The Juan Doe Murders: A Smokey Brandon Thriller by Noreen Ayres Page A
Authors: Noreen Ayres
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know her at all and wouldn’t want to if I just met her. I wish her well, I want her to have a good life, but…”
“This is the first time I’ve heard you say anything the slightest bit critical, which tells me you’re either a hero or you spent so many years together even her faults don’t interest you anymore.”
“It’s called forgiveness.”
“You’re smart, sexy, and sweet, you know that, Joe?”
“Then why ain’t I rich?”
“Ambition’s about how sharp your elbows are.”
“Are you saying I’m not ambitious?”
“I’m saying you’re perfect the way you are.”
“That all?”
When I came out of the shower I wrapped up in a robe, got a glass of milk, then went to check on Motorboat again. He was still hiding. I set the glass down and overturned his log and lifted him out. First he purred. Then he sneezed. It sounded like a hiccup. I brought him close to my cheek and felt his ears fiery on my skin. I got dressed, put him in a box, and drove to the emergency vet’s.
“It’s a
rodent
. Don’t people hire exterminators for these things?” I said when I was in the examining room.
The vet ruffled the tiny golden head, then stood him on his forelegs to inspect whatever’s at the rear axle. Motorboat shrieked loud enough to make paint peel. “They chill easily,” he said. “He’s got a cold. Just keep him out of drafts and give him Vitamin C.”
Back home, I brought his cage into the living room. I settled onto the sofa and watched a show on building an Adirondackpatio chair, then turned pages in a book I’d gotten out of the basement library at the lab last week on taxidermy.
Late afternoon I felt at loose ends, so I put on sweats and a fanny-pack with my new S&W in it, and walked across the road to the bay. It’s not so wise a thing to take a walk down its shrubby paths in the dimming light, but the 700-acre bay has a drawing power hard to resist. Days, it is host to bicyclists, boaters, fishers, joggers, and busloads of children on field trips. Nights, it seethes with a Mardi Gras of birds and beasts.
Before I moved here there’d been two murders, one a schoolgirl, another a woman with roses stuffed between her legs. The only trouble of late has been a few shouting matches between “wheelers” and “walkers.”
The writer Marcel Proust had a horror of sunsets—so operatic, he said. I thought of that while I admired the brass-rose sky. In the air was a sweet smell of damp sage, tidal brine, faint decay, and cliff flowers.
An older couple came down the trail ahead of me. A dove that had huddled unseen on the graying path spurted off between us. The couple said there was a heron back there choking down crab like no tomorrow.
“Really?” I said. “I’ll look for it.”
They moved beyond me. Then the man looked back and said, “It’s getting kind of dark. I’d be careful if I were you.”
The woman was a comfortable contrast, yet it was she who added, her forefinger raised, “You young people sometimes forget how bad it can be, all the weirdos in the world these days.”
“Right,” I said. “Have a good evening. I won’t go far.”
“That’s good,” they chimed.
FOURTEEN
I wanted to see the ankles of Doe Two. The damage there might show more clearly now, this subtle development called a “second event.” A coroner’s deputy named Mona told me, “No problem,” picked up a camera, and rose from her chair with an effort that strained her black twill pants. On her blouse was a large, brightly painted version of a carrot-haired Bette Midler. I commented on it. Mona got a satisfied grin on her face and said, “My alter ego.”
In the cooler by Doe Two she folded the plastic cover down. “The marks do appear to be consistent with punctures from canine teeth,” she said.
“But if that occurred after he was dead there would be no blood, right? There was blood.”
“I’m not a doc but that would be my assumption. Here’s something else,” she said,
“This is the first time I’ve heard you say anything the slightest bit critical, which tells me you’re either a hero or you spent so many years together even her faults don’t interest you anymore.”
“It’s called forgiveness.”
“You’re smart, sexy, and sweet, you know that, Joe?”
“Then why ain’t I rich?”
“Ambition’s about how sharp your elbows are.”
“Are you saying I’m not ambitious?”
“I’m saying you’re perfect the way you are.”
“That all?”
When I came out of the shower I wrapped up in a robe, got a glass of milk, then went to check on Motorboat again. He was still hiding. I set the glass down and overturned his log and lifted him out. First he purred. Then he sneezed. It sounded like a hiccup. I brought him close to my cheek and felt his ears fiery on my skin. I got dressed, put him in a box, and drove to the emergency vet’s.
“It’s a
rodent
. Don’t people hire exterminators for these things?” I said when I was in the examining room.
The vet ruffled the tiny golden head, then stood him on his forelegs to inspect whatever’s at the rear axle. Motorboat shrieked loud enough to make paint peel. “They chill easily,” he said. “He’s got a cold. Just keep him out of drafts and give him Vitamin C.”
Back home, I brought his cage into the living room. I settled onto the sofa and watched a show on building an Adirondackpatio chair, then turned pages in a book I’d gotten out of the basement library at the lab last week on taxidermy.
Late afternoon I felt at loose ends, so I put on sweats and a fanny-pack with my new S&W in it, and walked across the road to the bay. It’s not so wise a thing to take a walk down its shrubby paths in the dimming light, but the 700-acre bay has a drawing power hard to resist. Days, it is host to bicyclists, boaters, fishers, joggers, and busloads of children on field trips. Nights, it seethes with a Mardi Gras of birds and beasts.
Before I moved here there’d been two murders, one a schoolgirl, another a woman with roses stuffed between her legs. The only trouble of late has been a few shouting matches between “wheelers” and “walkers.”
The writer Marcel Proust had a horror of sunsets—so operatic, he said. I thought of that while I admired the brass-rose sky. In the air was a sweet smell of damp sage, tidal brine, faint decay, and cliff flowers.
An older couple came down the trail ahead of me. A dove that had huddled unseen on the graying path spurted off between us. The couple said there was a heron back there choking down crab like no tomorrow.
“Really?” I said. “I’ll look for it.”
They moved beyond me. Then the man looked back and said, “It’s getting kind of dark. I’d be careful if I were you.”
The woman was a comfortable contrast, yet it was she who added, her forefinger raised, “You young people sometimes forget how bad it can be, all the weirdos in the world these days.”
“Right,” I said. “Have a good evening. I won’t go far.”
“That’s good,” they chimed.
FOURTEEN
I wanted to see the ankles of Doe Two. The damage there might show more clearly now, this subtle development called a “second event.” A coroner’s deputy named Mona told me, “No problem,” picked up a camera, and rose from her chair with an effort that strained her black twill pants. On her blouse was a large, brightly painted version of a carrot-haired Bette Midler. I commented on it. Mona got a satisfied grin on her face and said, “My alter ego.”
In the cooler by Doe Two she folded the plastic cover down. “The marks do appear to be consistent with punctures from canine teeth,” she said.
“But if that occurred after he was dead there would be no blood, right? There was blood.”
“I’m not a doc but that would be my assumption. Here’s something else,” she said,
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