Asking Fur Trouble

by Ally Roberts

  In any other situation, I probably would have agreed.

  But I knew just how eager Ritter and Detective Simcoe were to pin this crime on me.

  And I didn’t want to give them a single bit of information they could use against me.

  No, it was far better for me to follow up on it first.

  I just hoped I would find the answers I was looking for.

  TWENTY FIVE

  It was Monday morning and I was out for a walk with Trixie and Duke.

  This time, we weren’t heading toward the water.

  Instead, we were going directly into town.

  Because I had a plan.

  After talking with Tate, I’d decided that I needed to make a positive ID on the statue. Just confirm that it was the same one that had gone missing from Caroline Ford’s house. Through some online stalking, I’d managed to find Amber’s last name—Peterson—and I’d sent her a message via Facebook, asking her if she was free to meet the next day. She responded almost immediately, telling me she had an appointment on the mainland but that she could meet Tuesday. It wasn’t the answer I’d wanted but I made plans to touch base with her Monday afternoon and see what we could figure out.

  What I did know, though, was that I didn’t want to wait until Tuesday to visit the consignment shop. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I worried that the statue might no longer be there.

  So I made plans to go by myself. As I walked down Claymont Street, I went over what I would do. I’d find the statue, take a few pictures, and then show them to Amber to confirm the statue was the same one that had gone missing. If I was feeling particularly brave, and if the shop worker seemed nice, I might ask them to put it on hold or take it off the floor for the day so I could figure out whether or not it made sense to call the police in on it.

  I nodded to myself.

  It wasn’t the best plan, but it would work.

  And it was way better than doing nothing.

  Trixie and Duke took their time as they ambled down the sidewalk next to me, taking turns sniffing lampposts and trash receptacles, flowerpots and fire hydrants. The smell of fresh coffee brewing at Java Joe’s made me want to stop and linger, as did the aroma of baked goods wafting out of The Cupcakery, Leah Sinclair’s sweet little shop. The sidewalks and streets were relatively quiet but I knew how quickly that would change when the tourists arrived in earnest. Even now, there were signs that some out-of-towners had arrived: cars with out-of-state license plates lined the streets, and even at that time of morning, a few people already had bags from the souvenir shop looped over their arms.

  A few minutes later, we were in front of the consignment shop. I attached the dogs’ leashes to the bike rack parked outside the front door.

  “You guys stay right here,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  They both smiled at me, their tongues lolling, and Duke immediately dropped to the ground. Trixie soon followed suit.

  A bell jingled on the door as I pulled it open, and a woman in the process of dressing a headless mannequin looked my way.

  “Morning,” she said. “Can I help you find anything?”

  “Just browsing,” I told her. I didn’t think I should announce that I was there for a specific piece.

  I made my way through the crowded store, squeezing past shopping carts loaded with clothes waiting to be put out on racks and rolling carts filled with all kinds of housewares. On any other occasion, this would be the type of store I could get lost in for hours. Their book section alone, easily seven bookcases worth, would keep me occupied as I scoured the titles, looking for ones to add to my collection. I’d had to leave a fair amount of my books back in Minneapolis and one of the promises I’d made to myself was that I would rebuild my collection once I was settled again.

  I wasn’t entirely settled, but the books in that shop were like a siren song calling my name.

  I pivoted away from the bookshelves and headed instead toward the knick-knacks and housewares. It seemed like the most logical place to find a statue.

  After searching the shelves for a good few minutes, though, I wasn’t so sure. The rocking chair quilter was nowhere to be found.

  I felt the first stirrings of panic.

  Was it already gone?

  There was a guy working at the back of the store, breaking down boxes, and I approached him.

  “Excuse me, but I’m looking for a certain statue,” I said. I’d decided I needed to just come right out and ask about it. “A…a friend of mine saw it the other day and thought I would love it.”

  The guy dragged his box cutter along the taped section of the box, slicing it open. He looked at me through his glasses. “Yeah? What kind of statue?”

  “It was a woman sitting in a rocking chair,” I said. “With a quilt she was working on.”

  He chuckled. “You, too, huh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s someone else who wants that piece,” the man told me. He folded the box he’d just cut and threw it into a waiting bin.

  “There is?”

  He nodded. “Asked me if I could put it on hold. I said we don’t do holds, but I moved it to a different part of the store so it was less visible.”

  “Where is it?”

  He pointed to the far corner where some of the furniture pieces were on display. “In the curio cabinet over there. Bottom shelf.”

  “Is it still there?”

  “No idea. I haven’t looked.”

  I thanked him and hurried toward it, but I had a sinking feeling that the statue wouldn’t be there.

  But it was.

  It was right where the employee said it would be, tucked behind a glass door on the bottom shelf of an oak curio cabinet. I squatted down, opened the door and, with trembling hands, reached for the statue.

  It was heavy, much heavier than I expected it to be.

  Which meant it probably would be a very effective weapon for hitting someone over the head, I thought.

