by Ginny Aiken
Paul stepped lively.
Wem snagged Paul’s arm in the curve of his carved ebony cane. “Hold it there. I thought you were locked up tight.”
Paul’s eyes flashed. “I did my time.”
Rissa gasped.
“Not nearly enough,” bellowed Wem.
“I didn’t take it,” argued Paul.
“You and your pals did.”
“So what?” Paul shot back. “That junky old Studebaker wasn’t worth my two years. It only had scraps of metal around the rust.”
“You hoodlum, you—”
Jase stepped between them as Wem’s free hand shot out for the boy’s neck. “Now listen here, you two. Paul was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he paid for his poor choices. Last night you looked familiar, Wem, but I’d forgotten the case.”
Wem sputtered, as though Jase had spouted heresy.
Jase added, “I believe insurance paid for your loss.”
Wem dithered. He hemmed and hawed. Finally, he glared at Jase. “It’s the memories, counselor. You can’t go putting dollar signs on a man’s recollections, and this … this hooligan stole a passel-load of mine. From the best years of my life, I might add.”
Jase narrowed his gaze. “I thought you’d recently bought the car.”
Wem blushed so bright that even the dim light in the kennel couldn’t hide the red. “It’s the memories it joggered loose in my mind that he stole from me.”
With an indignant “Harrumph!” Wem marched down the kennel hall, opened the door, then slammed it in his wake.
A pregnant teen. An auto thief.
A tinge of suspicion colored Rissa’s thoughts. “Mr. Easton?”
Jase blinked, shook himself. “Huh?”
“Might I ask you a question?”
He nodded.
“In private,” she added.
The jaw clenched and the muscle leapt in his cheek. “Follow me.”
As soon as they left the building, she turned. “How many of your employees have juvenile records?”
He fisted his hands, and the expression on his face hardened further. “They all do.”
Lead landed in Rissa’s stomach. “You expect me to trust my valuable pet to a class of junior thugs?”
He took a step closer, and Rissa gulped.
“As I told you before,” he said, “the choice is yours. Tell you what. Leave your animal with us, as a test of sorts, overnight if not for a couple of days—free, of course—and judge us then.”
With great obvious effort, he opened his hands and stepped toward the office building. “Just keep in mind that God will forgive your sins as you forgive those of others.”
Chapter 5
The next day, Rissa puttered around the condo as she usually did on her rare free days. She saved Sundays for the Lord and Mondays for herself, and today she’d finished the boring necessities before noon. But nothing felt normal. She missed Soraya and couldn’t relax. She wouldn’t until she picked up her pet later that evening.
She regretted accepting Jase’s challenge, but he’d left her little choice.
She turned to her favorite hobby, despite the lousy outdoor light, and set up her easel in front of the patio doors. The lofty palm visible through the slider’s frame looked disheartened and reflected her mood—not to mention that of the day.
As she squeezed generous blobs of black, phthalo blue and green, alizarin crimson, and a dab of titanium white onto her palette, she mentally composed the painting. But as her thoughts ran images of an intriguing lawyer and a mental recording of their parting words, she found she couldn’t concentrate. She hated admitting—even to herself—how much Jase appealed to her. They shared a common faith, a love of dogs, and she couldn’t deny the sizzle between them. Still, that wasn’t enough—he thought her as judgmental as her parents, and she had serious doubts about his connection to former criminals.
The doorbell rang, and Rissa responded, glad for the reprieve from her thoughts.
“Surprise!” chorused Eva, Tristan, and Ty.
“Huh?”
Ty reached around and tugged the long braid running down Rissa’s back. “What is wrong with you? You never forget the year, the month, date, day of the week, hour, minute, or even the millisecond. You really forgot your birthday?”
Rissa frowned, then realized she hadn’t checked her planner. “You’re right. This is unusual for me. And it is my birthday.”
Tristan pushed past Ty. “Phew! I balanced this frosting extravaganza for three whole blocks while Eva drove. I’d hate to think it was for nothing.”
