In the Twilight

In the Twilight was named a Finalist in the 2024 Next Generation Short Story Awards (NGSSA) in the Mystery category.

The guard let me through—after checking for Jack Palms on his list—and as I drove into the resort community that’s when I first saw them. Hanging from road signs, stapled to mesquites and cottonwoods. The posters were everywhere, blanketing the desert as if they had been dropped from a recognizance plane, warning of an impending invasion.

At the next stop sign I leaned out the window and took one of the flyers taped to an irrigation box. The beady black eyes stared out of a round face, disheveled tufts of white hair emanated in multiple directions like a mad scientist’s, an unhinged smile hid behind the furry chin and whiskers. One pleading word in bold type across the top of the page: MISSING.

I weaved around the driving range, made the turn onto Camino del Cazador, and proceeded up a steep hill, past McMansions that resembled World War Two bunkers and batteries dotting the Normandy coast, architects seemingly in short supply in Tucson, as if developers had dropped asymmetrical stacks of Lego blocks on the cactus, mesquite, and boulder-laden hills and called them a home. But there were exceptions. Like the mansion I was headed to, the last one up the hill, at the end of the cul-de-sac: a flat roof, tall windows in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright surrounding the two-story structure, the rising sun reflecting off the darkened glass.

I parked at the end of the curved driveway, shut off the engine, and gazed down the valley extending towards the border, Mexican peaks visible in the morning haze. I rubbed my left knee before slowly maneuvering out of the car. I should have worn runners instead of dress shoes. But this was a new client, and I had to look the part.

I pressed the button. It sounded like church bells calling the faithful to a requiem. No answer. I rang again. A faint shuffle on the other side of the door. The latch clicked and the door opened. Mid- to late-seventies, a sagging posture, bags under tired eyes. Her gray hair was relatively well coiffed for being up early in the morning, except for a few errant strands. Her outfit was retired-morning-casual: a silk, beige robe covering a conservative negligee, and comfortable slippers.

“Mrs. Atwood?”

“Yes. Come in,” she said with a southern drawl more pronounced than on the phone.

I stepped into an entryway that was bigger than my apartment. It felt like I was walking into a furnace, the heat blasting from the vents. I took off my hat and as she led me to the kitchen island I scanned the place: fourteen foot ceilings; plush, rust-colored couches extended along the walls of what could have been a grand ballroom in the olden days; a smattering of Navajo rugs splayed on the red tile floors; and a painting of a contemplative Native American with a single feather in his long, black hair. He stared me down from atop a marble fireplace, as if I’d taken something from him.

She offered me coffee, which I gladly accepted, and then she motioned for me to sit down. “I appreciate you coming on such short notice.”

I lay the pilfered flier on the counter.

She started to cry.

I took out my notebook while she retrieved a crumpled tissue from her robe. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

She dabbed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Palms.”

“Jack.”

She nodded. “He’s all I’ve got.”

I perused the room. It seemed like she had plenty. Family, grown children, grandchildren, hanging on the walls, sitting on the credenzas, arrayed on the kitchen island.

And the dog: the beady eyes, the whiskers, the white fur coat. In every picture. The same dog that was on the flyer.

“When did the dog disappear?”

“A few days ago. My husband Tom and I, we’d gone out to dinner, like we always do on Tuesdays. Down at the club. And when we came back, Muffy was nowhere to be found.” She honked her nose into the tissue, the dissonant sound rattling her thin frame.

I waited until she was done. “What time did you leave?”

“Early-bird seating starts at five.”

“And what time did you get home?”

“About seven. I knew something was wrong when I saw the open patio door and Muffy wasn’t there to greet me. We never leave it open when Muffy is running around the house, only when he’s on a leash, or when he’s in the bedroom, where he has his toys, and where he sleeps.”

“Was anything else missing?”

“Tom went straight for the safe. Untouched. Same with the wine cellar, which was locked. Nothing else. Just Muffy.” She sniffled. “Tom thinks that someone broke in and took Muffy for the collar.”

“Collar?” I sipped the watered-down coffee, praying for the caffeine to kick-in.

