Sneak Thief (A Dog Park Mystery) (16 page)

“
I
feel
like Dr. Watson in drag,” Bailey said as she and Lia crossed Telford on the way to A. Vasari, “tailing along with you while you snoop. You really think the old guy had anything to do with it?”

“Peter said in police work, it's more important to be thorough than smart. Which explains how Heckle and Jeckle keep their jobs. It's important not to have preconceived notions about who is or isn't likely to commit a crime. He also said most people will commit a crime or even kill someone, under the right circumstances. The motivation just has to be powerful enough to overcome their self-imposed limits. That's why you try to learn as much as you can about everyone and everything in a victim's life.”

“What about her father? He sounds like a real gem with his ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live' BS.”

“I feel safe in saying he didn't do it.”

“Why not? He sounds like he's crazy enough to murder someone.”

“He probably is. But he spit on her.”

“So? That just makes him crazier.”

“He said he'd been waiting years to spit on her dead body. If he'd killed her, he would have done it then, and he would not have done it in front of the coroner because it might give him away. And if he did spit on her both times, from what she said, he's not smart enough to come up with something as subtle as saying he'd been waiting to do it.”

“Don't you think you should talk to him anyway? He might know things that could help.”

“He's not likely to tell them to a woman. That's why Terry is going.”

“Makes sense.”

“We're just waiting until we have info about the memorial service, and Terry's going to pretend that we don't know her dad hated her and refused to take the body. All we know is Desiree wanted Dave to take care of it.”

“Smart thinking.”

Lia opened the door to Desiree's former place of employment. “Bailey, what does this remind you of?”

Bailey wrinkled her brow as she considered the barrister cases glowing in the dim recesses of the store. “The snake house at the zoo?”

“That's what I thought.”

“Ups the creep factor, even if it does show off the jewelry. Maybe he did do it.”

Alfonso Vasari attended a customer at the back of his store when jangling bells on the door alerted him to Lia and Bailey's arrival. He peered at them, frowning, then appeared to remember Lia. “You again? You ever find that no-good girl?”

A Clifton matron took her bag and passed Lia and Bailey on her way out of the store, giving them a bland, practiced smile.

Alfonso eyed Lia as she approached. “You don't look too good.”

“Mr. Vasari, I'm sorry to tell you, Desiree was murdered 11 days ago.”

“Murdered? Little Desi?” His face paled and he sat down hard on the stool behind the counter. “Who did this?”

“The police don't know. They suspect she came home and walked in on a burglar.”

“A burglar. . . . Poor Desi.” He shook his head mournfully. “Such a world that a pretty girl gets killed for being in her own home.”

Lia felt pity for the old man, who now undoubtably felt guilty for his ill thoughts about Desiree. “They're having a memorial service for her at The Comet. Would you like me to let you know when I get the details?”

“You're a good girl, to think of me. You do that. Is there anything I can do?”

“I was hoping for some information. Desiree kept several little dolls made of aluminum foil, but they weren't in her apartment. We were wondering if she left them here.”

“Those little dolls? I saw her little dolls, but I don't think she left them here. Lonzo!” he yelled into the back. “Come out here.” He turned back to the women. “Lonzo does her job now. If they're here, he would see them.”

A tall twenty-something man with a dark, tousled hair that was a shade too scruffy to be sexy came out of the workroom. “What is it, Pop?” He eyed Lia and Bailey under heavy lids.
I bet he thinks he's irresistible.

“Little Desi. She had those tiny dolls made out of foil. Are they around?”

“Dolls?” his lip curled. “No dolls. What do you want with that trash.”

“I don't think it's trash to Desi's friends. Did you throw them out?”

“No, Pop, honest. You need anything else? I got work to do.”

“Not right now. We'll talk later.” Vasari Jr. ducked into the back as Vasari Sr. turned back to the women. “I'm sorry we couldn't help.” He squinted at Lia, beetling his brows. “Your amethyst pendant. It's very nice.”

“This?” Lia touched the stone laying against her chest. “It's unusual, isn't it? It was Desiree's.”

“She give that to you?”

“I found it when I was clearing out her apartment. Do you know anything about it?”

“It's old. Worth a few dollars, not much more. A hundred years ago, amethyst was precious. Not now.”

“I was hoping it was valuable. We're having a silent auction of some of Desiree's things at the memorial, so people who knew her could have a memento and to raise money for charity. We're selling it then.” She stroked the stone, wishing she could keep it.

“I would like a memento of Desi. You sell me the necklace? It would be nice to remember her by. I'll give you fifty dollars for your charity.”

“Come to the auction. You might find something else you like even better. I'll let you know as soon as the date is set.”

“You do that. I'll be there.”

