Home of the Brave (Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries Book 9) (7 page)

“All right then,” said Margie, pushing up from the table, “let’s take a look around.  I really think you’re going to like …”

Cisco stood excitedly to greet Melanie, and Pepper pulled at the leash as she galloped up the stairs toward her hero.  Melanie, flushed and sweaty with running, didn’t correct her, possibly because she was too out of breath.  I said sharply, “Cisco, sit,” which he did, even though Pepper grinned and nudged him and mouthed his ears.  I restrained myself from reaching for Pepper’s leash.

Instead I said, “Everyone, this is my friend Melanie.”

The others smiled and started to greet her, but Melanie ignored them, pushing at her glasses as she tried to catch her breath. “Um, Raine,” she managed, “there was a man down by the lake.  Kind of creepy looking.  He was watching us.  And he had a gun.”

Chapter
Seven

B
uck said, “I’m real sorry to have to bring you this news, Jessie.  It’s a hell of a thing.”

They sat on Jessie Connor’s front porch, a narrow corridor with just enough room for four rocking chairs, two of which looked sturdy enough to support a man’s weight.  Buck sat in one of them, Jessie in the other.  Jessie’s walker sat to one side of his chair, his oxygen tank beside it, while Jessie, disregarding both, sucked on a cigarette.  Buck, keeping one eye on the oxygen tank, had made sure he chose the chair closest to the steps.

“Blessed day in the morning,” muttered Jessie, the cigarette dangling between his lips.  “Burnt up, you say.  Who’d do a thing like that?”

“Well, that’s what we’re trying to find out,” Buck said.  “The investigators found a couple of oxygen tanks inside the car.  Makes sense they might’ve accelerated the fire.”  He paused to give Jessie a chance to make the connection between the cigarette he now smoked, and the oxygen tank at his feet.  Buck saw no light go on in the other man’s eyes, so he went on, “Do you normally keep oxygen in your car?”

“Now what’d I do a fool thing like that for?”

“So that would be a no?”

He drew on the cigarette.  “My boy takes care of all that.  You’d have to ask him.”

Buck made a note.  “The thing is, there was a body inside the car.  We don’t know who it was yet.”

Jessie’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a fact?  Well, served him right, if you ask me.  Burnt up, you say?”

Buck nodded patiently.  “Yes, sir.  What I was wondering is if you could remember exactly when was the last time you saw the car in your garage?”

A cylinder of ash half an inch long extended precariously from the cigarette.  Buck watched it warily.

Jessie said, “Like I told you.  I don’t drive no more.  All I know is that when my boy went to get it to drive me to town on Tuesday, it was gone.”

“You son lives with you, right?”

The ash cylinder dropped harmlessly to the knee of Jessie’s twill pants.  He brushed it off absently with a speckled hand.  “That’s right.”

“Where is he now?”

“At work, I reckon.  He does odd jobs here and there, you know.  Can’t find nothing permanent since the plant closed.”

Buck nodded sympathetically.  “I’d like to talk to him when he gets a chance, about when was the last time he saw your car.”

Jessie grunted. “Hell, I can tell you that.  Drove me to church on Sunday, drove me home.  Stabled her in the garage.  Next thing I knew …”  He stopped and frowned at the nearly dead end of his cigarette, which glowed faintly ruby. “Wait a minute.  I reckon he might’ve taken it out Monday night, to his meeting.  It was raining, I recollect, and he don’t like to drive the jeep in the rain on account of the roof leaking.”

Buck looked up from his notes, interested.  “What meeting?”

“He used to drink, you know,” Jessie confided.  “Don’t no more.  Goes to meetings instead.  Do you reckon it was one of them drunks that stole my car?”

Buck gave him a reassuring smile.  “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, served them right for burning up, if they did.”

