Dogs Don't Lie (8 page)

“Someone had opened the dog’s crate. That wasn’t normal. Usually, Charles and I open it together.”

“Isn’t it likely that Charles opened it himself? And that the dog attacked him?”

How could I explain myself? “No, he wouldn’t have. Most mornings, yes. He comes to the crate with the leash in his hand. Lily—Tetris—knows she’s going for her walk. But on Wednesdays, our day, he comes to the crate with me. And Lily knows she’s having her lesson.”

“Why do you keep calling the dog Lily?”

Damn it, I’d slipped up. “It just seemed to fit her. Tetris is a silly name anyway.”

“Did you feel like the dog would have been better off with you? That
Lily
really belonged to you?”

I didn’t like the way he said that, the emphasis he’d put on her name. “No.” With animals you must be firm and direct. “Lily was Charles’ dog. He’d saved her life.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” He was watching me, waiting for a reaction. “And I hear you want to save hers?”

“Look, Lily—Tetris—whatever you want to call her, was devoted to Charles.” I was going on bluster now, with no evidence I could share and a nagging thought distracting me. Something had gotten to Charles and dug in; someone had struck him multiple times to do that kind of damage. “Have you even had anyone look at the wounds?”

“The county coroner is doing a thorough autopsy.” Great, our county coroner is a retired GP. “And the dog had blood all over its snout when I got there. But maybe not when
you
got there.”

This is why I hate people. They’re always searching for something. Always pushing. Not content to merely be. I hadn’t wanted to get involved in this. I’d wanted to help Lily find some peace. To pay my bills. To be left alone. That’s all. But it was beginning to look like Wallis was right. I was going to have to get more involved, before I could get out. So even though my first response was to shut down, to stare down this young pup, I knew I had to start talking—and fast.

A thought struck me. “If I’d been involved, wouldn’t I have had more blood on me?”

“Not if you commanded the dog to attack.”

“What? No!” I started to stand—to storm out—but he waved me back down.

“A hypothetical. Please. Sit.”

I did as I was told. “It wouldn’t work anyway. She doesn’t—” I paused. “Not anymore. That’s probably why Charles was able to get her so cheaply.” One eyebrow went up at that, so I gave the cop Lily’s history: Happy’s, the gambler, the rescue. The hundred-dollar dog. Only as I was talking, I remembered what Albert had said. Charles hung out in that bar. He’d met Delia Cochrane there. So had he really been just passing by? Had the meeting been by chance? Maybe I should have paid more attention to the man and less to the dog.

“Ms. Marlowe, are you good at what you do?”

“Pru.” I didn’t know why we were back on formal terms, but I didn’t like it. “Yes, I am.”

“So, if you’re so certain that the dog would not have attacked its owner on its own accord, who, pray tell, would you suspect?”

I had to remember to close my mouth. It was that little rhetorical flourish that got me. He was only repeating what Albert had said, but it all had more weight when it came from a cop. Besides, I’d finally worked out what else had been bothering me. Whoever had let Lily out of her crate must have already killed Charles. It must have been too late for her to protect her master. But she was still a guard dog. If someone had freed her, why hadn’t she gone for him?

***

This was the question rumbling around my head as Creighton made some more noises and finally waved me to go. I needed to get over to the pound. I had Lily’s rabies vaccination certificate, which should serve as a stay of execution, but she was still a dog in limbo, and she had her breed’s reputation going against her. It’s funny, really, how public perception changes. Used to be, pit bulls were models of loyalty. Remember Petey, the smiling pup on the Little Rascals? Yeah, he was a pit. They’re powerful dogs, sure, but that muscle, that determination can go both ways. I know as well as anyone that none of us are born bad. And no matter what this cop thought, Lily wasn’t half as tough as she appeared. For that reason alone, I wasn’t looking forward to taking in her bloody memories. Still, there were too many questions jangling around in my head, and she was the only one who could answer them.

I was so preoccupied by my own thoughts that I almost didn’t hear the young cop coming up behind me.

“Allow me.” He pushed the door to the lobby open and I jumped, getting another sharp glance for my effort. Great, I was really reassuring this cop. “Stay in touch.” His voice was more than half growl. As I walked toward the main glass doors, trying not to run, I heard him warm it up at least ten degrees.

