Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 33, No. 1, January, 1988

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.”

“Well, maybe she can’t bear to leave the happy memories behind or something.”

“That’s pretty ro-man-tic for a kid your age.”

“Yeah, well, I watch a lot of television.”

“Not enough, I guess, or you’d ask how the insurance company felt.”

I was smarting over the way she’d smirked over romantic, so I snapped back, “I didn’t think it was necessary. Obviously the insurance company would be totally bent out of shape.”

“You bet your suntan, they were. They figure the sailor boy’s hiding out some place. They even asked us to be on the lookout, but I say, she’s a neighbor, right? So who cares about the reward?” She grasped my arm and pulled me close. When she spoke, her voice had turned to what was probably the closest to a whisper she could get. “Now, what’s all this about feeding Popeye?”

“Nothing,” I said, hastily. “I had it wrong. I had everything all wrong.”

As I bicycled home, I tried to figure it out. Mrs. Fletching said she didn’t care about the reward, but you didn’t have to be Magnum, P.I., to know she was lying. How big a reward, I wondered.

I could get it myself, probably, if I worked it right. I was pretty sure if I asked questions, Mrs. Bonner would answer. After all, hadn’t she said I was her friend?

On the other hand, the idea of trying to worm information out of a friend made me feel sort of dirty. Besides, I couldn’t see how someone like her could be any kind of a crook. She was too far up in the clouds.

The whole next week I argued back and forth with myself. I couldn’t talk with Mom about it. I hadn’t even told, her about the big tips, partly because I had put them aside for her Christmas present but mostly because she might make me give them back if she knew.

“I have just come from the bank,” Mrs. Bonner said the following Friday when I stopped by to collect. Her makeup was smeared and her eyes reflected red from the afternoon sun.

She’s been crying, I thought, suddenly remembering how Mom had held me close and we had both cried together back when I was four and being very scared after Dad died.

I wished I could make Mrs. Bonner feel better like Mom had done for me, but I guess the reward was still on my mind, too, because instead of saying something nice, I did just the opposite.

“Oh,” I said, “did you get money for Popeye?”

“Popeye!” She bit her lip. “Don’t be cruel.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ask. I... I, well, the words just popped out.”

“Yes. Yes, I see.” Her soft hand was on my shoulder. “I was wrong to lose my temper. After all, you are our friend — just about our only friend these days.”

She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. All at once she seemed very calm, like people do when they’ve made a decision. Bending down, she looked straight into my eyes.

“But not Popeye,” she said, her voice so stiff and cold it was like she had put an ice pick right through me, clear down to my toes. “Not him. The murderer.”

I felt my mouth drop open. Insurance fraud was one thing, but if it was murder, then I had almost a duty to ask questions.

“But he’s dead,” I said. “What does it matter now?”

“Everything matters. Murderers should be punished. You agree don’t you?”

“Well, sure, Mrs. Bonner, But how can he be punished, I mean, well—” It was the opening I needed. “Unless he’s still alive.”

She shook her head. “I’m not supposed to tell.”

Suddenly she turned. The door slammed shut behind her.

As I went down her walk, stopping as always to pat the gray granite dog, I thought it over. In effect, she had told me Popeye was still alive, but so what? Everybody knew that, including Mrs. Fletching and the insurance company. What they didn’t know about was the murder.

Of course, the fact of the matter was I didn’t know much about it myself.

It wasn’t till I was half asleep in bed that night that I remembered Mrs. Bonner hadn’t paid me for the paper. Lucky break, I thought, glad to have an excuse to go over there again the next afternoon.

This time, however, I’d have my can of dog food, and I’d ask her what kind the dog liked best, and that would get her talking. Yeah, this time I’d really get some information.

Or was it wrong to be so sneaky?

Twisting in my bed, I pulled the sheets up tight, and shut my eyes. First I’d think about the reward, and how nice it would be to buy a new bike and maybe a boom box for the beach, but just when I’d get feeling pretty snazzy about the whole thing, I’d remember how Mrs. Bonner was so sweet and soft and pretty, and how she said I was her friend. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to hurt her.

When I went back the next day, she answered the door in her pink bathrobe again.

“Oh, Howie,” she said. “I didn’t pay you, and I didn’t know whether to call or just wait till next week.”

“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Bonner,” I said, hitching back and forth from one foot to another. She was a lot easier to talk to when she wasn’t wearing that bathrobe.

“Come in for a moment,” she said, “while I get my purse.”

