“We did it!” Tavish clinked his water glass with mine as we tucked into the crab rangoon at Green Jade a few hours later.
I clinked back and grinned. “Yes we did.”
It had taken a variety of fibs, outright lies, and assorted machinations to escape undetected from Lake Potawatomi and arrive incognito in Milwaukee, but thanks to the help of Sharon, Jim, Char, and Brady, we’d pulled it off.
I’d texted Char and told her what we needed, and Tavish had discreetly enlisted the aid of innkeeper Jim. That night at five thirty, Sharon and Char showed up at my front door loudly announcing to anyone who might be within earshot that they were taking me on a girls’ night to help me forget about the upsetting incident earlier. Before we left, we stopped by my mother’s house, dressed for a night on the town. Mom complimented us on our outfits—even remarking on my glitzy black-and-silver scarf—when I asked her to feed Gracie, since the girls were spiriting me away for an evening of fun. Then we Three Musketeers piled into Char’s Honda Civic and took off toward Milwaukee.
Meanwhile, Tavish announced to Melanie, innkeeper Jim, and the other three guests enjoying wine and cheese at the Lake House that he was exhausted from winding up his book tour that day. He excused himself, saying he planned to read in his room for a while and crash early.
An hour later, Jim texted Tavish that the coast was clear and the van was ready and waiting in the garage, keys in the ignition. Tavish slipped down the back stairs wearing a Cubs baseball cap pulled down low, loose windbreaker, and shades—Jim’s trademark style. Then Tavish entered the garage through the house, got into the pristine white van with The Lake House stenciled on its side, and drove in the direction of the Milwaukee airport, rockin’ out to U2. Seven miles out of Lake Potawatomi, as planned, on a mostly deserted stretch of highway, a cop car with flashing lights pulled the van over while Tavish—as Jim—sang along loudly to “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Lookin’ For.”
Brady approached the Lake House van, and as he did, he told us later, what we suspected might happen came to fruition, since Annabelle was keeping a close eye on Tavish’s whereabouts, including where he stayed. A dark-blue minivan passed by with a large copper-haired woman in bright pink at the wheel. Brady—who’s always been good with numbers—memorized the license plate as he raced back to his cop car to give chase. Unfortunately, stalker Annabelle had a head start and eluded him. Brady then returned to the Lake House van and a waiting Tavish on the side of the highway.
Char received a text from Brady telling us Tavish was on his way. Within moments, the white van exited the now-deserted highway and turned down the side road where we had been hiding around a bend laden with foliage. The van pulled in behind us, and we began the game of musical cars. Tavish, minus the windbreaker and baseball cap, hopped out of the van and ran over to Char’s Civic.
Sharon and Char were supposed to exit the car simultaneously and head to the van, where Jim was secretly hiding in the back to drive them home to Lake Potawatomi. Char jumped out of the driver’s seat, but Sharon struggled in the back of the Honda.
“Hurry up!” Char hissed.
“I am! My sleeve got caught on one of Penelope’s buttons!”
Penelope was our fourth passenger—a protective blow-up doll Sharon used as a pretend passenger when she was driving alone at night. Earlier, once the car was parked safely behind the foliage, Char had gotten out, grabbed the blown-up Penelope from the trunk, and thrust her in the back seat. Penelope sported a little black dress and a blonde curly wig in our pathetic attempt to try to make her resemble Sharon.
At last Sharon freed herself from her wannabe doppelgänger. “Have fun yous guys,” she whispered, before running after Char and jumping into the van, where the real Jim now sat at the wheel in his ubiquitous Cubs cap.
Tavish, incognito again in case Annabelle doubled back, slid into the driver’s seat, buckled his seat belt, and started the car.
I belly laughed.
“What?” Tavish pulled down the visor to check himself out in the mirror. He fluffed the long red wig on his head, sucked in his cheeks, opened his eyes wide, and adopted a Scottish accent. “Am I not a dead ringer for Amy Pond from Doctor Who?”
“More like Ron Weasley in Harry Potter with a dash of Reba McEntire.”
