Chihuahua of the Baskervilles (16 page)

“Right down Manitou Avenue. It starts at the town clock and goes to Ruxton Avenue.” He gave the coffin a glum look. “You really think Charlotte will have a problem with this? It’s just that there’s not a lot of time before the race.”

“Trust me, it would be easier all around to change your decorations,” Angus said.

Bob sighed. “I may have to withdraw anyway. Two of my pushers dropped out, and the other messed up his knee skiing. And Cheri was going to be my Emma, but now she says she won’t.” He gave them a mulish look. “She didn’t say it was because of the decorations, though.”

“She probably thought she didn’t have to,” Angus said gently.

Bob looked at the ground. “Maybe. Is Charlotte home?”

“Yes,” Angus said. “But she might appreciate some time to settle in before she has company.”

“
You’re
staying there.”

“We spent last night there, but that was an emergency situation,” Angus said. “I think we’ll make ourselves scarce today—go check out some of the other supernatural aspects of the town.”

“I guess I’ll see you around.” Bob lifted his head. “Maybe you could come over later and have some chips and dip. I have plenty of beer.”

“We’re going to Emma Crawford’s wake tonight,” Michael said quickly.

“Oh, right. I’ve seen it a lot, so I didn’t buy a ticket. But I’m bringing the fog machine.”

“Will you be one of the people jumping out at us?” Suki asked. “Because I have to warn you, I don’t react well to that.”

He shook his head. “It’s not a haunted house.”

“More of a historical re-creation,” Angus added.

“Plus, there’s a nice dinner,” Bob said. “Charlotte was really looking forward to playing Mrs. Bell. I hope they’ve found someone else who can do it. She was committee head this year, so they may not have thought to.”

“We’ll mention it to her,” Angus promised.

“I could call Peggy Filbert, just in case Charlotte is all drugged up.”

“I don’t think she is.”

“That’s good to hear. I’ll call Peggy anyway, just in case.” He moved as if to leave, then turned back and put a hand on the coffin. “Would you guys consider being on my race team? Suki, you could be the Emma. They’d probably mention the magazine in the newspaper.”

Suki looked at Angus. “What do you think?”

“I think it would interfere with your photography of the event.”

“You and Michael could do it,” she said.

Angus shook his head. “I don’t like to run, but if Michael wants to push a coffin and cover the story from an inside angle, that’d be all right.”

Bob looked hopefully at Michael.

“Get rid of the black Chihuahuas and we’ll talk,” Michael said.

Fourteen

When they went back to the house, they found Charlotte sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space. Lila sat at the side of her chair, looking up at her mistress.

“Should you be up and about?” Angus asked, as they came in.

“I’m fine. The doctors adjusted my hypertension medicine.” Charlotte’s appearance wasn’t quite as careful as usual. The turquoise cardigan she wore wasn’t a good match for her pale blue slacks, and she wasn’t wearing any jewelry.

“Can I get you anything?” Angus asked.

She looked at the table, which was empty. “I had a cup of coffee. Oh, there it is—on the counter.”

Angus waved at her to stay seated. “I’ll get it.” He put the cup in front of her while the others sat. “How are you?” he asked, pulling out a chair.

“Numb. Thomas was dreadful, but I can’t quite take in that he’s gone.” She took a sip from her cup and made a face. “I must have lost track while I was measuring the grounds.”

“We were over talking to Bob,” Michael said. “He wondered if you had called someone to replace you in the Emma Crawford wake.”

Charlotte shook her head slowly. “Don’t need to. I’ll still do it, to keep my mind off things. Thomas wanted cremation and no funeral, so there’s nothing to arrange.” She focused on Angus. “I thought of running away somewhere—leaving the country for a while.”

Suki looked intrigued. “Indonesia doesn’t extradite to the U.S., if that’s a consideration.”

“What?” Charlotte turned to stare at her.

“Pay no attention to her,” Angus said, sitting forward so that he blocked Suki from Charlotte’s view. “She sometimes has an inappropriate sense of humor.”

“Just trying to be helpful,” Suki muttered.

“Anyway, I’ve decided not to go anywhere,” Charlotte went on. “I have my work, and people who depend on me.”

“Speaking of people who depend on you…” Angus clasped his hands on the table. “Charlotte, does your will give anyone a compelling reason to want you dead?”