“Yes, sir.”  Buck stood.  “We’re going to send you a copy of the police report in the mail.  You’ll need it for your insurance company.  It might take a week or so, though.  Meantime, if your son would give me a call when he has the chance, it sure would speed things up.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll tell him, I surely will.”  Jessie let the cigarette butt drop to the porch floor and ground it out with an unsteady toe. 

Buck moved closer to the steps.  “You know, Jessie, you really shouldn’t smoke this close to an oxygen tank.”

Jessie cackled and fumbled in his shirt pocket for another cigarette.  “You sound just like my doctor, son.  I’ll tell you what I told him.  They’re going to have to pry my last cigarette out of my cold dead fingers, and that’s a fact.”

Buck watched as he stuffed another cigarette between his lips and patted his pockets for the lighter.  Buck did not feel it was his place to point out that the lighter was on the magazine-littered table beside Jessie’s chair, right where he’d left it.  He said instead, “There might be some other fellows by to ask you questions, from the state police. “

Jessie waved him off, still searching for the lighter.  “I’ll tell ’em to talk to you.”

Buck started down the steps.  “You take care now.” 

“Say, Deputy.”

Buck turned.  Most of the locals still couldn’t remember that he was no longer a deputy, and he was used to it by now.

“Didn’t I hear you was running for sheriff?”

“That’s right.”

Jessie finally found the lighter on the table and picked it up.  He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.  “Well, you help me get my money out of that car, and you’ve got my vote.”

Buck said, “I appreciate that.”  And he even managed a smile before he turned to go back to his car.

Once there, he used his cell phone to call the office.  It was the quickest way.  “Say, Annabelle, do me a favor real quick.  Find out when the AA meetings are held in town.”

There was a silence broken only by the clack of computer keys as he started the engine and put the car in gear, beginning the three-point turn that would take him out of the driveway.  She came back with, “Every other Thursday, in the basement of the Baptist church.”

Buck completed the turn, his expression thoughtful as he glanced back at Jessie on the porch.  Jessie lifted his hand to him.  Buck returned the wave.  “Yeah,” he said.  “That’s what I thought.”

He drove down the drive and made the turn onto the highway, wondering why Jessie had lied.  Or, more likely, why his son had.

Chapter
Eight

“P
robably just some hunter.”  Willie Banks spat a stream of tobacco out the window of the pickup as we bounced down the rutted trail toward the lake.  “Or some damn fool tourist, out hiking and got lost.  Holiday weekend, they come out of the woodwork.”  He knew as well as I did that it wasn’t even close to hunting season, and possibly to keep me from pointing that out, he said, “You hear Jeb Wilson’s leading the parade this year?”

I said that I had, and grabbed for the door frame as the truck hit another hole.

Margie, with her typical no-nonsense efficiency, had called Willie immediately and demanded he check out Melanie’s report.  The one thing that simply could not be compromised was the safety of the children, and no one—with or without a gun—had any business on this property without authorization while camp was in session.  Melanie and I of course went with him, and Cisco road shotgun, tongue lolling as he hung his head out the window, drinking in the view.  Pepper had stayed behind with Mischief and Magic, who were romping in the fenced baseball diamond—now known as the Puppy Games arena—under the supervision of Counselor Bill.

I asked, “How long has it been since you had a group here?”

“You all’re the first one in two years,” he admitted.  “Recession hit, I reckon folks don’t send their kids to camp like they used to.  But I keep the place up, yes sir.  That’s what they pay me to do and that’s by-George what I do.”

“It looks nice,” I assured him.  “What I got to see of it.”

“Plumbing works, kitchen’s clean, roofs don’t leak.  That lady there, that Ms. Margie, she said make sure there’s no holes in the fences, so that’s what I done.”

“Good.  We have to be careful with the dogs.”

Melanie pointed as we came over the hill that led down to the lake.  “It was over there,” she said, “near the woods.  He was just standing there staring.” 

Willie Banks shifted the wad of tobacco from one cheek to the other and slid a glance at her.  “You right sure about that, little lady?  Could’ve been a shadow or something.”

