A Killer Retreat (11 page)

She quickly looked down and resumed typing.

Dale put his arm around my shoulder. “Don't worry, honey. Bill's a little slow on the uptake, but he's good folk. He'll figure out who killed that poor woman. You'll be on your way back to Seattle in no time.”

I'm sure he meant to comfort me, but the effect was exactly the opposite. As Dale's arm wrapped around my shoulders, his beard moved dangerously close to my face. That thing—I prayed it was a thing, not a creature—was still lodged between several wiry gray hairs. It moved as he spoke; it jiggled with every syllable.

This would never do.

I raised my hand to brush the tiny object away, but I couldn't make myself touch it. I wiped at my own face instead, hoping Dale would get the hint.

He didn't.

My eyes begged Michael for help, but he just looked at me and shrugged. I felt my lips quiver. My skin started to crawl. I tried to inconspicuously back away, but Dale hugged me in closer, almost touching me with that greasy, gray scraggle of man fur. I gulped
and tried not to panic. “Dale, there's um … something, um
… something on your chin.”

“Oh is there, now.” Dale backed away and brushed at his beard. A piece of brownish-yellow straw fluttered lifelessly to the floor. “Sorry about that. I was cleaning out the goat pens when John called.” He looked down at his clothes, as if noticing them for the first time. “I didn't take time to get all gussied up. John said you were smart as a whip, but that you'd be a pain-in-the-ass client. He said you probably wouldn't keep your mouth shut, so I hopped in my truck and headed straight to the station.”

He chuckled. “Quite the excitement, your little murder is. We don't get a lot of crime around here, 'cept maybe some shoplifting now and again. Heck, most people don't even lock their doors. They get a big, mean-looking dog and call it good. Last major criminal around these parts was the Barefoot Bandit.”

He walked to the reception desk and winked at the still-eavesdropping woman behind it. “Now
that
was some excitement, wasn't it Dolores? That young kid running around stealing airplanes and all.” Dale poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the desk and drank it in several thirsty gulps. “Been years since we had a murder on the island.” He crumpled the paper cup and tossed it the trash. “This'll be fun.”

Michael and I gaped at each other incredulously, for once in complete agreement. I didn't know why John had sent this man to represent me, but I knew I could find someone better. I
had
to find someone better. But first I needed to fire Dale without hurting his feelings.

“You've been great today. I appreciate your help. But the thing is … um … maybe I need a different lawyer. You know … maybe one from Seattle.”

“Sorry, hon. You're better off with a local. People 'round here don't take much to strangers.”

Obviously, I hadn't made myself clear.

“I'm sorry. I know you're a friend of John's, and I'm sure you're very talented, but I don't think you're the right person to represent me. You said yourself, there hasn't been a murder on Orcas in years. I need someone with more criminal experience.”

Dale stopped slouching. His eyes sharpened. The twang in his voice disappeared. He leaned in close and whispered, so as not to be overheard. “Ms. Davidson, I can assure you that I am completely qualified to handle your case. I moved to Orcas six years ago, but before that I spent twenty years as a defense attorney in Seattle. I obtained acquittals for ninety percent of my clients, and unlike you, most of them were guilty. Now be quiet and follow my lead.”

Dale slouched again, smiling. Deep wrinkles softened his eyes. His voice boomed throughout the room. “Now how 'bout we go find ourselves a cup of coffee and figure out how to get you out of this mess.”

ten

When we emerged from
the building and walked out to the parking lot, all four spots had been taken. Sergeant Bill's police car was still parked in the spot nearest the door. Sam's Camaro and Michael's Explorer occupied the two shady spaces in the middle. A broken-down-looking orange Plymouth pickup littered the space on the end. Dale's, I assumed.

Dale gave me directions to his office while Michael let Bella out of the car to take care of her biological duties.

I pointed to Sam's car. “Why didn't you guys all come together in the Explorer?”

Rene smirked at Sam. “Mr. Macho here is afraid to ride in the same car with Bella.”

“Do you blame me? That dog hates me!”

Dale followed Sam's gaze to the sniffing explorer-dog and broke out in a huge, hairy grin. “Well hey, there, beautiful. Come on over and say hi!”

Sam grabbed his arm. “Don't get close to that dog. She hates men with facial hair.”

Dale looked affronted. He shook off Sam's grasp and walked straight toward Bella. “Don't worry, I'm great with dogs.”

I had a terrible feeling those might be Dale's last words.

Bella looked up from her sniffing, spotted Dale, and moaned. She took a tentative step toward him.

Dale crooned in reply. “Oh, sweetie …”

I tried to step between them, but my legs seemed to move in slow motion, and there was no stopping them anyway. Dale and Bella pined for each other like star-crossed lovers kept apart by an evil stepmother. Dale staggered toward Bella; Bella lurched toward Dale. Michael dragged behind her like a not-heavy-enough anchor. They closed the distance separating them in three seconds flat.

I watched, shell-shocked, as the drama unfolded. Dale knelt on the pavement, reached out his arms, and pulled Bella in close. She responded by licking his face and nibbling at his beard.

Sam gaped at them both. “What the hell?”

