Take a Chance on Me (64 page)

A mostly bald older man opened the door and smiled at him from behind the screen. Emma's father—he could tell it immediately. The lined face was dominated by a broad, sincere smile that offered welcome, even to a stranger, and the eyes were a soft blue.

At the man's feet was a big three-legged dog with rheumy eyes, sniffing the air in excitement. He probably smelled Hairy, who was trying to hide behind Thomas's ankles.

"Yes, son? Are you here to save my soul? If you are, I should warn you that you're a few decades late, but come on in and have a seat."

Thomas found himself entering a big open foyer with oak floors, a gleaming set of wide stairs, and homey wallpaper. "I'm sorry, but do you mind if I bring in my dog? I can keep him in my arms."

The old man was beginning to gesture him through a broad set of pocket doors but turned—and stopped dead. He stared at Hairy, his face showing a range of reactions, from mirth to disbelief.

"Lord Almighty, son. That little thing looks like it fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down."

Thomas couldn't help but laugh. "Yes, sir. I think that's exactly what happened."

Beckett shook his head and pointed to a couch facing the fireplace. "Why not? Bring him in. I don't think Ray's going to eat him."

Thomas sat. The blind dog hobbled over and plopped down by his feet, sniffing and licking at Hairy. The mutant trembled a bit but seemed to take the attention better than Thomas would have expected.

Thomas watched Emma's father ease himself into a comfortable wing chair and look him up and down.

"So? Get to the point, son. You don't dress like any Mormon I've ever seen, so what are you selling?"

"Selling? Uh—"

"I'll be real honest with you." Beckett leaned forward conspiratorially and smacked Thomas's knee with the TV Guide. "I'm willing to listen, but unless it gives me back all my hair and makes my willy do the rumba, I ain't buying."

« ^ »

"I'm not selling anything, sir. My name is Thomas Tobin and I'm a special investigator with the Maryland State Police." He showed the old man his identification and reached across the coffee table to hand him a business card.

"Beckett Jenkins—retired farmer," Emma's father said with a grave nod. "What in the world brings you out here?"

"Well, I'd like to see Emma—uh, Dr. Jenkins. I'm working on a homicide investigation that might benefit from her expertise. Is she home?"

"Emma?" Beckett shook his head and laughed. "How's a vet going to help in a homicide case?"

"It's a long story, sir." Thomas looked around the high-ceilinged room, dominated by a huge fireplace with a wide oak mantel and matching bookcases on either side. The room was warm and beautiful in an unadorned way—kind of like Emma herself.

Just then Thomas realized the floor beneath his feet was vibrating, and he heard some kind of deep thumping sound, which appeared to be coming up through the heating vents. Then he heard what he swore was Emma, yelling.

"Were you ever a military man, Tobin?" Beckett asked. "I served during the occupation of Japan —

Okinawa to be exact. Communications. It's something what's happening in our world today, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, sir, it is." The sofa was quivering under his body. "No military service, sir. I'm an attorney. Is Emma—is she home?"

"Oh, sure, hell, sorry for my manners. Can't you hear her? She's downstairs banging on those damn drums. She had a date tonight, you know. Another man Velvet-san set her up with. She came home early, so she must not have liked him. The last one she cared for at all was that carpenter—did a great job on the barn stalls, but he's in prison now, did you know that?"

Thomas's eyes went wide. "Really?"

Beckett nodded. "I think I should warn you that my girl is probably not in a great mood. She's been down there banging for an hour and she only does that when things are pretty bad."

Beckett sat forward in his chair and leaned an elbow on his knee. "She's a divorcée, you know, used to be married to a real son of a bitch—had an eye for the ladies and couldn't hold on to a dollar bill to save his soul. A book-smart man, but not good enough for my girl. Never was."

Thomas blinked and stared at Beckett, then felt himself smiling. This guy was quite entertaining. He could see where Emma got her no-frills approach to life.

But then—oh, God! The most horrible stench wafted through the room, and it seemed to be coming from Ray, the three-legged dog.

"You like Monty Python, by any chance?" Beckett asked.

"Monty Python?" This kept getting weirder and weirder. Thomas was nearly gagging and his eyes began to water from the odor.

"Yeah, you know—'I fart in your general direction.'" Beckett laughed. "That's old Ray's specialty, and in my opinion, that has got to be the finest film in the history of modern cinema."

Thomas chuckled, trying not to breathe through his nose. "Sure. Monty Python and the Holy Grail." He cleared his throat and in his best fake French accent he said, "Your mother is a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!"

Beckett's eyes looked like shiny buttons ready to pop from his face. He tipped his head back and roared with laughter. "A Python man, are you? That's wonderful. Are you single? Come on—I'll show you to the basement. You want to leave that … that dog up here with us? We'll watch us some Animal Planet."

Thomas left Hairy on the couch and prayed to God above that he wouldn't piss on anything—he was honoring his pledge to never take Hairy in public in the urine defense system. He followed Beckett to a narrow door just outside the kitchen, where the banging got much louder.

"She's got her headphones on, so you'll have to walk all the way down the steps, turn to the right, and wave your hands in the air to get her attention." Beckett opened the door, then yelled over the noise. "Don't think she'd hear you even if you screamed at the top of your lungs!"

Thomas mouthed a thank you before he started down the steep stairs. He held on to a flimsy handrail, ducked his head, and tried to get his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The place was more like a dungeon than a basement, with an uneven concrete floor, sweating stone foundation walls, and a few squat old windows open along the grass line for air. Junk furniture was piled against the walls.