As they talked, she’d been inching her hands beneath the dog’s body. Spread fingers provided as much support as possible as she rose, lifting the dog with her. Howie’s sudden intake of breath indicated he’d seen her foot, although he didn’t say anything. Good of him.
Conscious of every stick, stone, and pinecone just waiting to prod sensitive bare feet, Frankie stumbled toward the yard to the duplex, carrying the dog. “Hold this fence down so I can get across, will you please, Howie?”
“Sure.” Howie, who wore a pair of cheap rubber flip-flops, stepped on the wire. One of the rotting fence posts bent and cracked, snapping off level with the ground.
Sighing, Frankie mentally noted the major fence repair awaiting her when she got home. She didn’t want Banner out by himself with only this between him and the woods. As though in proof, he scrambled easily over the mashed wire in front of Howie.
She found easier going as they crossed the weedy back yard. With Howie getting the doors, she paused in the kitchen for her car keys and took the dog straight out to the pickup. A blanket already padded the floor behind the driver’s seat. She set the dog, barely moving and with only a weak whimper, on it.
“Shotgun,” she said, upon which Banner jumped onto the passenger seat up front.
Howie stood at the door as Frankie started to climb in.
“Hey.” He gazed at her with a quizzical expression. “Ain’t you going to put on some clothes and shoes before you take off?”
Dressed in yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt, Frankie put the pedal down, reaching the nearest veterinary clinic in thirty minutes flat. Seeing the sign, she turned into the lot. Pioneer Animal Clinic, Dr. Violet Kelly, she read. She’d never heard of this vet, although she’d often gone past it. The place was clean and well kept, the patch of green lawn mowed, a set of corrals out back in good repair. Two horses and a longhorn steer lounged in the shade of a massive crimson maple.
The decision to go with the first animal hospital she came to seemed a good choice when the receptionist took one look at the limp bundle in Frankie’s arms and rushed the little group into a treatment room. Banner, not about to stay behind, walked with them, bold as brass.
Fortunately, only one other patient occupied the waiting room, an elderly gentleman with a fat golden retriever, and he waved them in ahead of him. “Bowser just needs his bordatella,” he said, eyeing Frankie’s burden. “And we’re in no hurry.”
“Put her there.” The receptionist pointed to a stainless steel tub topped by a flat rack before hurrying off down the corridor. “I’ll get the doc.”
Frankie laid the little dog, still wrapped in the old blanket from the pickup, where indicated. The bichon didn’t stir, although Frankie knew she was still alive. She could feel a heartbeat, slowly, gamely thudding along.
The man with the bordatella dog followed them and stood in the doorway looking in. “Your dog get hit by a car?” Sympathy oozed from his soft-spoken query.
“Shot.” Frankie wasted no words. She’d save her explanation for the doc.
The old fellow’s eyes popped. “My goodness. Who’d do an awful thing like that? You been making enemies, young lady?”
“Not me.” And yet, Frankie had been thinking along those same lines, only picturing Denise Rider as the one with enemies. Just then, the receptionist and a girl wearing an electric blue lab coat strode into the room. The girl, who looked about twenty, turned out to be the veterinarian, Dr. Kelly.
Murmuring an apology, the doc closed the door in the old gent’s face and nodded to Frankie. “What happened?”
“I have no idea. My dog,” she nodded toward Banner, sitting at heel beside her as he watched the proceedings, “found her in the woods behind my apartment. We just moved in yesterday.”
The doctor held a stethoscope to the dog’s chest and listened, shaking her head. Moving on to inspect the wound, she murmured, “Ummm,” in a disapproving manner, and pried up an eyelid, closed now. “Ummm,” she said again. And a few seconds later, “This dog has been shot.”
Frankie imagined for a moment she heard the doctor growling just like one of her patients.
“Yes. I know. About three days ago, from what I can tell.”
Dr. Kelly straightened, eyeing Frankie as if wondering how she came by such knowledge. “Are you willing to take financial responsibility for her care?” She aimed a fierce glare at Frankie. “She’s fading, but I believe I can save her.”
