Lucky Dog (2 page)

With a choked voice and grief-filled face, Lance went inside to tell the manager of the sports department that he had to go home. His wife had passed away. Stunned by the news, the manager told him to take as much time as he needed.

That’s exactly what I intend to do.

When he got home, Lance tossed the shredded racquet into the garbage.
No more giving tennis lessons to desperate housewives and cougars on the prowl for me.
He dropped his athletic bag to the floor.  
This time next week, I’ll be back on the lake soaking up the rays next to my new yacht.

With a grin, he set his cell phone on the kitchen table while on his way in to make a celebratory drink.
Don’t celebrate too much. When O’Callaghan calls, he’s going to try to trip you up again. You need to stay on your toes.

He wondered how long the police chief could string out the investigation.

It isn’t like Kim has a bunch of relatives clamoring for justice and wanting to kick me out of her will. She was an orphan. Her father had died when she was a child and her mother was killed in a private plane crash. Yep, that made her the perfect wife. Young and rich with no family—expect a spoiled mongrel. First thing I’m doing when I move back in is feed Sparky a bowl of antifreeze.

Time to celebrate with a cocktail.

He went into his kitchenette to mix a martini. It seemed most appropriate. After all, it was a martini that brought him his good fortune. All of the ingredients were waiting for him along with a martini glass he had put in the cupboard the afternoon before.

Since it is Mac Faraday who suspects, he’ll be pushing for a thorough investigation, but that won’t do him any good. He’ll never find the evidence to prove it.

According to what Lance had uncovered during his research on the Internet, the poison he had used, an alkaloid toxin, would only show up with the most sophisticated of toxicology tests. Oh, he was very careful. There was no way it could be traced back to him. He had even done his research on a computer at a public library in Morgantown so that they wouldn’t find record of his research on
his
computer.

Even if they do find the poison, so what? There’s no way they can trace it directly back to me. I made damn sure of that.

Lance ran his fingers across the smooth bleached counters in his kitchen. They weren’t going to find any trace of the poison. It was long gone. He had flushed it down the men’s room toilet at a bar in Oakland, the next town over, where he had taken his date the night before.

He held the martini glass up to the light and admired his cleverness. Yes, it was suspicious him showing up at the mansion while Kim was out getting her hair done when he knew she wouldn’t be there.

Mac was right.

As Lance had argued, he had been showing up at the mansion with flowers every day for ten days—long enough to make it not unusual for him to come with gifts in an attempt to win back the woman he loved.

Loved. Yes, I loved her. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Lance poured the vodka into the mixer along with the ice and mix. He chuckled so hard while he shook the mixer that his feet began tapping to the rhythm until he broke into a dance of joy.

Impressed with the beauty of the roses he had brought, the caterer didn’t hesitate when he sent her out of the room for the vase. That was when he slipped the martini glass he had coated with the poison out from under the tissue in the box of flowers to switch with the one that always rested next to the martini mixer in the bar.

The glass that Kim would use to enjoy her four o’clock cocktail.

He was about to make the switch when he felt the clamping down of little teeth on his ankle. It was all he could do to keep from dropping both glasses.

“Get away from me, you little rat!”

Sparky held onto Lance’s ankle with his needle-like teeth for all it was worth. It took several kicks before he was finally able to punt the little Yorkie halfway across the room. Yelping, Sparky scurried out the door.

Excited to get on with his celebration, Lance poured the martini so that he could go out onto the balcony to look down on what would be his new home. Holding up his drink in a toast, he said, “To my lucky day.” He took a sip of the martini. “As they say, every dog has his day.”

The liquid in the glass felt smooth flowing down his throat.

Proud of his cleverness, he inhaled deeply only to have none of the oxygen go into his lungs. Again, he sucked in all the air he could, but his lung deflated like a balloon having all the air sucked out of it.

Lance staggered inside to the living room.

The rings from the phone seemed to bounce around from one side of his brain to the other. He collapsed to the floor. His fingernails broke off while he crawled across the hardwood floor in his last desperate attempt for help.

How did this happen? Sparky. I shook Sparky off my ankle and turned back to the bar and the glasses were there. Which glass was the one with the poison? Was it the one on the left? But I was so sure—I could have sworn—

Police Chief David O’Callaghan hung up the phone in time for Mac Faraday to come into his office. Gnarly jumped up into the chair across from his desk.

David held up the autopsy report. “Lance Collins didn’t kill Kim Weathersby.”

Mac’s eyebrow rose in surprise. “What did kill her?”

“Congenital heart defect.” David handed the report to him. “She had a heart attack. The medical examiner talked to Kim’s family doctor. It was a hereditary condition. Killed her father. Kim knew about it, but kept it a secret. She didn’t want to be treated like an invalid. No one knew.”

“And she was drinking vodka martinis?”

David held up his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “That was her motto. Live fast, die young, and leave a gorgeous corpse. She went out the way she wanted.”

Shaking his head, Mac lowered himself into the chair across from the police chief’s desk. “I could have sworn Lance killed her. I could see it in his face.” He reached over to where Gnarly was sitting in the chair next to his to stroke the top of his head. “Gnarly saw it. Didn’t you, Gnarl?”

“The husband looked good to me, too,” David said. “But Kim Weathersby did die of natural causes. Her husband Lance Collins is chief beneficiary in her current will, right ahead of Sparky. Rightfully, he’s earned everything he’s got coming to him.”

Laughing, Mac tossed the autopsy report back onto his desk.

“That lucky dog.”

The End