Free Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund by Blaize Clement Page A

again, and came back carrying a long swallowtail coat on a padded hanger. The coat was made of squares of satin and velvet in brilliant stained-glass colors, with wide red satin lapels and fist-sized plastic chrysanthemums for buttons.
    “Conrad was going to wear this at a meeting to explain the details of the new retirement home to the circus community. He was looking forward to it so much …” She fought back tears and turned to me with steely control. “It should be returned to the people who made it. Somebody else should have a chance to enjoy it.”
    It was an oddly irrelevant thing to be concerned about right then, but I understood. When the mind has been shattered, it scrambles to find familiar things to do, little details to obsess over, bills to pay, appointments that must be canceled.
    I took the coat from her. For so much material, it was surprisingly light.
    I said, “Did the Metzgers make this?”
    “You know them?”
    “They have a couple of cats I take care of sometimes.”
    “You’ll explain to them? Why Conrad can’t wear it? And tell them Conrad loved the coat.”
    “I’ll tell them, Stevie.”
    If Stevie Ferrelli didn’t know her husband’s murder was front-page news, she was still in shock.

7
    B efore I pulled out of Stevie’s driveway, I put in a call to Guidry at his office, noting as I did that my phone showed three little batteries on its face, a gentle reminder to charge it. I got his mailbox and left a message that I had information about Conrad’s murder. He called back while I was brushing a black Persian named Inky. When the phone buzzed, Inky gave me an annoyed frown and jumped off the grooming table. Even before I looked at the caller ID, I knew it had to be either Guidry or Michael or Paco, because nobody else has my cell number.
    I said, “Hello, Guidry.”
    “You said you had information?”
    “Two things. Denton Ferrelli was ashamed of his brother and hated his involvement with circus people. Also, they have a cousin, or a man who claimed to be a cousin, who came to see Conrad about a year ago demanding money. Conrad threw him out, and the guy told him he would be sorry. He runs a telemarketing firm here. Name is Brossi.”
    “Who told you that?”
    “Stevie Ferrelli. While we were drinking coffee. There’s something else too. Not exactly information, just something I forgot to tell you yesterday. About seeing Conrad’s car before Mame found the body.”
    “Mame?”
    “The dog. Not Conrad’s dog, another dog.”

    “So what did you forget?” Guidry sounded like he might be talking through his teeth, so I hurried.
    “I waved hello to him. To the driver of the car. I thought it was Conrad because I saw Reggie in the backseat. Reggie is Conrad’s dog—was—so I waved. And I think I said Hey! ”
    The line was silent a moment.
    “You’re telling me the killer probably thinks you got a good look at him.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Okay. Anything else?”
    I took a deep breath. “That’s all.”
    “You sure?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Okay. I’ll talk to you later. In the meantime, be careful.”
    He clicked off and left me holding a dead phone.
    I said “Damn!” but under my breath, because I don’t like to cuss in front of my animals. I dropped the phone in my pocket next to the .38 and coaxed Inky back for the rest of his grooming. But our rhythm was off, and it wasn’t very satisfying to either of us.
    Josephine and Will Metzger’s street is only about a mile from the verdant beauty of Secret Cove, but the people who planned it must have decided to uphold the virtues of ugly. There’s not a tree in sight, and its sun-bleached frame houses squat gracelessly behind salty bald yards. It was about ten-thirty when I parked in the Metzgers’ shell driveway and walked to the front door, holding Conrad’s coat high above my shoulder so the tails wouldn’t drag.
    In their younger days, Josephine and Will had been aerialists with the Ringling Circus, but after they’d