I gulped. My throat felt dry. “Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Bonner,” I repeated, although it really wasn’t necessary as I was already following her inside. The air conditioning hit me like a blast of cold arctic air.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

I was standing in a long hallway. Mrs. Bonner had disappeared through a half opened door at the far end of the hall.

I stood there hitching back and forth, and looking into the living room which was, if possible, even pinker than the stucco outside. The furniture and the rugs were both white. It was a very ladylike room. I was wondering if the dog had been allowed in there, and if so had she given it a bath every day, when all at once I heard her cry out, as if in pain.

Quickly I ran down the hall. “What’s wrong, Mrs. Bonner?” I yelled. “Are you okay?”

The room at the end of the hall was the kitchen. She was leaning against the stove, hugging herself, her arms so tight that her whole body quivered.

“Help me,” she said. Her words were stiff and shaky. “Please help me.”

There was a knife rack over the stove, and all at once I remembered all that suicide prevention stuff we get at school these days.

“Don’t do it, Mrs. Bonner,” I blurted. “You mustn’t even think such a thing. You can get another dog. I saw one the other day, red it was, just like yours. Is that his picture there on the refrigerator? My, he must have been a nice dog. For God’s sake, Mrs. Bonner, please. I mean, what do you want me to do?”

I wanted to say more, but I was out of breath. My heart was pounding so hard I thought she could probably hear it.

Only she didn’t, I guess. She was staring all glassy-eyed at the knives like they were the answer to all her prayers.

Say something, Howie, I told myself. Don’t just stand there with your mouth opening and shutting like some dumb goldfish.

And then I realized I was saying something. There were words coming out.

“You cut that out right now, Mrs. Bonner,” I heard myself say. Even at the time, it seemed a poor choice of words, but I went on anyway. “I mean, I don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. I just came by for my money.”

Maybe it was because I sounded so much like my mom does when my little sister and I get in a fight. Or maybe she’d just been putting on an act. Anyway, something I said got her attention because a moment later she gave her head a quick jerk and opened her eyes.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “That would be stupid. Justice, that’s what we need. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“I don’t know. I’ll try.”

“I’ll explain,” she said. “Nothing was supposed to happen. It was just going to be kind of a game, and then we would move to the Bahamas or something. But now he says getting rid of the dog made it all seem more realistic. The dog, he says. Oh, God, he doesn’t even call her by name.”

Suddenly I saw how stupid I’d been, thinking she was so pitiful. What a crock. She’d been in on the plot right from the start, and still was, too, only the guy had killed off her dog so now she was yelling for justice. Some kind of murderer. Oh, boy.

“But you’re the one that ripped off the insurance company,” I said.

“Dirty money. I don’t want it.”

“So go to the police.”

“Oh, no, Howie. Don’t you see? I couldn’t. I can’t. You don’t know about the police. You don’t know about jails.”

When she was little, she went on breathlessly, her words all kind of stacked up on top of each other, her mother didn’t want her so she’d been put in a foster home where the people treated her real bad, but they had this real nice dog, and when she ran away she took it with her. She had to steal some stuff to eat, and after that they put her in a juvenile jail, which was worse than the foster home. There was more, a lot more, and it was all pretty awful, particularly the part about everybody knocking her around.

“Do you see now, Howie,” she wound up. “Do you see why I’m afraid to go to the police?”

I nodded. I still felt sorry for her, but I was beginning to understand her, too.

She’d lived more years than Mom, maybe, but in her head, she was still a little kid. The dog wasn’t her baby. It was like her whole family.

“Okay,” I said, after a while. “I see why you’re scared to go to the police, but what about the money?”

“Dirty money.” Balling her hands into fists, she held them to her mouth. I couldn’t make out what she said next, but I thought it sounded something like “I feed it to Cassie.”

“Cassie? Who’s Cassie?”

“What?” She looked up. “But that’s not—” She paused, shook her head again, then waved her hand toward the picture of the dog. “Cassie is our friend. Cassandra really. You thought her name was Popeye at first, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, and you never told me different.”

I smiled a little, and then jumped because all at once she banged her fist down on the stove.

“Howie,” she said firmly. “We need a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yes, indeed. A murderer should be brought to justice.” Her hands were on my shoulders, her face close. “You agree, don’t you?”

So she was back on that kick again. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So you’ll tell. Right?”

“Tell who what?”

“Everything. To everybody. You know it all now.”

