Shepherd's Crook (21 page)

fifty-nine

April is nothing if
not muddy in northern Indiana, and the weekend's rain had sloshed puddles and muck across portions of the paths through Franke Park, but our run cleared my mind, at least for a couple of hours. Jay and I were a mess when we got home, so I stripped off my muddy shoes and pants in the garage, put Jay in a down-stay, and grabbed some ratty old capris and a headband from my bedroom. I reached for the garage doorknob, dog shampoo in hand, but snatched my hand back, detoured to the fridge, and returned to the garage. Jay was exactly where I'd left him, so I tore the slice of cheese into three bits and gave them to him one by one before I told him he was free.

“Not completely free, Bubby,” I said. He eyed the bottle in my hand and hung his head. In a cheery voice I confirmed that yes, he was going to have a bath. I kept up the happy chatter, opening the overhead door and explaining again that I'd had the adaptor hooked up to the wash tub in the garage so I could use the garden hose for
warm-water
doggy baths on the driveway. The voice didn't fool him. I tried again as I worked shampoo down his legs, asking why a dog who happily ran through mud puddles and swam like a retriever was horrified by a simple bath. He just hung his head lower.

I set my grooming table up just inside the garage, hoping some of the fur would land outside, raw material for
bird-nest
linings. A little red sports car crept past the end of the driveway while Jay was being blown dry. It looked vaguely familiar, but I wasn't sure why. I didn't pay much attention at first—people are always slowing down for a look when they see a dog being groomed—but the car stopped and the driver's window rolled down, so I looked more closely. It was Councilman Martin's arm candy. “Hello,” I called, waving the dryer nozzle at her. I would have added her name, but I couldn't think of it.
Chastity? Charity?
She scowled at me and gave her golden locks a theatrical shake, as if bathing and drying a dog were the height of animal abuse.
Chelsea.
That was it. She hit the gas, screeched into Martin's driveway, slammed her door, and flounced up the front sidewalk and out of sight. Half an hour later Jay was a clean, fluffy,
blow-dried
stunner, and I was a wet, frizzy mess with Aussie fur stuck to my skin and clothes.

“I'd better get a move on, Bubby,” I said as I wound the cord around the dryer handle and stashed it under my workbench. “Winnie and Bonnie start school tonight, and we need to cheer them on.” Jay bounced up and down in front of me in agreement and followed me to the bathroom, as if to make sure I subjected myself to the horrors of a bath, too.

Jay was loaded into his crate and I was about to get behind the wheel when I heard a voice bark, “Just a minute there!” It didn't come from my side of the van, so I stepped toward the front of the vehicle to see over the hood. Phil Martin was stomping across his lawn toward me. He was all puffed up like a rooster, no doubt for the benefit of Chelsea, who stood in front of his house with her arms crossed.

“I'm on my way out.”

“It's illegal to run a business in this neighborhood, you know.” Martin squinted at me, and when I didn't respond he added, “It's a zoning violation.” His Daffy Duck voice was beginning to wear on me, and there was something else. I'd heard that voice somewhere, and not on TV or radio. But where?

My mind was reaching for a response, but I couldn't imagine how running a photography business out of my home could be a violation. All my sales were done online or by mail, and I went to my clients for their photo sessions. Before I could ask what the heck he was talking about, he told me.

“Pet grooming businesses must be regulated and meet certain, uh, standards.” He slowed down at the end of that just enough to tell me he was winging it. He didn't know what special regulations applied to professional groomers.

I considered setting him straight right away, but I couldn't help myself. I smiled and used my best
flipping-him
-off voice. “I don't think a little shampoo down the sewer will be a problem, especially considering all the petroleum and
lawn-care
products that wash into it.”

“Argue all you like. It's not going to work.”
It's not going to work.
That's what the man I had accidently called from Summer's phone had said, and I was almost certain it was the same voice. But why would Summer Winslow have Councilman Phil Martin on speed dial?

I stared at him for a moment, and suddenly a few more pieces fell into place. Martin was in insurance. Had Summer been in cahoots with Martin on an insurance scam? I let it go for the moment and said, “You're right. Because I don't have a grooming business. I'm a photographer.” I nodded toward Chelsea. “Your girl there has misled you.”

He sputtered and said, “She saw you, with a table and dryer and a strange dog …”

“Like the cop who saw my dog running loose the other night when my dog and I weren't home?” We stared at one another. I finally said, “By the way, my dog isn't strange, he was wet. And I'm late.” I got in the van and left the councilman
red-faced
in my driveway. For my part, I wasn't sure whether the whole incident was hilarious or infuriating, and settled on
half-and
-half until I realized what it meant for Tom and me. If Martin and his girlfriend were already harassing me, they were bound to escalate when Tom moved in with two more dogs, especially if the new pet limit passed. Who knew? Maybe they'd even hire a couple of enforcers, like the goons from Cleveland.

sixty

The new classes were
assembled in their respective rings by the time I had parked and taken Jay for the obligatory pre-training walk. Goldie waved as we passed the beginner ring. Goldie was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Bonnie sprawled across her thighs as if they'd been doing that for years. I hoped that Ray, wherever he was, knew his dog was safe and loved. I also hoped I'll be that limber at Goldie's age.
Who are you kidding?
It was that annoying little nag in my head.
You wish you were that limber now.

