His brow lifted. “What else?”
Frankie took a deep breath. She was pretty certain Dr. Kelly’s animal abuse and missing person report hadn’t been passed on because Deputy Zantos didn’t seem the type to just blow it off. Not in view of his prompt—well, fairly prompt—attention to her break-in.
“Yesterday morning Banner—my dog—dug his way out of the back yard.”
At his name, the dog came over and sat beside her. The deputy’s shoulders twitched, a sure sign of impatience.
Frankie hurried her words. “He found a little dog behind the duplex, out in the woods. She’d been shot and was barely hanging onto life. I rushed her to a veterinarian, and, between all of our efforts, we managed to save her. Turns out she is the previous tenant’s dog.”
Zantos shook his head. “Sad. Sometimes a person will kill an animal rather than take it with them. Despicable truth.”
Frankie gulped. Yeah. She knew that. “But it’s not likely this person did.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because it so happens the vet I chanced upon is the same one who has been treating this particular dog. This perfectly healthy, purebred bichon frise, microchipped and current on all vaccinations whose most recent check-up was less than a week ago. Does it sound reasonable to you the owner would just up and kill it? Quixotic, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, I would.” Gabe’s deep hazel gaze sharpened as he thought over the information. “It doesn’t mesh. I’ll—”
“There’s more,” Frankie cut in.
“I’m probably not going to like it, am I?”
“Probably not.” Frankie’s lips turned up in a tiny smile. “Turns out Denise Rider, the woman who lived this place, seems to be out-of-touch. Dr. Kelly, the veterinarian, tried all the contacts and couldn’t reach her. Her phones rings and rings.” She took a breath. “Does this tickle your curiosity in any way? Because the person Dr. Kelly spoke with in the sheriff’s department in Coeur d’Alene couldn’t have cared less.”
Gabe dragged a chair away from the table and sat down. “Consider my curiosity tickled. You have my attention.” He pointed at the chair opposite, which Frankie took to mean she also should sit. When she was perched on the edge of the chair, he folded his hands in front of him and eyed her appraisingly. “What are you getting at, Ms. McGill? Are you saying the woman hurt the dog and did a bunk, or are you implying something has happened to the woman? Something related to what happened to the dog? And if so, what makes you think so?”
Frankie was glad they were sitting in the kitchen where the open door helped air some of the peculiar odors from the place. She wished she’d combed her hair after work, though. Made sure the thin spot over the plate in her head was covered. And maybe washed her face. Gabe Zantos, with his warm, soft voice and compelling hazel eyes, had a peculiar effect on her. She brushed it aside and collected her thoughts.
‘Report,’ she heard her commanding officer, a certain lieutenant named Jay Woodson saying as clearly as though he stood over her. ‘Short and to the point. What did you see with your own eyes? That’s all I want to know.’
So Frankie reported. Reiterated about the torn-up apartment, the wounded dog, the repeated break-ins and, most of all, the peculiar actions Denise Rider seemed to have taken.
At first, the deputy kept his eyes on her as he listened, intent on the story. Then his attention, caught by Banner’s odd behavior, wandered. He wasn’t alone. Frankie stopped in mid-sentence to watch the dog, and neither of them seemed to notice when she stopped talking.
“Is your dog typically so nervous?” Zantos asked apologetically. “Or have I got him upset?”
Frankie caught Banner by the scruff of the neck and held him the next time he paced past her chair. Her hand caressed, trying to soothe. “I don’t think it’s you. And he’s not normally a hyper dog. I’ve gotten him over his aversion to men.”
The deputy’s dark eyebrows took a jump. “Aversion to men?”
“A man abused him rather badly before we adopted each other. Kicked him. Yelled. Starved him.”
“Bastard.” Gabe shook his head, disgust on his face. “But he didn’t seem to mind me petting him earlier.”
She nodded. “I saw. He’s good now.” Mostly. But even as she spoke, Banner pulled away and took off toward the bedroom, his toenails clattering on the floor. Once there, he let out a pitiful little cry followed by a short, sharp bark.
