by Terry Shames
She slumps back with a weary sigh. “That woman should be plenty satisfied. She bankrupted Lewis’s practice. And won a nice fat settlement that we’ll never finish paying.”
“You think that satisfied her?”
“Greedy bitch.” Her voice is hard with fury. “Lewis made a mistake, and she made him pay for it big time.”
“What prompted the lawsuit?”
She looks down at her clenched fists. “He misdiagnosed someone. It was a bad mistake, but it was a mistake.”
“Your husband’s malpractice insurance didn’t take care of it?”
She glares up at me. “He was self-insured. He thought insurance was too expensive.”
“I see.”
“I told him it was a terrible idea, but . . .”
“Do you have any idea what your husband might have been doing out in the woods? You said the other day that he was going fishing and you thought he fished with Dooley Phillips. But I asked Dooley, and he told me he hasn’t ever been fishing with your husband.”
She frowns. “He’s the only friend of Lewis’s that I know. If he went fishing with somebody else, I don’t know who it was.”
“By the way, I called Dooley and told him what happened. He said if you needed anything, to call him.”
She nods.
I get up. “I’d like to talk to your kids, too.”
“I’ll get Daniel. But Emily left. She said she had some things to do.” She gets up and starts toward the hall but stops halfway and turns back. “You won’t tell Daniel that Lewis was tied up, will you?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to tell him.”
She closes her eyes and puts a hand to her mouth, fighting back tears. “All right,” she whispers.
Daniel is quiet and sober, the opposite of the cheerful man who bounded through the door a few hours ago.
I ask him if he had a good relationship with his daddy.
We’re sitting in the living room, and he stares at the fireplace, where the fire is now down to ashes. “It was good. He could be a little self-important, but I learned to live with that.”
“When did you last speak with him?”
He uncrosses his leg. “It’s been a few months. Why?”
“I hoped you could give me some idea of what he’s been doing lately. It might lead to some answers about what happened to him.”
“No, I don’t know what he’s been up to. We don’t really keep up.”
“Would your sister have any idea?”
He raises an eyebrow. “She would know less that I do. She and our daddy did not get along. I had to beg her to come for Thanksgiving.”
“Where does she live?”
“She and her husband live in Houston. Or at least they did. They’re separated. I’m not sure why you’re asking these questions. How is that going to help you find out why Daddy was attacked by dogs?”
“Daniel, it looks like someone might have set dogs on him deliberately.”
His mouth drops open. “What makes you think so?”
I tell him the basics. “Do you know if he had had any arguments with anyone? I know there was a lawsuit against him, and that he lost the judgment. Did he ever tell you anything about the lawsuit that he might not have shared with your mamma?”
“No. I was out of the loop on that whole thing. My folks didn’t want to discuss it with Emily and me.” He springs to his feet suddenly, as if the news of his daddy being murdered has spurred him to action. He paces to the window and then back to me. “I don’t care what he had done, nobody deserves that.”
“Of course not.” I get up. “I’d like to take a look at your daddy’s desk.”
“I’ll get Mamma.” Daniel goes down the hallway and comes back with Margaret. She leads me to a small room containing a daybed, a small desk, and a straight-backed chair. The only thing on top of the desk is a laptop computer.
“Okay if I look in the drawers?”
“Sure. I don’t think he keeps much here.”
She’s right. There are a few envelopes, a stack of paid utility bills for the lake house, and office supplies. To be thorough, I look for false bottoms and take the drawers out in case he has kept something hidden. But I come up empty.
“I’d like to take the computer with me. Do I have your permission?”
“It’s fine. Sure. Go ahead.”
“Does he have a cell phone?”
She frowns. “He always has it with him.”
“I’ll ask if it was on him, but if you find it, I’d appreciate a call.”
CHAPTER 8
I stow the computer in the squad car and hike back out to the crime scene. It’s late afternoon and the DPS officers are packing up.
“Find anything worth talking about?”
