Muzzled (13 page)

Dogs fed, I rummaged in the freezer until I found a frozen turkey dinner to nuke in the microwave. The turkey dinner came complete with little roast potatoes, green peas and carrots and promised gourmet taste, no artificial colors or flavors and a full day’s quota of calories, protein and carbohydrates. I closed my eyes to the fat and sodium levels. Hey, I’d likely work those off next time Ben and I adjourned to the bedroom.

Twenty minutes later, when the phone trilled its annoying interruption, I was slumped on the couch with my feet on an ottoman, enjoying my white meat and veggies and completely absorbed as the chained magician submerged himself in a tank of water on the Grand Final of
Australia’s Got Talent
. Damn. Who could be ringing during my favorite show? So inconsiderate. Should be a law against it. I knew it wouldn’t be Tanya. She’d be barricaded in the house—glued to her lounge chair—Erin at a friend’s house—all phones switched off—and rooting for the sexy magician to win the final.

With my tray of food balanced on my lap—no way could I put it down with three oh-so-hungry canines eyeing my every mouthful—I picked up. If this was a cold caller wanting to sell me the Sydney Harbour Bridge, I’d slam the receiver down so hard their ears would be ringing for weeks.

“Yeah.”

“Good evening, Kat, you left a message for me to ring.”

Oh-uh! It was Gina Robertson, the coordinator of GAP. When Stanley went missing, I’d left Gina a message to ring me, but with the arrival of DI Adams, I’d forgotten to follow up with another call.

“I hope there’s no problem with either of the two GAP dogs in your care?” Gina’s voice was ultra-pleasant. Everything about Gina was ultra-pleasant and yet some days her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. I knew this was going to be one of those days.

“Um… Stella will be ready to go in a couple of days,” I said hoping to prolong the discussion on Stanley. “She’s amazing inside the house and as soon as her stitches are out she’ll be ready to make someone a gorgeous pet.”

“That’s excellent news. I have a family with three children who can’t wait to adopt Stella. I’ve inspected their premises and the dog will have a loving home with the best of care. One of the children showed me what they’ve already bought for their new pet. Two new rugs—one for home and one for going out—new food bowls, chew toys, squeakers, a giant bag of kibble, a freezer full of beef…you name it…the Taylors have already thought of it.” Gina paused. “Now, what about Stanley?”

Yeah.
What about Stanley?

“I’m sorry,” I said and licked my dry lips. “We have a problem with Stanley.”

There was a pause before Gina spoke and when she did her voice had changed from ultra-pleasant to what I’d call steely. And it sounded like she was forcing the words through gritted teeth. “A problem?”

“I’m afraid he’s gone missing.”

“Gone missing?”

If she was going to repeat everything I said this phone conversation would get old very quickly. “Gina,” I took a deep breath and let my confession burst out. A water tank overflowing after a rain storm. “I should have let you know earlier, but I thought the dog-napper was after my top racing dog, Big Mistake—not the GAP dogs. You see, over the last couple of days this man, who I’ve never seen before, has been trying to steal Stanley. He even dog-napped Stella by mistake then brought her back. It was so scary I kept both dogs locked inside my house. Anyway, that man was murdered last night and today Stanley’s gone missing. He was taken from Terry Blackburn’s vet surgery and—”

I let the gabbling run down, took a deep breath and waited for the yelling. Nothing. The
nothing
went on for a full minute. My hands were sweaty and I could feel bad vibes slithering up through the phone lines. Gina evidently wasn’t going to help me out here so I took the bull by the horns, as my Granny McKinley would say. “Gina, do you have any idea
why
or
who
would be interested in stealing Stanley?”

“Me? How would I know? I hope you’re not insinuating that I’m involved with Stanley’s disappearance?” There was definite steel in her voice now plus an itty bitty squeak.

“I’m not insinuating anything. Just asking if you know why Stanley is so important that someone stole him. And maybe even killed because of him.”

