Bedeviled Eggs (15 page)

“Dang,” said Doogie.

“Double dang,” echoed
one of the deputies.

They all stood around
and looked at each other then,
shuffling feet, feeling bad, trying to keep warm.

“We should be getting
back,” Petra said, tugging gently
at Suzanne’s sleeve.

“Sheriff,” said
Suzanne, “do you think one of your dep
uties could give Petra a ride
back to town? I’ve got some
thing
I...”

“I have to head back,
ma’am,” said one of the deputies,
a blond surfer type whose nametag read Smalley.

“Go ahead, Petra,”
Suzanne told her. “I’m going to hang around here for a little while longer.”
She gazed at the sher
iff. “You’re going to bring in an ambulance and tow
truck,
right?”

Doogie nodded as
Petra, somewhat reluctantly, fol
lowed
along with Smalley.

“What’s up?” asked
Doogie, once they’d pulled away.

“I ran into Mike O’Dell
some thirty minutes ago.”

Doogie set his jaw
and gave Suzanne a hard stare.
“Where?”

“At that little
general store,” said Suzanne. “Cappy’s.
He looked ...” She was going to
say angry, but instead she
said,
“He looked purposeful.”

“What do
you mean?” asked Doogie. “Like maybe he
was up to something?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You see anything
interesting in his car?” asked Doogie.

‘Truck,”
said Suzanne. “And if you’re asking about guns
or crossbows, the answer is no.
But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Do
you think Wilbur might have had a run-in with O’Dell? Maybe Wilbur was trying
to work the Peebler case and asked one
too many questions?”

“Don’t know,” said
Doogie. “It’s possible.” He hitched
at his sweatpants, then walked over to Wilbur’s
cruiser. Su
zanne followed.

Doogie
opened the driver’s side door, reached in gin
gerly, and grabbed a spiral-bound
notebook off the front
seat. He paged through it and said, “Nothing’s written
in
Wilbur’s
patrol activity log. Not a darned thing.”

‘Too bad.”

“But I
doubt if Wilbur was way out here on a joyride. So
he must have had something going,”
mused Doogie.

“You
think O’Dell somehow got the drop on him?”
asked Suzanne.

“I don’t know,” said
Doogie. “Maybe.”

“Or he
was lured out here,” said Suzanne. “Face it,
you yourself said Wilbur was a
nice guy, but investigating
wasn’t
his strong suit.”

Doogie scuffed the
toe of his shoe in the soft dirt. “Two
murders in three days?” he said. “Looks
like it might not be
my strong
suit, either.”

Five
minutes later, an ambulance screeched to a halt and
the same men Suzanne
had encountered Sunday night, Dick
Sparrow and Sid Pauley, jumped out They grabbed a
gur
ney
and rattled it anxiously across the bumpy asphalt road.

“Is it
true?” asked Sparrow, looking grim. “Was Wilbur
shot?”

“Afraid
so, boys,” said Doogie. “And there’s no need
to hurry. We gotta wait for the
state crime lab to show up. We’re going to handle this one strictly by the
book.”

“Can we see him?”
asked Pauley.

Doogie hesitated. “As
long as everything is kept in com
plete confidence.”

“We’ve got
battery-operated tripod lights in the truck,”
offered Sparrow. “We could set
them up out there.”

Doogie nodded. “Maybe
we can get a jump on the in
vestigation,
after all.”

Suzanne
took off just as the crime scene unit arrived in their shiny, black,
state-of-the-art van. No sense hanging
around because, chances are, the
state guys wouldn’t
let
her hang around. And she’d already traded theories with
Doogie...

Blasting
down the road, Suzanne continued to shiver
even though the heater was
cranked up full blast.

Nerves,
she told herself.
Just
nerves and some unwel
come adrenaline trying to get the best of me.

Punching on the
radio, she got the night DJ at KLGN
and listened halfheartedly to a Muzak version of “Do
You
Know the Way to San Jose”

Not very good. Awful,
in fact.

She took
her eyes off the road, momentarily, to switch
stations, and when she glanced
back, her headlights re
vealed a dog hobbling right down the center line!

Pumping
her brakes hard, Suzanne swerved wildly, miss
ing the poor creature by a
matter of inches. Then she rocked
to a stop on the narrow berm and drew a shaky
breath.

Deep in
Suzanne’s heart was a pity and concern for any
injured animal, domestic or
wild. So, of course, she shut
off
her engine and hopped out.

The dog
was standing still as a statue now, staring at her.
Watching. Waiting.

“Here, boy.” Kneeling
down on the pavement, Suzanne
held out both arms to welcome him. “Come,” she said,
think
ing
maybe the dog might respond to a familiar command.

Instead, the
little-dog just lay down and cowered.

Oh no. Poor thing. Did
I hit him?

It was a
mongrel type, but cute in a long-haired Disney
dog kind of way. Maybe a
collie-shepherd mix.

Suzanne
decided to try again. “Come on, boy.” She let loose a low, cajoling whistle. “Come
on, you can do it.”

The dog lifted his
head. It watched nervously for a long couple of seconds, then it slowly stood
up and began limp
ing toward her. When Suzanne extended her hand again, she felt warm
breath and a soft, wet tongue.

