Chasing Can Be Murder

by June Whyte

  The tantalizing smell of crisply cooked bacon wafted past me as I clattered to the bottom of the stairs. Crisply cooked bacon? Impossible. Unless the Food Fairies had paid me a visit overnight. Juices on full alert, I skidded through the kitchen doorway and allowed the scent of bacon, tomatoes, sausages and eggs to caress my nostrils and infiltrate my taste buds. Oh yum!Oh bliss! Of course Scuzz must be the culprit. And considering my refrigerator boasted nothing but cheese, bread and a couple of varieties of pet loaf, I also figured he must have had an early morning rendezvous with the local 24/7 store to buy the ingredients for this surprising feast.

  I smiled, imagining the big guy dressed in his biker gear wielding an egg-flipper, my frilly apron like a little pink dot tied around his middle. Theodore Samuel Parkington the Third would make someone an excellent wife.

  A note was propped up against my empty coffee mug. I picked it up and scanned the perfect copperplate writing: Katrina, I let Tater and Lucky out for a tinkle. Breakfast is in the oven and you’ll find hot coffee on the stove. Jake said to let you sleep in. He’s started working the dogs so enjoy your breakfast. See you tonight. And remember, don’t talk to any strangers. Your pal, Scuzz.

  Now I had a mate and a pal. All I needed to complete the Kat Friendship Club was a buddy!

  17

  Everyone knows the old saying: you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink. Well, there’s another one in the greyhound game. You can lead a dog to a hydro-bath but you can’t always lug him up the ramp.

  I’d already clipped Lofty’s toenails and treated a couple of sore muscles in his right shoulder with the ultrasonic machine but figured a hydro-bath would top off his preparations for Thursday night’s race.

  There was only one snag. Big goofy Lofty was averse to anything wet. When he realized the contraption we were heading toward looked suspiciously like a bath, he slammed on his brakes and I figured it would take a front-end loader to budge him. Jake had already left for a protest meeting, something to do with the rape of the River Murray, or maybe it was the rape of the parklands.

  Whatever…

  I was totally on my own here.

  “Come on, Lofty, darling,” I wheedled, trying to tempt the reluctant dog up the ramp with a piece of cheese. “You’ll love the hydro-bath. Honest. Not only will the warm water relax your muscles, but this fabulous shampoo I picked out especially for you, is guaranteed to leave you smelling like rose petals.”

  There was a grunt behind me. “Huh! Rose petals? No wonder the big guy’s refusing. I’d object to smelling like a girl, too. Kat, when are you going to learn that guy-dogs, like guy-people, do not appreciate flowery shampoos? They prefer to smell more masculine. You know, like dustbin lids, or footy sweat.”

  I took a quick glance over my shoulder and tossed a grin at the speaker. “Is that why your hair sometimes gives off that fragrant, washed-in-a-mud-puddle bouquet?”

  Ben looked exactly like he did in my dream. He wore that same tight-lipped smile, raised eyebrows and pissed off, you-chose-King Kong-over-me expression. But thankfully, his eyes were normal, the color of rich dark chocolate and twice as enticing.

  “Okay, Lofty,” I gasped, struggling to prevent the dog from slipping his collar and darting back to his kennel. “If you behave yourself, I’ll buy a special bottle of Testosterone shampoo tomorrow—especially for you.”

  “D’ya need any help there, mate?” Ben’s voice was slow, almost drawling, as he watched me pit my muscles against the 42kg dog. Lofty had suddenly worked out that if he lay on the floor and played dead, it would take twofront-end loaders to lift him into the bath.

  “No, no, I’m in total control.” I glared first at Ben then down at the prostrate canine. Cheese treats weren’t working so I dug in my pocket and brought out the big guns. Tasty squares of dried liver. Hey, at that point I’d have bribed him with my very last Mars bar, except chocolate, due to its caffeine content, tests positive in a swab.

  And wasn’t that what I was going all out to avoid? Enter a drug-free dog in the race and ignore the psycho’s warning.

  Lofty took one sniff of the liver and scrambled to his feet. Mouth open, tail wagging, he lumbered up the ramp and devoured the liver treats in one chomp. I quickly checked my fingers. Thankfully they were all still intact, so I slammed the hydro-bath door closed and switched on the water.

