Woof at the Door

by Laura Morrigan

  Crap.

  I made my way to them. Wes introduced me to his friend, Eric, who he’d just met. Well, at least I wasn’t going to be a total third wheel.

  “You look like a little hot tamale!” Wes said as he kissed my cheek.

  “Thanks.”

  “Love the lipstick,” he said with a grin. “Gives you that just-kissed look.”

  “Like you been smooching in a dark corner,” Eric added.

  A cocktail waitress set a margarita in front of me. I lifted it and took several gulps. It was strong—plenty of tequila and orange liqueur. I felt a warmth settle in my belly and took another sip.

  Twenty minutes later, I was smiling and chatting. I even laughed a few times.

  Wes leaned toward me. “Having fun?”

  “I am, actually.” It was true. Thanks to my measly salad dinner, the tequila was giving me a buzz. The music was upbeat but not so loud that I couldn’t hear.

  “Eric seems nice,” I said in Wes’s ear.

  “He’s got to go soon. Meeting some friends. But I think we might go out tomorrow.” Wes wiggled his eyebrows.

  I hoped they hit it off. Wes hadn’t had a boyfriend in a while. Eric had an exuberant personality that might have been annoying in another setting. But he was quick witted and funny.

  Just as Wes predicted, Eric soon got a call on his cell and said his good-byes.

  We watched him leave and Wes turned to me and smiled. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you really wanted to come out and meet me?”

  Leave it to Wes. He and my sister seemed to share the ability to see through my crap.

  I sighed and decided to start with the less pressing question. Alexander Burke had been arrested for aggravated assault. I needed to know what that meant.

  Wes shot me an amused look when I asked. “Do I need to be worried about someone?”

  I smiled. “No.” I told him about Burke’s record.

  “Basically, assault is defined as a plausible, unlawful threat to do violence to another person. Aggravated assault can be one of two things—assault with intent to commit a felony, or assault with a deadly weapon.”

  “Seriously?” And I had been banging on this guy’s door?

  Wes lifted his finger. “But that doesn’t mean anyone was hurt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You could be arrested for aggravated assault if you threaten someone with a baseball bat. Even if you don’t use it. Was he convicted?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll look into it. I should be able to get a hold of his file.”

  The word file made me think of the real reason I’d hunted Wes down. But I’d thought of another question. “LaBryce was supposed to be out today. Why would a judge hold off?”

  “Pressure is high. I’ve heard some scuttlebutt that demands are being made . . . by powerful people.”

  Gardenia Richardson. “People like the governor, you mean.”

  He dipped his head in consent. “Among others. I’d be surprised if LaBryce’s lawyer manages to get a bond hearing at all.”

  “What can you tell me about the Richardson family? Under-the-rug-type stuff.”

  “You want dirt?”

  “I want muck.”

  His brows shot up. “Ooooh, can I ask why?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t really like the governor’s wife.”

  “Hummmm, that’s some big guns, sweetie. The Clarke family. Old money.”

  “Old money means old secrets. You know any?”

  “A few.” Wes took a sip of his margarita and leaned against the back of the banquette. “Grace, you know that woman is a snake. Poking at her will just piss her off.”

  “Calling her a snake is inaccurate and insulting to ophidians everywhere.”

  Wes leveled me with a look that said, You know what I mean.

  I did.

  “I guess the most recent scandal is over Jennifer Weston.”

  “What about her?”

  “Well, according to a tenacious young reporter at the Times Union, she wasn’t always the nice girl. Recently, he did a story that revealed Miss Weston grew up in Emerson.”

  “Emerson? Like, Emerson Arms?”

  Emerson Arms was the projects—the for-real, big-time projects. It was last place in the world I pictured sweet, angel-faced Jennifer growing up.

  Wes nodded. “Her mother was an addict who, rumor has it, recruited her daughter to do everything from stealing to prostitution. Though her juvenile records are sealed, of course. And the governor has been paying her college tuition. In fact, it seems that he’s paid for everything, including her housing.”

