Woof at the Door

by Laura Morrigan

  No sooner had the words passed my lips than the dog lunged, snarling at us. I snatched my hand away from the latch.

  “See, it’s weird.” Sonja shook her head. “Even you can’t get him.”

  It was weird. It served as a reminder that I was not always right about animals—an unsettling thought considering the situation with Jax.

  “You sure he’s not injured?” My phone rang. I glanced at the display; the number was blocked.

  “Hello?”

  “Grace Wilde?” a man asked.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Aaron Stein. I represent the governor and his family. Do you have a moment?”

  The Richardsons’ lawyer? “Sure.”

  “I’m actually calling on behalf of Mrs. Richardson. She would like to meet with you, today, if that’s possible.”

  Meet with me? “Does she have some questions about Jax? I’m happy to call—”

  “She’d like to speak to you in person.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I couldn’t turn down a grieving mother just because I was busy and tired and really wanted this day to be over.

  “I can come by now. But I can’t bring Jax, he’s in quarantine.”

  “Of course.” He gave me directions to the family hunting lodge, which was at least a thirty-minute drive south.

  I scribbled down the information and turned to Sonja. “Hey, I’ve got to ask a favor. Can you keep these guys here for a while? I’ve got to go down to Mandarin and I don’t want to drag them with me.” Technically, I wasn’t supposed to let Jax out of my control but rules are made to be broken, and Sonja was more than capable of handling him.

  “I can put them both in my office.”

  “Thanks.”

  We started toward her office and she paused in the main kennel area. Puppies yipped. Dogs of various sizes barked or whined with wagging tails.

  “Oh—and don’t forget about Bark and Bowl tonight.”

  “Bark and Bowl?”

  “You know, like rock and roll? Bark and Bowl.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Sonja was always coming up with new themes to try out for adoption events. Sometimes they worked—other times . . .

  “So, what’s the gimmick? You’re giving away dog bowls with every adoptee?”

  Sonja shoved her hands on her hips. “Who cares about getting a dog bowl? I’m talking about bowl-ing.”

  “Like at a bowling alley—and you expect me to come to this?”

  “Of course.” She flashed a grin, which caused the gap in her teeth to wink at me. “You match people with pets better than anyone. It’s like you’re psychic or something.”

  Or something, I thought.

  “But why bowling?” I narrowed my eyes as a thought occurred. “Have you been brainstorming with Emma?”

  “Please. We can’t afford to hire your sister.” Sonja waved away the idea then turned and continued toward her office.

  “When has that stopped you?” I muttered as I followed.

  Emma had counseled Sonja on the ins and outs of event planning in the past. I dreaded the day they finally managed to coordinate a real function. There would be costumes and glitter and, quite possibly, a dunking booth.

  “You better get going. Bark and Bowl starts at five.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but the words died in my throat as I watched her lead Jax and Moss into her office.

  “Okay, but I’m not wearing those shoes.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The drive to Mandarin was quiet. Without the dual canine brains humming in my head, I could relax and think.

  As I cruised along winding roads, past new subdivisions and old farmsteads, I let my mind drift. Despite the number of things I had tap dancing around in my brain—like, what the governor’s wife could want to ask me that required that I drive halfway to St. Augustine—one issue kept resurfacing.

  The mastiff, Demon. I played the incident over and over.

  “What did I miss?”

  Something. Why would a dog who was progressing so quickly make a one eighty? I’d felt no aggression from him. Wariness, a tinge of pain, but nothing to make me think he’d launch an attack. It nagged at me.

  Because I’d been wrong.

  I relied on my interpretation of an animal’s thoughts and feelings, and from time to time, I was off. It happened. Not often, but enough to make me wonder what else I could be wrong about.

  I thought about Charm. The jaguar had told me clearly what had happened the night of the murder, but what if I was misinterpreting the timeline? What if LaBryce had come home drunk and passed out two nights before Mark Richardson was killed? Animals don’t see time as a linear thing, past is past, now is now. My interpretation labeled how far back the memories went. Usually chronology wasn’t really important.

  This time it was.

  I balked at the idea that LaBryce had killed Mark. Because he was my friend. I tried to remove my bias and look at the possibilities.

  I imagined LaBryce, angry over the magazine article, returning to Mark’s house. To coldly murder his best friend after threatening to kill him? No. Even in his drunken state, I didn’t think LaBryce would be that stupid.

  Maybe he wasn’t there to fight; maybe he just wanted to talk. Things got heated, and without others there to break things up . . . But then there was the issue of the missing gun. If he’d gone to Mark’s just to talk, he wouldn’t have carried his pistol.

  I was so distracted by my musings that I almost missed the turn. I would have if it hadn’t been for the news vans clustered along the narrow road. I eased past the crowd with their sprouting satellite dishes and antenna and pulled to a stop at the gate.

  A young male reporter sat in his car with his door open, ready to spring into action at the first sign of the bereaved governor. He watched as I cranked down my window and spoke to the security guard.

  The gate opened, and I pulled through it. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw the reporter scribbling on his notepad. Was he taking my license number?