“Delia? Delia Cochrane? Would you come this way, please? I’m so sorry for your loss.” I turned back to see Delia, her head bowed. She shuffled toward the offices, sniffling. Right behind her, a protective arm supporting her willowy waist, was the onetime basketball champ of Beauville High, Chris Moore.

Chapter Eight

I watched them go in, but not before noting how Creighton’s voice modulated down from a bark to a caress. Something soft for the grieving girlfriend. Hearing him talk, all the bluff attitude gone, was enough to underline the difference between us, at least in the eyes of that brash young cop. Delia was to be coddled. I, and here I pulled myself up to my full five-eight, was not. Never mind that I was the one who had actually seen the ragged mess that had been the victim. I was older, tougher. An outsider, not to mention a brunette, and I was on the short list of suspects, if I could get the buff cop to look for a human at all.

It was a conundrum of the first order, and as I stepped outside, I tried to figure out my next step. Being outside the Beauville cop shop helped. Even standing in the parking lot, I could breathe again. And if I could breathe, I could think. Of course I was a suspect. The fact that I’d found Charles was reason for that, and my added cool around the corpse had probably damned me further. Yeah, there was something about that cop I didn’t like. Something in all the muscle and the attitude that set my teeth on edge. Still, there weren’t many people who I did like. For all I knew, he might just be doing his job

What was up with Delia? The tears had clearly bought her preferential treatment: was that why they’d been pumped out? I’d seen her at Charles’ mother’s house, dry eyed and calm, only the night before. Grief is a funny thing, I knew that. So is anger. But she was going to get a pass while I was not. That, along with the tears, made me want to suspect Delia. Still, what had she done, beside be pretty and a few years younger than me? Not a crime, not yet, and I couldn’t see how she would stand to benefit with Charles out of the picture.

There was the Chris Moore angle, but I just didn’t know enough. Now that I’d seen him, I remembered Moore better. As a high school basketball star, he’d been a teenage giraffe, towering above our classmates. In the intervening years, he’d filled out, or at least grown into his oversize ears, and he’d let his sandy buzz cut grow out just enough so as not to resemble a new recruit. Even back in his gawky days, he’d been what some women considered cute, with a heavy jaw and a nose like an afterthought. Now those same women would probably go nuts. To me, he looked like a block of wood. But that meant solid, and some women liked that. Perhaps Delia had been keeping him all along or perhaps he’d just stepped up now, seeing a chance to play white knight and maybe move back into his former role. Come to think of it, the high school heartthrob had more motive than the bereaved girlfriend.

I thought about Happy’s, where supposedly everybody spent the evening. I hadn’t been there since the bad old days. Well, Wallis had said I should get out more. Maybe tonight I’d make a start.

***

In the meantime, I had business. I got the rabies certificate from my car and turned back toward the official building, pausing to look at the morning light on its glass front. I told myself I was shifting gears. The truth was, I was scared. What Lily had shown me, that one hit of sense memory, was as close as I wanted to come to hell. Still I was her only ally now that Charles was gone. If I didn’t help her through this, nobody would. Besides, I realized as I took one last deep breath of the cool morning air, Charles deserved justice, too.

“Hey, Albert.” The fat man started as I walked in, a thin patina of grease making his opened lips particularly red. Seeing a sprinkle of sugar on his plaid shirt, I made a mental note: the man liked his donuts. “Found this in my client files.”

I waved the certificate, with its distinctive state seal, in the air. The key was nonchalance. Albert reached for it, but I stepped back. I’d worked too hard to get it. Besides, his hands were covered with sugar. “Let me run off a copy for you.”

Albert was too lazy to stop me as I stepped behind the front desk and flipped on the Xerox. While it warmed up, I browsed the guest area. “No Frank today?”

“What are you talking about, Pru?”

“Your ferret. He’s not here?” I reached for the visitors log and signed myself in—it was time I started obeying the rules—and coincidentally browsed through the other names in the oversized black ledger.

“Oh, Bandit.” He laughed, and I cursed silently. I kept forgetting that humans and animals have different names for themselves. “It’s funny you should call him Frank.”

“Funnier than calling a masked ferret ‘Bandit.’” I kept my voice low as the copier whirred. I wasn’t here to fight with the fat man. I was here for Lily.

I flipped back a page, but didn’t see any names I recognized. Summer people, maybe, or new residents. I was about to close the ledger when a scrawled signature caught my eye: Delia Cochrane. On a mission of mercy?

