Blame It on the Dog Page 8

  Gabe pulled into the parking lot between two brand-new white and green cruisers. National legislative pork had even made its way to Milieu. The 1,200 plus citizens of Hanson County were safe at last thanks to Washington’s largess. Even so, the county was still a Republican stronghold, much to the Democrat administration’s chagrin.

  “You stay here, dogface,“ he said as he looped the leash through one of three rusty iron rings where citizens on official business once tied their horses. “No barking.”

  The inside of the sheriff’s office was a sharp contrast to the exterior, an instant clash of cultures. Three laminated pressed-wood desks were shoe-horned into the small space, along with two computers, a small bank of legal-sized filing cabinets, a communications corner, and a high-speed multifunction copier. From behind the desk closest to the door a lone, dyspeptic deputy discharged a belch any fourth-grade boy would have been proud to call his own. The man’s name tag said ‘Harris’.

  “Hep ya?” The helpful deputy became much less helpful when he recognized Gabe. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Yes, it is me, deputy. Kicked any dogs, lately? Throttled any Chihuahuas?”

  Deputy Harris glared at him. “It was self-defense. If you’d had that animal on a leash like you’re s’posed to, he wouldna tried to bite me and…”

  “Oscar, who’s spreading all the Shinola out there?” said the sheriff coming to the door of his office.

  Oscar narrowed his eyes and said, “It’s that fella from Mountainview, the one with the dog.”

  “Chance, Gabe Chance,” said Gabe to Oscar Harris.

  The deputy looked behind Gabe, “Mister Chance, Sheriff. He’s the one with the dog.”

  “I know, Oscar. Quit harassing my deputy, Mr. Chance. Come on back and tell me what I can do for you,”

  Gabe tipped an imaginary hat to the deputy and walked toward the sheriff’s office.

  Gabe was surprised that he didn’t remember how much Sheriff Noble resembled Clint Eastwood when he was the sheriff’s age. Though, come to think of it, he didn’t know how old the sheriff was. He assumed maybe ten years older than he was. He attributed his memory lapse to finding Harald’s body and taking care of Sophie.

  Sheriff ‘Clint Eastwood’ Noble sat behind an immaculate antique golden oak desk. There was an ‘In’ basket on one side and an ‘Out’ basket on the other. There was absolutely nothing else on the polished wood, not even a speck of dust.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Chance.” He motioned to a sturdy, well-worn side chair of the same golden wood as the desk. “Coffee?”

  “That would be great.”

  “Sugar? Cream? It’s the real deal. I can’t abide those cream substitutes. They are deceptive.”

  “No, thank you, Sheriff, black is fine.”

  “Oscar, would you bring Mr. Chance a cup of black coffee?”

  Gabe turned and winked at the deputy.

  The sheriff added with a smile, "And hold the rat poison, deputy.”

  Gabe jerked his head back around to see if the sheriff was serious.

  Oscar laughed from the other room and the sheriff chuckled. “Relax, Mr. Chance. Just a little sheriff humor. We don’t even have any rat poison in here.”

  “Don’t have no rats, neither.” Like a ghost, Oscar had reappeared with a silver tray which he placed on the sheriff’s desk. From a silver pot he poured steaming black coffee into a white, filigreed china cup. The aroma evoked memories of crisp mornings and smoky campfires.

  “Not what you expected in a country sheriff’s office, son? That’s my mother’s good china. She only used it on special occasions: Christmas, Thanksgiving, and at my wedding. Then she died. Seemed like a waste. So I use it, everyday. It makes me think of her, God rest her soul.”

  “Mother did the same thing: holidays and special occasions, only. Is your wife happy about using the good stuff at the jail?”

  “She died a few years back, but she wouldn’t have minded – she was a pragmatic woman. Then, again, she didn’t go through the Depression like my mother’s people. Folks didn’t have much back then, not like today. Something like that leaves a mark. But you didn’t come all the way down to Milieu to talk about china and depressions. What’s on your mind? Harald Schmidt?”

