Maximum Security (A Dog Park Mystery)

by C. A. Newsome

  Lia softened. “If I fetch you that beer, will you tell me about it?”

  Peter scrubbed his face with his hand. “I could use a good ear.”

  Lia ducked into the kitchen, returned with a Dos Equis. Peter took the bottle and held it against his forehead, then tipped it for a long swig.

  “Spill it, Kentucky Boy,” Lia primed the pump. “There must have been something awful in that trunk for you to arrest her right away like that. Terry said she probably kept a finger bone to make into a keychain.”

  Peter shook his head, snorted. “She might as well have. She had everything else in there.”

  “She had bones in there?”

  “Nope. A crossbow, a real pro job. Bolts with hunting tips that matched the one we found with the body. A bloody bandana. George’s wallet. His primary cell phone. And an empty bottle of homemade predator lure.”

  “What’s predator lure?”

  “If it’s the same stuff that turned up on George’s clothes, and it smells the same, it’s some kind of rotting animal corpse mixed with coyote urine.”

  “Eeew.” Lia grimaced.

  “Not exactly Chanel Number 5.”

  “I don’t get it. She gave you permission to look in her trunk, right? I know you have to have permission.”

  “Yep, she sure did.”

  “She looked so shocked when you opened it up. I don’t think she knew what was in there. We could see that from the top of the hill. Are you so sure she’s guilty?”

  “If that wasn’t the murder weapon in her trunk, I’ll eat my badge. I don’t know what to think. The cross bow was wiped, but whoever did it, they didn’t do a good job. We found a couple partials, and they weren’t hers.”

  “Then somebody else put it there. I don’t believe she hurt anyone.”

  “That’s what her lawyer keeps saying. She also pointed out that there wasn’t a cocking device with the bow, and there’s no way Onstad could have used the crossbow without it. We had to let Onstad go. Martha Cullers may look like Sally Field, but she’s a pit-bull. They say she used to butcher hogs on her family farm when she was a kid.

  “But,” Peter continued, “if someone planted the bow, who knew about her? Who knew enough to plant it? She swears nobody was aware of her affair with George.”

  “So they were having an affair!”

  “You don’t know anything about it. Remember that when Bailey starts asking questions.”

  “I still don’t believe she did it.”

  Peter set down the beer and looked at her a long time. “Lia,” he started. “I don’t know how to say this, but your judgement isn’t the best. The last person you said would never hurt anyone nearly killed you.”

  “That’s so unfair.” Lia tilted her chin up, challenging. “Asia said she was psychotic, and the chances of running into another person like that were extremely rare. She’s an expert, she should know.”

  “And what kind of person do you think shoots someone with a crossbow? Have you thought about asking your expert therapist that?”

  “Then what was she doing, waiting for George at the dog park? If she killed him, she knew he wasn’t going to show up.”

  “Murderers aren’t always rational. Especially if she didn’t mean to do it.”

  “How can you not mean to shoot someone when you’re pointing a crossbow at them?”

  Peter took Lia’s hands in his, chafed her palms with his thumbs. He pleaded with his eyes, eyes a deep, not quite indigo, blue. Blue as the sky after sunset when the stars begin to appear.

  Forget the gun. He should have to register that look. It’s a lethal weapon. She pulled her hands back, clasped them in her lap, looked away.

  “Lia, please don’t get caught up in this. If I could, I’d keep you a hundred miles away from this case.”

  “I set her up for you. Jim and I held her there until you could get to the park. I need to know I did the right thing.”

  “We had her motel room. We would have gotten her. Not as soon, but we would still have her today. You just speeded things up.”

  Lia’s shoulders sagged. “I guess you’re right. There is one thing I want to do, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to find Daisy.”

  “Daisy? The dog?”

  “George loved her. Everybody thought George took her when he ran off, right? But he didn’t run off. So that means Daisy’s on the loose.”

  “Really, Lia, I don’t think you should be getting involved.”