  “Why?”

  “When the story leaked, they claimed that after dating their son for almost four years, Jennifer had become like a member of the family. She had struggled out of the ghetto and made it into college, so being the benevolent people they are, the Richardsons decided to be sure she got a good education.”

  “What’s the real story?”

  “Who knows? Maybe Jennifer and Mark broke up because Jennifer set her sights higher in the Richardson household.”

  “You think she’s sleeping with the governor?”

  “That’s one of the rumors.” Wes took a sip of margarita and his eyebrows wiggled in a delighted gossip-fueled dance. “But that’s nothing compared to some of the stuff the Clarkes have gotten away with. That family has more lawyers on retainer than the Iditarod has huskies.” He leaned forward. “I heard from a friend who used to work at one of the firms that, back in the fifties, the patriarch, Thurman Clarke, killed his first wife.”

  I tried to remember if I’d ever heard of Thurman Clarke; I came up empty. “What happened to her?”

  “Officially, she died in a car accident. Unofficially, the story is that Old Mr. Clarke lost his temper and tossed her out of a limo while they were on 95.”

  “Holy shit! How do you cover up something like that?”

  “Money. Lawyers. And more money.”

  “Jeez.” I sucked down the last sip of my margarita. “Did you ever work for them when you lived here?”

  He laughed. “Lord, no. I’m far too gay. No self-respecting, card-carrying bigot would hire a gay lawyer.”

  “So the Clarkes are murderous bigots, and the Richardsons are slimy philanderers? Must make for an interesting Thanksgiving.”

  Wes laughed. “Makes me glad all I have to endure is my Uncle Arty’s bad jokes.” He grabbed my hand and tugged me to my feet. “Come on, let’s salsa.”

  • • •

  There were no nasty notes stuck to the door, so I assumed Moss had been quiet. It was just shy of eleven o’clock, and Emma wasn’t home yet. The dogs greeted me and I gave them both a quick hello pet before I staggered into my room and dropped into bed. I was too tired to shower or even wash my face.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t too tired to wonder what to make of everything Wes had told me. I thought about Jennifer Weston, who obviously was not as innocent as she seemed. Had she kept ties with people from her old life? Were the bruises on her arm from a run-in with some past contact? Or could they be from the governor? Or even Gardenia?

  I wouldn’t put it past the woman. Though she probably had someone else do her dirty work.

  Jennifer was getting her tuition and expenses paid. After meeting Gardenia, I didn’t believe the philanthropist shtick. Taking Jennifer’s past into consideration, there was the possibility that she was blackmailing the family because she had something on them.

  I imagined her going to Gardenia Richardson with a manila envelope filled with damning evidence. The scene in my head was just like in the movies—Jennifer demanding payment and then saying the line, “If anything happens to me, copies will be mailed to the
press and the cops.”

  I have to admit, I kind of liked that scenario.

  But what about Mark? According to Wes—and my own astute observations—both sides of the family bred hypocritical despots who believed they were above the law. So, did the apple fall far from the tree?

  Everyone had said Mark was a nice guy. Even though he hung out with LaBryce, who most people thought was a thug. I knew LaBryce was nothing like his image. Maybe Mark wasn’t either.

  Believing the person who killed Mark was a friend of his could be a big mistake. Mark could have opened the door for a drug dealer, a hooker, or a candlestick maker.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. My head was overflowing with theories and ideas that circled around and around but never went anywhere. Like a clogged toilet.

  Maybe detective work wasn’t so great after all. I reached over and placed my hand on Moss. He was dozing. No dreams, just a mind filled with peaceful, soothing white noise. I locked onto his brain waves, wrapped them around me like a down blanket, and was lulled to sleep.

  • • •

  Mind melding with a half wolf is not always the best idea.

  I’d spent part of the night racing through snowy woods and calling out to my pack. When I finally opened my eyes, Emma was looking down at me.

  “Umm . . . good morning?” She was staring at me the way you look at a two-headed tortoise at the interstate fair.

