Death on Torrid Ave. Read online

  Hensen, in the corner, coughed.

  We returned to the tedium of giving my statement.

  I must say it was a disappointment.

  After decades of reading the phrase in murder mysteries, I’d thought it would offer an opportunity for dramatic flair for someone like me.

  At last, he said he wanted me to come back the next day to sign a formal statement, but I could go for now.

  I saw Berrie being led into Deputy Eckles’ office as I retrieved Gracie from her playmate deputy.

  Poor Berrie.

  She looked dreadful.

  Not only having lost her guru, but forced to be my oh-so reluctant alibi.

  Unless and until Deputy Eckles caught on to what O’Donnell had said. Presumably when the listening deputy reported to him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I went to bunco.

  You might think, despite Clara’s warning of Amy’s retribution if I canceled, I should have stayed home with Gracie after her traumatic day.

  Except she wasn’t the least traumatized. Especially after all the petting, playing, and attention at the sheriff’s department.

  Also, there’s this training approach I read about. The idea was to ease the dog’s separation anxiety by giving her a favorite treat each time I left the house, so the dog associated departure with a goodie.

  I’m not so sure Gracie had separation anxiety. But I had anxiety about her possibly having separation anxiety, considering her rescue background.

  I tried the approach. She liked it. A lot.

  After the first two times, Gracie had the equation down. Sheila leaves. Yum.

  Now, whenever I showed signs of leaving, for example anything involving putting on normal shoes or gathering a purse and keys, Gracie immediately danced to the pantry where her much-loved teeth-cleaning treat was kept.

  Last week, she’d poked me in the leg when my departure for my regular yoga class was behind her schedule. And it wasn’t out of concern for my zen-like state.

  Tonight, since bunco wasn’t part of my routine, my leaving was pure bonus to Gracie.

  Really, this training approach might have gone too far. I was getting a complex about my dog celebrating my departures.

  Amy served what she called appetizers and most haute cuisine restaurants would call a main course. She was equally generous with wine and a hot buttered rum punch that could set off a Breathalyzer from a hundred feet.

  Questions came at me fast and furious as we ate and throughout the first three rounds of bunco.

  Before we started playing, Amy and Ruby, from the post office, offered some protection from the pushiest questioners. Once play started, I was on my own.

  The points part of bunco is pretty simple. You roll three dice. You keep rolling as long as you’re earning points. In Round One you get one point for each one that’s rolled. If all three dice come up as ones, that’s a bunco and earns twenty-one points. In Round Two, two becomes the point-getter. Any three-of-a-kind not matching the round number is a mini-bunco, worth five points.

  We were settling into Round 4, with me rolling the dice, when my new partner said, “Such a shock about Bob Coble. I knew him in high school. Even then…” She looked around as if expecting someone to pick up on her words. No one did. “…he certainly threw himself into dogs. Had another of the same kind — what’s it called—?”

  “Gordon setter.”

  “—as before this one. Don’t recall its name—”

  “Trevalyn.”

  “—but he can recite that animal’s whole family tree. You’d think he’d be more interested in his human family tree, what with being from an old North Bend County name. That dog was all he’d talk about at our last reunion.”

  After two rolls and three points, I passed on the dice.

  The woman to my right said, “He always liked such things. Had to have his clothes just so. And his mama would work and work to get them that way for him.”

  My partner nodded, then zeroed in on me. “You and Clara Woodrow found Bob’s body? I think I’d faint. But I heard you were very cool.”

  That almost sounded like criticism. “We both kept our heads to do what was necessary.”

  “I heard that when you and Clara arrived, Berrie was already there? And she was the only other one there until you found the body.”

  “There was another woman, too. Berrie was working with her dog.”

  “Ah, the woman scorned,” murmured the woman to my right. Without looking up, she shouted, “Bunco!”

  An echo came almost immediately from the head table. A bunco at the head table signaled the end of the round and a migration of players, melding a rugby scrum and musical chairs.

  Each of the three tables was numbered, with one being the head table. Players across from each other were partners for that game, and won or lost as a team. Play continued until somebody at the head table reached twenty-one points. Winning players at the head table stayed there, while other winning players moved up a table. Head table losers dropped to the last table while all other losers stayed put.

  That was confusing enough. Then they twisted it by having one of the players who stayed at a table move one chair, so partners — both staying and arriving — were broken up.

  I watched, wistfully, as the woman who’d been to my right moved up to the head table. I’d love to hear what she meant about someone being a woman scorned. Berrie?

  But she might have meant Augustine, the German shepherd owner. Could she have had a connection to Bob? She had opted for training with one of his vehements…

  My partner from that super-short round moved to sit next to me.

  To my satisfaction, she greeted the two newcomers to our table by asking one, “You used to live next door to Bob Coble when you were down in Blue Grass Estates, didn’t you, Rosie?”

  “Yes, for four long, long years.”

  The other women clicked their tongues sympathetically. “Terrible when you have bad neighbors,” my ex-partner said.

