Savage Seasons: The Complete 4-Part Curt Savage Mysteries: The Curt Savage Mysteries

By Ruth Bainbridge

"I was really hooked from the get-go... superbly executed"
"Exciting, Suspenseful, Intense … this series has me hooked!"

Welcome to SAVAGE SEASONS!
AN EXPLOSIVE FOUR-PART THRILLER … A MUST READ FOR MYSTERY FANS!

SAVAGE SEASONS is a compilation of the complete four-part series that comprise the Curt Savage Mysteries! The humor dark, the twists and turns abound as they race to an explosive ending you won't see coming! Savage is the hard-boiled detective you'd want on your side if you were in trouble. He never gives up and never wavers as he methodically sifts through clues—all to find a killer! Here's more:

Curt Savage's world is turned upside down by the murder of his fiancée. A particularly brutal death, it doesn't help when his own colleagues on the Creston Police target him as chief suspect in the murder. The betrayal leads him to turn in his badge, but not his determination, and when the case goes cold, he dives down the rabbit hole of conspiracies, secrets, and cabals to hunt down the killer. But the search is complicated when he receives a photograph of his fiancée. It hints of a double life and that everything he thought about her was a lie.

SAVAGE SUMMER
The past year has not been a good one for ex-cop Curt Savage. Depressed over the death of his fiancée Ruth Warwick, he's gone into hiding, becoming entirely too comfortable with saying he's in the Witness Protection Program. But the urge to find that elusive killer puts his MIA status on hold. With the help of his new buddy Mike, he delves into the murky world of murder. The emergence of nude photo puts a twist on the investigation. Was his fiancée leading a double life and did the past kept hidden in the shadows have anything to do with why she was killed? Curt will have to uncover all the secrets and lies to get to the truth.

SAVAGE FALL
Curt Savage is back and has his hands full. Wedging himself further down the rabbit hole, he's hot on the trail of who murdered his fiancée. His only clues are those given to him by an anonymous caller that he's dubbed Dr. Shadows, and a conspiracy theorist named "Crazy" Blanchard. If untangling truth from fiction isn't bad enough, Marge Danvers, his feisty sixtyish neighbor, volunteers him to help solve her friend Bebe Clauson's dilemma. Bebe is convinced that her husband is having an affair, and it falls onto Savage to prove whether her hunch is true. But the disappearance of a little girl puts all those cases on hold. Savage and his buddy Mike dig in with all four feet to bring that child home—anyway they can.

SAVAGE WINTER
The stakes are raised as the conspiracy revolving around the abduction of Amy Weissman explodes in unexpected directions. Savage and his cohorts strategize on locating the monster responsible for the heinous crime, but the rekindling of a liaison opens up an opportunity for Savage to do some investigating of his own. The death of a pop superstar prompts his sister to become suspicious. She's convinced her brother was murdered and enlists Savage to help prove her case. Savage is all too willing, especially since it means becoming more involved with his Fallen Angel.

SAVAGE SPRING
THE EXPLOSIVE FINALE TO THE CURT SAVAGE MYSTERIES!
Curt sets out on a journey that will bring him face-to-face with the devil that killed his fiancée Ruth Warwick. But in order to find out the truth, he must unravel her past, the part she hid. He delves into exposing the lies and uncovering secrets, each one bringing him closer to the truth of what happened, and just as importantly, why.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wendy Potocki
• Release date: May 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201249946

Book preview

WHAT READERS ARE SAYING

A solid thriller. The premise is unique ... This is one of those stories that will start off with a bang and not let up until the very last page. It really keeps on a great pace throughout. Ruth Bainbridge has really created an imaginative thriller that has plenty of twists and surprises.

- My Reading Addiction

There wasn't a false note in the book that kept me on the edge of my seat.

—Perfect at Midnight

Wow, this one really delivers in many areas. ... I was really hooked from the get-go and wanted so bad to know where things will end up for Curt Savage. ... everything from the pacing to the depth of characters was superbly executed.

—Bailey Ember, Texas Book Nook

MURDER JUST GOT SAVAGE

THE PAST YEAR HAS NOT been a good one for ex-cop Curt Savage. Depressed over the murder of his fiancée, he's gone into hiding, becoming entirely too comfortable with saying he's in the Witness Protection Program. But the urge to find the elusive killer puts his MIA status on hold. With the help of his new buddy Mike, he delves into the murky world of murder.

The emergence of a nude photo puts a bizarre twist on the investigation. Was his fiancée leading a double life? And did the past she kept hidden have anything to do with why she was killed? A call from an anonymous tipster indicates just that and puts Savage on a journey to finding the truth. Unraveling her past and exposing all the lies, each secret brings him closer to what happened and the identity of the devil who murdered the woman he loved.

This edition includes: SAVAGE SUMMER, SAVAGE FALL, SAVAGE WINTER, and SAVAGE SPRING. 

© 2014 BY RUTH BAINBRIDGE

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Please check out Ruth Bainbridge’s other titles:

THE NICK CROSS MYSTERIES

ONLY ONE WILL FALL: Book One

A DAUGHTER IS A DAUGHTER: Book Two

CHARADE: Book Three

WICKER MAN: Book Four

THE CURT SAVAGE MYSTERIES: A Four-Part Series

SAVAGE SUMMER (Part One)

SAVAGE FALL (Part Two)

SAVAGE WINTER (Part Three)

SAVAGE SPRING (Part Four)

THE DEADSPEAK MYSTERIES

DEADSPEAK: Book One

DEADSPEAK: Book Two

THE JUST ADD COFFEE MYSTERIES

HAMMERED

STANDALONE THRILLER

CREEPZ

THE QUEEN SERIES

TO BE QUEEN

SAVAGE SUMMER

CHAPTER 1

You can tell a lot about a person by how they react to the singing of birds in their backyard. If someone is happy about a bunch of them chirping, you can bet they’re in a good mood and are pleased with how things are going in life. If not, they’re most likely depressed as hell and at odds with the world that created both them and their feathered friends. Me? I’m in the latter group. I wished those birds would all go to hell—and they can take those goddamned squirrels with ‘em.  

