Shepherd's Crook (9 page)

twenty-five

I shoved Giselle's double
whammy as far back in my mind as I could and walked Jay onto the grass. Tom was already there with Winnie. Jay whined softly and I could almost hear him say
Aww, a puppy!
Winnie ran right to him, licked his chin and lips, rolled on her back, spun in a circle, and jumped on his head. Jay stood still but for his wiggling tail.

“Well, this is promising,” said Tom.

Jay flopped on his side and rolled onto his back, and Winnie crawled over his throat and straddled his head. He squirmed, and the pup ran around him in goofy loops until their leashes were a twisted mess.

“Okay, little girl, that's enough of that.” Tom was laughing as he picked her up and snuggled her under his chin while I unwound the leashes. When I looked up, Winnie was pasting kisses all over Tom's grinning face. She stopped, sniffed his beard, and grabbed it. Tom gently lifted her away with both hands, then set her on the ground and led her away. Deprived of her boy toy, she squatted on the grass. “Hurry up,” he said, and when she'd finished peeing, Tom gave her a tiny treat from his pocket. He wasn't trying to rush her, he was beginning her “go on cue” training right from the start. Having a dog who does her business when you say so can be very handy.

“Trade,” said Tom, holding the puppy's leash toward me. “I'll bring Drake out. He seemed a little grumpy.”

I wouldn't say he was grumpy, but he didn't seem thrilled, either, about the bouncing bundle of joy on the leash I held. If anything, Drake seemed incompetent, like some people I've seen who freeze in close proximity to human toddlers. When Winnie jumped at his face, Drake backed away. Tom hunkered down beside him and draped an arm over the big dog's shoulder. With his other hand he scooped the puppy onto his knee and held her. Drake seemed more comfortable with her restrained, and he sniffed her face and neck and paw. She licked his face. Drake shifted on his front feet and looked at Tom, then back at the pup. He heaved a big sigh as if to say, “Okay, if this is what you really want.” Drake drew his big tongue up Winnie's cheek, then leaned into Tom's side. Something in my chest tightened as I watched Tom hug the black dog and, laying his cheek against Drake's glossy head, murmur, “Don't worry. You'll always be my best Labby boy.”

The first raindrops hit the windshield as we pulled out of the parking lot, and by the time we were back to the concrete hum of the interstate, it was raining in earnest. The wipers tapped out a steady rhythm, and Tom hummed along. It was something he did when he cooked, and when we walked
hand-in
-hand some evenings. I don't think he even knew he was doing it. At first I couldn't make out the tune, and then I got it. “Singing in the Rain.”

I shifted in my seat and looked at the dogs. “All sacked out,” I said. “Jay and Winnie are nose to nose.”

“Aww,” said Tom, and winked at me. “So what was Giselle upset about?”

“Did I say she was upset?”

He glanced sideways at me.

“Nothing.”

“Janet, you're tapping a hole in the armrest. Just tell me.”

“The city council released the details of the pet limit bill.”

“Stupid,” he said.

“Worse,” I said. “If Giselle had the details right, the limit is four. Two dogs, two cats.”
And you've sold your house
and we now have five pets. We could have moved out of the city limits to escape the ruling, but I didn't want to move. I loved my little house. Sharing it was going to be adjustment enough—I didn't want to sell it.

The only sounds in the car for the next few minutes were Winnie's paws
dream-racing
against the floor of her crate, Drake's soft snoring, and the rhythm of the windshield wipers. Inside my head, though, all sorts of thoughts were banging around. The stupid new law and the dilemma it created for us. Bonnie lost on this wet, chilly day. A killer on the loose. Finally Tom took my hand in his and said, “We'll figure it out.”

I hoped he meant our living arrangements, because I was still reluctant to get involved any more deeply in a criminal investigation, especially murder. Either way, Tom was right. We'd figure it out. We always did. I just couldn't imagine how.

twenty-six

Tom broke the silence
as he slowed into the curve to exit onto Coldwater Road. “What else did Giselle say?”