“Hey!” Eva closed the door behind her bouquet of helium balloons. “I’m an excellent driver. You’re just doing a guy thing because you hate to have someone else behind the wheel.”
“Maybe,” Tristan said with a grin, “but you have to admit a car ride is scary with this sugar-and-butter football field on your lap.”
Ty feinted a jab to Tristan’s shoulder. “Get over it.”
“Watch it, funny guy,” the cake-bearer warned as he dodged and landed the dessert on the kitchen counter. “I bet you’d rather eat it than have the birthday girl’s pooch slurp it from the floor.”
Rissa gulped. “Soraya’s not here.”
Three shocked faces turned her way.
“Jase challenged me to trust her to him for one night to see how she does before I leave her there during our tour.”
Her friends changed the subject, and Rissa appreciated the ongoing, good-natured banter. It let her mask her dismay. She prided herself on her attention to detail, and forgetting the date—her birthday, no less—was not at all like her.
Last night’s heated argument still troubled her. Missing her dog didn’t help.
“Earth to Rissa,” called Ty.
“I’m here, I’m here,” she answered. “You guys are too sweet. You didn’t have to do this. No one celebrates birthdays once they turn twenty-one. At least, no woman does.”
“Those are the ones who fork over fortunes for so-called miracle wrinkle cures,” Eva countered. “They prefer to eliminate the beauty God created for every age.”
Ty howled. “How old are you, Miss Wise Old Sage? The same twenty-eight as Rissa, only five months sooner, last time I checked.”
Tristan waved Rissa’s message pad and pen. “I’m recording Eva’s statement for posterity. I’ll reread it on her fiftieth b-day.”
“I’m so glad you guys came,” Rissa said, laughing. “It’s gross and gray, and I can sure use your nuttiness.”
The impromptu party went off with great success. Gag gifts balanced true tokens of affection, and the hot dogs, chips, veggies and dip, and cake soon vanished. They played excellent recordings throughout the afternoon, enjoying the new Aaron Copeland CD Tristan gave Rissa. She loved the twentieth-century American composer’s music, and as his adaptation of the Shaker hymn, “Simple Gifts,” soared around her, Rissa finally began to feel more like her normal self.
Then her mother called, ostensibly to wish her well on her birthday, but in truth to relate her latest tiff with Mrs. Janssen, her nurse-companion.
“Are you okay?” Eva asked as Rissa hung up the phone.
She nodded. “Mom seems better. I hope it lasts.”
“We all do,” Tristan added. “She’s not a happy woman. We know how trying she can be, but her situation would be tough for anyone.”
Rissa’s eyes welled. “Thanks for understanding. Even though she has no feeling from the hips down, she suffers a lot. Her middle back and neck are in bad shape, too. I pray—”
Another phone call let her escape without voicing a specific prayer. She offered many for her mother. “Hello?”
“Rissa?” Jase said.
Oh, no. She wasn’t ready for him. “Yes.”
“I regret bothering, but you must come to SilkWood right away.”
His formal tone disturbed her even more. “Why?”
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” He fell silent for a
moment, then went on. “Mahadi’s only girl pup is missing. No one’s seen her since yesterday afternoon in the kennel.”
“That’s awful,” Rissa said, “her eyes aren’t even open. She couldn’t have gone far. Have you looked for her or did you have the kids do the searching?”
His silence grew ominous. Then, “No, I didn’t dump the search for a valuable, already-sold dog on the kids. They helped. We all looked for her, even the police.”
That put matters in a different light. “I don’t understand. If everyone’s already looked for her, why do you need me?”
“Because they need to question everyone who’s been here since noon yesterday. You were, remember?”
The memory of everything—their near kiss; Wem’s kennel invasion; the revelations about Tiffany, Paul, the other kids; Jase’s parting words—hadn’t left her, no matter how hard she tried to shake them. She didn’t want to think through the implications, but she didn’t seem to have a choice.
“Have the police questioned Paul?” she asked.
“Just get out here,” Jase said, his voice curt. “It’s theft—she’s valuable—and the cops want to talk to you.”
He hung up.