Frowning, Frankie lurched to her feet. “Excuse me. I’ve got to see why Banner is so upset. Dammit! I think it’s this place. He’s hated it here from the second we moved in. I can’t say as I blame him. I do too.”
The deputy trailed them both into the bedroom.
They found Banner sniffing and scratching at the mattress Frankie had found so smelly and disgusting the first time—the only time—she’d slept on it.
Good grief. Had he scented bedbugs? Puzzled, she told Banner to stand back. When he did, she bent to peel away the sheet and lift the mattress corner at the foot of the bed where the dog had pointed.
“Shit.” She dropped the mattress and jerked erect.
Gabe started forward at the alarm she failed to hide. “What is it?”
“Oh, shit,” she said again, although, it wasn’t feces, actually, but blood, which once disturbed, released an acrid metallic stench—one you didn’t need to be a dog to smell—into the hot room.
Chapter 7
Frankie’s stomach twisted, knotting into a leaden ball. No mistaking the bloodstain for anything other than what it was. She was all too familiar with spilled blood to be mistaken.
She dropped the corner of the mattress like she’d latched onto a fire-roasted potato.
“Well,” Gabe Zantos said from over her shoulder, “that’s interesting.”
“Is that what you call it?” Interesting wasn’t the word racing through Frankie’s mind. Scary? Yeah. That worked. So did disgusting and unnerving. She rubbed her hands on her jeans.
“I wonder if this is where the dog was shot.” The deputy shouldered her—gently, to be sure—out of the way and did his own mattress lifting to take a look. He flipped the whole thing, bedding and all, off the springs, revealing more bloodstains at the head of the bed. The mattress had not only been switched over but also end to end. Someone had taken time to try and cover up the deed. At least for the short term.
“No bullet hole. A lot of blood.” She kept her voice level, unwilling to reveal that while blood, even in amounts more than this didn’t ordinarily bother her, finding any in the bed where she intended to sleep—had slept—freaked her out big time.
“True.” Zantos eyed the mattress again. “Not enough for a person to have bled out, but too much for anything simple, like a cut. I suppose you could tell if the bullet went through the dog.”
“Yes. It did. Her ear first, then cutting through her shoulder muscle.”
The deputy scratched the back of his neck.
“You’d think Howie would’ve heard a gunshot.” Even to herself, Frankie sounded accusatory.
“Provided he was home and sober enough to hear anything.”
The deputy, Frankie thought, must be well acquainted with her neighbor. “There is that.”
Zantos didn’t look happy. “You got someplace to go for the next few hours?”
“Go?” What did he mean? Her head felt thick as the mattress, brain slowed by sleep deprivation and worry.
He had his phone open. “This place will need to be processed. You need to clear out while that’s going on. Pack a bag, take your dog and find a place to stay.”
She stared at him. “But—”
“Pretty obvious somebody flipped this mattress to hide the blood,” he explained, not even sounding impatient. “Probably didn’t have any way to get rid of it without being seen. We need to know what we’re dealing with. If this is dog blood, it’s one thing. If it’s human blood, something else.”
She had to ask. “Do you think someone has murdered Ms. Ri
der?”
“Do you?”
Frankie winced. “I hope not.”
“So do I, but that’s what we need to find out. When you combine this—” His gesture took in not only the bed but the whole apartment. “—with everything else going on, I don’t think we can just wait and see.” The phone connection he was trying to make went through. Turning his back, he set cogs in motion. When he turned again, she was still standing there. “Bag?” he urged.
Not being a high maintenance woman, five minutes was enough for Frankie to scout out a fresh set of clothing, a few toiletries and some minimal makeup, all under the deputy’s watchful eye.
It took practically as long to grab Banner’s food, sheepskin bed, and grooming tools. He was due for a good brushing.
Gabe stopped her as she started out the door. “Leave me a phone number. I’ll need to get in touch with you when the crime scene people get here.”
Frankie’s head tilted, asking a question.
“They’ll need a sample of your blood, among other things,” he said. “Let me know where you’ll be.”
