Death on Torrid Ave. Page 3

  Who was this guy?

  “She taught English. High school English. Isn’t that a coincidence, with you being a high school teacher, too?”

  “It is,” he said to Clara, but he looked at me.

  “I did,” I said cheerfully and with all the confidence and experience of presenting myself as the author of Abandon All for fifteen years.

  “So, fur and fervent — English teacher humor?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Can you imagine inheriting enough money that you don’t have to work anymore?” Clara sounded excited for me, with no tinge of envy. Impossible not to like her. “It’s like one of those old movies where the girl’s an heiress who gets into all sorts of trouble. Except Sheila already inherited and she doesn’t get into trouble.”

  “That’s me. The boring heroine of a non-screwball, non-comedy.” I grinned.

  He gave half a smile. It didn’t improve my comfort level with him.

  “What were your dreams before you inherited this life of leisure?”

  “Nobody said this was a life of leisure. It’s hard work finding things to fill your day. Unless, of course, you spend it all the day at the dog park—” I added a pointed look to drive home that my words applied to him. “—with your fellow life of leisure livers.”

  The smile grew to full. “Fair enough. I have a partial life of leisure because I’m a substitute teacher.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Clara crooned, “You’re both high school teachers?”

  I chose English teacher as my supposed former job, because I figured an English degree, especially fortified by fifteen years around books — though not actually writing them — should get me close enough to pass as knowledgeable. Plus, most people would shy away from discussing that profession too much — afraid of having their grammar corrected and/or reliving high school nightmares.

  Not Teague O’Donnell. Lucky me.

  “It is wonderful,” he said to Clara, with no apparent sarcasm, much less smart-ass-ism. To me, he said, “Miss it?”

  For a second, I thought about my old life.

  Did I miss it?

  But he didn’t mean the Abandon All life. He meant my fictional teaching career.

  “No. I guess I wasn’t one of those natural teachers you read about. The kind who’d keep teaching even if they won the lottery.” Time to get off the defensive. “You must understand how I feel, since you’re not teaching full-time.”

  “Oh,” Clara struck in, as if protecting a baby bird. “It’s hard to get hired on in this district.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “My timing’s bad. Moved here after the term started. Lots of folks signed up ahead of me.”

  “But that’s wonderful,” Clara said. If you’ve noticed she says lots of things are wonderful, you’re right. And she meant it. “You and Murphy will have more time to bond here at the dog park.”

  “How’d you get Murphy?” I asked, welcoming this new topic.

  “He showed up at my old place during a thunderstorm, shivering, wet, and demanding to be let in. No tags. I tried ads in the paper and called around to vets, but nobody seemed to be missing him. When I moved here, he came along.”

  “Why’d you move here?”

  “Better weather,” he said, deadpan. I had to give him credit. It’s not easy to stay deadpan with sleet whizzing past your eyes.

  “Where’d you live before? The North Pole?”

  “Close. Outside Chicago. How about you?”

  “New York.”

  “So, this is better weather for her, too.” Clara might have volunteered that to soften the clipped edges of my response. “She’s been out every day with Gracie. Well, almost every day. Except like yesterday, because she was meeting a contractor. She’s fixing up the old house she bought, bringing it back to its old glory, and making her neighbors so happy.”

  This topic I’d happily elaborate on, since it took us away from my past and provided lots of detours. “My neighbors better wait to see what I actually accomplish before they get too happy. I waited all day yesterday for that contractor and he never showed up. Not to mention contractor is an elaborate name for what I hope he’ll do — bookshelves in my office and shelves in the master bedroom closet — if he ever shows up.”

  “If you’re not looking for fine carpentry, I could help you out,” Teague said. “I’m pretty good with my hands.”

  Clara tried to hide laughter with coughing, which only drew more attention to her laughter at his innocent phrase.

  It had been innocent, hadn’t it?

  Concentrating on ignoring Clara, I asked, “You can build shelves? Fine carpentry is definitely not necessary, especially in the closet, where I want shelves to hold up my shoes.”

  “Shoes? That changes everything.” More deadpan. “Above my skill level with all the extra support, special bracing needed.”

  “Ha. Ha. Don’t tell me you buy into the stereotype of a woman who overindulges in shoes.”

  “You don’t overindulge in shoes?”

  “Oh, yes, I do. I just don’t want to be stereotyped. My vice is my personal vice, not a gender one.”

  That set Clara off into more coughing.

  He might have caught a case of tact from her cough, because he said mildly, “I’d be happy to look at the job and give you a quote.”

  “You’re not willing to do the work as a friend?”

  “Who said we’re friends?”

  “Good point. Now I can say no thanks and give the job to someone else without compunction.”

  He nodded. “Compunction-free.”

  We set a time for him to come to my house the day after tomorrow in the morning. Unless he got called to substitute.

  “You can bring Murphy.” The impulsive words felt right as I heard them coming out of my mouth. What little we knew of each other was as dog owners. Why not keep it that way?

  “I don’t usually bring my dog to job sites.”

  “This isn’t heavy construction. It’s putting up a few shelves. In fact, it’s just for you to give me a bid. Besides, Gracie would love it.”

