by Meg Muldoon
“Wonderful. Just take a right when you get out of here,” she said. “And then follow the hallway all the way down until you hit quad ‘E.’ Mrs. Monahan’s classroom is the first door on the left.”
I grabbed a nametag.
“Thanks.”
I followed her directions through the scuffed-up halls that smelled vaguely of canned green beans and stale garlic bread.
A moment later, I was opening the door to Mrs. Monahan’s room
But to my surprise, the woman standing in the front of the classroom lecturing to the rows of students was not Mrs. Monahan.
The young, frumpily-dressed woman gave me a questioning look when she saw me. Shortly after, the entire classroom of second graders had turned around in their seats, giving me that same confused look.
“Can I help you?” the woman, who didn’t look much older than her pupils, said.
“Um… is Mrs. Monahan here?” I asked.
“I’m afraid she’s sick today,” she said, shaking her head. “Her husband called in for her. He said she’s come down with laryngitis. I’m her student teacher – Miss Winston. Is there something I can help you with?”
I furrowed my brow, studying the classroom walls. I noticed that another woman, who appeared to also be a teacher – perhaps a substitute one – was sitting in the corner. From behind a pair of rhinestone-studded glasses, she gave me a skeptical look.
After an uncomfortably long spell, the substitute teacher cleared her throat.
“Uh, is there anything else we can help you with?” she asked.
I shook my head, forcing a weak smile.
“I guess not. Thanks.”
I finally moved out of the doorjamb. A few minutes later, I was outside, sitting in my car.
I supposed a case of laryngitis might have explained why Mindy had blown off the meeting and why she hadn’t answered the door.
But it didn’t explain the funny feeling that was making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end.
I knew the feeling well enough.
I had it every time a big story came my way.
It was my story meter going off.
Only, I didn’t know why it was this time.
Chapter 14
“I need you to follow up on this injured dog story, Ms. Wolf.”
I thought my ears might burn away from the white hot steam coming out of them.
It was 4 p.m. Deadline was in an hour. I’d spent the day trying to salvage the Sunday A1 dog poop story by padding it with quotes from a county health services expert and a couple of parents from Tabor Elementary. I had written a first draft of the article in the news cloud system, and had done a decent job given the fact that my main source had bailed on me. Additionally, I had worked the phones and managed to set up interviews with all but one of the school board candidates before next Tuesday for the school board election story.
I had put in a hard day’s work, and I was tired and ready to head home for the night.
But clearly, Kobritz thought I hadn’t earned my pay just yet.
“This dog article needs to get written for tomorrow’s paper, too,” he continued. “The local TV news is going to have it at 6. We’ve got to make sure we get it, too. Otherwise Janet Chandler won’t be very happy with us.”
I bit my lip to keep my temper from getting the best of me.
Scott, who’d had a breezy and light day of work, should have been following up on this story. Not me.
But being a general assignment reporter, I couldn’t argue with the fact that a dog with a bullet wound found in a ditch on Lassie Lane this afternoon was the type of story that fell under my beat.
Plus, despite my grumblings, I couldn’t ignore that a story like this would be one of the most-read in the paper the following day. Dog Shot in Dog Mountain. The headline would be gobbled up by our readership faster than pizza and craft beer at an Oregon civil war football game viewing party.
“Can you do it?” Kobritz finally said when I didn’t respond.
“Yes,” I said between gritted teeth.
I grabbed my coat, my purse, and a fresh notepad, and headed down the hall.
“Oh, and Ms. Wolf?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Take Jimmy with you. We could use a photo of the injured dog.”
I bit my lower lip.
That was just the feather in the cap.
Chapter 15
“Didn’t I just tell you on the phone that we’re not accepting any media inquiries about the injured dog until tomorrow?” the receptionist of the veterinarian clinic said, narrowing her beady eyes at me and adjusting her square hipster-style frames on her face. “I don’t think I was ambiguous about that.”
I glanced back at Jimmy. He stood near the front door of the clinic, a good distance from me, gripping his camera and looking nonchalantly around the walls. There was a distant look of boredom on his face.
The car ride over with Jimmy had been one of the most awkward of my life. I wasn’t about to get nothing for my troubles.
I cleared my throat.
“You did say that and you weren’t ambiguous at all,” I said. “But my editor’s expecting me to get this story turned around tonight. And since I’ve known Dr. Barrett for many years, I was wondering if…”
“No,” the receptionist said. “Absolutely not. What I said on the phone was exactly what I meant. The police haven’t authorized us to—”
“Why, is that Winifred I hear?”
A second later, a man in his early 60s with a shock of bright white hair, a tan face, and a white coat draped over an oversized Hawaiian shirt, stepped into the office area from out of the back.
He smiled warmly.
“Dr. Barrett,” I said, letting out an internal sigh of relief. “It’s great to see you.”
“You as well, Winifred,” he said, coming over and patting me on the back. “It’s been far too long.”
Dr. Barrett looked the same way he had 13 years earlier when my mom first brought Buddy to the clinic for a round of kitten vaccinations. The veterinarian still had that warm, friendly demeanor that always had a way of putting both his patients and their owners at complete ease.