“I’ll take that,” he drawled with a country twang. “Reba’s hot.” Then he belted out the chorus of “Fancy” as we three pretend Musketeers headed toward Milwaukee.
From there we took turns sharing and singing a collection of our favorite hits—mostly from the eighties and nineties—until I took it back to the seventies with the most joyous pop band ever. Thanks to the two Mamma Mia movies, the whole world now knows and appreciates Abba. Well, maybe not the whole world. Brady, a classic rocker, turns his nose up at what he calls their “bubblegum sound,” yet I’ve seen his toes involuntarily tapping to “Dancing Queen.” Everyone’s toes tap to “Dancing Queen” unless they’re dead.
Tavish and I finished over-singing the dramatic duet of “SOS” as we pulled up to the restaurant.
“You’re a much better singer than Pierce Brosnan,” I said.
“Thank you. I’ll tell my agent. Maybe he can get me into the next movie.”
“I’ll buy tickets to that.”
Digging into the moo shu pork, I asked Tavish if he had any brothers and sisters.
“One of each. Nigel is three years older than me and an IT geek at a technology company in London, and Felicity’s turning thirty this year.”
“What does Felicity do?”
“Good question.” He gave me a wry smile over the pot stickers. “She’s still trying to find herself. First she thought she wanted to be a veterinarian because she loves animals so much, but when they required her to dissect dogs and cats as part of her training, she dropped out.”
I shuddered, seeing my sweet Gracie’s face before me. “I don’t blame her. I would have as well.” Helping myself to some Peking duck, I asked Tavish, “Do you have any pets?”
“Two dogs. One in New York—Sherlock, a golden retriever I got through a rescue group—and Scout, a spaniel mix back in England, both of whom I’m missing dreadfully. Sherlock doesn’t do well on planes, so when I’m traveling, I have a dog-sitter who comes and stays with him,” he explained. “Same thing with Scout—although leaving him in England was initially a holdover from the stringent quarantine laws the UK used to have. Thankfully, the laws have relaxed considerably in more recent years. But Scout’s not a big fan of flying either and prefers to stay home.”
“Scout as in To Kill a Mockingbird?”
He nodded as he speared a pot sticker and dipped it in soy sauce.
“My first dog was named Atticus,” I said.
“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
We bonded over favorite books and dogs and extended our phones across the table to show off pet pictures. One of Tavish’s photos showed a striking, slim young dark-haired woman in snug jeans standing in front of a two-story stone cottage with a cobalt-blue door cuddling a fluffy spaniel.
“Gorgeous dog. Gorgeous house. Gorgeous girl.”
“That’s my sister Felicity with Scout at our family home. Felicity watches over Scout while I’m in the States—her current job. Before that she was selling beaded handmade jewelry in Portobello Road, but she chucked that.” He released a sigh. “The joy of siblings.”
“Could be worse. You could be an only child like me—a child who’s a constant disappointment to her mother.” I grinned and crossed my leg, and as I did, my skirt fell away from my shin, revealing the huge bruise.
Tavish’s eyes narrowed at the sight. “Is that Annabelle’s work?”
“It looks worse than it is.”
“I could kill her for doing that to you.”
“Do you think she’s the one who hurt—I mean killed—Kristi?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Tavish’s mouth set in a grim line. “The woman is certifiable. She even sent de
ad roses to my ex-wife once.”
“You were married?”
Embarrassment—or was it shame?—flickered across his features. “For a couple years. We divorced over a year ago, and I met Kristi shortly thereafter. I think you Americans call it going from the frying pan into the fire.” He grimaced. “I’m afraid I don’t have a very good track record in choosing the right woman.” Tavish delivered a steady gaze to me. “But I’m trying to change that.”
“Did you and your wife have any kids?”
“Fortunately, no.”
“You don’t like children?”
“I love them, actually. I always wanted to be a father, and told Lucinda that when we were dating. We met when I first moved to LA. A couple of my books had been optioned by movie producers, and I hoped living there and establishing a presence among the film community would help ensure the movies actually got made.” He gave me a wry smile. “Shows how naïve I was. Lucinda was my realtor. She led me to believe she wanted children too, but after we were married about a year, she made it quite clear that she would never spoil her perfect body with stretch marks.”