Rissa stood, staring at the palm she’d wanted to paint, holding the phone partway between its cradle and her ear. Why was Jase so insistent on her presence? He couldn’t possibly think she had anything to do with the pup’s disappearance. Not with that crew of criminals running his place.
What a pity. She’d grown to like Paul. But he was a thief, tried and convicted. What could you expect?
And Jase? That moment, the shared intimacy that led to the near kiss … she’d foolishly thought it might lead to something. He was a poor judge of character, however, putting any chance in doubt.
Ty took the phone, and Tristan took her by the shoulders. “What’s going on?” he asked.
She shuddered. “One of Mahadi’s babies is missing.”
Eva erupted from the rose velvet settee. “Who’s Mahadi? Is she divorced? Could it be drug related? Did they call in the FBI?”
Rissa patted Tristan’s hands, then removed them from her shoulders. She went to Eva as though slogging through the heavy steam that replaced the earlier rain and pulled the two of them down onto the settee.
“Mahadi’s one of Jase’s Afghans,” she said. Eva rolled her eyes. Rissa continued. “He’d sold the pups before she gave birth last Wednesday, and one’s missing. He thinks someone took her for the money. The police are there, and he says they want to question me—I don’t know why. I know he knows I had nothing to do with the theft.”
Ty joined the women in the seating area. “Didn’t you say you left Soraya there yesterday? It’s police procedure to talk to anyone who has contact with a crime scene.”
“But I haven’t even touched the babies. Besides …”
“Besides what?” Tristan asked. “You can’t just leave us hanging. What else do you know?”
Rissa glared. “You don’t have to grill me like some TV cop. I’m going to face the real ones soon enough.”
He stared on, unrepentant.
She stood. “It turns out the teens that work for Jase have juvenile records. One of them stole Wem’s Studebaker.”
Ty frowned, also rising and heading for the door. “The old jockey from the wedding? One of Easton’s employees stole his antique car? Anyway, wouldn’t the kids know the pup’s too young to survive without the mother?”
Rissa sighed. “The junior car thief knows nothing about dogs.”
“If he’s no longer in custody,” Eva said thoughtfully, “then he must have paid his debt and been rehabilitated.”
“Who knows how rehabilitated he really is,” Rissa said.
Ty led Eva and Tristan outside. “God knows, Ris. Please pray before you say anything. Only the Lord knows the kid’s heart.”
Rissa closed the door and headed for her room. She’d need sturdy shoes, as the rain must have made a mess of SilkWood’s grounds. She glanced at her computer and realized she hadn’t checked her e-mail yet. Mondays usually brought potential business for the quartet.
Moments later, she was glad she’d paused to check. The sponsor for their upcoming tour had written to request an earlier departure and the Ramos gallery about performing at an exhibition.
Rissa didn’t like the tour change. She had to retrieve Soraya. SilkWood was no longer safe; she needed safer accommodations, the sooner the better.
Mulling over the pros and cons of various other kennels, she logged off, donned socks and running shoes, slung her bag over her shoulder, and left for SilkWood, dreading the upcoming ordeal.
Rissa stormed from the police interview, hot tears scalding her face, rage burning her stomach, pounding her temples. No wonder Jase had been nowhere in sight when she arrived.
“There you are.” She ran toward him. “How dare you not tell me Soraya’s missing? She’s mine, and someone took her from your property. I demand you find her—”
“I’m doing all I can to do just that,” he said, his voice revealing exhaustion. Worry plowed furrows on his brow. His blue eyes looked irritated, and the circles under them were deep and dark. “I wanted you to drive safely. If you’d known, who knows?”
“You assured me I could trust you.” Another sob ripped through her. “But you let someone take her.”
The crunch of gravel muffled his response. Rissa turned and saw the parcel delivery truck followed by a well-preserved, copper-colored Pacer, circa 1978. As the truck stopped in the parking area, the car darted around it and pulled up mere inches from where Rissa and Jase stood near the office door.
