by V. M. Burns
Lord William didn’t hide the sadness in his eyes. “I’m going to town tomorrow. I’ve got a friend in the home office. He might be able to help. I’ll ask him to do some digging.”
Penelope rushed to her uncle and gave him a hug. “That would be wonderful. Are you sure you feel up to it? What about your gout?”
Lord William patted his niece. “Yes, well, I’m doing much better, much better. I’ll swing by the club and have a word around there too.”
Lady Elizabeth hid a smile. Her husband might not be overly fond of traveling to the city, but he did enjoy his club. And, several members of the same gentleman’s club were also present the night of the murder. He might find out something useful, something to help Victor.
“Now, now. You just go and enjoy your tea,” Lord William said.
“I think I’ll go have a word with Victor. We really haven’t had a chance to talk much, not since the murder.” Penelope avoided making eye contact with her aunt and uncle.
“Yes, dear. I think that’s a good idea,” Lady Elizabeth said. “You go have a word with Victor, and I’ll go have a talk with the servants.”
Penelope and Lord William both regarded her quizzically.
“Servants notice a lot more than one might think. Maybe one of them saw something they didn’t know was important at the time,” Lady Elizabeth explained.
“Aunt Elizabeth, you’re brilliant. Thompkins notices everything. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” Penelope said.
“Thank you, dear.” Lady Elizabeth picked up the teapot. “More tea?”
Chapter 13
The low rumbling sounded distant and far away in the night. I tried to block it out, but when it turned into a deep growl, I couldn’t. Ever the optimist, I hoped if I lay completely still maybe, just maybe, I could snatch fifteen more minutes of sleep. Surely, that was possible. Through the slits in my eyelids, I saw it was still dark. Other than the usual night noises, ones I was accustomed to, the house was quiet. The darkness around me crept inside my head and doused my thoughts. I drifted back to sleep—for perhaps two glorious minutes before ten pounds of poodle jumped on my chest and knocked the breath out of me. I opened my eyes. Sure enough, Snickers stood on my chest, her muzzle inches from my eyes.
“What the—”
Snickers stuck her tongue in my mouth. After living with her all those years, I should have expected it. Where my dogs are concerned, I’m a slow learner. I rolled over, ungraciously sliding Snickers off my chest, and used my pillow to wipe her doggie kiss off my tongue.
“You have to go outside?”
Snickers jumped off the bed and went to stand next to Oreo, who growled and scratched at my bedroom door. If you’ve lived with animals for any period of time, you learn their moods. Humans and dogs might not speak the same language, but they manage to communicate. The poodles’ behavior was a repeat from the day before, but not their normal, prancing, wake up and let us out wench dance. It was more like their a small rodent is on our turf and we must pounce and let them know who’s boss dance. Either way, I wouldn’t get a moment of sleep unless I complied with their demands. Best get it over with quickly. I got out of bed and slipped my feet into a pair of sneakers. When I opened the door, Oreo took off for the stairs. Snickers followed closely, while I plodded along and hoped we wouldn’t wake up Nana Jo.
I almost ran into her in the hallway. She held her gun.
“What are you doing?” I stared at the gun.
She shushed me and whispered, “I heard a noise. I bet the dogs heard it too.” She waved her gun toward the lower level. “Someone’s down there.”
I hadn’t heard anything but decided to play it safe. I ran to my bedroom and grabbed the Louisville slugger I kept next to my bed.
Nana Jo and I tiptoed down the stairs. At the bottom, we paused and listened. Oreo growled. I heard his nails as they scratched the door that separated the apartment from the store. When we reached the bottom, we unlocked it and the dogs sped toward the back of the building. We rounded a corner and found the dogs scratching at the door to the bathroom. Snickers, normally pretty meek, snarled and sounded poised to pounce. Nana Jo put her finger to her lips and motioned for me to get behind her.
My heart raced. The blood pounded in my ears. I took a few steps back, gripped my bat, and got in my stance. On my high school fast-pitch softball team, I hit .654. Nana Jo looked back. I nodded and readjusted my stance. Feet planted, I was ready. Nana Jo aimed her gun at the bathroom. Perhaps sensing that something was about to go down, Oreo stopped scratching and stood ready to pounce on whatever came through the door.