  “Much happier now, back here in Haines Tavern.”

  “And we’re happy to have you,” my former partner, now paired with “Rosie,” said.

  “I don’t know what possessed us to ever think we’d like Blue Grass Estates, except Anthony got it in his head that belonging to that golf club would make him happy. It didn’t. Did I tell you about when he tried to get up a foursome…”

  My attention strayed.

  There were nuances about living in North Bend County far outside my radar. But I had picked up enough in the first month to know factions centered around county seat Haines Tavern, the “big” town of Stringer, an upscale area centered around Blue Grass Estates, then rural areas south and west.

  Clearly, I was surrounded here by Haines Tavern advocates.

  When the golf club story wound down, I asked Rosie, “What made Bob Coble difficult to live next door to?”

  “Neighborly love wasn’t his style.” For a moment, that appeared to be all the answer I’d get. She took a long drink from her wineglass, then looked at me from under her eyebrows. “He was always asking questions.”

  I took the jab and looked right back at her. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “He didn’t stop there. I swear he looked into our windows. I also caught him looking at our mail more than once. He tried to say he was being helpful, bringing it in for us, but he was rifling through it. And I swear he tried to set his dog onto our cat. After I complained to the authorities about that dog barking, he started piling all its poop right next to our fence near the front walk, where our guests smelled it every time they came to our front door.”

  “How awful.” My partner’s sympathy sounded distracted. She appeared to be trying to discreetly fish for specific nuts in the bowl of mixed selection by her elbow. If she was looking for cashews, she was out of luck. I’d already fished those waters dry when I sat by the dish in an earlier round.

  “He presented himself as such a stickler for rules. Telling every
body how they should run their lives and keep their yards. But did you know he wasn’t supposed to be using that dog park? Every day he took that mutt there, he was breaking a rule.”

  “Well,” demurred my partner from the previous round, a stylishly gray-haired woman now to my right, “it’s for the whole county.”

  “Blue Grass Estates has its own dog park. That’s the one he should have used. I long suspected he went to Torrid Avenue because it gave him a larger audience.”

  That was the most I heard about Bob.

  As the evening wrapped up, I looked for the woman who’d used the woman scorned phrase, but she scooted out before I could catch her. I did find my partner from the fourth round.

  “You said you went to school with Bob?”

  “I did. Him and Dwight’s mother, Kim.” She shook her head. “Dwight turned out a whole lot better than her — or his father or any of that family. Had a cousin same age, real close as kids, but other went one way and Dwight the other. Still, could have predicted Dwight and Bob wouldn’t ever get along. Not the same types at all.”

  “Do you go to the dog park?”

  “No, no. But I hear things, the way you do. My sister’s husband’s boss lives by Bob and the Yagoses have been here so long, lots of folks are intertwined with them one way or another.”

  “What about Bob? A nice guy, too?”

  “Well, he was a particular kind of person, wasn’t he? Excuse me, gotta go. My ride’s leaving.”

  * * * *

  Gracie seemed glad to see me return. Though she did eye the door several times, like if I left again maybe she’d get another treat.

  Clara had left a phone message, including instructions to call her back tonight no matter the time. I obeyed.

  “What did you hear at bunco?” she demanded immediately.

  I took off my right shoe and rubbed my instep. “I probably said more than I heard.”

  But I gave her a few highlights.

  “Darn. I wish I knew who you’d talked to. We could question them again and—”

  “Question them?”

  “—get more details. I called Dwight’s phone, but his mailbox is full. I know the Yagoses some, but Dwight was way ahead of me in school, much less Bob. I wonder if my older sister knows them. If only I hadn’t spent so much time avoiding them—”

  “You avoided them for the very sensible reason that being around either one pitched you into the middle of their rivalry.”

  “Well, yeah, but now the background might help us with detecting.”

  “Whoa. Detecting?” Okay, I’d entertained the thought myself, but…

  “Of course. We were there. It’s … It’s almost like a duty.”

  “We did our duty by not messing up the scene, calling the authorities, and telling them the truth. Now, it’s the sheriff’s department’s duty.”

  Her sigh might have blown me over if it hadn’t come through a phone. “You’ve probably lived a much more exciting life than I have—”

  “High school teacher, remember? English.”

  “Still, with your inheritance and living in New York…”

  “Upstate. Not that different from here, except colder.”

  “Still, you’ve had more experience. You know things from reading important books I’ve never read, on top of all those mysteries I saw at your house. We could find out stuff. It’s not like I wanted Bob murdered and if I could bring him back by not being interested I’d do it in a heartbeat, but this is probably my only chance ever—”

  “Clara, I don’t think we should try to get involved.” I understood her interest. Part of me was itching … “Not to mention Deputy Eckles would not appreciate it.”

  “Oh, him, He wouldn’t appreciate us getting involved because he’s suspicious of you. As for being involved, you are involved. As a suspect.”

  That’s what worried me. The last thing I needed was being accused of murder.

