They both laughed at her imitation of Sunny. Kris got in her older model Mazda, backed out of the driveway, and drove off with a wave. Elizabeth checked the time and rushed inside. If Wilson was going to arrive at five, she barely had time to make dinner.
Wil pulled the Jeep into Elizabeth’s driveway at six. After he’d received the preliminary report from the Medical Examiner’s Office in Jacksonville, he’d had to call Elizabeth to change the time he’d be there for dinner. He couldn’t rush out of the station when he needed to hold a meeting with the deputies. His most senior officer, Chief Deputy Fred Fischer, stayed in contact with the CSI. Devon Winston took over the search for the victim’s vehicle while Geraldo coordinated the search of the river. Wil kept his cell phone at the ready in case anything turned up in either search.
With time of death established to be no later than midnight Friday, he had a handle on reconstructing the timeline for Cathleen Hodges’s last hours. He assigned Brady the task of charting the timeline and verifying alibis. Brady also waited to hear from the police in Arkansas about Michael Moore, the abusive ex.
For a few short hours he needed a break from the case, hardly the attitude of a dedicated county official. But Dad needed him, too. Mostly, he yearned to have Elizabeth with him in the old home place—to see how well she’d fit into his mental picture of their future. Not that he’d admit it to her.
Besides, technically, he needed to question her about her whereabouts after last seeing Cathleen Hodges. Okay, that was a stretch. He wanted every procedure on the case handled by the book—that much was true. He also wanted to be with Elizabeth.
He rang the doorbell but didn’t have to wait. Smiling, she pulled it open immediately. She’d never looked more beautiful, although he didn’t know what was different. She seemed flushed with excitement or pleasure. Or maybe she’d been outside in the ninety-degree heat.
“Come in.” She turned, leading him to the dining room, her bare feet noiseless on the gray carpet. “I hope you like salad.”
He liked anything to do with Elizabeth. He liked that she didn’t keep him waiting. He liked the way the denim shorts molded against her thighs and hips, the way the tan T-shirt hugged her curves. He especially liked the red toenails so at odds with the rest of her. Nail polish? Elizabeth? Hmm.
“Salad’s great.”
“I figured you were busy and might not have much time, and this was easy.” She motioned him to sit. “It’s just tuna.”
Just tuna? More accurately, the plate held a chef salad with a scoop of tuna salad on top, the kind he’d paid ten bucks for in a chain restaurant in Jacksonville. “Darlin’, it’s perfect.”
They ate, cleaned up, then grabbed the DVD to take to his dad’s. Elizabeth slid her feet into moccasins, and disappointment filled him. He’d found her fiery red toes incredibly sexy.
At the door, she hesitated, staring at his Jeep. “Should I follow you in my truck? You know, in case you get called out?”
The simple question reached deep inside him and tugged at his heart. His official Foster County Sheriff’s vehicle with its logo on the side attracted attention. Consideration for his work ethic earned her another checkmark on his perfect wife questionnaire. “Personal use of the Jeep is part of my salary package. Even if it wasn’t, I’d rather see you home safely, especially with a killer on the loose.”
“I appreciate that. Sunny, Kris, and I talked about safety in numbers. None of us wants to be out alone after dark.”
She locked up, then followed him to the Jeep. During the short drive out Main Street, she asked about his home.
“I’m not far outside the city limits. Our driveway pulls off this road. Drake Oaks stretches from County Road 471 to the Suwannee River, a total of eighty acres.”
“That’s a lot of lawn to mow.”
Chuckling, Wil shook his head. “Truth is, most of it is a pine tree farm now. There’s a cottage on the river that I’m remodeling. That’s where I live. Dad lives in the first floor of the main house, a Victorian my grandmother had built.”
“Is this the same grandmother who opened the college?”
He couldn’t remember telling Elizabeth that fact. Had she been researching him, too? Or just listening to local gossip? “Yes, darlin’. Charlotte Drake. She was quite the matriarch. I’m named after her, did you know that?”
She chuckled. “No, Charlotte, I had no idea.”