“No. It’s pretty overgrown back here, and we didn’t come across any evidence other than the drops of blood and dog hair you pointed out. We didn’t go back into the woods very far, though.”
“You know when somebody will be able to mount an investigation?”
He raises his eyebrows. “You know how it is. We’re short-handed. When we get to the office, we’ll put the case on the roster. We’ll let you know.”
“I’ll talk to the neighbors, find out if they heard or saw anything in the night,” I say. I look around at the dense growth of scrub bushes. “We might send a posse out to track down the dogs, although they’re probably long gone.”
After they leave I stand where the body was found and look all the way around to see if there’s anything that makes sense as a reason for the attack being right here, but nothing strikes me. I decide to walk farther back into the brush. It’s late afternoon and starting to cloud up. Thanksgiving is usually a bright, clear day, but maybe this year we’ll have rain. The thought of Thanksgiving brings Ellen to mind, but I push away my uneasiness about her mood. I’ve got plenty to deal with here in the woods. No need to borrow more trouble.
Even though I am self-conscious doing it, I take my gun out of its holster and carry it loosely at my side as I move forward. If I run across dogs, I need to be prepared. As I get deeper into the woods, the path gets wilder. I have to push aside clumps of vines and thorn bushes to make my way forward. I’m glad I’m wearing my boots. If I come upon a copperhead or rattler, they’re not likely to get through the leather. This time of year they are sluggish anyway, and I ought to be able to move past a snake before it reacts.
I’m surprised when the woods start to thin out, and after another quarter mile I’m in a clearing of sorts. Not that the brush is any thinner, but there are no trees. Suddenly I hear movement off in the bush. I tense and bring up my Colt and chamber a round. Whatever it is, doesn’t sound like it’s big enough to be dangerous, and it’s moving slowly. Probably a possum. I keep my eye trained on the sound as it moves closer, and then suddenly I see the last thing I expected to see. It’s a little gray-and-white puppy staggering toward me. From the look of him and the way he moves, I can tell he’s not that old.
“Hey, boy, where did you come from?”
When he hears my voice, he lurches forward, his tail wagging, although it’s hard for him to navigate through the brush. I walk over and pick him up. He’s pretty, with a soft, gray coat with a few spots of white on his belly and some black around his muzzle. He mewls and licks my hand with enthusiasm. I notice he’s thin. “Where’s your mamma?”
He wriggles in protest, so I put him down. He sniffs my boots and then heads off in the direction he came from, looking like he’s on a mission. I follow him. Before long, I start to smell something rank, the kind of odor that puts your hackles up, a visceral reaction to the scent of death. Surely we don’t have two bodies to deal with.
A few feet farther and I come upon the source of the smell. It’s a dead bitch with the same coloring as the pup, lying partly covered by brush. Her body is a mass of scratches and lacerations. The pup stumbles over to her and latches onto a teat but gives up fast and sits back on his rump, looking confused. He whimpers.
I don’t know what could have happened to his mother. Besides the scratches, she looks thin. Maybe she got lost and couldn’t find her way back. But what is the pup doing here? It occurs to me that there may be other puppies wandering around in the vicinity, or, worse, lying dead.
I pick up the pup and listen for sounds of others that might have straggled away. I whistle a couple of times, thinking if there’s a puppy out here, maybe he’ll follow the sound. I walk several steps in every direction. This pup is too little to have gone very far, so any other puppy should be close by. I pick up a stick and poke aside bushes and leaves in case one is lying too weak to move.
I’d like to go farther into the woods, but the puppy is wriggling and whimpering. He’s so thin that I’m afraid that if I don’t get him some food and water, he’s going to be in trouble. After twenty minutes, I give it up and take him back to my car.
I consider leaving the pup with Glo Hastings. But I reconsider and think it might be best to take him to the vet. Doc England can determine if there is any kind of problem with him; maybe something that killed the bitch.