I turned to Albert, about to ask, and then thought better of it. Lily herself could tell me who had come and gone, showing me the faces of any human who had visited her pen. Albert was too fond of games. Instead, I fixed what I hoped was an amused expression on my face and dropped a copy of the certificate on his desk. “Guess that takes care of one question.” Before he could raise any others, I walked over to the back door. “Wanna let me in?”

Albert grunted. I didn’t ask him to repeat himself, and just when I was getting sick of waiting, he pushed himself out of his chair and came to my aid.

“You gonna give that dog its last rites?” He unlocked the door to the kennel area and made a show of holding it open for me. “Or were you hoping for a confession?”

“Just checking in on her.” I squeezed past Albert’s belly. But his comment made me wonder. Maybe Delia hadn’t visited out of kindness. Maybe there was some tangible evidence, something I had missed—and that Officer Creighton was too chicken to seek out—on the dog herself. I was sorry Albert hadn’t brought the nimble ferret into the office today. A predator, but small enough to live by his wits, he could have contributed some keen observations.

The idea of other witnesses intrigued me. The first room of the kennel was quiet. The sleepy tabby was gone. Home, I hoped. In her place was a sleek tiger queen, nursing three blind kittens. As we walked by, I tried to send my thoughts out to her. I pictured Delia and fought down the temptation to see her as a lioness, all tawny and strong. Maybe the nursing mother had seen her, but all I got were waves of warm contentment. It had been cold in the park. It was warm and dry in here.

“Cute kitty.” I stalled, looking into her cage, and tried again. I thought of Lily, focusing on her panic and grief, rather than those wide-set jaws. All I got was a steady hum, the lullaby of a purr. Those bright eyes were closing, the soothing rise and fall lulling both her kittens and herself to sleep. She was tired, I got that. Taking care of kittens is exhausting work. I leaned, in putting my hand on the bars of her cage and then jumped back. As I’d touched the thin bars, I’d caught a clap of sound, as loud and hurtful as a slap in the face. It came from the bars, but no, these weren’t moving. What I was getting was memory, the faint sound of my hand on her enclosure triggering memory of other bars, slamming shut. A trap, the humane kind, but for a nursing mother a reason to panic. Hours she’d been in there, or so it had seemed as she’d paced and fretted. She’d heard her kittens calling and torn by doubt she had called back. “Stay still! Stay still!” Her paw pads were torn by the time the trap was opened, the pebbly leather of her nose worn from trying to wedge a way out. But the hands that reached in were wide and gentle beneath their thick gloves. As soon as she smelled them, she’d relaxed. She’d sensed kindness. Warmth.

The rest of the memory flooded through me. Whoever had done the trapping had the sense to look for the kittens—and to place them with their mother before transporting her to the pound, bringing the family in before the autumn night grew cold. The pound had seemed welcoming to the young mother. It had been a while since she’d slept on a pillow. Longer still since she’d eaten kibble, but it was coming back. Velvet lids settled over those yellow eyes. The kittens kneaded, and she purred.

I was stepping back, quietly as I could, when the alarm startled me. “Car! Car!” I had to stop myself from whirling around. What was going on? Then my eyes caught the mother cat’s yellow ones. I’d thought she’d been dozing, but if she had, she was awake now. Still, what I’d heard made no sense. Was she seeing me as a danger? Albert?

“You coming?” Albert was at the far door, the one that locked Lily in isolation. He was jangling his keys, impatient and bored. I turned back toward the cat. Her eyes were already closing. The threat had passed. As an animal out on the street, she couldn’t be too careful, especially with young ones.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” I looked back, but only got the slow sounds of sleep.

***

Albert skipped the funny stuff, stepping well back after he unlocked the second door. He needn’t have bothered. Lily was sleeping, curled up in the corner of her enclosure. I relaxed a little. I’d been braced for a flood of memory, the scent of blood and fear. What got me instead was the real stench.

“Hasn’t anyone been walking her?” I looked in at Lily. The corner she’d huddled in seemed relatively clean. The rest of the cage was a mess, the torn paper not concealing the feces. The sharp reek of urine making my eyes water. She still wore the muzzle I’d put on her, at Albert’s request. Even with her big jaws held shut, she’d tried to keep herself clean.

“When Joe’s here, we get her into the run. But he’s not been in today.”

