Let Loose (6 page)

Martin, despite a silent wish of my own, did
not leave him hanging. “Martin Phillips. I’m working with Red on
the course for the Silver Trail.”

Chuck, or the kid I assumed was Chuck,
arrived at my side. He was young, probably fresh out of whatever
school police officers came from, and his hands shook a bit as he
motioned for me to walk in front of him.

I pursed my lips and considered refusing. The
campground was a public place. I wasn’t in the way, and Stone
annoyed me. Basically, on principle, if he wanted me to leave, I
wanted to stay. But then Chuck looked me in the eye and I could see
what he was thinking.
Don’t make me look bad
.

I sighed. I was a sucker for the young and
outranked.

I did as I’d been told and slogged my way
back to the road.

The dogs were glad to see me. Not that that
was a good thing for me or my Jeep. They scratched at the glass
like they were digging for China, smacked into each other and
tussled until I was sure the entire vehicle was going to collapse
under their enthusiasm.

“Yours?” Chuck asked, eyeing me as if I
warranted a special kind of watching.

“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest, leaned
against my Jeep and tried to ignore the shaking metal behind my
backside.

“Okay, then...” He looked back at the
campground and fidgeted with a button on his coat.

I heaved out a breath. “You could take my
statement. Do you want to know why I was here? What I saw? How I
knew Red?”

He blinked at me like a goldfish who’d just
discovered a new ceramic castle in his bowl for the two millionth
time. “Red?” he asked.

I inclined my head toward the campground.
“The body.”

“Oh. You knew him.”

“Yes...” I was starting to wonder if I should
just go to the patrol car myself and find the clipboard I knew all
officers carried. “You want to...” I motioned to his car.

Another blink and then some light went on.
“Yeah. Sure. Just let me...” He scurried off, in search, I hoped,
of something to use to record my statement.

He was back quickly and with a pen in hand,
looking a lot more confident.

I went through the events of the morning,
hoping that telling good old Chuck my story would be enough. His
goldfish stare was heaven compared to the sharklike glare I was
used to enduring in similar situations with Stone.

While we were talking, a truck drove by,
coming from town. I expected the person to slow down and gawk or
even stop and ask questions, but the driver kept going. Chuck was
blocking my view when the vehicle approached, but I got a look at
the back plates. They had a 5 on them for Lewis and Clark County.
Seriously, what was the world coming to when the locals didn’t care
enough to butt into a police investigation, at least a little?

After taking down everything I had to say,
Chuck slipped the pen through the wire spiral at the top of his
notepad and tapped his finger against his leg.

“Did you hear anything?” he asked, coming up
with that question all on his own.

I was proud. I was also a little bit
confused. Had I? Should I have? The campground was four miles from
my house, but noise did travel. Actually it traveled too well. I’d
heard gun shots before and never paid them any attention. I lived
in the woods. Hunting was a huge sport. Things got shot, and
usually any shots I heard had happened miles away. Never a reason
for concern. But I couldn’t remember hearing anything in the last
day.

“Not that I remember,” I replied. Which meant
nothing. I could have been inside with the TV on too loud or asleep
with my heater cranking.

The answer, non-committal though it was,
seemed to satisfy him. He stared toward the bridge and tapped his
finger against his leg some more.

Finally, I asked, “Can I leave?” I had no
intention of actually leaving, of course, but some bored little
demon inside me rose up and forced me to poke at him.

The answering look of panic in Chuck’s eyes
almost caused me to regret the poke. Almost, but not quite,
especially since I was pretty sure I could use said panic to my
benefit.

“Maybe you should ask Detective Stone,” I
prompted. “Or I could, if you’re supposed to stay here?” I opened
my eyes extra wide. My earlier efforts at gathering information had
been cut short, and if I was stuck standing out in arctic
conditions, I might as well be snooping while I was at it.

And it wasn’t like I wanted to snoop just for
gossip’s sake either. I hadn’t worked at the local paper in a
while, but I still did the occasional piece for them, and since it
appeared boy wonder, Daniel Rowe hadn’t managed to roust himself
out of bed yet to do his job and investigate a potential murder, I
had a civic duty to do it myself.

