Sanders McQuimby Novel Opening

Squinting at the dog's rotting carcass through the lens of a magnifying glass held firmly in his right hand, Sanders McQuimby cautiously covered his nose and mouth using a yellow paisley kerchief in the other. The kerchief was a family heirloom of sorts—one that had been passed down for three generations. But that was another story altogether.  Its utility was the only thing concerning Sanders now: blocking that dreaded stench of death.

         "Yes, it looks like signs of blunt force trauma to the dog's skull," muttered Sanders to himself.

         The small crowd of scruffy-looking passers-by took a moment from their hectic day to glance at McQuimby's improvised forensics on the lawn of the Wentworth Towers apartment complex.  Some of them paused for a bit, but most turned their attention back to their day.

         A small concave depression about an eighth of an inch deep was visible behind the animal’s left ear.  Its outline looked familiar, but what was it?

         "Definitely foul play," said Sanders, primarily to himself.

         At this moment, Sanders noticed the lawn of his apartment facility for the first time.  He’d never stopped to look at it in any detail before, but now the blades of grass and small tufts of brown, mottled plant matter that dotted the otherwise barren lawn caught his interest.  Long dead remains of dandelions, fescue, and clover poked up above the ice and snow, their once green and proud stalks twisted and mangled in an icy tomb.  Wait!  That was it!

         "Golf club!" said Sanders. "The dog was killed with a golf club."

         Trudy McMillan, the owner of the dog in question, had sidled out of her apartment dressed in a ratty purple bathrobe and light blue slippers that made a harsh scuffing sound against the worn concrete that was still visible above the large areas of missing sidewalk.  In her left hand, she held half a lit cigarette, a pint of something alcoholic in the right.  Her hair was in curlers.  They didn't match at all.

         "Golf club, eh?" she said to Sanders, taking a long drag on her cigarette and shivering in the cold. "It was probably my ex-husband, Harold. He owned a set of clubs, you know."

         Glad I brought this kerchief, thought Sanders. That smoke mingled with the decaying smell of this dog would be quite an unpleasant combination… oh, nevermind.

         The coalescing odors of the smoke and the carcass had pierced Sanders' impromptu air filtration device. It was no use. He neatly folded the kerchief and put it back into his shirt pocket with an exacting economy of motions.

         "He always hated that dog, too," said Mrs. McMillan.

Just then, she coughed violently, failing to cover her mouth in doing so.  Small flecks of yellow sputum sailed through the air, narrowly missing where McQuimby was crouched in front of her. He cringed at the close brush with the woman's airborne phlegm, relieved that it had sailed wide.

         "Yes, well, I'd say the evidence for that is rather circumstantial, wouldn't you?" said Sanders.

         "Well, he did it," said Mrs. McMillan, resolute in her conclusion.

         Sanders was about to respond again, but just then his cell phone began to chirp in his pocket.  He set down his magnifying glass and awkwardly stood up, plunging his hand into his front pants pocket to retrieve the electronic menace.

         As he pulled the phone out, he glanced at his caller ID.  It was Captain Jarvis from the police department.  Sheepishly, he looked at her and then cast a glance at the few remaining passersby bundled in their winter hats and coats.

         "I need to take this," he muttered, half to himself, half to Mrs. McMillan. "It's the captain.  Police headquarters, you know."

         He mashed a few buttons, but the phone continued to squawk in his hand.  He looked around again in desperation.

         "Um… does anybody know how to answer one of these things?" asked Sanders.

         "You've got to open it, Einstein," said Mrs. McMillan, rolling her eyes and half-smirking at Sanders' lack of technological competence.  "Some detective you are.  Here!"

         She snatched the phone from Sanders with her liver-spotted hand, flipped it open and violently mashed a button on the keypad. Then, she pressed the phone back into his hand.

         "Uh, thanks," said Sanders, slightly stunned.  “And I’m a private investigator, ma’am.  I consult with the police.”

         "Sure, whatever you say. When can we arrest my ex again?"

         "Just a moment, please," said Sanders, placing a finger in the air as if that motion alone would mute her.  Then, speaking into the phone, he said "Yes? This is McQuimby."

         It was just as he feared.  He concluded the call and turned back to Mrs. McMillan.

         "Ma’am," said Sanders.  "I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere at present. If you would be so kind as to take detailed photographs of your deceased animal…."

         "Mr. Bugles," said Mrs. McMillan, pulling her robe tighter around her with the thumb and index finger of her alcohol-bearing hand. "His name was Mr. Bugles!"

         Sanders raised an eyebrow, a quizzical look on his face. That's an odd name for a female Pomeranian, he mused.

         "Yes," said Sanders, slightly irritated by the interruption. "Of course. If you would take photos of Mr. Bugles here, I will continue work on your case as soon as I can.  Oh, and you should cordon off the area with this crime scene tape."

         Sanders set a roll of bright yellow tape with black lettering down on the ground beside the dog’s body.  It’s brash color provided a stark contrast to the white of the snow and ice around it.

         "It's Harold," she insisted, her false teeth clacking loudly as she spoke. "He owns golf clubs."

         Sanders smiled weakly.  This woman was certainly resolute in her erroneous conclusions—an observation which, if examined further, might reveal why she was led to marry someone like Harold McMillan and buy a Pomeranian in the first place.  But that was clearly a matter of taste and definitely best saved for another time.

         Quickly extricating himself from the presence of Mrs. McMillan, Sanders made his way down the crumbling sidewalk toward the bus stop at the intersection.  He could still hear her loud curses when he reached the corner.  It was then that he systematically checked his pockets—part of his well-rehearsed pre-bus riding ritual—and realized he'd left his magnifying glass in the yard of the apartment complex.  Sanders scowled slightly, making a mental note to go back and collect it later.  Right now, it was time to go to work.