Case of the Muffin Murders Page 7
“Ten minutes ago, I was reporting in to the captain. Why?”
“I’ll tell you later. Well? Are you calling to inform me that you don’t need my services for this one?”
“We’re not that lucky, buddy. Unfortunately, I am going to need you and the dogs, just not yet. This house is literally crawling with crime scene techs. They’re not going to be completely done until sometime late tonight. Could you come out tomorrow morning? I’m fairly certain I’ll be there bright and early. Either that, or else it’ll be because I never left. Whatever. I know Captain Nelson will be anxious for the, er, consultants, to check out the scene.”
“Meaning, Sherlock and Watson,” I guessed, and then sighed. “He doesn’t care about me, no sir. He’s only interested in what the dogs can find.”
“Their track records are better than anyone in the department in the last two years,” Vance reminded me. “Your dogs have solved more cases than I have in the last year, too, so don’t take it personally.”
Oh, snap. I hadn’t thought of that one. Now what was I supposed to say?
“Don’t sweat it,” Vance said, as if guessing what I was thinking. “PV is a small town. I’m okay with a low crime rate. However, like I mentioned earlier, prior to your arrival, our town hasn’t seen a murder in nearly 50 years. Tomorrow morning, grab the dogs and meet me at Rupert’s Gas & Auto.”
“This happened at the gas station?” I asked, incredulous.
“What did?” Jillian mouthed. “The latest murder? How horrible!”
“No, this happened at a house directly behind the gas station. Don’t be late, Zack. Captain Nelson is in a foul mood. These murders are generating some pretty negative publicity for all of us in PV.”
“You’re sure it’s a murder?” I hesitantly asked.
I had to drop my voice so that no one outside of my table would be able to hear me. Jillian gasped and laid a hand over my own. Tears filled her eyes.
“The preliminary reports were correct. There’s a body, and it was discovered in a garage.”
My blood ran cold.
“Was there…?”
“Yes. The car’s engine was running. Be out here first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You got it.”
“And don’t forget you-know-who.”
FIVE
“Bright and early the following morning found me on my way to the west side of town in search of a gas station, namely Rupert’s Gas & Auto. Earlier this morning, I wasn’t too sure I was going to make it. Why, you ask? Well, that’d be because my stomach and I weren’t on speaking terms. Why?
Last night’s dinner.
My stomach gave me a warning rumble, as if it was protesting the very thought of what I had eaten last night. Frog legs. Yuck. Well, that’ll be the last time I ever blindly order anything from a restaurant.
I would’ve thought that Jillian would’ve expected me to finish all four of the frog legs I had been given, but thankfully, she let me off the hook with only sampling the first one. However, I didn’t make it out of Chateau Restaurant & Wine Bar scot free. Chateau was Jillian’s favorite restaurant, so you’d better believe they treated her like royalty. And, unfortunately, that extended to me, since I was with her.
The instant we stepped away from our table, those efficient sons of bitches swooped in and bagged everything up. Apparently, since I paid top dollar for that meal, they wanted to make certain all leftovers went with me. Therefore, as we exited the Chateau and emerged into the fresh night air, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The waiter was there, holding a large brown paper bag. My nose told me I didn’t need to open the bag in order to know what was in it.
“Your leftovers, monsieur.”
I took the bag and ordered myself to bury the scowl that was threatening to form and, instead, offer the friendly waiter a smile. This damn shit was going straight into the trash at the earliest opportunity.
I had driven Jillian home, after agreeing to let her cook dinner for us the following night. I told her I didn’t care what she fixed, as long as it wasn’t frogs. She laughed and assured me amphibians would not be on the ingredient list. Once I had made it home, both dogs eagerly bounded towards me. Curious to see what they’d do, I held the bog of leftovers down so each dog could get a sniff. Sherlock sniffed the brown paper bag for a few seconds before snorting and then moving off. Watson didn’t want anything to do with it, either. Well, once the trash had been properly disposed of, the dogs and I called it a night.