I took a step toward the campground.

Chuck held up a hand stopping me. “Wait here.
I’ll...” He looked over his shoulder. “...ask Detective Stone.”

“Okay.” I rubbed my hands up and down my
arms. “But it’s pretty cold out here. Could I sit in your car?”
Police cars had radios. Radios that relayed information to anyone
within hearing range. I just needed to be in that range.

He glanced at my Jeep parked right behind
me.

I twisted my lips. “They’re evidence. I
didn’t think you would want me messing with them.”

“Evidence?” Then apparently remembering the
part of the story where I’d told him that the dogs were, I assumed,
Red’s, he nodded. “Okay.” He walked me to his car and opened the
front passenger door. He watched me climb in, started to walk away,
and then seemed to think better of it. He reached past me and
flipped off his radio. “Don’t touch anything,” he added, before
pushing the door shut and jogging across the bridge to the
campground.

After a good two minutes of fighting with the
devil inside me, I flipped Chuck’s radio back on and prepared to be
inundated with slews of ill-gotten yet fascinating facts.

What I got? Radio silence. That’s what I got
for living in a - aside from the murders I seemed adept at
discovering - low-crime town.

Annoyed, I plopped back against the seat and
looked for something else to do to while away my time. My gaze
caught on the clipboard that I’d expected Chuck to pull out for my
interrogation.

It was sitting close by, not hidden at all.
Not marked with words like “confidential” or “hands off or else.”
Those kinds of things would have made me think I really shouldn’t
touch it. But nope, nothing like that was scrawled across the metal
lid that snapped closed over whatever documents lay inside.

I tapped my finger against my thigh and
glanced out the window. No sign of Chuck, or Stone, or any other
living thing except the seven dogs wrestling inside my Jeep and a
squirrel that had decided to wander out in the cold apparently to
torment the dogs inside my Jeep. The squirrel ran down the Jeep’s
length, paused on the windshield for a second and then, once it was
sure it had the dogs’ attention, bounded off the hood and onto the
road.

One dog slammed against the back of my rig’s
front seat, sending another scrabbling against the dash.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think about
what state the interior of my Jeep would be in by the time I’d
unloaded my unwelcome guests.

It didn’t work. I could still feel the stress
of potential property damage swirling inside me. What I needed was
something to take my mind off my troubles. Like some light
reading.

After one last glance out the window to check
for human life, I flipped open the clipboard and settled in for a
little me time.

The reading was a bit dry. I’d give it at
most three stars at Amazon and only then because of the mention of
my new hairdresser, Carol. Apparently Carol’s husband had had two
snowmobiles stolen recently and Carol had made a statement about
the last time they had been parked in their driveway. Actually, now
that I read it more carefully, I was mentioned too. Not by name,
but by appointment. The snowmobiles in question had disappeared the
night after my new do and Carol had listed everyone who had been at
her house. Ethel and “friend” were listed. I had to be that
friend.

In truth, it was a little insulting that
Carol hadn’t remembered my name. I mean how many blue dye jobs did
she do a week?

Mentally lowering the review from three stars
to two, I lifted the page to see what followed.

A rap on the door startled me into dropping
the clipboard onto the floor.

George Pearson, police officer and friend who
I’d thought was out sick, jerked his head to the side, warning me
that someone less friendlike was coming. I tossed the clipboard
onto the driver’s side floor instead and opened my door.

Stone, with the stealth of a snake, was
already waiting. “I see you’re keeping busy, Lucy.”

I licked my lips and concentrated on not
looking back at the car I’d just vacated. “Best I can,” I replied
with my strongest Southern Missouri accent. A lot of people here
found my semi-drawl charming. Stone apparently wasn’t one of
them.

He hmphed. “Chuck got your statement?” he
asked.

I smiled, nodded, and pretended total
reverence.

He stared at me for a good two minutes longer
than was polite. My right eye started to twitch, but I held my
smile.

