by Donna Ball
“Do you mean—check out?”
“You certainly don’t intend to stay here.” It wasn’t a question. “In fact, I’d be very surprised if any of the guests do once they know what happened.” He slipped his arm around my waist in a brief hug. “Tell you what. We’ll drive down to the beach, get an ocean-front suite, take Cisco for a run—they allow dogs on the beach until May—and I know this great place for dinner right on the waterfront. Mel’s flight doesn’t get in until eight tomorrow night, so we still have most of the weekend.”
I said, “I don’t want to go to the beach.”
His hand slid away from my waist. “Well, you’re not staying here.”
It didn’t matter how right he was; there’s something about being told what I will and will not do that has always set my teeth on edge. “I’m a grown woman. I can stay wherever I want to.”
Those gorgeous gray eyes of his can be as hard as flint when the circumstances dictate. I felt chilled just looking at them. “Do you remember when you were talking earlier about having important things to fight about? This is one of them.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miles.” I turned on my heel, and he grabbed my arm. Cisco barked once, sharply. Had Flame barked like that last night when a stranger grabbed Marcie in the dark?
I pulled my arm away from Miles and dropped my hand quickly to Cisco’s head. My sweet dog looked embarrassed to have let his nerves, which had to be as edgy as mine, get away with him. “It’s okay, boy.”
Cisco shook himself, grinned, and by way of apology, raised himself on his back paws and placed his front paws on Miles’s torso. Miles obligingly rubbed his shoulders, but his eyes were unsmiling on mine. “Talk some sense into her, will you, fellow?”
Cisco bounced all four paws on the ground and looked up at me with anxious eyes, possibly hoping I would remember his breakfast, possibly sensing, in the way dogs have, the discord between the two humans who were responsible for his care and hoping for nothing more than peace. I could have used a little peace myself at that moment.
Miles said, making an obvious effort to moderate his tone, “Okay, how about this? Let’s get Cisco situated and then talk about it over breakfast.”
“I can’t eat anything. I’m going to throw up.”
A faint smile traced the corners of his lips. “You’re not going to throw up. You’re my hero.”
I tried to smile back and couldn’t manage it.
Miles said, very quietly, “She was wearing your sweatshirt, Raine. When I looked at her… it could have been you. If you had listened to that jerk on the phone last night, if you had left your room…”
I felt my throat clutch. “I would never leave my room in the middle of the night.”
“Are you kidding me?” The anger was back. “You do it all the time. You’ve done it twice since I’ve been here!”
“But I always have Cisco—”
I broke off at the flare of infuriated exasperation in his eyes, because I knew what he was thinking: Marcie had Flame, too. Just like the rest of us, she felt safe with her dog.
I shifted my gaze away, embarrassed and defensive and deeply uncomfortable. “Do what you have to,” I mumbled. “I have Marcie’s dogs in my car. I need to make arrangements for them.”
“Does that mean you’re leaving with me?”
Strong emotion, especially when I don’t understand it, often makes me say stupid things. I snapped back, “I didn’t come here with you, did I?”
A woman’s voice spoke behind me. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
Someone touched my shoulder lightly and I spun around. “What?”
I found myself looking at a well-groomed and perfectly made-up young woman with a microphone in her hand. Behind her was a much less well-groomed young man in baggy jeans and a tee shirt with a camera mounted to his shoulder. She said pleasantly. “Carolina Mays from WCGA News.” She pronounced it Caroleena. “Are you the person who found the victim?”
As I might have mentioned, I’m used to being interviewed, and so is Cisco. I said, “That’s right.”
“Do you mind talking with us about it, Ms.…”
“Stockton,” I supplied. “Raine Stockton.”
Cisco sat beautifully at my side and I saw the camera guy lower his shot to focus on my dog. That was good. At this hour of the morning, I was no competition for Cisco in a beauty contest.
The reporter said, “I understand you were walking your dog when you came upon the body in the woods.”