Fast forward to the present.
I had just unloaded the dogs, after parking the car near Rupert’s Gas & Auto. I knew I had the right area because two police cars were parked on either side of the road and there was Vance, talking to one of the officers in the driveway. He looked over, made eye contact, and waited for the three of us to make it across the street.
Vance squatted low so he could pat each of the dogs on the head. He was also holding, I couldn’t help but noticing, a doggie biscuit in each hand. Sherlock and Watson, upon catching sight of Vance, instantly transformed into their Clydesdale personas and pulled for all their worth. Vance, and several policemen who were watching us, had a smile on his face. As soon as the dogs had consumed their treats, we all turned to follow Vance into the house.
This house, I noted, was around 1500 square feet in size. It was a single story residence, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms. It was also a split design, meaning the master bedroom was on one side of the house and the other bedrooms were on the opposite side. Stepping inside the house, I could see that the owner had very eclectic tastes. Everywhere I looked, I could see a jungle motif. Zebra print throw pillows, leopard print throw blankets, and the curtains? Wow. The pattern reminded me of giraffe spots.
Huge, expensive silk plants were everywhere. Corners, end tables, the coffee table, and even the center piece on the dining table had some sort of arrangement on it. Some were so realistic that I had to see for myself that they were fake, which they were. The only thing this living room needed in order to complete the full-on jungle experience was to have Tarzan swing in from another room.
The style was definitely not for me. One look at Vance confirmed he shared my belief that whoever designed the interior of the house needed to be fired. Pronto.
“What can you tell me about the VIC?” I asked.
Sherlock and Watson moved into the living room and began sniffing around the base of the entertainment center.
“Mrs. Lucy Malone. Early seventies.”
“Married?”
Vance shook his head, “Widowed.”
I felt a tug on the leash and instantly looked over. Watson was gazing up at one of the shelves on the entertainment center. I could see three or four picture frames of various sizes. Well, it was worth a look.
Oh, man. My mistake. I think both eyes just melted right out of their sockets. Holy crap on a cracker. You can’t unsee that.
I had wandered over to look at the pictures when I saw waaayyyy too much of our VIC. Apparently, Mrs. Malone liked to travel, and from the looks of things, she liked to travel to Mexico. To party. And then, party some more.
Here she was, in a coconut bra. Here she was, in a coconut bra and... oh, dear god. She was wearing a damn thong. I didn’t need to see that. And, sadly, there was no way I could unsee that. Did you catch the part where Vance said she was in her early seventies? Why the hell can’t people act their age? Was getting older really that terrible?
I glanced over at Vance and an evil smile spread across my face. Well, you know what they say about misery, don’t you? That it loves company? Why should I be the only person to subject myself to such horrors?
“Hey, Vance. You need to see this.”
“Whatcha got?” Vance asked, as he appeared at my side. “Is there... oh, for crying out loud. What the hell is this? I don’t need to see this! Why would you show me this? What’s the matter with you?”
“Hey man, I was just trying to give you an idea what our VIC was like.”
/> “You’re sick,” Vance grumped as he returned the picture to the shelf.
“There are others,” I said, pointing at the remaining frames. “Don’t you want to see them?”
“Not a chance in hell, pal. Go take a look at the garage, will you? After all, that’s where we found the VIC.”
“We’re on it. Come on, guys.”
The garage was a standard three car garage, with the double garage on the left and the single on the right. A cherry red late model Mazda Miata was parked in the single stall. The make and model of Mrs. Malone’s car really didn’t surprise me too much. She must have thought that she’d attract more attention from the opposite sex in a convertible. As for the double garage, well, it had enough exercise equipment to put a gym to shame. This was one lady who was clearly hung up on her looks.
We walked around the car. We walked around the various pieces of gym equipment. We even exited the garage through the side door to see if there was anything on the outside of the garage that caught my canine companions’ attention.
