Denny lounged in a corner of Marcie’s white sofa, wearing pale jeans, a purple T-shirt from a band I’d never heard of, and a green kerchief tied around his head. He looked surly and piratical, if not criminal. The Princess was a cream and brown oval in his lap, purrs grading into snores. I was surprised to see him serving as heated cat furniture, but surprises were Denny’s specialty. Six-Toes was hanging out hopefully in the kitchen watching Marcie cook and The Impossible Kitten was mauling a catnip mouse on the rug, adding a lighthearted note to a sullen ambience. The kitten’s white paws looked stylish against a black pelt that at last had a healthy sheen.
Marcie’s apartment ran to white, with a shiny brass and glass coffee table, prints by great masters on the walls. Shelves held pretty vases, books arranged by size, pictures of her mother and grandparents. Serene and quiet, clean and careful. I wondered if Marcie would ever put a jukebox in the dining room or paint a wall crimson.
I also wondered if I’d get through the evening without punching Denny. I declined Marcie’s offer of wine, the better to keep the lid on. Rational, calm, persuasive—I could do it. I had to do it. Denny was the only source of information left.
He and I grunted at each other, exchanged the legal minimum of small talk, and drank our beer (him) and soda water (me) until Marcie called us to dinner. It seemed we’d taken a vow of silence until the opening bell, which apparently Marcie controlled. She chatted at us until we’d eaten our curried chicken, rice, baked squash, and apple cobbler. This menu seemed unlikely to accommodate his latest dietary obsessions, but Denny ate everything put in front of him.
After clearing the table, we had an awkward time deciding whether the dining room table or the living room was better for serious conversation. Denny and I ended up at opposite ends of the sofa, with Marcie on a chair across from us. Cats distributed themselves, shifting about.
Marcie smiled brightly at us. “Denny, Iris and I are hoping you will tell us everything you can remember about Rick’s last couple of days. Iris is trying to piece together what happened.”
Denny put his elbow on the sofa back and crossed one ankle over the other knee, aggressively relaxed, looking at Marcie. “That’s what this is all about? I figured she was going to sue me for defamation of character. I was going to counter-sue for damages to my van.” He wasn’t making a joke. “I already told her everything about Rick.” He glanced at me. “You think I’m holding back some big news?” The Princess returned to his lap, one tentative paw after another, and curled her old joints into a round cat pillow.
I suppressed an urge to hurl a glass at him. “If you could focus on the question, maybe you could tell me again about those last few days?”
Marcie said, “I don’t know what happened. Tell me.” Her hands were relaxed, folded in her lap.
Denny shifted toward her, surliness replaced by patience. The Princess’ tail twitched. “He called me up, said he needed a place to stay. I said ‘no problem.’ It wasn’t hard to guess why. He said, could he bring Ranger; I said we’d give it a try with Strongbad.”
“The dog’s name is Range, not Ranger,” I said. “I’ve told you that a dozen times. And calling a big dog ‘Strongbad’ is asking for trouble.”
“Be quiet,” said Marcie.
Wasn’t she supposed to be on my side?
Denny put both feet on the floor and straightened up, talking to Marcie. “Didn’t work out with the dogs, too much shoving and growling and no good way to keep them separated. So he took Ranger back home. He left him there, picked up a few things and came back.”
“Do you have his computer?” After my house was broken into and I couldn’t find it, I’d forgotten to ask.
His eyes swept toward me briefly. “It’s still at my place. Forgot about it.”
“I want to take a look at it. Maybe it’s got something to explain that last night,” I said.
Denny ignored me.
“What did Rick do when he wasn’t at work?” Marcie asked.
“Nothing special. Listened to music, watched TV. We went to a concert once. Did some Net surfing.”
“What was he looking for on the Internet?” I asked.
“Didn’t say.” Denny slumped back on the sofa, tapping his foot. “He spent a lot of time getting my printer to work with his PC.”
“Was he drinking while he stayed with you?” I asked.
“Not that I saw. Maybe a beer. I didn’t really notice.”
“Well, he sure got lit that last night. Was he drinking at the party after I left?”