“Katrina, calm down. I think you are being overly dramatic. Dogs go missing all the time.” Gina’s voice was ultra-pleasant once again but there was something about her acceptance of the situation that made me think maybe she knew something after all. “Stanley is probably running the streets raiding rubbish bins as we speak. Did you ring the RSPCA to see if they’ve picked him up?”

“No, because the dog did
not
let himself out. The door of the vet surgery was closed. There’s no way even Stanley could turn that handle.”

“Well, maybe the receptionist—what’s her name, Val—accidently let Stanley out and is too afraid of losing her job to admit to it.”

“That’s ridiculous, and you know it. Val’s too responsible and conscientious to let a patient on her watch escape and…and if she did…there’s no way Val would put me through this agony. She’d confess. Job or no job.”

“Alright, Katrina, this is not your concern. Leave it with me. I’ll contact Animal Welfare in the morning and take it from there. It’s not your fault. No need for us to fall out. After all, Stanley is only a dog. And we have plenty more GAP dogs to care for and place in new homes without letting this situation cloud our main goal.”

With that she hung up.

I shook my head. Blinked down at the phone as though it was instrumental in fabricating that weird conversation.
Stanley?
Only a dog?
That didn’t sound like the Gina Robertson who worked countless hours on a voluntary basis to run the State’s GAP program. The Gina Robertson whose tongue lashings could make even the biggest, strongest man quake if she caught him neglecting or being cruel to one of our precious greyhounds.

I slowly settled the receiver back on its base and eyed the television screen. Six lithe young men dressed in nothing from the waist up were twisting and gyrating their bodies in time to some disjointed rap-like music, but my mind barely registered the bare flesh and the tight six-packs. My mind couldn’t get past Gina’s uncharacteristic words.

A chill, deep and biting, infiltrated my chest and spread its tentacles into my limbs.

I shivered and reached for the fluffy dark blue blanket spread across the back of the sofa.

Gina Robertson knew something about Stanley’s disappearance and it had her running scared. Maybe she also knew something about my sister’s disappearance. Or how the geriatric guy ended up dead in his own refrigerator.

But what made me snuggle deeper under that fluffy blue blanket was the fact that I’d decided to visit GAP’s ultra-pleasant coordinator first thing in the morning and try to find out what that something was.

14

It was ten o’clock the following morning. Although dark clouds scudded across the sky, threatening rain, it wasn’t cold. Somewhere between 18 and 20 degrees. Compared to European countries, Australian winters were mild, with temperatures varying from zero to low twenties.

I changed out of my work clothes of ancient ripped jeans and tatty T into new straight-leg jeans, a pale apricot tunic top that Ben said highlighted my hazel-green eyes, and folded a light synthetic slicker into my tote bag, just in case the skies
did
open.

The racing dogs were worked and fed and I’d decided the best excuse for dropping in on Gina, uninvited, was to deliver Stella to her kennels. After all, with Stanley dognapped it was only wise I made sure Stella was safe over the next couple of days. Her new family would be devastated if anything happened to her.

I’d brushed the dog’s red brindle coat until it shone and fastened a soft green leather, GAP collar around her neck. Stella knew she was going out. In fact she became so excited she rushed around the house, her over-active tail knocking into the furniture as she bounced and barked at Tater, who was trying to keep up with her much longer legs.

Of course I couldn’t get out of the house with only one dog. The looks on Lucky and Tater’s faces told me exactly what they thought of
that
idea.

Okay, we’d go as a family.

First, I put the back seat down in the Holden station wagon as it was too dangerous to have two loose greyhounds bouncing around, stomping on Tater and causing major arguments while I drove. Then I strapped Tater in the middle of the back seat with a greyhound on each side. All safely harnessed.

“Right guys?” I asked checking them out over my shoulder after turning the key in the ignition. “Everyone comfortable back there?”

Tater rolled his eyes and gave the doggy equivalent of a pout. His tiny sharp featured face registering disapproval at being jammed in between the lolling-tongued greyhounds in the back, instead of in his usual position beside me in the passenger’s seat.

