Woof at the Door

by Laura Morrigan

  “’Seventy-three?”

  “’Seventy-five.”

  “Nice.”

  As much as I appreciated a man who saw the beauty of my clunker, Bluebell, I didn’t want to talk about my beloved behemoth. Kai was quickly devouring his breakfast, and I feared he’d be on his way back to work before I had a chance to get any more out of him. I had to get him talking.

  “You know . . .” I leaned back and reflected on a few oddities I’d noticed as we talked. “You don’t really look like a science guy.”

  “What do I look like?”

  “Well.” My gaze roamed over him. “You have a great tan.”

  “We live in Florida.”

  I ignored the comment. I was getting into my perusal of him. “And you have a slight tan line around your eyes, so that means outdoor activities. Lots of sun.”

  “Maybe I like to mow my lawn.”

  I took another bite of biscuit, chewed thoughtfully while I examined him, looking for, what? Oh yes . . . clues. Dark hair, with just a touch of auburn, a little longish for a cop. Broad shoulders and muscular chest. Strong arms. “Developed upper body.”

  He set down his biscuit and shot me a lazy grin.

  I glanced at his watch, a Nixon. “Surfer. You look like a surfer.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Not bad.”

  “Am I right?”

  He nodded. “What made you think that?”

  I pointed to his watch. “Nixon makes surf gear. And when you paid at the counter, you had a Hurley wallet.”

  “Very Sherlock Holmes.” He gave me a full-wattage smile, and I have to say I was impressed. But being sucked into his good looks wasn’t going to get me info.

  “So tell me more about your job,” I said. “What else do you look for at a crime scene?”

  “Trace evidence. Fibers, hair.” He shrugged.

  “Did you find anything? I mean anything that will tell you who did it?”

  He didn’t answer and his gaze lasered into me. The force of his look was so strong, I actually leaned back.

  “What?”

  “Why are you asking me so much about the case?”

  Uh-oh. “I’m curious.”

  “Curious? Are you trying to get me to tell you a tidbit you can sell to the press?”

  “What? No!” This was going south faster than a herd of caribou in a blizzard.

  “You sure about that?”

  “I wouldn’t do that. I just feel connected to this thing, I guess.” I glanced down at my hands as if they held the answer. I desperately tried to channel my sister. Emma, the social artist, would work her magic in a situation like this. Kai would be eating out of her hand and spilling his guts. Maybe I needed a rubber bracelet. WWED?

  “I don’t think you’re being honest with me, Grace.”

  Panic flooded heat to my face, and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “It’s Jax.”

  “The dog?”

  “If he can be adopted, he’ll probably be claimed by a friend or relative. If Mark Richardson was murdered by someone he knew . . . I don’t want Jax to be adopted by a killer. That would be awful!”

  Kai looked at me like I’d just begun speaking in tongues. I knew it was a ridiculous reason, but it was one I could work with. Mostly because it held a whisper of truth.

  “Look,” I said. “It may not make sense to you, but it’s true. I want him to go to a good home. Murderers do not rank high on my list of good.”

  I wasn’t sure if he completely bought it, but he said, “Ooo-kay.”

  We finished our breakfast in silence, and when we headed across the street, he must have made a decision about me because, as we reached my car, he turned to me and sighed.

  “Grace, I can’t share any details of the case, so don’t ask me to. But I will say this—keep Jax as long as you can.”

  “I only have him for ten days.”

  He glanced back toward the sheriff’s office as his cell began ringing. “It may take us longer than that.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I hauled myself into Bluebell, cranked the AC, and watched Kai walk into the sheriff’s office. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and thought about what he had just said. It might take them longer than ten days to find who killed Mark Richardson. Not good. Not good at all. By then, Jax might tell me who the killer was. Then I’d have to tell the cops. Not that they’d believe me. But what other choice would I have?

  I noticed a woman walking toward the building. Something about her was familiar. I squinted through the windshield as she got closer and tried to place where I’d seen her before. There was a man with her, leading her quickly toward the doors. He wore a suit and had to be sweating rivers, but he looked unruffled. His hair perfectly gelled, his head high, his suit pressed. The only defect in his confidant facade was his eyes. They darted around, as if he expected someone to jump out at them.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I had slid out of Bluebell and followed them into the sheriff’s office. I tailed them to the receptionist’s desk I had visited earlier and loitered behind them pretending to be looking for something in my purse.

  “Miss Jennifer Weston, here to speak to Detective Nocera.” The man spoke for her, and I realized two things: He was her lawyer, and she was the woman in one of the photos I had seen at Mark Richardson’s house.

  The ex-girlfriend. I studied her as they waited for the receptionist to call Jake. She was slim and wore a yellow dress the same shade as her golden hair. A white cardigan covered her shoulders and arms. Weird. It was hot enough out to fry eggs on the sidewalk and here she was in a sweater.

