Woof at the Door

by Laura Morrigan

  “No.”

  “But Jax saw what happened, didn’t he?”

  “I’m not sure.” She arched a brow in such a haughty way, that I was tempted to keep up the vague responses, just to piss her off. But that wouldn’t help anyone. I was so impressed with my restraint I wondered why my mother hadn’t named me Temperance.

  “Listen, I don’t know what to tell you. Jax is confused.”

  “What do you mean? The police said Jax was there. How could he be confused?”

  “I mean there is a lot going on in his head. Images I don’t understand.”

  She leaned forward and I knew I had her. “What images?”

  “They are hard to describe. I don’t know Jax, or Mark, so it’s hard to interpret what I see.”

  “But you saw the killer?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I can tell you some things, and you could tell me what you think they mean.” She didn’t agree, and I didn’t give her time to think about it. “I remember Jax showing me a young woman, pretty, blond. She and Mark were fighting.” Not exactly true, but maybe if I brought up Jennifer Weston, I’d learn more about her relationship with Mark.

  “Jennifer? I don’t believe she . . .” Gardenia shook her head. “No. Jennifer would never hurt Mark. She would never hurt anyone.”

  “When I look into an animal’s mind, I can’t always tell when things are happening.” That was true enough. “But I do know that the argument was a bad one. Are you sure this Jennifer is so nice?”

  “Of course. We’ve known Jennifer for years. She is still a part of this family. Now more than ever.”

  That surprised me, but I couldn’t think of a way to push further. “Mark opened the door for his attacker.”

  “Yes, the police told me.” Something in her expression changed. I couldn’t quite place it, but the idea that Mark opened his door in the middle of the night to someone seemed to disturb her. What about that would make a mother frown? Then it hit me. Had he been seeing someone new? Someone Mommy didn’t approve of?

  If that were the case, she would have given the police the woman’s name. Or maybe not. What if Mark was dating a stripper or something? I had no doubt that the Richardsons would want to save face; maybe that was the real reason I was here. The family wanted to know who killed Mark, not just for justice, but for damage control.

  “Do you have some idea who he would be expecting that late?”

  Her eyes locked onto mine then looked away. “Certainly not,” she snapped. She was lying, everything about her body language told me.

  “Okay, well, do you know what I should be looking for with Jax?” It was a real question that I hoped she had a real answer to.

  “I know that my son had not been himself for weeks. Mark sometimes trusted people he shouldn’t.”

  “So you think he might have opened the door to a stranger?” If that was the case, I was screwed. I could just imagine Jax remembering the murder and not having a name to work with. Or calling him something like Tall Man or Garlic Breath. How would I explain my sudden need to work with a composite artist? Did I mention that I happened to be in the neighborhood the night of the murder and I saw this guy . . .

  “No, not a stranger. But Mark could be very gullible at times.” There was such sadness in the way she said it that I almost forgot to dislike her . . . almost. I might feel sorry for Gardenia Richardson, but I would never like her. She’d threatened my sister.

  The door the lawyer had left through earlier swung open, and the housekeeper stepped in. “Miss Gardenia, the gov’ner is on the phone.”

  “Thank you, Evelyn. I’ll take the call in my office.” She stood, and the cat hopped off the couch and walked away. I watched him go and wished I had some time to talk to the animal. “Grace, thank you for coming.” She had once again morphed into the demure lady most people thought she was. “I’ll be in touch. If you think of anything, please call.”

  I nodded but didn’t comment. After she left the room, I sought out the cat, hoping to gain some information from it. But the Maine coon had slunk out of range. I opened my mind, trying to stretch it as far as possible. If I had been at my sister’s, I might have been able find the cat, but this place was way too big. I blew out a breath and gave up. Really, what was I expecting to find? A memory of Gardenia digging a shallow grave in the rose garden? Maybe a vision of her dancing with the devil as she cackled over a boiling caldron?

