Page 45 of Dead & Breakfast
“You and Rumble have more in common than you think, my dear. You’re both inquisitive, for a start. You’re both nocturnal. You’re both a little feisty at times. Oh, and I love you both with all my heart!”
It was entirely too wholesome for Arthur to abide. “Yes, well, we’re also both likely to bite you if you don’t focus.”
“Mm, think I might like that.” Salvatore grinned, but he turned his attention back to the screen.
They only had to speed through about twenty more minutes of footage to see a large tarp-wrapped object rolled into the bed of the truck by an unseen perpetrator. They couldn’t make out much, but one thing was clear—George Roth or something his exact size andshape had spent some considerable time in the bed of a silver truck that belonged to neither Sal nor Arthur.
“That’s it,” Arthur breathed. Several emotions crashed through him—relief that Sal was off the hook for the murder and satisfaction that they’d been clever enough to solve it most prominent among them—and he couldn’t help his triumphant grin. “Got you.”
In the footage, the truck moved a little closer to the camera, the light hitting the bumper. The truck’s license plate was still too blurry, but Arthur didn’t need it to identify the vehicle. A bumper sticker, white and oblong, was on the tailgate. Even with the low resolution from the camera, he’d know that molar shape anywhere and the slogan written across it:
Sorry for your floss.
“Dr.Young. This is his truck.”
Salvatore gasped in shock, for once being appropriately dramatic for the situation. “My nemesis?”
“Sorry, Sal.” Arthur clapped his husband on the back and steered him toward the door. “Looks like you’re going to pay the dentist a visit, after all.”
Chapter 12
Trip Young livedin one of the oldest neighborhoods in Trident Falls, on a quiet street not far from downtown. It was a shady area full of large rhododendron blooms and tall fences to keep nosy neighbors at arm’s length.
“I don’t know why we’re bothering to talk with him,” Sal said, stopping in his tracks on the sidewalk with a glare at Dr.Young’s house. “It was obviously his truck. Why not let the sheriff handle it from here?”
“So he can bungle more of the investigation? That video doesn’t actually show who moved the body. I’m sure he’d find a way to turn it back around on us.” Arthur gritted his teeth. “I’d sooner trust Rumble to handle this than McMartin.”
“Detective Rumble does have a nice ring to it.”
“I was joking, Sal— Please don’t get her a police uniform or anything.”
“Arthur! I would never.” Sal clutched the backpack still holdingRumble to his chest, his mouth open in horror. “Rumble knows better. Snitches get stitches! She would obviously be a private investigator or maybe a vigilante! She could have her own theme song—”
“Okay,” Arthur said before Sal could start singing. “Well, my point is that involving McMartin will only slow things down. We’ll ask Dr.Young about that night to see how he reacts. If he’s guilty, we can bring him to the station ourselves.”
“Just a few moments ago you were certain it was Quinn and Nora. Why can’t we just…deliver their brunch invitations and continue things tomorrow?”
“Really? Youwantto bother them?”
“Better than incurring the wrath of a dentist.”
“Wasn’t it you who suggested he might be the culprit to begin with?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, but that was when I was behind bars and far away from him and his drills and tools and little suction thingy.”
Arthur was sorely tempted to make a crack about how Salvatore didn’t always seem to mind such things in the right context, but now was neither the time nor the place for jokes of such a risqué nature. Instead, he merely fixed Salvatore with a weary stare and said, “Wouldn’t you rather take him down yourself? Prove once and for all you’re more powerful than a dentist?
Not even the melodramatic potential of a citizen’s arrest, it seemed, was enough to sway Salvatore to go to Dr.Young’s house. He stood resolute at the end of the driveway and said, “It could be dangerous. He might be armed with one of those plaque scrapers!” He shuddered. “No, I shan’t be going with you. Our daughter needs to be fed, anyway.” He tapped the tip of Rumble’s nose.
“Do cats have to eat three meals a day?” Arthur asked.
“I’ll google it. And you”—Sal turned and booped Arthur’s noseas well—“be careful. Rumble needs both of her fathers in one piece.” Sal kissed Arthur’s cheek before sauntering off back toward the inn, cooing to Rumble as though she were an infant all the way.
Dr.Young lived in a charming two-story home. A sign to reelect Mayor George Roth was still displayed on the neatly trimmed lawn. Arthur stalled just before the porch, pausing to scrutinize the wilting daffodils in a brick-lined raised bed. A frown creased his lips. If he was right about the dentist, neglecting his flowers would be the least of his crimes, but he couldn’t help but glance about for a hose or watering can. There was nothing in the yard or the driveway—not even the silver truck that had led him this far.
With a sigh, he approached the door and rang the bell. Dr.Young answered a few moments later, looking perplexed to see Arthur on his porch.
“Arthur Miller?” he asked, eyes widening at the sight of him. “What are you doing here? You haven’t broken a fang, have you?”