He pulled a face, then smiled. “Well, not the Charlotte part. Gram was a Wilson before marrying Grandpa, and she was the sole heir of the Wilson Drug Store chain. They closed about thirty years ago. She devoted her life to raising my father and opening a liberal arts college. Then she wound up raising her grandkids.”
“What about your parents?”
“Mom died in a car wreck when I was twelve. Gram had moved us into the big house after Grandpa died, so she just naturally returned to her role as mistress of Drake Oaks.” He didn’t explain how he’d lost his mother long before the auto accident. Some dirty laundry shouldn’t be aired.
“You make it sound like a plantation.”
Wil nodded. “I think that’s exactly how Gram saw it. She was quite a lady.”
“Yes, grandmothers have a special role in our lives.” She gazed out the window sorrowfully, probably with her own grandmother on her mind.
“But Drake Oaks was never a plantation. Truth is, the Drakes bought the land from carpetbaggers after the War of Northern Aggression, as folks around here refer to the War Between the States.”
“At the Battle of Olustee reenactment, I learned that Florida’s capital was the only one that didn’t fall to the Yankees.”
Wil noticed the sadness tinging her voice. “Did you go with Cathleen?”
She nodded. “And Sunny and Kris, too.”
He slowed the Jeep to make the sharp turn into the driveway, then stopped in front of the porch steps. “Here we are.”
She stared at the house. “Oh, my. I adore those porches. You must have loved growing up here.”
“You know how it is when you’re a kid. You don’t know how good you’ve got it.”
“How true.” Without waiting for him to open her door, she stepped out of the Jeep and gazed at the second-story porch. “Nobody lives upstairs?”
“Not anymore. My sister, Taylor, travels a lot. She has an apartment in California. And Sam lives in the dean’s residence on campus.”
Wil ushered Elizabeth up the porch and to the front door. Testing the knob, he found it unlocked. He opened the door and hollered, “Dad?” Then he braced himself for Sophie to rush into the entry hall.
The television blared in the background. Wil strained to hear. Where was the dog? Typically, she’d whack him with her wagging tail and butt his hand with her head, demanding to be petted.
She wouldn’t leave his father, though, if he was in trouble.
Wil’s pulse quickened with concern, and he raised his voice. “Dad? Sophie?”
“What?” Elizabeth’s quiet voice answered behind him. “What did you call me?”
“Sophie’s the dog.” Then he heard it—his father’s weak cry for help. “Dad!”
He rushed into the den, Elizabeth right behind him, and his heart stopped. Dad and Sophie lay on the floor tangled up in the overturned wheelchair.
CHAPTER SIX
Wil’s father struggled to move, but the overturned wheelchair pinned him to the floor, trapping Sophie’s leg.
“What happened, Dad? Did Sophie trip you?”
His dad must have heard the alarm in his voice. “It’s Sophie. She ate some of the rat poison. I fell over hanging onto her collar to keep her away from it.” But the tears in Dad’s eyes only frightened Wil more. Dad never cried— he hadn’t even when Wil’s mom had died. “Help her, son. Don’t let her die.”
Elizabeth kneeled beside Sophie and reached for Dad’s hand, which tightly gripped the dog’s collar. “You can let go, Mr. Drake. I have her.”
“That fool Hazel. She saw a little o
ld mouse in the kitchen and went crazy with the poison.” Tears trickled from Dad’s eyes. Wil considered drying his face but decided against it. Even distraught, his proud father wouldn’t appreciate Wil’s interference.
“You did the right thing holding onto her.” Elizabeth spoke in a soothing voice that carried an air of authority. He had to hand it to her: her confident tone nearly convinced him, too, especially when she raised the dog’s eyelids to examine her eyes. “Help your father up, and find me some peroxide—pronto.”
Pulling his dad upright, Wil steadied the wheelchair and helped the old man sit.
“Peroxide’s under the sink, son.”
“Wilson,” Elizabeth said, “this dog needs medical attention. Bring me peroxide and a large spoon.”
“Who are you?”
“Sorry, Dad, I forgot my manners. This is Elizabeth Stevens. She brought us over a movie to watch about cars.”
