Oberon's Meaty Mysteries: The Purloined Poodle Read online

 

  Our Druids had already gone inside, presumably to smooch and talk about human things, and hopefully get dinner going. They would call us when they wanted us. In the meantime, we could run around and play.

  Orlaith said, and with that we were coursing around the house, watching to see if Starbuck could keep up. Over the short term, he did—he’s a fast little guy! But after a lap we pulled away, since Starbuck’s lungs and legs weren’t big enough to keep that up for very long. We didn’t want him to feel left behind, so we pulled up and dodged around and tumbled and wrestled and so on. Eventually we all just lay down on some cool soft earth by the riverbank and panted and listened to the water gurgle past us.

  I asked Orlaith. She was just starting to show that she was pregnant.

  she said.

 

 

  I got her caught up with our shenanigans while Atticus was no doubt doing the same thing with Granuaile, and eventually we got called in for bratwurst. Starbuck didn’t know what was happening when we rocketed to our feet and sprinted for the back door, but he was happy to follow and see what we were suddenly excited about. We plowed through the extra-large doggie door and too late I worried if Starbuck could handle it, but it was no problem for him. It was bigger than he was used to but he had the strength to push through and wasn’t afraid of the door at all.

  “Oh! Atticus, he’s adorable!” Clever Girl said when she saw him. “Starbuck! C’mere!”

  The Boston went right up to her and snuffled her fingers and she got a few quick pets in before he got distracted by all the other things to smell in this new environment.

  I said.

  Already on it, buddy.

 

  Which rules?

 

  Oh, right. There’s enough for everyone and never a need to wrangle over portions. Never fear.

  It was a pretty good night because we saved a pooch in trouble. Starbuck got full on food that wasn’t kibble and so did we, and Atticus gave all of us some kind of Druid tea to help out with the issues dogs have sometimes when they eat a lot of high-fat meat. And in the morning we would wake up, continue our investigation, and maybe figure out where to find Jack, the purloined poodle. After breakfast, of course.

  Chapter 4:

  Wibbly-wobbly

  Time is the

  Best Time

  Our Druids got up at dawn and went through their bizarre coffee making ritual. It was sure a lot of trouble to make some hot bitter water, and I can’t imagine what kind of poor senses they must have if they think that stuff is any good, but coffee will just have to remain one of many human mysteries to us hounds. If there’s anything good about the coffee making, though, it’s a clear signal that food is coming right afterward. Atticus made us some pork sausage links topped with a light sausage gravy, and then he whipped up a couple of light vegetarian omelets for himself and Clever Girl.

  These days Granuaile always had a book of Polish poetry in front of her by a lady named Wisława Szymborska. It had both the English and Polish versions side-by-side, and she was memorizing the Polish version so that she’d have a new headspace she could use for plane shifting. But during breakfast or whatever meal she was sharing with us—her schedule was unpredictable now since she spent a lot of time in Poland and the time zones were different—she often liked to share a few lines in English with us.

  “Listen to this, you guys—it’s from one of Szymborska’s poems called ‘Dreams’ and kind of applies to Druidry, though it’s unintentional. Especially if you think of the flying bit as shifting planes. I’ll give you the translation:

  And we—unlike circus acrobats,

  conjurers, wizards, and hypnotists—

  can fly unfledged,

  we light dark tunnels with our eyes,

  we wax eloquent in unknown tongues,

  talking not with just anyone, but with the dead.”

  She smiled at Atticus when she finished and he smiled back. “That’s good stuff, even in translation.”

  It was. Both of our Druids were pretty happy these days. Granauile loved learning this language and its poetry, and Atticus loved not being chased by vampires anymore. He still had a lot of debt to pay off to mercenary yewmen, and he was no longer rich, but he said he had a plan to fix all that. “I know where all the gold is,” he explained, “or at least I know elementals who do. It’s just going to take me a bit of time to set things up to where I can extract it safely without giving Gaia a bunch of new problems, and I couldn’t take the proper time during the vampire business.” He was going to set up a claim in a barren desert in southern California and then say his gold came from there. When other humans went to start mines near the same place, they’d not hurt much because it was already a desert, plus they wouldn’t find anything and be ruined by their own greed. That was his long-term plan, and he said he had a short-term plan too involving a treasure map, but he’d get to it later.

  Granuaile had the day off from her bartending job in Poland, so she was going to lounge by the river, memorize Szymborska, and give Orlaith belly rubs. Atticus was going to drive me and Starbuck into Eugene so we could fight crime.

  We were out the door and piling into the rental beast when Atticus’s new phone rang. “Oh, good morning, Detective Ibarra,” he said. “How can I help?”

  Atticus put the detective on speaker so I could hear. “There’s some serious confusion with the timeline of this case, and I was hoping you could clear it up,” she said.