“No. You two were gone a long time. Marcie and I talked.”
Marcie nodded, all attention.
Denny hunched forward, coiling into tension. The Princess stuck out a paw and hooked a claw into his jeans at the thigh. “Rick came back to the party and took off. Just grabbed his jacket and left. Iris didn’t even come back for hers.” He unhooked the paw without looking down. “I went around to all the bars and liquor stores near the zoo with Rick’s picture from the paper, that article they did on his death.”
“And?” Marcie asked, still sitting with her back straight, hands in her lap, perfectly composed.
“Nobody remembered him. Nobody remembered selling him any beer or anything.”
I was impressed at Denny’s initiative—and still baffled. “I checked the Vultures’ Roost. He hadn’t been in for a few days before he died. Did he drink at your place?”
“I don’t think so. I had some beer in the fridge and half a bottle of vodka. They’re still there. I think he went straight to the zoo after the party. It wouldn’t make sense to drive all the way to my place first.”
Looking at Marcie while he talked to me or about me—it was getting annoying. Did he still think I’d hit Rick with a rock and dumped him in the moat?
“The paper said that Rick died between one and four in the morning. Before that, he got tanked somewhere,” I insisted.
Denny dumped The Princess on the floor and stood up. She stalked stiffly to her bed, radiating elderly Siamese annoyance. Denny started pacing, engaged at last, filling the room with restless tension. “There’s lots of places he could get a bottle. What I want to know is, what did Iris tell him?”
“Tell him?” I didn’t get it. “We talked. About his drinking, whether to get divorced. We decided to give it another try.”
“There’s another possibility we could explore. I’m not saying it’s true, just something I’ve been thinking about.”
He had his back to me.
“What would that be?” Marcie asked.
“I’m thinking it’s possible Iris drop-kicked him same as she did me and isn’t coming clean about it. Maybe she tells him the two of them are through forever, says it was no good from Day One and it’s his fault.”
I could feel heat rising in my face. “Where do you get off, calling me a liar?”
Denny wasn’t done. “Here’s Rick, torn up good, because he was kicking himself for wrecking the home scene, trying to pull it back together, and she rips him a new one. He gets a bottle, goes to the zoo because he doesn’t want to see me or anyone else. Iris convinced him he’s a juicehead and a negative-energy loser, so what else is he to do? He really tanks up—codeine for the soul, you know?”
“Denny, this is psychotic raving. You are out of—”
Denny plowed on. “And then the lions start looking like a solution. She’d find him in the morning, and everyone would know it was her fault. Only no one thought that. Everyone was sorry for her instead, and before that wears off, she starts acting like she’s trying to find out how he died.”
I stood up, knees shaking, ears ringing. “Denny, get out. Get out of here. Now.”
He looked at me at last, his jaw stubborn. “It’s a possibility, that’s all. I don’t want it to be true, but it fits the facts. Prove I’m wrong. I’m listening.”
“Prove what? That you are certifiable? That any friendship you had with Rick doesn’t count if you have a conspiracy theory to ride? That blaming me is all that matters?”
“Iris, sit down. It’s important to get this resolved.” Marcie’s calm was evaporating fast, her voice going breathy.
“I’m leaving,” I said, my voice coming from some cold, tight place far away. “Do you want help getting rid of him?”
“No, no. It’s all right.” She was standing, too, fingers spread in agitation.
In my truck, I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel and turned the rage loose, snarling curses at him, close to sobbing. Denny was nobody I’d ever understood, a vicious paranoid. I was pathetic. Nothing I tried worked. I might as well buy a ticket to L.A. and give up now.
I started the truck and headed home. Rain slicing through the half-open driver’s window cooled my face, but my hands were clenched on the steering wheel.
Reason crept back, ready to flee if the tidal wave of anger swept in again.
Denny was never going to help. He was locked into blaming me for Rick’s death, still smarting from our abrupt breakup a year ago. When we had lived together, he’d seemed to be in a parallel dimension, impervious to anything I said or did. He’d looked more disconcerted and miffed than heart-broken when I told him to move out. I had not understood his vulnerability at all, or his bitterness. He would not be an ally. My sense of loss surprised me. I’d always thought we’d make it to friendship, if only he weren’t so obnoxious. What a fool I was.
