Later on, Brogan even got this chemist down from the brewery, but the man just shook his head and muttered something about little waves or some such nonsense and went back to Dublin as fast as he could and so much for him.
So now you know why it’s not wise to mention too loud the name of Dennis Guileford on these here premises.
Another one, you say? That would be lovely, but I’d better not. And I’d best be getting along home. Since that last little misunderstanding with the law, Susan (that’s me dear wife) has taken to be a little sharp about such matters. So I’ll bid ye good night and all.
The Case of the Gray Granite Dog
by Emmy Lou Schenk
My mom would never have let me take a morning paper route if she’d known I’d get mixed up with a murderer. Me, Howie Marcus, a twelve-year-old kid! I mean, who’d think such a thing.
My paper route went down Buccaneer Boulevard, through Frangipani Court, and wound up on Oleander Drive. All the houses were pretty ordinary; even the one where it happened was just your standard pink stucco bungalow like we have here in Florida. The only thing different was the big statue of the gray granite dog out front. Everybody else has flamingos.
The house belonged to a lady named Mrs. Bonner. She’s as old as Mom, I suppose, but she doesn’t look old. What she looks like is my kid sister’s Barbie doll. She has shiny blue eyes, and long dark hair, and a questioning kind of look like she isn’t quite sure what’s going on.
The first time I went there to collect it was about four o’clock in the afternoon, but she was still in her bathrobe, a slippery pink thing tied at the middle. Now in Florida you get used to seeing girls without much on, but there was something about the way Mrs. Bonner was all covered up and showing through at the same time which made me realize what a hot day it was. Needing an excuse to look elsewhere, I pointed at the statue.
“Nice dog,” I said. “What kind is it?”
“Kind? Oh, very. He is... was the kindest dog in the world. I adored him.” She sniffed so sadly over her pocketbook that I forgot about the bathrobe. All I ever wanted was to cheer her up some.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Labs usually are nice, aren’t they.”
“Oh, but he’s not a Lab. He’s a... he was an Irish setter.”
The dog stood with one front paw raised and its tail sticking out. To my mind, the body was much too gray and heavy for a setter.
“Keep the change,” she went on. “He... I mean, Popeye won’t mind.”
I looked at my hand. She’d given me a twenty dollar bill.
“Tell him thanks, ma’am,” I said, thinking Popeye was the dog’s name.
As I finished my collecting, I thought about Mrs. Bonner, how kind of soft she was and how sad. She reminded me of a rabbit I’d seen once. Run over by a car, I guess. It was all bloody, and lying half under a palmetto bush, and it stared up at me like it was begging me to put it out of its misery. Only I was already late for school so I told myself, okay, if it’s still there when I come home, I’ll take it to the vet or something.
But it wasn’t, and I’ve felt bad about it ever since.
Maybe that’s why I decided to do what I could for Mrs. Bonner. Not that I could do much. She was never around in the morning when I delivered. I think that’s why I took to giving the gray granite dog a pat on the head every morning.
It was funny, you know, petting a statue. You’ve got to be nuts. What’s more, I soon realized I wasn’t the only one. Between the ears, the granite was real smooth.
Then one morning I saw a food dish in front of the dog. Apparently she pretended to feed him, too.
“I brought your dog a can of Alpo,” I said the next time I went to collect. I don’t think my wanting to help her had anything to do with the bathrobe, but I was sure enough disappointed when she came to the door wearing a regular dress.
“Beautiful,” she replied, staring in her shiny-eyed way at the label. Pausing, she leaned closer. “You pet him, too, don’t you. I see you in the mornings.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I admitted, wondering why grown up women always smell so much better than girls my age.
“I like that,” she said. “You are friend to my friend. We are all friends. Man’s best friend, they say, but that’s a lie.”
Sighing, she tucked the Alpo can under her arm, reached in her purse, and handed me another twenty dollar bill. I stared at the twenty hopefully, but she didn’t say anything about keeping the change.
“He’s my friend, too, ma’am,” I said, beginning to count it out. “Good old Popeye, I pet him every morning.”
Suddenly her eyes hardened. “Who?”
“Who what, ma’am?”
“Who do you pet?”
“Popeye, ma’am. Like you said.” I pointed to the gray granite dog. “Well, here’s your change.”
“Wrong,” she said. “Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.” Her voice rose and her face got closer each time she said it. Her eyes were filled with tears.
I felt I should apologize, but I didn’t know for what. Then, suddenly, she turned and went back in her house. The change was still in my hand.
I knocked on the door, but she didn’t answer so I stood there for a while wondering what to do.
After a couple of minutes, I decided I’d better check with the neighbors — not to be nosy or anything, but just hoping someone would tell me how I could help.
“What’s with Mrs. Bonner?” I asked Mrs. Fletching, who lived next door.
Mrs. Fletching is about six feet tall. She used to be a P.E. teacher and after all those years yelling at the kids on the playground, she has a voice like a Marine drill instructor. She stopped teaching after five kids got grown and gone. Now she spends most of her time at the beach.
“Mrs. Bonner?” Mrs. Fletching boomed. “Nutty as a fruitcake. Why do you ask?”
Embarrassed, I looked over at the pink stucco bungalow. The door was shut and so were the windows.
“Well, she’s sad all the time,” I whispered, even though it was unlikely Mrs. Bonner could hear. “And she pets Popeye... feeds him, too.”
“Popeye?” Mrs. Fletching arched her sun bleached eyebrows. “Say, kid, do you know something nobody else knows?”
“Not unless the dog’s name is a secret,” I said, pointing to the statue. “Popeye, right?”
“No way, Jose.” Like all teachers, Mrs. Fletching’s slang is years out of date.
“So who’s Popeye then?”
“Her husband. Man, what a hunk, but lazy. About all he ever did was go sailing. You get it? Popeye, the sailor man.”
“The spinach dude,” I said, then realized she was talking past tense. “Gee, is he dead or something?”
“Or something mostly.”
“Well, what?”
Tilting her head, she examined me with one. eye closed. “Naah,” she said, after a moment. “I better not tell you. It’s just gossip.”
“Gee, Mrs. Fletching, if I’m going to deliver papers there, don’t you think I ought to know.”
She grinned as if I’d said something real smart. It was what I figured she’d do. Teachers are never really happy unless they are instructing somebody.
“Okay, kiddo,” she said. “It’s like this. Last year he took the dog and went sailing right out into this big thunderstorm.”
“And he drowned, huh?”
“Who knows? They found the boat down by Sandy Cay. And the dog, too. He was locked in the cabin. But not Popeye. Him they never found.”
“Wow,” I said. “Her husband and her dog, all the same day. No wonder she’s so sad.”
“Yeah, she was nuts about that dog. He was sort of like a baby to her, but—” Mrs. Fletching rolled her eyes “—but don’t feel too sorry. A month or so earlier old Popeye had taken out enough insurance to choke a goat. Near half a million bucks, she got. I’d have moved to some snazzy condo, but all she did was buy that statue.”