Silent Night: A Raine Stockton Dog Mystery

Copyright 2011 by Donna Ball, Inc.

All rights reserved.  No portion of this book may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.

http://www.donnaball.net

Published by Blue Merle
Publishing

E-book edition November 2011

This is a work of fiction. All characters, character names, events and locations are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and should not be construed as real.
 
Any resemblance to any actual person or persons, living or dead, events or organizations is purely coincidental.

This book is for the magnificent Tsaligi Dakota Legend, CGC,VC, HIC, BPD, OJC, NTC, W-TFD/MF, W-FD/MF/HTM, Registered Therapy Dog.

You changed lives.  Can anyone ask for more?

12/14/99—7/28/11

ONE

A
shleigh had just finished hanging the string of Christmas lights over the front door when she saw the flash of lights round the corner of Willow Lane, and Dusty Harper’s red pickup truck pulled up in front of the trailer.  Her daddy had lost his license a year ago and sometimes Dusty would run into him at the Last Chance Bar & Grille and give him a ride home.  Ashleigh’s stomach always knotted up when she heard Dusty’s pickup truck chugging around the corner because she knew that meant they’d both been drinking. Nothing good ever happened when the two of them went out drinking.

She hurried to drag the kitchen chair on which she had been standing back inside just as the truck door opened and her daddy spilled out, cussing loudly for no good reason at all.  Dusty yelled back at him to shut the eff up and mind his own effing business, and Ashleigh shut the door quickly so she couldn’t hear any more.  She hated it when her daddy and his drinking buddies stood in the yard throwing F-bombs, not because she was such a prude, but because their neighbor, 62-year-old Leona Silva, had already called the cops on them twice this year.  Fine for her, but when the squad car pulled away Ashleigh was the one alone in the trailer with an angry drunk.  Just thinking about it made her feel sick to her stomach again with dread.

Although she couldn’t hear the words, she could still hear them out there arguing as she hurried around the room straightening up the mess: a couple of empty cardboard boxes the Christmas ornaments had come in, some stray tinsel, the strands of lights she hadn’t had a chance to untangle yet.  Maybe if she hid the clutter he wouldn’t notice the four-foot plastic tree she’d decorated in the corner, or the Nativity scene she’d set up on the dinette set, and if he didn’t notice, he wouldn’t have any reason to yell at her. 

Why a Christmas tree would make him mad, she didn’t know, and it didn’t matter.  When Daddy was drunk, he didn’t need a reason to get mad.

She heard the engine of the pickup truck roar, and gravel sputtered as Dusty drove off.  A few seconds later the front door burst open and her daddy stood there, red-eyed and glaring.

“What is all this crap?”  He grabbed the Christmas lights that wreathed the door—which she had forgotten to unplug—and jerked them down.  “Ain’t you got nothing better to do than trash this place up like a whorehouse?  Answer me, girl!”

He kicked the door shut and came toward her with a strand of lights knotted in his hand, but she stood her ground.

“I was just trying to pretty the place up a little for Christmas,” she said.  “Mama always did.”

“Don’t you talk to me about your mama!”  He threw the lights at her, and she couldn’t help flinching, even though it didn’t come close to hitting her. “You see your
mama
any place around here?  Electricity costs money, girl!”

She bent down to pick up the lights.  “Yes, sir.”

He shoved past her and into the narrow kitchen, and every muscle in her body tensed as he flung open the refrigerator door and she realized she had forgotten to check to see if there was any beer. 
Please, please, please…

She heard the clink of a bottle and relaxed marginally as he pushed past her again, beer in hand.  She held her breath until he got past the Christmas tree without noticing it and sat down heavily in the vinyl recliner.  In a moment he grunted, “Anything to eat?”

“Some ham left over from last night,” she offered quickly.  “You want me to make you a sandwich?”

“The way you eat, I’m surprised there’s anything left at all.  Nobody likes a fatty.”

He tilted the beer bottle to his mouth and picked up the remote control.  ESPN blared to life on the 30-inch flat screen he’d bought when he’d still had a job down at the plant.  He used to drink a lot back then, too—in fact he’d been drinking most of Ashleigh’s fourteen years or at least the ones she could remember—but he hadn’t started getting mean about it until the plant laid him off. 

He said, “Don’t put no mustard on it.”

She took out the plate of ham and a butcher knife and that was when the phone rang. She snatched up the kitchen extension, hoping he wouldn’t hear the ring over the television, and tried to sink back against the opposite wall where her father couldn’t see if he happened to glance over his shoulder.

“Hello?” Her voice was breathless, muffled by the hand she held close to the receiver.

“Hey.”  It was Nick, just as she had feared. “You want me to come over or what?”

“I told you not to call this late.”  She edged back further into the corner, her voice low as she darted another anxious glance toward the living room.  “I’m going to get in trouble.”

“That better not be that worthless boy calling up this time of night,” her father yelled. “You tell him he comes sniffing around here I’ll whip his ass!”

Ashleigh’s eyes flew in alarm to the living room, where her daddy was lurching up from the recliner.  “I’ve got to go,” she said urgently.  “Don’t call back.  I’ll see you after school tomorrow.”

“Hey—”

She turned to hang up the phone but as she did the cord, which was stretched across the kitchen table, caught the edge of the platter and sent the ham crashing to the floor.