The intensity of the noonday sun played havoc with my retinas. I was balanced rather shakily on the chaise lounge, the matching striped umbrella a little farther south than it needed to be. My noggin bore the brunt of the miscalculation, but I was too apathetic to fix it. To think that I used to enjoy the sunlight. Originally a California boy, all I did was frolic out in the sunshine all day. That, and try to convince the West Coast fanatics that it wasn’t really biblical prophecy for the big one to hit California and trigger Armageddon. Most refused to listen to my wise counsel, but then, some lunatics can be so stubborn.

A frosty glass of iced tea was resting on the cedar table. It had been included in the five-piece ensemble. To say that the outdoor furniture had been used very little since I bought it last year would be an understatement. It’d been purchased at the insistence of my then fiancée, Ruth Warwick. She’s the one that convinced me that I’d be needing it in the warmer weather.

I’d been living at 415 Wymar Drive for four years and the folding chairs used for poker were doing just fine. Still, I caved under the pressure, discovering too late that she was wrong. I would have loved to convey that message to her, but she was no longer around to tell.

The perspiration continued to gush out my pores. The unfettered sprinkling caused my Hawaiian shirt to cling to my skin like microwaved sandwich wrap on a BLT. The polyester souvenir was yet another reminder of Ruth and our vacation in Oahu, but then there were mementos of our ill-fated relationship all over the damned place. I likened them to land mines. Come across one, and kapow! It all blows up in your face.

I grabbed a handful of napkins, sponging the moisture off my brow. Why sweat always felt so gross when flabby and out of shape, I can’t say, but as to how I got to resemble a mashed potato—mea culpa. For the past year and a half, I’d given up all physical endeavors—and that included driving a car. After all, where was there to go?

My once rock hard muscles had paid the price, deteriorating into something found in nursing homes. And exercise wasn’t all that I’d abandoned. Everything had fallen by the wayside until I was forced to admit that I, thirty-year-old Curtis Owen Savage, had officially become a recluse. It’s what happens when life deals you a hardball.

The fifteen months spent in isolation were used to avoid contact with people and life itself. I’d been stuck in some sort of limbo, but there was a certain beauty in rising when the sun was going down, since it meant one less day that I had to deal with. Hip hip hoorah.

I’d never planned to come out of seclusion, and the dwindling funds in my bank account weren’t enough to convince me otherwise. Of course, with the electronic conveniences available, I wasn’t even forced to leave my home to make purchases. I did all my shopping online and that allowed me to keep a low profile. However, the technological advancement wasn’t without its pitfalls, since it brought unwelcome company into my life.

Disguised in the form of delivery boys, these harbingers of misfortune got to be regular visitors, and that familiarity gave them license to ask me why I just didn’t get the groceries myself. I would nonchalantly reply that I was in the Witness Protection Program and that the Feds wanted it this way. But as soon as they left, I’d sit in the dark, mentally trashing the younger generation for its boldness in questioning my motivations. It was their parents’ fault for not raising them to show respect. Of that, I was sure. 

Other than those necessary intrusions, I was content to be a hermit. Alone suited me, and I was resigned to living out my remaining years in solitary confinement, but my dear, sweet momma had other ideas. A few weeks ago, she started phoning and leaving messages that she wanted to come over and visit. She became such a pest that I was forced to call her in order to tell her to stop calling. But what was only supposed to be a rebuke led to a conversation, and well, it culminated in her telling me that I couldn’t go on like this. How did she phrase it?

Curt, this won’t bring Ruthie back.

Bingo dingo. Man, she was right, but it hurt so goddamned much to hear. Too goddamned much. You see, when Ruthie died, I’d died right along with her—I just hadn’t stopped breathing. But that would come—eventually.

Ruth Warwick was the fiancée I’d mentioned earlier, and her death was why she wasn’t around. We’d been planning on getting married last year—in October. I’d opted for June, but she had this thing about fall weddings. Something about the color palette allowing for an Enchanted Evening theme. I never got to see what hues were so compelling as to eschew idyllic weather because she never made it that far. She was murdered in the spring—on March 31st.

Hearing the news was like being swallowed by an alligator. I was still trapped in its belly, trying to make sense of things, but nothing did. I mean, everything had been so normal. I was living out my life as a member of Creston Philadelphia’s finest, and Ruthie was attending Bramley University, working on her master’s degree.

She normally travelled to see me on weekends; she preferred it that way. But at the beginning of March, she’d gotten caught up in exams and skipped seeing me for three weekends in a row. Late on Friday night, one day before the tragedy, she’d called out of the blue, asking me to drive up. I was missing her something fierce, but I backed out, saying I was too tired. I’d been on the police force for about four years and was still paying my dues by putting in long hours and trying to prove my worth. Then there were the double shifts. I was taking every one I could so that I could put away a nest egg, but those were just lame-ass excuses. What it boils down to is complacency. I’d held the firm belief that I could always see her. If not that weekend, then the next, but there would be no more weekends. At least not with Ruth. Lesson? Never take anything or anyone for granted because you’re surely going to regret it.

On Sunday, she was found in her off-campus apartment—butchered like a fish at a sushi bar. What some people can do with a sharp knife. What’s that adage? Idle hands make the devil’s work? If that saying is true, then the person that carved up Ruthie must have been indigent his entire life.

Talk about guilt. I kept thinking that if I’d been with her, it would never have happened, but how could I know that for sure? And, in hindsight, that call she made to me was strange. Ruthie never asked anyone for anything. Independence Day was dedicated to girls like her, so if she’d wanted to see me, she would have driven, taken a train, or walked the 120 miles. It wasn’t like her to rely on me for anything, but there had been an urgency in her voice. She hadn’t as much asked as pleaded with me to go there—but why? Had she received a threat? Had a premonition? Or was it just a case of her being lonely?

My fellow officers broke the news to me—right before they began investigating me for the homicide. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s the boyfriend that’s responsible. That’s the inflated percentage they’d quoted. Add in the fact that there had been an inordinate amount of rage perpetrated against her, and you got a lethal dose of sodium thiopental being injected into my vein.

Man, the theories were flying hot and heavy for a while. One was that I’d gotten cold feet. Another was that she was pregnant and I couldn’t handle having kids. A third was that it wasn’t my kid that she was carrying. The autopsy shot those last few out of the water. Ruth wasn’t pregnant. Sexually assaulted by a butcher knife, but not pregnant. It didn’t stop the speculation, or the stares. After all, I had that middle name that the press kept using even if I never did. Seems everyone with a tin foil hat and dime store forensics kit knows that diabolical killers have three names. Never mind that we all have one on our birth certificates.