“How’s that little Buddy doing lately?” he asked.
He had an excellent memory as well.
“Well, he’s not so little these days,” I said, smiling. “But other than that, he’s doing very well. His appetite is… healthy.”
That was an understatement.
The cat’s appetite was damn near ravenous.
Dr. Barrett grunted, a hint of disapproval in his eyes.
For a while, the veterinarian had been harassing my mother about putting Buddy on a special cat diet to control his weight. My mom had done her best to limit the feline’s intake, but eating was one of Buddy’s supreme pleasures in life. And while Anne Mae Wolf didn’t have many weaknesses, that big orange cat was definitely one of them.
The diet hadn’t lasted longer than a week.
“He’s probably due for a visit soon, isn’t he?” Dr. Barrett said.
I nodded.
The veterinarian’s aging eyes studied me for a long moment. Then they caught sight of Jimmy standing behind me, and most likely the camera he was holding.
“I guess I should have known this wasn’t a social call,” he mumbled, but he was smiling as he said it.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” I said, letting out a short breath. “I’ve been sent to follow up about that injured dog the police found this afternoon. The one that was found shot on Lassie Lane?”
His bushy white eyebrows knit together in a concerned expression.
“Well, you’re putting me in a tough spot, Winifred,” he said. “The police have asked us not to say anything to the media about this until they’ve prepared a statement.”
“I understand and I’m sorry. But the faster we get this news out, the more likely it is that we can catch the person who did this to that poor dog and make sure that he never hu
rts another animal ever again.”
There was a glint in Dr. Barrett’s eye as I spoke, and I knew that he agreed with the logic of what I was saying.
He stroked his chin for a long moment as he thought it through, while I waited hopefully in silence.
“I tell you what,” he finally said. “I’m not going to say anything, but I will check with the police about it for you. We have an officer in the back right now inspecting the injured dog. If he gives me the go ahead, then I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
The receptionist shot up out of her chair at that.
“Dr. Barrett, that’s not fair,” she said suddenly. “When Kip Bannow at KTVX called a few minutes ago, I told him that we couldn’t say anything about the injured dog.”
“Well, Kip Bannow isn’t in our waiting room right now, is he?” Dr. Barrett said to his receptionist without missing a beat.
He returned his attention back to me.
“I won’t be but a moment, Winifred.”
He winked, then disappeared into the back. The receptionist looked put out by it all, and started texting furiously on her cell phone. It made me wonder if she and Kip – a slick, steely-eyed reporter at the TV news station – were chummy, and if she was telling him now that he’d been scooped by a Chronicle reporter.
“Nice going, Red,” Jimmy said quietly when the veterinarian had left. “Seems like we might actually get something out of this.”
“Maybe,” I said, shrugging. “Maybe not. But remember what I said about calling me ‘Red’?”
He lifted his eyebrows and put his hand up to his mouth.
“Oh, sorry. My bad—”
“Winifred?”
Dr. Barrett’s voice sounded from the back room.
“Yes?”
“You can come on back.”
Jimmy nodded at me to go first. I walked past the desk and through the swinging doors into the back area.
I felt the receptionist’s hateful stare on me the entire time.
Chapter 16
When I walked through the door of the exam room, I stopped suddenly in my tracks.
Our eyes locked.
“Oh, hey…” I stammered.
He smiled, digging his hands into the pockets of his pants.
“I thought they might send you,” he said. “I’m glad they did. We could use the public’s help on this.”
My heart thudded hard in my chest. But it wasn’t for the usual reason it did when Lt. Sam Sakai was around.
It was because the guy standing at my elbow was the very last person in the world that I wanted Sam to meet.
Dang it.
The train was headed straight for the bundle of lit dynamite, and it was too late to stop it. All I could do now was watch helplessly as it collided and brace for the worst.
Sam’s eyes drifted to the photographer and his expression noticeably darkened.
I glanced back at Jimmy. He was oblivious to the explosion headed his way. If I had been a more vindictive person, I would have probably enjoyed that. But I wasn’t enjoying any of it. Not one bit.
I swallowed hard, looking back at Sam. Searching his dark browns for a hint of what his next move was going to be.
He was staring at Jimmy with an expression I couldn’t read. And for some reason, that scared me.
Jimmy stepped forward and stuck out his hand like Sam was just any other person he hadn’t met before.
The fool had no idea what was going on, I realized.
“Hi there. I’m Jimmy Brewer. I don’t think we’ve met, but I’m the new photographer with The Chronicle.”
Sam’s eyes flickered. He let Jimmy’s outstretched hand just hang there. After a moment, Jimmy looked at him quizzically, confused by the rejection.
Idiot, I thought. How had he not put this together yet? Everybody in the newsroom knew that I was dating Sam Sakai. Yet Jimmy just stood there with that stupid outstretched hand looking all hurt that Sam wasn’t meeting it. What did he expect?
