Murder in the Dog Days Read online

  Murder in the Dog Days

  Maggie Ryan, 1975

  by P.M. Carlson

  Copyright & history

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Murder in the Dog Days

  About the author

  The Mystery Company

  Mount Vernon, Ohio

  MURDER IN THE DOG DAYS

  Copyright © 1990 by Patricia Carlson.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictious, and any resemblances to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to use the following excerpts: “Blowin’ in the Wind” by Bob Dylan. Copyright © 1962 Warner Bros Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission. “I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ To Die Rag.”Copyright © 1965 Alkatraz Corner Music Co. Words and music by Joe McDonald. All rights reserved. Used by permission. “The Scout Toward Aldie” by Herman Melville is available inThe Poems of Herman Melville, Douglas Robillard, editor, New College and University Press, Schenectady, 1989. “Mental Cases” by Wilfred Owen is available inThe Poems of Wilfred Owen, Chatto & Windus, London, 1963.

  PRINT ISBN-13: 978-1-932325-37-9

  Cover design by Pat Prather

  Cover art by Robin Agnew

  Author photo copyright © by Kathy Morris

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam Books first edition: January 1991

  The Mystery Company edition: May 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  The Mystery Company, an imprint of Crum Creek Press

  1558 Coshocton Ave #126

  Mount Vernon, OH 43050

  www.crumcreekpress.com

  To all the heroes

  wasted in an unheroic cause

  and to all the survivors

  who courageously bear witness

  to a truth the rest of us don’t want to believe

  Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

  Nor the furious winter’s rages;

  Thou thy worldly task hast done,

  Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:

  Golden lads and girls all must,

  As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

  —CYMBELINE, act IV, scene ii

  Sunlight seems a blood-smear; night comes blood-black;

  Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh.

  —WILFRED OWEN, “Mental Cases”

  Author’s Note

  For sharing their wisdom, my warmest thanks go to Robert Knightly, Patricia King, Kay Williams, Joanna Wolper, Bill and Elizabeth McElroy, Carolyn Wheat, Malvin Vitriol of the Milton Helpern Library and healer and truth-teller Elizabeth Ann Scarborough; but most of all to the extraordinary Kate Miciak, whose vote of confidence rescued this book from formless limbo.

  Mosby, Virginia

  MONDAY

  AUGUST 4, 1975

  1

  The big graying air conditioner in the window of the so-called city room of The Mosby Sun-Dispatch groaned piteously. Olivia Kerr scribbled a last correction into a pre-release story about the filming ofAll the President’s Men, leaned back in her chair, and stared at the machine suspiciously. For ten days it had been laboring, with only partial success, to convert the polluted ninety-eight degree Virginia haze outdoors into livable air. “When that thing goes on strike,” Olivia declared, pointing at it accusingly with a freckled finger, “I do too.”

  Rumpled Nate Rosen switched off his tape recorder, peered around the edge of his cubicle and nodded. His thin, mournful face looked longer every day as his hair receded a bit further. “I’ll be right on your heels,” he agreed, with a worried glance at the suffering air conditioner.

  “This heat wave is a killer.”

  “Not a metaphor,” he informed her, tapping the page he was working on. “Guy up in New York got shot in a fight over a fire hydrant. And he’s the third this weekend. Dog days.”

  “Yeah. I wish I could say I can’t understand people fighting over trivial stuff like that. But right now I can,” said Olivia. “I’m glad I’m off to the beach.”

  Nate raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get freckled?”

  “Hey, one more crack like that and I’ll ask you if you aren’t worried about getting bald.”

  “Don’t rub it in, O cruel maid,” grumbled Nate, turning back to his keyboard.

  Olivia pulled the barrette from her humidity-frizzed hair. In romantic moods Jerry called it chestnut-colored. Of course he’d also been known to point out that it matched the stain in the sink. The lout. The only possible response had been to whack him with a pillow. Olivia grinned to herself. The resulting pillow fight had quickly turned bawdy. Very bawdy. With Jerry, romantic moods came in a lot of different flavors.