  I looked over the statue. There was nothing particularly striking about it. It was indeed a statue of a woman sitting in a rocking chair with a quilt draped over her lap. She was leaned over, studying the fabric, a needle in her hand. I ran my finger along the surface, noting the soft lines and texture carved into the metal. I wasn’t an expert on metals, but if I had to make a guess, I would think it was bronze.

  “You found it.”

  I looked up.

  The guy who had been breaking down boxes was standing next to me.

  “I did.”

  But now the question was, what did I do with it?

  There was someone else interested in buying it, and I had no idea when that individual might show up to get it.

  Which meant only one thing: if I wanted to keep track of the whereabouts of this statue, I would have to buy it myself.

  I fingered the paper tag attached to the statue, turning it over so I could see the price.

  “Fifty dollars?” I said out loud.

  The guy cleared his throat. “It’s a bronze statue. Probably worth double that.”

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t have fifty spare dollars to buy a stupid statue. I was supposed to be saving money and figuring out what I was going to do with my life.

  But then I remembered the money Asher had paid me.

  And then I remembered the dogs I’d left outside. Alone. Unattended.

  I scrambled to my feet, the statue clutched in my hands. “I’ll take it.” I said this quickly, so I couldn’t change my mind.

  The guy nodded knowingly, and I had the fleeting thought that maybe I shouldn’t have seemed so interested, or so desperate to have it. Maybe I could have knocked down the price by a few bucks.

  Now wasn’t the time to worry about that.

  I’d made my decision. I was buying the statue and I was getting back outside to the dogs. I’d figure out what to do next once the statue safely belonged to me.

  I marched it up to the counter, peeking outside as I di
d so. Trixie and Duke were lying next to the bike rack, their heads tilted upward, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Probably looking at the birds parked in the tree nearby.

  After paying for the statue, I hurried out of the store and untied their leashes. I tucked the statue under my arm and spun the dogs around so we were pointing in the direction we came. I figured we could swing by my house, I could drop the statue off, and then I could continue back to Sweetwater Suites and take Duke back to Asher.

  And then figure out my next move.

  The only problem was, I hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to walk two large dogs while trying to carry a bulky 15-lb. statue. No matter how much I shifted the thing under my arm, it managed to poke me or slip out of my grasp. To complicate matters, the dogs had suddenly spotted a squirrel. Leashes tightened as the dogs sprinted toward it and I was almost yanked off my feet.

  “Whoa!” I tugged with my one hand, but my strength was no match for theirs. Before I knew it, they were dragging me toward the small park across the street and I was hanging on to the statue by the skin of my teeth.

  “Need a hand?” a voice from a pickup called.

  But the dogs kept pulling me forward and I couldn’t answer.

  A car door slammed shut and footsteps pounded behind me and then I saw an arm reach out and grab the statue just as it slipped from my fingers.

  With my hand now free, I reached out and yanked hard on the leashes, finally bringing the dogs to a stop. They turned back to look at me, their eyes wild, their tongues hanging out of their mouths.

  “Not cool,” I told them sternly. My shoulder and chest ached from being pulled.

  “I saved your statue.”

  I whirled around.

  A man I’d never seen before held out the statue toward me.

  “Thank you.” I was panting, and it came out sounding breathy and raspy, like I was in the middle of an asthma attack.

  The guy’s mouth puckered. “You alright?”

  I nodded. “Just need to catch my breath.”

  He nodded. He was easily in his fifties, with graying blond hair and gray stubble on his face. Dressed in a red flannel and jeans, he looked more like someone I would have seen in the north woods of Minnesota as opposed to a resident of Sweetwater Island.

  “I’m alright,” I told him. “Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem,” he said with a smile. He nodded at the statue. “How about I carry this to your car for you? Seeing as how you got your hands full with those mutts.”

  It was a nice gesture. The only problem was I didn’t have a car to walk back to.

  “That’s nice of you to offer but I don’t have my car. I was out for a walk.”

  He gave me a funny look. “With your dogs and your…statue?”

  I chuckled. “Not quite. I was out for a walk and stopped in the consignment store. I saw the statue and really wanted it. I guess I didn’t think about how I was going to get it home.”

  It was his turn to laugh. “I see.” He looked behind him, back toward his truck. “I can give you a lift, if you want. Can throw the dogs in the back of the cab or the back of the truck. Either’s fine by me.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  It was a nice offer, but I had no idea who this guy was. What if he was a serial killer? A human trafficker? Maybe even a dognapper? Getting into his truck seemed like a very bad idea.

  “I'm John,” he said, extending the hand that wasn’t cradling my statue. “I live over on Magnolia Street. Upstairs apartment in Mrs. Dubois’s house.”

  I knew Mrs. Dubois. She’d spent at least thirty years teaching English at the high school.

  He looked at the dogs. “And I have two dogs, too. Winston and Hutch. Winston’s a Weimaraner and Hutch is a mutt. Looks like we have the same idea: one purebred and one Heinz 57.”

  I glanced down at the panting dogs. “Oh, only one of these is mine.”

  “You kidnap the other one?”

  My eyes widened until I saw the smile on his face. He was clearly joking.