To keep any disagreements by ‘the kids’ to a minimum, I sang along with Good Charlotte on the car radio as we drove towards Williamstown. Occasionally Lucky tried to join in but her voice was strident and flat. Each time she started, Tater snapped at her as if to say,
Button up, Bucko
.

However, by the time I parked in the sloping driveway of Gina’s rolling hundred acre property on the outskirts of Williamstown, my nerves had returned. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach battering against the walls, wanting out. How was I supposed to question Gina, ask her what she knew about Liz, Stanley, and the dead guy in the refrigerator? If my theory was wrong she’d think I was crazy—probably call the men in white and have me institutionalized.

And if I was right—why would she tell me anything—more likely hit me on the head and lock me up in one of her isolated sheds then flush the key down the loo.

I switched off the motor, told the excited canines in the back seat to wait while I scoped the place out and opened the door of the car. Immediately, three elderly greyhounds trotted arthritically over to greet me, smiles of welcome accompanied by wagging tails and slurps of affection. These were Gina’s personal ‘keepers’—dogs she’d adopted years ago when they first came out of racing. During the day the geriatric trio had freedom of the property and at night a warm soft bed inside the house. Of course I had to pat each individual gray head and insist they were the most beautiful animals in the whole world, before pushing through a couple of inquisitive pigs, Choco, a piebald miniature pony Gina had rescued from a suburban garage where he hadn’t seen the light of day for two years, and her favorite rescue animal—Atticus the goat. What she saw in Atticus I’d never know. He was a nasty piece of work with a one-track mind. And that was lowering his head and butting bums.

There were raised voices coming from inside the barn where Gina kept several rescue horses all needing care and treatment before going to new homes. That was Gina. Anything from an injured kangaroo to a broken winged seagull found a home with her. Which is why her comment of, ‘Stanley’s only a dog’, didn’t ring true.

Was someone blackmailing her?

Threatening her?

Dodging Atticus’s horns I hurried across to the barn and shook the door. Locked. Now that was unusual. Although the voices were raised, I could only hear one or two words through the thickness of the barn door. Not enough to know if I needed to ring for help. However, it was definitely Gina and a man with a gruff voice. And they were arguing.

But who was in there with her? Why was the door locked? Was Gina being held against her will?

A ladder stood against the side of the barn with a large tin of forest green paint balanced on the top rung. Unlike me, Gina was forever painting her outbuildings. Being a klutz, I left that messy task to Jake. It seemed as soon as Gina finished painting every shed on her property, it was time to start all over again—just like the Sydney Harbour Bridge. But the thing that drew me toward the ladder was the fact that there was a two inch gap between the top of the barn wall and the roof, left that way for air circulation. If I could climb the ladder, maybe I’d see who was in the barn with Gina. And whether I needed to call the cavalry or not.

Skirting around a buzzing pile of manure, as exotic smelling as a sewer in summer, I placed one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder and took a deep breath. Was I doing the right thing? Shouldn’t I just bang on the barn door and call out?

But I wanted to see who was in the barn. Who was arguing with Gina. If I let them know I was outside, the man might hide, or worse still, hurt Gina. So I carefully put one foot in front of the other until I stood on the top rung of the ladder, beside the tin of green paint.

The voices were much clearer from this vantage point.

“For God’s sake, Gina, get off my case. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Garry, you snake-in-the-grass. You promised no dogs would be hurt! Where is he? Where have you stashed him? If you don’t bring him here to me I’ll start talking.” I could hear the anger bubbling in Gina’s voice as I stretched an extra two inches to get a better view inside the shed.

Was this a man who’d shown cruelty to one of her many rescue dogs—or something more sinister? I placed one eye in the two inch space at the top of the building. Gina stood, hands on hips, face the color of burnt ashes, her body like a coiled spring. A tall skinny guy dressed in grungy oil-stained jeans and a leather jacket, his back to me, leaned into her space.