It was decent of him, given the circumstances. “Yeah. Surprisingly.” But then she added, “Couldn’t you just push me over, like I asked?”
“And miss hearing you explain why you’re thrashing around my yard? Not likely.”
She got to her feet and brushed off the snow, all without looking at him. “Well, I’d better get going.”
He laughed. “Then you’d better sprout wings.”
“Let me out by the gate. Why is it locked, anyway? No one in Dorset Hills locks their yards.”
“I guess you’d know, since you like creeping around.” He got to his feet as well. “I could have you arrested for trespassing, you know.”
Now she looked at him. “I could have you arrested for dognapping.”
He rolled his eyes. “I did not steal your dog.”
“You’re the prime suspect.”
“Oh, really?” He sounded bemused. “And what evidence do you have?”
“First, you hate my dog and you said you were glad he was gone.”
“A lot of people hate your dog, Mimosa.”
Mim cringed. Very few people had ever called her that, and they had long since been cut out of her life. “It’s Mim. And as far as I can tell, you were the only person on the planet who hated George.”
“So you’re deluded as well as paranoid. I saw Claude Mowat throwing stones over the fence when your little treasure wouldn’t shut up one day. I suggested to your son that he keep a better eye on the dog—for the dog’s safety.”
“Mr. Mowat would never throw rocks at George.”
Carver gestured around his yard. “You won’t find any rocks under this snow. But I noticed that Claude had a lovely rock garden when he invited me over to see his roses.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, when you’ve recovered from your workout, why don’t you climb into Claude’s yard and see for yourself? Then you can hop on over to Leslie Kawasaki’s two doors down. George nipped her. The Delaneys three doors further on aren’t big on him either—he scratches up their lawn.”
“You’re lying! They’d have told me.”
“I doubt it. Leslie said you work so hard she doesn’t want to bother you.”
Mim had only spoken to Leslie twice, but she seemed like a nice lady. “You’re just trying to stir up trouble,” she said.
“Go talk to them. You’ll get better at climbing fences with practice.”
“Just let me out of this yard.”
“Only after you apologize for trespassing.”
“That is not going to happen.”
Carver crossed his arms. “Good thing I dressed for the cold, then.”
Mim was shivering. Although the parka was warm, the long johns alone were a mistake—for multiple reasons.
Scanning Carver from head to toe, she announced, “You have big feet.”
He grinned. “Thanks. You know what that means.”
“It means they might match the size 12 Sorel boot prints left beside my fence the night George was stolen.”
“So we’re playing Cinderella? That’ll keep you busy, because I got the last pair of these boots at Thornton’s Sporting Goods.”
Gesturing to his hand, she said, “The glove you’re missing is in police custody.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out another one. “Cheapest gloves Thornton’s stocks. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Pun intended.”
She stared up at him. His face was rosy from the wind that also ruffled his dark hair. The eyes that had seemed so sinister two nights ago were just regular brown in the light of a gloomy day. He looked too normal to have left that menacing card. Surely someone who’d do something like that would show visible signs of being a sociopath? But wasn’t the hallmark of a sociopath his ability to act normal?
She felt the warm tears running down her cheeks before she realized she was crying. Wiping them away with one heavy, icy glove, she said, “Can I go now?”
“No,” he said, taking her hand. “You’re coming with me.”
Chapter 9
Mim was still resisting as Carver opened the back door and pulled her inside.
“Oh, would you relax?” he said. Flipping on the kitchen light, he took a close look at her. “Wait. Don’t tell me you’re actually scared?”
“Of course not.” But her heart was racing. She kept her hand on the door handle, knowing that even if she managed to leave, there was no way out of the back yard. Another tear trickled down her cheek.
“Mim.” He stooped to meet her eyes. “You’re safe here. There’s no Bluebeard’s chamber.”
Pulling her gloves off, she ran a finger under each eye, knowing there was probably mascara underneath. “There was a letter,” she said.
“What kind of letter?” He knelt and unlaced her boots quickly and pulled the first one off. Mim kicked off the second, and he stood again, waiting for her to answer.
“A creepy one. From the person who stole George.”
He gestured to a stool at the counter and took a mug from the cupboard. Grabbing the coffee pot, he filled the mug and pushed it toward her. “Tell me about it.”
She took a few sips of the strong black coffee before describing the card.
“No ransom request?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just ‘Keep this quiet.’ And I already told the police.”
“As you should.” Carver crossed to the window to collect a mug that was sitting on the window ledge. Obviously he really had been watching her as she struggled. The thought brought another rush of color to her face.
“But what will he do to George when he finds out? Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Of course. It’s Dorset Hills.”
He hadn’t been around long enough to be so cynical, Mim thought. But that didn’t mean he was wrong.
After topping up the coffee in his mug, Carver said, “I’m sure the guy will let George go once he realizes what a little brat he is.” He took a sip and grinned. “No offence.”
“Offence taken. You have no idea how much my son loves this dog.”
Relenting, he said, “Someone will turn him in. He’s wearing tags, right?”
“Yeah. And he’s microchipped.”
