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On weekdays, when Mrs. Ledbetter has judged that her young charge has added a sufficient quantity of knowledge to his already overstuffed brain for one day—usually by early afternoon—she’ll release Maxwell to come to my apartment and collect Earp and Hercules, who will then spend the rest of the afternoon rambling around with their favorite human. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement: the animals entertain Maxwell, and he (mostly) keeps them from wreaking havoc on the place.
It’s a similar procedure on weekends, minus the involvement of Marsha, and there’s no delay because of Maxwell’s lessons.
When Maxwell arrived at my door mid-morning, I did not, per Georgia’s instructions, insist that Maxwell remain indoors and confine the animals to the premises, but I did charge that they were not to be taken into his own house.
“Just stay outside with them,” I said, “but don’t leave the trailer court.”
The trailer court at Little Tombstone sits behind the row of ramshackle two-story storefronts which house the Bird Cage Café, the Curio Shop, and the Museum of the Unexplained.
There are also two living spaces in the second story of the wooden buildings, which my late Uncle Ricky designed to emulate a truncated version of the real town of Tombstone, Arizona.
I live over the Bird Cage, and Hank and his wife Phyliss live over the Curio Shop.
“And don’t take the animals up to see Hank and Phyliss,” I told Maxwell.
“Why not?”
I cited Earp’s unsightly and possibly contagious skin condition as being the cause, but in all honesty, I had my misgivings about Maxwell getting wind of the intriguing tale of the Lost Crown Jewels of Ireland.
If I let Maxwell run amok, and Georgia came looking for the boy only to discover that her son had acquired a “diamond detector” on credit—or mounted a passionate campaign to do so—she’d hit the roof.
“And stay away from the Curio Shop,” I told Maxwell.
“What about the Museum?”
The Curio Shop and the Museum of the Unexplained occupy one continuous space, and Maxwell was splitting hairs. He takes after his mother that way.
“Stay away from all indoor spaces,” I said, “and people.”
“Why?”
“I already explained about the mange.”
“You didn’t really,” said Maxwell. “Is it contagious or not?”
All I had to go on was the statement Dr. Bagley had made when handing down the diagnosis over the phone. She’d described Sarcoptic Mange as “mildly” contagious. Maxwell was right. I wasn’t sure quite how contagious Earp’s condition was.
I pulled out my laptop after dissuading Maxwell from stuffing Earp into a seasonally inappropriate doggy sweatshirt that proclaimed the canine was “pug ugly” and searched for Sarcoptic Mange.
I was interrupted several times by being presented with various items from Earp’s canine wardrobe, which my late Aunt Geraldine had bequeathed to me along with the pug.
After several rejections, I finally grudgingly sanctioned a shamrock green mesh tank top proclaiming that the wearer was “A Wee Bit Irish.”
“I think that’s for St. Patrick’s Day, though,” I told Maxwell.
“When is St. Patrick’s Day?”
“March.”
“We missed it.”
I wasn’t surprised that Maxwell was ignorant about St. Patrick and his day. Georgia is what one might describe as a lapsed Catholic, but I don’t think that’s why Maxwell wasn’t acquainted with the holiday.
Georgia doesn’t approve of some of the traditions surrounding St. Patrick’s Day. She thinks all the sanctioned pinching is weird and borderline assaultive. I can’t say I disagree with her views.
“I guess we’re just celebrating St Patrick’s Day a little late. I found Sarcoptic Mange,” I told Maxwell, and he came to sit beside me on the sofa while I scrolled the article. “The mite is mildly contagious to human beings. Between 10-20% of people may develop a red rash on their forearms, ankles, or waist. This will resolve when your dog is treated,” I read aloud.
“Has Earp been treated?” Maxwell asked.
“I wasn’t able to pick up his medication yesterday,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Dr. Vance had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” Maxwell asked.
“She ended up on the floor and hit her head,” I said, uncertain how much to tell the kid.
On the one hand, Maxwell might find out elsewhere what had really happened to Dr. Vance even if I didn’t tell him, but on the other, I did not want to be the reason he started to worry that someone might sneak up behind him and hit him in the head with a heavy object.
“Was Dr. Vance running inside?” said Maxwell.
Maxwell, like pretty much every other active child since the dawn of time, is frequently subjected to admonitions from multiple parties to stop running inside before he hurts himself. I don’t think he’s ever suffered more than a bruised knee from darting around indoors, but apparently, the possibility of dire injury was a peripheral worry for him.
“I don’t think she was running,” I said.
“Then how did she fall down and hit her head?” Maxwell asked. “Did she slip on a rug?”