“
W
hat a nice old man
,” Bailey said as the door to A. Vasari shut behind them. “He really cared about her. I thought you said he was a grouch.”

“He sure was last time I was here. Shame her own father doesn't care about her like that.”

“So why didn't you give him the pendant?”

“He's a jeweler. What would he do with it besides give it to a woman who never met Desiree, or reset it and sell it? I want to be sure the person who buys it values it for its connection to Desiree. “Plus,” she added as she stroked the purple stone, “I like it.”

“You think people will love us this much when we're dead?”

“Who knows, Bailey. I hope so.”

H
oney whined
and strained towards Lia's apartment as she juggled leashes and keys. Chewy jumped up, scrabbling his claws against the wood while Julia wrapped herself around Lia's legs.

“Brats. Hooligans. I'll feed you if you just let me open the door. Sit, Chewy.”

Lia reassured herself that her Schnauzer hadn't damaged the door, then untangled Julia's leash from around her legs so Julia wouldn't pull her off her feet in the rush to get inside.

“What's wrong with you today?” she scolded.

Once the door was unlocked, Julia nosed it open then bolted. The leash tore out of Lia's hand as Julia raced for the bedroom. Before Lia could unclip Honey and Chewy, Julia trotted back, dragging a freshly laundered tank top. She dropped the tank on the floor and rolled over, squirming her back on it.

“Julia!” Lia admonished. “Where did you get that?” She took possession of the top and stalked into bedroom to toss it in the hamper.

Chaos greeted her. The contents of her dresser were in a pile on the floor, and all the drawers hung open. The mattress and bedding had been dragged halfway off the box-springs. Her jewelry box was upended on her dresser.

She retreated from the wreckage and went into her bathroom. Toiletries lay in the sink, the cabinet shelves empty. Back in the living room she was confronted by the heap of cotton batting, entrails from eviscerated throw pillows. Her lovely collection of hand-made throw pillows: quilted, embroidered, painted, sequined. Accumulated over years. Gifts from far-away loved ones and fellow artists. Her emotional history, gutted.

Lia stumbled into the kitchen and dropped onto the nearest chair, stupefied. Glassy eyes struggled to take in the open cupboard doors, the contents of her drawers dumped in the sink. The only sounds were the distressed whines of her dogs as they gathered around, sniffing her as if her distress had its own, unfamiliar odor. She collapsed, wrapping her arms around Honey for support, taking comfort in the Golden's silky fur as Honey nosed her face, licking her wet cheeks to reassure her.

Officer Hinkle responded to her 911 call. Lia was thankful to see Cal Hinkle, an earnest young officer who was barely out of rookie status. Lia liked that he was polite and respectful. Peter said Cal barely scraped through the academy. Despite his deficiencies, nobody wanted the job more than Cal, and nobody worked harder.

More importantly, he was not Heckle or Jeckle, whose questionable competence as police officers, she was convinced, was based on their ability to think like the thugs they pursued.

Lia spotted honest concern on his pudgy, freckled face as he stood on her porch and immediately felt better. She attempted a half-smile as she opened the door. It came out as a grimace, then fell with a thud, like free weights on the last rep of a long workout.

“Hi, Lia, sorry we're meeting again this way,” he said. He removed his cap as he entered her apartment, which made his hair stick up. He ran a hand through it, increasing its untidiness. Lia thought of hay and forced herself to curb the urge to smooth it down. If it had been anyone but Hinkle, she would have said something. Hinkle was too easily embarrassed.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked, drawing her attention back to her current situation.

“I just got back from the dog park and found it like this.” She walked him through the shambles her apartment had become.

“How long were you gone?”

Lia added up the time in her head. “About ninety minutes. It's like he knew exactly when to do it. Any other time, the dogs would be here.”

“You think the dogs would go after a burglar?”

“I don't know. I've never been burgled before.”

Hinkle rubbed his chin. “Maybe he tried before and couldn't get in because the dogs wouldn't let him. Then he'd know to wait until you were gone. I bet he's been watching you. He made good use of a very narrow window of opportunity.”

Lia stared, having not considered this. “I guess I've been stupid.”

“What's missing?” Hinkle asked tactfully, changing the subject.

“I don't know if anything is missing. I won't know until I put everything back.”

He examined the doors. “No sign of forced entry. Anyone else have a key?”

“Only Peter.”

“Right. Is he on his way?” Lia examined his face, but saw no sign that he was in on the gossip at District Five.

“I haven't called him yet.”

Hinkle nodded but didn't comment. The gesture was weighty, serious. “Have you checked your windows?”