  Was I being a wimp? I mean about catering to my dog’s enjoyment. Trying to curry her favor by going to the dog park in the worst weather and now by providing her a playmate along with a construction project consultation.

  On the other hand, it kept a buffer between the humans. Sure, I’d pay him to build bookshelves and even exchange a little banter, but I was in no position to get too friendly with a guy who actually knew stuff about my fictional occupation.

  “Okay, I’ll bring Murphy. You know, it seems like we have a lot in common,” he said.

  “Do we?” I asked at my most repressive.

  Clara looked at me in surprise. I hadn’t previously pulled out my repertoire of reactions learned and employed as the author of Abandon All.

  Oh, except with the contractor who supposedly wanted to do work for me but showed up for one out of three appointments.

  But my tone didn’t daunt Teague O’Donnell. “We’re both new to town, both have rescue dogs, both crazy enough to be out here today. Plus, you retired from teaching high school and I retired to teach high school.”

  Two could play the question game. “What did you retire fr—?”

  My question disappeared in an eruption of barking.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bob and Dwight were arguing again and their dogs didn’t like it, expressing their displeasure loudly this time.

  All three of us turned. Teague also slid off the table.

  “Watch the dogs,” Clara recommended. “Ours still aren’t worried.”

  She was right. They were head-down, all three noses sniffing the same half inch of ground, off to our right.

  Teague stopped, still focused on the men.

  Clara and I exchanged looks as we tried to decipher the topic of this dispute. They were plenty loud enough to be heard, but they kept talking — shouting — over each other. The dogs’ barking added in made it hard.


  Bob said something, then flipped at Dwight’s scarf, setting the fringe to dancing.

  “Oh, my God,” Clara breathed. “He’s gone mad.”

  I half expected Dwight to snatch the cap — bought in England, I’d already heard three times — off Bob’s head.

  “Shut up!” Dwight roared.

  Everyone stared at him, including his dog and Bob’s. Even our three dogs raised their heads and faced the commotion.

  Berrie came toward the fence separating the enclosures. In the parking lot, Ronald turned from where he’d loaded the shelter dog into his vehicle.

  No one made a sound.

  The only one not quelled was Bob.

  “…and if you knew half as much about dogs as you’re pretending to, you’d know a dog can never appropriately be reprimanded by someone standing behind him.”

  Then Bob’s finger jabbed at Dwight’s chest, which was brave, if stupid, considering Dwight was half a foot taller than him and twice as brawny. “You are not fit to have responsibility for a dog. You have far to come to deserve the lowliest mongrel. Your whole family—”

  Dwight knocked Bob’s arm away with an angry swipe, nearly knocking Bob over. Not so much from the force as the unbalancing.

  “They’re getting riled,” Clara muttered, still focused on the dogs. “Skeeter’s confused, but Trevalyn’s on alert. They’re thinking about protecting their people.”

  Bob righted himself and continued the motion to push at Dwight’s chest. Possibly caught by surprise, the bigger man stumbled back two steps, then a third when his foot slipped.

  For half a second it seemed the end. Neither man moved. The dogs quieted.

  Then Dwight’s gloved hands fisted. Trevalyn growled low. Dwight started forward.

  Clara and I moved, but well before we reached the combatants, Teague was there. Not directly between the other two men, but sort of bumping and maneuvering them farther and farther away from each other. His extended arm made light, intermittent contact with Bob’s chest — almost like he was checking in. His opposite forearm came up and back toward Dwight’s throat — when he wasn’t staying out of Dwight’s reach.

  He kept talking, strong and calm. Almost like nonsense syllable to a baby. “No, no.” “That’s right.” “Okay. Good.” “Never mind that.”

  Dwight would step to the side and Teague would shift, still in a position to land a nasty blow to Dwight’s throat.

  Bob presented no threat, standing still and passively accepting Teague O’Donnell’s contacts.

  Then Teague said, “You’re upsetting your dogs.”

  Bob immediately looked to Trevalyn, taking hold of the tweed collar that matched a custom tweed leash, murmuring would-be calming words in a shaky voice.

  Dwight glared at Teague, almost appearing prepared to transfer the fight.

  My chest hurt from holding my breath before Dwight finally stepped back and raised his hands.

  “I don’t need this. None of it.” He started for the gate.

  Skeeter gave Bob a long look, then around at all of us before slowly following his owner. At the concrete, Skeeter paused for the muddy paw-cleaning Dwight always did with a piece of toweling, but Dwight was too upset to bother.

  And that was it, except for Dwight banging the gate closed behind himself and his dog.

  “Bob, Bob, are you okay?” Berrie called from the other enclosure.

  “Of—” He cleared his throat and started again. “Of course I am. I simply did what needed doing, standing up for the truth.”

  “I’m so glad you did. I’ve always said, under his butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth-act, Dwight Yagos is a bully.”

  “He’s not,” Clara said. “You don’t agree on training dogs. Doesn’t make either of you a bully. Each of you loves your dog.”

  “So says the friend to all, Clara Woodrow,” sneered Bob. “But I know why you’ve made friends with this newcomer. I know.”