  “I doubt it since I didn’t really notice times—I don’t wear a watch or check my phone obsessively—but I’ll try.”

  “Great. Mr. Lumbergh, Mr. Goggins-Smythe, and Ms. Pierce all claim you first met them yesterday.”

  “Huh. That’s fascinating.”

  “You also discovered the body of Ms. Boone-Sutcliffe.”

  “Right. I do remember that. We were both there. We exchanged cards.”

  “How is it possible for you to be in Eugene, then Bend, then Bellingham, and finally Portland all on the same day?”

  “I’m not sure that it is possible. Is this a trick question?”

  “No, it’s a serious question. How were you able to visit these people on the same day?”

  “I don’t think I did.”

  “So when did you visit them?”

  “In a sequence of time that’s physically possible, of course. I think one or more of them must be mistaken about when they saw me. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. I try not to notice the passage of time. It stresses me out, releases cortisol into the bloodstream, shortens the life span, contributes to poor skin and many other undesirable effects. Better to just live in the present, whatever time it is.”

  “What time is it now, Mr. Molloy?”

  “Are you trying to stress me out? It’s between breakfast and lunch.”

  “I see. How long have you been an animal rights advocate?”

  “For more than two millennia.”

  “Hmph,” the detective grunted as if Atticus had made a joke. But I think maybe he had actually told her the truth there. I’m terrible at figuring out times for things and always get the terms messed up—like Doctor Who, I prefer to think of time as “wibbly-wobbly”—but I’m pretty sure that “millennia” is one of the longer measurements of time. Atticus will tell people the truth sometimes, confident that they won’t believe him or even think he’s being serious, and it’s pret
ty funny to both of us when he does. Detective Ibarra continued, “Yet you just had that card you gave me made yesterday.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “This phone you’re using is a burner phone, also activated yesterday. So you couldn’t have known the number to put on your card before then.”

  “Wow, you’re an excellent detective.”

  “What else do you do, Mr. Molloy? I’m finding very little history on you and it raises suspicions.”

  “Owning a burner phone, even several of them, is not illegal.”

  “Of course not. It is, however, the legal method that many criminals use to disguise their movements and whereabouts.”

  “It’s also one of many methods that law-abiding citizens use to protect their privacy from an intrusive government.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At my home about sixty miles from Eugene.”

  “You don’t have a car registered in the state of Oregon.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So how did you get down there from Portland last night?”

  “I rented a car. That’s what I do when I absolutely need one. Most of the time I don’t need a car.”

  “Ah, so you must work at home. That brings us back to the question of what you do when you are not finding murder victims in my jurisdiction.”

  “Lots of meditation, three different kinds of yoga, some gardening. The usual.”

  “I meant what do you do for income? How did you get the money to rent a car and buy a burner phone?”

  “What does that matter? I do odd training jobs and get by.”

  “It matters because your story is inconsistent and your background is shady.”

  “Lots of people get elected to high offices that way. I should run for President.”

  A frustrated sigh blew through the phone. Instead of shouting at Atticus, the detective calmly changed the subject. “Where were you when Ms. Boone-Sutcliffe was killed?”

  “I don’t know. When was she killed—wait, you know what? It doesn’t matter, because whenever it was, I was not in her house with a dart gun to kidnap her dog.”

  “I notice you have the dog.”

  “Which I did not kidnap. I took him with your permission and will return him to any family member of Ms. Boone-Sutcliffe as promised. He’s doing much better, by the way. His stress levels are way down. How are yours?”

  “Going up the longer we talk.”

  “Would you like to talk later, then?”

  “No, I want you to stop obstructing my investigation and answer plainly.”

  “How can you say I’m obstructing? I found the body, gave you a motive for the killing, and gave you a pool of suspects that you can easily track down.”

  “You mean the regional dog trainers’ forum? Useless. You have to be a member to post to the forum, but anyone from the general public can view it and see who owns a Grand Champion.”

  “But the general public is not adept at crafting perfectly dosed snacks for other dogs, would not know that Mr. Lumbergh had four additional Brittany spaniels, or that Ms. Pierce had additional French bulldogs, and so on. The methodology suggests a trainer who knew the owners already.”

  “You’re a trainer.”

  Atticus rolled his eyes. “Yes, but I didn’t know anyone previously. I only met these people in the last few days. Or just yesterday if you want to believe in the impossible.”

  “That’s fine, but your involvement in all this makes no sense.”

  “I like dogs and don’t want to see them hurt. That’s hardly uncommon.”

  “But traveling as much as you did over someone else’s dogs is impractical, to say the least, without someone paying expenses. Is Mr. Goggins-Smythe paying you for your time to investigate this?”

  “I sure hope so. I haven’t sent him a bill yet.”