  A sense of unease settled over me as I guided Bluebell down the long shady lane and around a stand of gargantuan moss-draped live oaks. I didn’t like the idea of a reporter checking up on me. I didn’t have anything to hide—nothing newsworthy anyway—but it made me nervous all the same.

  I rounded a turn and braked to a sudden stop. My anxiety amplified as I looked at the house. No, not house—estate.

  “This is a hunting lodge?” When the Richardsons’ lawyer had said it, like an idiot, I’d thought about my uncle’s hunting camp. I had expected a large cabin. Something rustic, a place for the guys to get together and pound a few beers.

  I should have known better.

  The antebellum mansion was a white titan. Sitting regally in front of the oaks, like a queen holding court, her towering two-story columns glowed copper in the late afternoon sun.

  The landscaping around the house was just as grand. Pink shrub roses lined the front of the porch, and large crape myrtles, heavy in bloom, dusted the driveway with tiny fuchsia petals.

  I swept my gaze over the sprawling grounds. The rolling lawn and ancient oaks whispered old money.

  Then it hit me.

  As someone who spends more time with animals than people, I tend to ignore things like politics. But I remembered, in that moment, that though Governor Buck Richardson touted himself as a self-made man—a hardworking boy from a middle-class family—he had one major connection.

  Mrs. Gardenia Clarke Richardson.

  The Clarke family name graced libraries, parks, and bridges. They had more than enough money and contacts to win campaigns.

  I parked and walked up the azalea and crape myrtle–lined brick path. When I reached the heavy front door, it swung in be
fore I could knock.

  An elderly housekeeper stood square shouldered in front of me. The crisp white collar of her uniform contrasted like a blade against her caramel-colored skin. I told her my name, and she motioned me inside.

  “Miss Gardenia will be with you in a minute.” She said Miss like Miz. Her voice was as rich and warm as freshly made fudge. “Wait here, please.” Her rubber-soled black shoes squeaked on the polished white marble floor as she turned and walked down the large entrance hall.

  The ceiling in the foyer was at least twenty feet high. Large stained wooden pocket doors flanked me on either side. At the end of the hall, a grand sweeping staircase arced upward. I half expected to see Rhett Butler leaning against the smooth oak banister. As a child, Emma and I would snuggle against our mother and watch Gone with the Wind, one of her favorite epics. She would have loved to see this place.

  The soft hum of a feline brain caught my attention. So the Richardsons had a cat somewhere. I looked around the foyer but didn’t see one.

  “Kitty-kitty.” Where are you?

  The answer came from just inside the room to my right. I moved toward the heavy pocket doors and they rumbled open. The housekeeper ushered me into a formal sitting room. It was just as grand in scale as the foyer but infinitely more ornate. Everything in the room seemed to be bathed in gilt. Froufrou was the word that popped into my head.

  Mrs. Richardson sat on an antique damask settee. The hand in her lap grasped a dainty white handkerchief; the other ran along the body of a beautiful silver Maine coon cat, who was stretched out beside her. The animal watched me with cool intelligence, and its long, plume-like tail flicked with curiosity. It had felt my mind reach out to it a minute ago and now had the urge to come investigate. The only thing keeping the cat on the settee was the constant stroke of his owner’s hand.

  I shifted my attention back to Mrs. Richardson. Despite the shadows under her eyes, she was still an attractive woman. Petite and slender, with expertly coiffed blond hair that barely brushed the shoulders of her black satin blouse.

  Standing behind her was a tall man in a dark, expensive-looking suit. The lawyer, I assumed.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Her soft voice was the epitome of Southern gentility. She motioned to a set of chairs opposite her. “Please have a seat.”

  I eased down onto the dainty gilded chair.

  “Would you like something to drink? Tea?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  The housekeeper, who had been hovering unobtrusively, took that as her cue to exit, sliding the pocket doors closed behind her with a soft thump.

  Quiet settled around us like a funeral shroud. As I sat in the hush of the overdecorated room, across from Mrs. Richardson, I started feeling more and more uncomfortable. Neither she nor the lawyer spoke; they both just looked at me. His expression was blank. Hers held a mixture of interest and something else I couldn’t read.

  “So, what can I do for you, Mrs. Richardson?”

  “Please, call me Gardenia.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you mind if I call you Grace? It’s a lovely name.”

  “No, ma’am, that’s fine. Thank you.”

  “This is Atticus.” She patted the Maine coon; his tufted ears twitched at the sound of his name.

  “He’s beautiful.” This was getting weird. She wanted me to meet her cat?

  The little clock on the mantle dinged, announcing the time with a merry jingle. Three o’clock. I’d already been there for almost ten minutes, and I still had no idea why I’d been asked to come.

  As I looked into Mrs. Richardson’s red-rimmed eyes, I knew I couldn’t demand that she tell me. The woman had lost her son. Compassion and my Southern upbringing would not allow me to press her. So I sat quietly and waited, clasping my hands together so I wouldn’t fidget.