Inwardly, Frankie winced. Guess where her first paycheck was going? And maybe the second, too. But she’d seen too much of death and lost causes to back out. Banner—she laid her hand on his head and felt him look up—would never forgive her.
“So who needs to eat?” She sighed. “I guess I’m good for the bill. For her to have survived this long proves she’s a real fighter. I can’t give up on her now.”
“Good for you.” Smiling approval, Dr. Kelly opened a pocket door leading farther into the clinic and called, “Bernie, bring an IV setup STAT. And do we have any universal donor blood in the freezer?”
From down the corridor, a man’s voice answered, “Used every drop on that Newfoundland last night. I’ve ordered more in. Should be here late this afternoon.”
“That won’t do. We need it now.” The vet cast a speculative glance at Banner sitting unmoving at Frankie’s side.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about her history,” she said to Frankie as she peered in the dog’s mouth. “Or the owner’s name? She looks familiar to me. See, she’s got this pronounced underbite and this whorl of hair on her shoulder that grows longer and straighter than the rest.”
Yes, Frankie had noticed the flaws, but she answered the real questions. “Sorry, no. I have no clue about her history. All I know is her owner, Denise Somebody, who lived in the apartment before me moved out and I—or rather Banner—found the dog in the woods behind the place. But my neighbor told me the woman loved the dog. Gaga over her, he said. Insists she wouldn’t harm a hair on the dog’s head.”
“Did you say Denise?” The vet’s eyes narrowed.
Frankie nodded. Fresh worry crept over her now she had a chance to think, and it showed.
“Well, somebody shot her, and I’ll be reporting it to the proper authorities.” Dr. Kelly opened a drawer and withdrew an object that resembled a high tech TV remote. “I’ll try this. There’s something I want to check.”
She pressed a button and wafted the instrument over the dog’s neck and back. “Aha,” she said as the instrument beeped. “Got a hit.”
“A microchip?” Frankie asked. “Great.”
“Yes.” The vet sounded grim.
It occurred to Frankie she’d been thinking of Denise in the past tense.
Man, she hated it when she got premonitions like this, an impression out of nowhere telling her that Denise What’s’er-Name was in trouble.
Big, big trouble.
Frankie soon discovered what Dr. Kelly’s cockeyed look at Banner had meant. Evaluation of a potential blood donor, the clinic having depleted their donor blood as well as their frozen supply on the Newfie. Banner met the criteria of age, being about three years old, the right weight, his being seventy-five pounds—although Frankie attributed some of that to hair—patient, obedient, perfect temperament.
With her permission, the Samoyed sat unflinching through a test blood draw and then, after Dr. Kelly’s assistant ran the labs and found him both healthy and compatible, allowed the vet to take a couple cups of his blood.
“Your little rescue friend is in luck today.” Dr. Kelly quickly and efficiently removed the needle from Banner’s jugular and capped the insertion point. “Banner is DEA 1.1 negative. Do you know what that means?”
“No, but you say it like it’s good.”
“Very good for this little one. Banner is a universal donor.” Dr. Kelly began detaching the bag of blood from the collection equipment. When the IV tubing tangled, Frankie automatically moved to help, drawing a strange look.
“Most people
would’ve left the room as soon as I went into his neck,” the vet said. “You didn’t.”
“No.” Frankie helped Banner from the table where he’d lain during the blood draw, offering him the water and treats the assistant had ready. “You’re such a good boy,” she murmured, caressing his pricked ears. “Brave and good.”
Banner’s tail swished a response.
Dr. Kelly’s smooth forehead creased in a slight frown before she shrugged. “He is, indeed. I’ll start the bichon’s transfusion and treat her wound now. You can either wait in reception or go home. I can call you when I know more.”
“I’ll wait.” Muffling a yawn, Frankie thought longingly about sleep. Even so, rest would be impossible without knowing if the little dog would live.
Forty-five minutes later, Dr. Kelly called Frankie into a utilitarian office at the rear of the clinic and invited her to sit in the stiff leather visitor’s chair. Her assistant Bernie, a reedy guy who looked only a little older the doc, puttered around a bank of filing cabinets.