She lay her hands on the counter and stared at them. The fingers were knobby and bent in unnatural directions, like disfigured claws. “My wedding ring, and my engagement ring . . . when I couldn’t wear them anymore I had them melt the gold bands into a medallion, with Muffy’s name inscribed on it, and had the diamond inset into the collar. It sparkled around his neck, the diamond glistening under his white fur when the light caught it just so.”

This I didn’t expect. I wondered how Tom felt about it.

She reached into the folds of her robe, pulled out her phone, and placed it on the grey granite surface. “He’s smart, you know. Loyal.” She sounded like a teenage girl about to go on her first date. She played the video. The Pomeranian, a white furball powered by Energizer batteries, was spinning like a dynamo, barking loudly. Mrs. Atwood’s cooing was barely audible over the fracas. A hand came into the frame holding a brown goober the size of a golf ball. The dog jumped and swallowed it whole. The spinning, the barking, the cooing, the jumping, and the swallowing went on for a good human minute, which in dog-minutes is an eternity, especially for those of us who are not partial to micro-dogs. I prefer German Shepherds, like the ones I dealt with when I was on the force; dogs that are disciplined, and that have a personality.

She froze the image. “See the collar? That’s what they were after. Tell them they can have it. I just want my Muffy back.”

“Did the collar have a GPS device attached to it?”

“No. I never let Muffy out of my sight for very long. But he has one of those chips.” Her eyes brightened. “Can you track that?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Atwood. Not remotely.”

She stared at the still image on her phone.

“I didn’t see any cameras when I came in.”

“Tom doesn’t like cameras, he likes his privacy. He doesn’t want anything going out on the internet.” And then under her breath, “As if anybody’s watching him.”

“Did you engage the alarm when you left for dinner?” I asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We only turn it on when we travel.”

“Have you spoken to your neighbors, maybe they saw something?”

“I asked everyone.” She stared out the window into the desert. “Nobody saw, or heard, anything. Nobody cares.”

I wondered if the dog was all she truly had. I pocketed my notebook. “May I take a look around?”

“Please.”

I walked over to the patio door, careful not to step on the Navajo rugs. The latch was cheap, it could have easily been unhooked from the outside, using a credit card or a blade or a stick to lift it. I slid the door open. Not much resistance, but too heavy for a small dog to nudge it ajar if it had been left unlocked. I walked through the elegantly landscaped patio to the perimeter stucco wall. If someone had let the dog out it could have jumped over the low wall, given the vertical leap abilities I’d seen in the video, and vanished into the desert. Or something could have jumped the wall and taken the dog.

I came inside and shut the door. “Can I see where the dog sleeps?”

She led me through a long, wide hallway past a den adorned with prints and paintings depicting scenes from the old Southwest, and into the master bedroom. The tall, wide windows bathed the room in natural light and exposed the jagged desert hills.

The room was a sharp contrast to the rest of the pristine house, starting with the stale scent of urine. The dog’s bed was tattered and surrounded by a smattering of dog toys: mini tennis balls, limbless stuffed animals, solitary socks, and one shredded sneaker. Pee pads were placed in the four corners of the room. A torn blanket hung off the edge of the unmade king-size bed. And yellow stains were visible on the rugs leading to the bathroom.

I scanned my notebook and said, “I’d like to speak with your husband, Mrs. Atwood.”

“He’s out golfing,” she said, dismissively. “He’ll be here after lunch.”

I gave her my card. “I’ll be back this afternoon. In the meantime, please send me the video you showed me, and any other pictures you have of Duffy.”

“Muffy.”

“Right, Muffy. And pictures of the collar. I’ll check with the neighbors, see if they’ve remembered anything since last Tuesday.”

We said our goodbyes. I eased into the car and drove down the hill.

It paid the bills, I reminded myself. That’s why I was on dog duty. At $150 an hour I took what I could get. Shit happened in Tucson, just like it happened in any other city in the USA. Patience, Jack. Patience.

My first stop was the mansion closest to the Atwoods. When I say closest, I mean a good hundred yards down the hill. It was one of those Normandy bunkers, perched on the edge of a cliff. But this one had a terrace. The entire structure was incongruous with its desert surroundings.

The Cornbales were dressed in matching azure golf shirts and beige slacks, the pants blending in with the tan stucco of their home.

“I’m Jimmy,” Mr. Cornbale said.

“And I’m Gladys,” Mrs. Cornbale said.