  “I’m just looking for a lost dog. I’ll get a picture from Mrs. Munce and put up some posters, call a few shelters. Jim and Bailey will help, I’m sure. Terry, too. I’m not going to mess with your investigation.”

  “That’s all you’re going to do?”

  Lia nodded solemnly. “That’s all I’m going to do.”

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  She drew her index finger across her breast. “With a pinky swear on top.”

  Day 4

  Saturday, October 12

  The woman who answered the door looked distracted. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi. Mrs. Munce? I’m Lia Anderson. I knew George from the dog park.”

  “This isn’t really a good time.”

  “I don’t mean to intrude, but it’s just, well, are you doing anything to find Daisy?”

  “Daisy? I lost my husband! I have too much to deal with to worry about his damn dog,” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry.” Lia took a startled step away from the woman’s sudden vitriol. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. I just thought some of us from the park could look for her.”

  Monica Munce closed her eyes, inhaled audibly in a way that suggested forbearance, or perhaps an effort to regain control of herself. “Of course.” She enunciated the words carefully. “That’s very kind of you. I should not have flown off the handle. I just got off the phone with the coroner’s office. They are being very difficult.”

  “Do you have any pictures we could use? I’d like to put one on the poster.”

  Monica rubbed one temple. “George posted plenty of pictures of Daisy on Facebook. I’m sure you could pull whatever you need from there. I hope you plan to use your own phone number on the poster. I really can’t handle anything else right now. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to figure out how I’m going to keep my house with George gone.”

  The door shut before Lia could utter a word in response. With a wife like that, no wonder he was having an affair . . . Okay, be nice, Anderson, she just lost her husband. She has a right to be testy.

  ~ ~ ~

  Bailey jiggled the handle to the door of Northside Grange. She stepped back. “It’s locked. Why would he be shut down in the middle of the day?”

  “I see Jerome inside. I bet the door’s just stuck.” Lia shifted Max’s leash to her other hand, pressed the latch and shoved hard. The door gave.

  Max led them into the turn-of-the-century storefront housing the urban farming and pet supply store. Decorative garden spikes paraded among pumpkins in the window. More pumpkins lined the wall. Fifty pound sacks of Amish chicken feed were stacked on a pallet next to a rack of doggie adventure wear. Sacks of pet food filled the wood shelves and baskets were filled with exotic dog treats, from elk antlers to duck feet.

  Jerome Wilson stood behind the counter. He was a tall, slender man, prematurely bald, with round, wire-rim glasses and an amiable face. Lia thought he needed only a white apron to complete the quintessential shopkeeper look.

  “Hey, Lia,” he said. “Oh good, I see you brought Max. See, Simba? Max is here.”

  Simba, a handsome young German Shepherd, jumped up and propped his legs against the gate that penned him in behind the counter. He gave two sharp barks. Max barked back and strained her leash. Jerome unlatched the gate and Simba bolted out. Lia dropped Max’s lead and the dogs fell into a friendly tussle.

  “I’m glad you brought her. Simba’s been feeling restless today,” Jerome said ove
r the sound of canine play-growls. “What can I do for you? Need any kibble?”

  “I’m good for now. I’ll be ready for another bag of the grain-free in a couple weeks. It’s done wonders for Honey’s skin. She’s finally stopped scratching.”

  “Glad to hear it. So what’s up?”

  “Jerome, this is my friend, Bailey. We were wondering if you could hang a poster in your window. We’re looking for a dog that went missing when her owner was murdered in Mount Airy Forest. Did you know George Munce?”

  “I don’t think so.” He shook his head.

  Bailey wordlessly handed him a flyer featuring a grinning Daisy. Jerome held it toward the dogs. “Look, Simba! She looks just like you.” Simba popped his head up, gave the paper a quizzical sniff and went back to wrestling. “I guess a dog on the floor is worth more than a flyer in the hand,” Jerome shrugged. “I haven't seen her. I’d notice her because she looks so much like Simba. I’ll post the flyer and keep an eye out.”