Unfortunately for the justice system, I had an airtight alibi. It’d been my turn to host the monthly Texas Hold ‘Em Championship, and the crotchety next door neighbor had personally complained about the noise. It meant that there were too many witnesses to my being occupado at the time of the crime. The case went cold after I got eliminated. My pals dove back into the hunt by questioning Ruthie’s friends and family to ferret out new leads, but as far as anyone knew, she had no enemies. With no DNA found, it seemed a phantom had killed her—one that was now haunting me.

I was getting lost in the past again. I tipped the canopy a little to the side. It caused the shade to finally find me. When I checked my watch, I found that I had plenty of time before I met Mike. Mike O’Brien was someone I’d met at Wild’s Gym. Last month, I’d joined that health club, hoping to reverse the damage I’d done to myself over the past year.

Two weeks ago, I’d started working out, going cold turkey to boot. It was ixnay on the eerbay. Having subsisted on lager, it was tough giving up the habit. Not as tough as finding a fitness center that was open 24 hours a day, but it had been well worth the trouble. Using the facilities in the dead of night meant that I had my pick of the machines and could stay on them for as long as I wanted. It felt like my personal training center. Mike felt the same way.

Snatching a celery stick from the pile next to me, I munched like a grazing cow. I was glad that I was moving again. Not only because I was making Momma Bear happy, but because I was getting myself back in shape. After all, it was going to take a lot of endurance to track down the bastard that had killed Ruthie.  

CHAPTER 2

It was a full house at Shotsky’s. I hadn’t seen that much desperation since I’d visited the local shelter during puppy season. Seemed everybody was looking for a home, or at least a port in which to dock. I spotted Mike’s spiked do right away. Not everyone can sport a porcupine upsweep and make it look stylish.

Hey, Bright Eyes. Thought you were gonna stand me up, Mike said, giving a way too hard high five. I shook out the sting.

Yeah, well, I had second thoughts. It’s been a while.

What’s your poison? First round is my treat.

Ginger ale for me. Don’t want to lose another year.

Ginger ale it is, she said as she squeezed her way to the bar.

Born Michelle O’Brien, Mike was something else, all right. Five feet, six inches of raw audacity, her bark and bite were both lethal. That was mostly due to the fact that she had the biggest set of guns this side of Cleveland, but she swore that the muscle was natural. Like I believed that.

We’d hit it off right away. She’d introduced herself at the gym, offering to be a spotter when I worked out with the weights. I accepted, even though I wasn’t lifting more than five pounds. No doubt about her being gay; the rainbow, tie-dyed t-shirt she wore proclaimed, "Keep Calm. I am a Lesbian. Gotta love that kind of confidence, but what really did it was overhearing a conversation. She told an engaged heterosexual couple, and I quote: Hey, I think you two should get married. And, don’t worry, I won’t be offended." With that witticism out of the way, O’Brien became my new best friend.

While she waited for my drink at the counter, she passed the time flirting with a redhead standing next to her. I’d heard some of Mike’s lines at Wild’s, and the girl had some game. She was gonna be rough competition if we ever set our sets on the same potential life partner, but hopefully, that wouldn’t happen. There were enough shoes to try on, so why sweat one chick? That was her philosophy, not mine.

I downed a handful of beer nuts as Michelle bid the new red shoe goodbye.

Too easy and not enough baby back ribs for me, she summarized.

Are you allowed to talk like that? I’d get a shot in the mouth if I reduced a woman to food that comes in a bucket.

It’s not any worse than what they say about us, and I take it that you’re talking about that PC place you left?

Pretty much, I answered, chugging down the soda that was most definitely not champagne.

Besides, we’re not saying it in front of them, so those ho’s got to chill.

You got a way with words, Mike.

Giving a toast, I clinked my glass against hers before we guzzled down. As she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her lively blue eyes fired sparks. I swore this girl was hotwired somewhere and set on fire with butane.

So about that place where you used to work, why did you leave? You never really talk about yourself, she queried.

How long you been in Creston, Mike?

About a month.

That’s why.

Why what?

Why you don’t know the reason that I don’t have to talk about myself.

Mind if we join you?

It was the redhead with a brunette friend in tow.

Um, I articulated, looking at Mike for a clue.

I said a definite possibility, she whispered before jumping to her feet and pulling out a chair. As the redhead settled in, Mike tugged her vest, making sure her tie was straight. The brunette left for me was nice enough, but didn’t compare with Ruth. I decided to take one for the team.

Please, I coaxed, holding out the seat next to me.

Thanks, she said, smiling through a nice set of choppers. I’m Derva.

I’m Curt and that there is Mike, I responded, giving Michelle a good slap on her back for getting me into this.

This here is Virginny, Mike started. She works as a massage therapist, or so she claims.

Oh, she does! Derva chimed in. I work with her, so I know!

Massage therapist? Come on, how many times have you been raided? Mike teased.

The girls giggled. Virginny put her hand on Mike’s arm. I tried the same maneuver with Derva. Smiling, she crooked her finger. I leaned in, anxious to hear what she had to say.

I don’t go that way, Curt, she informed in breathy tones.

What?

You’re very handsome and everything, but I’m here hoping to get a shot at Mike. You see, Ginny is my girlfriend, but we like to get the freak on sometimes. You’re welcome to watch.

Oh, how times had changed. That year, I’d slept through what seemed more like a century’s worth of social evolution. Of course, this lesson in human sexuality didn’t help me any with my confidence. The last thing I wanted was to be rejected by someone I didn’t want.

Sorry, I subscribe to NetFlix, I quipped and left it at that.

When I looked up, Mike and Virginny were soul kissing. Staring at my ginger ale, I wished it would ferment into something stronger. Now that I was cut out of any possibility of action, I leaned back, glancing around. Remembering an old joke about an ape, a giraffe, and a jackass entering a bar, I realized that two of them were glaring at what was going on at our table—and one of those two wasn’t a giraffe.

Mike pulled back. Hopping to her feet, she tugged Ginny up, wrapping a hand around the masseuse’s waist. Derva took her place as the other slice of white bread to complete the Mike sandwich.