Nope. Nada. Zilch.
I felt another tug on the leash. Sherlock was apparently done with his investigation out here and wanted back in the house. Together, the three of us returned inside and began our investigation of the interior, as much as I had been dreading it. I was deathly afraid I’d find more evidence that this senior citizen was fond of partying, and I didn’t want to have to pay a psychologist thousands of dollars to straighten me back out.
Sherlock approached the kitchen and peered slowly up at the stainless steel appliances. Watson appeared moments later and together, they stepped out onto the tiled kitchen floor and almost immediately came to a halt. Sherlock nudged a small three foot high wooden cupboard sitting directly on the ground. A closer inspection revealed that this cabinet not only had a door that swung open – like most cabinets would – but also had a small square door on the direct top of the thing. Finding the discovery odd, and also since Sherlock had expressed interest in the peculiar cabinet, I whipped out my cell and snapped a pic. Then I gingerly opened the top door.
Duh. It was the trash receptacle, and it was pretty rank. No wonder the dogs stopped here.
“It’s the trash can,” I told the dogs. “It smells. I get it. Let’s move on, shall we?”
Sherlock nudged the cabinet again and gave me a low howl.
“Awwoooo!”
“Fine, look. You want to see what’s in here? Take a peek.” I donned a pair of latex gloves and pulled out the plastic bin using the large front cabinet door. I tipped it down so that Sherlock could see the contents. “Standard trash, amigo. Coffee cups, used paper towels, wadded up wrappers, empty energy drink cans - looks like she wasn’t a recycler - and some sort of nasty green shit that looks like she probably made it in a blender. Gross.”
I remembered my cell and, with a curse, pulled it out to take a few pics of the trash. There was no way I was going to miss anything Sherlock or Watson found this time. I was tired of being the blundering idiot in this trio and was determined to prove that I could interpret a few of their clues. Looking at the discarded items had me sighing. It probably wasn’t going to be today, though. I didn’t see anything in this trash can which stood out. Sherlock and Watson, on the other hand, were both sitting directly in front of the can and were staring straight at me.
“Stop doing that. It makes me feel like I’m a dunce here.”
Sherlock stared – unblinking – at me.
“What do you want me to do? Upend the trash can to see what might be in there? That’d make a mess, guys. There’s no way I’m doing that, so you can just push that thought out of your little canine minds, okay? Nuh-uh.”
Blink, blink.
“Nope.”
Blink, blink.
“It’s not gonna work. I’m not doing it.”
Blink, blink.
“Son of a biscuit eater,” I swore, forgetting that Jillian wasn’t present. She didn’t particularly care for me swearing.
Now, I’ve been made aware that, at times, I often sounded like a sailor when I’m talking. So, taking that into consideration, I’m trying to actively downgrade myself from an ‘R’ to perhaps a ‘PG-13’ rating whenever I’m with Jillian. Since she always tends to frown at me whenever a choice expletive manages to slip out, I recently came up with some other alternatives that kinda sound like my favorite phrases, but wouldn’t end up making a child blush. ‘Son of a biscuit eater’ was one of ‘em.
“You watch your language,” Vance scolded from the other room. “No one wants to hear that type of thing come out of your mouth.”
“Ha, ha, ha.”
“Have you found anything in there?”
“Sherlock has stopped by the garbage can and is making it painfully obvious he wants me to go through the trash, from top to bottom.”
“Okay, so, what’s the holdup?”
“Eww. You go through it if it means that much to you.”
“No way, pal. They’re your dogs. They want you to go through it, not me.”
“You’re the detective,” I insisted. “This really ought to be you in here.”
“And you’re the paid consultant,” Vance smoothly replied. “Which kinda makes me your boss, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t go there,” I warned, in a joking tone. “I’ll have your sorry ass in a romance novel so damn fast it’ll make your head spin. Hmm. You know what? Vance, the cross-dressing detective. That has possibilities.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s both go through the trash.”