Lia frowned. “I didn't think to check.” She led Hinkle on another tour of her apartment, this time examining the windows. The tour ended in her studio. She lifted the bamboo blind hanging over the window next to her easel. The window gaped wide, reminding Lia of Munch's “The Scream.” Or maybe it was MacCauly Culkin in
Home Alone
. Whatever. She briefly imagined herself letting loose with histrionics that she would never allow herself, pounding on the floor and screaming obscenities until her throat was sore.

“Oh,” She said.

“You normally lock this window?”

Lia said “no” in a tiny voice. “I leave this window open for the air circulation when I'm painting. I didn't think it was a problem because it's over eight feet off the ground.”

Hinkle peered out the window, eyed the bent and broken branches in the ancient lilac bush just outside. “Looks like your visitor used your bush to boost himself up. You might want to trim that back.”

“Oh,” she said again.

“I'm going to look around your yard, knock on a few doors, see if anyone saw anything. When you figure out what's missing, call me at this number and I'll add it to the report.” He handed her his card. “You don't want to be alone with this mess. Is anyone on their way to help you?”

“I hadn't thought that far ahead, but I have someone I can call.”

She watched him checking the outside of her house.
He really is a nice guy. Shame the other cops give him such a hard time.

Bailey arrived twenty minutes later. She breezed in the door and made a quick circuit of the apartment. When she reached the bedroom, she stopped dead, staring at the mayhem. She shook her head. “I thought we were friends. I can't believe you threw a party and didn't invite me.”

Lia flopped down on the exposed box-springs and groaned.

T
he tiny woman
reclined on her side, her head propped on one hand as she leafed through a book. Long hair swept around her neck to pour forward over one lowered shoulder, forming a curtain that partially hid her face. The book had individual pages and was pierced and bound with thread. Her long hair was accompanied by a slender build, like that of the librarian looming over the silver doll behind the counter where it lay.

Kathy Bach's eyes glowed. “Delightful, isn't it? It always gives me pleasure to look at her. Is this the kind of thing you were referring to?”

The break-in spurred Lia to search for Foil Man. She didn't know if he was responsible, but action distracted her and made her feel in control. She started at the library where he'd uploaded the video onto YouTube, hoping for a lead of some kind; a name, a memory, something. When she approached the head librarian at Westwood she hadn't been expecting to encounter another of Foil Man's creations.

“It's lovely. The posture is so expressive. Where did you get it?” She worked to suppress the frisson of uneasy excitement that materialized when Kathy produced the little figure.
Keep it light. Keep it friendly.

“A patron gave it to me, a bit over a year ago.”

“Do you remember who it was?” Lia asked.

“Of course. That was Ernest. He was one of our oddities.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had the sense that he had been homeless at one time. He always wore several layers of clothes, even in the summer. He rode a bike that had been painted like a kind of folk art sculpture, and it had a big wire basket on it. He was always carrying around bundles of Heavens knows what.

“You said you were from Northside. I imagine you see a lot of that sort of thing down there. Westwood is very conservative by comparison. He stood out, but he was always clean and very polite and never bothered anyone.”

Lia's anticipation grew. She could feel her heart beating.

“Do you know where I could find him?”

The woman shook her head. “He got sick about a year ago, then he stopped coming in. Sue,” she called to the sturdy woman at the other checkout terminal, “do you remember Ernie's last name?”

Sue, a large woman with a pale Dutch-boy haircut, tapped her teeth with a pencil. “It was something German, I think. Muller, that was it.”

Margie began pressing keys on her computer. “We're not supposed give out patron information, but since it's about his little foil people, I'm sure he'd want you to know. . . . Here we go.” She handed Lia a piece of paper. “It's on Lischer Ave. Go out the front to Epworth and turn right. It's two blocks down.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Just don't tell anyone. You either, Sue.”

Sue pursed her lips and sternly said, “I know noh-zing,” in her best Sergeant Shultz. Lia thought Sue looked like Shultz as well, including the pale hint of a mustache.

The cozy Craftsman-style house featured immaculately groomed iris beds and a neatly edged walkway leading to the deep front porch. The house exuded warmth and care, and she approved of the dark teal paint. The doorbell announced her with a Westminster chime, a pair of high-pitched Yorkies harmonizing on the other side of the beveled glass side-lights while they skidded around on wood floors polished to a high sheen. The woman who answered the door reminded Lia of a young Shirley McLaine, with a wispy red pixie cut and an open expression.

“Shhhh, Rocky, Bullwinkle, we have company. Hush! What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for Ernie Muller. I'm told he lives here?”

“No, I'm afraid not. We've been here since last September. I don't know of an Ernie in this neighborhood. Are you sure you have the right address?” Her voice was friendly, tentative.

“This is the address he had on record. Perhaps he lived here before you?”