She closed her eyes. “What cheerful, comforting things you all say.”

“I’m sorry,” Angus said, “but I’m very worried about you. What if the ghost was meant to lure
you
into the street, not Thomas?”

Charlotte sighed and opened her eyes. “My will does have some fairly generous bequests. Cheri is my granddaughter, so of course I want to take care of her. And even though I’m a little angry with Ellen right now, she deserves to get Petey’s Closet when I’m gone. Even Ivan should have his chance. But it’s not as though I noise all this around. What are you suggesting—that I cut everyone out?”

“Of course not.” Angus leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Just
say
you have.”

Michael sucked in his breath on a hiss. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. If someone is acting from anger rather than hope of gain, telling people they’re out of the will could push this person over the edge.”

“That’s true.” Turning to Charlotte, Angus said, “Does anyone of your acquaintance have a history of mental instability? Violence?”

Charlotte started to shake her head, but stopped. “Well…”

“What?” Michael asked.

Charlotte bit her lip. “Ivan has something of a past.”

“We already know he shot a wolf,” Michael said.

“That’s true, but according to him, he also threatened to kill a woman.” She glanced toward the hallway and pushed back her chair. “Why don’t we go out to the workshop? I’ll get my keys.”

They waited as Charlotte got her purse, then followed her outside, where she unlocked the door to the stone workshop. Once inside, she turned on the lights and a couple of electric heaters, then perched on a stool. “I feel like I should start with
once upon a time
.”

Suki leaned her elbows on a worktable and cupped her face in her palms. “Go ahead.”

Charlotte smiled faintly. “Some time ago, when Ivan was still touring with the Trans-Siberian Circus, he had an affair with the circus owner’s wife, and she got pregnant. The circus owner fired Ivan and threw his own wife out into the snow. She begged her husband’s forgiveness and offered to abort the child.”

“Did he take her back?” Michael asked.

“No. And Ivan told her that if she aborted their child, he would kill her. She carried it to term thinking Ivan would stay with her, but he had come to hate her. When his son was three months old, he took the baby and came to America, where he has a cousin.”

“Where is the child now?” Angus asked.

“With the cousin and his wife. They weren’t able to have children, so they’ve raised the boy as their own. He’s about eight. Ivan sees him a couple of times a year.”

“Does anyone know what happened to the kid’s mother?” Suki asked.

“Apparently she drank herself to death.” Charlotte rubbed her arms. “It’s quite a story, isn’t it?”

“Have you actually met this kid?” Michael asked, his tone skeptical.

“Come on, Michael,” Angus said. “Why would Ivan make something like that up? It’s not very flattering.”

“That’s arguable, and it’s just the kind of operatic backstory that would go over well on television.”

“I have met the boy,” Charlotte said. “He lives in Texas and seems very happy with his adopted family. He calls Ivan
Uncle Papa,
and says his mother lives with the wolves.”

“Is that some sort of Russian euphemism for liver failure?” Suki asked.

“No, I think that’s what they told him. Ivan swore me to secrecy.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “That kid is going to need years of therapy.”

Angus looked thoughtful. “Ivan may have a torrid past, but the fact remains, he didn’t physically harm the woman, as far as we know. What about Ellen? Anything there?”

Charlotte shook her head. “Ellen simmers and sulks. She’s not big on action. And although you’re diplomatically not asking about Cheri, I will tell you that while she and her stepfather get into occasional screaming matches, she’s never thrown or broken anything. Cheri certainly never hit him.” Charlotte chuckled. “She did sew the bottoms of his suit pants closed before a big meeting. I shouldn’t laugh, but I’m not fond of the man, either.”

She slid off the stool. “This has been therapeutic, talking about other people’s problems. I feel better, at least for the moment.”

“That’s good,” Angus said. “I still think you might say something about your will.”

Charlotte shook her head. “It’s just too melodramatic, and completely unnecessary. I think the police are right. Thomas’s death was just a series of coincidences.” She bit her lip for a moment. “I dreamed about Petey last night. It was a little fuzzy, but the general message was that Thomas chose to react in anger. No one made him run into that street. He did it all on his own.”

Angus nodded. “I can’t argue with that.”

“I can,” Michael said.

“But you won’t,” Angus said firmly.