We took the trash can into the backyard and started picking our way through it.
“There’s not much here,” I decided, after five minutes of silent searching had elapsed. “I thought there’d be more.”
“Coffee cups, wadded up paper towels, leftover pasta, and more wadded paper. Tall, skinny aluminum cans… what is it with women today, Zack? Are we all that afraid of getting older?”
“I was asking myself that same question when I saw that damn thong pick.”
“Ewww, God,” Vance shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”
“Why can’t we all age gracefully? Why do some people feel that it’s appropriate to dress like that? Why would you want to act like you’re still a teenager? I don’t know about you, but when I was that age, I was a dumbass. A huge dumbass.”
Vance laughed out loud, “You and me both, buddy. Hmm. Do you remember seeing a coffeemaker anywhere inside?”
Did I? Microwave, toaster, blender, oven, range, dishwasher, and a 5 quart mixer. No, I don’t remember seeing a coffeemaker.
“No. Do you? Why do you ask?”
Vance reached into the trash bag and gingerly removed a cardboard coffee cup. Then he pulled out a second, identical cup. And then a third.
“She liked her coffee,” I observed.
Vance rotated the cup until the label came into view: Wired Coffee & Café. He pulled out his notebook and jotted down a few notes.
“What?” I wanted to know. “They’re just coffee cups. I’m sure most everyone has them in their trash. They do a lot of business. Hell, I remember seeing one in the trash from that first house yesterday.”
Vance suddenly stopped rifling through the trash to slowly look up at me. He dropped the handful of gooey wadded wrappers he was holding and stared at me, almost as if he was in shock. I returned his stare, but had started to take a few steps backward.
“You saw another one of these cups?” Vance turned to pick up one of the coffee cups and presented it to me. “These ones right here? Are you sure?”
In response, I pulled out my cell and started reviewing pictures. I scrolled through nearly a dozen shots before I held my phone up in triumph. A few swipes of my finger and a reverse pinch on the screen zoomed in on the first trash can. There, clearly visible in the picture, was a coffee cup with the Wired Coffee & Café logo on it.
I looked up at my friend, “Coincidence?”
Vance made a few more notes before shaking his head.
I shook my head, “The only thing we had left on the inside of the house was the kitchen. I should also point out we haven’t looked at the backyard yet.”
“I’ve been out there,” Vance told me. “Not much to see. A small patio table and four chairs. That’s about it.”
“We’ll go take a look. Wouldn’t want to be told we weren’t doing a thorough job.”
Vance stayed inside to continue expanding on his notes while the dogs and I ventured outside. Vance was right. There wasn’t much out here. There were some hedges, which were in desperate need of trimming, a long dead flower bed up against the house, and two whiskey barrel planters filled with flowers that have long since dried up.
I walked the dogs all around the yard, anxious to see if anything sparked their interest. The answer to that was a resounding ‘no’. They were more interested in a couple of fat houseflies that kept inexplicably dive-bombing the dogs. Sherlock watched the flies for a few minutes before he finally lost his patience and snapped at one of them.
Corgis 1 Houseflies 0
The remaining fly buzzed around Watson before it foolishly buzzed by Sherlock.
Corgis 2 Houseflies 0
I made a mental note to swing by the pet store and pick up a couple of those chewable doggie breath fresheners. We headed back inside and saw that Vance was on his cell.
Find anything? Vance mouthed at me.
I shook my head no.
Vance pointed at the glass patio door and motioned for me to lock it. Then he pointed towards the front door. Looks like the detective was ready to leave.
“Where are we headed now?” I asked, once Vance was off the phone. “The coffee shop?”
“Yep. That was Captain Nelson. He had asked me to keep him apprised of our investigation, especially since the three of you are here. I was also told there’s now an office pool going on as to who is gonna solve the case first, humans or dogs.”
“Dare I ask who might be getting the best odds so far?”