“How’s the pooch?” Frankie waved Banner, unaffected by his blood donating experience, down beside the chair. From the doc’s serious demeanor, Frankie half expected her to say the dog had died while at the same time presenting her with a six or seven hundred dollar bill to pay.
“With proper care, she’ll be fine.” Dr. Kelly clasped her hands and narrowed her blue eyes. “I’d like you to tell me again how you acquired the dog, Ms. McGill.”
A wary thought flicked across Frankie’s mind. Acquired? Found, rescued, helped—all better ways to put it. She knows something she isn’t telling me.
Tamping down a flicker of temper, she repeated the story. Banner, her, Howie. All parts played. She noticed how the vet’s gaze jumped from her face to her hands to her legs and back again. With an effort, Frankie stilled her right leg from bouncing with nervous energy. “And that’s it,” she finished. “Your clinic is the first animal hospital between Hawkesford and Spokane, so I turned in.”
Dr. Kelly tapped her teeth with the tip of her forefinger. “Fortuitous.”
Fortuitous? Who says that? Frankie stirred in her seat, causing Banner to look up at her out of almond-shaped black eyes. “Is it? Why?”
The vet and Bernie exchanged a look. “You saw me scan for the microchip.” Dr. Kelly picked up a pen and gripped it until her fingers turned white. “From it, I discovered a few things about the dog, including her name.”
“Did you? Good. What is it?”
“Shine.”
“Shine?” Frankie grinned. “As in sun, do you suppose, or moon?”
Evidently, the vet didn’t find the quip as bright as Frankie did. “The chip also gives me information that I find disturbing on several levels.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“Like the owner’s name.”
Frankie sat dumb. She distinctly remembered saying she didn’t actually know the owner and that she’d found the dog. And yet Dr. Kelly’s words sounded quite a lot like an accusation.
“Denise Something or Other, right? I can’t remember her last name.”
“No,” the vet said. “Not Denise Something or Other. Denise Rider. The microchip proves it.” Her chair creaked as she sat back, still holding the pen.
Frankie couldn’t wrap her head around why the name thing disturbed the doc so much. “That’s right, I remember now. The woman who dumped her dog in the woods.”
“Never,” the vet said, so positively that Frankie actually recoiled.
“How do you know? Because the woods is sure enough where we found her.”
“If so, Denise didn’t put her there. Because Shine is my patient—I told you I thought she looked familiar. So I know Denise, too, and I’m positive she wouldn’t abandon Shine.”
“I don’t understand.” Frankie didn’t try to hide her surprise at the doc’s sudden attitude. No. Nor her own aggravation, either. See what you get? she thought. Try to be a good Samaritan and as reward, receive a big ole kick in the behind. “Are you accusing me of stealing the dog? Because I assure you I did not. I found the poor little thing and brought her here for treatment, trying to save her life. That is all the connection I have. If you know the owner, fine.” She stood up and brought Banner to heel. “Better than fine, in fact. Maybe you can contact Ms. Denise Rider and collect your fee from her, although I’ve gotta warn you, she left Hawkesford like a thief in the night. C’mon, Banner.” She spun on her heel, her balance turning precarious.
“Wait.” Dr. Kelly rose from her seat, too, placing the pen in a cat-faced cup holder. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Honestly, I’m not accusing you of anything.”
Frankie, clinging to the edge of the desk as she regained her balance, didn’t quite buy the apology. “Not the impression I got.” Letting go, she took a step.
“Wait,” Dr. Kelly said again, adding in a rush, “I tried to call Denise using the number listed on the chip. It’s a cell phone, going straight to voice mail at present. Then I searched our records here and found the same number for her. She has an Idaho area code.”
“Yes. So? I told you I just came from Hawkesford.” Frankie stopped to hear the vet out, her anger fading. Dr. Kelly’s concern for the dog and the woman struck Frankie as genuine.
“The thing is, I saw her just last week when they were in to renew Shine’s rabies shot, so they were together then. It’s just so odd when you tell me how you found the dog. This isn’t like the Denise I know at all. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Frankie, a frisson of something… another of those apprehensive feelings? …slithering through her brain, sat back down. Banner sank onto his haunches close to her side. “Howie—my neighbor now, Denise’s before—did say Denise adored this dog, whom he called ‘bitchin’.”
