Shepherd's Crook (14 page)

thirty-nine

Evan and I seemed
to have exhausted conversational topics and ourselves, so I told him I needed to get going. I was surprised when he offered to walk me out, but he seemed to have shed his earlier terror, at least for the moment. “Summer has a dog here for training. His owner's picking him up this weekend, but I need to take him out for a run.”

Evan stopped by the front door and picked up the shotgun. He started to reach for the doorknob, but stopped and thrust the gun toward me. “Could you hold this? I need to change shoes.”

Without thinking, I wrapped my fingers around the gun's barrels. Surprised by its weight, I took the stock in my other hand and ran my gaze along the length of the weapon. A long ragged scratch marred the otherwise sleek finish of the wooden stock. “You're taking this with you?”

He laughed. “No, the coyotes don't come around until dusk.” He took the gun from me and set it out of sight in the living room. “I just don't think that's the best place for it.”

We said our goodbyes in the yard between the house and the barn, and I went to my van. Jay shook his travel crate with his wiggling, but I signaled him to lie down and said, “Sorry, Bubby, no sheepies today. We'll go for a walk on the way home.” He grinned back at me, ready as always to accept whatever I suggested.

Movement near the barn caught my eye as I fastened my seatbelt. Luciano was trotting down the hill toward Evan, who held a stainless steel dog bowl. The two of them disappeared into the barn, and I assumed Evan was locking the big dog up to avoid any problems when he let the client dog out. I started the van, and as I reached for the shift, a big
charcoal-gray
dog bounded into view, leaping and spinning and bouncing. A Bouvier des Flandres, a big one and obviously young. Evan followed.

I was about to drive away when the Bouvier ran toward Evan, who swung his arm up and forward as if to direct the big galoot toward a gate at the end of the path they were on. The gate opened into an empty pasture, and I assumed Evan meant to use it to exercise the dog without disturbing the sheep in the other field. The purposefulness with which the dog trotted toward the gate held my attention. I waited and watched. The Bouvier stood on his hind legs and reached for the gate latch. It took him a couple of tries, but he finally did it.

He opened the gate.

Evan had pulled a clump of hairs from the gate latch on Saturday morning. They were dark, and six or so inches long. About right for a Bouvier's beard. In the distance, Evan caught up with the dog, pulled the gate shut behind them, and disappeared over a small rise in the field. I sat for a moment, then shifted into gear and turned toward home.

Had someone sent a dog to open the gate and fetch the sheep from the pen? Could that be why the security cameras hadn't caught anyone around the pens during the night the sheep went missing? They were undoubtedly set to human height to avoid accidental triggering by wild animals. Had Summer trained that Bouvier to do that neat little trick? It made sense that Summer would prefer to use a dog she didn't own if she had larceny on her mind. It wasn't as if he'd tattle on her. But I hadn't seen a Bouvier around the event grounds, and a dog that size would be hard to miss. And why steal her own sheep? And if Summer was the rustler, then Evan had to be in on it. He would have known she was gone from their camper.

Then another question popped into my head. Did we know for sure that both Summer and Evan had spent Friday night in their camper? What if one of them had gone home? Someone had to care for the animals on the farm. I hadn't given it any thought before, but as I drove away with the Bouvier's
gate-opening
trick fresh in my mind, I started to wonder.

And what about Ray? How was he involved? I had the impression that Ray had stayed on the event grounds, although I wasn't sure why I thought that. Maybe because I had arrived early and he and Bonnie were already moving the remaining sheep. If the Bouvier had been on the farm for more than a few days, Ray must have known the dog. Maybe he was the one who trained him to open the gate and round up the sheep. But again, why? And if the dog did take the sheep from the pen, what did he do with them?