  Ben ambled closer. “You okay after last night, mate?” He scratched his chin. “Sorry if I sounded a bit grumpy when you rang.”

  I didn’t answer. Too busy preventing a wet bucking mass of dog-flesh from leaping over the side of the bath and disappearing into the horizon. Instead, while directing the warm water spray onto the dog’s right shoulder, I flicked my head in the direction of the treatment table, indicating for Ben to take a look.

  “Did this come with the dead flowers?” he asked, lifting the message from inside the blood smeared envelope with two fingers.

  “Mmm…” Lofty bucked again. I checked the temperature of the water, noted it was still okay at 30 degrees Celsius, so directed the water pressure along his back.

  After reading the note, Ben tossed it back on the table. “Sniveling coward!” he growled and slammed the palm of his hand against the wall. “Shows how low the mongrel is prepared to go.”

  I reckoned he’d already proved how low he was prepared to go by killing Matt, but was having too much trouble with Lofty to vocalize my opinion.

  Ben paced up and down, his fists closed so tightly the knuckles showed white. “One thing this sick note proves,” he said at last. “There is a betting scam going on. But what I don’t understand is why kill Matt?”

  I grunted my affirmation. I guess if we knew the why, we’d likely know the who.

  Ben’s voice grew thoughtful. “Could Matt have been involved in the scam, developed cold feet and threatened to expose the boss, so he had to be silenced?”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I agreed. At last Lofty had relaxed which allowed me to take part in the conversation.

  “Anyway, what are you going to do about this?” Ben flicked the anonymous note with one finger.

  “Use it for loo paper?”

  He must have taken me seriously because he didn’t return my smile. Instead he instructed me to put the message in a plastic bag for forensic evidence then contact Peter Manning, the dog’s owner.

  “Look, I’ll cover the note with plastic in case we need to contact the police later but I’m not bringing Pete in on this.”

  “Lofty is Peter’s dog,” Ben insisted. “Don’t you think he deserves to know what’s going on?”

  “That’s the thing—nothing willbe going on. I’m ignoring the message. So there’s no need to tell Peter anything.”

  I guess I had a horrible suspicion Lofty’s owner might want me to play along with the threat. After all, he could always place a bet on the second favorite in the race and win a bundle that way. Where most people had pupils in the middle of their eyes, Tire Man Pete had dollar signs.

  “Anyway,” I added, grinning at my fellow sleuth as I hurriedly changed the subject. “Guess what?”

  “You put flea powder in the gorilla’s boxer shorts before he left this morning?”

  I shook my head in denial. “No, I’ve been nowhere near Scuzz’s shorts. In fact,” I mused, “I don’t know if he even wears underwear. If he does, judging by his taste in sheets and pillow cases, he probably wears hot pink satin boxers with maybe a sprinkling of little yellow teddy bears gamboling across them.”

  Ben’s grin widened into a paddock. “You’re kidding. Right?”

  “Well…it’s only a guess.”

  “So what’s this about his sheets and pillow case?”

  “None of your business.” Trust me to open my big mouth and give Ben ammunition to use against his nemesis. “And I want you to promise this conversation about Scuzz’s mythical boxers stays between you and me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?” I asked warily.

&n
bsp; “I won’t tell the big bad biker you said he wears pink satin boxers with yellow teddies.”

  “Ben…”

  “Your words not mine.”

  Resisting the urge to spray the big lug with the hose, I gave him a raspberry before continuing. “If we can leave Scuzz’s underwear alone for a couple of minutes, what I’ve been trying to tell you is…I’ve found a clue. In fact, it’s a real ripper of a clue.” I turned Lofty around inside the hydro-bath so I could spray the muscles on his left side. “With any luck, this clue might even lead us to Matt’s murderer.”

  “Go on then…fill me in.”

  “There’s a piece of paper in my back pocket. Think you could get it out for me? My hands are wet and the paper’s fragile.” Ben sauntered up behind me, his closeness making me almost drop the hose. “Um…be gentle now.”

