Maybe Murder Read online

  “It’s not ongoing.”

  “Did you pick up a cold case?”

  “Not exactly. Look, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Let’s go catch a burger at Dirty’s, and you can tell me all about it.”

  “Can’t, Vic. Besides, I already ate.”

  “Okay. I get it: big time private dick at work.”

  Frowning, Kalico shrugged and purposefully returned his attention to his computer.

  “See you for hoops Saturday morning?”

  “Sure.”

  As Victor strode out of the office, Kalico smiled at his long time friend’s back. They’d met in middle school, played ball together in high school, and shared a keen interest in law enforcement. Vic had gone straight into the Police Academy after graduation, while Kalico had gone to UT, majoring in criminal justice, then interning at The Lone Star Detective Agency, before opening his own office six months ago. It had been a rough start to the business, and Vic constantly advocated for his friend to join the force and work his way up to detective. But Kalico had a dream: he may be under capitalized and under paid; he may be behind on his rent and worried about paying M’s salary––let alone his own; he may be the “cat” detective for now, but, by God, he had his own agency, a possible, if unlikely, murder to prevent, and a big check in his pocket.

  He turned his attention to Miss Winterjoy’s neighbor, and began a background check. Nancy MacLeod, née Simmons, Born: 1950. Married James Dulson in 1969. Married Gareth MacLeod in 1971. Graduated from UT with a degree in library science in 1967. One son, Patrick, a lawyer, now living in California, born 1968. One grandson, Connor, age 22. Widowed in 2006. Profession: children’s librarian….

  Kalico sighed. Nancy MacLeod was an unlikely target for murder. Maybe she’d fined a toddler one too many times for an overdue book? He clicked on the Texas Library Association’s website to review her professional associations: a member since 1979, she had worked downtown at the Austin Central Library, the Faulk Central Branch, for eighteen years, transferring to the Hampton Branch in 1997.

  At 4:30, M’s poked her head into Kalico’s office, announcing that she was off to the bank to deposit the checks before heading home.

  Kalico looked up from his computer screen. “Did you make the calls?”

  “Of course. No new reports from any of the rescue groups. No tweets. No postings.”

  “But did you call Animal Control?”

  M’s frowned and glanced away from Kalico. Ben knew she loved her role in tracking missing pets—everything except calling Animal Control. She didn’t want to know if one of their clients’ pets had become road kill. The loss of a miniature poodle, named Puddles, had been shattering. She shuddered. “Well, no,” she admitted.

  Kalico studied his assistant for a moment. “Not to worry. I’ll make the call today.”

  “Thanks. See you tomorrow. Don’t work too late.”

  Kalico listened as M’s gathered her stuff and left the office. He’d finished his notes on Sunny Bono’s capture, completing and closing his file. Tomorrow M’s would turn his notes into a clever narrative for their blog. He’d listed his mileage and expenses. It was almost time to pay his quarterly self-employment taxes. Thank goodness for Sunny B and Miss Winterjoy.

  Kalico returned to researching Nancy MacLeod, finding nothing in the life of the librarian that would make her a target for murder. With increased interest, he turned his attention to Connor MacLeod, Miss Winterjoy’s prime suspect. He pulled up the young man’s Facebook page. An exasperated chuckle escaped him: Kalico did not know what he had expected—certainly, not the face or profile that appeared before him. Instead of the dead eyes of a Dylan Klebold, he saw a fresh, freckle-faced kid in a cowboy hat mugging for the camera. A junior at UT, majoring in mechanical engineering, his profile indicated that he loved indie rock, living in the Live Music Capital of the World, and brown-eyed girls. A quick background check indicated that he worked part time as a waiter at Truluck’s, had no outstanding warrants or any past run-ins with the law, and had a single unpaid parking ticket.

  Well, shoot. It appeared that his new client was indeed fanciful. Kalico pondered whether or not he would have to refund her retainer. He sighed. He would.