I thought back to the huge paw prints Tom and I had found, and considered the size of the Bouvier. I had a hunch his feet would fit into those marks. Could someone have parked a stock truck somewhere on the property and used the dog to commit the crime? I remembered an old movie,
The Doberman Gang,
about a crook who trained Doberman Pinschers to rob banks. But that was Hollywood, and this was Indiana, and real, live sheep with no retakes. Still, I'd seen the dog open the gate with my own eyes, and a good sheepdog—Nell or Bonnie, for instance—could have moved the flock to a waiting truck. The more I tried to untangle the possibilities, the woollier my thoughts became.

forty

I had meant to
stop for a walk with Jay on my way back, but I'd flown right into town and found myself driving south on North Anthony. If I kept going another five or so miles, I would end up at Shadetree Retirement Home. Why not? Jay was clean, so we could pop in for a visit and see how the bride was doing. And we could still get a walk in on the St. Mary's Rivergreenway if we didn't stay too long with Mom.

Jay was thrilled to get out of his crate, and we took a little relief walk among the maples and oaks along the side of the building. When he was finished, I clipped Jay's therapy dog ID tag to his collar and in we went. Jade Templeton's office door was closed and the lobby was empty but for a quartet of rummy players at a table near the gas fireplace. I looked into the solarium, Mom's favorite hangout, but she wasn't there. My next stop was the reading room, a bright space with several comfy chairs and a long
library-style
table with desk lamps and a computer at one end. Harlan Overmeier, a bespectacled gentleman of indeterminate old age, hunched toward the screen. He wore earphones and worked a humongous game gadget with his right hand, apparently controlling the spaceship that careened around the screen.

Mom sat at a table near the windows, holding hands with Tony Marconi, her
soon-to
-be husband. Bill and his partner, Norm, were there as well. Bill is my brother by birth, Norm my brother by natural selection. I'm ever thankful that they have one of the most loving and stable relationships I know of, because if they ever broke up, I'd be hard pressed to choose between them. In the moment before anyone noticed me and Jay, Norm and my mom were smiling and chattering like kids with a new toy, Tony was
finger-punching
his
e-tablet
with his free hand, and brother Bill was leaning back in his chair and scowling. Norm and Mom were no doubt thinking of ways to spend Bill's money.

Jay pulled me forward until he could lay his chin on Mom's lap, raising a squeal from his favorite old lady. “Jay!” She didn't bother with me until she'd finished smooching my dog. Tony saw me and began creaking to his feet, but I signaled him to stay sitting. Bill said hi, and Norm jumped up and hugged me silly.

“We're just finalizing plans,” said Norm. “Can you help me decorate the Solarium Friday a week? I've ordered garlands, simple but beautiful. Jade offered to have her guys set up the seating, and …” He rattled on and I smiled to see everyone so happy. Everyone but Bill.

Conversation and laughter intermingled for another half hour, and even brother Bill lightened up and joined in. The best thing was that Mom was fully present, and I credited Tony with at least some of her cognitive improvement. Even if it lasted only a few months, it was good to have her mostly back.

Our noses eventually told us that lunchtime was almost upon us, and Bill, Norm, and I said our goodbyes and walked toward the lobby together. “I need to make a short stop,” I said when we reached the entrance to a small alcove off the hallway. “I'll talk to you later, and Norm, I'd love to help decorate.”

When Jay and I emerged from the restroom and started to cross the main lobby, I heard the receptionist say, “Here's a brochure with quite a bit of information. We can arrange a tour of the facilities if you like, too, and you're welcome to talk to some of the residents to see how they like …” I glanced at the information counter and felt a shiver race up my spine. A heavy man in an
ill-fitting
gray suit had his back to me, but I knew the set of his shoulders. It was the fat thug.
What the …?

I backtracked out of the lobby, my heart thumping as if I'd just run a 5K. “Come on,” I told Jay, “we'll go out the side door.” I had put Jay in his crate and was about to climb into the driver's seat when a voice said, “Heard this is the best nursing home in town. That right?”

I whirled and found myself face to face with Skinny.

forty-one

The skinny goon had
a smirk on his face and was standing too close for comfort but just beyond slapping distance. Fury rose like hot foam in my throat and smothered the fear I had felt a few minutes earlier.

“Are you following me?” Of course they were following me. How else could they show up at Dom's Deli and my mother's nursing home? “And who the hell are you?” I kept my hand in my pocket and worked my keys between my fingers to make a weapon of them.

