Honest to Dog by Neil Plakcy

Author:Neil Plakcy
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: pennsylvania, cozy mystery, amateur sleuth, dogs, golden retrievers
Publisher: Neil Plakcy
Published: 2016-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

19 – What Ricky Likes

“Do you know if Catherine has an alibi for Tuesday night?” I asked Rick.

We were heading up Route One on Sunday morning, toward Rick’s meeting with Tiffany at a diner in Union City.

“You think I’m that much of a slacker? She says she was home alone that night. But I already told you that I’m considering Guilfoyle’s death an suicide, so it doesn’t matter where she was.”

“And you know about the five-million-dollar life insurance policy?”

“Again. You are not following me. Where she was, what she inherits, whether she was mad at him or still loved him, doesn’t matter.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and looked out the window.

“Look, Steve. I know you liked the guy, and you feel bad that he died. But sometimes we have to accept that things happen. You have to stop looking for trouble where there isn’t any. There’s enough in the world to worry about without that.”

We hopped on the turnpike, through the area that most people think of when you say New Jersey – oil refineries and run-down apartment buildings jammed up against the roadway, a permanent smoggy haze in the air. Rick handed me his phone. “Tiffany messaged me the directions,” he said. “Can you read them?”

I told him to take I-495 toward the Lincoln Tunnel. Tiffany had ended her message with a bunch of emoticons—little hearts and kisses. Guess she wasn’t bitter about their divorce, or at least she wasn’t anymore.

We got off the highway at John F. Kennedy Boulevard and headed south, toward the border of Hoboken and Union City. Since I had Rick’s phone in my hand, I used it to check the address for the Center for Infusion Therapy.

“The clinic where Tiffany worked is up ahead on the right,” I said, as we approached it. “That low white building with the yellow ramp in front.”

All the signs were in both English and Spanish, and small decals pasted beside the front door advertised the insurance they accepted.

“Small building,” I said. “They must not see a lot of patients.”

Rick didn’t even look over. “Tiffany says most of the building is office space—there are just two exam rooms.”

We continued about a half-mile down the street to the restaurant where we were meeting Tiffany. It was like driving through a foreign country—signs were embellished with the flags of various Latin American countries, the wording in Spanish and Portuguese. The Phone Llama store was wedged between a bar called Las Iguanas and a karate dojo with signs in both Spanish and Japanese.

We found the café but the narrow street was crowded with parked cars, and we had to travel an extra block to find a space. A church up the street was letting out, and the sidewalk was busy with people in their Sunday best. The women wore low-cut dresses in bright colors, the men natty suits with wide lapels or white guayaberas.

“Did Tiffany grow up around here?” I asked Rick, as we walked.

He shook his head. “The Bronx.”

“How’d

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