Hair of the Dog (6 page)

Chapter Six

Their townhouse looked pretty good. A trip to the World Market on International Speedway Boulevard for a few throw pillows and cloth napkins, a set of Mexican, hand-blown margarita glasses and pitcher, little hand-carved end tables from Africa, a framed seascape poster for the upstairs bath, and the place was becoming a home. Granted, some of these were things she'd have to donate to Joan's garage when the time came to move, but in the meantime, they would enjoy them. She had dropped Dan off at the track and the day was hers to putter away. Well, do laundry, grocery shop, and give Sadie a nice long walk.

One of the first things she intended to do was wash Sadie's bed. There was every indication that it had never been washed. A little too much dog hair and doggy odor to be living with it in such a small space. And poor Fucher probably didn't even notice.

The bed's flannel outer case had a zipper. She only hoped washing the casing would do the trick and that the stuffing wasn't too “doggy.” She wasn't sure what she'd do then, maybe buy some cheap towels and fill the bag. Getting Sadie to relinquish her favorite spot took some coaxing. And a hotdog. But finally Sadie was closed in the kitchen with her treat, and Elaine was sitting on the floor with the dog bed.

The first thing she realized was that the flannel case was just a covering for a heavy canvas-like material that was really the bag itself. This was not a cheap bed. Elaine peeled off the first cover and set it aside. The canvas covering had a heavy-duty zipper that was rusted and probably reflected its age. Or was maybe just another victim of the salt air this close to the ocean. But there was no doubt that it needed a washing, too.

The zipper took a little work and a trip to Joan's garage to borrow some WD-40. Finally she'd inched the zipper back about a foot but needed more light to continue. Grabbing one end of the bed she jerked it upright and pulled it after her toward the nearest window. Turning back to sit down she sucked in her breath and dropped the bed. Trailing after her across the floor were several neatly bound stacks of twenties with more peeking out of the unzipped hole.

“Oh my God…” She'd found Fucher's bank. And it made sense that he wouldn't trust a real bank or maybe just didn't know how to open an account. So, a dog bed worked just as well. Gave new meaning to keeping one's savings under the mattress. But now what to do? Count it? It was beginning to bother her to even look at what promised to be quite a sum. It raised all kinds of questions—who should be notified? Was Fucher really responsible enough to make decisions? But maybe more importantly, could they, or even
should
they use it to make his bail?

***

“Two hundred and ninety thousand dollars.” The stacks of twenties covering the dining room table were impressive. Dan had counted it twice, yet it was still difficult to believe. In a dog bed and who knew how long it had been there. Amazing that it hadn't been stolen but then who would look in a dog bed? Quite possibly Fucher had found one of the best kept secrets for safeguarding valuables at home. Made him think of a certain Barbasol can that had held a five-hundred-thousand-dollar necklace in Wagon Mound, New Mexico. People could be pretty inventive when it came to hiding valuables. But then so could thieves when it came to finding them. Fucher had been lucky his “bank” hadn't been discovered.

“What should we do? This amount of money makes me really nervous.” Elaine was just staring at the table. “I don't think I could sleep tonight knowing it was here.”

“I'm with you. We need to get it somewhere for safekeeping—preferably a bank. Didn't Joan say her brother was a lawyer and had helped Fucher with money matters before? That's probably the best place to start.”

***

Roger Carter didn't ask questions but came to the townhouse at his sister's insistence. And simply kept shaking his head as he looked at the piles of twenties.

“I wondered where the rest of the settlement was. Fucher had made so many handouts and loans that I just supposed it had all trickled away. He was pretty close-mouthed. I knew I probably didn't have a record of all of them. And collecting was going to be a nightmare even with contracts.”

“Has there been a hearing?” Dan knew that that would determine bail.

“Interestingly enough, set for tomorrow morning. I'll be representing Fucher. I hate to think my degree in criminal law is coming in handy for a friend. I know you don't know him but I'd like to think you concur with me that an innocent man is being charged.”

“I think we both agree with you,” Elaine added.

“I'm going to re-count this and draw up papers as to when and how it was found, and then we'll take it to the bank. I know the charge is murder but I think under the circumstances, and knowing Fucher's limitations, the judge won't see him as a flight risk. I think we'll get a reasonable bail.”

“Any guess as to what the sum might be?” Dan was hoping the two hundred and ninety would cover it.

“Probably two hundred and fifty. It's a little high only because the charge is murder. Why don't you join me at the courthouse in the morning? Nine sharp. I've got a judge that doesn't like his time wasted waiting.