  I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of pine trees and fresh air emanating from Ben’s body. He was so close his warm breath tickled the back of my neck. And when I felt his fingers slowly slip into the back pocket of my jeans, I had to clench my stomach muscles and hang on to the side of the bath to stop from moaning and melting into a pool of liquid lust at his feet.

  “This it?” he asked, pulling out the burnt paper and moving back a step to study his find. Evidently having his hand on my bum had done bugger all for him, whereas I wanted to drag him closer, kiss him senseless, rip off his shirt, undo his belt.…

  “What am I supposed to be looking at?” Ben asked.

  I cleared my throat and told my unruly hormones to go take a cold shower. “Remember when we were searching for clues at Matt’s house?”

  “And we found zilch?” He placed the clue next to the threatening note on the table and selected a couple of thick dog towels from the cupboard.

  “Well, I found that account in Matt’s fireplace.”

  “And?”

  “As you can see, it’s from a storage depot. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but hey, Matt must have something important stored at that depot, otherwise, why burn the evidence?”

  After I undid the ramp on the hydro-therapy unit and led a much subdued Lofty out, Ben took over. He straddled the dog’s body and began toweling him dry with strong circular strokes. Which was very distracting. I ran my wet hands through my hair until it stood on end like a porcupine’s quills. Not that Ben would notice. He wouldn’t notice if I took my head off and replaced it with a pumpkin.

  “I’ve decided to pay Saftee Storage Depot a visit tomorrow,” I told him. “See if I can sweet-talk the receptionist into letting me have a nosy in Matt’s storage box.” I watched the muscles under Ben’s faded shirt ripple and bulge as he rubbed Lofty’s coat dry. “Um…” I gulped down another load of itchy hormones and fastened my top teeth into my bottom lip to stop from visibly drooling. “Want to tag along?”

  “Sure, what say I meet you here around the same time?” Ben fastened a rug around the dog’s middle and handed the lead back to me. As he did so his hand brushed against mine setting the resultant flesh alive with electricity.

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t worry about getting a look inside Matt’s storage box. If the receptionist at this depot is female, just leave it to the master.” He winked, threw me a sexy, I’m-hot grin. The grin that invariably sent butterflies crashing crazily around in my stomach, slamming into my liver and tickling my bladder. “After all,” he concluded, as he sauntered towards the open kennel-house door. “Sweet-Talk, is my middle name.”

  18

  In the half-hour it took to drive to Globe Raceway for the heats of the Derby, a cold gusty wind sprung up from nowhere and the sky turned to grey porridge overhead.

  Hunched deep into the collar of my fur-lined denim jacket, I queued behind a dozen other handlers, all waiting to present dogs to the steward. It was the steward’s job to check registration papers against the dog’s ear-brands or micro-chips before allowing us to move into the kennel-house where the dog would be weighed and then checked over by the vet before being kenneled.

  The ten Derby qualifying heats scheduled for the afternoon’s program were for male greyhounds born two years ago, on or before July first. My only runner in the Group Two series was Wonder Boy, a chunky fawn youngster who’d already won a couple of races in the city.

  Cozy in his warm tartan rug, Wonder Boy, or Clark, as he was affectionately known to his friends, stood beside me on a tight lead, ears pricked, nose flared.

  In front of us an overexcited black-and-white greyhound twisted and bounced on the end of his lead, almost upending his petite handler, Leanne Jackman.

  “I don’t know what’s got into Gumbee,” Leanne groaned, pushing the dog down from around her neck for the third time in as many minutes and straightening her jacket. “It’s lucky he’s in an early race. He’s dribbling up a storm. Reckon if he had to hang around and wait for the last, I’d be wringing water from his kennel-mattress.”

  Without a spare hand to hunt for a tissue, she hunched one shoulder and used it to wipe a glob of the dog’s dribble from her cheek.

  “Is he normally so over the top?” I asked, gently pulling Clark from the path of Gumbee’s spiraling leaps.

  “He’s a spirited lad—but not usually an idiot.”

  Nearby, I could see several trainers walking aimlessly around encouraging their dogs to squat or cock their legs on their allocated patch of grass before tacking on the end of the queue. The line shuffled forward slowly. All heading towards the official steward who read ear-brands, scanned micro-chips and checked each dog’s racing papers. He stood at the entrance to a large, state-of-the-art, glass fronted kennel-house through which both trainers and punters could view the dogs in their holding cages and observe first-hand the unfolding process of a well-organized race day.

