Nancy Bartholomew - Stella, Get Your Gun

I nodded, not offering my name. “And what is it we can do for you, Officers?”

I felt Jake step silently into the doorway. I knew he was listening and watching, ready to help should I need assistance, which I, of course, wouldn’t require even upon pain of death or arrest.

“The initial toxicology report came back on Mr. Valocchi,” he said. “Long story short, we have confirmed that this was a homicide and not an accidental death or suicide as we at first thought. Apparently he was forced to ingest his entire bottle of nitroglycerine, resulting in his death. We needed to talk to the victim’s wife about who might’ve done this and also take all the medication with us for testing by the lab.”

I felt an icy hand clutch at my heart. So Aunt Lucy was right. Uncle Benny had been murdered.

“You’re saying someone gave my uncle too much of his medicine? Maybe he just took too much. Maybe the pain was real bad and he panicked.”

Detective Slovineck shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Whoever did this crammed the entire bottle of pills under his tongue and down his throat. There were signs that your uncle struggled, bruising on his neck and defensive wounds that showed he tried to prevent what happened. That’s why we’re ruling out our initial impression that this was a suicide. We’ll wait for confirmation from the coroner’s office, of course, but that’s what it looks like now. We need the rest of his medications to give to the M.E.”

It was as if the words just wouldn’t sink into my head. Why would anyone want to hurt my uncle? I looked at the two officers, trying to put myself in their place. They would start with the most obvious suspects. They would start with Aunt Lucy, because after all, who else would stand to benefit from Uncle Benny’s death?

“Okay,” I said. “Did you get the bottles you need?”

“I got the ones in the bedroom and his bathroom,” Detective Poltrone said to Slovineck, “but she said there were more in here.” She looked around, her eyes lighting on a string of bottles that lined the windowsill behind the kitchen sink.

“You can take them,” I said, “but be sure they’re his and not hers.”

I stepped to the sink, watching as Poltrone put on a latex glove and picked the bottles up one by one, dropping them into plastic evidence bags, which were then carefully sealed and labeled.

I stepped to the door leading outside and into the driveway. I opened it wide and gestured.

“My aunt is in no condition to answer questions today,” I said. “If you want to talk to her, call tomorrow and I’ll set it up.” I paused and looked at them. “That is, as long as her attorney feels this would be appropriate.”

Detective Slovineck was staring at me again. “You on the job?” he asked.

“Was,” I said. “Garden Beach, Florida.”

He nodded, but it wasn’t collegial. It was the wary nod of an adversary sizing up the competition and finding it worthy. “You can always tell,” he muttered. “We’ll be in touch.”

I closed the door, leaned my head against the frame and sighed with relief and fatigue.

“That honey-and-vinegar thing,” I heard Jake say behind me, “you know, it works both ways.”

I closed my eyes, lifted my head a couple of inches and banged it slowly against the door frame. Why was that man still here? This was quickly followed by another thought. I turned around and faced Jake.

“Aunt Lucy said you were the one who found my uncle,” I said. “He was at your shop, wasn’t he?”

Jake nodded, waiting for me to continue.

“I know about the money he gave you, too,” I said.

I didn’t have to say another word. Jake’s eyes smoldered with barely suppressed rage. He knew where I was heading. He stared at me for one long moment, then turned away, disgust clearly written all over his face. I heard the sounds of his footsteps moving through the living room and into the narrow foyer hallway. A moment later I heard the soft slam of Aunt Lucy’s front door.

I awoke the next morning in my old bed, surrounded by cabbage-rose wallpaper and the faint scent of cedar. For a moment I was disoriented. Nothing seemed familiar. As I stared around the room, my eyes brought the angled ceiling into focus, and I remembered everything with a skidding ache that seemed to drain the world of color and promise.

Lloyd was gone. The indentation at the foot of the bed where he’d slept was cool to the touch. I fumbled with my watch and saw that morning was quickly slipping away. The sound of murmured voices rose from the first floor as I headed into the bathroom. How had I managed to sleep for so long?

I hastily pulled on my jeans and T-shirt and started down the stairs. My body responded by sending out dual throbbing drumbeats of pain, one from my ankle and the other from my hungover head.

“Idiot,” I muttered to myself. I eased slowly down the steps, listening to the sound of Aunt Lucy’s voice growing louder as I approached the first floor. She was in the kitchen talking to someone.

“I know you’re inside that dog,” she said. “There’s no sense trying to hide from me. I’m a big girl and I can handle change.”

I reached the doorway just as Aunt Lucy turned away from the stove, a plate of eggs and bacon in her hand. Her white curls stood out like runaway corkscrews. She was wearing a faded pink floral housecoat, fluffy pink bunny slippers and a blue silk scarf knotted like a bandit’s mask around her neck.

Lloyd the dog sat at the kitchen table wearing one of my uncle’s fishing hats. When I stepped into the room he looked up at me and sighed. He was probably thinking I’d arrived to rescue him, but was ambivalent because Aunt Lucy was approaching him with the plate of food.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s Lloyd doing wearing Uncle Benny’s hat?”

Aunt Lucy put the plate down in front of Lloyd and beamed up at me. “Well, honey, maybe you’d better have a cup of coffee first.” She peered at me, stepping closer and sniffing suspiciously. “And a couple of aspirin, too, I’ll wager. You got into the liquor cabinet last night, didn’t you?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She was back at the stove, opening a cabinet and reaching for the pill bottle.

“Yep, your uncle here was bad to drink now and again, weren’t you, honey?” she said.

Her back was to us, so I figured I’d misheard her. I looked over at Lloyd. Aunt Lucy had put the Yellow Pages on the kitchen chair so Lloyd could reach the table at a proper height. He sat there, his shaggy black-and-white spotted fur gleaming in the brightly lit kitchen, wearing Uncle Benny’s hat without complaint and wolfing down the plate of eggs as fast as he could go. After all, it wasn’t every day a dog got this kind of treatment.

Lloyd looked up and met my gaze for a fraction of a second. He was grinning.

“Aunt Lucy, Lloyd doesn’t need to sit up at the table. He’s fine to eat from the floor. In fact, I’m gonna run out and get him some dog food in just a little bit—”

Aunt Lucy interrupted me. “No! Don’t do that! Don’t you know anything?”

She stomped over and placed a thick mug filled to the brim with coffee in front of me. The coffee sloshed, spilling onto the table, but Aunt Lucy didn’t notice. She was gazing at Lloyd with a fond, loving expression on her face.

“Aunt Lucy, that’s Lloyd. He’s my dog, remember?”

I said the words slowly, making sure they had time to sink in just in case she needed a new prescription for her glasses.

Aunt Lucy leaned over and patted me on the back. “That’s what they’d have us think,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But I know better, and so do you.”