I drive straight to the vet, the pup lying quietly on the seat beside me. It’s almost five and Doc England’s office is ready to close up. His assistant who doubles as receptionist has already put her coat on, but she shrugs it off when she sees the puppy, grabs him up, and calls out for the vet. Doc England keeps the same kind of hours I do—the kind where you are available if you are needed. He takes the pup from her gently.
“Come here, little dude, let’s get you something to eat. Chelsea, can you get one of the small feeders for me?”
“Yes, sir.” Chelsea is a big girl, but she moves fast, rushing past him into the back room.
I explain how I found the puppy. Doc’s face is grave. “This dog looks like he’s got some border collie in him, though not purebred, because the color is off. They’re good dogs. Wonder what happened.”
I sigh. “It looks like he had been wandering around for a while. I searched for any other pups, but I didn’t find any.”
He looks at the puppy again and says, “Hang on, little guy. You’re going to be okay. Chelsea’s going to fix you up.” Then to me he says, “You know, I think I have a note about this pup’s mother.” He goes behind the counter and takes a book out of a drawer. He flips the book open, and I see notations of various kinds. He sighs and slams the book closed. “People over in Burton lost a border collie mix a few weeks back. She was ready to drop her pups, and they thought somebody took her. Maybe she wandered off, or maybe somebody took her and she escaped and was trying to get back home.”
“Why is there only one pup, though?”
“I’ll go out there and take a look at her. Maybe I can figure out what happened. You say it was the same area where you found that fella’s body this morning?”
“A little farther along. I’ll go with you.”
“No need. Just give me a good idea of where she is.”
Chelsea is back with a tiny bottle. She commandeers the pup and sits down in the front room and starts feeding him. He takes a couple of cautious tugs at the nipple, but then goes after it fast.
“Slow down,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“He’s going to be fine,” England says. “Some pups with a trauma like that will refuse a bottle, but he’s after it.”
“I’m glad. How old do you think he is?”
He pulls the pup’s mouth open. “Maybe four or five weeks? Could be a little older. Too young to be in such a tough situation, that’s for sure. You’re going to have to do some pretty intense feeding for a little while.”
“Whoa. No, not me. I don’t have time.”
“You know that expression, ‘finders, keepers’? Well, you found yourself a dog, and you should keep it.”
“Wouldn’t the people who lost the bitch want this pup?”
“They might.” He opens the book again and jots down the address and phone number on a Post-It.
I look over and see that with a full belly the pup has passed out on Chelsea’s lap, as loose-limbed as if he’s expired.
“Chelsea, load up Chief Craddock with the goods to take care of this puppy until he can buy some supplies.”
She hands the pup to me. He hardly stirs. He must be exhausted. Before long, she’s back with a small box of bottles and nipples, a couple of cans of puppy formula, and a sample bag of dog food. “For the first couple of days, bottle feed him every couple of hours until he fattens a little bit. Then feed him four times a day. Get some goat milk. That’s good for them. In a week you can start mixing some of this dog food with the goat’s milk and it won’t be long before he’ll be gobbling it up.”
I’m too stunned by the responsibility to protest, and before I know it, I’m in my squad car on my way home with a dog. I wonder how my cat Zelda is going to take this. She tolerates Ellen’s dog, Frazier, so maybe she’ll be fine with this pup for a couple of days, until I figure out what to do with him. Maybe I can persuade Ellen to take care of him until I get hold of the family. It would give her something to take her mind off of not getting to spend Thanksgiving with her family.
In my garage I find a sturdy cardboard box to keep the dog in until I can figure out what to do. From the bathroom, I get some towels that have seen better days and make him a bed in the box. They didn’t say whether the puppy could drink water, but I figure I’d better put some in the box, too. The second I lay him down, he gets up and staggers around, as if to explore the box. He’s whimpering, and it occurs to me that what goes in must come out, so I take him outside, where he promptly obeys nature.