  “Yes, he is. I spoke with Dr. Leonard this morning and he confirmed the cause of death. He also confirmed what Sophie told me he had learned from his doctor. He said just because a person has a stroke these days, that doesn’t mean they are ever going to have another one. Mrs. Andersen and I believe that’s true, which makes us wonder about the real cause of Harald’s death.”

  Noble called out the door, “Oscar, bring me Harald Schmidt’s file.” He leaned back in his chair and studied his visitor. He didn’t seem to notice Oscar placing the file in front of him. Then he opened the manila folder and scanned it.

  When he finished he looked up and said, “Is Mrs. Andersen a doctor?”

  “No, she was an English teacher.”

  “How about you, Mr. Chance? Are you a doctor?”

  “No, I’m not.” He could tell where this was going.

  The sheriff looked genuinely confused. “So… why should I be concerned with your medical opinion?”

  “I may not be a doctor, sheriff, but I was a medic in Afghanistan, and I…”

  “In neurology?”

  “Huh?”

  “Was your medical training in neurology?”

  “Well, no, uh, but I…”

  “Son, I took a couple of semesters of physics in college, and if you’ll pardon my bluntness, that doesn’t make me a physicist anymore than whatever you learned in the Army makes you a doctor.”

  “True, but I didn’t check my brain at the door when I discovered Harald’s body. Neither did Sophie.”

  “I don’t believe you did. I can see that your brain works very well. And I want to thank you for your service to our country.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. We talked about it and we think Harald died of something else.”

  “What would that be, Mr. Chance?”

  Chance squirmed in his chair. “We don’t know, exactly.”

  “Do you have a theory?”

  “Well, no, not exactly, but…”

  “I don’t either, Mr. Chance. And the way I work is to let the experts do what I can’t. Dr. Leonard said Mr. Schmidt died of natural causes and I have no reason to believe Dr. Leonard is wrong.”

  “But…”

  “Mr. Schmidt was,“ he referred to the file, “88 years old. That’s longer than most men live on this earth. Stroke is the Medical Examiner’s findings and I have no reason to believe otherwise.”

  “Sheriff, I don’t think you’re looking at the whole picture.”

  Sheriff Noble took a deep breath and let it out, loudly, through his nose. “That’s possible. What do you see that I don’t see, Mr. Chance?”

  “Harald wasn’t the only one who died under suspicious circumstances. His wife, Nellie, drowned in the lake. That doesn’t make any sense at all. She was terrified of the water. And she couldn’t swim. She would never have gotten close enough to fall in.”

  Sheriff Noble pushed back his chair and stepped to the door. “Oscar, get me the file on Nellie Schmidt. Anyone else, Mr. Chance?”

  “Uh, yeah. Jed…” He fished a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket, unfolded it and read, “Jedidiah Grzalik. And Helen Kirkpatrick.”

  “And see if we have files on Jedidiah Grzalik, and Helen Kirkpatrick.” To Gabe he said, “Neither one of those names are familiar. I doubt we were called on them.” He steepled his fingers and watched Gabe in silence until Oscar stepped into the office.

  “Here ya go, Marshall. I only found Nellie Schmidt. We don’t have the other two.” He scowled at Gabe.

  “Thank you, Oscar,” he said and opened the folder.

  Gabe’s brows knit in confusion. “He called you ‘Marshall’. I thought you were the sheriff?”

  “I am. Marshall is my first name, sheriff is my title: Sher
iff Marshall Noble.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now, let’s see here,” he read. “Nellie Schmidt did drown. Her body was found floating in the lake.” He flipped through several pages and studied a photograph. Then another. “And she has mud on the knee of her right pants leg. And abrasions on her right hand. Says here she is right-handed.” He stopped reading and looked at Gabe through the tops of his glasses. “I determined that she slipped on the river bank and tried to catch herself when she fell. There was also a disturbance of the muddy bank indicating she had slipped. My conclusion was that Mrs. Schmidt’s death was an accident, Mr. Chance. Even if it doesn’t make any sense to you, that’s what the evidence says.” He studied Gabe’s reddening face. “What did you say the other two people died from?”

  Referring to the paper again he said, “Uh, the Medical Examiner said Mrs. Kirkpatrick died from respiratory arrest and Mr. Grzalik had a heart attack. I’m not sure he’s right. I thought you might look into their deaths. Maybe take another look at Mrs. Schmidt’s. Something isn’t right at Mountainview.”

