Gun Shy

by Donna Ball

  I looked up from my work with the calculator. She was staring at the paper. “What?”

  She said in the same kind of stunned voice, “Dolly is going to wet her pants.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “This.” With an effort, she tore her eyes away from the paper and met mine. “It’s a check. From Miles Young.”

  She turned it around to face me. The amount scrawled across the front in bold flowing letters was Fifty Thousand Dollars.

  I reached my hand out for it, as though to verify the authenticity.

  “Read the note in the memo,” Sonny said.

  I did, and my face grew hot. It said: Raine and Cisco— thanks for the dance.

  Chapter Twelve

  The weather turned cold and rainy on Sunday, and the drizzle lasted through Monday. The tourists went home. The bulldozers didn’t come. The leaves blew off the trees and we all were reminded that, as festive as autumn was, winter inevitably followed.

  I tried to give equal training time to Cisco and to Hero. Cisco, a retriever after all, should have taken to the “take and return” command far more quickly than he did, and I admit it was frustrating to work with him. He had no problem retrieving a stuffed toy, a ball or a knotted rope, but when it came to the telephone receiver, my purse or a pill bottle, he just didn’t see the point. On the other hand, he couldn’t wait to show me his new freestyle tricks and interpreted every “down” command as a chance to show off his rollover, and every “up” cue as an opportunity to twirl on his hind legs. In my glummest moments I actually wondered whether his brief exposure to dancing might have ruined him as a working dog.

  And I admit, I was glum. I hated not hearing from Buck. I hated not being able to just pick up the phone and talk to him, or stop by his house for a beer, or meet him in town for a bite. I hated his not being there, at the periphery of my life or in the center of it, cheering me on or steering me straight. It was like having your best friend mad at you.

  “I’m just so tired of breaking up with him,” I told Maude dispiritedly. Most of our boarders had gone home, and we were taking the opportunity to scrub down the kennels with suds and hot water, floor to ceiling. This was never my favorite job, but today I was glad to have something physical to do; something from which I could see immediate results for my labor. “It seems like I’ve spent most of my life either falling in love with him or breaking up with him.”

  Maude, wise woman that she was, said nothing, but vigorously applied a long-handled scrub brush to a wall.

  “I just don’t understand why it has to be all or nothing with him all of a sudden,” I went on, wringing out a mop in the kennel across the aisle from her. “God knows that never seemed to be his motto when we were married.” I applied the mop to the floor with particular vengeance. It made a satisfying slapping sound.

  “He says he’s getting older,” I continued. “Like I’m not? But that doesn’t mean I’m getting stupider as well. I mean, how many times do you have to make the same mistake before you finally say—Duh! Maybe I shouldn’t do that anymore? Isn’t that the definition of crazy? To keep doing the same thing over and over again and expectdifferent results? Do you know what I think his problem is? I think—”

  The sharp trilling of the telephone interrupted my tirade. Maude said, “Hold that thought, my dear. Really, I’m on tenterhooks.” She pressed the button on the cordless extension we brought into the kennel area from the office. “Dog Daze. May I help you?”

  I made a face at her and turned back to my scrubbing. But in another moment she had handed the phone to me. I wiped my soapy hands on my jeans before accepting it.

  “Raine Stockton.”

  “Miss Stockton, this is David Kines. I’m Mickey White’s father. And also”—he seemed to rush on before I could interject with my sympathies—“the executor of her estate. I understand you’ve been keeping my daughter’s dog.”

  I said, “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry for your loss. I have your card, and I was going to call you. I’ve been in touch with the service dog agency, and they tell me their contract with your daughter requires that the dog be turned over to them for placement.”

  He said brusquely, “Yes, that’s what they tell me too.”

  “Of course, if you wanted to adopt him as a pet, I’m sure—”

  “Got no use for dogs,” he interrupted. “Don’t mean to interfere. Just trying to settle things up. If you’ve got a bill for keeping him, I want to let you know where to send it.”