Back in the box, he explores for a few more seconds and passes out again. To my great relief. I’m exhausted, not with the busy day I’ve had dealing with murder, but by the demands of a puppy.
I call Ellen’s phone number, but she doesn’t answer. I would ask Loretta Singletary to help me find someone to leave the pup with temporarily, but she left this morning for Brady to be with her relatives for Thanksgiving. I dial the phone number of the people who reported their bitch missing. I’ll gladly drive out and take the puppy to them, but there’s no answer. It’s almost six o’clock and dark.
I remember that I haven’t checked on my cows, so I go down to the pasture and spend a half hour working by flashlight, topping up their feed and making sure everything is in good shape. On the way back, I go by the mailbox and bring in the mail. Back inside, the puppy is busy trying to jump out of the box. He stands as tall as he can, which is three inches below the top, and does a little hop, then falls back. It makes me laugh to see how determined he is. I take him out and let him explore the carpet. About then Zelda stalks into the room. If she could talk, she’d be hollering something to the effect of what the hell do I think I’m doing bringing that creature into the house?
“Take it easy. He won’t be here long.” If there’s such a thing as animal communication, the puppy will get a chance to tell Zelda what a cushy situation she has. She believes she is entitled to more queenly treatment.
I glance through my mail, surprised to find one envelope that is addressed to me by first name and no stamp, so it was delivered by hand. I turn it over. There’s no indication of who it’s from. I slit it open.
Dear Samuel,
I didn’t want to tell you this way, but I heard that a man was found dead and figured you were busy. I have decided to go to Houston for Thanksgiving to be with my children. It means I will be seeing Seth, but he has been easier to deal with lately and finally seems to understand that I have no intention of going back to him.
It’s important to me to maintain a good relationship with my children, and this seemed to be the best step. I’m so sorry we won’t be together, but I suspect you will be busy anyway.
I decided to take Frazier with me so you wouldn’t have to deal with him. I’ll phone you when I get back, probably Sunday night.
Yours,
Ellen
My first thought is, where
is she going to be staying? I don’t trust her ex-husband, no matter what she says. I can’t decide exactly how I feel. Not good, but it’s hard to pin down what bothers me most. The main thing is that I’m annoyed. She could have made this decision a while ago and not left me high and dry over the holiday.
A squeaky sound grabs my attention. The puppy is tuned up. His little head is raised and he’s doing what appears to be a puppy version of howling. I’ll bet he’s hungry again. Zelda has settled herself on a kitchen chair so she can keep an eye on him.
“You better be glad Ellen took Frazier with her, or you’d be dealing with him, too,” I tell her. The fact is that she has taken to Frazier. At the beginning, he kept himself aloof and that seemed to appeal to Zelda. This wriggling puppy is another matter.
I fix a bottle that looks pretty much like the one Chelsea fixed up, and this time he grabs onto it and the formula is gone in no time. Then there’s a repeat of before—the outside activity, then a nap on his belly.
“Okay,” I say, pretty much to myself. “Looks like it’s going to be the three of us for Thanksgiving. It’s going to be steak, though, and not turkey.”
That means a trip to the grocery store. If I’m going, it has to be tonight. Tomorrow will be busy and I won’t have time to shop, and I need to get some goat milk anyway. Before I leave, I give the puppy’s rightful owner another call, but still no answer, and there’s no message machine. It occurs to me that they may be gone for the weekend. So what am I going to do with a puppy for four days? As I start to walk out the door, I realize that leaving him alone might not be the best idea, so I haul his box out to the car. I’ll have to hurry at the grocery store.
I’m checking out with the groceries I’ve managed to snatch up when my next-door neighbor Jenny and her boyfriend, Will, come in. They spy me and walk over to say hello. Jenny looks in my cart. “Goat milk?”
I tell her I’m saddled with a puppy.
“How is Frazier going to take to a puppy?”
“I won’t know for a few days.” I tell her about the note Ellen sent me.