At home with the dogs, I remembered Rick’s computer. What else did I have to work with? Nothing. I rounded up the scattered anger for fuel. I wasn’t quitting because of Denny.
Marcie answered on the second ring.
“Marcie, don’t say my name. Is Denny still there?”
“Yes. What’s up?”
“Keep him there as long as you can. I’m going out to his place to get Rick’s computer and take a look around for anything else Rick might have left.”
“Let’s talk about this later. I think we can come up with something better.”
“Just do your best. I’ll call you when I get back.”
How to handle Strongbad? Denny’s dog was big, young, and untrained. Unruliness didn’t bother Denny. Strongbad would be set on defending hearth and home. I needed a distraction to get past him, and two possibilities wagged their tails at my knees. Winnie was a good choice—Strongbad was an intact male. Winnie was never going into heat, but he wouldn’t know that and would be interested in making her acquaintance. I clipped on her leash, generating considerable enthusiasm for an excursion. Range waited for his leash, dancing with his front feet, and whuffling through his lips. He was a poor candidate; best to leave him behind. When he had stayed at Denny’s with Rick, the two male dogs had never reached a truce. Brown eyes in an eager face won out over common sense and he came, too.
Denny lived thirty minutes east of my house, on a gravel road in a neighborhood of decaying wood-frame bungalows with corrugated metal storage sheds behind them. The house on the left looked deserted; the house on the right had a spotlight on the driveway, illuminating a drift boat on a trailer. Denny’s house had a gravel pullout instead of a driveway, a sagging porch mostly concealed by runaway ivy, and no porch light.
Strongbad opened up full volume when I tried the front door, which was locked. I searched for a key on the ledge above the door and under the mat. No luck. Winnie and Range preceded me to the backyard, sniffing and pulling on their leashes, having a great time. No rain here, but the ground was soft and the air was damp. The back door was boarded shut. That left the windows, which required two hands. Strongbad lunged and bellowed at the window nearest to the drift boat. The neighbor hadn’t come out to yell at me, and the light was better on that side. Maybe nobody was home next door.
I tied Range and Winnie to a rhododendron bush and tested the window. It gave a little. Strongbad reared his forefeet against it and barked his black and tan head off inches from me. I stood back and rethought. I’d met the dog once. He wasn’t a nut case, just young and undisciplined. Hard to predict what he’d do if he got out.
I considered dropping this project and heading home. Not an option. A bite was something I’d have to risk.
It was hard to get any purchase against the double-hung window, but I shoved at it and got a little more movement. With a third leash in my hand, I clawed at the bottom of it and got it up an inch, increasing the Strongbad volume considerably. The plan was that I would calm him down before the window was open enough for him to take a chunk out of me, or he would focus on Range and Winnie, I would clip on the leash, and…Well, the rest would come to me.
I shoved the window up farther and a black muzzle was immediately crammed into the narrow space, the volume dropping to muffled yelps since he couldn’t open his mouth. I pushed gently to open it barely enough to get my hand in, but Strongbad shoved hard with his nose and the window flew up a couple of feet. “Stay!” I said, reaching for his collar, but the big dog launched himself through space and I missed, fingertips clawing at slick hide. He landed chin first in the mud. Staggering to his feet, he lunged for Range. While grateful my face was still intact, I was alarmed for Range, who was twenty pounds smaller, not as aggressive, and tied up.
I could see only dark blurs, moving fast and sounding like six grizzly bears in a bar fight. Another spotlight came on next door, illuminating three dogs in a vociferous whirlpool of brown and black, with broken rhododendron twigs flying at the ends of two leashes. My dogs wouldn’t be tethered victims, but the potential for serious wounds was high for all three.
Strongbad focused on Range and finally got a grip on the skin of his shoulder. He paused to savor the moment and Winnie nailed him on the flank, grabbing skin and muscle and shaking her head ferociously. Range pulled loose and clamped down on Strongbad’s neck. I grabbed leash ends, leaves and all, and started pulling, yelling at my dogs to knock it off.