See ya around, Curt. Hope you understand, Mike offered non-apologetically.

"Yeah, sure. Mazel tov," I mumbled, raising a glass that leaked down my arm.

Sashaying out the door, I noticed the two clowns at the bar leave at the same time. My nose, which was honed at the police academy to sniff out trouble, was still working. I popped up like a marionette whose strings had been yanked. I rushed out to the parking lot in time to see the confrontation.

What you’re doing is wrong! And this is going to prove it.

The dark-haired goon resembling the ape was the one speaking. His fist waved in the air as intimidation. The light-haired jackass he was with darted quickly to Mike’s right, trying to pin her arms. The two girls screamed as a scuffle broke out.

Hey, what’s going on here! I yelled out, trotting over.

My six-foot, two-inch frame counted for something. And so did the physique that included broad shoulders from paddling my surfboard through the rough ocean waves. The jackass let go and the ape backed off, but then maybe I’m being unfair to animals in making those comparisons.

These guys seem to think that they can run everybody’s life for them—that’s what’s going on, Mike responded. She straightened her tie and ran her hands through her hair.

That so, I replied, turning to the two meatballs. Well, everyone here is an adult and can make their own decisions. Telling someone they can’t constitutes a violation of the penal code, and physically enforcing such illegality bumps it up to a felony one. Now I suggest you two disperse and let nature take its course.

A look best described as not happy crossed the goons’ faces. The dark-haired clown cast a blistering glare in Mike’s direction, but didn’t have the nerve to cross the line I’d drawn. Not when the fight was even, anyway.

What they’re doing ain’t natural! the ape blurted, pointing his finger at the soon-to-be ménage a trois.

Neither are 80s mullets, Mike retorted.

Mike, you want to press charges? I inquired, pulling out my cell.

Not tonight, I don’t. Got more important matters going on.

Then I suggest you two move along, I said, taking a step closer. They took the hint, hightailing it back inside. Mike had that look in her eye.

Would you ladies excuse me a minute? she inquired before bolting into Shotsky’s. I kept Ginny and Derva company, wondering what was going on. Mike was true to her word. A moment later, she returned. Fitting her arms around the bookends, she whisked them away into her chariot, giving a cheery honk as she drove away.

CHAPTER 3

Ireturned home more depressed than how I’d started the evening, but my resolve to get myself out of the rut I’d been stuck in won out the day. Instead of throwing a pity party that consisted of me drowning myself in Jack Daniel’s and a beer chaser, I sipped mint tea and watched a classic Bogart/Bacall flick. You see, I did have NetFlix. As a former boy scout, I never lie. Well, not about things like that, anyway.

I went to bed before midnight, unprepared for the dreams I had of Ruthie. Strangely enough, I hadn’t had any since her murder, but last night, they came on strong. We were downstairs, kissing on the couch. She slipped off her headband, shaking her raven tresses loose. They resembled the waves in a never-ending sea. Standing, she started unbuttoning her white blouse, giving me a come-hither stare. She took my hand, caressing it with her cheek. We made our way up the stairs, stopping to kiss every so often to stoke the fire burning a hole in both our bellies.

Arriving at my bedroom, we inched backwards, my Ruthie giving the front of my shirt a tug in the direction of the bed. With no more hints needed, one of my arms went under her shoulders, the other under her knees. As I lifted her up, I kissed her softly, placing her down on my comforter. I slipped out of my shirt, kicking my pants to one side.

I kissed every one of Ruthie’s fingers, nibbling my way up her arm and neck. Grazing awhile on her ear, I finished unbuttoning her blouse, helping her slide it off. A pair of white slacks came next. I climbed on top of her as I ran my hands up and down her creamy skin as we ....

The phone jarred me out of the fantasy. I awoke suddenly, shielding the light that assaulted my eyes. The odor of Ruthie’s perfume was everywhere.

Ruth? I called out. Disoriented, I reached out to her side of the bed, expecting her to be there. It took me several more seconds to realize that she was dead.

Hello, I started. The gravel in my throat demanded that I clear it once or twice.

I’m responding to the ad about Ruth Warwick’s murder.

Those words officially woke me up. More effective than any cup of coffee, the voice synthesizer disguised the caller’s identity, but the point was that someone had finally phoned. Ever since I’d been dispensed with as a suspect, I’d placed small pennysaver ads in papers published in both Pennsylvania and Ruthie’s home state of Connecticut. Somebody knew something, but I hoped this wasn’t some clown trying to get the reward money from punking my ass.

Yes, go ahead. I’m listening, I replied as I ran for a pen and paper. I wanted to be ready, but all I heard was static and heavy breathing. I guessed that it was all about the money time. In a second, they’d be asking for the details on how to collect. I figured I’d beat them to that particular punch. Look, if you’re worried about the reward, the $10,000 will be released when it leads to the arrest of the person, or persons, responsible.

I don’t care about the money. There are bigger things going on.

What? What do you mean? What things?

In due time, Savage.

You know my name? How—

Inconsequential, don’t you think? Right now, all I can say is this—Ruth was having an affair.

The click of the receiver on the other end told me the call was concluded. Shocked by the accusation, I stared at the phone, still in my hand. In a million years, I’d never expected a call like that. I collapsed in a chair, trying to think things through. I concluded it had to be a joke perpetrated by someone that thought I hadn’t suffered enough. I slammed the phone back into its stand and took my shower. My stomach was in knots. I was upset that someone was trying to put things in my head about the woman I still loved. Fuck ‘em to hell.

The downstairs bell interrupted the ceremonial towel drying of my hair. The scissors and clippers I’d been using to stem the tide of new growth weren’t really making it. There were chunks of hair missing, and patches I’d overlooked. Bad haircuts were yet another reason for not going out in the bright light of day, but I’d have to. Well, right after I was done cursing out the asshole making prank calls, I would.

I loped down the stairs, making it to the front door. Once there, I was treated to a face-to-face with the woman who’d pulled my bacon out of the fire.

Hello, Mr. Savage.

It was my next-door neighbor, the one that had complained about my card game. Mrs. Danvers had her black Pomeranian named Mooch under her arm.

Hello, Mrs. Danvers.

Most people would have invited me in by now, she snapped, slipping underneath my arm. She put her dog down. He happily ran throughout the downstairs, barking out of sheer joy at having a new place to poop. Marge looked around, choosing to sit on the couch Ruthie had occupied in my dream.