  I suppose that was the last thing most people needed.

  But in my case it was amplified because attention might reveal my connection to Abandon All, which would mean a mess for me and Aunt Kit.

  Then there was the flip side.

  I had picked up a lot on research trips and training with Aunt Kit.

  She’d written mysteries under various names for much of her writing career and continued to write them now. Kit drew me into brainstorming them and to my surprise I had a knack for what the sleuth could or should look into next.

  To my even greater surprise, what I’d learned had benefits a few months ago, on a cruise ship, when knowing my fellow passengers and having access to information not shared with officials helped find a murderer.

  After that, I’d thought I wouldn’t mind grappling with another mystery. I rather enjoyed the sleuthing.

  I hadn’t been thinking about the potential attention.

  But a tactic I’d used on the cruise could help again. As long as I funneled my brilliant insights — please, let there be brilliant insights — through Clara, she would be in the spotlight and I could stand in her shadow.

  “You’re right.”

  “Yippee! What do we do first?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Let’s start with what you know about him.”

  “Not much. I know Dwight’s single. He worked for one of the delivery services, but quit when he started caring for his grandmother full-time. He never went back when she moved into the senior home. He and his grandmother are real close. His parents lived with her while he was growing up. Freeloading most folks say, because his grandmother has money. They finally got their own house when he was in his teens. But he moved back in with her when he was, oh, maybe in his late twenties. He was real serious about a girl and his parents didn’t approve, but his grandmother took him in.”

  The guy had to be around forty. He couldn’t live on his own? Have his own apartment maybe? Of course, who was I to talk, having lived with my great-aunt for the past decade-and-a-half?

  “How does Dwight have time to come to the dog park during the middle of the day?”

  I hadn’t wondered about that until Teague asked me. There were enough of us who came during the middle of the day that it almost seemed normal.

  “How’d he get into dogs?”

  “I think his grandmother she taught him about them. But he said his ideas about dogs came mostly from his own experiences.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He’s allergic to figs. His face got all puffy and turned red when there was fig in a fruit bread he ate. He’s an excellent Scrabble player. A fan of the Kentucky Wildcats, but he wasn’t one of those really obnoxious kinds, because we got along and I’m a Louisville fan. And his favorite cookie is chocolate chip.”

  I stared at the phone. “You don’t know his socks size?”

  “Oh, I’d say large.”

  “Clara, you are a wonder.”

  “Will you tell that to my husband?”

  “Absolutely. But how do you know all this?”

  “We were in a support group together for a while offered through the County Extension. For caretakers. I was caring for Mother Woodward then. Dwight came while he was caring for his grandmother at home. Once she went to a place for seniors — she was having trouble with memory, could’ve burned down the house a couple times from things left on the stove — he didn’t seem to have the same need. Stopped coming.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Oh yes. I’m sure I would have heard if she passed away.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Yes. Kentucky Manor, the senior residence off Zig-Zag.”

  She said that as if it would mean something to me. “Clara? Do you know the family well enough for us to go visit her?”

  “Maybe. If you think it’s a good idea?”

  “Well, let’s see what happens after the deputies question Dwight, if they haven’t already. After Berrie’s outburst, I bet that was their first stop.”

  �
��See, you know all this stuff I never would.”

  “Uh-huh. But when I asked what you knew about him, I actually meant Bob Coble. It’s one of the tenets—” I almost said of writing mysteries. But that edged close to Aunt Kit and her history, which was a path I did not want to go down. “—in all the mysteries I read that knowing about the victim can tell a lot about what happened and why.”

  “You know so much about these things,” she said admiringly.

  “I don’t, only what I’ve read in—”

  “I know. All the books you read to be an English teacher. I need to read more.”

  I wished I could tell her I’d learned more — far more — about victimology from hanging around Aunt Kit, watching her process, and reading her books and those she recommended, than from the English classes that might have, in an alternate universe, sent me into a classroom as an English teacher.

  “One of the women at bunco said Bob came from an old county family.”

  “I guess. There’s a Coble Park and a Coble Road.”

  “Married?”

  “No. Possibly gay, though I’ve never heard anybody say so.”

  “No gossip?”

  “It’s kind of old-fashioned to gossip about if someone’s gay or not.”

  I’d hope so, but it wasn’t always so.

  Gracie got up from her comfortable snooze on her dog bed, came to the side of my upholstered chair, and stared directly at me, wagging her tail. It was an invitation — possibly a command — to admire her and more importantly pet her.

  When I complied, her ears tucked close to her head in bliss.

  For once, she sat still for a good, long pet. Nothing like a murder and finding a dead body and all that attention at the sheriff’s department to make a dog ready to receive affection. Or was she giving it?

  “He has a house in Blue Grass Estates. Bob worked for a company in Cincinnati for years, then got a buy-out offer. Early retirement, I guess. A real good package. That’s when he started coming to the dog park from what I hear.”

  Clara released a short, sharp breath.