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I DON’T WATCH MUCH daytime television, and living three miles out of town means I’m sometimes a little out of the loop. I spent Tuesday morning putting away fall clothes and hauling out winter stuff, so it was almost noon before I heard about the murder in Allport. A person might think one’s family would call when something big happened in town, but she’d be wrong, at least where my sisters are concerned. Faye’s cautious about spreading gossip, and Barb? She wouldn’t let me know if that big old house of hers was on fire.
When I called Cindy Stafford about the agenda for the Chamber of Commerce meeting, she gushed, as usual, about how helpful I was to the group and how they couldn’t operate without me. Then she asked if I’d heard the news. When I said no, she happily shared the gory details. “A guy was bludgeoned to death in an alley downtown,” she said, her voice all breathy. “I don’t know his name, but they say he was engaged to the youngest Habedank girl—Annie?—something like that.”
A face came to mind. “Frannie. She works for her dad at the marina.”
“Isn’t she the one that makes men drool and women grind their teeth?”
“That’s her. She’s very pretty. Terrible to lose her fiancé like that though.” I knew that trauma well, though it had been over a decade since my Don, a Michigan state trooper, answered a domestic violence call and was shot as he exited his car. No reason. No second chances. Half of me was gone. The other half was left stunned and terrified.
A cough told me Cindy was embarrassed. A lot of people are afraid you’ll break down in gasping sobs when the subject of a lost loved one comes up, but for me it isn’t like that. I’m pleased when someone mentions Don, because it lets me know he isn’t forgotten.
“Anyway,” Cindy went on, “the victim’s name was Steve Deline. He came to Allport to remodel the marina. I guess Milo Habedank is making his boat store all fancy for the tourists.”
“I noticed the place was getting a face-lift.”
“Sometime in October, he and Frannie got engaged.”
“Marrying the boss’ daughter, eh?”
“They’d have made a pretty couple. He was good-looking: nice build, mucho hair, and good teeth.” I sensed a shiver as she went on. “They say he wasn’t so pretty when they found him this morning.”
“In an alley, you said?”
“Yeah.” Possibly searching for assurance that it couldn’t happen to her she said, “Who’d go wandering around town after midnight? It’s just asking for trouble.”
An image of my sister and me adding an apostrophe to the Bells Hardware sign at three o’clock one morning came to mind. Barbara Ann fixes grammatical mistakes under cover of darkness, and after I caught her doing it, I’d started helping. It was fun, but we’d never considered getting attacked by some murdering fiend out looking for victims in the dark. “Right,” I told Cindy. “Dumb.”
Later that morning I learned Steven Deline hadn’t actually died in the alley. “The body was dumped there,” the kid behind the counter told me when I stopped for gas. “Chief Neuencamp figured that out right away. I guess all that time with the Chicago P.D. got him used to handling murders.”
Rory Neuencamp was indeed an experienced murder investigator. The Michigan State Police Detective Bureau would be called in from Grayling, since they had labs, equipment, and expertise no small-city department could match. I hoped they would give Rory the respect he was due. Besides being smart, he was my sister’s boyfriend, so sooner or later we’d hear all the gory details.
I arrived at the Smart Detective Agency offices, located in the front two rooms of my sisters’ rambling Victorian home, at one-fifteen, only a few minutes later than planned. When I came in the front door, Dale beat a hasty retreat out the back, as he often does. Barbara Ann says I make him nervous with all my “flapping around.” Faye says certain voice tones affect his damaged nerves, and I shouldn’t feel bad about it. I think Dale is uncomfortable with attractive women. Not that Faye and Barbara are unattractive, but they certainly don’t work very hard to bring out their good points.
We hold our business meetings in Barbara’s office, probably so Faye and I are reminded she’s the real boss in our “equal” partnership. Before we got to our current cases, we pooled what we knew about the murder. Rory hadn’t called Barbara yet, so we had nothing official. I shared what I’d heard from Cindy and Mike.
As I talked, Faye checked Facebook on her iPad to see what had been posted since morning. “Lots of speculation,” she announced, “most of it short on facts.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Barbara said. “We won’t get the truth from gossip, either in town or on social media.”
Faye set the device aside, affected, as usual, by The Eldest’s opinion, and we turned our attention to work. We had two cases: one was a search for the former employee of a local car dealership who’d embezzled a bunch of money and disappeared. The guy was the owner’s wife’s nephew, so he’d asked us to look into the case before calling in the police. Faye had a lead but was waiting for a call from Topeka, Kansas, to confirm it.