How are you doing? she asked brusquely. The five-foot, four-inch woman was direct, I’d give her that. The red highlights in her light brown hair hinted at a flammable temper. I decided to chance a brushfire.

You bring your dog when you visit?

Of course. You got something against dogs, Mr. Savage?

No, I was just wondering. Most people don’t have the nerve to ...

I caught myself. It was the wrong thing to say.

Oh, nerve! People wait for things to be handed to them, rather than having enough courage to ask. Course, then they complain for the rest of their damned lives, and we have to listen, she summarized, shaking her head. Answer the question, Mr. Savage. Do you like dogs?

Yes, I do.

Mooch came skidding into the living room. Not hesitating, he jumped in his owner’s lap. She hugged him affectionately, scratching him under his chin.

I know you do. You’re a kind man. Never believed for a minute what they accused you of.

Well, thank you for that vote of confidence.

You’re welcome and there’s no need to be so sarcastic. Just because I worked in banking my entire life, doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about people’s natures. Like that girl you were dating—the one that got herself killed? That girl had secrets. Big ones.

Marge was full of surprises.

Like?

How would I know? She was your girlfriend.

She was now trespassing on a grave. Nerve or no nerve, she had to go.

I’m sorry, but ... I said, starting to get up.

Oh, don’t go getting all bent out of shape about what I said. I don’t mean she was an escaped felon or that she took drugs. She was a lovely girl. Sweet, gentle, and kind. I liked her a lot. I like you, too.

The cushion said another hello to my behind.

That’s better, she continued. Now, as I was saying, your fiancée was tenderhearted. It made whatever that sadness she was carrying around all the harder to bear. It’s like that with good folks. The other kind don’t really care, now do they?

I guess they don’t, I replied, rubbing my temples, which were calling out for caffeine. Can you please tell me why you’re here? I said, summoning up my nerve. After all, I’d hate to complain.

I’m here because of Mooch. You’re an ex-cop, right?

Yes, I answered, wondering where this was going. I hadn’t planned on segueing into dog walking, but if it paid enough, maybe.

Well, I want to hire you to find out who it was he bit.

Your dog bit someone? Don’t you think you should wait for the lawyer that’s going to sue the pants off you to tell you his client’s name?

No one’s suing, and that’s the problem.

What is?

That people up to no good can’t sue, now can they? If they did, they’d have to explain what they were doing in my backyard at three o’clock in the morning.

If he or she were trespassing, you might have a case.

There is no case, Mr. Savage, and you’re not listening.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. It was just that I couldn’t concentrate. All that healthy food I was eating plus the exercise was going to kill me.

I’m not really interested in—

As I said, last night, Moochie Poochie woke me up. I thought he had to go wee wee, didn’t I, Moochikins? It’s unusual that he wakes me up at that hour, but he was whining and barking. When you gotta go, you gotta go, so I brought him downstairs and opened the patio doors for him to go out back. I waited, but instead of doing his business, he took off running. He growled and dove into the bushes. The next thing I knew, I heard a man screaming, Ow, and a few choice expletives. A second later, someone clothed in a dark shirt and pants took off into the neighbor’s yard.

Interesting, but I’d let it go. He won’t be back.

Oh, yes, he will. He’s stalking someone.

And how do you know that, Mrs. Danvers?

Because when I walk Moochie, I’ve seen a black van parked in the neighborhood.

And what was it doing?

Nothing, as far as I could tell. Just parked, but it never used to be.

There’s nothing to see here, folks. Just keep moving and no one will get hurt.

It was time to talk her down off the ledge.

Mrs. Danvers, I started, using the voice I reserve for infants. That person prowling around your backyard got you nervous. That’s all. And the van? A neighbor bought a new car or has someone visiting. Besides, the two don’t seem connected. Then there’s the fact that I don’t do private investigations. I don’t even do public ones.

Are you sure? I just have such a feeling, Mr. Savage. Like the one I had the last time I saw your girlfriend.

This was getting us nowhere. Next thing she’d do was take out a Ouija board and direct yes and no questions to a spirit called Lunar Eclipse.

Yes, I’m sure. I’ll keep my eyes and ears out for that prowler coming back, though.

Well, I guess that’s it then, Moochie. I was wrong. He doesn’t care.

The misstating of evidence got to me. I wanted to argue, but conserved my energy until after coffee time. Her foot knocked into the side table, jostling the items on it. Leaning over, she picked off whatever had been knocked to the floor, placing it back on the table. It was the lilac headband Ruthie had been wearing in my dream.

Where’d you get that? I blurted.

Didn’t you see? I knocked it off the table.

It was there? I queried as I sorted through what was real from what was fiction.

"Yes, and the offer is still open—if you change your mind."

After she let herself out, I remained in one spot, staring at the band. I remembered it – Ruthie had worn it a lot, but then she liked wearing purple. The color changed her light blue eyes to a hypnotic shade of periwinkle.

Even I noticed the alteration in hue, and I don’t notice anything when off the job. It’s probably why I hadn’t seen it on the table since it was obviously there all this time. It had probably been caught behind the lamp even though I cleaned there pretty much every week. I picked it up, fingering it in my hands, as the perfume I smelled this morning drifted in.

CHAPTER 4

The percolator finished doing its thing. Of course, it was Ruthie that had turned me onto the difference a percolator could make in achieving a perfect cup of coffee. As I drank the first cupful of the day, the caffeine hit me like a TV thrown into bathwater.

A knock on the front door interrupted me yet again. I hoped it wasn’t Marge, coming back to say that Mooch had taken a chunk out of another neighbor’s behind. In this state, you were only allowed one free bite. I should know.  

Hey, Bright Eyes, Mike greeted as she breezed on by. What was it with people not waiting to be invited in? On second thought, she said, taking a second look at my sunken face, not so bright. Kitchen this way? I could use one of those, she said, pointing to my coffee cup.

She was headed in the right direction, so I just nodded. Seemed she knew everything. Maybe she could figure out where the perfume was coming from. That scent had only gotten stronger.

I was slowed down by stopping to take a swallow of java after every step. By the time I’d caught up, Mike was opening all my cabinet doors. Selecting the biggest mug she could find, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was actually a stein that I’d acquired at a German beerfest. I got ready to perk more java. I’d need to if I was expecting a second cup.