But of course I didn’t know any more than I had when I first arrived. Besides, it was obvious she’d gone off wandering around in her squirrel cage again.

“That’s a real great plan, ma’am,” I said, suddenly wanting only to get out of there. “Now can I have the money for the paper, please. My mom’s probably waiting dinner on me.”

Her shiny, sad eyes seemed to follow me all the way home.

I didn’t sleep much that night. Somewhere toward morning I heard the doves crying outside, and I found myself wondering if she sometimes sat up all night, petting the gray granite dog and crying.

But then, when I was eating breakfast, I found myself thinking about the reward again. After all, Mrs. Bonner was no kid, and anyway, she was pretty much a crook even if she was sad.

Pouring out the cornflakes, I decided to go tell the police. “Hey, guys,” I’d say. “You want to know how she connects with Popeye. Easy. She’s got this gray granite dog statue and she feeds it the money.”

Yeah, sure.

Leave it alone, Howie, I told myself. Just forget the whole business.

That decision stood for two whole days, but then — well, here’s what happened.

I always went down one side of Oleander Street and up the other, and I wasn’t on Mrs. Bonner’s side when I saw the man. It was still dark out because it was late November and foggy like it gets in the fall. Even so, I could see his gait was unsteady. A drunk maybe.

Or a sailor?

Ducking behind a hedge, I watched the man lurch up to the statue, look all around, then pick up the dog dish, hide it inside his jacket, and stroll away.

So that’s how she gets the money to him, I thought. That business about feeding the money to Cassie wasn’t so crazy after all.

As soon as I finished my route I went down to the police station. They laughed, at first, but after a while they saw what I meant.

That morning I didn’t go to school. I just hung around on Oleander Street waiting to see what would happen, and thinking about how scared she was of the jail and stuff. I really got disgusted with myself.

In fact, I was just about to go warn her when a police car cruised slowly down the street. It stopped at her house. Two guys got out. They went to her door and knocked. She came to the door in her slippery pink bathrobe. She looked as pretty as I’d ever seen her.

The police talked to her for a couple of minutes, then they all went into the house. A few minutes later, they all came back out. She was dressed now, and carrying a small suitcase.

As they headed down the walk to the car, I decided I had to say something. I felt so terrible for turning her in. Jumping out from behind my bush, I ran across the yard.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bonner,” I said. “I had to tell them. Please don’t hate me.”

“Hate you, Howie?” She smiled, and I noticed that her eyes looked softer, less glassy. “Why would I do that? We had a plan. We had to bring the murderer to justice.” The policemen tried to push me away, but she wouldn’t let them. “Let me talk to my friend,” she said, taking my hand in hers. “Look, Howie, would you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” I said.

“Cassie gets so lonesome. Pet her once in a while, just for me.”

The policemen were staring, and I could see Mrs. Fletching standing in her driveway, but I didn’t care.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Don’t you worry. I’ll pet her and bring her food and everything.”

My eyes felt oozy. Not wanting anyone to see, I bent down to pet the gray granite dog. I heard the car door open, then shut. They were gone.

They picked up Popeye the next day. He’d been hiding out down in the Everglades someplace. She told them where to find him, and all about the mail drop they had with the clues in the newspaper and everything.

You see, I had it all wrong. It wasn’t Popeye I saw that morning. Some hungry tramp maybe, but not Popeye. She hadn’t even said she fed the money to Cassie. She’d said, he reads the classifieds.

I mean, I had it all wrong. I told the insurance company when they came around to say I was going to get the reward, but they said, wrong or not, it was on account of what I did that the police caught Popeye.

“Well, Howie,” my mom said a couple of weeks later. “You must be very proud of yourself.”

We’d just put the reward money in the bank and we were having a big ice cream sundae to celebrate. There wasn’t much to celebrate from my standpoint. The reward had turned out to be pretty big, so big in fact that Mom put it all in the bank for college. No stereo, not even a new bike.

“Aw, gee, Mom,” I mumbled. “I don’t know.”

I wanted to tell her the whole story, only I was pretty sure she’d be hurt because I hadn’t told her way back when it all got started.

Besides, I wasn’t proud of myself, not one little bit. It was like that dumb rabbit. I didn’t put it out of its misery and that made me feel awful. Okay, I won’t make that mistake again. So what do I do? I put Mrs. Bonner out of her misery, and that makes me feel even worse.

Licking the last drip of ice cream off my spoon, I wondered if it was just me, or do other people get all mixed up inside about junk like that, too.