Bella wiggled, wagged, whined, and drooled all over Dale's chin.
Dale raked his fingernails up and down her spine. Neither man nor beast had ever looked happier.

“Told you,” Dale said. “I love dogs!”

Sam crossed his arms and glared. “Un-effing-believable.”

Bella stopped wiggling and turned toward Sam's voice. She flatted her ears and lifted her upper lip, exposing several sharp white teeth. The expression wasn't at all friendly. I could have sworn that I saw Rene raise her lip too, but I must have imagined it.

“I'm so sorry, Sam,” I said. “She never shows her teeth like that. She must sense that you're uncomfortable.”

Sam kept his eyes firmly locked on Bella's. “That's the third time she's done that to me today.” He shuddered. “I swear that dog's going to kill me in my sleep.”

Rene's evil grin brightened her sallow complexion. “Don't be ridiculous, Sam. I sleep right next to you.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Bella's much too smart to leave a witness.” Rene paused and wiggled her eyebrows for emphasis. “She'll wait until the two of you are alone.”

Sam took several steps back.

I gave her a dirty look. “You're not helping.”

“Come on, Kate. Someone has to lighten the mood around here.
”

_____

Several minutes of human-canine bonding later, Dale left and told me to meet him at his office. I gave Rene a quick hug, asked her to go back to the center, and promised that Michael and I would return to the cabin in a couple of hours. As Rene sagged into the passenger seat of the Camaro, Sam pulled me aside. Worry lines creased his brow.

“I feel selfish for asking. You've got your own problems right now …” His voice trailed off.

I squeezed his hands. “Don't worry, Sam. I'll talk to her tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Kate.”

I tried not to worry as I watched them drive away. Whatever was going on with Rene, it would have to wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, I joined Michael and Bella in the Explorer for the quick drive to Eastsound.

Ten minutes later, Michael pulled up near Dale's address, parked in the shade, and cracked open the windows a couple of inches. The weather was cloudy and cool—perfect for Bella's late-afternoon nap. I gave her a quick scratch behind the ears and refilled her water bowl. “We'll be back before you know it, sweetie.”

We walked a half-block north to the Eastsound Professional Building—a rundown, five-business strip mall that contained the offices of two real estate agents, a tax accountant, a psychic advisor, and “Dale Evans, Goat Rustler and Attorney at Law.” Or at least that's what the sign on the door said.

Dale invited us into a paneled room decorated with pictures of goats. Lots and lots of goats. Some posed with human companions. Some wore hats and glasses. One even balanced precariously on the roof of Dale's rattletrap pickup. A photocopy of Dale's law degree was haphazardly taped above a poster advertising The Great Goat Olympics. A dancing goat bobblehead nodded encouragingly from a scarred wooden desktop.

He motioned for us to sit at a folding table and said he'd be back momentarily. When he returned, he carried a pot of freshly
brewed coffee, a bowl of spreadable cheese—goat cheese, of course—
and a plate piled high with rosemary scones. “We'll talk about your case in a minute. First, we eat. I don't work on an empty stomach.” He set the platter of goodies on the table and motioned toward a cabinet near the window. “Grab yourselves a mug.”

The cabinet's assortment of coffee mugs continued the goat theme. Dale's choice was a blue ceramic mug with the title “Goat Whisperer.” I selected a pink-lettered “Crazy Goat Lady” travel mug and handed “Stubborn Old Goat” to Michael.

“I only have honey for the coffee,” Dale said. “Hope that will do.”

It would do nicely.

Four o'clock was well past my normal lunchtime, and now that I thought about it, I hadn't eaten breakfast, either. Between finding Monica's body and trying to keep myself out of prison, snacking hadn't been my highest priority. But now that I smelled the pungent aromas of rosemary and chèvre, I realized that I was famished.

I grabbed the largest pastry off the plate and slathered it with cheese, for once not worried about my waistline. I gulped the first one down so fast that the herbaceous, tangy concoction barely touched my tongue. The second one, I savored. Its flakey richness settled in my belly, grounding me.

Michael listened silently while Dale built my trust with dense carbohydrates and light-hearted small talk. He skillfully listened to stories about my life and allowed me to pepper him with personal questions about his own. In spite of his nearly white whiskers and my earlier reservations, I found myself beginning to like and trust this unusual man.

“Why goats?”

“Goats are amazing creatures. Intelligent, social, and ornery as hell.” He winked. “Kind of how John described you.”

I ignored the editorial comment and stirred another teaspoon of honey into my coffee.

“Besides, goats may be willful as hell, but they never talk back, and they're a heck of a lot smarter than most of my clients.”

“Do you do much defense work?” Michael asked.

“Not any more. I stopped being a defense attorney years ago. I'm pretty much a paper-pusher these days. You know, divorces, wills, property disputes, that sort of thing.” He hitchhiked his t
humb toward me. “I'm only taking this one on as a favor to John.”

“How do you and John know each other?” I asked.

“We worked together, or rather, against each other. John and I sat on opposite sides of the courtroom plenty of times when I was a public defender. Your father, too.”