I reminded myself to swing from the hips.
“Whoever you are, we’ve got you covered. The police are on their way. Come out slowly with your hands up or I’ll plug you full of holes,” Nana Jo shouted.
A whimper came from the bathroom. “Please don’t shoot me. I’m coming out.”
Nana Jo and I stepped back. The doorknob turned, and the door slowly swung open. Nana Jo and I held our positions, but Oreo did not. As soon as the door opened wide enough for him to squeeze in, in he went.
Oreo snarled. I assumed the yelling and banging and thrashing that followed came from the intruder.
Poodles aren’t known to be violent. In the twelve years I’d owned him, I had never seen Oreo attack anything bigger than a stuffed toy. Despite the screams and pleas from the bathroom, I had to admit to a certain amount of pride that my otherwise tame fluff-ball not only could, but would, defend me. Snickers, on the other hand, stood back, barked, and attempted to look fierce. My shock at Oreo’s attack slowed me, but I quickly recovered. I flipped on the lights, and Nana Jo opened the bathroom door.
Dawson Alexander backed up against the toilet. Oreo gripped his pants leg in his teeth.
“Please get him off of me. Please.”
I reached down to grab Oreo. He didn’t want to let go of Dawson’s pant leg, but I eventually managed to get the fabric out of his mouth. I still held my bat, so my grasp on Oreo wasn’t tight and he escaped.
Dawson crouched on the toilet and pulled his knees up to his chest in an effort to keep his limbs out of biting range. I grabbed Oreo, stuck him under one arm, and backed out of the bathroom.
Nana Jo pointed her gun at Dawson’s chest. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your head off.”
“Nana Jo, please, let’s just let the police take care of him.” The adrenaline that had me ready to crack someone’s skull just moments before seeped out of my body and left me weary. Whether at the thought a former student had broken into my store to rob me or worse, or at the thought a young man with talent and potential had thrown it all away, I was drained and close to tears.
“Please, Mrs. Washington. I didn’t mean any harm. Please, let me explain.” Dawson’s pleas were pathetic.
“Really? You have words to explain why you broke into my store and hid in my bathroom? I’d like to hear them.” I stood in the hallway with one dog under each arm. Oreo had stopped snarling but kept his eyes on his prey. One false move and he’d be all over Dawson faster than a tick on a deer. “Now, come out of there.”
Dawson stayed as far away from Oreo as he could and inched into the hallway.
Nana Jo kept her gun leveled at his chest. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m a darned good shot and, at this range, you’ll be easy pickings.”
“Please. I didn’t break in to hurt you or to steal from you. I just . . . I just needed a place to sleep.” Tears ran down his face.
“What are you talking about? Why aren’t you on campus?” His answer shocked me.
Dawson Alexander was one of the best high school football players in the state. He went to Michigan Southwest University on a football scholarship.
He swallowed a few times. “Football was good, but I couldn’t keep up with my classes. I got put on academic probation after the season.”
My heart started to thaw, but a few slivers of ice still held fast. “Why didn’t you
go home?”
“Home is . . . not a good place.” He stepped away from the wall and out of the shadow and stood beneath the bright fluorescent overhead light. The colors of his swollen and bruised face went from red to dark purple. His lip was cut and puffy, and his clothes were more torn than could be blamed on a ten-pound poodle.
I stared. “Oh my God” was all I could say.
“I look pretty bad, huh?”
My heart melted. The young man had been used as a punching bag.
Nana Jo lowered her gun and took charge. “Come with me.” Her voice left no room for argument. She cast one look in my direction, and I nodded agreement.
Dawson hung his head and meekly followed Nana Jo up the stairs.
I took a moment to let Oreo and Snickers out to take care of their business—and to clear my head—before I followed them. While I waited for Oreo to sniff every leaf, I couldn’t help but think back to the classes I’d had with Dawson. He was bright but focused on one thing and one thing only. Football. I remembered bruises and broken bones, all attributed to football injuries. Now, I wondered. There was never anything as bad as this. He could have come by his current injuries only one way.
