Bedeviled Eggs Page 10

  Suzanne gave a hasty, abbreviated, shrill explanation to the dispatcher, fearing it might even be the same one from the other night, then listened for a few moments. “Yes, this time I’ll stay on the line.” She handed the phone back to Petra, looking nervous as well as distracted. “We’re supposed to keep an open line.”

  Petra, who’d listened, wide-eyed and shaking, to Suzanne’s blow-by-blow report, put a hand to her mouth and moaned, “Oh no. That poor boy.”

  Suzanne, meanwhile, put her gearshift into reverse and jammed her foot firmly on the brake. “If we see or hear anything out of the ordinary,” Suzanne instructed Petra, “be prepared to fly backward. I’ll goose this buggy up to a hundred miles an hour if I have to.”

  Petra was the first to spot the flashing light bars. “He’s here. Doogie,” she said, as multiple red-and-blue pulsing lights careened toward them. One car swerved to a halt, followed by two more.

  Doogie emerged from his vehicle, ashen-faced and stiff-legged. And for the first time in decades, Suzanne saw him out of uniform. In his baggy gray sweatpants and coordinating hoodie sweatshirt, Doogie could have easily passed for a sloppy, aging jogger. Except for the fact that he held a gun.

  “Where is he?” Doogie asked in a terse, tension-filled voice, as his remaining three deputies crowded around him. He looked more anxious and upset than Suzanne had ever seen him.

  “Over here,” said Suzanne. “Follow me.”

  She led them back to the path, then they all crashed through buckthorn and scrub willow, branches swatting their faces and tearing at their clothes. Thirty seconds later Suzanne, Doogie, and deputies arrived at the clearing.

  “There,” said Suzanne, pointing.

  Four flashlights were suddenly focused directly on Deputy Halpern, bleaching his face white and revealing the terrible circumstances of his death.

  Doogie stood for a few moments, taking in the scene. Then he stepped softly over to Deputy Halpern and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, in an almost fatherly gesture.

  “Dang. Wilbur,” Doogie murmured, softly. He sounded beyond sad, he sounded almost defeated.

  For the first time in her life, Suzanne watched Doogie wipe away tears. Then he stepped back and bowed his head. “What am I gonna tell that poor boy’s mama?”

  Nobody answered, because nobody had the answer.

  Doogie pulled it together then, his lawman’s instincts overriding his emotions. “Check the woods,” he barked to the other deputies. “But go easy, this is all one big crime scene.” The men scurried away, weapons drawn, flashlights probing, as Doogie clicked on his cell phone and called the state crime lab. Muttering softly for a few minutes, he concluded with, “He’s one of ours.”

  “What can I do?” Suzanne asked in the silence that spun out.

  Doogie opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “Let’s hike back to me road.”

  They tromped back and met up with Petra.

  “I’m so sorry,” Petra told Doogie. “Wilbur’s mom is one of our volunteers at church. She’ll be... she’ll be devastated.”

  Doogie nodded.

  “You have questions?” Suzanne asked. Doogie looked so forlorn and out of it, she felt she ought to prod him a bit.

  “What the heck are you two doing out here?” he finally asked. “Driving through these woods at night?”

  “The Quilt Trail,” said Petra.

  Doogie shook his head. “Kind of late to be taking in historic sites, don’t you think?”

  “We were lost,” said Petra.

  “We were trying to find the old schoolhouse and got turned around,” Suzanne added.

  “Lost?” said Doogie. “The old schoolhouse is right up this road, about a quarter of a mile.” He gave a half wave, as if it didn’t matter anymore.

  “Oh,” was all Suzanne said.

  “So let me get this straight,” said Doogie, rubbing the back of his hand against his stubbly cheek. “You were out here driving the Quilt Trail.”

  “Correct,” said Petra.

  “Okay,” said Doogie, “but what the heck was Wilbur doing out here in the boonies?”

  “No idea,” said Suzanne. “We pulled over when we saw his empty car. Maybe he’d been... responding to a call?”

  “Might have,” said Doogie. He shook his head again in disbelief. “The thing is, Wilbur was a real friendly type. Talking with everyone, always making with the PR. He even gave out his private cell phone number. In case, you know, like the law enforcement center line was busy.”