***

Fucher looked almost handsome in a sports jacket and tie. Even his jeans looked neatly pressed, the cuffs covering the shackles. He excitedly waved to all his friends until Roger made him turn around. Mel sat two rows up beside a rather dapper looking older man in a somewhat dated suit, white shirt, and tie. His short white beard looked neatly trimmed for the occasion and white hair curled away from his face in a cherubic halo of fluff. The way his lower jaw sort of slanted backwards tucking in just slightly under his upper lip, Dan guessed the man wasn't wearing his lower dentures. Must be Fred, Fucher's friend, the maintenance guy.

The judge was punctual but the surprise came when it was determined that Dixie Halifax, the Daytona Dog Track,
and
the family of Jackson Sanchez would be represented by joint counsel. Being some ten minutes late didn't endear them to the judge. But finally, two lawyers, a man and a woman, took their seats at a table in front of the dais. Dan's sixth sense put him on alert but he wasn't sure why. They wouldn't interfere with his investigation, but he was just curious as to why Ms. Halifax and the track felt they needed representation.

It didn't take long to figure out—after the two lawyers presented an overview of the supposed losses. Ms. Halifax and the track were looking for compensation for downtime including lost wages for employees, and the Sanchez family expected to pursue a wrongful death suit, hoping to recoup half a lifetime of unrealized earning power—lost salary and support of two children.

Wow. Someone must think Fucher had deep pockets, Dan thought. But then the lead lawyer on the opposing team argued against bail. They did not want Fucher Crumm released. Characterized him as a threat to humanity—not in control of his own emotions. It was difficult to sit and listen to the character assignation of someone so trusting. Fucher had to be hushed several times.

Roger asked to approach the bench and, finally, both lawyers left the courtroom to meet in the judge's chambers. Coming back into the room some fifteen minutes later, Roger caught Dan's eye and gave him the briefest of nods. The opposing attorney looked disgruntled and quickly pushed papers into his briefcase all the while whispering to the woman beside him at the table.

But bail was set at two hundred and fifty thousand and after Roger explained to Fucher what had happened, there was much jumping up and down—even in shackles. Followed by Mel and Fred hugging each other and then coming down front to hug Fucher.

It took a moment for Roger to get everyone's attention. “I'll pick him up at the jail later after I withdraw the bail money and sign a few papers. I'm relieved it's turned out this way. How 'bout dinner on me tonight? I'm thinking Bonefish Grill, Atlantic Boulevard in Ormond. Let's say around seven?”

Chapter Seven

Dan could not stop smiling as Fucher tried first one appetizer and then another—the verdict written clearly on his face after usually one bite or a loud, “This one's yummy.” A generous mound of fried calamari had just disappeared into his mouth and a thin trail of dipping oil left a shiny streak down his chin. But Fucher was oblivious—Sadie was in a car outside in the parking lot, he was snuggly back in his house, and all was right with his world. Joan Carter had set him up with several odd jobs—maybe more busy work than much-needed repairs—and Mel had promised to get him involved in preparing Nero for the track. Life was good again. Dan certainly hoped it would stay that way.

He looked around the table—Roger, Joan, Mel, Fred, Elaine, himself—this was Fucher's family. And he could certainly do worse. Mel and Roger were going to petition the judge to allow Fucher to cross county lines to travel to Miami. Next weekend would be Nero's debut at a Class A track. There was a lot of clinking of iced tea and water glasses and toasting to well-deserved success. Dan thought he'd never forget the look of utter joy on Fucher's face.

For the first time in almost a week, Dan felt he'd accomplished something. But he knew UL&C would want more than a gut feeling that the accused was innocent and he wasn't sure how he was going to go about that. He needed to prove that Fucher not only didn't start the fire that killed the greyhounds but he didn't do it at the request of Dixie Halifax. Accidental death, the result of criminal intent—someone wanted to cover a murder? That's what it looked like. But Fucher just didn't fit the bill. And, yeah, it wasn't Dan's job to prove Fucher's innocence. But the guy could use a little help. What he did have to prove was that the one insured had no hand in setting up the circumstances that gave him or her the payoff. But Dixie killing her own dogs? Tough to get his mind around. Still, for the moment he just wanted to bask in the glow of a small victory. Fucher Crumm was not incarcerated.

***

“So what's the plan of action?” He knew Elaine was genuinely curious and the ride back to Daytona gave them time to talk.

“I need a break. A break in the case.”

“What would that break look like?”

“Not sure, but I think I'd recognize it.” A rueful smile. He was always suspicious when things were too neatly wrapped up—especially before he got there. There were a lot of people jumping to conclusions in this case. And not enough people asking questions.

“See, it's just this kind of dead end, too-neatly-wrapped-up kind of investigation that makes me second-guess my wanting to be a PI. If the authorities are just accepting the easy way out and don't seem to be trying to uncover other possibilities, then what chance do you have?”