  I tried to speak, but my throat was raw and my tongue felt cemented to the roof of my mouth.

  Emma handed me a glass of water. “I walked the dogs. Mr. Cavan-ass gave me the stink-eye when he saw me.”

  I guzzled the water. It took me a second, but I was finally able to force my lips to work. “Was I howling?”

  “Umm. . . . nooo. Why?” Her expression shifted from freak to mental freak.

  I rubbed my fingers over my eyes. “Then why are you looking at me like I’m a carnie reject?”

  “Well . . . you look like you fell asleep eating a red Magic Marker.”

  I pressed my lips together and glanced down at the pillowcase. It was smeared with Diablo Red. “Your makeup sucks.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Margaritas suck, too.”

  “Dare I ask?” Emma eyed me as I slowly dragged myself out of bed.

  “Wes.”

  “You went out last night! Why didn’t you call me?”

  I grunted and shuffled toward the bathroom. I needed to brush the fur off my teeth. And I still didn’t want to tell Emma about Miz Gardenia’s threats. She would find out from Wes that I was asking questions about the family, but I would deal with that later.

  I began evasive maneuvers. “Wes met a cute guy last night.”

  “Oh?”

  I knew this would perk her up.

  “Eric. He was funny and seemed—” I stopped as soon as I turned on the light in the bath and saw my reflection.

  “Oh. My. God.” Skanky the Clown had a bad night. “Get me a washcloth and a blowtorch.”

  Emma hooted with laughter. I could hear her hysterics all the way to and from her room. When she returned, she handed me a container of moist towelettes. I gave them a dubious once-over. I mean how was a thin wet tissue supposed to combat napalm?

  “They’ll take it off, I promise.” She patted me on the shoulder and sighed. “I’ll go make you some coffee.”

  Though vigorous scrubbing had left my lips pink and puffy, after a shower and a cup of coffee, I felt ready to tackle the day. I had only one stand-by appointment: a man who was introducing a new cat into his pride of five had me on speed-dial. If the suggestions I gave him didn’t do the trick, I’d have to swing by and play kitty ambassador. Not always easy, cats being cats.

  Thinking of cats reminded me that I also needed to check on Charm. She shouldn’t be hungry. The supersized meal I’d fed her would hold her over till later in the afternoon, but it would also mean there would be supersized jaguar poo to contend with. LaBryce was going to owe me big time for this one. Not only was I taking care of his pet, I was trying to help the cops solve Mark’s murder. Well, in a roundabout way.

  Honestly, I was hoping to get a call any minute from LaBryce telling me he had seen the judge and was on his way home. But I had to consider Wes’s scuttlebutt and warning that LaBryce wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

  Left with a fairly free morning, I decided to make a run to Alexander Burke’s house. Maybe I would find the truant handler and drag him back to work or, at the very least, get Charm’s vitamin mix.

  In a vain attempt to stem the flow of complaints and insulting sticky notes from Mr. Cavan-ass, I’d promised Emma I’d take the dogs with me. Squinting, I shoved my sunglasses on and ushered them out the door.

  The morning sun beamed as we all climbed into Bluebell. It was half past eight, and it was already hot enough to bake a turkey in the passenger seat.

  Both dogs were panting loudly. I made sure their water container was full, gave them both a quick pat, and cranked up the AC.

  I’d barely made it onto Beach Boulevard before my phone rang.

  “Ms. Wilde, this is Aaron Stein.” The Richardsons’ lawyer. Great.

  “Yes?”

  “I was asked, by my client, to check in with you. Regarding the matter you spoke about yesterday.”

  “Well, it’s nice to know Gardenia is as patient as she is kind.”

  If he picked up on my thinly veiled sarcasm, he didn’t let on, commenting with only a mild “Indeed.”

  “Here’s an idea. Maybe your boss should keep her garters on and stop pushing people. I’ll call her when I have something to say.” I flipped my phone closed and spent the next few minutes impugning Gardenia Richardson under my breath.