Maxwell had just turned ten. He’s an innocent kid, but he’s far from stupid, and even though Maxwell does not regard me as the intellectual equal of his own mother, or even Hank Edwards, he trusts me to be truthful.
“Somebody hit Dr. Vance in the back of the head with something?” I said.
“What?”
“Somebody hit Dr. Vance in the back of the head with something,” I repeated.
“I meant, what did they hit her with?”
“A trophy.”
“What for?”
“I have no idea. Maybe, they were mad at her for some reason.”
“I meant, what kind of trophy was it?”
“A rodeo trophy.”
Maxwell had never been to a rodeo, and it took a little explaining before he understood why people would be awarded trophies for activities like navigating around barrels on horseback, roping calves, and staying atop a bucking bull for a few seconds longer than anyone else.
Maxwell had a trophy of his own, but it was a small, plastic object he’d been awarded when he’d come in third place in a homeschooler’s robotics contest. It took even more explaining for him to understand that Reba’s award had been of quite a different heft and how being hit with such a trophy might render Dr. Vance unconscious and prostrate on the floor.
I tried to deemphasize the bloody aspects of the event, but Maxwell didn’t seem as interested in the extent of Dr. Vance’s injuries as he did in the possible sequence of events leading up to the attack.
“I’m going over to get Earp’s medication in a few minutes,” I said. “Do you want to stay here, or do you want to come with me? Assuming your mother approves.”
As I had predicted, Maxwell opted to come with me, and when I texted Georgia, she made no objection to the outing.
Maxwell insisted that Earp and Hercules accompany us. Earp, who needs the exercise, was duly leashed, and Hercules, who has her own little harness for such outings, was also outfitted for our adventure.
Even without the sometimes outlandish costumes which might normally accompany such an outing, we still made a slightly ridiculous quartet of creatures as we set out along the shoulder of Highway 14 to visit the vet clinic.
“I think I know why he did it,” said Maxwell as we scuffed along the shoulder of Highway 14 in the heat and the dust.
“He?”
“Or she. I mean the guy who hit Dr. Vance in the head with her rodeo trophy.”
“Why do you think he (or she) did it?”
“I think he was mad.”
That made two of us. Either mad or scared, but I hadn’t the foggiest why someone would be scared enough of Reba Vance to do a bludgeon and run at her place of work.
“What do you think he was mad about?” I asked.
“Maybe Dr. Vance was mean to him,” said Maxwell. “When somebody is mean to me, I always want to hit them.”
“Oh?”
“But I don’t,” he added virtuously.
“Of course not.”
“Hitting is a bad choice,” said Maxwell. “Even if someone is mean to you, you don’t hit.”
“Quite right.”
“Except possibly in self-defense,” Maxwell amended. “But only if they hit you first.”
“Possibly.”
“And only if they won’t stop when you tell them to.”
“I should think so.”
“And you can’t run away instead of hitting back.”
“In that case, hitting back is most certainly an ethically acceptable choice,” I conceded. Even Georgia, who is a strict pacifist—or at least expects her offspring to adopt that philosophy—would approve of that statement. I hoped.
“I think so,” said Maxwell solemnly.
“Well, I imagine whoever hit Dr. Vance will eventually get into trouble for doing it,” I said with more confidence than I felt.
It is only in movies (and fairy tales) that the bad guy invariably gets what is coming to him.
As we trudged along in near silence the rest of the way to the clinic, with periodic stops for the pug and the piglet to nose the ground, I couldn’t help considering there might be something to Maxwell’s conviction that whoever had hit Reba might have been bullied by her; it seemed highly unlikely that whoever had done it had chosen his (or her) victim at random.
When we got to the clinic, the yellow crime scene tape was no longer stretched across the entrance. As we passed by the concrete pad where the gas pumps used to be, the bloody footprints were still faintly visible, but to my relief, neither the pug nor the piglet stopped to sniff them.
As we stepped inside the blessedly cool air-conditioning of the clinic waiting room, we were met by Julia, who came around from behind the desk to greet the animals and the boy.
“You must be here for Earp’s ointment,” Julia said when she finally got around to addressing the adult human member of the group.
“I am.”
“I’ve got it here,” said Julia, “but if you don’t mind waiting for a minute, Dr. Bagley wanted to talk to you when you came in.”
“How’s Dr. Vance doing?” I asked as I watched Julia’s face for any flicker of suspect emotion.
“She’s been discharged and is resting at home,” said Julia. “Fortunately, she got away with a cut on her head and a concussion, but Dr. Bagley says she’s going to be fine and back to work in a couple of days, thank goodness.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said.
Julia seemed genuinely pleased that Reba was on the mend, and I decided to provisionally strike her from my very short list of possible suspects.
“You heard they arrested someone?” Julia continued.
“No! Who?”