Range was willing to listen and Strongbad had learned caution, but Winnie was keen for blood. I tied Range to a much sturdier branch, not easy with Winnie roaring and lunging against the leash looped around my elbow. Strongbad growled and snarled, working himself up to another try at Range, when the neighbor walked over, spotlighting us with a huge flashlight. He was middle aged, in need of a haircut, in a black T-shirt and jeans. His tennis shoes were untied and he had one hand held behind his back.
“What’s going on here?”
“A dog fight. Hold this one while I catch the other one.” I thrust Winnie’s leash at him. It took him a minute to decide to take the leash, then he had to bring the pistol from behind his back and shove it in his waistband to free a hand.
That was when I realized Denny had arrived. His white van sat in front of the house, driver’s door ajar. He stood openmouthed, taking in the snarling dogs, neighbor, the pistol, and me.
“Get your dog,” I ordered.
He nodded thoughtfully and started slowly toward Strongbad, who ignored him, full attention on Range.
“Be careful,” I warned. “He’s pretty excited.”
Denny paid no attention and grabbed the big dog’s collar. Strongbad shook his head, but didn’t snap.
With the neighbor holding Winnie, I was free to hand Denny the spare leash. He clipped it on as Strongbad pulled toward Range, barking and growling with fresh enthusiasm, now that he had his own team.
“Thanks for your help,” I told the neighbor, taking Winnie’s leash. “Denny said I could stay here, but I couldn’t find the key. He said his dog wouldn’t be any problem. Boy, was he wrong about that!”
“That dog barks day and night.”
Denny towed Strongbad closer to the house to inspect the open window. He seemed stunned. “You broke in. You came here and broke in.”
So much for covering with the neighbor. “You wouldn’t talk to me. All you do is blame me. You won’t help.”
He looked at the dogs, back at the window, and at me. “Good freakin’ grief,” he muttered to himself. “Unbelievable.”
I didn’t recognize it, but it was the sound of a paradigm shift.
“You want me to call the police?” The neighbor sounded genuinely curious.
Denny noticed him for the first time. “What good would that do?”
“Is everyone all right?” It was Marcie, stepping carefully through the dark and gravel, eyes huge, arms folded protectively across her chest. Her little blue Saturn was tucked in behind Denny’s van.
“What are you doing here?” Denny asked.
“You wouldn’t stay so I followed you,” Marcie said.
Winnie leaned on her leash toward Strongbad and opened up with a volley of frustrated barking, saving Marcie from a real explanation.
The neighbor looked at Marcie and then Denny. “Son, you got a lot of woman trouble, but at least they’re pretty women. Don’t let’s have anymore ruckus tonight.” He clicked off his flashlight and shuffled toward his house, shoelaces flapping. He opened his door and turned to look back at us. A voice from inside said, “Earl, what on earth was that all about?” The second spotlight went out and we heard the door close on his reply.
Marcie, Denny, and I looked at each other in the dim light.
“Iris, of all the impulsive, thoughtless things you’ve done, this has to take the prize,” Marcie said. “I can’t believe this. That man might have shot you. The dogs could all be injured. You could end up in jail.”
No point in arguing with her. She was too rattled to listen and of course she was right. “Let’s go inside where we can see and check the dogs,” I said.
Denny unlocked the front door and turned on the lights. A mounted deer head on an end table gazed toward the ceiling with its antlers pointed threateningly at the couch. The room was a stoned garage sale of odd chairs; stacks of comic books; a TV on the floor connected by a long string to its remote control, also on the floor; a life-size cardboard cutout of Spiderman with a sweatshirt draped over it. Denny swept his battered couch clear of clothes and magazines so Marcie could sit on threadbare maroon fabric.