“The coroner has ruled that Ray's death was not suicide.”

“But you already thought that.”

“I didn't know him well, but,” I paused, trying to assemble the pieces into a hint of a picture, “suicide just didn't seem to fit. But neither does murder. It seems like his death must be connected to the theft of the sheep, but that seems a bit extreme.”

“Do we know for sure they were stolen?”

“What do you mean? You think they ran away?”

“You said Summer and Evan were having money problems, yes?”

I considered the conversation I had overhead. “I think so. Summer wanted to sell some of the sheep a few months ago, and I got the impression it was to pay some bills. But she called the police and reported the missing animals stolen …” I let my voice trail off as I considered the possibilities.

“What if she sold them but didn't want to tell Evan?”

That possibility hadn't even been on my radar. Then again, if no one came forward, maybe it would be Summer's little secret. Hers and the buyer's. Still, it didn't make sense to me. “Why would she do it at an event, though, with lots of people around? And, come on, he's her husband.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“But that would be pretty stupid. I mean, they must have been insured, so the insurance company will investigate, right? And the police.” At least I thought they would be insured. Tom must have felt me staring at him because he turned toward me and our eyes met and I knew that we were thinking the same thing.

“Maybe she staged a theft and Ray found out,” said Tom.

“But hanging?” It wasn't a typically feminine way of killing, and even if she wanted to, how would she manage it? He would have fought back, and how would she pull him off his feet?

I was pretty sure I didn't ask the question out loud, but Tom said, “Summer's strong. I saw one of the sheep lie down in the arena, and she lifted it back onto its feet. What do those babies weigh? Must be over a hundred pounds, right?”

“The ewes are
one-fifty
to two hundred. More sometimes.” They felt like more when they ran me down in the instinct test. Thank goodness they're light on their feet.

“Ray wasn't a big man. Maybe
one-forty
? I think Summer could hoist a guy his size a few feet off the ground, especially with leverage.”

I thought about the rope over the cross beam in the storage room and knew Tom was right. “But he wouldn't just stand there while she slipped a noose over his head and pulled him up.”

Tom shrugged. “Maybe she conked him over the head with something.”

That was certainly possible. There were plenty of potential head-
conkers in that storage room—at least one shovel, a rake, several
buckets. I thought I remembered seeing a toolbox, but I couldn't be sure. And Ray's attacker could have brought a weapon with her. Or him.

“You know, Evan acted shocked when he opened that room and found Ray, but what if that was all an act?”

“But you said he got sick. How would he stage that?”

Good point.
“I don't know. Maybe the realization of what he'd done?” I thought about Ray's swollen, discolored face. “Ray wasn't very pretty after hanging there for … I don't know how long. Maybe the sight of him made Evan sick. Maybe coming face to face with what he'd done.” I thought of Evan and Ray standing by the arena gate. “Tom, remember when you went to say hi to Evan and Ray on Saturday? Did you notice any, I don't know, hostility between them?”

“Now that you mention it, there did seem to be something going on,” said Tom. “They were fine with me, but it felt awkward. I didn't stay long.” We had turned onto East State, and Tom asked, “You coming home with me?”

“Drop me at my house and go bond with your puppy,” I said. “I want to have another look for Bonnie.” Then I turned the conversation back to potential suspects.

“What about those two goons I saw? They seemed to be hassling both Ray and Evan, but I think they scared Summer as well.”

“Maybe something to do with the theft of the sheep?”

“Like cops, you mean?”

Tom shrugged.

I thought for a moment before I said, “I don't think they were cops. Or insurance investigators.” I didn't want to sound overly dramatic so I kept my next thought to myself.
Maybe Ray or Evan—or both of them—were involved in something more deadly than insurance fraud or sheep rustling.

twenty-seven

The after-work rush was
just revving up when I pulled onto Coliseum and headed east to look for Bonnie. I debated whether to walk the property, or cruise the surrounding roads and talk to the neighbors again. Volunteers had already canvassed the neighboring farms and subdivisions, but someone may have seen Bonnie since then, or taken her in. I wasn't sure I had decided until I pulled up along the west side of the arena and shut the engine off. I let Jay out and picked up his leash, but there was no one else around so I clipped the clasp to the loop end and slung it over my shoulder like a bandolier.