  His stomach growled: 6:30. Time to call it quits for the night. He pulled up his open case files—an end of the daily ritual—and studied the faces of four cats and seven dogs who were missing. The number was down from the thirty cases he’d compiled after the publicity frenzy surrounding Diva, and no new missing pet investigations had opened this week. That’s okay, he thought. I don’t want to be boxed into being the pet detective. But the money had kept him afloat. Aside from the dead end provided by Miss Winterjoy, his only other case was a subcontracted insurance fraud investigation—a bone from a colleague at the Lone Star Agency.

  Kalico put his laptop in its case, locked his desk, and turned off the lights. His phone vibrated.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hello, Benjy dear. I called to congratulate you on finding Sunny Bono. Such a beautiful boy.”

  “Ben,” he corrected automatically. “Thanks. You must be my most avid Twitter follower.”

  “I am. Your father is hungry for enchiladas, so we wondered if you would like to join us at Maudie’s on Slaughter at 7?”

  “Mom, you guys don’t need to feed me,” Kalico grumbled.

  “We know that, but we’re your parents, and we worry. You’re too thin. Come on, you know you love chicken enchiladas in tomatillo sauce. We’ll even spring for a margarita. And you can tell us all about the exciting capture.”

  “Okay,” he acquiesced, somewhat ungraciously. “But please ask Dad not to bring up my giving up the agency for a real job, and, Mom, no asking me to move back home.”

  “We promise.”

  Two hours later, Kalico entered his sparse one-bedroom apartment, kicked off his shoes, and sank into his couch as he turned on his TV to catch the end of Law and Order. True to their word, his parents had not discussed his finances; instead, his mother delicately asked whether or not he had met a nice girl—a sore topic, since Kalico had no time to date and a sense that women around his age were looking for someone more professionally established. “After all, son, you’re almost thirty…” was the evening’s refrain.

  At 11 p.m. just as he was heading for bed, his phone buzzed. Kalico read the message, grabbed his tablet and raced out the door. Ghost, a white Siberian husky, missing since March 6th, had been spotted running along the frontage road near Mo-Pac and Loop 360.

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday, six a.m. found Kalico parked across the street from a modest three-bedroom home in the Dove Springs neighborhood of East Austin. The tan and brown house was dark, its shades drawn. It belonged to Carson Bolter, who lived there with his wife and two school-aged children. A forty-one year old roofer for a small business, he had been off the job since January, filing a Workman’s Compensation claim for a back injury. The roofing company had called in Lone Star to investigate possible fraud, and Lone Star had subcontracted with Kalico on a case that promised little monetary remuneration for the firm.

  Kalico bit into his Egg McMuffin, washing it down with strong, black coffee. It had been a long night. He’d cruised the MoPac frontage road, Loop 360, and the surrounding area for two hours, catching only a flash of the white dog in a sliver of moonlight. Then Ghost had vanished into the Barton Creek Greenbelt. If time allowed this evening, the detective planned to don hiking boots and walk the trail. Not only did Ghost have the honor of longest escapee on Kalico’s missing pet list, but he also carried a bonus of $2000.00.

  Keeping one eye on the house, Kalico opened his email. Early morning surveillance provided quiet time for documentation and planning. He updated Ghost’s file, making a note to M’s to canvas the Travis Country subdivision. He suspected that Ghost would move from the greenbelt into a neighborhood in search of food.

  The March sky was brightening, and mourning doves were cooing. />
  A message blinked.

  From: Miss Emelia Winterjoy

  To: Mr. Benjamin Kalico

  Subject: Daily report

  “I expect your first report today by noon. Time is of the essence.”––E.W.

  And the game’s afoot, Kalico thought in his best British accent. Last night he had determined to give up Miss Winterjoy’s “case,” let the woman down as gently as possible, and return the retainer, minus one day’s hourly rate and expenses. Too bad. It was a nice check.

  Somewhat gloomily, he began his report, noting that nothing in Connor MacLeod’s initial background check indicated anything unusual or even hinted at possible criminal intent. By all accounts, he was a good student, earning a “B” average, worked approximately thirty hours a week waiting tables, and had no outstanding warrants and no criminal record. He placed the last fact in bold and underlined it. He closed his report, promising to submit a full transcript of the background check, an itemized account of his time and expenses, and a refund of most of his retainer.