“We dispense with the formalities here in the desert.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

“Year round.”

“The first year is the worst.”

“The heat.”

“But then what do we have AC for?”

“That’s right, fire it up.”

“Just don’t go outside during the day.”

“Jump in the pool.”

“We keep it at a nice seventy-five degrees.”

“Gotta watch out for the critters though.”

“We’ve found some swimming in there.”

“To cool off.”

“You’ve known the Atwoods for how long?” They paused long enough for me to interject. It was as if they were performing in a vaudevillian improv skit.

“The Atwoods.”

“We used to see them when we first moved here.”

“Three years ago.”

“Almost four.”

“Right.”

“Used to play golf with them.”

“Every week.”

“They made a good team.”

“Miriam’s a scratch golfer.”

“We sometimes see them at the club.”

“Now they just come on Tuesdays.”

“The only night dinner’s free for members.”

“Tom’s there for lunch after his golf rounds.”

“What can you tell me about them?” It was hard work slowing their momentum.

“Miriam’s nice, kind,” Gladys said.

“Tom’s a cheat,” Jimmy said. “Don’t play golf with him.”

“I don’t play golf,” I said.

“He moves his ball to improve the lie, ‘forgets’ to count strokes.” Air quotes.

“I don’t know how she puts up with that man anymore,” Gladys said. “The dog helps, I’m sure. Miriam loves that dog, ever since she stopped playing golf. About a year ago… her arthritis. Poor thing.”

“The dog,” Jimmy said.

“He’s a pest.”

“The other one, Schatzi, was an angel.”

“This one barks all the time.”

“We hear him all the way down here.”

“Kinda glad he’s gone.”

“Did you hear anything on Tuesday night between five and seven?” I asked.

“No.”

“We were out.”

“Dinner at the club.”

“Tom and Miriam fought.”

“Again.”

“Tom’s always chatting with one of the servers, Elizabeth. He’s real friendly with her. Miriam let him have it. I’ve never seen her so angry. Her outburst was like a dormant volcano erupting to life.”

“This time Tom wasn’t going to just sit there, let her insult his manhood. He ripped into her.”

“It was horrible.”

“And then he went on, how she wouldn’t give him the time of day because of that dog.”

“Eventually they calmed down, and after more drinks it was as if the argument had never happened.”

“Swept under the rug.”

I asked if I could see the footage from their external cameras, as their house was on the way to the Atwoods if one took the main road. They were happy to help. But the video didn’t shed any new light on the mystery; all I saw were some quails and rabbits heading home to roost.

I thanked the Cornbales and when I left they were still finishing each other’s sentences. They seemed to get along. That was something.

After visiting several of the other neighbors (I learned nothing I didn’t already know), I headed down to the resort lodge and hunted down Elizabeth, Tom’s “friend”. She was folding napkins, getting ready for the lunch crowd. She was taller than me, she had to be just under six feet, with wide green eyes and a strong nose, a few whisps of graying hair creeping through her flowing auburn mane. Her server outfit was one size too small.

I told her I was searching for the Atwoods’ dog.

“You do this for a living?”

“Sometimes.”

“Pays the bills, huh?”

“What can you tell me about the Atwoods?”

“Nothing that’s any of your business.”

“I heard they fought the other night.”

“They’ve been married since their twenties, what do you expect?”

She seemed up to date on the relationship. “Any thoughts on what may have happened to the dog?”

“Good thing he’s gone.”

“Says you and everybody else.” It was time to turn on the charm. “You must be from Boston.”

She gave me a once over. “Dorchester. No one’s from here, no one that I know anyway.” She finished folding a napkin and said, “Like you.”

“New York.”

“You must have just got here.”

“How can you tell?”

“No one wears dress shoes in Tucson.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

“So, how long’s it been?”

“Three months.”

“Five years for me. I followed a man out here. The next thing I know I had a son. The man left.”

I glanced up at the TV that was tuned to a local Tucson channel, droning on about the latest Wildcat defeat. “Could I get an iced tea?”

She went behind the bar, poured a glass, and set it on top of the counter.

“Thanks.” I took a long sip. “What can you tell me about the Atwoods?” I repeated.

“Tom’s a sweetheart. He’s harmless, and lonely. He stops by for lunch, asks me how I’m doing, how my son’s doing. He’s genuine, you know?”