The day before we’d taken on a client whose dog was stolen from her fenced backyard over the weekend. Mrs. Conyers asked us to find out if a man named Abraham Kurst, who had a dog kennel down the road from her and a reputation for being dishonest, had taken the dog.
“Everyone says he doesn’t take care of his dogs,” she told us. “And he’ll sell an animal to anyone who can pay his price.”
“You think he stole your dog to sell her?” I asked.
“Probably downstate somewhere. Duchess is a purebred Malamute.” She wrung her hands, adding, “My neighbor saw Kurst’s rattletrap van parked at the side of the road near my house while I was at work on Friday.” She brushed her fingers across her face, trying to disguise the removal of a tear. “I’m so worried about her!”
“Would the dog have gone with him willingly?”
“No, but I hear they give them meat with drugs in it.” She’d been unable to hold back her tears at that point. “If Kurst took Duchess, I think he’ll get rid of her as soon as possible, so you have to hurry.”
As a result of Mrs. Conyers’ visit, Barbara and I planned a covert operation. I answered Kurst’s ad on a site called Allport Buy & Bargain, telling him I wanted to come out and look for a puppy. While I distracted him, Barbara intended to sneak through the woods to the pens behind his house and take pictures. If our client’s dog was there, we’d have proof of his crime to take to the police.
At present Kurst was offering “purebred labradoodles,” which made me shake my head. “The guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I told my sisters. “Labradoodles are a mixed breed, so they can’t be purebred. They can only be registered.”
“A crooked dog handler wouldn’t care,” Barbara said. “He only cares if you have a big checkbook.”
“No checks,” I informed her. “Cash only is another warning sign.”
“Let’s go see what we can find out.” Barbara Ann turned to Faye. “You’re in charge of the office.”
Barbara and I had tacitly conspired to leave Faye out of this one. She’s a big girl with a huge heart, and if Kurst had stolen Mrs. Conyers’ Malamute, a charge of dog theft might be the least of his worries.
As we traveled I said to Barbara, “Maybe I should take the photos. You’re still recovering from being shot, so you shouldn’t be traipsing through the woods in the cold.”
“But you’re the actress in the family.” The tone she used wasn’t exactly a compliment, but she was correct. When Barbara lies, she twitches like she’s about to have a seizure. When Faye tries to lie, which isn’t often, she gets this deep blush that turns her neck and cheeks blotchy. I suppose it’s nothing to brag about, but I’m pretty good at stretching the truth. While they often roll their eyes at my tactics, the girls appreciate them when they suit the agency’s purposes.
“Well, I predict your shoulder is going to kill you tonight,” I said, unwilling to submit gracefully to Barbara’s Spock-logic.
She grunted, equally unwilling to acknowledge I might be correct. That subject exhausted, I returned to the murder. “Rory’s probably going to be crazy busy for a while. From what I hear of Frannie Habedank, she has ways of getting exactly what she wants.”
Barbara’s posture was extra stiff, a sign she was stressed. She kept adjusting her glasses too, another giveaway. Something was bugging her. Apparently she was having trouble finding the right words, so I asked, “What’s the matter, Barbara Ann?”
“I was there.”
“Where?”
“Downtown, last night. I, um, heard something in that alley.”
“Heard what?”
She made an impatient gesture. “I don’t know. I thought a cat had jumped down from somewhere, but now that I think about it, there was more weight to it.”
“Like a body being shoved out of a car.”
She turned to look at me. “Yeah. Like that.”
“You didn’t investigate?”
Her tone turned sarcastic. “In my black outfit, with my paintbrush in hand, I’m supposed to walk down a dark alley and call, ‘Who’s there?’ like some Too-Stupid-To-Live character in a horror movie?”
“Being curious doesn’t make a person stupid.” I thought for a moment. “Did you hear the car pull away?”
“No.” She ran a hand through her short, graying hair, leaving it uncharacteristically messy. “If it was the body drop, the person or persons must have waited until I left before driving off.”
“Wow!” Imagining what might have happened if she had investigated, I decided right then and there it was time Barbara Ann gave up her silly Correction Events.