I sighed and began the story again. “No. My dog is a trained search dog…”
The interview took five or six minutes and included several close-ups of Cisco’s intelligent golden face, which I knew would be reduced to ten seconds on the noon news. When the reporter and cameraman moved off in search of other interviewees, I turned back to Miles, but he was gone.
* * *
It probably shouldn’t have surprised me that Ginny and Aggie were a veritable font of information for the police, and Sarah, of course, was interviewed extensively about the incident with the man who tried to follow her into the building. I waited until Aggie was in between interviews and waved her over.
“How are you holding up?” she insisted, squeezing my arm. “What an awful thing. I can’t believe we were almost out of the parking lot when we saw the ambulance. We wouldn’t have known what happened until we got back tonight! And then it would be too late to find another hotel. Someone needs to tell the people who’ve already gone to the fairgrounds. I texted the trial secretary, but I haven’t heard anything back. I can’t imagine anyone will feel safe here tonight. I know Ginny and I are going straight home after the competition today. No ribbon is worth this. Are you okay? I’d have nightmares for the rest of my life.”
I said, “Do you know what Marcie would want us to do with the dogs? Does she have any relatives or anyone who would come get them?”
Aggie frowned. “Oh, dear. Well, there’s Neil, of course. He is the co-owner of the dogs.”
We looked at each other, but there really was no need to say it. Nonetheless, Aggie did, albeit in a much lower tone. “Of course, since he’s probably going to end up in jail…”
“We don’t know that.”
“Oh, honey, you were right there yesterday when they had that big fight, and everybody heard him threaten her! And that’s not even the worst. Why, Marcie told me…”
I said firmly, “I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of what happened to Marcie. In the meantime, Neil is the legal co-owner of the dogs and he’s the one we need to contact. Do you know how to reach him? The contact name on the dogs’ tags is Marcie’s.”
She still looked reluctant. “He was supposed to run Bryte this afternoon. I guess you could try him at home, but…”
“You don’t happen to know where I could find his number?”
“No, but Marcie said he has a place in town. He shouldn’t be too hard to find.” She shook her head sadly. “It’s just so unbelievable. Maybe someone in the club knows if she has any relatives. I’m sure someone is taking care of her other dogs back home. Ginny and I will ask around when we get to the fairgrounds and see if anyone has any ideas. But if all else fails, we’ll be glad to take the dogs home with us and keep them until things are settled. You know, in case Neil can’t.”
“That would be great. I know her family will appreciate that. Meanwhile, though, I think I should try to find Neil.”
Aggie nodded agreement and returned a wan smile. “If the police don’t find him first.”
~*~
THIRTEEN
Four hours, fourteen minutes before the shooting
Buck found Smokey sitting in front of his trailer in a folding metal chair, drinking a beer. It was only ten in the morning, and Buck was surprised to find him awake. He left the squad car parked behind a rusted-out Pontiac and a Jesus van on blocks and picked his way around a smattering of old tires, metal fire barrels, the remnants of a sofa, and an electric stove without an oven door. He k
ept a wary eye out for Smokey’s pit bull, who had a tendency to charge first and bark later, and rested his hand on his gun holster, just so Smokey could see it.
When he was ten or fifteen feet away, he stopped and called, “Morning, Smokey. Where’s your dog?”
Smokey had let himself go to seed since getting out of prison, not that he’d been much of a fashion model before that. He had a gut on him that wasn’t flattered by the stained wife beater tee shirt and motor-oil splattered jeans he wore, and the scrub of beard that sagged on his face was bristled with gray. He narrowed his bloodshot eyes, drank from the can, and replied when he was ready. “Dead.” He had a long, low bayou accent—his people were from the swamp country of Louisiana—that made the word sound like “dayid.” He spat on the ground and added, “Got hisself rattlesnake bit last August.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Buck proceeded toward the trailer.
“You got issue with me, officer?”