Perfect body, huh? That seems to be a theme. Shallow much?
“You have a thing for perfect bodies, huh? You must be slumming with me.”
Did I really just say that aloud?
Tavish choked on a pot sticker.
I could feel my cheeks grow hot. “Sorry. My mouth gets ahead of my head sometimes.”
Tavish coughed and then coughed some more, clutching his hand to his throat.
I jumped up, ready to do the Heimlich.
He held up his hand, grabbed his glass of water, and swallowed a huge gulp and then another. Setting down his glass, he blotted his streaming eyes with his napkin.
“You okay?”
He nodded, and I sat back down.
“You warned me you tell it like it is,” Tavish said. “Only this time, you got it wrong—at least half wrong.” He examined his hands. “I admit when I first arrived in Los Angeles, I was gobsmacked by the women there—usually blonde, tanned, with fit, hard bodies and blinding white teeth. The quintessential California girls I had only seen in the films, and quite out of my reach. When I became ‘famous’”—he used air quotes—“those unattainable women took notice of me, which was quite an ego boost to a country boy from England. Unfortunately,” he grimaced, “I allowed that ego to direct my relationships—ones that I eventually came to realize were superficial and empty. That’s why I broke up with Kristi and also why I got divorced.”
Tavish captured my eyes with his. “Going out with you is not slumming. In fact, it is the very antithesis of slumming. Getting to know you is the most genuine encounter I have had with a woman in years. I like you, Teddie. You’re smart, forthright, funny, and unpretentious, and you have an honest beauty those women didn’t possess.”
“I can’t have kids.”
“Sorry?”
“You need to know that ship has sailed. I went into early menopause after chemotherapy, so this body won’t be birthin’ no babies.”
You’re quoting Prissy from Gone With the Wind now? Um, not cool.
Ignoring my inner PC nag, I explained, “I just wanted to put that out there. If you don’t want to go out with me again, I totally understand.”
Tavish exploded with laughter, causing diners at the other tables to turn and stare. “You’re fabulous.”
* * *
After I skunked Tavish at a fun and laughter-filled round of miniature golf—his first time playing—we drove back to Lake Potawatomi in Char’s car. I dropped my date off at the Lake House a few minutes before midnight, where he gave me a chaste peck on the cheek and said good-night.
What’s up with that? Is he going to turn into a pumpkin or something?
Shut up, I told myself. He doesn’t want to rush it. We’re taking things slow.
I’ll say. The only thing slower than that is a dead snail. Let me know when you pick up the pace and the good stuff starts.
I drove Char’s car to my house and parked in the driveway. To complete the fiction of our girls’ night out, we had agreed to tell my mother—if she saw the Honda—that Char and Sharon had both had too much to drink and dubbed me the designated driver. Grateful to see Mom’s lights off, I yawned as I approached my back door, keys in hand.
My feet crunched on something. My eyes flicked to the ground—broken glass. Wide awake now, I peered closer at my dark back door. Why was the light off? I always leave it on when I go out. Then I noticed that the bottom windowpane was shattered. Backing up a few steps, I pulled out my phone and punched in the sheriff’s number. “Brady?” I whispered. “I think someone broke into my house.”
“Where are you?”
“Outside the kitchen door.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said. “Do not, I repeat, do not go inside.”
Then I heard it—the faint sound of a whimper. Gracie.
Gripping my purse like a weapon, I rushed the door, shoving it open, and flipped on the light switch. A white furry body lay motionless on its side on the checkerboard floor.
I screamed.
Chapter Nine
“Ted! Ted!” Brady’s voice crackled through the phone, but I ignored it as I raced, sobbing, to my fallen dog’s side.
“Gracie!”
She didn’t move. She didn’t whimper.
Kneeling beside her, I noticed the remnants of a steak on the floor. I gently placed my head on Gracie’s chest to check for a heartbeat. Nothing.
