Sleeping Dogs Lie wfm-1

by Sharon Henegar

  Sleeping Dogs Lie

  ( Willow Falls Mysteries - 1 )

  Sharon Henegar

  On a rainy October night, Louisa waits in the car while her friend Bob makes a dash into the grocery store. Soon he comes out again but with him is a woman in a sleek red suit. She leads him to her Mercedes and they drive away.

  Has Louisa been ditched, or has Bob been kidnapped? She enlists the help of her cousin Kay, owner of an antique store, and two intrepid canines, Jack and Emily Ann, to follow the scant clues to find Bob. Find him they do but when they learn who he really is, they find out that the stakes are high. Will they avoid being the next victims of a cold-blooded murderer?

  Sleeping dogs lie is author Sharon Henegar's first mystery in the Willow Falls series.

  Sharon Henegar

  Sleeping Dogs Lie

  Gratefully dedicated to the members

  of my original writing group—

  Marcia Tungate, Patrice Kavanaugh,

  and Brandy Stewart.

  Without you, Louisa would still

  be sitting in that parking lot wondering

  what was going to happen next.

  And always, to Steven.

  Chapter One

  Sometimes life turns on the smallest decision. On a Monday evening in October it came down to the fact that I chose to wear my black velveteen sneakers embroidered with silver moons and stars, and a storm blew in and poured buckets of rain.

  Bob steered his car into the grocery store parking lot and found a slot half-way down the row. “Do you want to come in with me?” he asked. “I’ll only be a minute. I need to get some dog food for Jack.”

  I opened the door and saw a good-sized puddle. I thought of my shoes. “I’ll wait.” The door made a solid thunk as I pulled it back.

  His quick smile flashed. “I'll leave my keys in case you want to listen to the radio.” He got out and locked the door behind him. The supermarket’s neon signs colored the raindrops that sparkled on his hair as he hurried inside.

  I turned on the radio. The familiar clipped tones of the public radio station’s news commentator filled the air. I poked the buttons—all rock music or jazz. The only one tuned the same on both our cars was that first public station, and I wondered about the viability of a relationship based on mutual NPR membership. I began to search for classical music, got sidetracked by a country number I’d always liked, paused for the last bars of a Celtic fiddle tune, and finally found a station playing Copland.

  The windows of the little Civic had steamed over as soon as the defroster went off. I wiped off the window with my sleeve, and sat back in my seat to listen, looking idly toward the door of the supermarket.

  Bob came out, closely followed by a curvy blonde woman in a red business suit and red four-inch heels. She walked with a lithe strut that had no trouble keeping pace with his long-legged steps. I looked down at myself—my black slacks and sweater were comfortable and looked nice, but in a bright red suit I knew I'd feel as wide as a barn door. And those shoes would tip me right onto my nose before I took a single step. I peered down fondly at my fancy sneakers and thought, even if I don't want to get them wet, at least I can walk without injury.

  I looked back out at Bob. He was empty handed. No dog food. Had he lost his wallet? He had it earlier when he paid for our dinners. He walked with the woman to a gray Mercedes sedan, an older, classic looking thing, parked in the short row in front of the store. She handed him some keys and said something, and he leaned down to unlock the passenger door.

  “What is he doing?” I wondered out loud. The woman stood very close to him. Her right hand jammed into her jacket pocket caused her arm to bend awkwardly. She moved forward to speak directly into his ear. Bob pulled open the door, folding his long legs to get in. He slid over behind the wheel as she seated herself on the passenger side. Exhaust plumed into the night as the engine started.

  “Hey!” I yelled, though they couldn’t possibly have heard me. I wiped off steam again and squinted at the other car. Maybe it was someone who just looked like Bob—another tall, thin-faced middle-aged man wearing a Pendleton shirt under a navy cotton sweater, elderly jeans, and black high-top Converse All-Stars. Right. They’re everywhere.

  The gray car backed out of the parking space. They may be everywhere, but that one, I thought, is the one I came with. Damn stick shift, no room to climb into the driver’s seat. I flung open the door and ran around the car, then had to run back around and lean in to unlock the driver’s door. Around the car again. I crammed myself behind the wheel and began to back out. I had to jam on the brakes to keep from hitting the rattling procession of carts pushed by a figure in a too-large plastic rain poncho. I gritted my teeth.

  “This is unbelievable,” I fumed aloud. I'd only known Bob for two weeks, but he’d done nothing in that time to indicate he was capable of deserting me in a grocery store parking lot. Even my dead husband Roger had never done that. Of course I couldn’t think of a time Roger and I had gone to a grocery store together. Perhaps only lack of opportunity had kept me from having this delightful experience earlier in life.

  The cart parade finally moved past the car. I backed out and zoomed to the entrance to the lot. I saw the Mercedes passing under a streetlight a couple of blocks away. I gunned the engine and the old Honda bucked onto the street. I caught the light at the corner on the yellow and kept the gas pedal pressed to the floor.

  Copland’s Third Symphony provided grandiose background music to my chase scene. A no-color Pinto pulled out from a side street in front of me, and I stood on the brakes. That’s all I needed tonight, to have a Pinto blow up in my face. The Mercedes’ red taillights grew smaller and smaller.