I said a prayer and locked the door. In the morning, I’d look into an alarm system.
Upstairs, at the breakfast bar, Dawson drank hot chocolate while Nana Jo poured tea into two mugs. I hopped on the other barstool and drank my tea in silence. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how to initiate the conversation.
Nana Jo kept busy. In addition to the tea and hot chocolate, she opened a bag of Oreos and dropped a few dog biscuits on the floor. Dawson ate an entire row of cookies in less than a minute. On a bad day, I’d been known to do the same thing, but Nana Jo must have noticed the hungry look in his eyes. She silently took out a skillet, butter, bread, and cheese and made grilled cheese sandwiches.
She put two in front of him. “Eat. We’ll talk later.” With that, she went into the bathroom and came back with a towel. I kept an ice pack in the freezer for emergencies, which, in my case, usually meant twisted ankles or wrenched knees following bouts of exercise.
Nana Jo wrapped the ice pack in the towel and handed it to Dawson. He held it to his eye with one hand and shoved sandwiches into his mouth with the other.
When his eating slowed to a crawl, I thought it was time for some answers. “Dawson, who did this to you?”
I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but he must have decided he owed us an explanation.
“When my old man found out I might lose my scholarship, he went crazy. He was drunk. Well, he’s always drunk, but he was really lit last night. He called me a lot of names and laid into me.” He paused. “I thought he was going to ki . . . I just grabbed my backpack and ran.”
Nana Jo and I looked at each other. It was obvious what Dawson thought his father was going to do. “You need to go to the police.” I had a feeling he wouldn’t.
Dawson jumped off his stool before the words were out of my mouth. “No. No. I’m not going to the police.” He backed away from the counter, about to bolt for the stairs.
“Sit down.” Nana Jo’s tone meant business anywhere in the world.
Dawson hesitated but sat down.
“Why did you come here?” I asked.
“I like how nice and quiet the bookstore is. I was going to ask if you needed any help, unloading or shelving books, anything. I thought maybe I could work here during the summer. You wouldn’t even have to pay me.”
“How did you get in?” After a murder in the backyard and an intruder, I was seriously questioning my safety.
“Last time I was here, I noticed the lock on the storm cellar was broken. I came in through there. I didn’t think about the dogs. They seemed pretty friendly the other day. Who knew this little guy had the heart of Cujo?”
Oreo was prostrate in Dawon’s lap, having his belly rubbed. Obviously, all was forgiven and forgotten.
“I still think you should go to the police, but I won’t force you.”
Dawson absentmindedly stroked Oreo and avoided looking at me with the one eye not covered by ice. After a few moments, he asked, “What are you going to do?”
“Tonight, I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow, I’m going to call a locksmith to fix the storm cellar.”
“No. I mean what are you going to do about me? Are you going to call the police?”
I’d been wondering what I was going to do and hadn’t come up with a good solution. I made up my mind. “No.”
“Thank you. I’m really sorry, Mrs. Washington. I promise I won’t do anything like that again. I’ll just grab my backpack and . . .” He stood and dislodged Oreo, who wasn’t pleased.
Oreo barked, and Dawson headed toward the stairs.
He halted at the sight of Nana Jo with her hands on her hips.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I was just—”
“Just what? I cooked. Your job is to load the dishes into the dishwasher.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hurried to the kitchen and gathered the dirty dishes.
Nana Jo went to the linen closet and came back with sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. She plopped them on the sofa. “When you’re done loading the dishes, make up the sofa bed and turn out the lights. I’m going to bed. I’m tired.” She took her gun from the counter, went to her room, and shut the door.
Dawson stood in the middle of the kitchen with his mouth open.
“You heard her.” I walked to my bedroom, followed by Oreo and Snickers, and closed the door.