She narrowed her eyes at Wil, and he took the hint. “Be right back.”
Elizabeth murmured something to his dad as Wil hurried from the room. In the bathroom, he located peroxide and then carried the bottle to the den. With a quick detour to the kitchen, he grabbed a soupspoon from the flatware drawer.
Wil stooped beside Elizabeth, handing her the bottle and spoon. “How can I help?”
“Hold her.”
Elizabeth poured peroxide into the spoon. Then to his horror, she forced Sophie’s jaws apart and spooned peroxide into her mouth. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Inducing vomiting.” Elizabeth gazed up at Wil, her troubled eyes searching his. “How much does she weigh, about eighty pounds?”
“About that. Why?”
“All right.” Again she poured peroxide into the spoon and poured it into Sophie’s mouth. Then she repeated the process, this time with a smaller amount. “If the rodenticide gets into her system, it can—” She stopped and cut her gaze toward his dad. “I don’t suppose you could get us inside Cathleen’s animal hospital—”
“I have the keys.”
“What we need is there. Do you know how to reach her assistant?”
“No, but my deputy, Jamie Peterson, does.”
She ran her fingers over Sophie’s leg, apparently examining it for injury from the wheelchair. “See if she can get her to meet us there.”
Wil pulled out his cell phone and checked the signal. “My battery’s low. Let me use your phone, Dad.”
He opted for the wall phone in the kitchen and reached Jamie at home. “I know it’s your day off, but I have an emergency.”
Wil told her about Sophie swallowing rat poison, and Jamie offered to locate the name and telephone number for Cathleen Hodges’s assistant.
“Could you call and ask her to meet us at the vet’s office?” Wil asked.
“I’m on it,” Jamie said.
“My cell phone’s about dead. If you need to call me back, call Dad’s.” He gave her the number, then ended the call.
Back in the den, Elizabeth hovered over Sophie, unaffected by the gross puddle of dog puke at her feet. “We need a mop and some paper towels, please.”
“I’m on it,” he said, echoing Jamie’s words. He grabbed a mop and bucket from the utility room, stopped at the kitchen sink for water, then ripped off a handful of paper towels. He returned to the den, where Elizabeth patted Sophie’s back. The dog hiccupped.
His dad rolled closer. “Will she be all right?”
“She’s a healthy dog, and she emptied her stomach— but it can take days for the effects to show up,” Elizabeth said.
Wil mopped up the worst of the vomit, then tossed the water out the back door. He refilled the bucket and mopped a second time. Elizabeth used the paper towels to finish the job. Wil returned after rinsing out the mop and bucket, and found his father sitting, staring at Sophie. He wasn’t crying now and, in fact, seemed less anxious—though far from relaxed. Wil placed his hand on his dad’s right shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze.
Finally, Dad spoke. “When you get back, take every one of those damned rat baits and throw them in the trash.”
“You bet. Want me to have a word with Hazel?”
Dad nodded, his tired eyes suddenly stormy. “You better. If I do it, she’ll quit without notice.”
Elizabeth disappeared into the kitchen with her wad of paper towels, probably in search of the garbage can. When she returned, she gestured toward the dog. “We need to know more about the rat poison. Could you look for the packages in the garbage?”
“You bet.” First dog puke, now garbage. This was not how Wil had envisioned his Saturday evening with Elizabeth. Under the sink, the thirteen-gallon trash pail held nothing but the wad of paper towels. Great. He leaned in the doorway of the den. “I’ll have to look through the trash can outside. Are you sure this is necessary? I mean, rat poison is rat poison, right?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I need to know whether it’s first-generation or second-generation rodenticide. I can tell from reading the label.”
“Do it, Wilson.” His dad’s voice, though weak, discouraged argument.
Rodenticide. Why hadn’t she just said rat poison? If she was trying to impress him, it was working. He sure as hell didn’t know the chemistry of rat poison. Curious that a Shakespeare professor did. Resigned to the task, he went out to the back of the house. Lifting the lid on the trash can, he was rewarded with empty cardboard packages. Their position at the top of the bin spared him from the odorous refuse tied up in bags. “Thank you, God.”