“Just a friendly visit.” Buck looked around until he found a plastic lawn chair that looked as though it would hold him and tilted it forward to drain a puddle of water leftover from the rain shower two days ago. He found a level place in the ground a few feet away from Smokey and set the chair there. He sat down, noticing as he did a flutter of the ragged dishtowel that served as a window curtain behind him. “Who’s in the house?”
“Nobody.”
“Ask Nobody to come out.”
Smokey glared at him for a minute, then bellowed over his shoulder, “Jolene! Bring me another beer!”
In a moment the front door opened and a horse-faced woman in an ill-fitting house dress and animal print slippers came out. She kept a suspicious eye on Buck as she moved past him, giving his chair a wide berth, to hand Smokey the can of beer she brought. Nonetheless, Buck half rose in his chair and gave her a polite nod. “Morning, ma’am.”
“I didn’t do nothin’,” she muttered and scuttled back into the trailer. Buck heard the lock click on the door when she closed it.
Smokey drained the first beer, crumpled it in his fist, and dropped it on the ground. He popped the tab on the second. “That all you come out here for, Deputy? To see who was in my house and what happened to my dog?”
Buck let the mistake in his title slide. Smokey had been away for a while and didn’t know, or care, about his promotion. In a way, that was a good thing. “Just being cautious,” he replied. “Considering the last time I was out here you pulled a gun on me, I figured that’d be smart.”
Smokey grunted. “I had a right.”
“I reckon.”
Smokey took a long draw of his beer. “You got something to say to me, you’d best get on with sayin’ it. I got things to do.”
Buck said, “I’ve always been fair with you, haven’t I, Smokey?”
The other man drank his beer, not looking at him, not talking.
“I never hunted you when I could have. I never hassled you over small stuff, and I let one or two things slide when you know well and good I could’ve put you in County for a month or two if I’d ever had a mind to.”
Still, Smokey said nothing.
“So all that considered, I thought there might not be any harm in a couple of old friends like us having a conversation.”
“I got friends. You ain’t one of them.”
“All right. Acquaintances, then. How’d you like it upstate at Marion?”
Smokey slithered a beady glance at him, held it steady for a minute, and then looked away. “Wadn’t so bad. No picnic, but I’m here, ain’t I?”
“Make any new friends? Maybe get reacquainted with some old ones?”
Smokey said nothing.
“Do you remember a fellow by the name of Jeremiah Allen Berman?”
Smokey sucked on his beer, and Buck waited patiently. At last he said, “So what if I do?”
“Just thought you might’ve run into him upstate. I was wondering if he ever said anything to you about coming back here. About maybe having some unfinished business.”
Smokey gazed fixedly at the right fender of the rusted out Pontiac, swiping his tongue around the rim of the can, gathering dew. “Don’t know why a man’d ever want to come back to this godforsaken butt crack at the end of the earth if’n he didn’t have to.”
“I’m just asking.”
Once again, Smokey slid him a bloody-eyed look. “You gunnin’ for him?”
Buck shrugged. “He hasn’t done anything to me.”
The look turned speculative. “But if you was, and if I was to help you out somehows, you reckon you’d be grateful to ol’ Smokey?”
Buck’s gaze was steady. “As grateful as I’m allowed to be.”
Smokey held his stare for another moment and then gave a short, surprising burst of cackling laughter. “Ain’t nothin’ to me nohow,” he said. “That was one pe-culiar bird. Beat this one girl half to death down in Georgia, raped her, stuffed her in the trunk of his car, then drove her out to the lake and tossed her in, still alive. Least that’s the story he told. Everybody knew it. Did you know it?”
“I wasn’t around back then.”
“He liked to tell stories about what he’d got away with. He got away with a lot.” He drank. “But upstate, now, he got smart. Smart like a fox, you know what I mean? Knew how to play the system. Signed up for these computer classes in vo-hab. Said he was gonna make something of hisself. Even went to chapel sometimes. That’s what the smart ones do. They play the system. But he was still one pe-culiar-ass bird.”
