Rottweiler Rescue (28 page)
After spending the morning frolicking
with the dogs, I settled down at the computer, determined to focus on client work for the rest of the day. Immersed in the intricacies of macro code, I was slow to follow the dogs when they jumped up and charged to the front door.
The distorted view through the peephole was of Brian Forrester, juggling a large paper bag in his arms, reaching for the doorbell.
I threw open the door just as he rang the bell, then stood there, taking in the sight. The car in my driveway was his own Jeep. His sheepskin coat hung open in spite of the cold. Gray sweater, faded jeans, scarred boots. He looked as solidly reassuring as ever.
We both spoke at the same time.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
“Do we need to hide your car in the garage?”
I answered by stepping back from the doorway. He answered as he walked in. “Nope. The department may not be enthused about this visit, but they’re officially neutral.”
He gave me the bag. “I don’t suppose you think moving in here is worth a house warming, but maybe you’d like these anyway.”
Bright yellow mums filled the bag and all but spilled over the top.
“Yes, I like them,” I said. “And if the new house is ever done, I’ll need to start from scratch with the gardens, so every sprout will help. Come on back to the kitchen. I’ll get coffee.”
He sat and petted Sophie while I made coffee, taking in the modern kitchen with its granite counter tops, stainless sink and appliances, and tiled floor. Most visitors felt compelled to point out the advantages of this rental house over the home I’d lost, but the good sense my lieutenant had shown in the past was still there. He didn’t comment.
“So are you going to tell me what brought the department around?” I asked. “Are you in good graces again?”
“High good graces,” he said, unable to disguise his pleasure. “Kohler pled yesterday. Pled to the murder when we never came up with a scrap of physical evidence against him. And I told them the way to get him to do it.”
“He confessed!” I reminded him, thumping down coffee mugs and pouring.
He just looked at me.
“All right. All right. I say he admitted he did it. He says he didn’t. And I shot him.”
“There’s no evidence on the murder at all, and nothing that would convict him on the vehicular assault on you. The bullets from Sophie matched his gun, but he claims he saw you run off the road, went to help and the dog came after him. He probably stole the vehicle he used to force you off the road, and we can’t find it. The only good case we had was on the arson and assault at your house.”
“And I shot him.”
“You sure did. Poor boy just stopped by to see how you were doing, and you went crazy and sicced a vicious dog on him and shot him.”
“You forgot the part where I set my own house on fire so I’d have light to shoot by,” I said, unable to keep a straight face.
Brian laughed with me, but only for a moment. “He can be a charmer. Some jury might have bought it.”
“So then why did he plead guilty?”
“Because of my brilliant idea. I overheard one of the prosecutors complaining about how interviewing him was so difficult because every time anyone mentioned you or the dogs he went ballistic, shouting, cursing, totally losing it.”
He paused for emphasis. “I, of course, understand how you can have that effect on a man.”
Another time I would have taken that bait, but right then all I wanted was the rest of his story. “So what was your brilliant idea?”
“I told them to try offering him a deal. Plead guilty to killing Sheffield or stand trial for arson and attempted murder on you at your house, and....”
“And!”
“And one count of felony animal cruelty for shooting Sophie and a second for setting the house on fire knowing Robo was inside.”
“Oh, my,” I whispered. “That must have really pushed him over the edge.”
“They tell me he actually had foam at the corners of his mouth.”
“You’re right. It was brilliant, but he’s only pleading guilty to killing Jack, isn’t he? So he’s getting away with all the rest of it.
“He’s not getting away with anything. When he gets out — if he ever gets out — he’ll be an old man, and not so pretty. He isn’t going to have an easy time in prison. With his ex-wife keeping a vengeful eye on things he’ll probably serve every day of his sentence, and since he’s a foreign national, if he ever does make it out, he’ll be on a plane for Germany the same day.”
“So it’s over,” I said.
“Over for the department, for me. How about you? How are you doing?” he said softly.
The nightmares of smoke and fire were down to once a week or less, and I wasn’t ready to share them.
“Okay. The contractor swears they’re starting work next week. Some of my things survived the fire — in the basement.” I pointed to a favorite watercolor on the wall.
“I didn’t mean things. How are you doing? You, yourself,” he said. “You look good.”
“Not covered with blood, bruises, and dirt, you mean?” I grinned at him. “We’re all healed up. Sophie has a few white hairs on her face now, but we’re okay.
His assessing gaze was disconcerting. It was a relief when he took his eyes off mine, looked around the kitchen again, taking in Bella on her new favorite perch atop the refrigerator, Robo flat out on his rug in a corner, and Sophie, now at my feet.
“So where’s Millie?” he asked.
“She’s been adopted, and they think she’s a Rottweiler Lassie.”
“Good for her. And you’re really all right?”
He was so serious, so intent. Making light of things again didn’t seem right, and I wanted an opinion from someone who wasn’t such a biased cheering section as Susan.
“The problem is that I’m going to be more than all right.” I told him about Joyce and the insurance company. “So I’m going to come out ahead, and it makes me feel like I spilled hot coffee and sued and got rich. It feels wrong.”
“Are you sure you’ll be ahead, after all the bills come in?” he asked. “What about your business?”