  She twisted her hair up away from the nape of her neck and clipped the barrette across it. Then she stood, tossed the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and went to look out the window. Jerry wasn’t down there yet. Today only a few people had ventured out, shuffling sweaty and exhausted along the sidewalk through the unmoving pool of sultry, half-toxic air.

  The door of the managing editor’s office opened and a round woman arrayed in black came out, smiling and nodding behind her. She hadn’t been smiling when she went in. Edgerton had smoothed some more feathers. Well, that’s one of the things editors did. Olivia looked out the window for Jerry again.

  “Hey, Liv!”

  Damn. “Yeah?” she answered, turning reluctantly from the window.

  Edgerton was pudgy, moist-lipped, imperious. “Wire service just sent in some more on the Joanne Little trial. Work it into the story.” A yellow page from a legal pad dangled from his plump outstretched hand.

  Olivia’s conscience told her she’d better not bolt for the door. Damn conscience. Doing the rewrites on the Little story and writing the associated features was her chance to break out of the women’s pages. True, Edgerton had given her the assignment with the assumption that it was a feminist issue. But it had already grown beyond that. She crossed the room to take the paper. “What is this?” she asked, trying to decipher Edgerton's uninhibited scrawl.

  “Kunstler just got out of jail. Had a few choice words about Judge Hobgood.” Edgerton puffed the information at her close range, blanketing her with coffee breath.

  Olivia stepped back, wondering how he’d got the woman in black to look so happy. Maybe she had an olfactory problem. “I’ll bet he did.” Why couldn’t they keep Kunstler locked up until she’d left for the day? She hurried back to her cubicle and grabbed her copy of the story. What a circus this case had turned into! Joanne Little admitted stabbing her jailer with an ice pick; the trial was meant to determine whether or not she had done it in self-defense when he tried to rape her. But the spicy ingredients of race, sex and Southern justice had turned it into a national extravaganza. Joanne Little’s defense team played to the visiting reporters with relish. This morning they had attempted to add the famed New York lawyer William Kunstler to the team, but Kunstler had promptly insulted the judge and been jailed instead.

  “You should have made a run for it,” said Nate when Edgerton was safely back in his office.

  “Nah. This is the best story he’s ever let me handle.” She cranked paper into her typewriter. “Biggest thing he ever gave me before was Ann Landers’ divorce.”

  “What about Patty Hearst?”

  “Dale Colby had that while it was hot. He didn’t assign it to me until it was dead. But if they ever find her I’ll be set.”

  “So what? Good stories don’t pay any better, and
the hours are worse. Don’t know why you bother.”

  “You want to know why?” Olivia squinted at Edgerton’s scrawled notes. “Because when they make the movie, I want Robert Redford to play me.” She ignored Nate’s snort and settled down to type.

  In fact, she decided grudgingly, Edgerton was right. This new quote made the story better. Kunstler, upon being released, had said about the judge, “I think the man is determined to see this woman convicted by any means necessary, in violation of his oath as well as the Constitution, and that constitutes in my mind a criminal act.” Nice. Manipulative, of course; Kunstler knew what news hounds wanted. So all over America, people like Olivia were putting it into the papers and TV news, maybe publicizing the very real difficulties of black women in the South, maybe just publicizing Kunstler. Every now and then Olivia wondered uneasily if it was Joanne Little or North Carolina that was really on trial. But what the hell, North Carolina had never even ratified the constitutional amendment giving women the vote. Olivia typed in the quote. Take that, North Carolina.

  Beyond the wheezing of the air conditioner, she became aware of music somewhere outside. Sixties music, guitar and the sweet blended harmonies of Peter, Paul and Mary singing “Puff the Magic Dragon.” Then her attention was distracted by the opening door. A thickset man with a pink complexion, curly brown hair and loosened necktie shoved in. He held the limp jacket of his light summer suit tossed back over his shoulder. “Hey, Edgerton!” he yelled.