“How’s that?”
“Carried around a picture of a dead guy, for one. Tore it out of a newspaper and had it so long it was all sweaty and crumpled and about to fall apart. But he’d take it out now and then and just look at it with this real scary grin on his face, mutterin’ to hisself. Always said the same thing.”
“What did he say?”
“Something church-like. Lemme think.” Smokey licked the rim of the can again. “Sins of the father, that’s it. ‘Sins of the father, you son of a bitch’ was what he was sayin’, over and over again. ‘Sins of the father.’”
Buck frowned. “That picture. Do you know who it was?”
Smokey shrugged. “Some judge is all I know.” He drained the beer, crumpled the can, and dropped it on the ground beside the other. “Said it was the judge that sent him up.”
* * *
Miles was leaning against the driver’s door of my SUV as I came around the corner of the parking lot, his expression unreadable. I watched him carefully as I approached.
“So,” he said, “where are we going?”
I unlocked the doors with a click of the remote control. “I thought you were checking out.”
“And I thought you were packing.”
“I told you, I have to find someone to take care of these dogs.”
“Let me guess. The guy with the temper and the fancy footwork who, less than twenty-four hours ago, threatened both you and the woman they just took to the morgue.”
Sometimes I really hate it when he outthinks me. Sometimes it saves me a lot of explaining. So I replied defiantly, “That’s right.”
“Do you have his address?”
I had done a search on my smartphone, and only one Neil Kellog came up in Pembroke. I said, “Yes.”
“You couldn’t just have called him, I suppose.”
I could have, but I wanted to see him. I wanted to look into his eyes when I told him about Marcie, and if I didn’t like what I saw there, nothing could make me leave those dogs with him.
Miles pushed away from the door. “I’ll drive. You navigate.”
He held out his hand for the keys, and after a moment, I gave them to him.
I secured Cisco in his seat belt in the back seat, and the two border collies in the cargo area poked their black-tipped noses over the barrier curiously. When all the dogs had greeted each other and I was certain everyone was comfortable, I got into the passenger seat beside Miles and brought up the driving directions on my phone
. “Right turn out of the parking lot,” I said. “Then left on Burke Boulevard for six miles.”
He made the left, easily navigating the Saturday morning traffic with one hand on the steering wheel. Cisco curled up in the bench seat behind me and closed his eyes. The border collies were quiet.
Miles said, “My first wife was gorgeous.”
I glared at him in disbelief, then slumped down in my seat with my arms crossed over my chest. “Thanks a lot.”
“Not as gorgeous as you, of course,” he continued smoothly, “but a head-turner nonetheless. That would have been okay, but she also had this tendency to flirt. I knew it was harmless, but other men would misread her. We use to go out dancing—”
I looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t know you liked to dance.”
“Oh yeah. I’m a hell of a salsa dancer. Do a mean boot-scoot, too. The point is, she would dance with anyone who asked her, and I would spend most of the night feeling like a bouncer, waiting for somebody to get out of line. I didn’t mind if she danced with other guys. I wanted her to have a good time. But she never understood that, while she was out there bringing down the house, I was the one who was in danger of getting my teeth knocked out every time some drunk put his hand in the wrong place. Women just don’t get it. They go off half-cocked with some reckless scheme or another and never think about how it affects the man who’s trying to protect her.”
Miles rarely talked about his ex-wives, and we’d been on the verge of having a nice moment. Now I bristled. “I don’t want or need protecting, thank you very much!”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s the thing you don’t get. Men can’t help it. We’re hardwired to protect the women we care about, and whether you like it or not, somebody’s been doing it for you all your life. Your dad, your uncle, every boyfriend you’ve ever had, your husband. Whether you mean to or not, whether you want to or not, every time you put yourself at risk you’re putting some man who cares about you in danger. And since men are essentially selfish beasts who value our creature comforts, that pisses us off. Which way?”