  “Busy?” said Suzanne.

  Doogie shrugged. “Cutbacks. Only got three lines now and one’s to the jail.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Suzanne, “so you’re saying that if Wilbur got a call, it wouldn’t necessarily have been routed through the switchboard at the law enforcement center?’

  That’s right,” said Doogie.

  “So no way to trace it,” said Petra.

  “Oh, we can trace Wilbur’s cell phone,” said Doogie. “It just might take a couple of days.”

  The three deputies came shuffling back, looking angry and a little defeated.

  “Anything?” asked Doogie. They all shook their heads.

  “Dang,” said Doogie.

  “Double dang,” echoed one of the deputies.

  They all stood around and looked at each other then, shuffling feet, feeling bad, trying to keep warm.

  “We should be getting back,” Petra said, tugging gently at Suzanne’s sleeve.

  “Sheriff,” said Suzanne, “do you think one of your deputies could give Petra a ride back to town? I’ve got something I...”

  “I have to head back, ma’am,” said one of the deputies, a blond surfer type whose nametag read Smalley.

  “Go ahead, Petra,” Suzanne told her. “I’m going to hang around here for a little while longer.” She gazed at the sheriff. “You’re going to bring in an ambulance and tow truck, right?”

  Doogie nodded as Petra, somewhat reluctantly, followed along with Smalley.

  “What’s up?” asked Doogie, once they’d pulled away.

  “I ran into Mike O’Dell some thirty minutes ago.”

  Doogie set his jaw and gave Suzanne a hard stare. “Where?”

  “At that little general store,” said Suzanne. “Cappy’s. He looked ...” She was going to say angry, but instead she said, “He looked purposeful.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Doogie. “Like maybe he was up to something?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “You see anything interesting in his car?” asked Doogie.

  ‘Truck,” said Suzanne. “And if you’re asking about guns or crossbows, the answer is no. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Do you think Wilbur might have had a run-in with O’Dell? Maybe Wilbur was trying to work the Peebler case and asked one too many questions?”

  “Don’t know,” said Doogie. “It’s possible.” He hitched at his sweatpants, then walked over to Wilbur’s cruiser. Suzanne followed.

  Doogie opened the driver’s side door, reached in gingerly, and grabbed a spiral-bound notebook off the front seat. He paged through it and said, “Nothing’s written in Wilbur’s patrol activity log. Not a darned thing.”

  ‘Too bad.”

  “But I doubt if Wilbur was way out here on a joyride. So he must have had something going,” mused Doogie.

  “You think O’Dell somehow got the drop on him?” asked Suzanne.

  “I don’t know,” said Doogie. “Maybe.”

  “Or he was lured out here,” said Suzanne. “Face it, you yourself said Wilbur was a nice guy, but investigating wasn’t his strong suit.”

  Doogie scuffed the toe of his shoe in the soft dirt. “Two murders in three days?” he said. “Looks like it might not be my strong suit, either.”

  Five minutes later, an ambulance screeched to a halt and the same men Suzanne had encountered Sunday night, Dick Sparrow and Sid Pauley, jumped out They grabbed a gurney
and rattled it anxiously across the bumpy asphalt road.

  “Is it true?” asked Sparrow, looking grim. “Was Wilbur shot?”

  “Afraid so, boys,” said Doogie. “And there’s no need to hurry. We gotta wait for the state crime lab to show up. We’re going to handle this one strictly by the book.”

  “Can we see him?” asked Pauley.

  Doogie hesitated. “As long as everything is kept in complete confidence.”

  “We’ve got battery-operated tripod lights in the truck,” offered Sparrow. “We could set them up out there.”

  Doogie nodded. “Maybe we can get a jump on the investigation, after all.”

  Suzanne took off just as the crime scene unit arrived in their shiny, black, state-of-the-art van. No sense hanging around because, chances are, the state guys wouldn’t let her hang around. And she’d already traded theories with Doogie...

  Blasting down the road, Suzanne continued to shiver even though the heater was cranked up full blast.

  Nerves, she told herself. Just nerves and some unwelcome adrenaline trying to get the best of me.