  I glanced up at a portrait that dominated one wall. I’d had my back to it until then. The painting was of Gardenia and her two sons. Her eyes were cast slightly to the side, as if she was looking over the artist’s shoulder. Her lips curved up in a half smile. Most people would see it as a sweet, somewhat whimsical expression. To me, she looked calculating. The two teenagers were more animated. Grinning as they stood behind her throne-like chair.

  I wondered again why Bo Bishop would have a different last name. Was he a child from a previous marriage? In the portrait, he looked to be the same age as Mark.

  “Can I show you out?”

  The old housekeeper had somehow snuck up on me. “Oh, sorry. I just noticed this portrait. What a beautiful painting.”

  The woman sighed. “Breaks my heart to look at it.”

  “I’m sure it does.” I was trying to think of something I could ask her that would yield some dirt on her employer, but I got the feeling the woman had been working there for a long time. I was sure she knew every skeleton in every closet. I was equally sure she dutifully dusted each one of them.

  Maybe if I pretended to be in the know . . . “Bo called me the other day. He wants to adopt Mark’s dog. It’s my responsibility to make sure he’s going to be taken care of. Is Bo good with dogs?”

  “No one better. Bo’s real good with the huntin’ dogs.” She motioned toward the rear of the house.

  “He lives here?” I didn’t hide my surprise.

  “Always has, eve’ since he was a boy. Bo lives at the cottage down by the quarry pond.”

  “Why?”

  “Bo’s daddy and the gov’ner was best friends. When Bo was five, his parents died in an accident. The gov’ner and Miss Gardenia took him in.” She smiled sadly. “He and Mark came up together, like brothers. Now, he takes care of the huntin’ dogs and watches over the grounds. You need to talk to him, just drive around the main house and follow the road. You cain’t miss it.” She walked me to the front door and pointed to the road wrapping around to the back of the house. “Good day, ma’am.”

  With that, Evelyn stepped back into the house and quietly shut the door. It was clear she had said all she was going to. If I wanted to learn more about Bo Bishop, I’d have to find out for myself.

  CHAPTER 11

  I cranked Bluebell and headed along the dirt road. After several minutes I reached the pond, which was closer to the size of a small lake.

  A rustic wood cabin sat at the water’s edge under a towering magnolia. A short dock jutted out from the rear of the cabin into the still waters. Past the cabin, on a small rise, was an old barn. It had a rust-streaked tin roof, and the red paint had faded to a dusty crimson. I pulled to a stop behind an old pickup. When I opened the door, I could hear the excited yapping of several hounds.

  I slid out of the seat and slammed the door. It was almost four in the afternoon, and thanks to the storms the day before, the air was muggy. Insects buzzed about slowly as if the humidity sapped them of strength.

  I knew how they felt. After my restless night, long drive, and chat with the wicked witch of the South, I was beat. Alexander Burke was safe from my ire until the next day.

  Leathery magnolia leaves crunched underfoot as I moved toward the cabin. I swept my gaze over the area. A fiberglass canoe sat upside-down against one wall of the cabin. A cane pole, cast net, and other fishing paraphernalia littered the area. I had to wonder how
it would feel to be “adopted” by one of the richest families in the area and end up in the back forty next to the barn.

  I had only walked halfway to the cabin when a man called out from behind me.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned to see a lanky young man in a soiled white T-shirt and grimy faded jeans walking toward me. His eyes burned at me from under a sweat-stained Jaguars baseball cap. He carried an ax handle like he knew how to swing it. No ax head, just the wood—not as scary as the whole tool, but scary enough.

  I wondered if Kai or Jake had talked to this guy. Going on first impressions, I’d say he fit the murderer bill pretty much to a T.

  “If you’re a reporter, you need to get the hell off this property—now.” He motioned back toward the main road with the ax handle.

  “I’m not a reporter.” I held my hands up. “Are you Bo Bishop?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “If I am?”

  “I’m Grace Wilde.” I met and held his wary gaze.