  By the time I reached Burke’s house, I had calmed down, but not so much to make me think twice about pounding on his door extra hard with the toe of my shoe when he didn’t answer.

  Irritated, I marched back to Bluebell. I climbed in and rifled around for a pen. Finally finding a discarded envelope in my door’s side pocket, I started to write Burke a nice but firm note requesting he contact me. As I scribbled, I noticed a group of young gangster wannabes watching me from the yard across the street.

  I’ve been around predators long enough to know when I was being sized up as prey. The tallest thug—a tall, muscled, black guy wearing a wife-beater and pants so baggy he had to grasp the front of them to keep them from collapsing to his ankles—ogled me with a hostile smirk. A second, smaller, hoodlum took a slow drag from his cigarette and muttered something to the rest. They all glanced at him, and I knew who was alpha of the hostile little pack.

  He flicked his cigarette and started forward.

  Crap.

  The driver’s door to Bluebell was still open. The dogs, sensing my unease, stood at attention in the backseat. Of course, I could have just shut the door and driven away. But I’m not easily intimidated and I tend to be foolishly stubborn when it comes to standing my ground.

  Oh, and I had two lethal weapons at my command.

  Never turning my back to the thugs, I slid out of the seat, shut my door, and opened the back.

  Moss. Jax. Come.

  I hadn’t really needed to summon them. Both canines readily leapt from the truck and moved to flank me.

  With my sunglasses shading my eyes, I was able to watch the thugs’ reaction without locking anyone in a stare-down. Not only was there a stop in forward motion, but the lead thug muttered an expletive as his eyes widened.

  Lead Hoodlum’s gaze never left Moss as he slipped backward through the gate and eased it closed. Maybe his animal instinct was still acute enough to know when he was on the wrong end of the evolutionary chain, or maybe he just didn’t think one white girl was worth the trouble I obviously brought with me, but he backed off.r />
  Moss moved a step forward, lowered his head a fraction, and I knew he was giving the hoodlums his “go ahead . . . make my day” stare.

  As if they were trying to harmonize, both canines uttered deep growls.

  The thugs coolly retreated and didn’t look at me again.

  I clipped the leashes on the dogs and led them around Bluebell toward Burke’s house.

  Guard. Jax didn’t like turning away from the obvious threat, but I wanted to stuff the note in the door and get out of there, so I pulled him with me, with both the lead and my mind.

  It’s okay. Leave it. I tried to calm him, but he was uneasy. I decided to leave my note in the side door that led into the house from the carport. I figured Burke used that entrance more—and was it closer.

  With part one of my brain telling Jax we’d be leaving soon and another asking Moss to keep an eye on the thugs, I was having a hard time sliding the folded note into the crack of the door.

  If only I had sticky notes like Mr. Cavan-ass.

  I tried the door handle, thinking there might be some give if I pushed it . . .

  Unlocked.

  In this neighborhood?

  I stood staring as the door swung in.

  “Mr. Burke?”

  Moss, stay. For once, he did as I asked. My wolf-dog sat, gaze directed across the street, his eyes locked on the thugs. I kept Jax with me as I stepped inside.

  Oddly, Jax’s anxiety seemed to fade as he sniffed around the tiny kitchen.

  Mine didn’t.

  The cabinet doors hung open, revealing sparse, if any, contents. The counters were littered with newspapers, cups, plates, and other kitchen gadgets. At first, I thought that Burke had been robbed—which would explain the door being unlocked, but then I noticed the cardboard box. It had KITCHEN written on the side in bold, block letters.

  Alexander Burke was moving.

  I took another few steps into the kitchen. “Hello?”

  There was no answer, no movement or noise at all. My heart started to thud hard in my chest. The feeling of wrongness and disquiet pressed down like a lead cloak.

  Jax agreed. Guard.

  Maybe he was just picking up on my unease, but his mind had suddenly become a tangle of agitation. He wanted to go farther into the house to investigate. He wanted to stay to protect me. He was troubled by the sudden uncertainty I felt.