I didn’t say that out loud. One does not simply tell my sister she has to change, no matter how logical the reasons might be. Instead I asked, “What are you going to do?”
With a little shrug to relax her shoulders, she pulled herself together. “Right now I’m going to locate a possibly stolen dog. I’ll wrestle with the questions on my conscience later.”
When we reached the edge of Abraham Kurst’s mostly wooded property, I stopped the car. From statements such as “I guarantee—” and “Call me at—”, we’d concluded he lived alone. If I kept him busy for a while, Barbara would have time to find Duchess and get photos that proved she was there.
Though we’d looked at satellite views of the property, I still had doubts. “A satellite can tell you where the trees are and the roads run,” I said, “but it can’t reveal traps or alarms. What if Kurst is paranoid about people sneaking onto his property? There could be booby traps.”
“Those things require work,” Barbara countered. “Mrs. Conyers claimed Kurst is known for being lazy as well as dishonest.”
“Well, watch where you put your feet anyway,” I warned. “You don’t want to end up hanging upside down from some tree branch like a middle-aged Christmas ornament.”
With a look of mild irritation, Barbara got out and disappeared into the trees. Once I’d given her time to get into place, I drove on to Kurst’s driveway and turned in. I was nervous, but along with that was a thrill of excitement at the chance to play a role in the success of our mission.
Kurst’s modular home sat on a slab, giving it a flat, slightly sunken look. It had been allowed to deteriorate for years, so the siding was chalky. The lawn was strewn with broken branches and metal objects left outside for so long they’d disintegrated into undiscernible lumps. A rudimentary porch slanted sideways a few degrees, and a shutter at the largest window had taken a complementary angle to balance it.
Along the exterior walls were piles of stuff that had to have taken decades to accumulate. Old TV sets, some of them console models with fake-wood cabinets. I saw several washing machines, one a wringer model that might have been worth something if someone hadn’t plugged holes in it with a .22; an old couch that animals had taken over for their use; and dozens of other items that couldn’t be considered porch decoration. I doubted even the pickers from those TV shows would find much to interest them in the mess.
I turned off the engine but stayed put, aware that those with the least to protect are likely to be the fiercest about protecting it. That meant guard dogs. To stay safe and save damage to my new outfit from Chico’s, I waited for Kurst to appear and invite me to leave my car.
Sure enough, in seconds three dogs bounded toward me from somewhere at the back of the house. They stopped a few feet from my car, all upset with my presence, though otherwise they were as unalike as dogs can be. The biggest was a silver Rottweiler, and the mid-sized one was a border collie. Dancing around them and making lots of noise was what my husband used to call an “ankle-biter,” a Chihuahua that probably weighed less than Barb’s cat. All three were determined to drive me off their turf. The smaller two were convinced barking would do it, and the soprano yips of one blended with the alto barks of the other. Only the Rottweiler was a creature of action. Rushing forward, he leapt at my window, throwing himself at it as if he fully intended to break the glass and rip my throat out. I love ninety-nine percent of dogs, but this one looked about as unlovable as any I’d ever encountered.
As the smaller dogs kept up their racket, my attacker threw himself again and again at the car, his claws raking the side and probably doing serious harm to the paint job. I beeped the horn a couple of times, and finally the peeling front door opened and a man stepped onto the low porch. “Hey, you idiots!” he called. “Fuss!”
Immediately the Chihuahua backed up a step and went quiet. The collie flopped to her belly in a subservient pose. The Rottweiler backed away, retreating to its master’s side, where it glared at me, quivering with anger.
“You can come out now,” the man called. “They won’t hurt you.”
Abe Kurst was about my age, with rust-colored hair and a beard more red than brown. He was taller than I by a few inches, but I’m not known for my height. On the website he’d referred to himself as “a life-long dog lover,” but from the way he’d spoken to his guard dogs, I already doubted that was true.
Rolling down the window I asked in a purposely shaky voice, “Can you lock them up? They scare me.”
Looking disgusted, he hollered, “Hier, flea bait! Hier!” A sharp jerk of his hand sent the dogs trooping into the house. The smaller two went without objection. The Rottie growled, resentful that he wasn’t going to be allowed to chew on me. When Kurst closed the door on them I breathed a little easier, not only for myself but also for Barbara, who was sneaking toward the pens behind the house.