  “Thanks, Jerome,” Lia said.

  “That’s your new neighbor?” Bailey asked after they left the store. “He’s cute. Why haven’t you introduced me before?”

  “Isn't he a little young for you?” Lia asked.

  “I’m barely in my fifties. That means I’m still in my sexual prime. He looks like an intelligent young man who would appreciate experience and enthusiasm in a woman.”

  “What about John?”

  “Please, forget I told you his real name. As far as you know, he’s ‘Trees.’”

  Though Lia thought the subterfuge silly, she figured as long as she was involved with a cop, it was best to humor Bailey about the hacker’s identity.

  “I do love him,” Bailey continued. “But as long as he lives in Tennessee and I live here, we have a don’t ask, don’t tell arrangement.”

  “Did you two talk about this?”

  “He hasn’t asked, and I’m not telling. He’s free to do the same.”

  “Uh-huh.” Lia was skeptical.

  Bailey waved an elegant hand in the air. “Oh, you know me. I wouldn’t really do anything. But I can dream, can’t I?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Lia sat at her computer, pulling frames of Dakini jumping. She stopped the video feed whenever the dog reached the hurdle, then clicked through individual frames to find the ones where her fur flew and her eye lit up with excitement. Then she moved back and forth, seeking the image with the most tension and movement, the peak moment of the jump. These frames she exported as JPEGs. She had a dozen contenders to show Renee when Viola ran to the door, barking excitedly. “Your dad must be here,” she said.

  She opened the door before Peter could knock.

  “Hey, Babe,” he said, leaning down to ruffle the fur on Viola’s head. Chewy and Honey crowded around, seeking attention. Max affected boredom, sitting on her haunches and scratching behind one ear with her hind leg, eyes slitted.

  “Oink,” Lia replied.

  He kissed her briefly. “How about I call you mon petit couchon instead? It’s French.”

  “That’s promising. What does it mean?”

  “My little piglet.” He smirked as Lia huffed and rolled her eyes, handing her a plastic bag. “Kale from Alma’s garden. She told me to pick some, since she can’t eat it all.”

  “Tell her thank you. I can saute this with some garlic. It’ll go with the black beans I have in the crock-pot. I’ll put on some brown rice, too.”

  “Black beans again?”

  “They’re good for you. They lower your cholesterol, regulate blood sugar and keep your intestines moving. And they taste good.”

  “Says you.”

  “Please?”

  “I said, you’re the cook, you choose the menu.”

  “I have to make up for all the junk you eat when you’re roaming the streets.”

  “It’s so sweet that you care.”

  Lia put a pot of water on to boil for the rice. She filled one half of her sink with cool water, then dumped in the greens. She laid a clean towel on the counter, then swished individual leaves around in the water, lifting them out and laying them on the towel. When she was done, she pulled out a bamboo cutting board and set about chopping up the greens with her favorite ceramic knife.

  Peter pulled a beer out of the fridge and leaned against the counter, relaxing as he watched her work. “This is so homey. Have you given any more thought to us living together again? I mean without the stress of a serial killer on the loose?”

  Lia laid down her knife and hugged Peter. She kissed him on the cheek. “You want to drink beer and watch me cook every evening? That just makes my heart go pitter-pat.”

  “I don’t think you should have to cook for me all the time. I just like the idea of coming home to you.”

  Lia turned to the stove and poured a cup of rice into the bubbling water, stirred it briefly, covered the pot and turned down the heat. She selected a garlic bulb from the pile in the wire vegetable basket hanging by her sink and started breaking off cloves. She stared intently at the garlic. “Peter, I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “But.”

  Peter paused, his beer halfway to his lips. “But?”

  “I think I see where you’re going, and I really don’t want to go there. I like what we have. It works. We don’t ever have to resent each other. We’re together when we want to be together and we’re apart when we need to focus on something else.”

  “Don’t you suppose your family has given you a warped view of what marriage is?”