  The sheriff closed Nellie Schmidt’s file, “I think we’ve covered Mrs. Schmidt. As for the other two, Mr. Chance, Mountainview Villa is a retirement community. The people who live there are elderly. Elderly people die. Sometimes they have accidents but mostly they die from medical problems. Mr. Schmidt had a medical problem that, according to the Medical Examiner, killed him. Mrs. Schmidt had an accident that killed her. Mr. Schmidt had a stroke: his wife drowned. From what you described, Mrs. Kirkpatrick and Mr. Grzalik both died from natural causes.” He closed Nellie Schmidt’s file and placed it in the empty ‘OUT’ basket. “Elderly people die from natural causes and they die from accidents. Rarely are they murdered. I think you and your friends are looking for mystery where none exists.”

  “But, what if they were killed by someone who wanted their deaths to look natural and accidental? What about that?”

  “Who would that be, Mr. Chance? And why would they do such a thing?”

  Gabe stared at the man. “Don’t ask me, that’s your job? You’re the sheriff.”

  Sheriff Noble smiled benignly and shook his head. “If I thought there was cause I would investigate further. I don’t believe there is so I’m going to ask Oscar to put these back where they belong. Is there anything else, Mr. Chance?”

  Then Gabe remembered Chip. “What about Chip Drake? They think it might be him.”

  Noble shook his head. “Chip Drake is not without his flaws and he certainly is no choir boy, but why do you think he would kill four people over a several month period and use different means for each killing? It would take a great deal of emotional energy and creativity for a person to do what you suggest. It would also take a very strong motive, a motive which you cannot articulate. I’m sorry, Mr. Chance, but I cannot squander the county’s limited resources chasing wild geese, which is exactly what I would be doing in this case.”

  “What about Mrs. Schmidt’s fear of water? Why would she even go near the water?”

  “People don’t always do what is logical, or smart, or wise. That’s why I have a job. I’m sorry, there’s nothing here. Please convey my sympathies to Mrs. Andersen and your friends.” He stood and walked to the door. “Please drive safely on your way back to Brandt. And the next time you see Sheriff Tate, please give him my regards.”

  CHAPTER 13

  ON THE WAY back to Brandt the dog slept in the passenger seat and Gabe pondered his conversations with the medical examiner and the sheriff.

  To the steering wheel he said, “These guys act like they’re blind, deaf, and stupid. But they’re not. Doc’s a smart guy and everybody says he’s a good doctor. And Sheriff Marshall Noble is no slouch in the brains department, either. So why isn’t either of these smart guys a little curious about all the dead old people?” He smacked the steering wheel with the heel of his right hand.

  The dog sat up and growled, his attention fully on Gabe.

  “You don’t get it either? Aw, come on, dogface, stretch yourself a little. Do I have to do all the thinking?”

  The dog barked.

  “I knew you’d catch on. So if you and I can smell a rat, why can’t they? Maybe we oughtta stop and talk to the General, see what he thinks.”

  The dog barked once.

  “Yeah, the turn-off’s just up ahead.”

  “Bark!”

  “Stop yelling. I’m gonna stop.”

  “Bark!”

  “Put a sock in it, bone breath or I’ll make you walk back.”

  With an audible sigh the dog curled on the seat facing the door and gave Gabe his back.

  Gabe smiled, “You are such a mutt!” he said, pulling the Pink Lady off the highway and onto the road to Mountainview Villa.

  The weak cold front that had passed through the night before had blown leaves from the branches, thinning the normal dark shade to a dappled light. The stroboscopic effect of the sun flashing through semi-barren trees was blinding, disorienting. His eyes struggled to keep up with the drastic shifts in contrast from bright, white light to deep, dark shadow. The front pushing behind this one threatened to thin the trees further with both wind and rain and much colder temperatures.