“You want to be
friends? Let’s be friends.” Suzanne
reached out and touched the dog’s neck. The dog
trembled

but didn’t
pull away. “You okay? Sure you are.” She ca
ressed his shaggy
brown-and-white pelt, moving her hand
in slow, repetitive circles from his neck down to
his chest
and
sides. When her fingers touched something sticky and
moist, she knew he must be injured.
Uh-oh,

“You want to come home
with me, fella? Maybe get something good to eat?” From the looks of him, he
could use a good meal. And a safe place to sleep.

“C’mon.” Suzanne
tapped her hand against her leg and
slowly walked around the car to the passenger
side. Mi
raculously,
the dog followed. When she pulled open the
passenger side door, the dog put
his front paws on the front
seat
and let her gently boost him in. “Attaboy.”

Suzanne dialed her
cell phone one-handed as she drove,
knowing she was probably a traffic hazard, but not
really
caring.

When Sam Hazelet
picked up on the second ring, she
said, without preamble, “Can you come over to my
house?
Right away?”

“What’s wrong?” Worry
permeated Sam’s voice. He
could obviously tell from Suzanne’s tone that something
was seriously out of whack.
Where to
start?
“Deputy Halpern was shot.” “At your place!”

“No, no,” said
Suzanne, realizing she had some serious
‘splaining to do. “Out in the
country. Along the Quilt Trail. Anyway, he’s dead. Murdered. Sheriff Doogie’s
there with
him
now. It’s kind of a long, involved story. But the thing is, I found a dog, too.
And I think he might be hurt pretty bad.”

“Are
you
okay?”
Sam asked, quickly.

“I’m fine,” Suzanne
told him, then paused, her voice catching. “I could take the dog to the vet,
but... I’d like to
talk to you. In fact, I’d like to see you tonight.” She let out a
shaky sigh. “Sorry if
I’m not making a whole lot of sense.”

“I’ll be
there in five minutes,” said Sam. “You can tell
me the whole story then.”

“Better make it ten,
I’
m still on the road.”

But when
Suzanne pulled into her driveway, Sam was
standing there, bouncing up and
down on the balls of his
feet,
waiting expectantly.

Jumping
from her car, Suzanne launched herself into his
arms. She didn’t quite burst
into tears, but the thought did
cross her mind. And the hug was oh so warm and comfort
ing. But of course,
there was the injured dog to take care
of first.

Sam
thrust a black medical bag into Suzanne’s arms. “
Take this, I’ll get the dog.”

“Just
carry him into the kitchen,” she said, “then we can
work on him there.”

“Baxter?” said Sam,
gathering up the injured dog.

“He’ll be cool.”

And Baxter was cool.
Like a good canine nurse, Bax
stood by the kitchen table, looking somber yet interested
as
Sam
examined the dog with practiced hands.

“Cuts,” said Sam. “Lots
of cuts and puncture wounds
with some being fairly deep. Tell me about Wilbur
Halpern.”

“I’m
getting to that,” said Suzanne. “You think some
body was deliberately cruel to
this dog?” The thought
struck
dread in her heart.

“It’s
certainly possible. Do you have any hydrogen per
oxide or Betadine?”

“Peroxide,”
said Suzanne. She ran to the first-floor
bathroom and grabbed the bottle
from beneath the sink.
Grabbed a couple of old towels, too. Then she ran back
and
handed everything to Sam.

“First I’m going to
clean up these wounds,” said Sam.

“What
should I do?” asked Suzanne. She nibbled ner
vously at her fingertips.

“Maybe... make a pot
of coffee?”

“Sure.” Suzanne
busied herself, measuring out Jamai
can Blue Mountain coffee, keeping one eye on Sam
as he
worked on the dog. “You
need any help?”

Sam reached into his
bag and pulled out a small vial
along with a syringe. “I’m going to give him a shot of
lidocaine to numb things up. Then I’m going to close this
larger wound.”

“So a few stitches,”
Suzanne murmured. She glanced
sideways and grimaced as Sam administered the injection.
“Ouch.”

“I think
this is bothering you more than the dog,” ob
served Sam.

“I think you may be
right”

By the
time the dog was numbed up, the coffee was
perked and ready to serve.

“You’re going to use
that?” Suzanne asked, looking at the contraption in Sam’s hand. It looked like
an industrial
staple gun from
the Home Depot

“Staple gun,” said Sam
“Easier than stitches. Quicker.”

“I
’ve always wondered,
don’t those little thingies hurt
when
they dig in?”

“Not with lidocaine.
Seriously, we use staples on patients
who’ve had open-heart surgery. On kids with head
lacs.”

“Okay,” said Suzanne.
“You’re the doctor.”

“And a
lucky thing that is,” said Sam, wiggling his
eyebrows and doing a sort of
Groucho Marx impression.
“Okay,
now
please tell me about the deputy.”

“Petra
and I were driving the Quilt Trail...” Suzanne
began.

“On a
dark and stormy night?” Sam pulled the trigger
and planted a staple.

“It didn’t start out
that way,” said Suzanne. “But,
granted, we dawdled a bit Then Petra wanted to catch one
more quilt square...”

“Okay,” said Sam.
Another staple went in.

“And we ended up
driving this backcountry road,
searching for an old schoolhouse, and figured we’d taken
a
wrong
turn...” She filled him in on the rest of their strange encounter and finished
with, “And that’s how I discovered
poor Wilbur Halpern. Dead.”