He towed his dog toward the kitchen, but stopped and stared at bright blood on his hand. I made Marcie hold my dogs while Denny and I checked out Strongbad. The hair on his back was up and he was anxious to resume the fray, but not hysterical. Blood was dripping steadily from a nick on one ear. He kept flipping his head, spraying red droplets everywhere. I felt his neck and flanks and found another cut where Winnie had grabbed him, but it was barely oozing. He didn’t limp, but soreness was likely tomorrow. Denny got a bandage and we put it on the ear to stop the mess. Strongbad hated it and kept trying to scrape it off, still growling steadily at Range and Winnie.
“If you take him to a vet, I’ll pay the bill,” I said. “I’m sorry he got hurt.” My mother’s training reared its head. “And that your rhododendron got busted up,” I added lamely.
“He’s tough,” Denny said.
I gave Range and Winnie a quick inspection. Both still had eyes, legs, a tail. No blood, no obvious limps.
Now what?
“Denny, I never would have done this if you hadn’t…” I started.
“Sit down, both of you,” Marcie said. “You both have some apologizing to do.”
Denny obediently dragged a chair toward her, leaving Strongbad enough slack in his leash to stalk stiff-legged toward Range.
“Denny, hold him. I’ll get my dogs out of here.” I shut them in the truck with the windows rolled down a couple of inches and returned to face the music.
We sat facing each other once again in a living room.
Marcie crossed her arms over her chest again, but not in self-protection. Her soft face went stern. “Iris, apologize for breaking and entering and for risking the dogs. That was outrageous and irresponsible.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Denny said.
He let the silence sit for a moment before going on. “You never would have risked the dogs if you weren’t being straight with me. I got carried away. You wouldn’t maul Rick and he wouldn’t crater himself. I couldn’t think of anything better, and I was still kind of mad at you for dumping me so you could take up with Rick. Marcie’s helping me get centered with it.”
“Iris still has to apologize,” Marcie said.
“Okay. I apologize. Now can you get Denny to talk to me?” I sagged back in my hard wood chair, very tired.
Marcie did not look appeased. She ran both hands through her hair and shook her head. “You two don’t make anything easy.”
Denny retreated to what I assumed was the bathroom. Strongbad got to his feet, already a little stiff, and followed him, shaking his head.
I looked around for Rick’s computer and spotted it parked on a dusty treadle sewing machine in a corner. Marcie joined me. I got her a wooden chair and pulled up a metal stool. On top of a bookcase next to the sewing machine, a box tortoise scrabbled in an old aquarium.
Marcie sat down at the computer and reeled in the mouse dangling by its cord. The computer made a little noise and started to wake up. The dark screen gradually lightened, little icons emerging. “When did you shut Rick’s computer off last?” she called.
“I never touched it. I thought it was off,” Denny called back.
“Nope. Just asleep. Good. The browser’s still open from the last time he used it.” She moused around.
Denny returned with Strongbad still at his heels, but minus the bandage.
Marcie said she needed to get online. Denny disconnected the phone cord from his own computer, surrounded by towers of old comic books on a card table in a corner, and plugged it into Rick’s. She opened a list of recently visited Web sites and clicked on some of them.
“Rick was studying Northwest Native Americans and the laws around ancient remains,” I summarized. “And alcoholism.” At last, promising new information. “That’s why I found CDs of Native American music in his truck. He must have bought them while he was staying with you, Denny. The packages weren’t open yet. When anything caught his interest, he looked for music related to it. Did he mention the CDs?”
Denny shook his head.
“How about Chinook Indians or alcoholism?”
Denny shrugged.
“Nothing at all? Didn’t you guys ever talk?” I pressed.
Denny shrugged again. “We talked some about you.”
Before I could follow up on this unsettling possibility, Marcie said, “Let’s see if he has any email.” She pointed and clicked. He had eleven new messages, aside from solicitations to purchase a counterfeit watch and increase the size of his penis. Denny pulled up a chair and we jammed in together, hunching over to catch the screen at the right angle. Two were postings about reptiles from a list group he subscribed to. Three had to do with animal training. Older emails were personal letters from friends at other zoos, asking or answering questions about animal-related matters.
Marcie took a look at his out mailbox. He’d sent two messages the day before he died. Both were to universities, asking whom he could call for information about prehistoric Native Americans of our area.