“Good point, but I have a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar payout that better go to the right person.”

“So, if it's proved that Fucher started the fire that caused the losses, Dixie stands to gain? She gets the full two-fifty?”

“Yeah. Dixie's name is the only one on the policy. And I don't see any breaks in sight. If Fucher is innocent, he's the perfect fall guy. His explanation of what happened is easy to discount because of his challenges and, before we came along, it didn't seem anyone was looking out for his interests. All in all, he'd be a good choice to take the brunt of a murder and cover-up. Did Dixie have any part in all this? I just don't think things happened the way they're being presented. And I'm not sure my gut feelings have ever been wrong.”

“Do you think you were born with ‘gut feelings' or are they more of a skill that can be learned?”

“Really good question. I think any PI needs to have a healthy natural curiosity and a sixth sense that keeps him from accepting everything at face value. But the rest of it comes from exposure—by the fifteen-hundredth surveillance case you work on, your instincts will be honed to perfection.”

“I hope so. To even get started I need to align myself with a local PI—someone with a license in Florida.”

“Leaves me out. Are you sure you want to start now? We could be here two weeks, a month…I have no idea.”

“All the courses are online so I could be anywhere, but the very first assignment involves actual fieldwork. Real hands-on. I kinda like that—jump right in, get exposure to surveillance work outside of a textbook. I guess I don't see why I shouldn't be doing something more than washing dog beds.”

“Hey, don't knock it. That was pretty lucrative for a little homemaker.” He ducked the blow to his shoulder. “But when it comes to working with a local PI, there need to be some ground rules.”

“Such as?”

“For starters, do not team up with anyone under the age of seventy. Do not agree to any overnight surveillance. Do not—” This time Elaine's fist connected soundly with his shoulder.

***

The online yellow pages for the area listed five private investigators—only three appeared to have actual offices. Elaine started with those. The first almost laughed in the phone barely covering the receiver before a chortle of disgust. A university professor in the humanities, no less, wanted to start a career in private investigation? That was a good one.

The second one's receptionist put her through to an individual who seemed to feel it was his express reason for living to tell her how little money she'd make and how very dangerous the job was. Another strikeout. And, oh my goodness, she'd never shot a gun? And didn't even own one? She probably imagined the barely discernible “poor thing” before hanging up, then again, maybe not.

There had to be an easier way. Of course, she should have thought of this first—she called the college. Yes, of course, the department had a list of several PIs they could recommend. But if the receptionist were doing the choosing, it would be Scott Ramsey. Elaine took his number and email address and hung up. She looked him up online. He'd been in the business for twenty-seven years. Would that make him closer to seventy? Probably not, but definitely out of his thirties. And he didn't want to discuss particulars over the phone; he wanted a personal interview. Could she meet with him in the morning at his office in Palm Coast? Yes. Absolutely. She preferred it, too. She'd see him at eleven.

The office was easy to find. She dropped Dan off at the track and headed north on Highway 1. Palm Coast was a mere thirty-five minutes away. She took the Palm Coast Parkway exit to Pine Lakes Blvd. and just as the GPS promised, her destination was on the left.

If she'd expected some rundown rickety storefront, she would have been wrong. This small, two-room office around the corner from a veterinarian had space for a receptionist, ample storage, a wall of local maps, another office,
and
a conference room that probably only seated four comfortably, but still offered space to meet and work. The magazines were not only up-to-date but offered a wide range of choices—from
Money
to
US
to
Car And Driver
. The wait wasn't long, the leather chair was comfortable, and if customer satisfaction could be gauged by the looks of adoration from the woman coming out of the PI's office, he'd just earned five stars.

“Ms. Linden? Give me another minute or two and then we can talk. Linda would be happy to get you coffee or a soft drink.”

“I'm fine, thank you.” Well, he certainly wasn't going to pass the “close to seventy” test. And he'd probably never seen a gym he didn't like. This man was forty-something and looked thirty-five. Shaved head, dark tan, a bodybuilder's physique…he could be a poster boy for the PI industry. Definitely not what Dan had in mind.

But he asked the right questions, wasn't in a rush, and didn't seem to have any preconceived notion of what a PI needed to look like or what kind of background might be a prerequisite. He wasn't put off by a PhD in English Lit—thought it meant she had solid research skills; in fact, he had a master's in exercise physiology. Which, as he put it, only meant he could probably win a footrace if called for. He was more than familiar with the coursework from Daytona State College's online certification and licensing program—he'd helped design it. He continued to be on their roster as a guest lecturer and curriculum advisor. He appreciated their referrals because he enjoyed mentoring so much.

