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“The doghouse lady? I like that idea. I got some questions. I want to know what it’s like to live in a doghouse.”
I called Connie and asked her to get me an address for the kidnapped woman. Minutes later the text message came into my phone.
“Her name is Marjorie Katz,” I said to Lula. “She lives on Miran Street.”
We plugged the address into my GPS and in a half hour we were in another world. Large professionally maintained lawns, perfectly paved circular driveways, large colonial-style houses, shiny expensive cars lounging in front of four-car garages. I pulled into the Katz driveway and parked behind a black Mercedes.
“This is a long way from a doghouse,” Lula said.
A slim woman answered the door. Her silver hair was cut short and styled in soft waves. Her nails were lavender and beautifully manicured. She was wearing a dress I could never afford and her low heels had the Chanel logo on them.
I introduced myself and asked if Marjorie Katz was at home.
“I’m Marjorie Katz,” she said. “What is this about?”
“I’m looking for Farcus Trundle. He’s in violation of his bond agreement. You were listed on his booking sheet.”
“It said you were robbed and kidnapped,” Lula said. “And chained to a doghouse.”
Marjorie Katz closed her eyes for a beat. “Hideous, horrible, awful man. He’s a disgusting human being.” Her eyes narrowed. “He chained me to a doghouse. It was terrible.” She lowered her voice. “He dropped his pants and showed me his one-eyed snake.”
“Omigod,” Lula said. “He had a snake in his pants? That’s sick.”
“No,” Marjorie said, “I’m talking about Willy Winky.”
Lula was blank faced. “Say what?”
Marjorie rolled her eyes. “His wiggle stick, baloney pony, wrinkle beast,tadger.”
“His dick,” I said to Lula.
Lula went wide-eyed at Marjorie. “Seriously? Where’d you learn all those words for a dick?”
“I was a librarian,” Marjorie said.
“Well, I was a ho,” Lula said. “And we never called it any of those things.”
“We just came from Trundle’s house, and it didn’t look like anyone was living there,” I said to Marjorie.
“I assumed he was, but I don’t really know. He chained me up, waved his chubby at me, and left.”
“Chubby,” Lula said. “That’s another good one. I’ve gotta remember these.”
“Is there anything else that you could tell me about Trundle?” I said. “What kind of car did he drive?”
“He drovemycar,” Marjorie said. “I withdrew money from the ATM on Willow Street and when I went to my car, he walked over to me, put a gun to my head, and took my purse with the money in it. It was such a shock that I just stood there. I didn’t shout for the police. I didn’t run. I didn’t do anything. It was like my brain went numb and my heart stopped beating.”
“Understandable,” Lula said. “It’s obvious you’re a refinedlady and not used to dealing with scumbags threatening you with deadly force.”
“Yes,” Marjorie said. “I suppose that’s it.”
“Stephanie and me are professionals, and we’re used to these sorts of things,” Lula said.
Marjorie nodded. “After he took my purse, he walked away. Just a couple steps. And then he turned around and pointed the gun at me again and told me to open the trunk. I opened the trunk, and the next thing I knew, I was in the trunk and the car was moving. The car stopped, he opened the trunk and dragged me out. And we were in his backyard. He drove my Mercedes into his backyard. He didn’t have a driveway or anything. It was just dirt.”
“I bet he stun-gunned you,” Lula said. “That’s what I would do if I wanted to get someone into a trunk.”
“Honestly,” Marjorie said. “What’s this world come to? What’s wrong with people that they think it’s okay to throw a woman in the trunk of her Mercedes and drive off with it? People like that should be locked away.”
