Don't Dare a Dame (20 page)

   
“Isobel should be home in thirty minutes or so,” I said. “Don’t answer the door until then.”

   
Corrine had two fingers over her mouth and was chuckling silently. Her attention appeared to be fixed on something beyond me.

   
“I’ll be perfectly fine,” she said waving aside my concern. “Mr. Thomas does use some odd words at times, doesn’t he?”

   
“Uh, yes,” I agreed.

   
At the curb Pearlie was leaning comfortably against my DeSoto.

   
“Some cop’s coming over to see her,” he said when I joined him. “Called her and asked if he brought some dogs by, would she give him advice. Said he had the afternoon off.”

   
Boike.

   
“And you didn’t want to chance being here,” I said.

   
Pearlie shrugged. “Don’t like cops.”

   
“Mind helping me with something else for maybe fifteen minutes?”

   
“Sure.” He opened the passenger door.

   
“There’s a black Dodge parked up the street,” I said as I went around to the driver’s side. After I drop you off, I think it’s going to follow me.”

   
Pearlie was the only person I knew who not only didn’t need warning not to look, but never appeared to do so no matter how casually. He flicked his cigarette into the street and got in.

   
“What do I do?”

   
“Fiddle around till he passes you. Check your tires or something. Then you follow him. I’m going to hunt for a stretch with a couple of parking spaces and pull into one. If he pulls over too, you block him in.”

   
Pearlie wore a small smile of expectation. It showed only his canine teeth.

   
“What if he doesn’t?”

   
I started my engine and executed a U-turn to deliver him to his car.

   
“Then you go on back to Rachel and tell her I said thanks.”

***

   
This time the black car was cagier, but only because it kept a couple of cars between us. Either the driver was used to tailing Dumb Daryls, or he didn’t have much experience at what he was doing.

   
I went up Brown instead of Main. Less traffic would get snarled if I had a chance to try my plan. Eventually I saw the perfect setup. Just ahead of me was a vacant parking spot. Four or five spaces beyond that, a car was pulling away from the curb.

   
Sticking my arm out the window, I signaled and slowed, creeping toward the newly vacated space. I couldn’t see Pearlie behind the Dodge, but I had every confidence that he was. Motioning a car around me, I began to angle into the parking space. Another car went around me. Then all my attention, not to mention my muscle power, went into turning the steering wheel.

   
By the time I’d finished, I didn’t see any black Dodge in my rearview mirror. What I did see was Pearlie’s car stopped in traffic a few spaces back. His hand was out the window only as far as his wrist. One finger motioned languidly for people to pass. I heard a horn toot. I got out of my car and strolled back.

   
There wasn’t room to kick up my heels between the car at the curb and Pearlie’s car. There was, however, room for me to tap on the window.

   
The guy inside was medium build, with lank brown hair and nervous eyes. I didn’t remember seeing him before, but lots of people had been at that meeting at Cy Warren’s place. His eyes were bobbling this way and that, and the size of billiard balls with the realization he’d not only been spotted but trapped. His hands appeared to be stuck to the wheel.

   
I tapped again and gave him my most pleasant look.

   
His gaze slid toward the passenger door, trying to decide if he should run for it. Instead he swallowed and turned the handle to lower his window two inches. Somewhere behind Pearlie a car honked. I leaned in agreeably to talk through the window.

   
“Hey, it’s flattering, having someone following me all morning, but I’m kind of shy. Tell Cy if he wants to know where I’m going, he can call my office. Give him this, so he doesn’t need to look up the number.”

   
I tossed one of my cards through the gap in the window. The man on the other side grabbed for it as if it were a glowing cigarette about to land on his privates.

   
I sauntered back to my car. Pearlie drove past me. I started the DeSoto and drove off.

   
Nobody followed.

Twenty-five

   
Picking up Pearlie had cost me a chance to talk to Neal when he came out for lunch. By the time he got off work for the day, I’d need to be elsewhere if I wanted to talk to his stepbrother Franklin Maguire, which I did. At half-past five I was parked near the house where Franklin rented a room with (his landlady bragged) its own tub and toilet.

   
Franklin was easy to recognize from the photograph Isobel had lent me. As I’d guessed, his hair was light brown. He walked briskly, a man who was either efficient by nature or on some schedule. He took no note of my car as he turned up the walk to the gray house with its freshly painted latticework.

   
My plan was to give him about twenty minutes before I went calling. He’d have time to wash up, maybe relax a little. It would make him more receptive to my questions.

   
Franklin had other ideas. He’d only been inside ten minutes before he came out again, wearing the same fawn-colored cap and tweed jacket he’d worn when he went in. This time, though, he carried a book and notebook. He set off with the same purposeful stride.

   
Recalling his landlady’s mention that he took classes, I jumped out and hurried across the street to intercept him.

   
“Mr. Maguire?”

   
“Yes?” he said politely. The lack of hostility put him several notches above George and Neal in my estimation.