Dr. Kelly’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “He may have meant her breed. Bichon. Bichon frise.”
“Oh.” Frankie felt foolish. “Of course.”
The two women stared at each other, Dr. Kelly frowning, Frankie feeling blank. That premonition had taken firm hold by now, and she didn’t like it one bit.
“Does this Howie have any idea where Denise has gone?” The vet was still frowning.
Frankie shrugged. “He seems as baffled as anybody.” She thought a moment. “Maybe we should ask him when he last saw them.” Not just heard. She remembered him saying⏤
“Good idea. Do you have a phone number where we can reach him?” Dr. Kelly pushed her phone across the desk.
Ignoring the dial phone, Frankie dug out her cell, in which she’d programmed Howie’s number, and keyed it in. What had she gotten herself into, anyway? This doing the right thing was for the birds.
On the fifth ring, Howie answered. “Oh, hey, Frankie. So, is that dog, okay?”
“Looks like she will be. Doc says I got her here just in time. Umm, Howie, do you happen to remember the last time you saw Denise and the dog together?”
“Sure.” Howie’s answer came without hesitation. “Monday. Denise had just got back from one of her little trips, her and Shinola.”
“Trips? Shy Nola?”
Howie chuckled. “Yeah. Or Shine, or Shiny. Depends on Denise’s attitude at any given time what she calls it. The dog don’t care. She answers to any of them. Anyway, it was about suppertime when I saw ’em.”
“Did she say where she’d been?”
“Nope. And she always tells me when she’s gonna be gone. Pays me a few bucks to keep an eye on her place.”
“Did she—”
But Frankie didn’t get to finish her question because Howie broke in sounding both puzzled and hurt. “Then a few hours later, she moves out and doesn’t even tell me adios? It don’t make sense.”
“Strange.” It was all Frankie could think to say.
“Hey, why you want to know?” Howie asked before she could end the call. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Thanks.” She disconnected and sat a moment, looking down a
t her phone.
“Well?’ Dr. Kelly hovered. Bernie, behind her, had stopped his pretense of looking through the files and stood leaning against them, waiting to hear Frankie’s report.
“He last saw her three days ago,” she said finally, “when he says Denise and Shine got back from a trip.”
“Oh, but—” The worried expression on Dr. Kelly’s face grew.
“Howie can’t figure it out either.” Frankie grimaced, flashing on all the stuff left in the apartment. Good stuff. Stuff a normal person would never abandon. And Shine. Shine most of all. “Why do you suppose she left in such a hurry? And where has she gone?”
The women stared at each other. An idea popped into Frankie’s head that wouldn’t turn loose, even though she tried her best to force it out.
What if Denise hadn’t gone anywhere of her own volition? What if she, like her dog, lay somewhere out in the woods? Shot.
Chapter 5
Heading for Hawkesford as fast as the law allowed, Frankie pushed the Ranger along at a good clip—or maybe just a little faster. Outside the air-conditioned cab, a storm threatened, the weather turning muggy. While she’d been inside the veterinary clinic, black clouds had gathered on the northern horizon, swooping down out of Canada. They fit right in with her mood.
She cast another glance at the copy of a snapshot laying on the seat between her and Banner. The photo dated from a couple months ago, according to Dr. Kelly, when Denise Rider had brought Shine into the clinic. All Spokane veterinarians had taken their patrons pictures that day, selling them copies to raise money for the local animal shelters. They also intended publishing the photos in a special fundraiser sponsored by the newspaper.
“Denise didn’t like her picture and asked not to be included,” Dr. Kelly had said, “although she gave us a generous donation. The word didn’t get passed along, though. The photo appeared in the paper’s special section along with everyone else’s.”
The snapshot showed a woman in her late twenties, of medium height and medium build, as dark haired and dark eyed as Frankie herself. Ms. Rider was a good-looking woman, smiling for the camera. Nothing not to like.
Hometown Homicide Page 4
