Dog Days (3 page)

I hate to over-vaccinate dogs, but if she was going to go home with me I had no choice. “Yeah,” I agreed reluctantly. “But I hope you can get her shot record.”

“Why don’t you go get some lunch and stop back by in …” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Say an hour and a half? Unless something unusual shows up, she should be ready to go.”

He unsnapped her collar and gave it to me. It was a little smudged and dirty, but definitely one of the high-end brands: petal pink dyed leather studded with rhinestones. Someone had treasured this dog. Then why had they been stupid enough to let her get lost in the woods?

Doc read my thoughts. “There’s no accounting for people, Raine.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know. Especially city people. Thanks, Doc.”

~*~

With an hour and a half to kill, I really could have gone back to work. But I had been washing dogs, walking dogs, feeding dogs, cleaning kennels, and exercising dogs since six a.m., and judging by the growling in my stomach I had forgotten to eat breakfast. I called Katie on her cell phone. She reported that all was quiet, and would it be okay if they watched the television in my office while they had their lunch? I told them to be sure to crate all the dogs and to stay off the computer and that I would be home by two at the latest. Then I drove straight to Miss Meg’s diner.

Miss Meg’s is an institution in Hansonville. Good solid home cooking, no Swiss chard, no radicchio, no vegan anything, and if you ask for gluten free, Miss Meg will stare you down until you slink out of the restaurant with your tail between your legs, as well you should. Her homemade buttermilk biscuits are to die for. During tourist season even locals have to fight their way to the counter for a seat, though, unless you’re smart enough to dine fashionably early. Like I was.

I arrived at 11:40 and already the place was three-quarters full. Cathy, the head day waitress, picked up a menu and gestured me to follow her as soon as I entered, but I waved her off. I had already seen the K-9 unit parked outside, with Nike the Belgian Malinois, the newest member of the Hanover County Sheriff’s Department, resting in air-conditioned comfort inside. Her handler, Jolene Smith, was sitting at a booth halfway down the row, finishing her lunch and reading the newspaper. I slid into the seat opposite her.

“Hey, Jolene,” I said.

She took a gulp of her coffee, folded the newspaper, and started to rise.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said, exasperated. “There’s no need to be rude.”

She met my gaze coolly. “I was just sitting here having my coffee. You’re the one that decided to take my table.”

Jolene was the first black woman ever to be hired by the Hanover County Sheriff’s Department. As though that wasn’t enough, she also had a fairly accomplished background as a canine handler in the military, and had done two tours in Afghanistan. This made her more qualified for the job than roughly ninety percent of the deputies on the force, and knowing those deputies as I do, I was sure it wasn’t easy for her. Furthermore, her position was funded by the Department of Homeland Security, which I happened to know pissed off the sheriff. How do I know? Because Sheriff Buck Lawson is my ex-husband and, not to mince words, we’re still pretty tight. After all, we’d been together since junior high.

With all that in mind, I didn’t think Jolene could afford to be that particular about her friends. I knew she didn’t like me, and it wasn’t as though I was all that wild about her, although her dog was amazing. But we had been through some fairly intense hours together a month or so back, along with over two dozen juvenile campers and their dogs, and I just couldn’t stop thinking that, because of it, we were both changed. Three fingers of her gun hand were still splinted, and her duties over the past few weeks had been mostly administrative. My wounds from that time were less visible.

I said, “Anyway, this is police business.”

She cautiously eased back into her seat, but her tone was challenging. “What?”

I told her about the stray dog, and I could see her trying not to roll her eyes. “Police business?” she repeated dryly.

“This isn’t New Jersey,” I reminded her archly. “Around here we serve and protect, with an emphasis on the serve. This time of year a lot of people come up, camping or renting cabins, and most of them bring their dogs. They forget the dogs aren’t at home and think they can just let them out to pee without a leash, and that they’ll come right back like they always do. Next thing you know the dog is out after a deer, or has wandered out of hearing range and has absolutely no idea how to find his way back to his family because he’s not, after all, at home. People are stupid, and dogs are the ones who suffer. But sometimes those stupid people actually have sense enough to call the sheriff’s department when they lose a dog, which is why I always notify them when I find a stray. Police business.” I smirked, and glanced up as Cathy arrived, order pad in hand.

“Bring me an egg salad sandwich,” I said, “with sweet tea and french fries. And save me a piece of apple pie for dessert. With ice cream,” I added as she hurried away, and she waved acknowledgement.

Jolene stood up. “Stop by the office and leave a report with the clerk.”

I corrected, “Office manager.”

“Whatever.”

She walked away without saying good-bye and I called after her, “Have a good day!”

She didn’t even turn around.

Cathy brought my sweet tea, made the way it was supposed to be made, with simple syrup and poured hot over ice cubes until the ice cracks and the pitcher sweats. I had just taken my first crisp, refreshing drink when a shadow fell over me and a man said, “Raine Stockton?”

He had the voice of a summons server, so naturally I tensed. But when I looked up, the face that belonged to the voice was smiling, with hazel eyes, a mustache, and curly brown hair. He couldn’t have been much older than I was, and he held a glass of iced tea just like mine.

He said, by way of introduction, “Marshall Becker. Do you mind if I join you for a minute?” And, taking my speechlessness as consent, he slid into the seat that Jolene had vacated across from me. Cathy hurried to clear away the used dishes and wipe the table.

He said, as though by way of explanation, “I’m running for sheriff.”

I stared at him. “I know that.” It wasn’t as though his picture wasn’t on every telephone pole and store window in town—those not already taken by posters with pictures of the incumbent on them, of course. “Do you happen to know who you’re running against?”

He smiled. “Buck Lawson, I believe is the fellow’s name.”