“I wouldn't know. The woman we bought the house from was not living here, and it was vacant when we looked at it. You might try Mrs. Glassner next door, she's been in the neighborhood forever.” She indicated the red brick on her right. “I'm sure you'll find her in, she hardly ever goes out.”

Lia thanked the woman and made her way to the other house. The septuagenarian who answered the door looked frail, but her eyes were as bright as Alma's. The involuntary comparison had her feeling guilty for all the time she was taking from the convalescent center. She mentally vowed to do better.

“Mrs. Glassner? My name is Lia Anderson. I'm looking for information about Ernie Muller. Your neighbor thought you might be able to help me.”

“Ernie? My goodness, come in.” She opened the door wide. “Ernie's been gone since last summer. Come, sit down. Would you like something to drink?”

Lia followed her into the kitchen. “A glass of water would be very nice.”

Mrs. Glassner poured Lia's water and the two women sat. The plate Mrs. Glassner pushed at her was piled with pale cookies dusted with confectioner's sugar. “You have to have some of these so I don't eat them all. I love to bake, but treats are so bad for me.”

Lia took a bite of cookie, tart lemon dancing across her tongue. “These are wonderful. What did you mean about Ernie being gone? Did he move, or has he passed away?”

“Oh, he passed. Emphysema,” she confided. “He was only sixty-four, but he'd lived outside too long before his sister talked him into staying next door. That war,” she shook her head. “It was no good for anyone, and some never recovered. Ernie was one of those. PTSD. Lived outside, homeless, for years, as if he didn't have any family to care about him. Beth finally convinced him to come back home after his mother died. He grew up in that house, so it was familiar to him.”

She nodded out the wide kitchen window into the back yard. A bike that could only be Ernie's was parked on the grass, petunias spilling from the panniers and front basket. “My granddaughter, Liz, she loves the craziest things. When Ernie didn't come home from that last trip to the VA hospital, she asked Beth if she could have the bike to make a planter. She always liked Ernie.”

“I don't understand. If he was so sick, how did he manage that house?”

“Oh, that wasn't him, that was Watcher.”

“Watcher?”

“Creepy name, isn't it. And he looked it, too. Creepy, I mean. I never knew what his real name was and I don't know why Ernie called him that. Maybe because he looked after Ernie when they were on the street. When Ernie came inside, he wanted Watcher to come with him. Beth wasn't too keen on it, but her son checked with the Homeless Association. They said he was okay, so Beth gave in.

“Looked a fright, all those dreadlocks and that beard, but he was always making the loveliest little dolls out of bits of foil and giving them away. Liz has a dozen of them—I never left her alone with him, you understand, though he never was anything but polite. Ernie said Watcher used to trade the dolls for food and such when they were on the street.“

“Do you have any of them?”

“The dolls? Liz might have one or two in her room, the one she uses when she stays here. That's up on the second floor. I don't do steps so well anymore. If you like, you can go look. Second door on your right.”

The little room was sunny, with a white, wrought-iron daybed topped with a menagerie of pastel animals: unicorns, bears, a floppy-eared dog. She found The Watcher's Lilliputian offerings on top of a French Provincial dresser. These were meant to appeal to a young girl. A deer grazing, a clown, a pair of ballet dancers in a pas de deux.

Photographs loomed behind the small figures. Three generations of women: Liz, at various ages from three to sixteen or eighteen; Mrs. Glassner, and the woman Lia presumed linked them, Liz's mother. Lia was thoughtful as she returned to the kitchen.

“Lovely things, aren't they?” Mrs. Glassner asked.

“Very. Were you ever afraid of him? Was he ever inappropriate with your Granddaughter?”

“Afraid? Of Watcher? Oh, no. Ernie was the one that could be strange if he didn't take his medication. Turned out to be a godsend, having someone to look after Ernie. He made sure Ernie took his pills and ate and had clean clothes. Beth didn't like the idea of that young man living off Ernie's disability, but Watcher took good care of him.”

Lia frowned. She was having a hard time seeing the young man who took care of a dying, mentally-ill veteran as Desiree's deranged stalker. Perhaps losing Ernie affected him in some way.

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“Taller than me, but that's everybody. As I said, those dreadlocks and a beard that hung down on his chest. Couldn't see much of his face, all that hair.”

“Mrs. Glassner, what happened to Watcher?”

“I honestly couldn't say. Beth put the house up for sale right after Ernie died. She might know.”

Mrs. Glassner wouldn't let her leave without a packet of lemon cookies and an invitation to drop by any time. Lia resolved to invite her to the reception for her murals when they were finished. Who knew? The woman might make some new friends at the center.

B
eth Harding answered
the phone on the second ring. It took her exactly seventy seconds to tell Lia that Watcher vanished when Ernie died, she did not know where he was and had no desire to find out.