What are you doing up so early? I asked. I thought I remembered her telling me she never got up before noon.

Dude, you really are operating at half-mast. Rummaging through the fridge, she emptied half the milk in the quart container into her cup. The coffee was either light enough or there was no more room to pour. Placing the carton down, she waved her hands in front of her body like a cheesy Vegas magician. Same clothes as last night, but then, I guess you didn’t notice."

I had noticed, but I never assume anything.

You dog, I congratulated. Throwing out the old coffee grounds, I rinsed out the percolator before filling it with fresh water. Must have been some night. Didn’t think you were that into either one.

No. No, no, no, no, no, she sputtered. I guess I had assumed. Now Mike was into the sugar. She poured in enough to cause an insulin spike and gulped down her first taste. Damn, that is good!

It should be after using up half the pantry.

I don’t understand. Are you saying that you weren’t with Virginia and Derva last night?

Yeah, earlier, but those bitches is whackadoodle, dude.

So you didn’t—

Oh, hell, yeah, I did! But then I made like a banana and split. Derva told me about inviting you along, and, dude, no offense, but I don’t want anyone watching.

Standing next to one another, we leaned our hips against the granite countertop while perfectly good chairs went to waste.

Shy, huh? I teased.

No, not at all! I just don’t want anyone learning my moves. But if you want to know anything, you just ask. I know what the ladies love. I mean, I should.

She had a point.

What about you? she asked. Getting up with the birds part of your ‘Get in Shape or Die’ regimen?

Nope, more like I got a phone call and was dumb enough not to let it go into voicemail.

Nothing interesting, I take it?

More like incendiary. It’s why I couldn’t go back to sleep.

Was it about Ruth?

What?

I asked if it was about Ruth, she repeated, sliding out a chair. Sprawling out her legs, she relaxed, fingering the oversized mug. I followed up on what you said.

Which was?

That everyone knew about you. I looked you up online. Dude, you’re famous.

That kind of fame, no one wants. Believe me, I stated, joining her at the table.

I can understand that. Sorry it happened, but the call—

Just some clown trying to cash in on pain. Caller said Ruth was cheating on me.

I guess it’s out of the question?

Yup, I replied as I finished the last sip. I was ready for another cup.

From what I read, there were no leads, no suspects—besides you—and no DNA? Hard to believe when there’s that much collateral damage.

Yeah, tell me about it, I said, waiting for the brewing cycle to finish. It was because she’d been moved.

Mike’s eyes lit up, her head snapping to attention. Really? The articles I read didn’t mention that.

It was one of those things they held back. Don’t know why. She was discovered by a couple of friends. They’d have to know things were too clean, given what happened, don’t you think?

I would think, but then maybe it’s the professional in us that leads us towards that conclusion, she said, sniffing the air. Did you have company, Savage? You holding back on me?

You mean, you smell it, too?

Sure do. It smells good. Kind of classy.

Was I really going to go there? Yes, I was.

It’s Ruth’s perfume.

Not saying anything, she just sort of stared out the window, processing the information.

Dude, you’re not trying to say that it’s her? she said, leaning in.

Mike, I don’t know what I’m saying, but it’s hers. I’d recognize it anywhere.

Okay, Savage, you’re creeping me out. Her eyes widened as she shuddered. Swallowing what was left of her morning brew, she walked to the sink, turning on the tap and letting the cup soak. I just deal in reality. I’m sure other women wear that perfume, and then there’s the kitchen window that’s wide. Then there’s the fact that odors get embedded into fabric and walls and rugs, but thanks for the coffee and chat, anyway. Oh, I forgot to tell you that after I left those two freaktoids, I met this nice girl.

You went out again?

Sure. Why not?

Where’d you go?

To a strip club. Only thing that’s open at that time.

You met a stripper? Hope you checked your credit cards.

Nay, Candice isn’t like that. I did give her a little scratch—to tide her over.

Mike, I admonished.

I know, I know. Hey, you remember that I went back into Shotsky’s after those two buffoons tried to start a fight about the wages of sin?

Yes.

Don’t you want to know what for?

I am curious.

Well, I went to ask the bartender who the two guys were. Luckily, they frequented Shotsky’s a lot, so she knew their names. So after I did a search on you, I ran one on them. Found out that one has unpaid parking tickets and that the other is behind on his alimony. Anyway, traffic court and Mr. Tough Guy’s ex-wife can look no further than the addresses I supplied to them.

You found their addresses?

Sure did. If you know where to look, you can find anything about anyone.

Pretty good for an importer/exporter.

Yeah, isn’t it, she said, touching the corner of one eye.

See you at the gym tonight? I queried, pouring a second cup of coffee.

Sure. Gotta work on this bod for the ladies. But promise, no more scary stories. I don’t do well with ghosts.

Evidently, neither do I.

CHAPTER 5

Ireturned home from my workout. I’d out pressed Mike in bench lifts. She hated that more than anything, so I rubbed it in partially to pay her back for outperforming me in the sexual arena. I was kind, though, deciding to the let the remaining balance slide. I was too distracted by poltergeists to concentrate on revenge.

I pulled into the driveway, departing from my trusty Jeep. Wouldn’t travel any other way, and if the apocalypse came, I was ready. I thought I’d been joking about that last part, but a piercing scream seemed to harken that a zombie invasion had begun. Identifying it as coming from Marge Danvers’ backyard, I dropped my duffel bag and ran for all I was worth.

What the hell? I queried as I approached the bathrobed, older woman with the dog in her arms. I had to admit that Moochie looked exactly like an old dust mop my mother used to have.

Moochie! My baby’s been poisoned! she shouted. Semi-hysterical, I tried to pump her for more information.

How do you know that, Mrs. Danvers?

Because of the food on the ground that I didn’t give him, Einstein! she fired back. Bending down, I saw some scraps of meat. It was hard to see any more than that, what with the dim light.

Someone left it here?

Obviously! Something woke him up again. He was barking and making a racket, so I thought he had to pee. But when he got out, the same thing happened. He made a beeline to a spot near those bushes, but this time there wasn’t a commotion. I wandered out, afraid that someone was out there, when I heard this noise he makes when he eats. I ran over to him and he was chowing down on this disgusting mess, so I stopped him. Right after I did, he started foaming at the mouth. Look, he threw up, but then he collapsed. I screamed and, oh, I’m wasting my breath talking to you! Outta my way, Mr. Savage! I’ve got to get him to the hospital!