“Excuse me if I don’t shake hands,” Sam said coolly, glancing at me for a brief second. “I’m coming down with something.”
Jimmy nodded, taking his hand back and resting it on the covered lens of his camera.
“Nice to meet you all the same,” he said.
Idiot, I thought again.
Either Jimmy was playing dumb or he really didn’t know that Sam and I were dating.
Or maybe he just didn’t care.
Sam’s eyes drifted back to me, and I started muttering nervously.
“I, uh, I don’t want any special treatment with this,” I said. “The receptionist said that you haven’t told KTVX anything yet and I don’t—”
“We’re sending out a news release later tonight about the dog,” Sam said, in full-on serious lieutenant voice. “So it’s not special treatment. In the meantime, if you’d like to talk to Dr. Barrett about the dog’s condition, that’s just fine with me.”
I nodded gratefully to Sam. Then I pulled out a notepad and pen from my bag.
“Dr. Barrett, can you tell me how the dog ended up here this afternoon?” I said, turning my attention to the familiar veterinarian.
The man put his hands behind his back. The stance highlighted his large belly, which was normally hidden behind the forgiving folds of his white jacket.
“The canine was brought in this afternoon by a driver who found him wandering in a ditch on Lassie Lane. The dog had a wound to his right shoulder area that was most likely caused by a bullet. He’s lost some blood, but he’s a lucky fellow. The bullet went clean through. And if he heals properly, he should make a full recovery. We’ve sedated the canine, and we’re keeping him here for the time being until we can find his owner.”
I bit my lower lip as I transcribed Dr. Barrett’s words.
Who would do such a terrible thing?
Over the years, that was a thought that I’d become used to thinking. I’d covered everything from senseless murders to scammers stealing entire lifesavings from little old ladies.
But it always seemed like the thought resounded the loudest whenever the incident in question had to do with a kid.
Or an innocent, helpless animal.
Especially a dog or a cat.
Most of the time, I tried to keep a positive outlook on life. My mom had raised me to believe that the world wasn’t kind to anybody and that people just did the best they could given what they had. They didn’t want to hurt one another.
But sometimes, that way of thinking just felt a little too optimistic to me.
I didn’t know why anybody would ever shoot a dog.
But I did know that whoever had done this wasn’t doing their “best.” Not by a long shot.
I inhaled sharply, trying to keep my emotions under control.
I lifted my eyes, glancing at Sam. His expression had changed from one of steeliness to one of concern as he gazed back at me.
He could read me like a book.
I cleared my throat.
“Does the dog have a microchip? Do you know who he belongs to?”
Dr. Barrett shook his head.
“No microchip – which is somewhat unusual. No collar, either. We’re calling him Chance right now.”
“What kind of dog is he? And how old do you think he is?”
“The canine’s about six to eight years old, I’d wager,” Dr. Barrett said. “And he’s an English bulldog.”
It suddenly felt as though a lightning bolt was suddenly about to hit the room.
“He’s significantly overweight, so it’s clear that he’s got an owner somewhere out there,” Dr. Barrett added.
The hair on the back of my neck suddenly stood straight up on end, the way it had earlier in the day when I was walking out of Tabor Elementary.
My story meter had gone off then, but I hadn’t known why.
And now… now it was going off again, with even more force than before.
“Can I see the dog?” I said, my voice cracking as my han
ds dropped to my sides.
“We’re sending out a photo later with the news release,” Sam said.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “That won’t do. I have to see the dog. And not in a news release, either.”
Sam studied me, obviously picking up on the desperation in my tone.
“Please, Sam,” I said, swallowing hard, my throat as dry as the scorched soil of Death Valley. “I think…”
I trailed off.
“It’s really important.”
“Okay,” he said, not asking any questions or making me wait any longer.
He looked back at Jimmy.
“He stays here, though,” he said.
Jimmy stepped forward, protesting, but I shot him a look that shut him up.
Dr. Barrett took that as a cue. He led Sam and me down the hallway and into another room with a silver table in the middle, and rows of wire cage kennels lining the walls.
The veterinarian directed us to one kennel in the far corner. I knelt down, peering into the cage.
The small white and brown creature was lying on his side, immobile and unmoving. His eyes were shut and his tongue lolled out his mouth. His right shoulder and leg were bandaged, and there were bloodstains on the white wrap.
“Oh, no,” I said in a hoarse voice.
My heart went into mad overdrive.
“What is it?” Sam asked.
I swallowed hard, looking up at him.
“This is bad, Sam,” I said. “Really, really bad.”
“What is?” he said, kneeling down beside me.
I looked back at the poor bulldog, lying there, injured and sedated in the cage.
I felt my stomach plummet.
Oh no.
If this was how Bogey the Bulldog looked, what kind of shape was Mindy Monahan in?
Chapter 17
I picked at my food, finally tossing the fork down on the plate in frustration.
“Dammit,” I said out loud. “Mindy’s in real trouble. I just know it. And here I am, eating dinner and doing nothing about it.”
Lou looked up from her plate of rosemary chicken and roasted butternut squash and stopped chewing.