Fighting back hysteria, I forced myself to calm down and recall my doggy CPR training. Placing my fingers on the inner side of Gracie’s midthigh, I checked for a pulse. Was that a faint hint I felt? I couldn’t tell. Laying my Eskie on her right side, I gently pulled her tongue forward and cleared her airway. Then I placed my hands on her chest and firmly pressed down. I could hear the air moving out. I stopped pressing and listened for the air to move in. Nothing. I pressed down on her chest again, stopped, and listened. Still nothing. Don’t die on me, Gracie-girl. Please don’t die on me.
I repeated the pressure again and again, blinking away tears. Nothing.
Making sure her tongue was in line with her canine teeth, I closed Gracie’s mouth. Then I lowered my mouth to her nose and slowly blew into her nostrils, waiting to see her chest rise. I removed my mouth to allow the lungs to deflate. When her chest did not expand, I blew with more force, closing my hand around her muzzle to seal her lips and watching again to see if her chest filled. I repeated this process every ten seconds, checking Gracie’s pulse.
The blare of a siren filled the house, followed by the sound of pounding feet. Still I kept blowing into Gracie’s nostrils.
I felt a large, gentle hand on my shoulder. “Ted, let me take over. Come on, Ted.”
Lifting my head, I stared up at Brady, the tears streaming down my face. “Please save her.”
Brady continued CPR, pressing down on Gracie’s chest as I watched in abject fear. Then he blew into her nostrils.
Char dropped down beside me and put her arm around me. “Doc Johnson’s on her way,” she said, over the roaring in my head. “Brady called her. She should be here any minute.”
I nodded dumbly, unable to speak or tear my eyes away from my dog.
“What in the world is going on?” My mother’s strident voice pierced the crowded kitchen. Then she saw Gracie on the ground. “Oh my God, what happened?”
I ignored Mom because I saw something too—the faintest of movements. “Her chest moved!” I shouted. “Brady, she’s breathing!”
He checked her pulse. “She is!”
“Okay, everyone, out of my way,” ordered a female voice.
“I beg your pardon,” Mom said.
“Move it, lady!” Veterinarian Emily Johnson pushed my mother aside as she hurried over to kneel beside Gracie and Brady. “Everyone clear out and give us some room here.”
Char ushered Mom and me out the back door.
&
nbsp; “I don’t want to leave her,” I said, squinting through wet eyes over my shoulder at the trio of figures on the ground.
“It’ll be okay,” Char said soothingly. “She’s breathing now and in the hands of professionals. They’ll take good care of her.”
Mom led us into her stark minimalist cottage, where she offered us a glass of water. “Sorry, I’m out of tea,” she said, “and it’s too late for coffee.”
But drinks were the last thing on my mind. “Mom, what time did you feed Gracie and what exactly did you feed her?” My voice cracked. “Think carefully.”
“I don’t need to think carefully. I fed her the canned dog food you left in the fridge, mixed with a few pieces of cut-up chicken breast, per your specific instructions, at seven o’clock.”
“And then what?”
“Then she ate her dinner, and when she was finished, I let her into the backyard to do her business.” Mom wrinkled her nose. “She left you a present—one I wasn’t about to touch.”
“And then?”
“Then what?” she said, confused.
“After Gracie pooped, then what did you do?”
“I took her back inside, where I made sure her water bowl was full—also per your quite specific instructions—locked the back door, and went to bingo.”
“What time did you get home?”
“Around ten. It was a bad night—I didn’t win anything.”
“Did you check on Gracie then?”
“No, why should I? I fed her earlier as you asked, took her outside, where I made sure she relieved herself, then brought her back inside, where she curled up in her dog bed fat and happy.”
“Gracie’s not fat!” I glared at my mother. “And she’s certainly not happy right now.” Tears splashed down my cheeks. I dashed them away. “Do you not even understand that someone broke into my house and tried to kill my dog tonight?”
Mom’s hands clutched at the neck of her silk kimono. “Your house was broken into? Did they steal anything? What about my mother’s Haviland china?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care!” I stormed out and hurried back to my house.
Murder Most Sweet Page 8