collect myself. Something rattled behind me. I spun around. Two white and tan pit bulls, their squarish heads too big for their bodies, stood shoulder to shoulder less than ten feet away. The rattle came again, louder. It was a stereo growl rising from their deep chests.
Chapter forty-three
My body tensed as if electrified. Suddenly aware of every part of myself—
from my hair to my toes—I felt completely exposed and vulnerable. Romeo and Juliet’s joint growl sounded like approaching thunder.
If only I had paid more attention when Deely and Chester babbled about canine behavior. In a situation like this, were you supposed to stare down the dogs or avoid making eye contact? I stole a glance at the Dogs-Train-You-dot-com Commands Cheat Sheet. Maybe, just maybe, I could convince Romeo and Juliet not to kill me.
When I glanced back up, the dogs were slowly advancing in a semi-crouched position. Coiled to spring, they resembled a double-barreled lethal weapon.
“Stay?” I said, sounding pathetically lame even to my ears. An icy sweat bathed my forehead, my neck, my armpits. Without thinking, I had begun backing toward the central room. The room with the stench.
Romeo and Juliet never blinked. In unison they continued growling and creeping toward me, four dark eyes fixed on my face. As the seconds ticked by, and I shuffled backwards, the two dogs became one: a single overdeveloped muscle bearing down upon me, pushing me ever closer to my fate. And I was pretty sure I knew what that was.
The stink of the room enveloped me; I gagged just as the back of my right thigh made contact with a solid piece of furniture. Involuntarily I glanced around. Dr. LePadanni sat in the same chair I’d seen him in on Saturday night. Only now his balding head lolled forward, seeming to rest, detached, on his massive chest. I gave silent thanks that I couldn’t see his face; one less ghastly detail to repress.
“Doctor?” I asked tentatively. But I knew he was beyond acknowledging that honorific.
I felt a hot breath on my right hand and gasped. Either Romeo or Juliet was sniffing me at close range. The other dog stood back, looking less deadly but still watchful. The growling had stopped.
“Nice doggie,” I said, my mouth as dry as if I’d been sucking salt.
Incredibly, the sniffer wagged its tail. The other dog cocked its head at me and whined. I watched, grimly mesmerized, as Romeo and Juliet circled Dr. LePadanni’s chair, glancing from him to me as they exhaled one long sorrowful wail.
Dog-trainer dropout though I was, I knew enough to move very slowly as I withdrew my cell phone. All I said to Jenx was “I’m at Providence, Dr. LePadanni’s dead, and the pit bulls are loose."
She told me to stay where I was (like I had a choice); she’d be there in less than ten minutes. The wait probably seemed longer because I was trapped in a vile-smelling room with a corpse and two attack dogs. Romeo and Juliet worked out a routine: they took turns watching me and circling their late master; occasionally, Romeo peed along the perimeter of the room. I figured that was territorial marking and not a housebreaking failure. Although the dogs no longer terrified me, I thought it best not to stare at them. So I memorized the pattern of the tile floor and breathed through my mouth.
What—or who—had killed the doctor? I tried not to think about him, which was my grandest feat of denial. Talk about ignoring the elephant in the room. . . .
I’m just proud to report that I didn’t faint or puke.
“I can’t believe you didn’t faint,” Brady said. “Or puke." He and Officer Roscoe were escorting me out of Providence into the fresh coastal air.
I embraced the compliment even though I knew the truth. I’d stayed conscious for one reason only: pure terror. I’d been afraid, if I fainted, the pit bulls would eat me.
“Does it always smell this good this time of year?” I asked.
Brady and Roscoe tilted their heads and sniffed. Noncommittally, Brady said, “It always smells like mud this time of year.”
“It smells like life,” I said.
Brady didn’t argue. He and Roscoe had seen what I’d seen inside Providence. Jenx and the paramedics were still in there along with three sheriff’s deputies—not Deputy Clifton—and a couple state troopers. No fewer than seven emergency vehicles lined the LePadannis’ long driveway. The landscaping duo next door had given up all pretense of work and now stood staring. Several traveling maid services had also left their posts to gawk. Whenever anyone ventured too near, Roscoe bared his teeth, and the voyeur retreated.
I’d been struck by Roscoe’s snobbishness toward Romeo and Juliet. They’d made a friendly, tail-wagging overture; in response, he had literally turned his back. Maybe he was offended by dogs who assumed he’d be their new best friend. Notoriously excepting Abra, Roscoe tended to be aloof—a quality I attributed to his refined breeding and elite education. But with Romeo and Juliet he’d been downright rude. Maybe Roscoe just didn’t like pit bulls.
“I don’t like pit bulls,” Brady remarked.
We were watching the arrival of the Lanagan County Canine Control Unit. Two officers descended from the white van wearing body armor and wire-mesh face masks.
“But the LePadanni dogs don’t seem vicious,” Brady continued, “even toward Roscoe. And pit bulls can be animal-aggressive."
I said, “Romeo and Juliet just wanted to take care of their master."
That reminded me I was a caregiver, too. I excused myself to phone Faye.
“Mom just called!” exclaimed Miss Blossom. “They’ll be here tomorrow! It was only the second time we’ve talked on account of the labor strikes."
I recalled Fenton Flagg’s first book, I’m Cool, But You Have a Curse on Your Head. Maybe we do make or break our own luck. After I finished talking with Faye, I had a question for Brady.
“Didn’t you say that Reactional Analysis was about choosing what you want to believe?"
“Right. Murray McCready—I mean Fenton Flagg—says we form our own reality. If you want to believe you’re cursed, you’re cursed. If you want to believe you’re a winner, you’re a winner. Some people choose to believe they can do whatever they want.”
“What does that make them?”
“Sociopaths."
“Is that what we’re looking for? A sociopath? Whoever ran Crystal Crossman off the road did something the rest of us would never dream of doing.”
“I see your point, but . . . " Brady chose his words carefully. “There are also crimes of passion. Moments when ordinary people lose their moral center. That makes them wrongdoers but not sociopaths." He leaned closer. “But the way Tammi cursed Faye? Now that’s sociopathic."