“How long have you known him?”

“Couple of years, since I took this job. He and Miriam used to come here all the time.”

“I heard last Tuesday wasn’t so pleasant.”

“Yeah, it was bad, worse than usual.”

“Happened before?”

She stared absently at the pile of folded napkins. “He talks to me, tells me too much sometimes after a few scotches . . . They don’t talk much anymore, or do stuff together. He said it all started when Miriam began taking the meds.”

“I heard she used to be a good golfer.”

“She was club champion several years running.” She pointed at the wall, where a board was inscribed with the club winners. Miriam had been dominant in the last decade, until two years ago.

“He said the depression started when she stopped playing. And then to compound the situation, Schatzi died, their beautiful golden retriever. So she got this new dog, without telling him. Now Tom’s a second class citizen, according to him.” She locked eyes with me. “He hates this dog.”

People started rolling in for lunch. She got busy. I sat at the bar, sipped the iced tea, and stared at the TV, intermittently following Elizabeth with my gaze. I could see why Tom gravitated towards her; she was easy to talk to, and easy on the eyes.

She refilled my drink. “He told me they used to be close, do everything together. Now he says she’s just waiting to die, while he only wants to go on living. Can you imagine, eighteen holes a day, five days a week, at eighty, in the Arizona heat? And his mind is sharp. He used to be a big shot lawyer in Atlanta. He’s a proud man.”

Time to meet Tom. As I navigated a switchback turn heading up the hill, I slammed on the brakes. Two coyotes crossed my path, coolly ambling by. They stared me down, as if I was trespassing. I watched them disappear into the thick desert scrub.

The leaf blowers were on maximum volume when I got back to the Atwoods’, like a synchronized symphony of locusts reverberating in the canyons. As I walked up to the front door I saw a man wearing a blue coverall uniform crouching next to an agave, fiddling with a black plastic box the size of a car battery.

Before I could say a word he jumped up and introduced himself as Alexis, from Adiós Cucaracha, pest control, a necessary requirement for desert living. He spoke as if he was selling me his services. “This here, this is a pack rat nest.” He pointed at the detritus comprised of leaves, dried grass, and wood fragments surrounding the agave. “Gotta watch out for the pack rats, they’ll tear up your yard in no time. No snakes this time of year. And the bark scorpions, the little yellow ones, they’re the worst. You can go into shock. Bad for the old people around here.”

He was eager to talk, as if his job of exterminating the native fauna deprived him of human interaction. Maybe he was searching for redemption. Who knows. But it suited me.

“You have to be careful when they have dogs.” He pointed towards the Atwoods’ house. “Especially for small dogs. Can’t put the strong stuff out.”

“Yeah, because of Muffy.”

“That his name?” he smiled. “Funny name, but he’s a funny dog. He’s a crazy little guy. When I come around, he’s barking and jumping on the windows, like he wants to eat me or something.” He took off his gloves. “I don’t hear him now, though. First time in a year.”

“He disappeared.”

“That’s not good.”

“They think someone took him.”

“Well, something took him, yes. Not someone.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“A coyote probably. And if not a coyote, a bobcat. And if not a bobcat, a fox. It happens all the time in these desert communities. People move here with their dogs and cats, pets who are used to roaming around protected yards, and the owners let them out and in the first year the pets disappear. The owners learn their lesson and they get new animals, and then keep them locked up in the house. And then they still get out.”

Mrs. Atwood escorted me to her husband’s spacious bedroom-turned-office, introduced me, and left. Tom was standing over a table that contained a diorama replete with painted toy soldiers (the Confederates outnumbered the Union soldiers, who were mostly dead), miniature trees, fake grass, and pebbles masquerading as rocks and boulders.

He was a tall man, bald, and wore round spectacles, a golf shirt emblazoned with the resort logo, and khaki shorts. He was barefoot. Elizabeth was right: his demeanor was that of someone younger than eighty.

I quickly took in the strange room: a life-size mannequin stood in the corner adorned with a Confederate civil war uniform complete with cavalry saber; a wall-to-wall glass bookcase was filled with ancient books and artifacts: army caps, leather belts, pistols, and an assortment of coins; a large Confederate flag hung on an otherwise bare wall, an army cot with neatly folded blankets and sheets below it; and a red MAGA hat sat on his desk.