  “When I spoke to him he said he hadn’t hired you in any official capacity, but you told Ms. Pierce that he had.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll work it out.”

  “You also told him you knew Detective Callaghan in Eugene but I just finished speaking with Detective Callaghan and he’s never heard of you.”

  “Well, he was pretty drunk at the time.”

  “Detective Callaghan’s been sober for nine years now.”

  “Everyone’s very proud of him, too! Ah, well, I guess I’ll just have to reintroduce myself. It’s been a long time and it’s not his fault.”

  “You’re saying you knew him when he was still drinking? Wouldn’t you have been a child then?”

  Atticus’s eyes grew big, but I’m pretty sure nothing happened in his pants. I think it meant he was surprised because she’d caught him at something. Or at least appeared to. There’s no way Atticus was a child nine years or days or centuries ago. I mean, he’s older than railroads. Older than vampires. He’s even older than Keith Richards! “I suppose technically I would have been,” he said, “but I was precocious.”

  “You are entirely too glib, Mr. Molloy.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m also not the murderer. You’re wasting time talking to me.”

  “Confirming statements and tracking down inconsistencies is part of the job. They often point to the solution. Not a waste at all.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll let you get back to it, then, unless there’s anything else.”

  “If you can’t account for your whereabouts at the time of Ms. Boone-Sutcliffe’s murder I’m afraid that will make you a person of interest.”

  “You still haven’t told me when she was killed. I’m pretty sure it was long before I discovered the body and called 911.”

  “Two nights ago between midnight and three in the morning.”

  “I was at home, asleep.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “My hound got a pretty good belly rub right before I went to bed. Made his leg kick out and everything, got him in that spot right beneath the last rib.” Hey, yeah! I remember that! But I couldn’t say so to the detective. I noticed he didn’t volunteer Granuaile’s name. He probably didn’t want to get her involved.

  “That is not a very good alibi, Mr. Molloy.”

  “I don’t live my life in such a way as to provide rock solid alibis whenever some stranger dies unpredictably more than a hundred miles away from me. Do you have multiple witnesses watch you sleep every night, Detective Ibarra, just in case you become a person of interest in some random murder?”

  “I see that you wish to remain uncooperative. Noted.”

  That finally annoyed Atticus. His expression and tone turned dark. “I note that you are trying to intimidate someone who has done more work to solve this crime than you have. Guess I’ll just have to solve it on my own.”

  “Do not interfere with my investigation.”

  “You must have misheard me. I said I’m going to solve the crime. For my client.”

  “Mr. Goggins-Smythe is not your client!”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve done your job for you.” Atticus pressed his thumb on a button to end the call—marvelous things, thumbs—and he sighed. “See, Oberon? I told you the timeline was going to be a problem.”

 

  “That’s not exactly what I said…”

 

  “Let’s go. We have to return this rental and see if we can catch up with those other two hound owners.”

 

  “We do? Those are called deerstalker hats.”

 

  “What kind of pipe do you want?”

 

  Atticus pulled out onto the road and lowered the rear windows as a courtesy to me and Starbuck. “Well, in the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle it was a churchwarden pipe, but in films and stage producti
ons the actors often used a calabash pipe.”

 

  “Yes, he used a churchwarden pipe to smoke Longbottom Leaf with Bilbo Baggins.”

 

  Chapter 5:

  A Man of

  Questionable

  Grooming Habits

  I stuck my head out the window and let my tongue flap around as we drove. The air tasted of pine and wild mushrooms and coming rain. The sky was gray instead of blue and we had the road almost entirely to ourselves until we got to Eugene. It didn’t rain, though, it just kept threatening to like an impotent old guy who promises to kill you for pooping on his lawn, and that was fine with us.

  We returned the rental and Atticus told me we’d shift around from now on since he had Starbuck figured out and would be able to save all his memories. He wasn’t a complicated fella yet.

  I asked him.

  “We’re just heading up to Hillsboro. That’s a conceivable trip for a morning’s drive and the detective shouldn’t have any problem with it if she feels like tracing my movements further.”

  Hillsboro smelled like grapes and hops. Maybe not all of it, but where we shifted in, it sure smelled that way. Atticus said it was home to a bunch of tech companies like Intel, and people called the area the Silicon Forest if they didn’t want to call it Hillsboro, but for the record, I didn’t smell any silicon.

  Atticus had me and Starbuck on leashes for the sake of appearances, and we jogged to the home of Gordon Petrie, who didn’t answer the doorbell. Atticus rang it twice and we were about to give up when I heard someone barking commands behind the house.

 

  No. What is it?

 

  “Worth a look,” he said, and we scooted around to the side fence where Atticus could shout.

  “Mr. Petrie? Are you back there? I need to discuss your Airedale terrier!”