As a matter of fact, my best client had taken his business elsewhere. Sorry, he said, sorry about murder and arson, but he needed help when he needed it, and I was no longer reliable.
Brian saw my uncertainty. “Tell me. If last fall the devil came along and said you could have a new house if the old one burned almost to the ground and almost with you in it, and a new car if you rode the old one down the side of a mountain and broke your collarbone and let your dog get shot, would you have made the deal?”
“Of course not, and don’t forget Sophie broke a leg in that wreck.”
“I’m not forgetting. Don’t you forget. You’ll never be the same again. Nothing can pay you for that.”
“Maybe not.” I could hear the uncertainty still in my own voice.
“Look,” Brian said. “If Kohler had money of his own, would you go after him? File a civil suit? Hurt him any way you could?”
“Every day of the week and twice on Sundays,” I snapped.
“If it was a normal marriage, he’d have some control over some of the assets,” he pointed out. “Did Turner tell you about the prenuptial agreement?”
I shook my head.
“If they divorced, he didn’t get a cent. If they weren’t living together when she died, he didn’t get a cent. If she died before they were married five years, he didn’t get a cent. After five years, if she died, he got half. Ten years, three-quarters. Twenty years, all.”
Brian let his words hang in the air for a moment, then added. “She’s a very wealthy woman, and they’d been married more than two years already. Maybe half would have been enough.”
Just like that, he erased all my mixed feelings. Maybe I’d go see Joyce one of these days, thank her. Meeting beautiful Erich Kohler had changed both our lives.
Brian’s voice brought my thoughts back. “Enough of the bad guys,” he said. “How about dinner sometime? Somewhere a step up from a drive through.”
“When?”
“I’ve got to get in to the office and push some paper today, but I’ll get out of there early. Tonight?”
“I’d like that.”
Maybe I would tell him about the dreams. Maybe that night. Maybe some other night. Maybe he knew ways to banish nightmares.
We talked for a while. I showed him the plans for the new house. He told me how it had been when he and his wife built the house he still lived in.
When he left I went back to my computer, looking over at the pot of bright yellow mums once in a while and smiling. Living in the rental house for months no longer seemed as bleak a prospect as it had that very morning.
The heavy weight of Sophie’s head on my thigh was so familiar I didn’t even look down but dropped one hand to rest on her head for a moment, then slid my fingers behind an ear, rubbing gently.
Gradually I became aware that something wasn’t quite right. The head on my leg was too heavy, the skull too broad. When my fingers felt a ridge of scar tissue on the ear I was rubbing, I looked down in surprise. Then I cupped both hands along the sides of the big head.
“Welcome back to the world, Robo,” I whispered.
This book is for all the dogs who have enriched my life — a shepherd mix named Laddie who was the companion of my childhood, Kim and Bear, the dignified Akitas who walked beside me during the early years on my own, and of course the Rottweilers who have graced my life for the last 17 years — my own and those who stayed with me only a short time on their way to new lives.
Now that I’m home, bathed, settled and fed,
All nicely tucked in my warm new bed,
I’d like to open my baggage lest I forget
There is so much to carry—so much to regret.
Hmm... Yes there it is, right on the top.
Let’s unpack Loneliness, Heartache and Loss;
And there by my leash hides Fear and Shame.
As I look on these things I tried so hard to leave,
I still have to unpack my baggage called Pain.
I loved them, the others, the ones who left me,
But I wasn’t good enough—for they didn’t want me.
Will you add to my baggage?
Will you help me unpack?
Or will you just look at my things
And take me right back?
Do you have the time to help me unpack?
To put away my baggage, to never repack?
I pray that you do—I’m so tired you see,
But I do come with baggage
Will
you
still want
me
?
by Evelyn Colbath, now
Phoebe Lane Scott, ©1995
Ellen O’Connell lives in Douglas County, Colorado, with a motley crew of Rottweilers, Rottweiler mixes and a Morgan horse. She was active in Rottweiler rescue work for almost ten years, first on her own, then on the Board of Directors of Rottie Aid (www.rottieaid.org). At the present time, her rescue work is limited to transporting dogs for Rottie Aid, but she expects there will be other foster dogs in her future. Her website is www.oconnellauthor.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events or persons is strictly coincidental. Many of the places mentioned actually exist; however, descriptions may have been altered to better suit the story. The dogs are real, although their names and circumstances have been changed.
Copyright © 2009 by Ellen O’Connell
www.oconnellauthor.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-45054-610-2
ISBN-10: 1-45054-610-2
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover image is of the author’s dog, Schara.
Used with permission:
Poem “Baggage” by Evelyn Colbath, now Phoebe Lane Scott, © 1995 all rights reserved
Rottweiler drawing © 2008 by Geula Resnick
Dianne comes face to face with a killer and finds Jack Sheffield’s body.
Lieutenant Forrester conducts an interrogation.
Dianne hires a lawyer and talks to the press.
Dianne adopts a dog.
Dianne and Susan attend a dog show.
The killer attacks Dianne.
Dianne and Lieutenant Forrester talk about the attack and its meaning.
Dianne decides to try to find the killer herself.
Dianne talks to Jack Sheffield’s lover.
Dianne goes to the kennel where Jack Sheffield kept his dogs and hears the beginning of Maida’s story.