“Mr. Atwood, thanks for taking the time—”

“How much does she owe you?”

“Excuse me?”

“What was your name again?”

“Palms. Jack Palms.”

“You talk like you’re from New York,” he said gruffly.

“How’d you guess?” I said smiling, trying to diffuse the tension.

“I hate New York.”

“Of course you do,” I said, straining the smile.

He continued. “My youngest daughter lives on Long Island. I’ve never visited her. Only Miriam has. Twice.” He walked over to his desk and turned around. “I’ve never set foot in that state.” He said the word as if he’d swallowed poison.

“I’m from Queens.”

“Queens.” He sat down and snarled, “That menace of a dog.”

“Do you have a sense of what might have happened to him?”

“One of the help, the gardener, one of the resort landscapers.” His voice rose a half-octave. “There’s all these kinds of people around here. Can’t trust any of them.” He pointed at a safe under his desk and in a lower tone said, “I’ve got an arsenal in there. You never know. We’re only fifty miles from the Mexican border.”

 “Staying vigilant, right.” His drawl was getting to me. “But are you sure the patio door wasn’t left open by mistake when you and your wife went out to dinner?”

“What I think,” Tom said, “is that someone broke in when we were out and took the dog for the collar. She made the collar to spite me, you know.” He stood and marched to the office door. “I don’t need my wife to spend my money on a Private Detective and for him to tell me what I already know. We filed a police report. They’ll deal with it.”

The police aren’t going to do jack, I didn’t say, not for a four-legged furball, a gold dog tag, and a two-carat diamond. But I wasn’t going to argue with him. I’d heard, and seen, enough. “Thanks again for your time, Mr. Atwood.”

He shut the door as soon as I stepped into the hallway. Mrs. Atwood was waiting in the kitchen. I didn’t go to the kitchen. Maybe it was the nausea that had set in listening to that bigot. I gravitated to the patio window and gazed out at the desert. The afternoon sun cast a reddish glow on the rocks and the cacti as it started its descent towards the horizon.

It was a flash, a bright light, glistening up the hill, a color incongruent with its surroundings and the contrasting shadows. I slipped out the patio door, rushed through the yard, and climbed over the stucco wall. I could see the glint up the hill. But first I had to deal with the terrain, not an easy feat given my knee, and my shoes. I eyed a path between the boulders and the cacti and slowly made my way upwards. No snakes this time of year, Alexis had said, but I still paused to check my surroundings. I stepped over some dried crap, ‘scat’ as it’s called in the desert, and as I did so I momentarily lost my balance and brushed up against a leaning cactus. A segment seemed to jump and embedded itself into my arm. It felt as if someone held a lighter to my skin. I winced as I leaned over, picked up a twig, and pried the cactus off. I’d deal with the buried needles later. I continued up the hill, careful to avoid other perils, and when I got to the light my suspicion was confirmed.

It was the diamond refracting the glow of the setting sun. I picked up the collar and examined it. The leather was severed, gnawed through. I glanced down the hill towards the house, now enveloped in the dusk’s shadow, and then back up towards the peaks of the foothills. I continued uphill, following a trail of dry scat that now had seeds and hairs embedded in it. And then I found the hind leg of a small dog. The white fur was spattered with blood. I crouched down, pocketed the collar, took a picture of Muffy’s leg, and then buried it under some loose rocks. I headed down the hill to break the news to Mrs. Atwood.

She sat at the kitchen island, held her face in her hands, and cried. Tom came out when he heard the sobbing. He walked up to his wife and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t flinch.

I waited for her to calm down, and then I looked Tom in the eye and gave them this story: Someone did break into the house, grabbed the dog, stole the collar, and ran, leaving Muffy outside. Muffy probably saw something move—a quail, a bird, a rabbit—and barked as only he knew how. At night the coyotes come out, and it was just a matter of time before they found Muffy. And the collar was still missing. Before I left I told them to get a new lock on the patio door.

I drove through the resort gate and as I headed towards downtown I rolled down my window and flung the collar in the desert. I couldn’t give her the collar. Otherwise she’d know her husband had left the door open. Why meddle, in the twilight of their life?