   
“I’m Maggie Sullivan. I left you an envelope.”

   
“I’m afraid you forgot to put in whatever papers you intended. My landlady said it had something to do with my father’s death.”

   
“Yes.”

   
His manner had grown more cautious.

   
“Could we do this tomorrow? I’ve a class to attend.” He gestured with the book he was carrying.

   
“I have a car.” I nodded toward my DeSoto. “If I give you a lift can we talk?”

   
A slight frown had appeared between his eyebrows.

   
“What’s this about?”

   
“Some problems your sisters are having.” I handed him one of my cards.

   
His head snapped up.

   
“Corrie and Isobel? What kind of problems? Don’t tell me that idiot George is hounding them,” he said sharply.

   
I liked it that he hadn’t corrected me that they were his stepsisters.

   
“I don’t think so.” I indicated my car again.

   
This time he walked quickly around to the passenger’s side and we got under way.

   
“Before I tell you about it, one question,” I said. “Where were you last Thursday night?”

   
“A week ago?” His bark of laughter lacked humor. “That’s easy. In a ditch somewhere between here and Waynesville. All night. With my boss.” His eyes slid toward me and I thought I saw the ghost of a grin. “I expect the police have already checked with the farmer who found us. They asked the same thing.

   
“Herbert — Mr. Moore, my employer — was taking his truck down to pick up a secondhand display case that a place that had gone bust was selling cheap. He asked would I go along to help lift it. We had trouble finding the place, and getting it into the truck took longer than we expected. Then we got turned around on the roads and had to backtrack. Just when we thought we were finally on track, a deer came bounding out in front of us. Herbert hit the brakes, and I guess the display case shifted. Next thing we knew, we were in the ditch. Fortunately, we didn’t roll or anything, but we were stuck there till morning when a farmer came along and saw us and pulled us out with his tractor.”

   
I laughed. “I’ve heard some doozy alibis, but that takes the cake.”

   
“Yes, doesn’t it.” Franklin was relaxing now. “That’s why I headed out early tonight. I missed last week’s class because of the trip. Another fellow in it said I could copy his notes, so we’re meeting up for a sandwich.” His expression turned serious. “Now, what’s this about the girls having problems?”

   
I told him about being hired to look into what became of their father, omitting the fact that they thought his own father might have had something to do with it. When I mentioned an eavesdropper, he hitched in his breath. When I got to the part about the dog being killed, he swore under his breath and turned his face to the window.

   
“Poor Corrie,” he said. “Poor, sweet— That dog was more than her helper, you know. He was her dearest friend, next to Isobel. Who in God’s name would do such a thing?”

   
“Would Neal?”

   
He turned to me, startled.

   
“Neal? I don’t think so. He’s hotheaded, but — No, I’m sure he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have the stomach for it. Besides, he’s kind of soft on animals.”

   
“What about your brother?”

   
“George?” He chuckled faintly. “He’s even less likely. They both swagger and talk tough, but they’re mostly hot air.”

   
“And your father? Could he kill the dog, knowing how indispensable an animal like that is to a blind person?”

   
He was quiet a moment.

   
“Yes,” he said at last. “I believe he could. And the dog didn’t like him. But why—?”

   
I shook my head. I’d learned all I needed to know and I saw no need to shame him further.

   
“I wanted to talk to your father because he and John Vanhorn were cousins of some sort, and may have had friends in common. I’m trying to find out who those friends were.”

   
Franklin glanced at his watch. We were only five minutes or so from his destination.

   
“You think someone my father knew killed Corrie’s dog?”

   
“It’s possible.”

   
He looked at me thoughtfully.

   
“It’s not just the dog, is it? What else has happened to them?”

   
“Let’s save that for later. What I need to know, before you get out, is if you know the names of any of your father’s friends. Ones who maybe came to the house when you kids were little.”

   
He rubbed his thumb against his lower lip.

   
“There was a fat one who always slapped me on the back and called me ‘laddie’. I hated him. I don’t recall his name.” He closed his eyes as if to see the past more clearly, then shook his head. “He had men over sometimes. To play poker mostly. Jokey sorts who laughed a lot. I don’t remember hearing names, though. Can’t even picture anyone except that one I didn’t like.”

   
I gave him a minute or two to dredge something more up, but he shook his head.

   
“What about someone named Cy?” I asked.

   
“Cy?”

   
“Or maybe Cyrus.”

   
He rubbed his thumb on his lip again. “Possibly. Or maybe it’s only because you mentioned it. I just don’t know.”

   
The business school where he took his class was just ahead.

   
“You never told me about the rest of the troubles the girls were having,” he reminded.

   
“Can I tell you this weekend?”

   
Filling him in on Corrine’s abduction wouldn’t take long, but I had more questions, and time to think some before I asked them would be handy.

   
He didn’t look pleased, but his head dipped in acceptance. “Sure. I guess. I’ll be around.”