  6:45 a.m. Lights came on in the corner bedroom of the Bolter house. Ten minutes later, light appeared from the kids’ rooms and then in the kitchen. The family was up. Kalico peered through his binoculars. No sign of Carson. At 7:15 the family gathered at the kitchen table for breakfast. There. He could just make out Carson, who stood at the head of table to eat his breakfast. Was he wearing his black back brace? Hard to tell. At 7:40 Mrs. Bolter, a nine-year-old boy, and a thirteen-year-old girl exited the house. Each hugged Carson who stood stiffly in the doorway and waved them on. He was, indeed, wearing his brace.

  Kalico waited and watched the house for another twenty minutes. A television flickered through the living room curtains, but he could not see Carson. If his suspect held true to the pattern Kalico had documented over the past ten days, he would remain prone until his wife came home to fix lunch. He had not left the house in the last week except to visit his doctor and a physical therapist.

  Kalico placed a red and blue Round Rock Express baseball cap over his red hair, grabbed a missing pet flyer, and walked across the street to knock on Carson’s door. A minute passed, and he knocked again, a little more loudly. He heard shuffling and mumbling from inside. Then Carson inched open the door, not lifting the chain lock.

  “We don’t want anything,” he growled.

  “Not selling anything,” Kalico responded cheerfully. “I am sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a lost Bichon Frise puppy, named Pippa. Have you seen this little gal?” He held up the flyer several feet from the door at eye level.

  Carson released the chain, and his door swung open. He took a small step forward to look more closely at the flyer.

  “My niece is frantic. The puppy pulled the leash out of her hand on their walk last night. We hope someone in the neighborhood has seen her or taken her in,” Kalico prevaricated. (Pippa was missing, but not from Dove Springs; she belonged to a UT student, and she had been gone for nearly a week.)

  He observed Carson closely: he was barefoot, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt. The back brace was cinched around his waist and extended from just below his armpits to his hips. Deep frown lines were etched between his brows, and pain lines framed his mouth.

  “No. Sorry. I haven’t seen her,” Carson said. “And, believe me, my kids would’ve mentioned finding a puppy. We bought my son, Ryan, a turtle, but it didn’t cut it.”

  “Thanks. And, man, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I didn’t know you were injured.” He looked pointedly at the brace.

  “Yeah. Strained my back on the job.”

  “Back pain is the worst,” murmured Kalico, sympathetically.

  “It’s a bitch. The doctor said I’d be back to work in four to six weeks, and it’s been nearly ten.”

  “Sorry to hear it. But it must be kind of nice to have such an extended time off; that is, if things are okay financially.” Kalico looked down. “I can hardly imagine a full week off without going into the office.” He sighed and smiled innocently.

  “That’s okay. Insurance is taking care of us. As for the time off, that’s what I thought––at first. But I can’t sit, so I can’t drive. The meds make me foggy, so I can’t read. I can’t work, and, if I never see another daytime talk show in my life, it will be fine with me.” Carson shuffled back a step. “Hope you find the pup.”

  “Thanks, again. Our number is on the flyer.” Kalico turned to go, then paused. “Say, do you need anything, before I go?”

  In the middle of shaking his head, “No,” Carson stopped and pointed to his front lawn. “Yes. Would you mind grabbing the newspaper for me? I can’t manage the front steps yet, and Susan, my wife, forgot to bring it in this morning.”

  Kalico picked up the Austin American-Statesman. As he handed it to Carson, he had an instant to note a disheveled couch covered with blankets and pillows, a television turned to Good Morning America, and a tray table with four medicine containers, a bottle of water, and a Sports Illustrated. “Hope your back gets better real soon.”

  ***

  As Kalico endured the stop and go rush hour traffic on I.H.35, he decided that Carson Bolter was the real deal, a genuine guy who was benefitting from Worker’s Comp, a guy who was not attempting to defraud his company. He’d observe him for three more days per his contract with Lone Star, but did not anticipate finding out otherwise.