  Edgerton stuck his head out of his door. “Hi, Leon. What can I do for you?”

  “Get that bastard reporter off my back! That asshole Colby!” the chunky newcomer demanded.

  “Colby again? Okay, okay, simmer down. Too hot today to get steamed up. Come on in and tell me the problem.” Edgerton, with a scowl at the music drifting in the window, gestured the thickset man into his office and closed the door.

  Olivia picked up her revised story and tossed it onto the big central table. Nate was standing at the window now, hands in pockets, gazing out with amused eyes. “Who’s that?” Olivia whispered to him, jerking her thumb at the closed door.

  “Edgy’s visitor? That’s Leon Moffatt. Colby should tread lightly. The widow Resler didn’t look too happy either.”

  “The plane crash story?”

  “That’s the one. Moffatt’s father went down in it.” Nate pulled his hands from his pockets, retrieved a note that fluttered to the floor, and pushed the current issue of the Sun-Dispatch toward her. Dale Colby’s report was on the bottom of the front page, reporting the latest information about a small chartered plane leased to Congressman Knox last January. Olivia skimmed it. She could see why Moffatt and Mrs. Resler were upset. Without actual libel, Dale implied that the survivors of the five victims were better off now than before the crash. Including the congressman’s office. Thin ice there, Dale. But knowing him, she was sure he had plenty to back up his statements. A very careful reporter.

  Nate added, “Listen, you’re going to the beach with the Colbys today, right? You might just breathe a word in his ear.”

  “Okay.” She picked up her shoulder bag.

  “And tell me, Liv, isn’t that the love of your life down there now?”

  Olivia joined him at the window. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

  It was Jerry Ryan all right. Even from the second floor there was no mistaking that lanky build, those black curls. He was standing between his sister Maggie, also lanky and curly-haired, and her brawny, balding husband Nick. With amazing energy for such an oppressive day they were belting out the song about the magic dragon. Olivia giggled. “God, can’t turn my back a minute!”

  “Pretty good imitation,” Nate observed. It was true; Nick was accompanying them expertly with his guitar, and all three were warbling away with gusto. Before them, unaffected by the exhausting sultriness, a tiny girl not yet three was dancing. The heat-wearied passersby forgot their discomfort for a moment to smile at her and at the singers.

  Olivia sprinted for the door. “Listen, Nate, when Edgy comes out tell him the story’s there on the table. See you tomorrow!” She escaped and ran downstairs.

  The heat hit her like a wall when she opened the front door. Dog days. She was dripping by the time she reached them. They had started on “Blowin’ in the Wind.” She caught Jerry’s eye but he only winked and held up a cautioning hand. “How many times must the cannonballs fly?” he sang. Her little niece, still dancing, was trying to sing too. “Answer blowin’ inna wind!” she chirped. Olivia had to smile. She hadn’t heard little kids singing those songs for years. It was a whole different age now. No Peter, Paul and Mary hits. No Woodstock. No peace marches. All gone. Except maybe for Maggie. Pregnant again, Jerry’s sister was recycling an old red maternity T-shirt emblazoned with a peace sign. And recycling the old songs too. Nostalgia time.

  The handful of listeners applauded heartily when they finished. Jerry took a sweeping bow and loped over to Olivia. “Hiya, Livid. Aren’t we great?”

  She tried to contain her smile. “You’re a bigger ham than Nick is! And you don’t even have the excuse of being an actor.”

  “Listen, the instant the MD business starts to drag I’ll be off like a shot! I mean, this is fun! Besides, the Maggot was wearing her peace shirt. How could I resist?”

  “Yeah, it’s all my fault.” Maggie, leading her little daughter, rejoined her brother with a grin. Her eyes were the same laughing jay-blue of Jerry’s. “Kid sisters are always to blame. Are you a kid sister, Liv?”

  “No, thank God.”

  “Some people have all the luck. Hey, how’s Joanne Little doing?”