Aware that her gaze back at him was as blank as pure white paper, she fought a yawn. “I don’t know, right now. Coeur d’Alene, probably, until I go to work. I’ve gotta find a motel that’ll allow a dog.”
He cocked his head. “Don’t—” He stopped, seemed to make up his mind about something. Reaching into his pants pocket, he drew out a key ring. As she stared at him, puzzled, he worked one loose. “Take this.”
She didn’t move. “What is it?”
“Front door key to my house.” A faint smile quirked. “Your house. Use one of the upstairs bedrooms.”
“I can’t do that.” Even to her, the protest sounded weak.
“Why not? It’s a big place, and I’m not using it all right now.” Grimacing wryly, he added, “And probably won’t be for a while. Go get some rest.”
Frankie’s grandparents’ house, where they’d raised their daughter’s child, was on the other side of town. Backed by a ten-acre field filled with grazing alpacas, the two-story farmhouse—genuine to the era, not one of the pseudo styles built in the 1980s—sheltered under a mixed scattering of trees, some deciduous, some evergreen. A row of tall poplars made a windbreak along one side.
The house was still the finest place in town, she thought loyally as she pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the detached garage. The pickup fit there like it belonged. As it should. The Ranger had belonged to her grandfather. Close to twenty years old, it still looked great and ran well.
Either Gabe Zantos had a green thumb, or he hired a yard service. The lawn had been cut within the last twenty-four hours. Wide flowerbeds on either side of the walkway burst with spicy smelling red and white petunias and the huge peony bushes spaced under the front windows had been dead-headed after blooming and trimmed back. Gramps and Grandma would’ve been pleased.
Mr. Furnough, who’d lived next door to the McGills since the 1940s or before, was outside watering his roses. He waved to Frankie.
She waved back. It was as if she were in high school, coming home for lunch. As if her six years in the service of her country had never happened. The nerve behind her eye twitched.
The McGill house may have looked like it just stepped out of the nineteenth century, but the locks were new. Frankie, weary near to dropping, keyed the smooth-working mechanism gratefully and pushed open the door. She hadn’t been inside since the year before her grandmother died, being overseas at the time. Once stateside and out of the hospital, she’d dropped by and, under the trust lawyer’s aegis, taken possession of the pickup, but hadn’t entered the house. Zantos had already been living here by then, his lease handled by an agency.
Victoria Pettigrew’s agency. The thought clunked in Frankie’s brain, along with the memory of something else to do with Jesselyn’s sister. Talk to her—ask her something. But what?
Dammit!
Like any thrifty homeowner, Deputy Zantos had pulled the blinds before he left for work this morning, shutting the sun out of the house to keep it cool. Frankie passed through the foyer into the dim living room—parlor, so Gram always called it—stumbling a little as Banner brushed against her leg.
“Mmmm.” A small sound came from deep in her throat as if from far away. Memories rose up in waves, and she felt like crying.
Banner cocked his head at her, swiping her hand with his tongue.
Zantos rented the place furnished, so everything looked pretty much as always. Except for the big UHD LED TV, taking the place of her grandma’s twenty-seven-incher, and a modern leather chair with a separate ottoman that sat in front of it. Those must belong to the deputy. One of Grandma’s walnut tables stood next to the chair, its surface filled by a reading lamp and a stack of books and magazines. An empty plate held a few crumbs of what looked like carrot cake.
The deputy didn’t seem the baking type. A good-looking guy with a well-paid job in a small town like Hawkesford, he probably had a slew of girlfriends. Frankie could easily imagine them beating a path to his door, armed with, among other enticements, carrot cake.
Shrugging, she led Banner into the kitchen and found it almost as tidy as in an earlier day. The fridge’s motor kicked in with a hum as she fished a familiar old bowl from the cupboard, filled it with water, and set it on the linoleum floor. Banner surged forward, lapping as if he were dying of thirst.