That got my attention. John and Dad did their homework. If Dale got acquittals on the cases they worked, he must be good.

I hesitated before asking, but I had to know. “I don't want to offend you, but I have to ask. What's with the country bumpkin routine?”

He chuckled. “I had you going there, didn't I?” He took a long drink of coffee then set the mug on the table. “You ever lived in a small town?”

I shook my head.

“I did. I grew up in one.” He resumed his affected hillbilly twang. “Marlington, Kentucky. Population six hunnert and seventy-three.” He smiled “Orcas is bigger than Marlington, but the culture's the same. The locals are friendly, but they don't trust strangers. And by ‘strangers' I mean anyone who wasn't born on the island. But when I turn on the country charm, people loosen right up.”

He crumpled his napkin and tossed it in the trash. “I'm not really fooling anyone, but people find it amusing. It gives them an excuse to cut me some slack. Besides, I spend more of my time on animal rescue than law these days, so my Farmer John act isn't all that untrue.”

“How'd you go from Seattle attorney to Eastsound goat rustler?”

Dale's easygoing smile disappeared. “That, my dear, is a long story.” He pushed his plate to the side. “Let's just say some creatures are more worth saving than others.” He stood up and moved behind the desk. “Lunch break is over. Pull your chairs over here, and let's get to work.”

My curiosity was piqued, but I didn't ask any more questions. The wide expanse of desk Dale placed between us sent a clear message: the time for personal chitchat was over.

He pulled out a legal pad and uncapped a pen. “Before we start, John made me promise to tell you something.”

Here it came. One of John's infamous lectures.

“He told me about that mess you got into when your friend was killed a few months ago.”

Wait for it …

“And he doesn't want you playing amateur detective this time.”
Dale raised his hands to make air quotes. “I believe John's exact words
were, ‘Katydid, mind your own business. Stick with your stretching exercises and let the police do the investigating. That's an order.'”

I kept my expression neutral.

“So, Miss Kate. Are you going to obey?”

My body stiffened at Dale's choice of words. “Obey” wasn't
part of my lexicon.

Michael reached under the table and squeezed my hand. “John's
right, Kate.”

Even the bobblehead goat nodded in agreement.

Well, I had news for all of them, billy goat chauvinist included. If being accused of murder wasn't my business, I didn't know what was.

I considered arguing, but what was the point? I hadn't met a man yet—at least not one worth knowing—that didn't want to protect me, especially from myself. I'd never fool Michael, but I might stand a chance with Dale. He didn't know me.

I released Michael's hand, crossed my left fingers under my leg, and made the scout's honor sign with my right. “Don't worry. I learned my lesson last time. Bella and I almost got killed. I'll let the police handle this.” Clients lie to their attorneys all the time, right?

Michael looked skeptical.

Dale looked downright disappointed. “Huh. I thought you had more spunk than that.”

“But you just told me to stay out of it!” My voice may have sounded a
tiny
bit more petulant than I had intended.

Dale shook his head emphatically. “No, Miss Kate, I did not. You need to listen more carefully.
John
told you to stay out of it. I simply relayed the message. I never said I agreed with him.”

He couldn't be serious. “You mean you
want
me to try to solve Monica's murder?”

Dale leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “Normally, I tell my clients to shut up and lay low. But normally, my clients are guilty. In your case, I think we should try to find out who the real killer is before Bill gets his act together enough to arrest you.”

Michael jolted. “Arrest her? You said that sergeant didn't think Kate was guilty.”

Dale shrugged. “He doesn't. But he's not positive she's innocent, either. This island survives on tourist income. No one's going to want an unsolved murder—especially one of a tourist—on the books. Bill's going to be under a lot of pressure to arrest someone.” He turned toward me. “All of the evidence so far points to you, Miss Davidson.”

White flour and goat cheese congealed in my stomach. “I'm in trouble, aren't I?”

Dale set down his pen and looked at me sympathetically. “I'm sorry, Kate, but yes. You're in trouble. So far, the case against you is weak. You don't have a history of violence or a compelling motive. But that doesn't mean you won't get arrested. Even if the case never goes to trial, your life—at least for the next few months—could turn into a living hell. Your reputation may never recover.”

I didn't say anything. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I might get sick.

“Our best bet is to find Bill a different suspect—the right one this time. I'm not saying you should do anything to put yourself in danger, but you're stuck on Orcas for now, anyway. You may as well stay at Elysian Springs and keep your ears open.” He held up his hand. “But let me be clear: I only want you to listen. Do
not
actively investigate. You could destroy your case. If you hear anything interesting, call me. I'll follow up.”

Michael didn't agree, but he didn't argue, either.

Dale turned the notebook to a blank page. “Now, tell me exactly what happened this morning.”

I related my version of the weekend's events, from beach encounters, to Helen's and my idle threats, to Monica's body floating face-down in the hot tub. Dale listened intently, taking notes. When I finished, he tapped his pen on the notebook.

“Well, that pretty much explains our problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“The witness who found you heard screaming, all right, but he thinks it came from the victim. He heard a woman cry for help and rushed to the top of the stairs. When he got there, the screaming had stopped, and you were huddled over the body.”