“That’s all I can see to check,” she said at last. “Anything else?”
Denny and I shook our heads. Marcie was way ahead of both of us.
We took a break from cybersnooping to search the house for anything Rick left behind. We found a T-shirt from a zookeeper conference and a pair of jeans. I folded them up neatly as dammed-up grief threatened to spill over. I pushed it down—not here, not now.
“Denny, you said he’d hooked up your printer. Where’s that?” I asked.
It was on a card table in the corner, hidden under newspapers. The output tray was empty, but a paper grocery bag serving as a wastebasket was more productive. I found two crooked printouts from the archeology sites. Blurry ink offered details of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. “The paper jammed, and he had to reprint these. When I saw him that last night, he had a manila envelope in the truck, full of papers. I bet it was stuff he’d printed from these sites. He didn’t say anything about Indians when we talked in the truck. Did this have something to do with why he went to the zoo?”
Denny rocked his chair back on its hind legs. He had that intent look again and he started tapping his foot. “Why is he so interested in Native Americans all of a sudden, right before he dies? And why didn’t he talk about it? He never said a word. Here’s a theory.”
“Oh, brother. Here we go,” I muttered.
“You got a theory?” Denny inquired acidly. “Then you go first.”
“Go ahead, please,” said Marcie.
“It’s the construction site. Rick found old artifacts, a village or grave. He read up on the Antiquities Act, like we saw on one of those sites. Everybody knows you can’t mess with something like that, big federal penalties. State, too, maybe. So that would shit-can the new exhibit, right? So he keeps it a secret…no, why would he? Maybe he tells Wallace and Wallace asks him to keep quiet about it.”
“Would he tell the director instead of the foreman?” Marcie asked.
Denny and I shook our heads. Mr. Crandall was either in his office with somebody important or else off to meetings.
Denny focused on the far distance and tapped his left index finger in time with his right foot. Marcie and I waited, energy ebbing out of me.
Denny got up and started to pace. Strongbad sat up, watching the action. “That’s it. He tells Wallace, Wallace figures it will stop the construction. He gets Rick to shut up about it, then offs him when he gets the chance. Then he has to shut up Iris ’cause she’s asking around. That would explain the accident in the aviary.”
Of course he knew about that. Jackie would tell him if no one else did.
Denny nodded, pacing. “I bet,” he mused in my direction, “Rick would have told you about whatever he found if you hadn’t been fighting. All this might not have happened.”
“Thanks for rubbing my face in it. Incidentally, your theory doesn’t hold up. How could it possibly be worth it to Wallace to murder somebody because a zoo project gets delayed?”
“That would require a financial motive, a big one. Or he needed to cover up something else,” Marcie said.
“I’ll find out,” Denny said, spinning on his heel and striding back.
The wisp of an idea dissipated into sleepiness. “Denny, shut up and hold still. I want to think.” The construction site. A metal wheel leaned up on a gate. Mud. I shook myself. I was looping out into space like Denny.
“Iris, spit it out,” Marcie demanded. “I can see the wheels turning.”
Denny sat down next to her and threw a leg over the sofa arm.
“Somebody opened the water valve at the Children’s Zoo a night or two after Rick died,” I started slowly. “They removed that heavy wheel that shuts off the water and leaned it up against the gate, so that all the petting zoo animals could get out and away from the water shooting everywhere.” I walked through the event in my head, trying to pull the fragments into a whole. “Diego is busy at the front end of the zoo. The security guard, too. Right—that same night, somebody dragged the elephant area’s hose someplace where it got muddy, like over to the construction site.”
Denny was up pacing again. “Sam bitched all day about his hoses. And that same day, the bulldozer gets stuck in the mud.”
“Yes! Because somebody hosed the hell out of the construction area and it was a lot soggier than the driver thought it would be.” Now I was up and pacing. “Destroying evidence or washing it out so it could be removed.” At last, pieces fitting together. “Rick finds artifacts in the mud. The killer offs Rick, checks out the mud the next day. Maybe can’t find anything, but worries about more construction activity turning up bones or whatever, comes back at night, creates a distraction, hoses it to reveal anything else, removes whatever he or she finds.”