By the time she’d climbed the steep stairs, which took a ninety-degree turn about halfway up, it felt as though she’d never been gone. The place even smelled the same—old, with a slight fragrance of wood from the cedar-lined closets—especially the second story. Downstairs, the tiny scent of eau de man had floated through the living room. Not at all unpleasant.
In her old room, Frankie removed her shoes and her prosthesis, donned her sleep shorts and tee shirt, and slid between the sheets. Comfort slid over her, and she slept.
She awoke five hours later. Yelling. And with her cell phone ringing. Hard telling which had interrupted her nightmare first. A toss-up.
Banner’s front paws were braced on the bed as he stared at her, worry in his almond-shaped eyes. He gruffed when he saw her eyes open.
“I’m okay,” she muttered to him. She swallowed, her throat dry, and flipped the phone open. “Hello.”
“Frankie!” Jesselyn’s voice boomed from the receiver.
Wincing, Frankie distanced the phone from her ear. “What’s wrong?”
“What in the world have you been telling Gabe Zantos about Russ?”
Frankie pondered for a moment. Came up blank. “Your brother?”
“Yes, my brother. Of course, my brother.” Jesselyn didn’t sound the least bit happy. “Why did you tell Gabe that Russ broke into your apartment?”
“I never told the deputy any such thing.” Frankie pressed on her forehead, hoping to quell the lights already sparkling around her vision. “Why would I?”
“I’m asking you. And it’d better be good.” Real anger colored Jesselyn’s voice.
Frankie stood up and twisted, trying to work a kink out of her back. A vertebrae crackled. Better. And she was awake now. “Jesselyn, I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You tell me. Are you saying the deputy has arrested your brother for breaking into my apartment?”
“Well...” Jesselyn’s voice quieted, “not arrested him. I guess. Yet. But Russ said he—Gabe—drove out to the field where he was greasing the combine and shut him down long enough to ask a bunch of very strange questions.”
“What questions? Why would the deputy do that?”
“Well...” This time Jesselyn paused before speaking. “Is it true your apartment was broken into?”
“Yes. Last night. For the second time.”
“Good Lord.” Jesselyn took a sharp breath. “Are you all right?”
Her concern came a little late, but better, in Frankie’s opinion, than never coming at all. “Sure. I was at work and discovered the door busted open when I go
t home. Whoever did it was long gone. But I don’t understand. What led the deputy to Russ? Why did his name even come up?”
Jesselyn’s silence allowed Frankie to picture her friend chewing the inside of her cheek, an involuntary indication of tension familiar from tiny tot days. Finally, she said, “Maybe because Russ has dated Denise a few times and Gabe was asking about her. Russ didn’t even know she was gone and now he’s mad at Vic and me for not telling him.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. And mad at Denise for not telling him she was leaving. He thinks she should have said something. He takes getting dumped kind of personal.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Frankie’s face hardened. “But I expect Deputy Zantos is just trying to get a handle on who broke into my apartment. He’s probably questioning everyone who knew Denise.”
“Knew her? That’s a funny way of putting it. Don’t you mean, knows her?”
“Yeah, sure,” Frankie agreed far too quickly. “That’s what I mean.”
“So he thinks the break-ins are aimed at Denise and not you?”
Closing her eyes, Frankie pressed harder against her temple. “I think it’s pretty certain they are. I’m not the one who skipped out overnight without notice. What’s more, I doubt I’ve been here long enough for anyone to hate me.”
“Hate you? Wait a minute. What part of this conversation am I missing?” Now Jesselyn really sounded pissy. “Why her? Are you and Gabe implying something awful has happened to Denise? And you think Russ is involved?”
Frankie’s mind raced. What was she supposed to say? Evidently, word hadn’t gotten around yet that Gabe was investigating whether Denise’s abrupt departure and Frankie’s discoveries meant the woman was a missing person, a dead person, or the instigator of a horrible hoax. And if Jesselyn didn’t know any more than what she just mentioned, it must mean Frankie’s apartment had yet to see the crime scene people. Once they showed up, none of this was apt to remain quiet. But she didn’t intend to shoot off her mouth any more than she already had. So—
Hometown Homicide Page 7