  I said, “There’s no charge, Mr. Kines. I’m happy to help.”

  “Don’t need charity, either. My Mickey always paid her own way. I mean to abide by her wishes.”

  This threw me off balance a little. “It’s not charity, Mr. Kines. It’s just what I do.”

  Maude threw me a questioning look, and I shrugged an answer.

  “I’m sending you a check for five hundred dollars,” he said shortly. “That ought to cover it.”

  “Please, there’s no need—”

  “Young lady, do you know who I am?”

  I said, “Pardon me?”

  He said, “I am David Andrew Kines, president and CEO of the largest textile manufacturer in the state of Tennessee. I take care of my own, do you understand that? I take care of my own.”

  And with that, the connection clicked off.

  I stared at Maude. “Ho-ly cow,” I said, returning the phone. “He’s sending me five hundred dollars.”

  “Who is?”

  “Mickey White’s father.”

  “He sounds like a gentleman.”

  I answered uneasily, “Not really.”

  And later that afternoon, my suspicions were borne out.

  The second phone call came as I was locking up the sparkling clean and disinfected-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life kennel. I walked Maude to her car, hunched inside my canvas barn coat, stepping around cold brown puddles that gave off feeble reflections of the day’s dying light.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come over later for a bite to eat?” Maude said.

  “Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound despondent. “Buck left some stew the other night. I put it in the freezer. Maybe I’ll warm it up.”

  She opened her car door and turned to me. “I’ve known you and Buck as long as you’ve known each other,” she said, “and it seems to me that you both enjoy the chase more than the capture. Not just Buck,” she said pointedly, “both of you. Maybe you’ve grown out of that, maybe you haven’t. But you’ve got an awful lot of years invested in each other. It might be prudent to invest another hour or two talking to each other before tossing it all away, don’t you think?”

  I hugged her, and she got into her car.

  I was walking back to the kennel building to lock up when I heard the phone ringing inside. I hurried to answer it.

  It was Letty Cranston again.

  “Oh, Mrs. Cranston, you just missed her!” I hurried to the door to make sure, but there was no sign of Maude’s dusty Volvo. “Do you have her home phone?” I gave her the number and added, “I’m so glad you called back, though. We were disconnected last time before you gave me a number, and the sheriff’s department has been trying to reach you.”

  “My dear, don’t I know it!” she exclaimed. “I must have a dozen messages! What is going on? I certainly can’t be wanted for any crime up that way. I haven’t even been there in twenty years!”

  I knew it probably wasn’t my place to relay the news, but I honestly couldn’t be sure the authorities would ever be able to talk to her in Crete. I said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the woman who was renting your cabin, Mickey White, was shot to death there last week. Her husband was found a few days later at the bottom of a ravine. He hit his head and drowned in the creek.”

  Her silence was brief, and when she spoke her tone was brisk and matter-of-fact. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. That husband of hers was a no-account loafer who was born to meet a bad end, and Mickey—well, God bles
s her for her disability and all, but she couldn’t have been the easiest person in the world to live with.”

  “How well did you know them, Mrs. Cranston?”

  “Oh, they’ve been renting the cabin from me for about three years now, every October. My next-door neighbor in Florida is Mickey’s aunt; that’s how I got to know them. Poor Amelia, she must be just heartbroken. I’ll have to call her. She talked about Mickey all the time. Not having any children of her own, don’t you know, she more or less adopted Mickey. She came to visit once or twice—Mickey did—and what a pill. Always demanding this and insisting on that. And that husband of hers, ‘Yes, dear’-ing her all over the place. I tell you the truth, it plumb got on my nerves after a while. Hard to believe he did what he did. But the dog was nice,” she added, in a slightly cheerier tone. “Smartest dog I’ve ever seen.”

  I homed in on what she’d said earlier. “What do you mean? What did her husband do?”

  “Oh.” She seemed taken aback, as though she too were trying to rethink the conversation. “He had an affair,don’t you know. Who would think he had the gumption?”