Charlotte gestured to the door. “I’m sorry to run you out, but I have a lot of work to do for the wake tonight.”

“I thought Thomas didn’t want a funeral,” Michael said, leading the way outside.

“Emma Crawford’s wake.” Charlotte pulled the door closed and took out her keys. “I have a background in theater, you know. Tonight’s show must go on, and tomorrow is the coffin race. I assume you’ll be here for that as well.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Angus said.

She turned from the locked door and smiled. “Then I insist you all stay with me another night. There’s Thomas’s room, of course. I’ll have Ellen…” She broke off. “I’ll set up a cot in the upstairs parlor for whoever wants it. After all, Petey might put in another appearance, to say good-bye.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll see you this evening, if not before.”

“Charlotte,” Michael said quickly. “Does anyone in the house have a pink coat with a hood?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Why? Did you find one?”

“Uh, yes, on the street. It must have fallen out of someone’s car.”

“That sounds like something Cheri would do, and I know she has at least one pink jacket. But you might also check with Ellen. I talked her into a pink parka years ago, thinking it would help cheer her up. Although to my knowledge, she never wears it.” She gave a wry smile. “Maybe she was taking it to charity and it fell off the top of a box.”

“Okay, thanks,” Michael said.

She lifted her hand. “See you all later.”

They watched her cross the yard and go into the house.

“That didn’t narrow things down much,” Michael said. “And what’s up with the dream about Petey? Last night she seemed convinced a person was behind the whole thing, but now it sounds like she’s back to believing in a ghost.”

“There’s probably some psychology going on,” Angus mused. “After the initial shock of Thomas’s death, Charlotte must be feeling quite relieved. That’s easier to justify if she can mark his death down to fate.”

“In the form of a ghostly toy breed.” Michael shook his head. “Harbingers of death seem kind of cut-rate these days. What ever happened to banshees and fire-breathing horses?”

“It’s hard to get good help nowadays.” Angus put his hands in his pockets and started toward the house. “Since we’re spending our last night here, we might as well get all our things from the motel.”

“At least staying here will let us keep an eye on Charlotte,” Michael said, following him.

“And maybe Petey will stop by to bid us all farewell.”

*   *   *

They spent the afternoon at the Crystal Valley Cemetery, site of Emma Crawford’s eventual resting place.

Michael read the gravestone’s inscription into his recorder. “‘In Memoriam. Emma L. Crawford. Passed To The Higher Life December 4th 1891. There Was That In Her Life Here Which Knew Not Death Nor Feared Its Shaft; A Tranquil Trust. A Faith in the Infinite Unknown—The Spirit Life. She Will Not Be Forgotten.’”

“Very nice,” Angus said solemnly.

Michael clicked off his recorder. “Hey, can I use the phrase
peripatetic corpse
when I write about Emma? Will our readers know what that means?”

“If they don’t, they can look it up.” Angus waved a small branch with silk leaves at Suki. “Are you ready for this yet?”

“Sure.” She squinted into the bright sky. “Okay, stand here.” She positioned Angus and raised his arm. “Angle the branch this way. A little higher. There.”

The tombstone, a slab of irregular flagstone with a black-and-white photo of Emma Crawford, looked pleasantly ordinary in full sun. With the fake branch casting dappled shade across Emma’s name, it looked mysterious and moody.

“Damn, you’re good,” Michael said. “What if local people write in and complain that there aren’t any nearby trees, so it isn’t accurate?”

“Then we’ll know someone is reading the magazine,” Angus said. “How long do I have to hold this?”

“Just a few seconds.” Suki moved the tripod and took a few more shots. “Okay. What’s next?”

Angus took a printout from his pocket and consulted it. “I believe Theresa M. Kenny’s mausoleum is over there.” He pointed.

“Is it supposed to be haunted?” Michael asked.

“Not that I know of. Maybe we’ll be the first to see something.” Angus led the way through the grassy cemetery. As they walked, he said, “Ms. Kenny was an Austrian immigrant who bought her grave site fourteen years prior to her death. She built her own mausoleum, except for the roof, which she hired out. She was so enamored with what she called her ‘little house’ that she brought a rocking chair and sat in front of it on nice days. When she died, they put the rocking chair inside. I’m hoping we can get a nice picture.” He looked around. “Ah, there’s the place.”