Before she could move, I heard the crackle of branches being pushed back. Someone had been watching—and probably listening. Someone that was running into my yard.

I took off after him. It was the figure that Marge had described. Because of his dark clothing, I could barely make him out against the fringe of trees that bordered my property line. Fuck me for not leaving my outdoor lights on.

Before I realized it, he cut back. He was headed for the street. Fooled and bamboozled, I kicked it into a higher gear. It was only because I’d been working out on a treadmill that I’d gotten this far. Winded and cursing myself for getting so out of shape, I saw him disappear in between two houses. I half-heartedly made my way to where I thought he’d gone, when the sound of an engine let me know he’d made his getaway. Marge’s car fired up next. Moochie was going to get the help that he needed.

Scooping up my satchel, I went inside. Huffing like an old carp, I drank some water and was about to go upstairs. The headlights in my driveway made me rethink my plans. I opened the front door as Mike exited her car.

Hey, Savage, she said as she passed by, patting me on my chest. She didn’t stop until she’d hit the couch. Falling backwards, she tossed back her head giving out a moan. Why do things have to be so complicated? Why?

Taking a seat across from her, I dug in.

What happened? Another fight at Shotsky’s?

Nope. Just disappointment in love. Candice has broken my heart, Savage. I might not be able to go on. Opening her half-closed lids, she finally got her first gander of me. Why are you so sweaty?

For an importer/exporter, she certainly was observant. Yes, I’d taken a shower before leaving Wild’s, but how many people would have noticed I was no longer pristine?

Importer/exporters don’t usually notice that kind of minutiae, I explored.

Yeah, well, I might have done it again.

Done what again?

A wry smile appeared on Mike’s full lips.

Lied. I didn’t realize you were a cop at the time—

Ex-cop.

Cop, she reiterated, smirking even wider. I’m a private dick, not that you haven’t already guessed. Now why the BO?

Giving myself a sniff under my arms, it was all good.

Marge Danvers, my next door neighbor, came over this morning. Told me her dog had taken a chunk out of prowler last night.

And?

And she wanted to hire me to find out who was bitten. She’d seen this dark van parked in the neighborhood and thought that the two were connected.

Interesting. I hope you took the money.

Nope.

Duhff! she exclaimed, hitting herself in her forehead.

If you’re done, I said, pausing. With no more smart remarks forthcoming, I continued. Anyway, when I returned home from the gym, I heard this scream. It sounded like it came from her backyard, so that’s where I went. Found Marge holding her dog—the one that bit said prowler. Turns out, someone poisoned him—someone that was listening to every word we said. He took off and I took off after him, but I lost him.

You think it was revenge? For biting him? Seems slightly psycho to me, but then I don’t sneak around in other people’s backyards after midnight.

Could be revenge, but then it could be a lot of other things.

I told you that you were a cop.

I chuckled; she had me.

What about you? I asked. Ready to tell me what happened? I mean, what really happened?

I suppose I deserve that. It’s just I get used to lying. Kinda goes with the line of work I’m in. You see, I’m in Creston on a case.

Really?

Yup, really. A concerned Beverly Hills wife is wondering what her husband is really doing visiting Philadelphia. He’s a location scout for movies, and yes, he was legitimately here doing his job, but the movie’s been shelved and he keeps returning. She thinks he’s having an affair.

And is he?

Yes, and it could be with Candice.

Ouch. It was the only thing I could think of to say. I’d been there and done that.

Yup. It’s why I started going to Glitter Girls, but I never expected to fall for her, Savage.

Are you sure, I mean, about the affair? As for the feelings, isn’t it better to know before you get in too deep?

Rubbing her hair, she slicked it back. Her torso coming forward, she rested her elbows on her legs.

I am already, Savage. And, no, I’m not sure. You see, there are a few other women that visit his room at Creston Arms Hotel.

And Candice is one of them, I filled in.

Yes, but she just started showing up. I’m not sure who’s doing what to whom, so I just keep clicking away. But, and this is a big but, she was upset this evening. She showed up a little early at the hotel this afternoon and saw one of the other chicks leaving.

That’s why it’s important to be on time. What did she say?

"That he’s a producer and that he’s auditioning other girls for this part in an upcoming film. She wasn’t sure whether to put it down to that, but I can’t tell her that he’s not a producer and that he is schtupping the two o’clock ho."

You know that?

I do now and I’ve got the pictures to prove it. Rented an apartment that looks right into this guy’s bedroom.

Windows again. They were the devil’s work, no doubt.

Yeah, that’s awkward. You wouldn’t know all that unless you were following him.

Exactly. And then I’d have to admit that I’m not the modeling agent I’m pretending to be. I gave her a card and everything.

Candice must have had some bad karma. Seemed everyone was lying to her.

What are you going to do? I queried.

Watch his room like a hawk, document everything, and keep my mouth shut. The tension backed off. Her body went to being loosy goosy and ready for anything. Hey, thanks, Savage, she said, reaching forward and shaking my hand.

For what?

For helping me. Now I’ll help you by telling you three things. One: Take the damn job. Private dicking pays a hell of a lot more than you’d earn at a regular job. Two: a dark van barreled past me when I was driving here. Turned onto Spring.

That’s a couple of streets over, I said, mulling over that tidbit. And what’s the third?

That perfume’s back.

CHAPTER 6

With two cups of coffee under my belt and a night of thinking things over, I sauntered over to my neighbor’s—a guilty conscience leading the way.

You! Marge shot accusingly.  

Her tone made me feel like denying it was me darkening her doorstep.

How’s Mooch?

Alive, no thanks to you.

Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?" I queried, letting my charm kick in.

No.

Well, I did ask. The door was only open enough to allow her to squeeze her face in the narrow vertical space. The penciled brows didn’t do a thing for me, but one look in her intelligent eyes told me that it hadn’t been appearance alone that once had suitors lined up around the block. Marge Danvers must have been something else.

I’ve decided to take you up on your offer, I ventured.