Melanie gave him a mildly contemptuous look.  “It wasn’t a shadow.”

I added stiffly, because I was starting not to like his attitude, “Melanie doesn’t make things up.”

He didn’t reply.

The lake was only about two acres, a spring-fed sheet of emerald cellophane at the base of the hill surrounded by tall cattails and scrub brush.  I remembered diving off the dock into the shock of that cold water, gooseflesh tingling, squealing as catfish nibbled at my toes.  I remembered canoeing across what seemed like an ocean, and tipping over in the middle—mostly through effort, not accident.  The dock had rotted away and canoes were too expensive to maintain without a steady stream of campers to pay for them, but the same summer blue sky glittered overhead with a brilliance that could hurt your eyes if you looked at it too long, and the same riotous carpet of green grass spread out around the water, inviting bare feet and blankets.  I was, just for a moment, transported, aching for childhood, thrilled with nostalgia and—if I were to be perfectly honest—excited about reliving it all.

I said, “Wow.  Too bad about the dock.  The dogs would have loved dock diving.”

Melanie, momentarily forgetting her scare, glanced at me with eyes alight. “Cool,” she said.  “Pepper could really catch some big air.”

I winked at her.  “Maybe next year.”

The brakes screeched as Willie brought the pickup to a halt midway around the lake line.  I caught Cisco’s leash before opening the door, and we climbed out. Cisco immediately went to the end of the leash, sniffing the ground, and I let him. Melanie shaded her eyes and searched the shoreline, staying close to me as we circled the truck, meeting Willie in front.  He spat tobacco juice on the ground, narrowed eyes searching. “Don’t see anything,” he observed unnecessarily.

I ignored him and walked toward the wood line, following Cisco’s lead. Melanie pointed again to the same place.  “It was over there.  He was just staring.”

Cisco tugged at the lead, his nose to the ground, but I didn’t try to pull him back.  He was a tracking dog, after all, and deserved the benefit of the doubt.  Besides, it’s patently unfair to expect a dog to read your mind.  I had not given him a command; he was on his own.  Sometimes a dog just needs to be a dog.

I glanced over at Willie.  “I used to work here summers,” I said, trying to be friendly.  “It hasn’t changed much.  I remember the lake used to have ducks, though. ”

“Still does, winter time.  No so much this time of year.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “I guess not.  You should see the flocks of green mallards in the autumn, Melanie. It’s like a wildlife movie.  These weeds produce seed pods they like to eat, and the cattails give them cover from predators.”  I glanced again at Willie.  “Bet you have a hard time keeping the poachers off in duck season.”

He grunted in reply, and stopped abruptly, staring down at the ground.  He bent to pick up a faded green and red weed eater, and the weathered lines of his face smoothed as he straightened up.  I followed his gaze toward the wood line, where a figure emerged, carrying a red plastic gas can.

I glanced at Melanie, but her face was impassive as she watched the man approach.  He was a thin man with short pale hair in grass-stained khakis and a smudged tee shirt.  Cisco lifted his head and barked, and the man lifted a hand in reply.

“It’s just Reggie,” Willie told me.  “He’s supposed to keep the grass down. I can’t hardly keep up with it no more, what with my back and all.”

He hadn’t been doing a very good job.  The weeds were up so high in places that I worried about snakes, and I kept an eye on Cisco as he sniffed around and pawed the ground experimentally, testing to see if there was anything worth digging up.  The man with the gas can was of far less interest to him than the dozens of little creatures that had left their marks on the six-foot square piece of ground his leash allowed him to explore.

Melanie watched warily as the man approached.

“Ran out of gas,” he explained unnecessarily when he was within voice distance.  He glanced at us curiously. “Thought I had a full can in the jeep but ended up having to go down to the filling station.”

I remembered that a service road encircled the property—we used to go trail riding around it when the camp kept horses—which was probably why we hadn’t seen his truck.  It would be closer to the lake to park on the service road than at the lodge.