“Oh.”
“Anyway, I helped her drag John into the house, and she gave me a cup of coffee. We talked. Since then, we’ve been pretty good friends. John still flies—flew, I guess—into a rage now and then, but Francy always told me to butt out. You know how it is.”
“I sure do, and it drives me crazy,” Becker said. “You get called out on a domestic. Neighbours, usually, complaining about the noise. You arrive and there’s some guy just whaling away on his wife, or girlfriend or whatever. She defends him, refuses to lay charges. When we do, because we have to, either she doesn’t show up in court, or she recants the whole thing.”
“I know. I read the papers. It’s a syndrome or something,” I said.
Morrison snorted. “What I can’t understand is all you feminists saying it’s the guy’s fault when it’s the woman who just stays there and takes it. Why don’t they just leave?”
“Don’t start on the feminist thing, Morrison,” Becker said, quietly. I had a feeling they’d been through this once or twice before. Morrison didn’t reply.
We had arrived at the Travers’ place. The clapboard house was flanked by a row of derelict cars like a shabby bride with rusty bridesmaids. Some of the cars were on blocks, most had their hoods up.
Next to the house was a garage, a big quonset hut with filthy windows and a half open front, spilling car parts and unidentifiable slabs of metal. A beautifully hand-painted sign announced “Auto Repair and Body Shop—J. Travers, prop.” Francy had painted the sign for John’s birthday the year before.
A dog, chained to a doghouse a few feet from the front door of the house, began barking furiously.
“That’s Lug-nut,” I said. “John’s hunting dog. The rule is he’s not supposed to be touched, ever. He’s kept hungry and he is not a happy puppy. Don’t be patting him.”
“Not likely,” Becker said. “He’s tied up, right?”
“He’s tied up.”
There was no sign of movement inside the house. Usually Lug-nut’s welcome would bring someone out immediately, or at least prompt a twitch of the dingy curtains at the window.
“Are you just gonna sit there?” Morrison said. “Afraid of the puppy?”
Becker turned to Morrison in the first show of temper I had seen him display towards his bulky partner. It was long overdue, as far as I was concerned.
“Morrison,” he said, “considering the fact that you have not moved your goddamn fat ass from that seat since we started work, and considering that you won’t be moving it until the end of the shift, I would appreciate it if you would keep your stupid mouth shut.” With that he got out of the cruiser and slammed the door shut with his foot.
“Geez,” Morrison said. “I was only kidding.”
Becker opened my door and handed me out with the manners of a highly-professional butler. He slammed my door too.
“Bravo,” I said, very quietly.
We went to the door, giving Lug-nut a wide berth. The dog was almost hysterical now, and despite myself, I felt sorry for him.
“It’s okay, Lug-nut. It’s okay, boy.” I always said that, using my most soothing voice. It probably didn’t make a scrap of difference to Lug-nut, but it made me feel braver.
Becker had been knocking but there was no reply.
“That’s odd,” I said. “It’s almost noon, and Francy usually puts the baby down for a nap around now and has a smoke on the porch.” (I didn’t tell Becker what kind of smoke she has on the porch at noon. I’m not stupid.) “You can usually set your watch by her.”
“There’s no car here,” Becker said, “or at least no car you could drive. Maybe she’s at a doctor’s appointment or something.”
“Francy doesn’t have a car and she can’t drive anyway,” I said. “John’s truck’s missing, though. It wasn’t at the dump, was it?”
“Nope. What kind of truck was it?”
“GMC half-ton. Beat up. Baby-poo brown. Don’t know the year.”
Becker went down the steps back to the cruiser to talk to Morrison. I supposed they would put out an A.P.—whatchamacallit for the truck.
“Try Kelso’s Tavern in Laingford,” I called. “He used to drink there practically every night.”
Becker nodded, presumably passing the information along. Lug-nut had stopped barking. In fact, he had stopped doing much of anything. He was lying with his head between his paws, ears drooping instead of the usual flat-against-the-skull signal to back off. His ribs stuck out. His water bowl was empty. He whined once, piteously.
I felt awful. Francy didn’t like the dog, I knew that, but depriving him of water was mean.
“Are those crocodile tears?” I said to him. “If I come over there to fill your bowl, will you bite my hand off?” He didn’t say.
Becker returned. “We’ll be looking for Travers’s truck,” he said. “Now, what about Mrs. Travers? She got a neighbour she might have gone to?”
Then I realized that the pram was gone.
Francy and I had found the pram at the dump. It was an old-fashioned one with a high undercarriage like those monster trucks favoured by big men with small dicks. We had taken it away on a Spit day and it hadn’t cost us a cent. Francy kept it on the porch because it was too wide to get in the door. When the new baby, Beth, was put in it, she looked like she was lying in a football field. I told Becker about the missing pram.
“She might have gone over to the Schreier’s place, I suppose,” I said. “It’s the closest, and young Eddie sometimes helps John out in the shop. Francy’s not particularly friendly with Eddie’s mother, though. Carla Schreier’s a holy roller, and doesn’t approve of John or Francy.”
“We’ll go over there, then,” he said.
“Wait, Becker.” I had left off the “detective” part on purpose, because I wanted to know what his first name was. He knew mine, after all, and my hormones were way ahead of my reason. If he told me his name, I thought, it would be a step in the right direction. “Becker” was what Morrison called him, and it sounded mildly aggressive. He stopped in mid-turn.
“Mark,” he said. “It’s Mark.” Hah. I tried not to smile in triumph.
“Mark, listen, we have to do something about this dog. He’s got no water and his master’s dead, so he isn’t likely to get fed any time soon. Francy will have enough to worry about after we tell her.”
Lug-nut was listening half-heartedly. He wasn’t a bad looking dog, really, when his ears weren’t plastered to his head. Part shepherd, part black lab, and something else. Something mongrelly. His eyes were yellow, which was unfortunate, but it wasn’t his fault.
Detective Mark Becker looked at me, then at the dog. Lugnut knew we were talking about him and pressed his body further into the ground, achieving a kind of road-kill effect that was far from attractive. He whined again.
“Yeah, okay. You’re right.” Becker’s eyes went to the hose attachment next to the porch. “We can fill his water bowl there, but unless his food is kept outside, he’ll have to stay hungry for a while longer. We can’t just break in.”
“Why not?”
“It’s against the law, Polly.”
“Oh, puhleeze. Francy’s my friend. I walk in all the time. I know where the food is. I’ll do it.”
“She keep her door unlocked?”
“This is the boonies. Nobody locks