  “I’m walking someone’s dog,” I said.

  “A friend?”

  “No. It’s…it’s a business.”

  “You walk dogs?” He stared at me incredulously. “Like, for a living?”

  My first inclination was to waffle, maybe even say no.

  But it was my job right now, I reminded myself. So technically speaking, it was the way I was currently making a living.

  I nodded.

  “Oh, wow,” he breathed. He sounded as impressed as he looked. “That’s like my dream job.”

  “To walk dogs?”

  “No, to work with dogs.” He took a step closer, his eyes alive with excitement. “And some day I’m going to do it.” He cocked his head. “Are you just a dog walker?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stroked his chin with his free hand. “Well, I work construction most days and I sometimes pull ten or twelve-hour shifts. I’d love to find someone who can pop over and let my dogs out. Mrs. Dubois used to do it but she’s getting on in years and can’t handle the steps too well. But she’s fine with letting the dogs run around the backyard. I just need someone to do it.”

  “So you’re looking to pay someone to come over and let your dogs out?”

  He nodded. “Just once a day is all I need. I’ll pay you ten bucks a day.”

  “Ten dollars?”

  He looked worried. “Is that not enough?”

  If anything, it was probably too much. The Dubois house was a five-minute walk from my grandmother’s house.

  “No, it’s not that,” I said. “I just…isn’t there a doggy daycare you could take them to? Wouldn’t that be about the same price?” It might be a little more expensive than that, I realized, but his dogs would be able to run and play all day, not just get a quick sprint around the yard.

  He scowled. “Well, sure. Poppy’s place.” It was hard not to notice the derision in his voice. “But Winston and Hutch ain’t going there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why would they?” he scoffed. “The woman who runs that place is a snake.”

  Another person who wasn’t a fan of Poppy’s. At least I wasn’t the only person who she’d rubbed the wrong way.

  “Well, I guess we could work something out,” I mumbled. “I mean, if you’re really looking for someone one.”

  John nodded. “I am. One day, I’d love to open my own doggy daycare, to provide a better alternative to what Poppy has going on. I’ve got a bunch of money saved for a down payment on a property. I’ve been looking at securing some business loans.”

  “That’s awesome,” I told him.

  He nodded in agreement, but he was staring at me curiously. “I just realized something.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t know you’re name.”

  I guess I hadn’t told him.

  At this point I was pretty sure he wasn’t a serial killer or a would-be rapist, and I definitely didn’t think he was looking to add two more dogs to the brood already living in his apartment.

  “Wendy,” I said. “Wendy Walker.”

  He chuckled. “Ah, so I’s got a question for you,” he said, his voice taking on an exaggerated New York accent. “Da ya wanna walk-a my dogs, Wendy Walker?”

  I burst out laughing.

  A smile stretched across his face and he laughed, too.

  “Sure,” I said.

  What did I have to lose?

  I’d just sunk fifty bucks into a statue I didn’t need and I absolutely wasn’t convinced it would get me off the hook as a potential suspect in Caroline Ford’s death.

  But this guy was offering me money to let his dogs out to pee.

  I wasn’t about to turn down a job.

  I might end up needing it for bail money.

  TWENTY SIX

  John did not try to abduct the dogs or me on the drive back to my house.

  He did, however, keep up a steady stream of chatter about
the doggy daycare business he was planning to open, and he did manage to give me his address and phone number so I could make plans to swing by and let out his two dogs the next day.

  With the statue tucked under my arm and the dogs safely out of the backseat of the cab, I thanked him for the ride and waved as his truck trundled down the street.

  All I needed to do was drop the statue off inside and then get Duke back to Asher. I’d figure out what came next, just as soon as I accomplished those two things.

  But a car pulled up to the curb just as I was heading toward the walk that led to my front porch.

  Not just any car.

  A police cruiser.

  Both front doors flew open and Chief Ritter and Detective Simcoe stepped out of the vehicle almost simultaneously.

  “Stop!” Detective Simcoe barked.

  I stopped.

  “What are you carrying?” He was moving toward me, going as fast as his bulky frame allowed.

  “A statue.” I almost said ‘the statue’ but decided against it.

  He and Chief Ritter were now within two feet of me.

  “Where did you get that?” Chief Ritter demanded.

  “The statue?”

  Detective Simcoe’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the statue missing from Caroline Ford’s house.”

  “I’m aware.”

  His mouth tightened. “Why is it in your possession? And a better question, where are you going with it?”

  My heart began to trip like a jackhammer as it sunk in how this probably looked to them.

  I’d come in and told them about a missing statue from the crime scene.

  And I was standing outside my house, holding it.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said quickly.

  Chief Ritter folded his arms and fixed me with a cool stare. “No? What do you think I’m thinking?”

  I decided not to answer that particular question.

  “I’m actually just getting home.”

  Simcoe rolled his eyes and grunted. “Sure you are.”

  “I am,” I said, feeling indignant. “I actually bought this at the consignment shop in town. Second Chance.”

  “I know the name of the store,” Chief Ritter said stiffly. “I’m the police chief, remember?”