  She mumbled something to the lawyer and, ignoring his frown, headed toward the sign that said, RESTROOMS.

  I waited almost a full minute, then followed.

  As I hoped, Jennifer was just walking out of the stall as I entered the restroom. She glanced at me with big, blue, tear-swollen eyes and a face that made me think of baseball games and apple pie. I couldn’t picture her blowing a hole in someone’s head.

  “Are you okay?” I asked as she dabbed at her eyes.

  She nodded. Then shook her head, sniffling. “I—I just lost my best friend. He was . . . someone . . . someone . . . killed him.”

  The tissue in her trembling fingers was wadded up into a useless ball. I hurried into the stall and unrolled a long section of toilet paper. Ripping it off, I folded it and offered it to her. “I’m so sorry.”

  She took the tissue and wiped her nose. “Thank you.”

  At that moment I wished that my psychic gift extended to people. She didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer. She didn’t act like one either, but who knew? She could have killed Mark Richardson in a jealous rage or something and now her tears were from regret. Or guilt.

  “Did you . . . are you here because you’re a witness?” I asked, trying to saturate my voice with shock and sympathy.

  She shook her head. “No, thank God. But the police are talking to everyone. I don’t know what I can tell them. Mark was so wonderful. I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill him.”

  Jennifer started sobbing, and I did what any good Southern woman would do when in the ladies’ room with a crying stranger—I gave her a hug and patted her on the back.

  After a few moments, she settled down and turned to the sink. She tugged her sleeves up to splash water on her face, and I noticed several deep ugly bruises on her lower arm. I’d seen marks like that before, and knew why she was wearing the sweater.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I kept my eyes on the bruises so my question would be clear. Handprint-shaped bruises didn’t just happen. They could be the reason Mark’s brain was plastered all over his wall. She might have gotten tired of getting knocked around and pulled the trigger, or she had a new, viole
nt boyfriend who didn’t like her thinking of her ex as her “best friend.”

  Jennifer followed my gaze to her forearm. “I bruise easy.” She shrugged, fumbled with the sleeves, and pulled them back down to cover the marks.

  I gave her the dubious, woman-to-woman eyebrow raise. She sighed and fussed with the sleeves some more.

  After several beats, she finally said, “I know how pathetic that sounded. Like I’m some battered woman or something.”

  “Are you?” I didn’t have to fake my sympathy this time. I had a history with domestic violence. My sister had been a victim. If Jennifer Weston was being abused, I wanted her to get help.

  She shook her head, but avoided my eyes. “It’s not like that.”

  Yeah, sure it wasn’t. “Well, if you need to talk . . .” I handed her my card just as the door to the ladies’ room creaked open a fraction. A man’s voice echoed into the room.

  “Jennifer? Everything okay?”

  “I’m on my way.” The door thunked closed, and Jennifer gave me an almost smile, the kind that you just knew would be great if it could break free of the grief and really shine. She looked very sad and very young. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  She pushed the door open and walked out of the ladies’ room. I thought about her and the bruises and contemplated calling Jake or Kai and telling them about the marks. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. I didn’t think the girl I had just met was a killer. And throwing suspicion on her because of a bruise seemed wrong. Maybe I was projecting. If my sister’s ex had been killed and the cops knew her history with him, she would have been suspect. Hell, I would be suspect.

  I decided to give it time. After all, the cops would do their job. I knew Jake—he was good at what he did. I assumed Kai was, too. They probably already knew more about Jennifer Weston than I’d learned in a five-minute conversation in the ladies’ room.

  The sun assaulted me as I stepped outside, searing every inch of skin it touched. I hurried to Bluebell, hopped in, and blasted the AC. The hot air from the vents struggled to cool as I edged into traffic. My mind was still locked on Jennifer Weston. I had to ask myself—what would I do if Jax’s memory of the murder was of Mark Richardson attacking Jennifer and her shooting him in self-defense?

  Would I tell the cops? Would I tell anyone?

  The muted sound of “Witchy Woman” drew my attention from the moral quandary. I pawed around in my purse till I found my cell phone. It was my sister.

  “Hey, Em, what’s up?”

  “Guess again, honey!”

  I knew the voice instantly and grinned. “Wes? Hey, you’re in town!”

  “I am—and guess what we’re doing tonight?” I felt my smile falter.

  I loved Wes. I had since the moment we met on the playground in the fourth grade and he told me my hair was the prettiest he’d ever seen. I have a thing about my hair. Hey, every girl has a favorite feature. Of course, his compliment was not of the romantic nature. Even at nine, I knew that Wes didn’t like girls all that much.

  This fact never bothered me. I loved him. I loved seeing him when he came back into town. But the fact that he was already with Emma meant they had plotted against me. There was a dress in my future—I could feel it in my bones.