  “You’re the lady that has Jax.” He eased his grip on the ax handle.

  “I’m sorry to stop by without calling, but I was here and thought I might talk to you about Jax?”

  “Yeah. Come on inside.” He pushed his cap up and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Though his demeanor had changed when he realized I wasn’t a reporter, I was still a tad reluctant to go into the cabin. So far, what I knew of this family was not giving me warm fuzzies. Maybe it was the ax handle or the fact that his adoptive mother reminded me of a trapdoor spider.

  “It’s hotter than six shades of hell out here.” He moved past me and leaned the ax handle next to the door. I hesitated but followed him inside.

  The cabin was cool. I could hear a window air conditioner rattling and humming somewhere. I’d characterize the décor as classic redneck. Mounted deer heads were hung next to Nocona boots and LET’S RODEO posters. A well-stocked gun cabinet dominated one wall. There was even a big wooden eagle spreading his wings triumphantly on the mantle. The whole place smelled vaguely of stale Budweiser and cigarettes.

  Bo closed the door behind me. “Sorry about that.” He motioned outside. “Damn reporters haven’t left us alone—helicopters, people sneaking through the woods—no damn respect.” He walked into the small efficiency kitchen and opened the fridge. “You want a Coke or somethin’?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Bo grabbed a soft drink and slammed the fridge closed with a grimy boot heel. I noticed a couple of photographs attached to the door with magnets. The first was similar to the one I’d seen at Mark’s house. Jennifer Weston holding a floppy-eared Jax. But in this snapshot, Bo was at her side, grinning at the camera. The second photo was faded, the edges worn. It was of Bo and Governor Richardson. Both were dressed in camo, holding up the head of a dead deer by the antlers.

  I cringed inwardly. Hunting is popular with a lot of people—obviously I’m not one of them. If everyone could have a conversation with the animal in the crosshairs and feel its pain after being shot, there’d be a lot fewer hunters.

  I know it’s good for the health of the deer population, blah, blah. And I know most hunters are, in their own way, nature lovers, but there are some that aren’t. I’d seen plenty of wounded tortoises, foxes, and beavers that some jackass decided to shoot just to be mean. I wondered which category of hunter Bo Bishop fell into.

  I also wondered why there were no photographs of Mark.

  “How’s Jax doin’?” Bo popped open the drink and took a long swig.

  “After the murder, he was highly aggressive and dangerous. But he’s getting better every day.”

  “I can’t picture it, him being dangerous. Jax is a pussycat.” Bo’s brows drew together, and he looked slightly confused at the idea that the dog he knew had been aggressive. “He was a present for Mark’s twenty-first birthday. From me and Jennifer.”

  “If I can rehabilitate him fully, I can turn him over to family. You said you wanted to take him?”

  “Yeah, I’d like to have him.”

  “That’s great.” I smiled but didn’t commit to anything. If Jax was going to be given to someone, I had to be sure it was a good fit. And I wanted to see what I could learn from Bo. Not just about the murder. I still wanted to rip Gardenia out of her cocoon of entitlement. “Mr. Bishop, since you are looking at adopting Jax, I need to ask a few questions.”

  “It’s Bo, and you can ask whatever you need to.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Jax is nicely socialized to other dogs. Do you have any other animals? A cat? Rabbits?”

  “No, ma’am. Just the huntin’ dogs.”

  “I assume you understand the responsibility of handling a dog of Jax’s breed and training.”

  “I sure do. I’m real good with dogs.”

  I nodded. “I heard the hounds. Are they kept by the barn? Do you mind if I go see them?” Seeing how well he cared for the hunting dogs would tell me a lot. But if I really wanted to know about Bo Bishop, why not get some inside information? Nothing’s more earnest than a hound. If they liked him, it would be a big mark in his favor, redneck hunter or not. Plus, if you get a guy talking about his dogs, he might just let a family secret slip.

  “Sure. I guess you must know a lot about animals. You heard of a bluetick?”

  “I have. You have coonhounds?”