  “No kidding,” I said, trying to encourage her to keep gossiping. “When?”

  “Oh, Lord, it had Amelia in such a tizzy this summer. The worst of it was that Mickey’s father found out and actually threatened to have Leo killed! Well, not threatened so much as promised. And if anyone could do it, that man could. He’s got money, and some friends in low places, if you know what I mean. Why, I hear tell”—a burst of static interrupted her, and I rejoined the conversation as she was saying—“therapist, if you can believe that. As far as I know, that put an end to Leo’s roving eye. But like I said, it doesn’t surprise me a bit, the way things ended up.”

  “Therapist?” I repeated. “You mean, like a marriage counselor? What—” More static, loud enough for me to be forced to remove the telephone receiver from my ear.

  I said quickly, “Mrs. Cranston, I think we’re about to lose the connection. Could you give me your cell phone number? I know the police will want to talk to you. Are you still out of the country?”

  She acknowledged that she was, and read off a series of numbers, which I copied down faithfully.

  She said, “But the person I really need to talk to is Marsha Lee, who is supposed to be managing that place for me. Somebody’s got to get in there and—”

  More static.

  I said, “I don’t think the police are letting anyone in. It’s a crime scene, you know. But I can have them call you as soon as they release it. Mrs. Cranston? Mrs. Cranston?”

  I was talking to dead air.

  I pushed the OFF button on the phone, waited for a dial tone and excitedly dialed the sheriff’s department. This was the kind of thing I would usually eagerly share with Buck, but when the dispatcher answered I found myself instead asking for my uncle Roe. With sudden insight, I knew that if I was going to be the one to break the ice between Buck and myself, it should be with a topic that did not involve police work.

  “Sorry, Raine, he went home early,” replied the dispatcher. “You want me to patch you through?”

  “Yes, thanks. Wait,” I added. “Take down this number for whoever is working the Mickey White case.” I knew that at least one of those people was Buck. “The state police might want it too. It’s for Letty Cranston, in Crete. Yeah, that’s near Greece.”

  I gave her the number, and she said, “Crete, wow. Love to be there on a day like today, wouldn’t you?” I agreed it would be nice, and she rang through to my uncle’s house.

  I counted eight rings and was just about to hang up when my aunt answered. I was so excited that at first I didn’t even notice her distracted tone or the voices in the background.

  “Hi, Aunt Mart,” I said. “Listen, is Uncle Roe around? I’ve got some important—”

  “Raine! Raine!” Her voice was high and thin and on the verge of hysteria, and then I knew something was wrong. “Thank God you called. I’ve got to go. They’re taking him now. I’ve got to go.”

  “What?” I demanded, and I felt coldness creep through my fingertips. “Taking who? What’s wrong?”

  “Roe,” she said, sobbing. “They’re taking him in the ambulance. They think it’s his heart.”

  I spent the next six hours in the ICU waiting room of Middle Mercy Hospital, holding my aunt’s hand, bringing her coffee, making telephone calls. I called the pastor, my cousin Kate in Chicago, who was Aunt Mart and Uncle Roe’s oldest child, and Maude. The pastor was at the hospital within half an hour, and Maude wanted to come, but I asked her instead to simply take care of the dogs in case I didn’t make it home by morning. Aunt Mart refused to let Kate make a flight reservation until she knew more about my uncle’s condition.

  I kept trying to call Buck, both because, as ranking member of the sheriff’s department he needed to know the situation, and because I needed him. He needed to be here, with me, and with Aunt Mart. His home phone kept ringing through to voice mail, and his cell phone was apparently turned off. I knew it was his day off, but I was furious with him for not letting me know where he was going, for not being there when I needed him. I always knew where he was, just like he always knew where I was. It wasn’t right, this estrangement. How dare he do this to me; how dare he desert me when I needed him most? I was so upset, so frustrated and helpless, that I could almost even blame him for Uncle Roe’s heart attack.