She chose to remain an open book, not even bothering to hide her surprise. Her hazel eyes widened, a bit of white showing all the way around. The door was suddenly ajar. A shaky Mooch appeared behind her loafered feet. The dog exhibited none of its usual friendliness. Instead, he eyed me suspiciously. Do dogs hold grudges? I’d soon find out.

I entered her lair. I’d never seen the inside. The closest I’d come was peeking through the slats of her vertical blinds. The only thing I’d noticed was a lot of pink. A little of that color goes a long way.

The furnishings were entirely appropriate for a Miami Beach retirement home, but I saved whatever opinions I had for when I became an expert on design. I was no one to talk. Before Ruthie entered my life, my place was a giant man cave replete with shag carpeting straight out of the 70s. It was my idea of luxury.

I sat at the edge of a white sofa, wondering how the hell she kept it clean. A clump of Mooch’s black fur in the corner told me it was due to constant maintenance.

I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. That bad man might try again. Right, baby? Marge cooed.

On cue, the little dog jumped onto my lap. How do they know? I scratched him behind his right ear.

I’m not sure about that, but better safe than sorry.

Oh, there’ll be a next time. I should have known that you’d change your mind. One thing a policeman loves is a mystery.

I’m not a ...

I know what you are. As I said, I was in banking—a loan mortgager, to be exact. I learned to read people like a book. I could tell when they were lying, and I could read numbers, but sometimes, I lent the money even when someone couldn’t afford the property.

And why is that?

"Because they could have afforded it if they wanted it badly enough. That’s what America is all about. Going after things and making a success of yourself. However, drive is one thing you can’t tell. So I took my calculated risks to all differing results. Some worked their butts off and enjoyed their new homes for as long as they wanted. Others failed, but nobody could say I didn’t give them the opportunity to try."

I was learning a lot about Marge. Moochie, too. He liked belly rubs.

Have you thought about pricing? she asked.

I hadn’t. Why didn’t I find that out from Mike?

Well, I took care of it, she gloated. Marge liked being right—a little too much, if you asked me. The going rate for private detectives in this area is fifty an hour. I’ll give you five hundred to start. Ten hours should be enough to find out something, don’t you think?

I do, I said as I kept up the nail stroking of her dog.

I do too. I’ll expect you to report anything you find and, at the end of the ten hours, I’ll decide whether to extend this investigation. Fair?

Very.

She stood. I tried to follow suit, but I had a lapful of cozy animal. She solved the problem by scooping Moochie up into her arms.

Good, she stated as she walked to her purse. Wasting no time, she wrote me out a check that I was sure was good.

Say, did you take Mooch out yet?

No. We got up a little late.

Good. I’d like to borrow him for a few days.

Why on earth? she gasped. You’d have thought I was asking her to cut off an arm.

Because if this wasn’t revenge, then this guy wants the dog out of the picture. If he thinks Mooch is kaput, then I can find out why the hell he’s skulking around your backyard.

I do see, but you don’t think he’s after an old lady like me?

Could be, but I doubt it. He wasn’t close to the house, but we’ll see. And don’t worry. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you. In the meantime, make sure your doors are locked and your curtains are shut.

Will do, she replied as she deposited Moochie back into my waiting arms.

CHAPTER 7

Ispent the day making Mooch happy. Taking him for frequent walks, I centered them around Spring Street. I needed an excuse to be in the neighborhood and taking a dog out for a constitutional was perfect. I didn’t find what I was after, but it was my first day. You gotta be reasonable.

I also visited a pet supply company. I bought a leash and a few chew toys, and presented them to Marge. She made a grand spectacle of throwing them out in the trashcans placed at the curb. While she dabbed at her eyes, I hoped the prowler was that stupid. No pet owner that’s emotionally attached to their dog cavalierly gets rid of their pet’s belongings the day after said pet is poisoned, but in life, staging beats smarts. And if done right, you override common sense and believe what you want, and there was no doubt that this character wanted Mooch dead.

Of course, Marge came over fifteen or twenty times. Talk about separation anxiety, but I didn’t put a damper on the annoying visits. The only way she’d reassure herself that I didn’t have Mooch in the oven with an apple in his mouth was by seeing that I had the four-legged furball’s best interests at heart.

When evening came, I kept the lights in the living room low and got out my binoculars for later. I was going to have to get ones for night vision, but for now, this would do. Around 8:00, I headed to the gym. I was a couple hours early, but I wanted to be home by 10:00. I didn’t want to miss any of the action.

Sure enough, I made it home by 10:10. Mooch got off the couch to greet me and, for some reason, it felt good. I wasn’t into these miniature breeds, but this little guy was all right. I took him out for a nightly constitutional. When I returned, I made myself a snack before turning on the TV and curling up next to Mooch. Mooch was named correctly. He eyed every mouthful I took, so I parceled out snacks from a box of doggie treats that Marge said were his favorite.

The movie was good, but the next one wasn’t. I surfed for a paid offering, but couldn’t find anything that pushed my buttons, so I watched the marginally bad one anyway. Mooch was passed out and sawing z’s, but I earned that fifty bucks an hour by getting up and peering through the slit in the curtains with my trusty binoculars. Nothing was doing. Around 1:00, I found myself getting sleepy. Since I planned on actually getting up early in the morning, I was having a hard time playing night owl. I had no sooner given in to sleep, than Mooch’s barking woke me up.

Taking a moment to get my bearings, I soon realized that someone was walking up to my door. A soft knock assured me that my perception was accurate. Thank God the stupor caused by the slip into Sleepy Town was temporary.

Hey, Mike, I welcomed while Mooch yipped and pranced around like his feet were touching hot coals.

What the hell? Couldn’t you have bought a whole dog?

He’s not mine. He’s ....

Oh, he’s the neighbor’s. But why is he here?

Because if it’s not revenge, then the guy wants him out of the way. I ask, why would he want that? Answer: Because he wants to be in Marge’s backyard.

And why would that be? Why not your yard? It’s right next door to Marge’s, and you don’t have ... correction, you didn’t have a dog.

That’s the part I don’t know.

You sure he’s not watching her? Staking out her place? Dogs don’t like strangers coming in, do you, little fella?

Okay, Mike was warming up to the canine so much that it scared me. I’d never seen this side of her and it was worrisome to know she had a heart. Crouching down, she tossed a ball around the living room while Mooch tore after it. Doing this a few times, the little