  After a short drive, the road emerged from the tunnel of trees onto the last quarter mile of smooth, bare roadway leading to the parking lot. A once-red Ford pickup sat like a scar in the handicapped space near the front door. The truck’s rear bumper was lower on the right than the left, hanging just inches from the pavement, held in place by insulated electrical wire. Gabe mused that the tail pipe must be extremely heavy, since it was jerry-rigged to the bumper with more red and black insulated electrical wire. He rolled to a stop beside the truck.

  “Check out the neighbors, muttski. The Pink Lady is absolutely ravishing by comparison.” The Ambassador, its odometer still reading less than 100,000 miles, was more than four times as old as the battered, red truck.

  A quizzical expression on a tilted dog head was all he got in return.

  “Squint real hard, mutt. Use your imagination and – oh, that’s right. You don’t have an imagination. Or an opposable thumb.” He pinched thumb and index finger together in front of the dog’s nose. “That’s why you can’t do this.” He grasped the key between thumb and forefinger, turned off the ignition, removed the key and dropped it in his right front pocket. Unimpressed, the dog followed him into the sunlight.

  General Sean Perez was standing in the grass by the flower bed. He was having an animated conversation with a pot-bellied man in shorts that hung so low on his hips he kept switching hands to hold them up. The man’s shoulder length hair was loaded with either a pound of mousse or – Gabe didn’t want to go there. A long, steel digging bar lay in the grass at his feet. One end of the 2-inch diameter hexagonal bar was forged into a heavy chisel point; the last eight inches of the other end was a cylinder of steel formed into a dull point. The whole thing weighed close to twenty pounds. He knew how heavy it was from first hand experience on his friend Bob’s place. He and Bob had taken turns using it for its intended purpose. They managed to dig six holes in ten hours through rock and shale and a modicum of dirt. Both men had slept well when night finally fell. Gabe noted the tale-tell signs of white caliche clinging to one end of the heavy metal digging bar and felt a pang of compassion for the man.

  He’s either been digging or prying. Either way, the fellow’s got his work cut out for him in this ground.

  “Hey Sean,” he called to the General.

  An expression flashed across the General’s face and vanished before Gabe could identify it. He threw his arms wide in greeting. “Gabe! What a pleasant surprise! Where’s Sophie?”

  “Back in Brandt. I’ve been visiting with Sheriff Noble and thought I’d let you buy me a glass of lemonade, or a Dr. Pepper if you’ve got it. The road from Milieu can give a man a powerful thirst.”

  The General grinned and the two men shook hands. Gabe cocked his left eyebrow in the long-haired man’s di
rection.

  The General nodded and said, “Chip, this is my good friend Gabe Chance. Gabe, Chip Drake. Chip’s uncle runs Mountainview.”

  “Runs? I thought the Drakes owned this place.”

  “Oh, they do. And they manage it. They’re hands-on owner/managers. Edsel says that’s the only way he can keep his finger on the pulse of Mountainview. It’s one of the selling points.”

  Chips eyes narrowed to slits as he looked at Gabe. Gabe had the impression of being studied by an adder; an adder with bloodshot eyes and a red nose. He decided Chip Drake was either an alcoholic or well on his way to becoming one.

  “Hi, Chip,” he said, hand extended.

  A surly grunt escaped from behind the scrim of greasy black hair.

  Gabe was relieved, not offended, when the man ignored his offered hand.

  Save’s me having to sterilize it, later.

  An awkward silence followed which the General broke. “As you were, Chip. Come inside, Gabe. I think the kitchen may have a few snicker doodles to go with our lemonade.”

  Once inside, he said, “Don’t mind Chip. Edsel took him in when his own parents abandoned him. It’s made the boy a little wary of others.”

  “That didn’t feel like ‘wary’ to me. Predatory, maybe.”

  “The boy has had a hard time of it, Gabe. I can’t tell you how many men like Chip I’ve seen transformed into strong, self-confident citizens. That’s what discipline and a chance can do for a man.” His eyes sparkled at the obvious word play.

  “That’s twice you’ve referred to him as a boy. He’s gotta be at least 35. And I prefer my sociopaths, young or old, already ‘transformed’, General. Preferably in front of me, not behind me.”

  “Chip’s harmless, Gabe.” He dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. “But, tell me: you went to Milieu to see Sheriff Noble?”