Chapter 14
I didn’t expect to sleep well, given the night’s events. However, I slept like a baby and awoke to the glorious smell of coffee and bacon. After a luxuriously hot shower, I found Dawson and Nana Jo encamped at the bar, already eating bacon and French toast. The kitchen smelled of maple syrup and vanilla. I was ravenous, and the French toast tasted divine. I ate more than I should have.
“Dawson, why don’t you take the dogs outside while Sam and I load the dishwasher,” Nana Jo said.
“Sure. You think they’ll come with me?” Dawson looked skeptical.
Oreo and Snickers scavenged for crumbs at his feet.
I handed him two dog biscuits from the jar on the counter. “They’ll follow food anywhere.” Biscuits in hand, Dawson led Oreo and Snickers downstairs.
The moment Dawson and the dogs were out of earshot, Nana Joe asked, “What are you going to do with him?”
“I’m sure I could use his help in the bookstore. We’re supposed to have our grand opening in a couple of days. I should be able to afford one more worker for a few months.”
Nana Jo headed toward the stairs and beckoned for me to follow.
Dawson had found a stuffed toy and was playing tug-of-war and keep-away with the poodles in the back courtyard. They barely noticed when we passed.
In the garage, Nana Jo skirted around my car to the door at the other side of the wall. She opened it and led me up the stairs. At the top was a large open area covered in dust and cobwebs. The previous owners must have planned to use the area for extra rental income. They’d squeezed in a toilet and shower. In the corner were the beginnings of a small kitchenette with a base sink cabinet and upper shelves.
“Jenna has been storing a set of twin beds in my attic since the twins outgrew them. Dawson’s stocky, but he’s not as tall as the twins. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers.” Nana Jo walked around the small studio. “If you got a dorm-sized refrigerator, microwave, a hot plate, and a small table with a couple of chairs, the kitchen would be done. He’ll need a desk and a dresser. I saw a small desk in that little antique store across the street. I’ll bet if you flirt with the owner, we can get it for a reasonable price. Maybe you better let me handle that. Then you’ll need paint and rugs.” Nana Jo had it all worked out.
I went and gave her a big hug.
Although I used the garage to park, I hadn’t been upstairs since I’d closed on the building. “I
think that would be great.” I was overwhelmed at how fast she’d worked out a plan. I gave her another squeeze and wiped away a couple of tears.
“He can work in exchange for room and board. You know he made the French toast this morning. I think that young man has a career as a chef. He said he loves to bake,” Nana Jo said with a wink. “Besides, I’ll feel better knowing there’s a man around the house.”
“It’ll be wonderful. Plus, it will be convenient. I was going to offer to tutor him at night.”
“Great. You can tutor him in English, and I’ll tackle math.”
“Sounds like a great plan, but maybe we should ask Dawson.”
Nana Jo went to the window and pried it open and yelled to him to come join us.
Thrilled didn’t begin to describe Dawson’s reaction, and we got started making the garage apartment habitable right away. Nana Jo’s plans were good, but a few other modifications were needed for it to qualify as a legal apartment. After a quick call to Chris, Andrew, the Amish contractor and builder of bookshelves, was on the job. By sundown, Andrew had repaired the plumbing, attached stairs for an external fire escape, added a small skylight to allow more light into the space, and installed a microwave convection oven and the tiny two-burner stove Nana Jo got from the antique dealer when she purchased the desk. Chris and Zaq helped, and many hands made light work. Dawson found a couple of gargoyles in the basement of the bookstore and put them on his desk for inspiration.
Sunday morning, we moved in the bunk beds. Jenna suggested they be taken apart, pushed against the wall, and made up with extra-large pillows to look like a sofa during the day. When all was said and done, the space was cozy and functional. I had new locks and dead bolts put on the outside door and on the cellar door. The security company would be out Monday to install a new alarm system. Even Oreo and Snickers seemed happy with the new arrangement. After days of working on the garage apartment and the last minute details for the store opening, I needed an escape.
“Victor, don’t be such a bloody fool.” Penelope shook with anger. She turned her back to Victor and folded her arms across her chest. She had found him sitting in his garden after her three-mile walk from Wickfield Lodge.