“Then it’s just a matter of time.” He beckoned. “Bring your coffee. I want to show you around so that you can get this notion out of your head that I had anything to do with George’s disappearance.”
In spite of herself, Mim was relaxing now. It must be the warmth of the coffee. Mustering a faint grin, she asked, “So your money’s on Claude Mowat?”
Carver pretended to think for a moment. “Only if his wife helped out. With Claude’s arthritis, there’s no way he could have cut out all those letters.”
Now she really did grin, and Carver grinned back. He had nice, even teeth—not the teeth of a sociopathic dognapper.
Leading her into the living room, he made a show of moving the couch so she could see under it. “Go ahead. Call him.”
Feeling foolish, she did it anyway. “George. Georgie! Are you here?”
Cupping a hand to his ear, Carver said, “I hear nothing.”
“Let me see Bluebeard’s chamber. You were banging away all summer. It might be a soundproof room.”
He gave her a strange look before leading her into the hall. “You’re right about that.” He gestured to an open doorway.
She leaned forward to peek into the room. It was small and dark, and there were two computers set up, as well as equipment she didn’t recognize. “What is all this? It’s like FBI surveillance or something.”
Stepping inside, he poked a microphone on a desk. “Clue.” Behind him in a dark corner, two guitars stood on floor racks beside a keyboard. “Bigger clue.”
“You’re a musician?”
“And a carpenter,” he said. “For the lean times, of which there have been many.” As if to stave off questions, he moved on to a bedroom, pulling back the duvet so she could look under the bed. He opened the clos
et as well.
In the next bedroom, he leaned over to pick up a sock and put it in the hamper. “Sorry,” he said.
“For a sock on the floor? I’ve never seen a house so neat.”
He shrugged. “Too much clutter and I can’t think.”
Mim thought there was a fine line between neat and obsessive-compulsive. Order can hide something just as easily as disorder.
“Where’s Christmas?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s only a few days till Christmas and I don’t see a single decoration.”
His mouth puckered as he turned to lead her back down the hall. “The whole thing is way overdone in this town. I mean, seriously… guidelines for decking the halls?”
“Ah,” Mim said. “A Scrooge complex. I suppose you found the jingle bells on George’s collar offensive?”
Carver smiled, and his face truly seemed to thaw. “If you must know, yes. Tinkle tinkle as he tinkled back there.”
“You were lying about the fence, by the way. I sniffed it.”
“I liked that part of the show. I assume that was going to be your alibi for being back there? Checking out the pee situation?”
“Whatever.” She headed for the kitchen. “Have we finished the tour?”
“Oh no, you’re going over every square inch of this house.”
He preceded her downstairs, and now she went willingly, no longer worried he was going to ambush her.
“But my favorite part,” he continued, as if there hadn’t been a pause, “was when you fell off the pail and made the snow angel. It was quite sweet.” He glanced back at her. “That’s Christmas enough for me.”
“You are really annoying,” she said, trailing after him from one room to the next.
“And you’re a piece of… Christmas cake. You know how most people feel about those.” He opened a storage cupboard with a flourish. “Call him.”
“George,” she said, without much force.
“Don’t hold back, now.” He bellowed, “George! Georgie-boy.”
Silence.
“Okay, Scrooge. I guess we’re done here.”
As she walked up the stairs, she had the sense that his eyes were on her butt. Turning, she found her instincts were correct. In that, at least, they could be trusted.
Carver smirked as he caught her eye. “Now that’s festive,” he said.
“You’re sure about this?” Carver asked.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Mim walked purposefully toward his back fence. “I’m not walking out your front door and around the block after you pointed out my underwear is showing.”
“You wanted me to appreciate the wonders of the season. Now I appreciate Santa as I never have before.”
“As you said, Dorset Hills loves passing stories around. So I’d appreciate it if you’d help me get home without a fuss.”
“I’ll help you get home, Dorothy,” he said. “I mean, Mimosa.”
She glared at him. “Who told you that?”
“Classified,” he said.
Then he took a run at the fence and jumped. Balancing gracefully on the top, as if it were a balance beam, he carefully swung each leg over before dropping out of sight.
“Just be a sec,” he called. “I’m making a snow angel for you, too.”
“Too cold to be funny, Carver.”
The ladder appeared over the top of the fence and Mim guided it down into position.
As Carver jumped back over, she noticed one of her bootlaces was loose and knelt to tie it. It would be hard enough to get up and over without tripping.
Landing lightly on the snow beside her, Carver said, “What’s wrong?”
Mim was staring at something she’d plucked out of the snow. She held it now so that Carver could see: It was a red dog tag in the shape of a bone with the word “George” etched into it.
Chapter 10
“Ouch! Take it easy.”
“Oops, sorry Mr. Shah.” Some people liked the surgical tape yanked off, others liked it eased off slowly. It was Mim’s job to remember the difference.
“You’re distracted.” Mr. Shah gave her a reproachful glance with his one good eye. He’d recently lost the other to glaucoma, and there’d been an infection afterwards.
