anyone were to change my mind, or at least cause me to question my position, Churls is the one. I’ve heard stories of him bragging about how lucrative his business is. He claims the Lincoln was bought from profits from dogfights, and he’s been known to drink a lot of whiskey and carry on about all the cash he’s got squirreled away at that filthy place. Talk about blood money…”
Shuddering, I said, “He mentioned that he bought dogs from an animal shelter in the next county. Has he ever tried to acquire animals from you?”
“He tried once,” she said with a harsh laugh. “I grew up out that way and I recognized him. The first thing I did when I took over was raise the adoption fees and require a lot of paperwork and a personal interview. I think Churls had a deal with the previous director or one of the officers. The records were haphazard at best, nonexistent at worst. Strays, and sometimes pets, were picked up but not logged in. Churls or one of his bunchers would come by at night, select the animals, and pay a small gratuity that never made it to the petty cash box. Now every animal is assigned a number when it’s brought in, and we track it through its departure. A tail count is performed every morning and every evening.”
I tried to imagine one of her less sober employees on his knees in front of the cages, trying to count a bouncy litter of puppies. “How’s Arnie?” I asked. “Did he straighten up?”
“He wouldn’t straighten up if someone inserted a ramrod in his rear,” she said, sighing. “I desperately need to replace him, but the salary’s low and not too many people want to wash down dog pens for minimum wage. And we must have a night watchman to make sure someone like Churls doesn’t try to pull a fast one. We have drugs on the premises, too.”
“He’s not armed, I hope?”
“Only with those developed in the womb, presuming he didn’t crawl out from under a rock.”
She promised to call if she learned anything, and we ended the conversation on a gloomy note. Caron and Inez had passed through the room earlier, so I called farewell to the violets and went out the front door.
What I saw was enough to stop a herd of buffalo in the middle of a stampede. Caron and Inez were in the adjoining yard, and included in the group of Culworthy, Daryl Defoe, Vidalia, and the Maranonis. George held the box of puppies, and his wife periodically leaned over to smile at them. Daryl was talking—and Culworthy was listening intently. Odder and odder, I thought as I walked toward them.
Seven faces went blank and Daryl stopped talking. It was not the warmest reception I’d had, and was in fact cooler than my last interrogation at the Farberville Police Station, when I’d been obliged to admit to a lack of candor in an official police investigation.
“Well?” I said.
Culworthy snapped to attention, catching himself before he actually saluted. “Ah, Malloy. Any luck at the shelter?”
“No, Jan hasn’t seen any of the missing animals, but she promised to call if the officers find them.” I looked at each of them in turn, on the off chance my ESP had improved greatly in the last day. “What were you discussing?”
There was a pause fraught with awkwardness, and therefore hinting of impending deceit. “The stolen animals and that horrible man,” Helen answered, but not at all briskly.
Vidalia sniffled. “And he might get his filthy hands on Astra. She has never been kept in a cage, and she’ll be badly frightened. I can’t bear to think about it.” She sniffled more loudly as she fumbled in her cuff for a handkerchief.
“Then don’t think at all,” Culworthy snapped. He looked at Daryl and said, “Talk to you later, Defoe. Come by at nineteen hundred hours.” He muttered a generic good-bye and marched into his headquarters.
“Why did you look in the shed?” I asked Daryl.
“Too many cages.” He went up the stairs to his apartment.
After another awkward pause, Vidalia
Shuddering, I said, “He mentioned that he bought dogs from an animal shelter in the next county. Has he ever tried to acquire animals from you?”
“He tried once,” she said with a harsh laugh. “I grew up out that way and I recognized him. The first thing I did when I took over was raise the adoption fees and require a lot of paperwork and a personal interview. I think Churls had a deal with the previous director or one of the officers. The records were haphazard at best, nonexistent at worst. Strays, and sometimes pets, were picked up but not logged in. Churls or one of his bunchers would come by at night, select the animals, and pay a small gratuity that never made it to the petty cash box. Now every animal is assigned a number when it’s brought in, and we track it through its departure. A tail count is performed every morning and every evening.”
I tried to imagine one of her less sober employees on his knees in front of the cages, trying to count a bouncy litter of puppies. “How’s Arnie?” I asked. “Did he straighten up?”
“He wouldn’t straighten up if someone inserted a ramrod in his rear,” she said, sighing. “I desperately need to replace him, but the salary’s low and not too many people want to wash down dog pens for minimum wage. And we must have a night watchman to make sure someone like Churls doesn’t try to pull a fast one. We have drugs on the premises, too.”
“He’s not armed, I hope?”
“Only with those developed in the womb, presuming he didn’t crawl out from under a rock.”
She promised to call if she learned anything, and we ended the conversation on a gloomy note. Caron and Inez had passed through the room earlier, so I called farewell to the violets and went out the front door.
What I saw was enough to stop a herd of buffalo in the middle of a stampede. Caron and Inez were in the adjoining yard, and included in the group of Culworthy, Daryl Defoe, Vidalia, and the Maranonis. George held the box of puppies, and his wife periodically leaned over to smile at them. Daryl was talking—and Culworthy was listening intently. Odder and odder, I thought as I walked toward them.
Seven faces went blank and Daryl stopped talking. It was not the warmest reception I’d had, and was in fact cooler than my last interrogation at the Farberville Police Station, when I’d been obliged to admit to a lack of candor in an official police investigation.
“Well?” I said.
Culworthy snapped to attention, catching himself before he actually saluted. “Ah, Malloy. Any luck at the shelter?”
“No, Jan hasn’t seen any of the missing animals, but she promised to call if the officers find them.” I looked at each of them in turn, on the off chance my ESP had improved greatly in the last day. “What were you discussing?”
There was a pause fraught with awkwardness, and therefore hinting of impending deceit. “The stolen animals and that horrible man,” Helen answered, but not at all briskly.
Vidalia sniffled. “And he might get his filthy hands on Astra. She has never been kept in a cage, and she’ll be badly frightened. I can’t bear to think about it.” She sniffled more loudly as she fumbled in her cuff for a handkerchief.
“Then don’t think at all,” Culworthy snapped. He looked at Daryl and said, “Talk to you later, Defoe. Come by at nineteen hundred hours.” He muttered a generic good-bye and marched into his headquarters.
“Why did you look in the shed?” I asked Daryl.
“Too many cages.” He went up the stairs to his apartment.
After another awkward pause, Vidalia
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