  Punching on the radio, she got the night DJ at KLGN and listened halfheartedly to a Muzak version of “Do You Know the Way to San Jose”

  Not very good. Awful, in fact.

  She took her eyes off the road, momentarily, to switch stations, and when she glanced back, her headlights revealed a dog hobbling right down the center line!

  Chapter Twelve

  Pumping her brakes hard, Suzanne swerved wildly, missing the poor creature by a matter of inches. Then she rocked to a stop on the narrow berm and drew a shaky breath.

  Deep in Suzanne’s heart was a pity and concern for any injured animal, domestic or wild. So, of course, she shut off her engine and hopped out.

  The dog was standing still as a statue now, staring at her. Watching. Waiting.

  “Here, boy.” Kneeling down on the pavement, Suzanne held out both arms to welcome him. “Come,” she said, thinking maybe the dog might respond to a familiar command.

  Instead, the little-dog just lay down and cowered.

  Oh no. Poor thing. Did I hit him?

  It was a mongrel type, but cute in a long-haired Disney dog kind of way. Maybe a collie-shepherd mix.

  Suzanne decided to try again. “Come on, boy.” She let loose a low, cajoling whistle. “Come on, you can do it.”

  The dog lifted his head. It watched nervously for a long couple of seconds, then it slowly stood up and began limping toward her. When Suzanne extended her hand again, she felt warm breath and a soft, wet tongue.

  “You want to be friends? Let’s be friends.” Suzanne reached out and touched the dog’s neck. The dog trembled

  but didn’t pull away. “You okay? Sure you are.” She caressed his shaggy brown-and-white pelt, moving her hand in slow, repetitive circles from his neck down to his chest and sides. When her fingers touched something sticky and moist, she knew he must be injured. Uh-oh,

  “You want to come home with me, fella? Maybe get something good to eat?” From the looks of him, he could use a good meal. And a safe place to sleep.

  “C’mon.” Suzanne tapped her hand against her leg and slowly walked around the car to the passenger side. Miraculously, the dog followed. When she pulled open the passenger side door, the dog put his front paws on the front seat and let her gently boost him in. “Attaboy.”

  Suzanne dialed her cell phone one-handed as she drove, knowing she was probably a traffic hazard, but not really caring.

  When Sam Hazelet picked up on the second ring, she said, without preamble, “Can you come over to my house? Right away?”

  “What’s wrong?” Worry permeated Sam’s voice. He could obviously tell from Suzanne’s tone that something was seriously out of whack. Where to start? “Deputy Halpern was shot.” “At your place!”

  “No, no,” said Suzanne, realizing she had some serious ‘splaining to do. “Out in the country. Along the Quilt Trail. Anyway, he’s dead. Murdered. Sheriff Doogie’s there with him now. It’s kind of a long, involved story. But the thing is, I found a dog, too. And I think he might be hurt pretty bad.”

  “Are you okay?” Sam asked, quickly.

  “I’m fine,” Suzanne told him, then paused, her voice catching. “I could take the dog to the vet, but... I’d like to talk to you. In fact, I’d like to see you tonight.” She let out a shaky sigh. “Sorry if I’m not making a whole lot of sense.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” said Sam. “You can tell me the whole story then.”

  “Better make it ten, I’m still on the road.”

  But when Suzanne pulled into her driveway, Sam was standing there, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, waiting expectantly.

  Jumping from her car, Suzanne launched herself into his arms. She didn’t quite burst into tears, but the thought did cross her mind. And the hug was oh so warm and comforting. But of course, there was the injured dog to take care of first.

  Sam thrust a black medical bag into Suzanne’s arms. “Take this, I’ll get the dog.”

  “Just carry him into the kitchen,” she said, “then we can work on him there.”

  “Baxter?” said Sam, gathering up the injured dog.

  “He’ll be cool.”

  And Baxter was cool. Like a good canine nurse, Bax stood by the kitchen table, looking somber yet interested as Sam examined the dog with practiced hands.

  “Cuts,” said Sam. “Lots of cuts and puncture wounds with some being fairly deep. Tell me about Wilbur Halpern.”

  “I’m getting to that,” said Suzanne. “You think somebody was deliberately cruel to this dog?” The thought struck dread in her heart.