The puppies were in the next ring. Tom was on his knees, giving Winnie eensie bits of chicken as rewards for keeping her focus on him. He also had the attention of the bouncing baby Boxer on one side, and the spinning and bowing
Poodle-mix
puppy on the other.

The third ring was open for individual training, so I stashed my equipment bag on a chair and buckled my treat pouch around my waist. Jean, whom I'd met at the Dogs of Spring event, was in the center of the ring talking to Giselle, and Jean's lovely Aussie, Lilly, was leading Spike in circles around the two women, his leash gripped firmly in her mouth. “That's cute,” I said.

“I don't know where she learned that,” said Jean, “but she loves to lead other dogs around by their leashes. And people, if you let her!”

As I began warming Jay up with some heeling, Giselle said she needed to talk to me before I left, and I nodded but didn't break training. Jay and I would be trying for our first
utility-level
obedience leg in less than a month, and I had been slacking off with everything else going on. We had a great session, though, and practiced several open and utility exercises—the drop on recall, the scent articles, a few directed retrieves.

The last exercise I wanted to work on was Jay's favorite—the retrieve over the high jump. On my command, Jay went over the jump and grabbed the dumbbell. As he flew back toward me over the jump, a familiar puppy voice spoke up from the next ring. Jay sat in front of me as expected, but as soon as I took the dumbbell from him he cranked his neck toward the source of the racket. Winnie was bouncing and squealing and twirling on her leash and pulling toward Jay, who was clearly having a lot more fun than she was. Tom smiled at me, shrugged, and made a trilling sound that finally got her attention. As soon as she looked at him he clicked his clicker and popped a bit of chicken into her mouth.

Jay and I had been at it just over twenty minutes, but I decided that was plenty since he had made no major mistakes. Always better to quit on a high note if possible. Great advice, and not just for dog training. Giselle was waiting, so I stashed my paraphernalia, gave Jay an extra couple of treats and a kiss, and sat down to listen.

Giselle's face was flushed and her eyes were wide. She checked that no one was within eavesdropping distance and leaned toward me, her voice barely audible. “We were having breakfast at Cindy's Diner downtown and Homer got a call.”

I waited.

“I didn't really pay attention, but then he mentioned Blackford's Farm and Garden. I buy my dog food there.”

“So do I.” She just nodded at me,
wide-eyed
, so I asked, “Were they robbed?”

“No.” Giselle clamped her fingers around my wrist. “They found a body out back, behind the dumpster.”

My first thoughts were of Ralph Blackford, the owner, and Ed and Phyllis, the
long-time
clerks who always rang up my dog food and garden supplies. Then I thought of Joe, a homeless man who hung out in that part of town. “Did he say who it was?”

Giselle shook her head and tightened her grip on my wrist. “Homer said there was no ID on the body, and …” She swallowed and pressed her eyes closed, then looked into my eyes. “He was shot in the face.” I was just absorbing that information when Giselle shuddered and added, “With a shotgun.”

sixty-one

By the time we
got back to my house, my nerves had landed me somewhere between nauseated and ravenous for carbs. Tom was right behind me and Goldie's car was already in her driveway. When I stepped out of my van she waved from her front porch.

“Come on over for dessert when you get everybody settled in!” I knew she wanted to talk about her
first-ever
dog-training
class, and although I didn't really feel like socializing, how could I say no?

Tom took the dogs straight out back, mostly for Winnie's benefit, and we rendezvoused in the kitchen. I was sitting at the table, my face buried in Leo's soft neck, when man and dogs came in. Winnie leaped against my knees, poked Leo with her nose, and rolled back into a sloppy sit. The cat ignored her, and she shifted her
four-second
attention span to Pixel. They wrestled at my feet while I told Tom about the body found behind Blackford's Farm and Garden.

“I'm afraid it's Joe.”

“Who's Joe?”

“The homeless man who lives in the area.”

Tom nodded. “You know his name.”

“Yes.” I didn't bother to add that I often bought him some food when I saw him.

We sat with our individual thoughts for a few minutes before Tom said, “Goldie's waiting,” and we found our way from my kitchen to hers. The contrast was startling. Mine smelled of old coffee and the lingering scent of canned vegetable soup. Goldie's was rich with a complex swirl of yeast and cloves and something like licorice that wrapped around me like a cashmere shawl. Bonnie
pitty-patted
back and forth between me and Tom, her lush tail waving. Totem, Pixel's litter brother, watched from atop a stack of cookbooks on an antique sideboard.