He pulled something out of his pocket and began to finger it. “Janet, is it?” He gave me a look that might have been playful in a
cat-playing
-
with-mouse
sort of way. I looked more closely at the thing in his hand. It was a business card.
My
business card. He must have picked it up at the information booth at the Dogs of Spring event. “How about you turn over that roll of film. The one you took with us on it.”

What century are you living in?
“I don't use film, and why in the world would I take pictures of you? I don't even know you.”

“If you don't use film, I guess you'll have to let us buy your camera from you. How much?” He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, slipped the rubber band off, and began peeling fifties away. “Two hundred?”

If I hadn't been caught somewhere between roaring mad and scared spitless, I would have doubled up laughing. I had more money tied up in cameras and lenses than I had in my van. “Two hundred wouldn't even cover my camera case. Anyway, it's not for sale and I didn't take any pictures of you. Now unless you'd like to talk to the police, leave me—”

“Everything okay here?” I heard the voice before I saw the car pull up behind my van. Bill stepped out and stood with his feet slightly apart and shoulders squared. He kept his eyes on the other man, and when he spoke again, his voice was clear and low. “Janet, I'll just follow you home instead of coming over later. Ready?”

“Yep.” I got into my van, buckled up, and started the engine before I looked out again. The goon was walking away, and Bill was still there, watching him go. The gray sedan pulled up beside the guy and he got in, and Bill stepped to my window.

“What was that?”

“Long story, and I only know part of it, but thanks.” I've never really thought of Brother Bill as an action hero, but he'd come through this time.

“You know that guy?”

“No, but I've seen him before.” I hesitated, but finally told him about my encounter with the two men at Dom's Deli, and about seeing them with Evan and Ray.

“The dead guy?” Bill's voice was no longer clear and low. It was more of a masculine screech. “You saw that guy threatening the dead guy?”

I shrugged, but didn't feel as calm as I was trying to look. Skinny had my business card. My address wasn't on it, but my email and phone number were, and I knew that it just isn't that hard to find out where people live if you have some basic information.

“I don't think you should go straight home. Come to our house, or go see Tom.”

Good idea.
“Don't be silly. I'll be fine.”

Bill scowled at me.

“Really, I will. Besides, he thinks you're following me home.” I tried to smile at him, but my mouth was too dry to work properly. “Anyway, I need to drop Jay off and get my gear. I have a portrait shoot this afternoon.”
And I want to back up those photos I accidentally took of the two thugs.
In fact, I wondered whether I should email them to Hutchinson, and I knew I should tell him those guys were definitely stalking me.

“Call your policeman friend and tell him those guys are stalking you,” said Bill.

Does everyone read my mind?
“I will.”

“Please.”

He waited while I called Hutch. The detective answered, and he asked me to send the images as soon as I got home. “I have a friend in Washoe County sheriff's department. He lives in Reno. I'll see if he can find out anything about the guys.” Hutch said he would reach out to the Cleveland police, too, and have a patrol car cruise by my house at intervals. He reminded me to lock my doors and be careful.

No kidding.

When I finished, Bill said, “I
am
going to follow you home.” He must have thought he was expressing too much affection, because he added, “Mom would kill me if anything happened to you before her wedding.”

forty-two

Bill followed me home
and I made him lunch. That may not sound like much, but it was the first time my brother and I had spent an hour and half alone together since grade school. I made grilled Swiss and tomato sandwiches and, after I scraped the charred edges off, they were pretty good. By the time Bill left and I got my camera and other gear ready to go, I had shoved recent events to the back of my mind and was feeling pretty mellow.

And then Hutchinson called.

“I thought you were sending me pictures of those guys?”

I forgot.
“I will when I get home. I'm on my way to a photo shoot, but it shouldn't take long.”

My session was with three physicians new to a practice about ten minutes from home. When we made the appointment, I had told the office manager that I was on a tight schedule and that in addition to my regular fee, I charge extra per quarter hour I'm kept waiting. It was my little revenge for all the hours I've wasted waiting for doctors of various kinds. They were ready when I arrived and I was home ninety minutes later.