  “Good morning, M’s.” Kalico rushed into the office, dropped his backpack on the floor, and smiled at his assistant. “There’s been another Ghost sighting. Please get his owner, Mr. Skifford, on the phone so that I can give him an update. I think we’ll need to canvas…”

  M’s cleared her throat loudly. “Ben. Mr. Kalico, you have a client waiting.” She directed her gaze to his office door and mouthed, “Miss Winterjoy.”

  Kalico shrugged and walked into his office. Miss Winterjoy, dressed in a dusty rose pantsuit, stood before him, blue eyes narrowed, unsmiling. This look had quelled hundreds of unruly high school students. Kalico suddenly felt awkward and could feel himself blushing.

  “Miss, Miss Winterjoy,” he stammered. “Hello. What can I do for you this morning?”

  The elderly woman remained silent. She appeared much taller than her 5’ 4” frame. Kalico stopped himself from squirming. He picked up a chair and brought it to her, holding it out for her to sit down.

  Miss Winterjoy inclined her head in acknowledgment as she lowered herself onto the metal office chair and sat, ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap. She continued to stare at Kalico.

  “Can I get you some coffee?

  “May I.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “May I. May I get you some coffee.”

  “No, thanks,” Kalico quipped. “I’ve already had three cups.”

  Miss Winterjoy did not smile. “Mr. Kalico,” she began.

  “Please, call me Ben.”

  “Mister Kalico,” she continued, “I do not accept your report.” She handed him a print out of his email, marked copiously in red ink. “I have hired you to stop a murder, and I expect you to live up to your commitment.”

  “But, Miss Winterjoy,” Kalico began, “There’s nothing to indicate in Connor MacLeod’s background that he’s capable of violence, and certainly, your friend, Mrs. MacLeod, is not a someone who has made enemies. We need to be practical: I don’t want you to waste your money.”

  “It is my money, young man, and I do not consider looking after my friend a waste of resources. Besides, people are rarely who they seem to be. For example, your profile would suggest that you are more qualified to find lost pets than to, say, solve more serious crimes.”

  “Touché.”

  “I have reported two serious incidents…”

  “Incidents that appear to be simply accidents!” Kalico interrupted.

  “Incidents that endangered Mrs. MacLeod and could have killed her. I expect you to follow up and to dig deeper. Or do I need to find another investigator?”

&
nbsp; Kalico studied Miss Winterjoy for a moment, brown eyes meeting blue ones. Behind her assertions, he saw real concern and something else—could it be fear? “Okay. I will continue the investigation, but it will most likely lead to nothing.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Miss. Winterjoy rose to leave. “And take more time on your reports. I expect proper English usage with correct punctuation.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Kalico ushered Miss Winterjoy out of his office, then turned and flopped down on the royal blue love seat in his cramped reception area, muttering something that sounded to M’s like, “Damn all cats and dogs and English teachers.” He sank into the love seat with his longs legs sprawled over an armrest and groaned. He glanced at M’s who was just lifting a Starbuck’s cup to her lips.

  “I’d kill for coffee,” Kalico offered, looking pointedly at the empty coffee pot behind her desk.

  “I don’t do coffee.” M’s gazed thoughtfully at her boss. “She ambushed me when I arrived at 8:00 this morning. Sorry. I tried to tell her that she needed an appointment, but she said that she would wait.”

  “Okay. Look what she did to my report!” He handed M’s the printout marked in red.

  Laughing, she said, “Looks like you need to review where to place commas. And, oh my,” she read from the markings, “correct your passive and awkward sentences structures.”

  Kalico groaned. “It’s like being back in Freshman English.”

  “Well, she greeted me by saying that she thought that this was a business and not a night club.”

  Kalico looked at his assistant. Today her dyed black hair was tipped with electric blue and tied up in pigtails. She wore a camouflage man’s shirt tucked into a full, blue print skirt, and ruffled white socks peeped over the edge of her black boots. No fewer than twelve silver rings adorned her left ear.

  “She has a point.”

  “You should talk. Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

  Kalico rubbed the reddish stubble on his chin and his coffee-stained Longhorn tee-shirt. “I chased Ghost all night and had an early morning surveillance.”