“My ex-husband,” I pointed out. “You can’t sit here.”

“Ex being the operative word,” he said. “The average person might think that’s a point in my favor.”

“Only if you’re looking for a date,” I shot back and wanted to suck the words back in as soon as they were spoken. I felt my cheeks color, and his eyes twinkled.

“Actually,” he replied, “I’m looking for your vote. But it was nice of you to offer.”

This time I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut—or at least to open it only long enough to take a gulp of iced tea, which cooled my burning cheeks only marginally.

He added, “Not to be too personal, but since you did bring it up … aren’t you and Miles Young together? I saw you at the Chamber Awards Ceremony last month, and here and there around town. He’s one of my biggest supporters.”

I knew that Miles was supporting the opposition in the upcoming sheriff’s election. But were we together? That I was not quite as sure about as I should have been. I said flatly, “I’m voting for Buck. And you can’t sit here.”

He inquired, “Why?”

Cathy brought my lunch plate—fluffy egg salad piled high between two pieces of toast topped with sliced garden tomatoes and lettuce, along with a pile of french fries that made my mouth water just looking at them. I thanked her before unwrapping my silverware from the paper napkin and returning impatiently to Marshall. “Because people are going to think exactly what Cathy did just now. That I’m friends with you. That I’m on your side, that I’m voting for you, that I’m supporting you just because Miles is. And I’m not. So go sit somewhere else.”

He didn’t move. “What I meant was,” he clarified, “why are you voting for Buck?”

I replied in exasperation, “Because he’s my hu—” This time I was able to stop myself before blurting something both stupid and humiliating, and just to make sure, I picked up a triangle of my sandwich and took a big bite. He waited patiently while I chewed, swallowed, and wiped excess mayonnaise from my lips. I tried again.

“Look,” I said reasonably, “Buck is the most qualified for the job. He’s been on the force longer than anyone else, he knows everybody in the county, and he was my Uncle Ro’s second-in-command before he retired. He was handpicked by Uncle Ro to fill his term. Around here, we like smooth transitions. I’m voting for Buck.”

He nodded. “I used to work for Sheriff Bleckley—your Uncle Ro—same as Buck. As a matter of fact, we joined the department at about the same time.”

“But Buck is still here,” I reminded him. “You left after five years.” I stuffed a couple of french fries in my mouth and took up the sandwich again.

“To move to Tennessee,” he countered, “where I worked in law enforcement for another ten years. When I came back to North Carolina I joined the state police, and I’m still a consultant there, though it’s mostly part time these days.” He smiled. “You ought to check out my resume. It’s on my website.”

If I have one fault, it’s curiosity. It’s gotten me into a lot more trouble than just being seen having lunch with a political candidate whose campaign I did not support ever could have done. Nonetheless, I could not resist inquiring, “So what made you come back here?”

He sipped his tea, leaning back easily. “In a way, I never left. My dad left me a couple of hundred acres along Back Ridge Creek, and I always thought I’d retire here. When my wife got sick a few years back, it seemed foolish to wait to build the dream house.”

I paused with my glass midway to my lips. “You’re married?”

His smile turned sad. “Unfortunately, she died before we could break ground on the house. Two years ago.”

I put my glass down, murmuring, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Cathy chose that moment to stop by to refill his glass, which gave us both a moment. When she was gone he went on, “I sold most of the property—to Miles, actually—but kept a nice little parcel on the water and built a cabin. When I heard about your uncle retiring, it seemed like serendipity. Time to leave the past behind and go for the dream.” He lifted his glass to me in a small salute.

I said simply, “Ah.”

It was all beginning to come together for me now. Miles made his rather considerable living by turning unspoiled wilderness into high-rise condos and fly-in golf resorts. It was entirely possible that in the course of this transaction Marshall and Miles had discovered they had a shared vision for the future of Hanover County, which was why Miles was so quick to support what would have otherwise been an unpopular candidate.

I folded my hands atop the paper napkin in my lap and said, “Listen, you seem like a nice guy. But you’re wasting your time with this campaign, and your money.”
Miles’s money,
I probably should have said, but let it go. “Buck Lawson is going to win this election. He’s a hometown boy, a popular guy, and he’s already been doing the job for almost a year. The people are not going to vote him out of office.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I understand. I like Buck myself, and I had to give it some thought before deciding to go up against him. But sometimes being popular is not the best qualification for a law enforcement official, even in a little place like this. Times are changing faster than most of us realize, and after what happened last month … well, the standing sheriff might not be quite as popular as you think.”

I said sharply, “You can’t blame Buck for that. Even the FBI didn’t know what was going on until it was too late, and it was Buck who rescued the hostages and made the biggest arrest in the whole case.”

Again he nodded, his expression thoughtful and oddly compassionate. “You could look at it like that, I suppose. But some people are also wondering why it ever got that far, and remembering that it was Homeland Security that actually found the bombs that could have blown up half this town.”

I felt my fingertips grow cold, just with the mention of that day. He must have seen something in my face, because he added, “I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories. But I’m running for office.” Again the smile. If you could get past the mustache, it was really quite nice. “I really wish you’d go on my website and at least read my platform.”

I said, “Are you going to have lunch with every voter in this county?”

And he replied, completely without guile, “You bet. That’s how strongly I believe I’m the best man for the job.”

I picked up my sandwich. “One down. Eight thousand, five hundred fifty-three to go.”

Again he lifted his glass to me. “Nice meeting you, Raine. I hope you’ll consider what I’ve said. I’ll leave you to your lunch.”

He rose and I said, “Bye,” as I took another big bite of my sandwich. But to be perfectly honest, it didn’t taste nearly as good as it had before I’d listened to what Marshall Becker had to say.