  I banged on the steering wheel with frustration, uttering phrases unbecoming to a lady, watching for a chance to pass. As soon as I could, I pulled around the plodding Pinto, shifted down to second, and pushed the Civic’s four cylinders as hard as they would go. “All right!” I growled as the gap between me and the Mercedes began to close.

  Even as I hurtled down Prairie Avenue, I couldn’t help wondering if I really was following some other guy while Bob waited back at the grocery store. He’d never leave me the keys again. Supposing we ever went anywhere again.

  The Mercedes bounced over the railroad tracks just north of the old Western Electric plant, and as I reached the tracks, a pulsing red light filled the car. I glanced in the rear view mirror. Oh, god, a cop. I looked down at the speedometer and saw the needle hovering near fifty. The speed limit along here was thirty-five. And of course there had been the little matter of passing that Pinto on a two-lane street in town. I looked at the Mercedes’ taillights once more and put on my turn signal.

  But wait, the cop could catch the Mercedes. I stopped and unclipped my seat belt, shoving open the door. I forgot I hadn't turned off the engine. When I took my foot off the clutch the little car lurched and died. The door swung back and banged my arm. I ignored the pain and scrambled out onto the gravel shoulder. The police car had stopped about fifteen feet behind me. The cop was climbing out. “Officer, there’s been a—”

  At the sound of my voice he snapped on the large flashlight in his left hand and with his right pulled the heavy revolver holstered at his hip. “Stop right there!” he ordered, pinning me with the beam from the light. I stopped so suddenly that I teetered back and forth. “Get your hands out where I can see them.”

  I held my hands out to the sides, palms forward and fingers open. “I have to report a kidnap—”

  “Turn around slowly and walk back to your car,” he said. “Stand by the front wheel and keep your hands in sight.”

  It's a curious thing about having a gun pointed at you. I felt no trace of the resistan
ce to authority that has occasionally marred my passage through life. I turned and walked to Bob’s car.

  The officer followed, clicking on the flashlight to inspect the interior. Apparently satisfied by its bareness, he brought the glare of the flashlight around to my face. I blinked and squinted.

  “All right, lady, where’s the fire?” Stern, gravelly voice. “Don’t you know better than to get out of your car when you’re stopped by the police?”

  “But there’s been a—”

  “I need your license and vehicle registration.”

  Maybe it would be faster to give him what he wanted. “They’re in the car.”

  He motioned with the flashlight. “Get in.”

  He kept the gun in hand as I opened the car door and slipped inside. I grabbed my purse from the floor on the other side. When I turned back and proffered the wallet open to my license, he slid the gun back into its holster. I let out breath I didn’t know I'd been holding and then leaned over to reach for the glove box for whatever papers I could find. His reaction was instantaneous.

  “Hold it!” he barked. I froze. “What are you reaching for?”

  “The registration papers. In the glove box.” I risked a glance back at him, but all I could see was the gaping black tunnel of the gun barrel. His middle name must be Quick Draw.

  “All right, don’t make any sudden moves.” He trained the light on the glove box, and with the studied movements of a Bhuto dancer I reached over, clicked open the little door, and brought out the papers I could feel.

  When I faced him he holstered his gun once more and picked up my wallet from the ground by his feet. He held the light on my face for a century before moving it to the picture on my license. “Your name is Louisa McGuire?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  He gave a nod, and took the registration.

  “Please,” I tried again, “you’ve got to—”

  “Your name is not on this registration,” he growled. “Is this your car?”

  “No! It’s Bob’s car, and he’s—”

  “Do you have the owner’s permission to drive this vehicle?”

  “He was with me and he—”

  “He’s not with you now.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! There’s been a kidnapping!”

  His eyebrows shot up. “What! Your child has been kidnapped?”

  “No! Not my child. I don’t have a child. I'm talking about Bob.”

  He glanced at the registration again. “That would be the Robert Richardson who owns this vehicle? Isn’t he the guy who’s staying in the old stone house out by the river?”

  I nodded, remembering one reason I had married and gone to live in Seattle, which is about a million people and fifty thousand acres bigger than Willow Falls. Even people you’ve never met know all your business here.

  “What makes you think Mr. Richardson has been kidnapped?

  “He got into that Mercedes I was following with a woman in a red suit. You’ve got to catch them!”

  “Where did this take place?”

  “At the Food Right. I was waiting in the car and then he came out with this woman and got in her car and—”

  He seemed not to be listening to me. He looked at my driver’s license again, and back at my face. “Aren’t you Kay Chelton’s cousin?”

  I squinted to read the nametag over the shirt pocket. “E. Johnson.” Oh no.

  The E stood for Ed, and he and my cousin had a fling a few months ago that had ended badly, at least for her.

  “That’s right,” I said. “But listen, you’ve got to catch that car and—”

  He straightened and looked down Prairie Avenue in the direction I'd been going. It’s a straight, flat street and you can see a long way. “What car?”