Elaine felt herself relax. Scott Ramsey was perfect. He just wouldn't pass Dan Mahoney's stringent requirements. Or were those restrictions? Scott took an hour to go through his syllabus—all on-the-ground training exercises involving real-life, hands-on cases and all approved by the college. She would need to apply for a permit to carry. He had the paperwork handy and could recommend the gun-safety school in Daytona. Good material and good instructors with a practice range adjacent. He suggested getting the paperwork in right away. She could get the required passport-sized picture taken at the local library for a nominal fee, and do the fingerprinting at the sheriff's office. He assumed she had no felonies and hadn't recently escaped from any type of mental institution. Elaine thought this was a form of PI humor but assured him the answer was “no” on both accounts.

He'd like them to start on their first assignment Friday and maybe work through the weekend if called for. Uh oh. Wasn't this a planned getaway weekend? A couple days at the beach? She hadn't expected going to school to meld easily with Dan's schedule, still to give up the first free weekend ….

“Not a good time?” He was watching her closely. “I'm hoping we won't need any extra time but just in case.”

“It's fine.” She hoped her smile supported that statement. How perceptive, but then “reading people” was certainly a part of his job. She left his office with a quick-read book designed to give her a thorough overview,
The Complete Idiot's Guide To Private Investigating
, 3rd edition. She was going to ignore the title but, then, it was rather apropos. Still, she had over a page of notes and an appointment time of four p.m. on Friday. And she might as well sign up for that class in gun-safety training, too. She reached for her phone and felt a little blip of excitement—it looked like she was on her way.

***

The car in the driveway outside the townhouse wasn't familiar. A white Chrysler or Buick sedan. Elaine wasn't supposed to pick up Dan for another hour, and she didn't think they were expecting guests. She parked in front, gathered up her class materials and got out of the SUV.

“Oh, wait. I didn't mean to block the garage. I'll move my car.” The woman's bright red bob was partially hidden by a narrow-brimmed, black fedora. Maggie Mahoney stood on the porch, waving and gesturing toward the car in the drive.

“Please, don't bother. I have to pick up Dan in an hour, so I won't be putting the car in.”

“I hate to see you leave it on the street.” Dan's mother leaned in with a loud, smacking air-kiss just as Elaine reached the top step of the porch. “I couldn't have planned this better. An hour of girl-talk before we're interrupted. I've so looked forward to getting to know you better.”

“Me, too.” And that wasn't a fib. One lunch with Mom and sister, Carolyn, in Santa Fe a month or so ago wasn't really enough to get to know her future mother-in-law. She unlocked the door and held the screen open. “I don't think Dan knew you were in Florida. When did you get here?”

“Only a couple days ago. Stanley considers this area home and has his heart set on finding something in The Villages as I told Dan. A condo, probably—I don't think either one of us wants to get tied down to a big place with an equally big yard.”

“It's an interesting area.” Elaine was trying to be circumspect, that is, trying to keep visions of the fakey looking main street out of her head. “Is Stan a golfer?”

“As he lives and breathes.”

“Then you're probably looking in the right place. Can I get you a latte or cappuccino?” The machine she'd found in the garage wasn't exactly from Starbucks but it wasn't half bad.

“A latte sounds perfect.”

Once coffees were in hand, Elaine moved to the dining room table. “Anything else? Sugar? Cream?”

“No, thank you. This is great.”

Elaine was beginning to get the distinct feeling that Maggie might have known that Dan was working—that maybe she had hoped to catch Elaine alone. After exclaiming over the ring and commenting again how lucky Dan was to have escaped serious injury in the rollover in Wagon Mound, she paused and seemed reluctant to continue the conversation.

“Maggie, is there something we need to talk about?”

The look of relief said it all. Elaine knew she'd guessed correctly and now just needed to wait.

“I'm not really sure where to start. I'm a little afraid of what you might think of me…but in this day and age a person just can't be too careful.”

Elaine still didn't know anything but it was a start.

“Dan mentioned in his email that you were considering becoming a PI—that you would start school down here. I just couldn't be more enthusiastic. The two of you are just made for each other and to share the same vocation, well, that will just be frosting on the cake.” Maggie sat beaming.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. I admit I'm looking forward to a change in career.”

“How would you like me for your first client?”

Elaine hoped the shock didn't show. “That would be great. How can I help you? You know I'm just starting my coursework, I'm not sure I would be the best person—”

“You would be the most discreet person and surely if things were over your head, you have instructors who could help?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And I'd like to think this might be simple. Frankly, I just need to know if Stanley Evers is who he says he is.”

“Has he given you reason to think otherwise?”