“Plausible, but couldn’t anybody have done it?” Marcie asked. “Anybody could climb the fence.”
“Calvin says vandals usually cut a hole in the fence to get in,” I said. “He checked and couldn’t find anything. A zoo insider would have keys to get in. And would know about the water wheel.”
Denny nodded. “Definitely zoo staff.”
Definitely? Possibly was as far as I would go, but I let it pass. “The animals were let out to delay Diego longer while he rounded them up, or maybe whoever it was didn’t want them to get wet and chilled from the spray.”
“Right,” said Denny, “a killer who doesn’t want the dear little goats and pony to catch a cold.”
Made sense to me. Marcie nodded. Denny shrugged, conceding the point. Murder is one thing; neglecting an animal is another. More evidence for a zoo staffer.
“That gets the candidate pool down to—what?—fifty people?” Marcie calculated.
“It’s Wallace.” Denny was undeterred. “He suspects I’ve figured it out and that’s why he’s trying to get rid of me.”
“Trying to get rid of you?” Marcie inquired.
“He won’t. He’s not going to bluff me into quitting.”
I wondered what he meant. I hadn’t heard any gossip about Wallace gunning for Denny’s departure, but maybe the foreman was really cleaning house. Not just me?
“This would be more convincing if we actually knew what Rick found,” I said. “Where is it? Did he have it with him when he went to the zoo? Did whoever killed him take it or did he hide it somewhere?”
“Yes,” Marcie said. “Where’s the potshards or tibias or arrowheads?”
“He probably went to the zoo to meet the killer and turn it over,” Denny said. “We’ll never find anything.”
Oh. “Um, I have a possibility.” I rubbed my face. It had been a long day and brain fade was returning. “Denny, you remember when I cleared out Rick’s locker? The snake shed in the jar and the little tooth in the mud? I thought it was a deer incisor, but maybe not. Maybe he found a skull and stored it in his locker and the tooth fell off. It was small and hard to see.”
“A skull,” Denny said. He strode briskly from one side of the living room to the other like a pendulum. “Ancient gravesite. That’s got to be it. We need to get that tooth to an anthropologist. Wow! This could be another duel in the courts like over Kennewick Man. Tribes versus scientists, rebury the remains or study them.”
Marcie’s head bobbed enthusiastically.
“Uh, that might not work out,” I told them.
“Why not?” Marcie asked.
“I don’t have it anymore.” I gnawed on my lower lip. “Wallace said I had to turn it over to the Education volunteers. I didn’t intend to, but he caught me on the way out of the zoo and took the jar.”
We all stared at each other, wide-eyed. We had a real candidate as Rick’s murderer.
“Forget ever seeing that tooth again,” Denny finally said. “We’ll have to do without it.”
I needed time to think. Denny wanted time to find out whether Wallace had a financial connection to the construction. Marcie wanted to go to bed.
“Let’s not get carried away,” I said. “I’m beat. Let’s talk tomorrow. Marcie, thanks for dinner. And everything. Do you want to follow me out, or can you find your way?”
She said she could find her way. I stood up and started for the door.
Denny said, “Night, Iris.”
That was all, but “Iris” stopped me. Not “Ire.” “Hey, Denny. Thanks for helping.”
“Glad to oblige,” he said.
“Sleep well,” was all I could think to say, and left them.
The dogs were subdued on the ride home, but I felt a trickle of elation. Denny was on the team, his suspicions and energy no longer focused on my perfidy. That was a considerable relief. I had no stomach for mutual loathing.
And at last I had something to work with, some idea of what Rick might have been up to. The pieces might not fit together the way we’d outlined it, but at least there were pieces.
And, so far, none of them included Hap.
I carried the little bundle of Rick’s clothing into the house. Range forgot his good manners and reared up, forefeet at my waist, to shove his nose into them. I checked—they did still smell of Rick, smelled like warm arms and good music and sex. My tears were only salty, lacking the old bitterness.