  From his position behind me in the line, Dane Taylor, a professional trainer with around sixty greyhounds in work, sidled closer. “Hey, Leanne,” he whispered in his this-is-just-between-you-and-me voice. “Are you sure someone didn’t dopethat dog of yours?”

  “Of course I’m sure!” Leanne snapped. She shook her head and eyed Dane as if she thought he needed a good psychiatrist. Or a good bat over the head. “Our German shepherd wouldn’t let Godin our backyard, without my say-so. If a stranger tried to sneak in, he’d lose an arm or leg in the process.” She frowned, her pixie face angry. “Anyway, what brought on a damn fool question like that?”

  Dane cast a furtive glance over his shoulder then spoke from the corner of his mouth. “I hear there’s a bit of it goin’ on. Dopin’ I mean.” He paused for effect. “Did you hear what happened to old Art Basset?”

  Leanne, not losing the frown, shook her head.

  Art Basset was the guy who’d rubbed me up the wrong way the night Lucky decided to stay in the starting boxes. “Knowing that cantankerous old fart,” I growled, moving up in line as another greyhound checked into the kennel-house, “he probably bought himself a punch in the nose. Did he tell some female her skirt was too short or she should be home cooking her man’s tea instead of gallivanting around the track looking like a slut?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” Dane answered, looking confused. “But word’s around his dog swabbed positive to caffeine.”

  “Rubbish!” I snorted. “Art’s a cranky old geezer but he’s not stupid. He told me once he’s been in the game for over fifty years and not one of his dogs ever tested positive to anything but good old-fashioned raw meat. And I believe him.”

  Jason Black, the trainer in front of Leanne, turned around to join in the conversation, his face flushed and animated. If he was a dog I reckon he’d be panting and drooling with excitement, not unlike Gumbee.

  “It’s not a rumor,” he assured us, spittle gathering in both corners of his mouth. “It’s true. You know Pitachi Gambler,that slow mutt of Art’s?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, last week he opened up at 25/1 and then shortened to even money favorite three minutes before the race. And you know wh
at—the bloody dog won in the best time of the day. 29.80? No wonder the stewards called for a swab. Everyone knows Pitachi Gamblercan’t break thirty seconds. Even on a good day when he gets a clear run, he’s only a 30.50 dog.” Jason paused, shifted his head close to mine and breathed the pungent odor of garlic into my face. “A mate of mine was catching another dog in that race,” he went on in a theatrical whisper. “He reckons after Art’s dog passed the finishing post, its eyes were rolling, it was frothing at the mouth and when it staggered and fell, he thought the dog had croaked its last.”

  Dane, not wanting to miss a word, shuffled closer, sandwiching Leanne and me between the two sweaty male bodies. I held my breath as I didn’t fancy gassing by garlic. Leanne looked ready to knee one of them in the whatnots. Instead she elbowed her way into the clear and glared at the two offenders.

  “Watch what you’re at, you morons.” Two bright spots of red burned her cheeks. “You could have trodden on Gumbee’s foot.”

  “Er…sorry, love.” Jason apologized, stepping back quickly. Then, too excited to waste any more time on remorse, he continued. “And a guy at the pub told me the stewards rubbed Art out for six months.”

  “That’s gotta be right,” put in Dane nodding like one of the three wise men. “’Cause both Art’s dogs have been scratched from today’s meeting.”

  By the time I’d had Clark’s micro-chip scanned, I’d learned Art professed to know nothing about how the caffeine was administered. And by the time Clark had been through the weighing machine and over the vet’s table, I’d discovered Art had been so upset by these accusations he’d collapsed and been rushed to hospital with a suspected heart attack.

  When I emerged from the kennel-house, two of Clark’s owners, Marjory and Bob Sanders grabbed me. Residents from the RSL Aged Care Facility that syndicated Clark, they always attended his races. Marjory was eighty and Bob a couple years older.

  As I approached, I could see them chatting to a short dark-haired guy, who, when he turned around, proved to be Sean Basset, Art’s youngest son.