  “Well, they ain’t mine, but I train ’um.”

  I had been around blueticks before, but only a few times. They were smart, good problem solvers, but needed skilled and consistent training. I slid a sidelong glance at Bo as we headed outside. If the hounds turned out to be happy and well behaved, it would be another point for him.

  The late afternoon sun felt like a steam iron hovering next to my face, and the distance up the hill to the barn seemed to stretch the longer we walked. Who needs a sauna when you have Florida in July?

  As we approached the open door, I could feel the hounds’ excitement. Though they had been exercised today, they were hopeful that the arrival of another human might mean they would get to do some training. My hunting lingo being rusty, I had a hard time interpreting the thoughts of the yapping dogs.

  Words like open and ike kept being repeated. Along with the phrase hunt’um up! In fact, it was being repeated so much and with such enthusiasm, I had a hard time hearing what Bo was saying aloud.

  “Don’t think I’ll be keepin’ Jax out here . . .”

  Hunt’um up! Hunt’um up!

  “ . . . too far from the cabin . . .”

  Hunt’um up! Ike, ike, ike!

  “Don’t you?”

  I literally had to force the connection to the hounds shut. Something I rarely had to do. Usually, I was reaching out, trying to link my mind to an animal’s. But this was overwhelming. There were at least ten hounds within my “range,” and each of them seemed to be screaming in my head.

  Maybe meditation wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  “Miss Wilde?” Bo was frowning at me.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “I was just sayin’ that Jax would stay in the cabin with me.”

  “That’s good.” I nodded and thought about trying to reconnect to one of the hounds. Just one. I wasn’t sure I had that kind of control, but nothing ventured . . .

  Before I tried, I needed to distract Bo, so he wouldn’t notice that I was ignoring him, and I needed to pick a hound.

  I looked around the interior. Though it was plain and utilitarian, it was neat. The stalls were clean. It smelled like dog, old wood, and earth. The back of the old horse stalls opened, via large dog doors, to what I assumed were outside runs.

  “How many hounds do you have?”

  “Right now, seven and a half couples. Four dogs and three and a
half bitches.” He was using hound lingo that I wasn’t quite following, but I knew by a quick head count that there were over a dozen dogs in the kennel.

  I could still feel the excitement rolling off the canines, and my heart rate seemed to be trying to match theirs. If I was going to pick a brain, I needed to do it fast or I might become possessed, start baying and take off after the next squirrel I came across.

  I skimmed over the hounds. All of them were sturdy, with the speckled steel-blue coat that gave them their name. But without putting my feelers out, I couldn’t tell who was the lead dog, so I asked Bo.

  “That there is Marcus. He’s a great hunter, and he knows how to carry a line. Next to him is Sadie. She’s his backup, and the fastest of all of ’um.” He continued to name off the dogs, but I had my leader.

  Focusing as hard as I could, I tried to separate Marcus’s brain from the rest of the pack. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. His energy was calmer and more stable than the others. He was more interested in me, my scent, and my intentions than the chance of getting a training session. Good alpha.

  I extended my thoughts to his. As soon as I fully connected to the low buzz of his brain, I offered my friendship. I wanted to meet him and his pack. I didn’t want anything else.

  Marcus was smart enough to realize that I was a strange human.

  Different.

  You could say that. Yes, I’m different. Do you like living here, with Bo?

  I sent images to Marcus. Bo’s face. The feeling of contentment. The feeling of safety. But I left the ideas open-ended. That was the only way I’d ever been able to ask a question as abstract as the one I was attempting.

  Yes. Good. Fair. A mingling of other impressions flowed from the dog. And I had my answer. Bo was responsible and hardworking. Organized and firm.

  I could have pushed for more, but I felt like I had a good idea of who Bo was. A dog person, from his soiled cap to his steel-reinforced boots. The knowledge made me feel instantly more at ease.

  Thanking Marcus, I turned to Bo. He was pointing at a hound in the farthest run.