“Look what you did, you stupid cow!”

The beer bottle sailed past her shoulder and shattered against the wall behind her.  She dropped to her knees and scrambled to pick up the spilled ham.  The telephone receiver hit the floor but she could hear Nick saying, “You still there?  Hey, you still there?”  And then her daddy’s boot slammed the receiver across the floor and she didn’t hear anything else from it.

Ashleigh got to her feet with her hands full of the greasy ham, and her daddy lunged toward her, his face like thunder.  “You expect me to eat that?  You fixing to feed me food that’s been on the floor, is that what you’re gonna do?”

“Daddy, I can wash it off.  It’s not that dirty, see?  It won’t take but a minute—”

He drew back his arm and knocked the ham out of her hands.  And while she stared, stunned and afraid, at the mess on the floor, he drew back his arm again.  That was when she snatched up the butcher knife that was still lying on the table.

“Don’t do it,” she said, but her eyes were pleading as she backed a step away.  “Daddy, don’t.”

But he just looked at the way she held the knife, two-handed and weak-wristed in front of her, and his eyes glinted with scorn, and he just kept coming.

___________

TWO

I
’m pretty sure Norman Rockwell never even heard of Hanover County, North Carolina, or of Hansonville, the county seat and my home town.  But if he had, he probably would have painted it, because we still know how to do Christmas right.  Every street lamp is wrapped with greenery and red bows.  There’s a wreath on every shop window, twinkling lights around every doorway, and a huge reindeer-drawn sleigh atop the roof of Hanson’s Department store. There are  fake snowmen on the lawn of City Hall and the walkway to the courthouse is lined with Christmas trees all decked out in red bows and multicolored  Christmas lights.  A huge spruce tree sits in the town square, and the ceremonial lighting of the tree each year rivals anything Rockefeller Center has to offer.
 
And even though we don’t generally get snow until the middle of January, no one ever seems to get tired of hearing “White Christmas” on the radio.

My name is Raine Stockton.  I live here in the mountains of western North Carolina with my gorgeous dogs: two Australian shepherds, Mischief and Magic, and my golden retriever, Cisco. My beautiful collie, Majesty, is currently living with my Aunt Mart, who had a difficult time adjusting to Uncle Roe’s heart attack and subsequent retirement a few months back.  Having Majesty around has been the best thing that could have happened to her, and I’ve never seen Majesty happier, but make no mistake about it—Majesty is still my dog.

Up until the so-called downturn in the economy—which around here is more like a full- blown depression—I worked part time for the Forest Service and ran a full-time boarding kennel and training facility with my business partner, Maude.  Now it doesn’t look as though the Forest Service will be able to afford me even part-time when the tourist season starts again, and my kennel has been closed for remodeling since October. The closest thing I have to a full-time job these days is volunteering with Cisco in search and rescue, our therapy dog work, or whatever we can find to keep us busy.  And even without a job, Christmas is my busiest time of the year.

It was Friday, two weeks before Christmas, and Cisco, wearing a fur-trimmed Santa hat and a big red velvet bow, patiently posed for his eighty-seventh photo of the day.  Christmas with Santa Dog was the highlight of Hansonville Elementary and Middle School’s holiday season and has been the undoing of more than one underpaid elementary grade teacher, not to mention her well-meaning, elf-clad temporary assistant... me.

To be absolutely honest, I don’t think anyone has actually died due to Santa Dog, but I can’t help but notice the rate of attrition in third-grade teachers is unusually high, particularly during the holidays.  So far the damage had been fairly light: Cisco toppled over the Christmas tree in his rush to take a bite out of the gingerbread house; Lincoln White had tried to feed Santa Dog a chocolate bar and, when I averted that disaster, he had threatened a temper tantrum unless allowed to share his cherry punch with Cisco, who happily overturned the cup onto Lincoln’s white shirt.  Lincoln thought that was hilarious, but I had a feeling I’d be hearing from his parents.  Kitty Rogers threw up red-and-green frosting in the cardboard cut-out sleigh, and only a quick grab of Cisco’s collar prevented an embarrassing– and disgusting– incident.  After that, Mrs. Holloway turned kind of greenish and seemed to lose her holiday spirit.  I knew how she felt.  In four and a half yards of green elf felt with bells jingling from every appendage, I was swimming in sweat, sick of the smell of sugar, and ready to go home.

On the positive side, though, the kids were having a great time.

When the last snapshot was taken and the last cupcake eaten, Cisco was presented with his ritual basket of dog biscuits wrapped in red cellophane with a sloppy green bow. Cubbies were cleaned out, coats buttoned up, and the final bell before the winter holidays dismissed a stream of squealing third-graders into the hallway, trailing Christmas ribbons and glitter posters  and waving their photos of Santa Dog.  I felt sorry for Cisco in all the noise and confusion, and stayed to chat with Mrs. Holloway only long enough for the corridors to clear out.  Cisco loves kids and, except for one or two minor incidents, had been a perfect guest.  But I didn’t want to push my luck and we still had one more stop to make today.  I left him in a down-stay by the door while I helped the teacher clean up the room.

“Are you and Cisco going to be in the Christmas parade tonight?” asked Mrs. Holloway as we went around the room, raking leftover paper plates, cups and wrapping paper into a big black trash bag.