If I hadn't been looking for a lost dog, it would have been a perfect April evening. It was cool enough to invite a long walk, and tender bits of green were showing everywhere. Even the long-
established grass under our feet had a freshness that comes only in that narrow space between winter's cold and summer's heat. We crossed to the roadway alongside the pole building and walked toward the scene of the crimes.

The yellow tape the police had put up to warn people off the storage room had been pulled down and tossed to the side of the concrete apron in front of the door. I don't know why I thought I'd find Bonnie in there if the detective and
crime-scene
techs hadn't, but I tried to picture the interior of the room, and whether there were any places for a frightened smallish dog to hide. Had there been bags of feed leaning against the wall, or was my memory mixing this room with another somewhere?

I should have realized that if the police had released the scene they wouldn't just drop their trash on the ground, but at the time I was in the throes of a decision.
To snoop or not to snoop.
I grasped the cool metal knob and turned. I expected it to be locked, but I didn't expect it to bite me.

I jerked my hand away and looked at the long bubbling scratch along the outer edge of my palm. A couple of expletives shot out of my mouth and I shoved my wounded flesh between my lips and licked the blood away before I looked at it again. The scratch didn't seem to be deep, but it bisected some enthusiastic capillaries. I found a
scrunched-up
tissue in my pocket and dabbed at the blood. It kept coming, so I flattened the tissue, pressed it hard against my palm, and bent to look at the doorknob.

A tiny bit of metal jutted from the bottom edge of the key slot. Several scratches marred the surrounding surfaces, and they were too bright and clean to have been there long. Jay tilted his nose toward the knob and sniff sniff sniffed. “Interesting, huh, Bub?” Not for the first time I wished he could speak. I didn't need my dog to tell me someone had jimmied the lock. Who would do that? And why?

I turned the knob. The door swung out with a long, low moan and Jay growled behind me. I shushed him and peered into the storage room. The gloom made it hard to see, especially after the bright light outside, so I felt cautiously along the wall for a switch. A bare bulb responded, but there still wasn't much to see. Other than a broom in the corner, the tools I remembered from Sunday morning were gone, and I assumed the police had taken them. One thought led to another, and I pulled my phone out, dialed Hutchinson's number, and left a message on his voice mail. After I ended the call, I called back. “Hutch, I, uh, I opened the door and cut myself on the knob where it was jimmied, so, um, my fingerprints and blood are on it. Just so you know.”
Right. Just so you know I'm a big dope.

I stepped onto the concrete stoop and elbowed the door shut. I wondered whether I should
re-rig
the
crime-scene
tape until Hutch had a chance to check it out but decided I had tampered with enough evidence for one day. Jay was looking toward the far end of the building, ears forward and nose working. “Come on, Bubby, you're good at finding lost souls,” I said. “Let's find Bonnie.” He trotted a few steps, then stopped and let out a short, soft
booffff
. Something moved just past the far end of the building, about where Ray's truck was parked, assuming it was still there.

Bonnie? Had she come back to Ray's truck?

Almost as soon as I thought of Bonnie, I knew it wasn't her. It was too big. And it was brown. Jay growled, and I laid a hand on his neck and whispered, “Quiet.” We crept a few steps farther, and I realized I was looking at the back of a person. A large person in a shapeless brown suit. It was the heavy half of goon and gooner. I told Jay to sit, pulled his leash over my head, and clipped it to his collar. If these guys were armed and belligerent, the last thing I wanted was for Jay to go near them.

I took a step backward and was about to turn and retreat when his skinnier half stepped into full view. He grinned and raised his right hand in a gesture that didn't register at first. Then I realized he was pointing a finger gun at me. A thrill of electricity ran through me, but I resisted my inner chicken. What's the first thing to remember when faced with a dangerous animal?

Don't run!