  He gave a hiccupping kind of laugh. He might have meant it to be sardonic. He actually sounded like a Minion from the Despicable movies.

  I suspected reaction was setting in as Bob’s adrenaline ebbed and he realized how close he’d come to one of Dwight’s big fists.

  “Oh, dear. Look at the time,” he said, without, in fact, looking at the time. “I must go. I’ll be late for an appointment if I don’t leave right now.”

  The contractors I’d dealt with could learn a lot from Bob about promptness.

  That thought didn’t distract me from noticing Dwight’s vehicle pull out of the lot, spewing gravel with its turn onto the highway. Coincidence that Bob had to leave only after that departure? I didn’t think so.

  Bob’s hands shook as he put Trevalyn’s tweed leash — lead, according to him — on and led him to the gate without another word to any of us, including Berrie, who clucked concern over him as he entered the vestibule. He left quickly.

  Berrie immediately came to the point closest to where we all still stood.

  “There’s going to be bloodshed. Mark my words.”

  Teague’s head came up, looking at her.

  “You might well stare. But it’s the truth. I have a client coming tomorrow who had actually considered talking to Dwight. I told her straight out what a horrible mistake that would be for her dog. Thank heavens she listened to me.”

  I’d heard the rumor from a couple people at the dog park that Berrie was setting herself up as a self-described trainer. She had a website. It didn’t look half bad, actually. But I found myself muttering “Oh, brother” as I read her treatise on how one should never use the word leash, because a lead allows the owner to lead the dog, but with a leash the dog leads the owner. That was a whole lot of power to put into which word you used for a length of rope, leather, or plastic.

  As far as anyone knew at the dog park, Berrie’s only training consisted of listening to Bob pontificate. Her website listed no bona fides.

  “It’s a crime,” she continued, “nobody has done anything about Dwight and the so-called dog people who follow his backward ways. Oh, I know what you have to say, Clara. But you’re being a Pollyanna. I’m telling you, with that Dwight Yagos allowed to run free, there will be bloodshed.”

  “Oh, no,” Clara said cheerfully and in contradiction to her earlier comments. “They huff and they puff, but nothing ever comes of it. You know, Berrie. Been that way for years.”

  “This — today — has changed things. You mark my words.” Berrie ostentatiously turned her back on us and went to the enclosure’s far side.

  “Was this like all the other times?” Teague asked Clara.

  She bit at her chapped lip. “They do huff and puff. But both of them seemed, um, edgier this time. Bob’s always quick to point out fault, but he usually restrains himself more. And Dwight’s usually slower to retaliate. Neither one of them was himself today. They were probably more irritable because of the weather.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My fifteen years as the supposed author of a milestone novel left gaps in my practical experience.

  Grocery shopping, for instance.

  I first tried to fill that gap with a day-time trip to the supermarket outside Haines Tavern.

  The store had been filled with people who knew what they were doing and were intent on doing it as fast as possible. I’ve been on more TV talk shows than I can name, but that grocery store trip intimidated the heck out of me.

  Since then, I’d been making night-time trips. Slowly feeling my way into the world of groceries.

  One of the first things Great-Aunt Kit did after buying the brownstone in the Upper West Side we’d shared, was to employ a housekeeper/cook who also did the shopping.

  “Grocery shopping is one of those unrewarding, repetitive exercises, like cleaning, that make no sense to do yourself if you can get out of it,” she’d declared.

  “Unrewarding? You have a clean house or you have food to make meals,” I’d argued. Not that I really knew, since I’d gone from home to college
to the brownstone, but opposing opinions were like catnip to Kit. “Those are rewards.”

  “Hah. And then you have to do them again and again and again. They never stay done. Not like writing a book. Once you’ve written it, it’s written.”

  “But then you go and write another book.”

  “Precisely. A new, different book, with different characters, telling a different story. And once told, you go onto yet another new one. But with shopping and cleaning, you do the same thing over and over. They’re only ever temporarily done.”

  “Laundry, too, I suppose?”

  “Exactly,” she’d said with approval.

  Now, holding a large yellow onion in each hand, I smiled at the memory.

  “You could take both.” The male voice was close enough to stir the hair over my ear.

  I spun to face the owner of the voice, but only made it partly around before my left arm encountered a solid wall. The jolt popped the onion out of that hand. I grabbed for it. Unfortunately, I grabbed for it with my right hand, which still held its own onion.

  Right onion squirted loose, knocking left onion’s orbit askew and out of the intersecting range of either of my hands.

  A large male hand came in from the left and grabbed that onion. Another hand cupped my right elbow and partially straightened it, extending my hand like a net under someone jumping from a burning building. The second onion plopped into it.

  Onion-geddon averted.

  But I now had an unknown male draped around me like a shawl.

  It tried to shrug off the shawl.

  It didn’t budge.

  But after a slight pause, the man backed up.

  I turned. The face was familiar, but…

  Then I recognized the green jacket.

  Murphy’s human. Without the hood, scarf, and gloves, he somehow looked taller and broader.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you,” Teague O’Donnell said with the half-smile that unsettled me earlier today. It did the same thing now. That smile seemed to say he knew things. He couldn’t possibly, but still…