  Finally I gave up and called the office, leaving it up to the dispatcher to spread the word to the department. Over the next two hours, five deputies showed up to sit with Aunt Mart, but none of them was Buck.

  Around midnight, the doctor came in to tell us that it had indeed been a heart attack, but that the damage did not appear to be severe and my uncle was expected to make a full recovery. Aunt Mart and I hugged each other, and the pastor hugged both of us and said a little prayer of thanks. So did I.

  “We’ll keep him here for a few days,” the doctor went on, “but it will be quite a while longer before he can go back to work. Think of this as a warning. We’ll be talking about some major lifestyle changes before we send him home.”

  Aunt Mart demanded, “Can I see him?”

  “Just for a minute. He needs his rest.”

  She returned from my uncle’s room beaming and dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “He’s as feisty as ever. Not a thing in the world wrong with that man. Already trying to give me a list of things he wants brought to him from the office, like that’s going to happen.”

  One by one the visitors hugged her, promised their availability day or night and departed. For a moment I was confused by how familiar the scene looked: somber-faced friends and men in uniform lined up to embrace and offer comfort, and then I remembered where I had witnessed the same kind of scene before—at the funeral home when first my mother, and then my father died. I was seized by an intense gratitude that this time, the outcome was different.

  It was close to three a.m. by the time I got Aunt Mart settled at home and in bed with a sleeping pill the doctor had given her to make sure her rest was uninterrupted. Wearily, I made my way toward my own home and bed.

  But there was one stop I had to make first. On impulse, I swung my car onto the narrow dirt road that preceded my own driveway by a couple of miles—the road that led to Buck’s house.

  To my great relief, I could see both his car and his pickup in the open garage when I swung into the short drive that bisected his yard. He was home. I wasn’t in the least bit concerned about waking him before dawn; he would have wanted me to, and besides, he deserved it. Why hadn’t he answered his phone?

  I left the car door open for light and bounded up his front steps. “Buck!” I pounded on the door. “Buck, wake up, it’s me!”

  I didn’t give him time to get to the door, or even to turn on a light. I tried the door, and it was open, as I knew it would be.

  “Buck!” I called again, and hit the light switch by the door. At the same time, I saw a light come on in the bedro
om down the hall. I rushed toward it.

  “Buck, it’s Raine! I’ve been trying to call you. I—”

  I broke off as I rounded the corner and came face to face with Buck at the bedroom door. He was tousle-haired and shirtless, wearing a pair of hastily donned jeans that weren’t quite buttoned, and his hand was braced against the door—not to open it, but to close it against me. He need not have bothered.

  From my position as I burst into the hallway I had a perfect view of the rumpled bed and of the woman who struggled to cover herself there. Her face was stricken, and her eyes, as they met mine, conveyed an anguish of humiliation and regret.

  I looked at her for a long time. Then I looked at Buck. He closed his eyes slowly against what he must have seen in mine, or perhaps in an effort to mask the emotions that he did not want me to see in his.

  I said quietly, “You need to call the office.”

  And I left.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “They had him up walking this morning,” I told perhaps the sixteenth caller that day. “He’s already giving orders and making the nurses crazy. He’s going to be just fine.” And in response to the inevitable question, I added, “He’ll be out of work at least six weeks. After that, I don’t know. Thank you. I’ll tell him you called.”

  I hung up the phone and rolled my neck to loosen the stiffness. Sonny, who had actually gotten Hero to play a rather sedate game of fetch with a knotted rope toy, asked, “Who’s in charge of the sheriff’s department while your uncle’s laid up?”

  I answered, trying to keep all inflection out of my voice, “Buck.”

  “Oh,” she said, and held my gaze for a moment. “That’s . . . complex.”

  She knew about my early morning encounter with Buck, and so did Maude. The one thing I had never done was evade the truth about Buck’s character, not even to protect my own ego. I shrugged. “He’s the senior man. I don’t know if it’s official yet, but somebody has to take over. It’ll be him.”