I let Jay out and turned on the computer, but had to take time out for some cat cuddling. Pixel squirmed and wiggled when I picked her up, clearly more in the mood for some
catnip-mouse
hockey on the bare floors. Leo, though, hopped onto my lap and stretched his torso against mine, tucking his paws against my collarbone and purring his satisfaction. “Leo
mio
, I've neglected you.” He opened his mouth but no sound came out. “We'll get the agility equipment out one of these days and have some fun.” Leo and I had entered our first feline agility competition five months earlier, and he was a game little competitor.

Pixel apparently tired of the little felt mouse, and when she started grabbing Leo's tail, cuddle time was over. He jumped off my lap and chased the little pest into the living room. I let Jay in, grabbed a diet root beer, and opened my photo file from the weekend. I had copied the images with the two tough guys into a separate folder, so I checked them and then sent the whole folder to Hutchinson. An “ok, got them” email came right back.

For an hour or so I was able to focus on work, organizing several sets of proofs to send off to potential buyers, including a magazine editor and an author looking for book illustrations. When I got to the herding photos, though, everything came rushing back—the missing sheep, the runaway sheep owner, the hanged sheep handler. Not to mention the increasingly menacing pair of goons.

“Come on, Jay,” I said, getting up and shaking off the black mood that was trying to ruin the afternoon. “Let's go see how Bonnie's settling in.”

My phone rang just as I was snapping Jay's leash onto his collar. Giselle. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear about dead guys or anything else connected to the weekend right then, so I let it go to voice mail. I'd see her in a few hours, anyway. It was obedience training night at Dog Dayz, and we were among the
never-miss
die-hards
.

Bonnie met us with a rousing Sheltie rendition of “there's someone at the door!” but she turned it off as soon as Goldie appeared and let us in.

“Wow!” I said. “She looks great.”

“Doesn't she?” Goldie beamed at the little dog, whose coat was fluffed and shiny as anthracite, the white trim gleaming. Bonnie pranced around, wagging her tail and spinning a “let's play” invitation to Jay.

I followed Goldie and the dogs into the kitchen. “I can't even tell where she trimmed out the tangles and burrs.”

“I know,” said Goldie, setting a plate of cookies on the table. “These have no flour and no sugar other than the fruit.”

Who can resist that? “Just one. I have to fit into that dress in nine days.”

“Have they learned any more about …” Goldie paused and glanced at Bonnie, and whispered, “Ray's death?”

My phone rang before I could respond. Giselle again. “This might be important. She—Giselle—just called a few minutes ago. I should—”

“Answer it,” said Goldie, getting up to make some tea from her own herb garden.

“I wanted to warn you before tonight!” It was Giselle, and her voice was pitched high and fast. “Before training, I mean.”

Her words conjured the menacing faces of the two thugs, whose names I realized I still didn't know. Were they planning to attack me that night?
And how would Giselle know that?
“Warn me about what?”

“I got an email from my friend in Muncie. Some animal rights nuts showed up at their training club last night and let a couple of dogs out of their crates, and it happened in Indy and Lafayette, too, last week.”

“Did they find the dogs?”

“At Muncie, yes. There were two of them—people, I mean. One opened the crates and the other held the door open and they tried to let them out the door but,” she paused, and for a second I wondered whether she had hyperventilated, but then she went on. “One dog was Judy Clifton's Golden Brill, you know him, and he ran to the ring where Judy was training her Lab.”

“Good boy.”

“Yeah, And the other was a Jack Russell, and I guess he started barking at the woman who opened his crate and raised a real ruckus, and then I guess they, you know, the intruders, ran for it, because you
know
how mad everyone was.”

A wave of nausea passed through me as I remembered how I had felt on Saturday when I thought the demonstrators had let Jay loose.

A humorless laugh came through the phone, and Giselle said, “Good thing the dogs weren't hurt or we might have had another murder on our hands.”