  The longer the seconds ticked by, the more out of my element I felt. I didn’t drive down here to sit and be scrutinized in silence. If there was a reason for my summons, Miz Gardenia needed to get to it.

  “Did you want me to come here because you need help with Atticus?” I doubted that was the case. The cat was the picture of feline bliss. Purring like an outboard motor. The thrumming, rhythmic serenity was so strong it had started to make me want to doze.

  “Atticus is fine. As far as I know.”

  “Then you must have some questions about Jax. I’m happy to say he’s progressing very well.”

  “Good.” She turned her head toward the lawyer. “Aaron, would you give us a moment?”

  The lawyer seemed to hesitate before leaving. For some reason, being alone with this delicate, quiet woman was unsettling. I didn’t know what she wanted from me, but she was after something.

  “What do you call yourself, Grace?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “The term you use for what you are.”

  I felt my senses sharpen, and my pulse quicken. My instincts warned that an attack was coming. I agreed completely.

  “What I am?”

  “Dane Harrington told me you claimed that you have a psychic ability. But from how he described it, I would think the word telepathic would be a better fit.”

  I don’t think I ever really understood the term blindsided until that moment. The room seemed to tilt. I felt my fingers reach to curl around the arms of the chair. “Excuse me?”

  “I realize this is a bit of a surprise, and I regret bringing it up.” The cool indifference in her voice contradicted the claim. She had no problem dropping a bombshell in my lap. “I have to know. Did Jax see who killed my son?”

  “I don’t . . .” My mind was suddenly filled with a whirl of questions and confusion. She knew about Jax? Dane Harrington had told the governor’s wife about my ability? Why? One question seemed to press forward, though it was irrelevant. For some reason I had to ask.

  “How did you know about me and Dane?”

  She didn’t answer, waving her hand as if to wave off the question the way a person brushed away a fly. I realized I was insignificant to this woman. My questions, my feelings, meant nothing to her.

  “When the police came and told us about Mark’s murder, one of my first questions was about Jax. I’m sure you understand why. Mark loved that dog. The thought of Jax being killed, too . . .” She stopped and dabbed at the corner of her eye. The shift from callous to lachrymose was sudden and baffling.

  Sniffing, she managed to say, “I was beside myself when the police told me Jax was in quarantine.”

  “I’m taking good care of him.” It was a stupid thing to say. But really, I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.

  “Yes. I learned quickly that you are the best. But that wasn’t enough. If Jax is not considered safe, he’ll be euthanized. I can’t let that happen.” The superiority was back, but now it was tinged with hostility. Her bloodshot eyes glinted. Her soft, genteel voice sharp as a razor. “I thought the best way to ensure his protection would be to offer some payment to you.”

  I let that sink in. “A bribe?” Was this really happening? My brain was having a hard time getting a grasp on the situation. The ping-ponging between steel magnolia and moray eel was wigging me out.

  “An incentive,” she corrected coldly. “Naturally, I had to learn as much about you as I could. As I read your file, it became obvious that there was more to your way with animals.”

  File? I had a file? A flare of temper shot through me, cutting though the chaos of my spinning thoughts.

  “Seeing Dane’s name was a surprise. But I was glad to have someone to contact. Someone who wouldn’t merely give you a glowing recommendation.”

  “You’ve contacted my clients?”

  “They all love you. Dane was not so . . . enthusiastic. I don’t think he would have spoken to me at al
l about you if our families hadn’t been so close.”

  That was it. I couldn’t stand to listen to one more word. I stood so abruptly that the cat and his mistress both started. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but you’re wrong. I’ll show myself out, Gardenia.”

  I turned on my heel to leave, but her next words stopped me.

  “Your sister is planning my niece’s wedding in the spring. Emma is also handling a gala for the Junior League—of which I am now president. I spoke to my niece today, and asked her if she had considered another event planner . . . just in case there was a problem.”

  I turned back toward her. I’d never seen a more ruthless creature in such a lovely package.

  “There won’t be, will there?”

  I lowered myself into the chair and pulled in a slow, even breath. I let my anger settle like an icy pool in my gut. As a rule, I don’t hiss and spit like an alley cat. My temper flares and burns cold. This bitch was using my sister to push me. She would find out just how bitter cold could be.

  “Answer my question,” she snapped. “Did Jax see what happened to Mark?”

  I had no intention of even acknowledging the question, or that she knew about my ability. “Don’t you trust the police to solve your son’s murder?”

  “LaBryce Walker’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  “Why ask? I’m sure it’s in my file.” As angry as the thought made me, LaBryce’s name being mentioned made me remember that he was in jail. As much as I wanted to freeze this woman out, sit in uncooperative silence, and shrug as she asked me questions, I wanted to help him more. I realized that there might be an opportunity sitting in front of me. If I worked it right, I might be able to learn something.

  “The police haven’t arrested LaBryce for Mark’s murder. If they could, they would have. Did he do it? Are you protecting your friend?”

  Was I? I really wasn’t a hundred percent sure anymore, but I wasn’t about to let Miss Gardenia know that. “LaBryce didn’t kill Mark.”

  “Does that mean you know who did?”