Getting out of the car, I approached my host, who had what looked like a perpetual sneer on his wind-burnt face. Kurst’s flannel shirt had seen better days in the last millennium, and his jeans strained to hold in his growing gut. The next step would be suspenders and that waistband under-the-belly look.
“You the woman that wants a pup?”
“Yes.” He didn’t ask my name or if I could afford to keep a dog. Strike one.
“I got ’em over here.” He turned and went around to the sunny side of the house. When I followed and saw the 4x4 cage sitting on a half-rotted armchair, I couldn’t suppress an exclamation of delight. Four labradoodle pups rolled around the pen in constant motion, their round bodies wriggling with energy. Their coloring was like a paint-sample chart: cream to tan to reddish-brown. They were absolutely adorable, and many a dog lover wouldn’t be able to resist them, even if their pedigree was iffy and the owner’s motives were suspicious.
Kurst seemed pleased at my reaction. “Take whatever one you want for eight hunnert. They’re ready to go.”
Strike two. Reputable breeders make every effort to get to know the prospective owners before placing a dog. Kurst should have asked all sorts of questions prior to making that offer.
“I already have a dog,” I told him in my most fatuous tone, “but I just love puppies. They’re so cute when they’re little.”
“Yeah. Real cute.”
Strike three. He should have inquired about Styx, my Newfoundland, and how he’d react to a second dog in the family. He might even have required I bring Styx along to test his behavior with a puppy. When the proper procedures are in place, it can be downright daunting to adopt a dog.
We’d found a puppy mill. Kurst didn’t care who bought these darling little guys or what happened to them after the sale. If nobody bought them, I couldn’t bear to think what would happen.
I’d arrived half-convinced that Kurst was a criminal. Now I was sure, but I had to play my part. Barbara Ann’s photos would provide proof so we could get the county sheriff to put an end to this so-called business. A single “Woof!” from out back told me Barbara had reached the dog pens. To distract Kurst I said, “I don’t know how I can choose!”
As I said it, I realized I couldn’t leave without saving at least one of the dogs. What if the sheriff couldn’t shut Kurst’s operation down? What if some wimpy judge let him off with a warning? I’d brought a thousand in cash in case I had to prove I was serious. That meant I could only rescue one pup, but one was better than none.
For the next fifteen minutes I asked questions to make Kurst wonder about my fitness for being a dog parent. “Is it okay if I don’t have a dog house? He can sleep on the porch and stay warm, right?”
“Sure, sure,” he replied, nodding eagerly. “They got thick coats.” He was probably thinking I’d come back and buy another dog after my first one froze to death.
I did a little test of his limits. “I’m planning a cruise at Christmas time. Do you think it will be okay if I just set out a lot of food?”
He did swallow once before answering that one. “You could ask somebody to stop by every day or so.”
“I’m new here. I don’t know anyone who’d do that.”
“Oh.” He sighed once then shrugged. “It should be okay.”
Kurst was tiring of my questions. “Which one do you want?”
I glanced at my watch, hoping I’d given Barbara enough time. “The lightest one,” I said.
Kurst immediately opened the cage door and took the little critter out. “Here you go.”
Suddenly I was holding a bundle of energy. The dog sniffed my clothes, my hands, and my hair, in fact, he caught a tress and began chewing on it. Anyone who’s ever held a puppy knows what happens to your heart. It just melts. “Hey, little guy,” I cooed. “Hey, there.”
Recalling my purpose I said, “There are rules you have to abide by when you breed dogs, right? I mean, this one comes from good stock and he’s been checked out by a vet and all that.”
“Sure,” Kurst said, though I read the lie in his eyes. “I don’t have to do like the big operations do, but I don’t want no sick dogs, you know?”
I hung around while he fetched the dog’s “papers,” which were almost certainly fake. It got harder and harder to look at the man, who lied every time he opened his mouth. It also made me sick to hand over $800 to someone who obviously had no heart. Holding my new puppy, I climbed into the car, consoling myself with the thought that Kurst would soon be out of business, and he’d need the money for legal fees.
Once I got out of sight of the house, I stopped the car and waited. In a few minutes Barbara came up from the ditch and got in, her face tight. “Duchess is there. She seems to be all right, but there’s plenty of evidence of other crimes.”
“Are we going to shut this guy down?”
“Oh, yes.” Her eyes were cold. “It’s too bad our penal system won’t do to Abraham Kurst what he’s done to those animals.”