  Lia smashed the garlic with the side of a steel knife, then started popping the cloves out of their peels. She took a moment to consider her words. “My mother married every single time for love, and it never worked. It wasn’t enough. Watching her taught me a lot about what marriage is.

  “It’s about chores and wanting the same things and figuring out what to do with money. All of a sudden, my time, my money, it’s not mine any more. All of a sudden, I’m not free to do what I want to do, unless my partner is okay with it. And the same goes for you. Suddenly, the pettiest things become a reason to be angry. Do you really want that to happen to us?”

  “It doesn’t have to happen. My grandparents have been married for fifty years and they’re very happy together. I wish you could meet them. You’d see what a good marriage is all about.”

  “They married at a time when most women did not expect to be in control of their lives. I’m sure that had something to do with it.”

  “Marriage is work. I know that. I don’t expect you to be the little woman.”

  “Yet you expect to protect me from my own judgement. You’d be happier if I wasn’t looking for Daisy, admit it.”

  Peter set down his beer. “There’s something off about this case. Serving up a dead body to a pack of coyotes is not the act of a sane person. You nearly died last year. You still have a bullet hole in your leg. Is it so wrong for me to care about your safety?”

  “Why don’t we look at this case? An unhappily married man trying to relive his youth while he violates his marriage vows.” Lia pulled her largest skillet out of the oven, poured in a dollop of olive oil and turned on the gas. She retrieved her garlic press from the gadget drawer and pressed several cloves into the heating oil, stirring them with a wooden spoon.

  “I can't argue that, but we’re not them. I’m not George, you’re not Monica, and you’re not your mother, either.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “What do you want for us, then? Do you even want there to be an us?”

  Lia picked up a large handful of chopped greens and dropped them in the hot skillet. She stirred the kale, added more as it wilted. She lowered the heat and turned to him, wrapped her arms around his waist. “Of course I do. I just haven't figured out how to keep us from becoming like so many other couples.”

  He hugged her back. “Maybe you shouldn’t be trying to figure it out by yourself.”

  “I need you to trust me more. Tomorrow I’m going to see Re
nee, and I imagine I may run into Kate Onstad. I need you to be okay with that.”

  “I wish there was a way around that.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Can’t you meet Renee somewhere else? Why don’t you meet at your studio?”

  “This is my job, just like chasing after criminals is your job. I don’t ask you to give up your job, and I’m not going to insult my best client by refusing to go to her home. I can’t believe that Kate Onstad has the strength to load a crossbow and the skill to kill a man with one.”

  “Yeah, her lawyer did point that detail out to us.” He rubbed his neck. “I’m trying to see this from your side. All my life, I’ve been told it was my responsibility to do the right thing and take care of those who were weaker than me, and I grew up around women who want that protection. It’s that whole Adam’s rib thing. It’s hard to set it aside.”

  “You’re going to have to bend those principles if you want us to make it, Kentucky Boy.” She gave him a squeeze. “Let me finish making dinner. Let’s give this a rest for right now, and you can tell me all about your squirrelly case while we eat.

  Peter forked up the last of his greens and rice, chewed, swallowed. “The crossbow is a Barnett Zombie. It’s a serious crossbow with a 175 pound draw. It does take a lot of practice to handle, especially without a laser sight. We have the same concern about Kate Onstad, that she’s unlikely to have the ability to pull off a kill shot, especially if she used that hunter’s blind. Hard enough to imagine her climbing that tree, even with the rungs nailed into the trunk. Still, even if she didn’t do it, she’s attracted the attention of the person who did. Please be extra careful around her.”

  Lia suppressed a smile. “Yes, Daddy, I promise. What will you do now? Can you trace the bow to its owner?”

  “Crossbows aren’t registered like guns. We used the serial number and went to the manufacturer. The owner never registered the warranty but the manufacturer traced the shipment to a local store, over a year ago. They’re unhappy someone used one of their bows to kill a person, so they’re reviewing their records. If it was bought with a credit card, we’ll have him.