  Chapter Two

  No Mercedes in sight. They could have taken the ramp onto the freeway a few blocks away or turned off anywhere or just gone straight and been out of sight by now. “The car I would have caught if you hadn’t stopped me.” I sounded cross because I was biting back an epithet. Small town policemen usually don’t like to hear women cursing them.

  He turned back from gazing down Prairie. “What makes you think he’s been kidnapped?”

  “Why else would he leave the store with a stranger and drive off in her car?”

  “She might not have been a stranger to him. And you did say she was a blonde.”

  “Okay, but why wouldn’t he tell me he was going with her? Bob is not a rude person.”

  Officer Johnson nodded. “It does seem odd that he would go off and leave his car like that.”

  Thanks a lot, I thought.

  He went on, “Are you sure he didn’t look over and wave or anything?”

  “No,” I insisted. “I saw them as soon as they came out of the store and watched them walk to her car. Well, I had to wipe some steam off the windows.”

  “How did she make him go with her? Did you observe any visible coercion?”

  “I—I don’t know. He came out first with her right behind him. What do you mean by visible coercion? She wasn’t pushing him or anything.”

  “Could she have had a weapon?”

  “I think she must have. They were walking really close together.”

  “But you didn’t see a gun or knife or anything.”

  “Well, no, but she kept her hand in her pocket the whole time, so I think she must have been holding something,” I said.

  He considered me with narrowed eyes, flexing his shoulders as though they were stiff. “That’s a mighty peculiar story.”

  “Of course it is! That’s why I followed them!”

  “All right, give me a description of the car and I'll put out an APB on it.”

  “It’s a gray Mercedes, an older one, with the doodad thing on the hood.”

  “License number?”

  I said nothing.

  “You didn’t get the license number?”

  “Well, it was dark and raining and I was still trying to catch them,” I hedged. “A Pinto got between us part of the way.” No way would I admit that I never once thought of the license number.

  He sighed at me. “What about the woman? Can you give me a description of her?”

  “She was maybe five foot six. Blonde hair, chin length, a nice figure. She wore a red skirted suit and matching high heels. Very high heels.”

  “Age?”

  “I couldn’t tell. She was too far away. She could have been anything from twenty five to fifty.”

  He chewed on his lower lip. “All right,” he said at last. “I'm not going to give you a speeding ticket this time.” He proffered my license and the registration papers. “I don’t think you need to worry about Mr. Richardson. In my professional opinion a man who drives off in a Mercedes instead of a Honda with a blonde in red high heels is not being kidnapped, but if you get a ransom note or anything you let me know.”

  “That’s your professional opinion?” I grabbed my wallet and the registration and flung them on the passenger seat. “I so appreciate your professionalism.” The rain had stopped, which I regretted. I would have loved for him to get very wet. I restarted the car.

  He stepped back. “Mrs. McGuire, drive more carefully than you were when I stopped you. And one more thing…”

  I looked at him. Okay, I glared at him.

  “How is Kay these days?”

  Kay? Bob had been kidnapped and he’s asking about Kay? “She’s doing very well.” I let the unspoken words, “without you,” hang in the air between us. I cranked up the window, turned on the left blinker and pulled back onto the road.

  I drove a couple of blocks at an ostentatiously moderate pace, trying to bring my angry breathing under control. I felt like I had several heads on my shoulders, all talking at the same time. One said in an annoyingly sensible, know-it-all voice that I should listen to Officer Johnson, there was no reason to worry. People did inexplicable things all the time. Bob could have any number of reasons to ditch me
in a grocery store parking lot for a curvy blonde in a red suit. Another voice gave an insinuating laugh and said she could think of at least one. Still another answered back vociferously that Bob was too nice a person to leave me sitting in his car, wondering what had happened to him. And one had some choice words about Officer Johnson and his professional opinion.

  I signaled left to go around the block. “All of you, be quiet,” I said out loud. “We’re going to make sure that we didn’t follow some look-alike stranger.”

  Immediately the know-it-all chimed in. “Don’t be ridiculous, you know what Bob looks like. And how many middle aged men in Willow Falls wear canvas high tops?”

  “There could be at least two,” I answered back. “I haven’t known Bob very long, it's the proverbial dark and stormy night, and the windows were all steamed up. This could be just a weird mix up. I might have been wrong about what I saw. Now let me concentrate on driving. I will scream if I am pulled over by the police again tonight, especially if it's the same cop.”

  Chapter Three

  Bob and I had met two weeks earlier thanks to our cars and our dogs. I had just left my lawyer’s office, after dealing with some of the aftermath of my husband’s death. The tears I had been blinking back had everything to do with anger and nothing with lost love. Any love I'd had for Roger had died long before he did. I stepped quickly to the tan car at the curb and inserted my key into the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. I tried again, with the same result. My tears dried as I scowled at the car, seriously considering kicking it. I heard shouting.

  “Hey, get away from my car!”

  I looked around and saw a tall man with a short dog hurrying toward me. I was not in the mood to deal with a crazy person. I bent to the task of unlocking the car once more.

  “What are you doing to my car?” The voice, closer now, sounded a little winded. I straightened and looked at him, holding my keys defensively in my hand.