After another thirty seconds of me thinking I
was going to explode and say or do something that would convince
him that I needed to be hauled in, cuffed and fed nothing but
crackers and water for the next five day, he turned away and
stalked to his car.

Unsure if this meant I was safe, I glanced at
George.

“You’re good,” he offered. “For now.”

That was less than reassuring, but it was
better than being told that I had to hang out in the arctic while
Stone did whatever it was he did when not biting the heads off of
innocent antique store owners.

I almost got to my Jeep before remembering
why I’d been at the campground in this decidedly not
camping-friendly weather.

Dogs. A team of them.

Damn.

I trotted back the direction from whence I’d
come.

Stone was out of his car, talking to Chuck. I
pretended not to notice either of them and instead directed my
attention to George.

“I have a bit of a situation.”

“A situation?”

“Yes...” Howls cut off my plea. I let out a
breath. “That.” I filled George in on what I’d already told Chuck,
about trying to return the team to Red when I’d found his body.

George nodded his head and rubbed his chin.
“That does sound like a situation all right.”

I waited, expecting him to offer some
solution.

Finally, he continued, “Guess I can call the
Humane Society. They’ve worked with us in the past.”

Yes, the Humane Society. That would be
perfect.

“It’s Thursday. They’re closed on Thursdays.
Won’t be open until tomorrow. Of course, we can call the director,
but they’re still dealing with those puggles they got from that
puppy mill case. I don’t know that she’ll be able to find a foster
to take them all that soon.”

I, of course, despised anything puppy mill
and supported all the good work our local humane society did,
but...

“There are eight of them, George. Seven in my
car right now.” Doing God knew what to the upholstery.

George didn’t, however, seem to be paying
attention to me. His attention had moved back to the bridge that
led to the campground. “What about that one? She yours too?”

“None of them are mine—” Martin and the
female who seemed to think she was in charge picked their way
across the rut-covered bridge.

Martin. He could surely take the dogs. I
waved George off and charged forward.

A quick conversation with Martin uncovered a
new problem.

“I offered. That detective... Stone? said
no.”

“What?” How could Stone say no? How could
Stone even know that there was something to say no to?

Martin didn’t have any more information than
that Stone was once again determined to make my life hell. My
interpretation, not Martin’s.

I turned to trudge back to George. He was
getting out of one of the police cars as I approached. I didn’t
give him a chance to tell me whatever he seemed ready to say, but
jumped in with my complaint regarding Stone’s idiotic refusal to
let a sled dog person take Red’s dogs.

“The dogs are evidence and Stone wants them
in the care of the Humane Society, not...” George glanced at
Martin. “...someone we don’t know.”

His tone stopped me. Ominous. Well, as
ominous as George could get. I slid my gaze to Martin, but quickly
shook off any concern brought on by the possibility that Stone
might suspect the musher of something. Stone almost certainly did.
Stone suspected everyone, me most of all. I was pretty sure every
crime that crossed his desk he did a quick check to see where I’d
been at the time. It was just part of the charm that was Helena’s
lovely Detective Stone.

Putting that aside, I turned back to George.
“Then...”

He waved his hand. “Already radioed it in and
someone called her.”

I glanced at his car. He was fast.

“And there’s good news. They had a new foster
sign up three days ago. They haven’t had time to check out the
foster’s house for final approval, but they will put a rush on it.
Until then, she said they would support anyone we felt was
responsible enough to care for the dogs because she is flat out of
options.”

“But—”

He held out one finger. “You like dogs.”

He held out a second. “You have a big
yard.”

I opened my mouth to rebut.

He cut me off. “With a fence. You know the
breed.”

“They’re huskies,” I objected. Really, George
had known me long enough to know I didn’t take lightly to people
mixing up the northern breeds. And these weren’t even Siberian
huskies. They were Alaskan huskies, and sled dogs. Dogs that lived
to run, whereas my particular northern breed lived to sleep and eat
and be waited on. There was really no similarity at all.