“Not at all,” Mim said, although she had indeed been lost in thought about the episode at Carver’s that morning. She regretted letting her guard down with him. He’d followed her over the fence and to her back door trying to reason with her, but as far as Mim could tell the only logical reason for George’s dog tag being in Carver’s yard was that the dog himself had passed through it.
Carver must have stowed the dog somewhere else. He probably left home that morning in his pickup truck just long enough to feed him.
“You’re thinking about your dog,” Mr. Shah said.
Mim sighed. “It’s hard not to. I miss him.”
“I’ll buy you another,” he said. “How about a pretty Chihuahua in a designer bag? You could take it on your house calls and cheer everyone up.”
“I don’t think so, but thanks.” She wouldn’t put it past him to have a pup waiting for her on her next visit. He had a bit of a crush on her. That happened often enough with male patients, and if it got too awkward, Mim sometimes asked to be switched off the case. But Mr. Shah was harmless. He was just lonely after his wife’s passing the year before, and her visits were a bright spot in his day. She could put up with a bit of flirting for an hour.
“I’m serious,” he grumbled. “I have more money than I know what to do with. Let me spend it on a pretty lady.”
“I’d love to see you spend it on a pretty lady. Just not this one. We’re not allowed to accept gifts, you know.”
“Not even at Christmas?”
“It’s frowned on, I’m afraid.”
He gave her a knowing look out of his good eye. “Maybe it will be anonymous. Like Secret Santa. You might find this froufrou dog in a basket on your porch. I can still drive, you know.”
“Little froufrou dogs wouldn’t last long on a porch in the winter, Mr. Shah. Imagine how I’d feel coming home to find a frozen Chihuahua.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll buy it a snow suit. They make those, you know. And ball gowns too.”
Laughing, Mim gently applied his new dressing. “If you know all that, I have a feeling you might just like a Chihuahua of your own. It could be the daughter you never had.”
“The pretty lady is funny, too.” His eyebrow shot up as she reached for the coat she’d thrown over a chair. “What, you’re not leaving so soon? You always sit for tea.”
“I’m on the run today, Mr. Shah. Next time. I’ll bring cookies.” His face brightened slightly, so she added, “And a list of Chihuahua breeders. I think this would be a wonderful Christmas gift to yourself.”
A roll of medical tape hit her between the shoulder blades as she darted out of the door, laughing.
Her first visit with Augustus Tremaine did not go well.
For starters, he wouldn’t let Mim in the door without seeing hospital staff identification, which she hadn’t bothered to bring since she wasn’t actually going to the hospital.
“Go away,” he shouted through the old wood door.
“Mr. Tremaine, call the community health agency. They’ll assure you I’m certified to administer the antibiotic you need.”
The curtains in the front window fluttered and then he was back. “I’m not calling anyone. It’s on you to prove you’re authorized. You’re in jeans, for pity’s sake. You look like a bum. In my day, nurses wore starched caps and capes. They had pride.”
“They’re not jeans, they’re scrubs.”
“I rest my case. Scrubs.”
She pulled in a deep, calming breath. “I’ve got medication with your name on it.” She held the vial to the peephole. “And I know all about your cellulitis.”
“Quiet. That’s my business, not the whole neighborhood’s.”
“Let me in and we
’ll discuss it quietly while I give you your shot.”
“You’re not getting near me with a needle. I know all about you.”
“There’s nothing to know. I’m just a hardworking nurse who’s falling behind in her schedule because she can’t give a patient the shot he needs.”
A bald head appeared in the half-circle window high in the door. Blue eyes looked down on her. Mim knew he must be feeling okay if he could hop around like that on a swollen leg.
“I know someone kidnapped the dog you left out in the yard to freeze,” he said. “You’re irresponsible. Not the type I want putting drugs into me.”
“Augustus—”
“Mr. Tremaine, if you please.”
“I’m highly qualified. I have a Masters degree, in fact.” Almost true. Someday she’d finish her thesis.
“I’ve no use for academics,” he said, still peering down at her. “And it’s beside the point. The point is that someone is stalking you and he may end up stalking me. I feel unsafe having you on my premises.”
The fire that usually smouldered in Mim’s belly hadn’t been throwing off much heat lately, but it flared now over the unfairness of it all. She turned and leaned against the door so that he couldn’t see her face.
“Mr. Tremaine. If you won’t let me into the house, I’m going to have to call 911. You don’t seem of sound mind right now, and for your own safety, it would be best to have the police and paramedics come out.” She held out her phone and pressed the numbers. “Maybe the fire department, too. If the door needs to come down, they’re the best ones to do it.”
The bluff worked. The door opened so suddenly that she almost fell inside.
Augustus was a small, skinny old man nearly drowning in baggy flannel pajamas and a fluffy robe. And yet he had nearly bested her.
“I don’t like you,” he said, leading the way into the living room. “You’re sassy. No one likes a sassy nurse, Mrs. Gardiner.”
The “missus” felt like a deliberate shot; he’d certainly been around Dorset Hills long enough to know about Andrew.
“Call me Mim,” she said. “Isn’t it best to be on a first-name basis with the person at the driving end of a needle?”
The Dog Town Collection Page 37