I didn’t try to hide what I was thinking. Every animal deserved a clean enclosure, and a dog like this needed exercise, a lot of it. I stormed back into the kennel area, grabbing one of three leashes off the wall.

“You’re not taking that dog out, Pru.”

I stared Albert down. After all, I had a long leather strap in my hand, with metal fittings at the end.

“Okay, it’s on your head.”

I opened the latch on Lily’s cage. “Come on, girl. Time for walkies.” Whatever peace she’d acquired in sleep vanished as her head came up, too quick. Startled. “Come on.”

I didn’t want to flinch, not in front of Albert. I only hoped he couldn’t tell I was grinding my teeth. Lily climbed to her feet and shook the sleep from her body. And as soon as she’d lifted her head, the memories had come flooding back. Something sweet, something acrid. The incredible tug of love.
“Let go! Let go! Let go!”

“Poor girl, come here.” I steeled myself against it. I had to. There was too much pain. I could hear Albert’s muttered curses as I opened my arms and took the big dog into my embrace. There was a lot of dog to Lily, and most of her muscle, all tensed up. I held her close, reaching around to pull her to me, despite her yells. Did she still think she could rescue her master? Did she still want to run to him? Her head leaning up against my shoulder, still shivering, rattled with the pain. The longing.

Longing? Damn, I missed that ferret now. Frank might look ratty, but that small hunter had more wit about him than most of the people in this town. I’d have to come up with an excuse for Albert, a reason to get Frank back in here—or me back at Albert’s house. I grimaced at the thought. For now, I needed time alone with Lily. Time to find out what she saw, maybe even
who
she saw.

“We’re going out, Albert.” I clipped the leash to her collar and grabbed my bag. Her poor, cropped tail gave a brief wag and I felt my throat closing up. This wasn’t a bad dog. Far from it. “So you can clean up in here.”

He watched us go, a strange smile on his greasy face. “They’re still going to kill that dog, you know,” he called after us as I pushed open the back fire door. “They just won’t need its head.”

***

Ignoring Albert, we stepped into the sunshine. The dog run, such as it was, was a small, enclosed yard. A few clumps of grass survived in the hard dirt, but otherwise the only relieving feature was a small concrete basin, half birdbath, half trough. Lily turned toward that, and I gently pulled her away. If she was going to have any kind of a life, or be of any use to me, she needed clean water and fresh air, and I knew where to take her.

Beauville, like many towns here in the hills, was built along a river. At one point, it had powered mills. Wood, textiles. I’d zoned out of too much of my school days to remember. Nowadays the waterway’s prime economic value was as a tourist attraction. We didn’t have any covered bridges. But we did have hiking trails aplenty, now that the city people had discovered us, and access to the river was well marked from what passed for Beauville’s downtown. In spring, we got the kayakers, running the snow-fueled rapids. In summer, sometimes it was deep enough for a canoe. In fall, leaf peepers took their overpriced picnics down to its banks, blissfully unaware that its waters were probably too acidic for anything but the occasional deformed catfish.

Didn’t matter. It wasn’t fish or fowl I was after today, and I picked up our pace as we threaded through the edge of town to the thin strip of woods that runs along the river. I didn’t know if the average person on the street would recognize Lily, but I didn’t want to take the chance. From what Tracy Horlick had said, it sounded like the town had weighed in, and found Lily guilty. I thought otherwise, but I needed time to get to the truth. The river path might just give me the leverage to find it. Pre-foliage season we’d probably have the trail along the bank to ourselves, and both Lily and I needed the space to breathe.

As soon as we got off the paved sidewalks I knew I’d made the right move. Pit bulls need to run—several miles a day if possible—and Lily craved air as much as exercise. She looked up at me, those huge eyes soft and grateful. I didn’t even need to see them, though. In the shelter, I’d felt her panic, now frozen with exhaustion into a kind of loop. Charles’ face, his hands, his voice, but all muted, as if the pain were too great to let them in. Now I sensed a loosening. A hint of relaxation and normalcy. A bird broke from the underbrush, and Lily turned. Some small animal, readying for winter, scurried through the leaves and dived into the perpetual blanket of mulch that kept the earth moist and fragrant. Out in the water, improbably and much to my surprise, something broke the surface, grabbed a skimming insect and dived down. The world was alive, and Lily was opening to it.