Wem, in blazing white pants, neon green-and-purple plaid shirt, and Stewart tartan tam-o’-shanter extricated himself from the car. “Hey, there, chickadoodledee,” he said, bowing over Rissa’s hand in a cloud of liniment and aftershave. “Fancy seeing you here again. Of course, it’s a pure-dee-pleasurement, you know.”
“They took my dog, too,” she said bitterly, “and I just spoke with the police—not much pleasure there.”
Wem’s shaggy brows shot up. “Surely they don’t suspect you.”
She scoffed. “I didn’t steal my dog. They questioned me as her owner and because I was here yesterday afternoon—just as you were.”
The aged man spun his walnut cane in the air. “And just like you, I know nothing of the missing pups.” He pointed at Jase with the prop. “I bet your thieving pup of the human variation does, though.”
“I’ll vouch for Paul any day,” he said, sparks in his eyes. “And I’m sure you want your interview over as soon as possible. The police are waiting in my office.”
Hearing Wem voice her fears, Rissa’s anger flared again. Jase hadn’t represented many innocents. “I don’t know how you can trust delinquents,” she said. “Especially Paul. He stole Wem’s Studebaker.”
Jase stepped forward, standing toe-to-toe with her. “Paul was with his brother and two friends when the older boys stole the car. And yes, he did share in the profits from the sale of the parts. At the time, he had a drug habit.”
Rissa reared back and pointed at the boy, now cleaning a fenced run. “There you are. He probably wanted another hit.”
Jase took her accusing hand, using it to reel her in. “There, Rissa,” he said once she faced him, “is a repentant sinner. Like Saul, our Paul had an epiphany. He kicked his habit and accepted Christ during one of my Bible studies at his halfway house. He loves the Lord and wouldn’t betray Him.”
“But—”
“Do you question that Bible conversion?”
“No, but—”
“Then consider this one real, too. If God can turn a man like Saul into an apostle, then He can change a drug-addicted boy. I trust Jesus’ redeeming power. Do you?”
As though he’d landed a physical blow, Rissa couldn’t catch her breath. As Jase’s words whirled in her head, she noticed Sean, the delivery truck driver, hold out a stack of parcels. She gestured to Jase.
&n
bsp; He took it, forcing a smile despite his obvious anger. “Thanks.”
Sean grunted, then stomped back to the truck. He peeled away, scattering gravel, just as he had the other time.
“That’s one strange guy,” Jase said.
Wem strolled from the office, a grin spanning ear to ear. Despite their serious situation, Rissa couldn’t stop a smile. “There’s another one,” she murmured.
Jase’s steely stare softened enough to acknowledge her effort at levity. “No argument there.”
Cane hooked on his right arm, Wem approached, his left hand picking imaginary lint from his fluorescent shirt. “Cleared of any imprevarication, sonny-boyo! I knew I would be. Not like some others I won’t mention.”
He didn’t need to mention anyone. His gaze flew straight to Paul. Rissa shared the gent’s certainty, but couldn’t discount Jase’s words. If Paul had sincerely accepted Christ, then he now lived by different standards than before. Had he really chosen God? Or had he just chosen the easy way to con a powerful champion?
From what she knew about addicts, recidivism was nearly a given. Had Paul fooled Jase? Was he using again? Had he ever stopped?
A purebred Affie sold for a good bit of change—times two, in this case. And Paul might not know that separating the pup from her mother would lead to death without sophisticated supplementation.
“I’ll be moseydrifting along, now,” Wem said, hastening to his car. Something in the way he admired the kennel buildings set off Rissa’s mental alarms. He’d mentioned investment losses at the wedding reception, and although his sense of style was … oh, one could call it unique, the outdated garments looked expensive. The compact car wasn’t, but it dovetailed with recently reduced financial means.
“Jase,” she said, her gaze following the copper-colored ovoid car down the drive, “could Wem have taken the dogs?”
“Why would you think that?”
She drew a bracing breath. “Well, he said he lost a bundle in the dot-com crash, and he takes in old greyhounds. I expect it’s expensive to care for them, and his coffers are probably pretty empty by now, since he retired from racing years ago. Besides, he’d know how to keep a newborn alive.”