Canine Crimes by Cynthia Manson

Author:Cynthia Manson [Manson, Cynthia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 051511250X
Publisher: Jove
Published: 1993-11-30T21:00:00+00:00

“Clara,” Tom said into his CB mike, “this is Sheriff Rhodes. Did Wendell call in yet? Over.”

“Is that you, sheriff?” responded the most awful, high-pitched, nasal whine the human voice is capable of producing.

Tom slowly counted to six before switching the mike back on. “Yes, Clara, it’s the sheriff. When I get on the radio and say this is Sheriff Rhodes, it means, Clara, that it’s Sheriff Rhodes.”

“Well, you don’t have to get snippy, now do you? Sheriff Tim never got snippy.” The woman’s voice was like fingernails on a blackboard. Clara was good at her job, but lousy as a warm, loving, human being. “As you know. Sheriff Rhodes, it says right in the rulebook, make sure you identify who you’re talking to.”

I had a smart-aleck remark in the offing, but seeing the look on Tom’s face I decided to keep my mouth shut.

“What it doesn’t say in the rulebook, Clara,” Tom responded, smooth as glass, “is that Sheriff Tim has retired and no longer pays your salary.”

“Wendell dropped Mrs. Hoggs at home, then went back to where that no-good coot Simpson finally got what was comin’ to him.” End of transmission.

“Simpson certainly was well liked,” I mused out loud.

We were headed, I hoped, back to my house in Tom’s new police jeep. Fifteen grand of the taxpayers’ money, and it was the best. Top of the line CB, gun rack, leather upholstery, and springs that made you forget you were going fifty mph down a gravel ditch called a road.

It was nearing lunchtime, my hunger was returning, and I was getting a little peevish. “Could you please slow down!”

“I thought you were hungry.”

“I would also like to be alive to eat my lunch.”

“Am I invited?” Never known the kid to miss a free feed from Elly.

“Are you kidding? If Elly sees you pull up, there’s no way you’ll get away until she’s stuffed you to the gills.”

“I was counting on that.”

It was almost eleven A.M., the sun was still out, and I tried to relax and enjoy the scenery. It’d taken a while, but I was getting used to trees instead of tenements and watching for deer running in front of your car instead of kids. “Who is this Scooter, anyway?”

“Scooter Simpson, Jack’s nephew.”

“He live out there? Elly and I sure didn’t see any sign of life other than animal type.” I took a hefty breath, letting the air out slowly, and leaned back in my seat. A lot had happened that morning. I needed time to digest it all.

Tom sighed wearily. “I don’t like the sound of Scooter’s not being around, Hec.” Then, shaking his head for emphasis, “Don’t like the sound of that one bit.”

“You know this Scooter?”

“Everybody knows Scooter.”

I didn’t and said so.

Narrowly skirting a pothole the size of a Jacuzzi, he wised off, “If you’d get out more, like Elly does. . .”

“Are you or are you not going to tell me who Scooter is?”

When he didn’t answer immediately, I turned to see his face had clouded over.

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