  “It’s certainly possible. Do you have any hydrogen peroxide or Betadine?”

  “Peroxide,” said Suzanne. She ran to the first-floor bathroom and grabbed the bottle from beneath the sink. Grabbed a couple of old towels, too. Then she ran back and handed everything to Sam.

  “First I’m going to clean up these wounds,” said Sam.

  “What should I do?” asked Suzanne. She nibbled nervously at her fingertips.

  “Maybe... make a pot of coffee?”

  “Sure.” Suzanne busied herself, measuring out Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, keeping one eye on Sam as he worked on the dog. “You need any help?”

  Sam reached into his bag and pulled out a small vial along with a syringe. “I’m going to give him a shot of lidocaine to numb things up. Then I’m going to close this larger wound.”

  “So a few stitches,” Suzanne murmured. She glanced sideways and grimaced as Sam administered the injection. “Ouch.”

  “I think this is bothering you more than the dog,” observed Sam.

  “I think you may be right”

  By the time the dog was numbed up, the coffee was perked and ready to serve.

  “You’re going to use that?” Suzanne asked, looking at the contraption in Sam’s hand. It looked like an industrial staple gun from the Home Depot

  “Staple gun,” said Sam “Easier than stitches. Quicker.”

  “I’ve always wondered, don’t those little thingies hurt when they dig in?”

  “Not with lidocaine. Seriously, we use staples on patients who’ve had open-heart surgery. On kids with head lacs.”

  “Okay,” said Suzanne. “You’re the doctor.”

  “And a lucky thing that is,” said Sam, wiggling his eyebrows and doing a sort of Groucho Marx impression. “Okay, now please tell me about the deputy.”

  “Petra and I were driving the Quilt Trail...” Suzanne began.

  “On a dark and stormy night?” Sam pulled the trigger and planted a staple.

  “It didn’t start out that way,” said Suzanne. “But, granted, we dawdled a bit Then Petra wanted to catch one more quilt square...”

  “Okay,” said Sam. Another staple went in.

  “And we ended up driving this backcountry road, searching for an old schoolhouse, and figured we’d taken a wrong turn
...” She filled him in on the rest of their strange encounter and finished with, “And that’s how I discovered poor Wilbur Halpern. Dead.”

  “Was he shot with an arrow?” asked Sam.

  “No, I think maybe with his own gun. I didn’t exactly get a chance to analyze the crime scene. By the time my mind processed what had happened out there in that swamp, I got scared and just sort of... ran away.”

  “Smart lady,” said Sam, putting an arm around her and pulling her close.

  “And then I called Doogie. And then after that I found the dog and called you.”

  “Doogie’s bringing in the state crime lab?’ asked Sam.

  Suzanne nodded.

  “Only thing to do at this point,” said Sam.

  “There you go, Scruff.” Suzanne set an aluminum bowl on the floor, filled with kibble and topped with a handful of warm, chopped-up chicken. “Bon appetit, you brave little patient.”

  “You’ve really taken a liking to that mutt, haven’t you?” asked Sam, gazing at the collie-shepherd mix as he gulped his food, looking like he’d just won the doggy lottery.

  “Baxter won’t mind having a buddy around,” Suzanne told him. “Dogs being pack animals and all.”

  “Man’s best friend,” said Sam. Then he smiled at Suzanne. “And women’s, too, I guess.”

  “No, sir,” Suzanne said with a laugh, “diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

  Sam chuckled as he snaked an arm around her waist. ‘This has been a tough couple of days for you. All this criminal activity, ripped from the headlines as they say.”

  Suzanne laughed, hiccupped, and oozed a few tears. “That’s the same thing I told Toni. Maybe I should fictionalize my story, self-publish, and sell it in the Book Nook.”

  “I’d buy it,” he told her, “but only if you promise to autograph it.” He kissed the top of her head.

  “Oh my gosh,” Suzanne said suddenly, “I never offered you anything to eat!”

  Sam’s eyes crinkled with warmth as he gazed at her. “I got coffee.”

  “How about a nice glass of wine and some actual food?”

  Sam shook his head.

  Suzanne gave him a long look. “Me?”