He returned to the house and handed one of the blue and gold packages to Elizabeth. “Here. Now what does this tell you?”
She read the ingredients and directions on the package. “Bait blocks. Sophie probably thought they were treats. This is a first-generation type containing warfarin, so we don’t have to worry about other ingredients—”
“Warfarin? That’s a blood thinner, like Coumadin—” His dad took Coumadin. His dad took … rat poison?
She checked Sophie’s eyes again, then looked at her gums, as if she knew the mysteries of animal health. “Well, yes, in controlled doses it’s medicinal for humans. And it kills rats, although some rodents have developed a resistance, which is why chemists developed the second-generation rodenticides.”
“But you said this is first generation, so that’s a good thing, right?”
She didn’t respond, but maybe she didn’t have an answer. Why would a Shakespeare professor know so much about rodenticides? The fact that she did had most likely saved his dog’s life, but he couldn’t overlook the strangeness of it.
As if speaking to herself, she said, “Cathleen should have a supply of vitamin K1 I can inject—”
“You can inject?” He’d exercised restraint when she’d poured peroxide down Sophie’s throat, he’d dug through trash and mopped up vomit, but he’d be damned if he’d let an amateur poke his dog with a needle. “Whoa!”
“No, um, I mean that’s why we need her assistant to help us.”
“My deputy’s working on finding her as we speak.”
Elizabeth turned to his dad. “Sir, did you see how many of the blocks Sophie ate?”
He shook his head. “Hazel put a bait in every corner probably, the damn woman. But I think three at most.”
Wil nodded. “Dad would know. Sophie stays right with him.”
“Wilson, help me carry Sophie to your truck. We need to get her treatment.”
His dad waved him on. “Go. I’ll stay out of trouble until you get back.”
Wil stared at his disheveled and weepy father sitting in his wheelchair. He debated leaving him. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“We’ll not be long if Cathleen has what we need.” Elizabeth’s calm voice belied the underlying tension.
Elizabeth was more than an animal lover. She was way more than a Shakespeare professor, too, if she knew her way around rat poisons and antidotes. Who was Elizabeth Stevens? Could he count on her to treat their beloved Golden
Retriever? “Maybe we should run her on to Gainesville or Jacksonville, to one of those emergency clinics—”
“I know what to do. Trust me.”
Wil wanted to trust Elizabeth, but what did she know about doctoring dogs? If anything happened to Sophie, Dad would be devastated. Wil credited the dog with having pulled Dad out of the depression he’d suffered following the stroke. Sophie seemed to sense what the old man needed and stayed at his feet, often to the aggravation of the hired help who came to care for him.
Wil gathered up Sophie and carried her to the Jeep, Elizabeth holding the doors for him. She crawled into the backseat beside the dog.
He slid in the front and started the engine. Taking advantage of his flashing lights, he sped toward town. “I hope you know what you’re doing, darlin’.”
“I used to work in a veterinarian’s office.”
“That’s it?” Working in a vet’s office could explain her familiarity with animals and medical treatments. Wil prayed it would be enough experience to save his dog.
“Yes. I promise you, I can do everything for Sophie that a vet can do, only faster, because there isn’t a vet within thirty miles of here—right?”
“Level with me, okay?” He spoke to her via the rearview mirror, his gaze never leaving the narrow county road. “I can’t let anything happen to Sophie. She means everything to my dad. She’s become his helper dog.”
“I understand.” She said nothing else for at least a minute. “Wilson, this much I can tell you. I’ve had enough training to help her. She needs subcutaneous injections of vitamin K1—”
“How the hell do you know that?” He slowed when he reached the edge of town, where County Road 471 broadened into Main Street. “You learned that much from working in a vet’s office?”
“Yes. Sophie’s a strong, healthy dog. She’d probably recover without treatment, now that she’s emptied her stomach, but don’t take that chance. If we treat her aggressively with the vitamin K1, she’ll have a stronger chance at recovery. You’ll need to have her blood checked later for anemia.”
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