“How about a glass of wine to toast my return to school?” Goldie held a bottle of Infamous Goose Sauvignon Blanc and had I not been bound by social convention, I might have grabbed it for a quick chug. Instead, I said I'd love some. We toasted Bonnie and friendship and new ventures, and for a minute and a half, I felt better. I guess it didn't show, because Goldie said, “What are you so glum about?”

“No, nothing,” I said. “Just tired.” I muscled my mouth into what I hoped was a smile and she let it go, but with a look that told me she knew me better. The intermingled fragrances that filled me up when we arrived turned to ecstatic flavors when Goldie set her fennel and clove sweet rolls in front of us. By the time we left an hour later, the carbs and alcohol had done their work and I was out almost before I rolled into bed.

It was a good thing I got a decent sleep, because I needed my strength on Tuesday. We were just having a second cup of coffee when my cell phone rang and I saw Hutchinson's number on the screen. “Hutch? At eight in the morning?” I asked, looking at Tom before I answered.

“Janet, you're going to get a call from a detective named Tim Wainwright.” He was talking fast.

“I am?”

“He's going to ask you to go to the station for a talk. They—”

“About what?” I set my coffee down as the cup and a half in my stomach began to churn.

Hutchinson's voice was softer when he spoke again. “There was a murder last night.”

My inner smarty pants wanted to blurt
just one?
, but another part of my brain urged caution, even with Hutch. “The one at Blackford's?”

“You know the place?”

Tom was watching me, a crease forming between his eyes.

“Yes. I've shopped there for years. Hutch, who—”

“You didn't get this from me, but don't go in alone.” He paused, came back. “Hang on.” A few seconds passed, and he was back. “Your brother's a lawyer, right?”

The coffee in my stomach was now splashing its way up my esophagus. “My
brother-in
-law.”

“Take him with you.”

Something cold gripped the back of my neck. “Hutch, who was killed?”

I heard a male voice in the background and Hutchinson told me to hang on again. I turned to Tom, “The police want to talk to me.”

“Why?”

I shrugged as a carousel of possible victims cycled through my mind—Summer, Evan, Joe the homeless man, Councilman Phil Martin. My spinning thoughts were cut short by Hutchinson's voice. “I gotta go. I won't be there when they talk to you, but I'll be around if I can.”

“Wait! Hutch, who was it? Who was killed? And why talk to me?”

“It's Mick Fallon. They have witnesses to your altercation with him the other night. Hell, Janet, even I saw it.”

“But—”

“I gotta go.”

He was no sooner off the line than my other phone rang. It was Detective Tim Wainwright, and he asked me to come to the station at my earliest convenience. I wanted to say I couldn't think of a convenient time, early or late, but that didn't seem like a good plan, so I said I would try to be there around ten. Then I called Norm.

“I'm not a criminal attorney, Janet.”

“Well, that's okay, because I'm not a criminal.” I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a gargle.

Norm sighed. “I'll meet you in front of the police station at ten.”

Tom had classes all morning, but he told me about a dozen times to call him as soon as I was finished and he'd call me back. I promised. He took Drake and Winnie home and I stood in front of my open closet for what seemed like an hour pondering the right clothes to wear to a police interrogation. My innards felt like they were set on spin as I cycled through fear, anger, and apprehension about what was coming. I also felt a touch of relief that Mick Fallon wouldn't be threatening me anymore, and guilt for feeling relieved at the death of another human being, no matter how odious.

Detective Wainwright was younger than I expected, and friendlier. He had red hair and freckles and reminded me vaguely of Alfred E. Newman, the guy on the cover of
Mad
magazine
.
The conversation was relaxed at the start—did I know Fallon, when did I last see him, had we had any difficulties? I had to remind myself several times to follow Norm's advice—“Just answer the questions they ask. Don't offer anything extra.” He was right, of course, and telling them that Fallon had threatened me more than the one time they knew about would not help my cause.

I thought we had covered everything when Wainwright said, “I'll be right back. I want to show you something.” When he came back, he laid a shotgun on the table in front of me. A ragged scratch ran half the length of the stock. “Look familiar, Ms. MacPhail?”

A little shot of adrenaline sparkled along my nerves. “It's a shotgun.”

“Have you seen it before?”

My face went cold and I felt Wainwright assessing my reaction. “It looks like one that belongs to Evan Winslow. If so, then yes, I've seen it at their farm. Why do you have it?”

“That's the thing, Ms. MacPhail. We found it in a dumpster behind the Firefly Café, just down the street from where we found Mr. Fallon's body.” He pinned me to my chair with a cold eye. “You know the place.” Wainwright now made me think more of Chucky from the horror films than of Alfred E. Newman, and the axe he wielded was what he asked next. “Ms. MacPhail, why are your fingerprints on this weapon?”