  “She’ll win hands down if her lawyers don’t clown around once too often. And speaking of clowning around, are you guys finished? Ready to go pick up the Colbys?”

  “Hey, look!” Maggie’s husband called gleefully. Nick O’Connor was a big, bald, pleasantly homely man who periodically appeared in TV commercials selling beer or paper towels. Olivia was sorry she hadn’t been able to see him in any plays, but they’d all been in New York. Right now he was picking coins from the open case where he was about to stow the guitar. He jingled them jubilantly in his hand. “We made seven bucks!”

  “Wowee!” Jerry scooped up small Sarah, grabbed Maggie’s hand, and capered over to inspect the haul. “We should have left the guitar case right next to the sidewalk!”

  Olivia shook her head, got out her keys, and climbed into the driver’s seat of the Ford passenger van parked a few steps further up the street. She turned on the air conditioner and tapped the horn. Within seconds the others piled in, still jabbering excitedly about the commercial future of their little quartet.

  Dale Colby lived in the Sandford subdivision, a set of nearly identical one-story ranch houses grouped around a small park. A century ago it had been woods and farms traversed by Union soldiers in search of the Confederate Army. What they’d found was Mosby’s irregular cavalry band, who struck and then melted back into their home woods in the best guerrilla tradition. Today the area had a reputation for low prices and good schools, no trace of its bloody past.

  Olivia pulled into the driveway behind the Pinto. Donna Colby, a neat, worried-looking blonde, opened the front door for them. “Oh—please come in. Sit down a minute,” she said. “Dale’s on the phone. He’s—well, he’s not feeling too well today.” She waved them into the immaculate living room with a flutter of her hand.

  Olivia said, “Donna, do you remember Jerry? And this is his sister Maggie Ryan. Her husband Nick O’Connor. And this is Sarah.”

  Donna smiled brightly at their greetings. “Glad to meet you. This is Tina, with the Barbie dolls. Say hello, Tina.”

  A girl about nine was sitting on the hearth. She looked up and said, “Hi!” She exchanged a solemn glance with Sarah, who trotted over to inspect the dolls. At another nervous wave from Donna, the two men sat in the wing chairs.

  Donna continued, “And Josie, with the book. Josie, put your feet down!”

  A twelve
-year-old girl on the pink-flowered sofa sullenly removed her sandaled feet from the cushions.

  Maggie glanced at the book and murmured to the girl, “My favorite character is Gollum. Who’s yours, my preciousss?”

  Surprised hazel eyes flicked up. Olivia saw the touch of interest before defiance returned. “The Nazgul,” Josie declared.

  “Right! The Ringwraiths!” exclaimed Maggie approvingly, perching on the arm of the sofa. “I always wanted to be able to fly too. I still want to be an astronaut.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. As long as I can still have a hobbit-hole. Maybe on the moon.”

  The girl rewarded her with a tiny cautious grin. “I know where there’s a hobbit-hole.”

  Olivia left them to discuss Tolkien and turned back to Donna. “Shall we go rouse Dale?”

  “Well—” Donna looked nervously at the hallway that led back to the den. Dale, theoretically on vacation, had been working at home for the last three weeks, doctor’s orders, while he adapted to a new medication. But Edgerton, not the easiest of managing editors, continued to send him assignments. Not that Dale would want a real vacation.

  “I’ll go,” Olivia told Donna. “I have something to say to him anyway.” She marched through the hall to the last room, a den outfitted with file cabinets and an IBM typewriter that put the old machines in the Sun-Dispatch office to shame. Dale was a neat worker, his notes in careful stacks. Even the brass lamp perched at the edge of his desk was polished.

  Dale was on the phone. “Of course I’ll be discreet, Mrs. Resler. Thanks so much.”

  “Lying to sources again, Dale?” teased Olivia, when he’d replaced the receiver.

  He turned in his desk chair, not amused. He was a handsome man with shrewd hazel eyes and sandy hair, but small teeth made his smile seem miserly. “Hello, Olivia.”