  “Emma told me you didn’t have any plans, so I made some arrangements.”

  I winced and tried to think of something, an excuse, to get me out of doing whatever they had planned, but Wes knew me way too well. Just as I began sputtering about having to stay home, Wes said, “You know, it just won’t be the same celebrating my birthday if you aren’t there.”

  “Your birthday? Wes, your birthday was in June.”

  “You know we Geminis can’t just celebrate once. And tonight will be my birthday with my girls.”

  I couldn’t say no, and he knew it. “Okay, but I have one condition.”

  “Oh?” I could almost hear him grinning over the phone.

  “You have to change the ring tone on my cell to something else.” The sneak had hijacked it and reprogrammed it a month ago. I still hadn’t figured out how to change it back to a normal ring.

  He laughed. “But nothing else fits so well, my raven-haired, psychic beauty.”

  I rolled my eyes. Since Wes was the only person outside of my family that knew about my ability, he was also the only person who could get away with calling me things like Witchy Woman, and Gracelicious, without getting run over by a vintage blue Suburban.

  I sighed and promised I’d be there. Oh, joy of joys.

  CHAPTER 4

  Treat? Moss punctuated the thought with a wavering whine.

  I ignored him, took another bite of my lunch—a grilled triple-cheese sandwich on thick white bread. As I chewed the melted deliciousness, I pondered what I had learned that morning with Kai. He liked to surf, was quick to suspect ulterior motives in others, and at the moment, was not liking the odds of wrapping up the case quickly. He also had a mountain of evidence to sift through and was clearly missing something important, hence having to head back to the crime scene.

  Moss licked his chops loudly and sniffed the grilled cheese–perfumed air. I shot him a look. Get out of this kitchen and behave.

  Jax clicked-clacked in from the living room, looked from me to Moss, and promptly assumed the same position as his companion.

  “See, you’re teaching him bad habits.” I motioned to Jax, who had also begun to sniff the air.

  I turned my back on the dual quivering noses, and chewed pensively as I sorted through my messages. I’d decided that rather than thinking about Sergeant Kai Duncan’s clear inquisitive eyes, libido-stoking grin, and the fact that the cops were nowhere near solving the case, I would concentrate on returning the phone calls I’d been neglecting the past couple of days.

  I sighed when I saw just how big a pile it was. Between searching for a new place to live and dealing with a wayward murder witness, I had ignored my duties.

  Six of the messages were from dog owners with house-training problems; one was from a woman with a destructive potbellied pig.

  Best to start with the weirdest first, I decided, and called the owner of the problem pig.

  “I just don’t understand,” lamented the woman who answered the phone. “Daisy has been such a sweet pig, and now we’ll have to replace the carpet, and she’s pulled up and chewed on the vinyl!”

  I bit my lip, forcing back the laugh that danced in the back of my throat. “Uh, how old is Daisy?” I asked, thankful that the woman couldn’t see my expression.

  “She just had her first birthday. I’ve had her since she was a baby. This whole time she’s been so good,” the woman promised, as if I might think Daisy had always been a bad pig.

  I sighed inwardly. “I’m sure Daisy’s a very sweet pig. Does she have a fenced yard to play in?”

  “Yes, but I hate to put her out there in all that dirt.”

  “I see,” I said, though I didn’t. People’s utter misunderstanding of animal nature would never cease to bewilder me. “Ma’am, I’m going to make a few suggestions. I’d like you to try them, and if Daisy isn’t behaving any better in a few days, call me back and we’ll set up an appointment.”

  The woman agreed, and I outlined some suggestions for creating a pig-topia.

  Starting with plenty of time outside in the dirt.

  I hung up the phone and allowed myself the chuckle I had been holding in. Still grinning, I divided the last bite of my sandwich into two equal portions and tossed them to the dogs. They both snapped up the pieces midair and inhaled them.

  I shook my head as I watched them sniff around the floor for stray crumbs. “You guys are pitiful. You act like you’re starving.” Brushing off my fingers with a napkin, I grabbed my glass of water and went into the room my sister used as an office.

&
nbsp; Like the rest of the condo, the space was artfully decorated with colors I’d never imagined would work together. In this room Emma had gone with soothing hues of light aqua-blue and silver, paired with large black-and-white framed prints, and a dark ebony-stained desk and chair.

  Quiet glamour—Emma all the way.

  I sat on the surprisingly comfortable padded chair and turned on the sleek flat-screen computer. Though I’m about as good with computers as I am with people, I have learned how to do some basic stuff. I quickly checked my e-mail—junk, junk, and more junk. And then I began searching the Internet for property.

  “We need something with a lot of room, don’t we, boy?” I spoke to Moss, who had followed me into the office and laid his head on my lap.

  Ever since my old landlady had decided that large dogs, especially ones that looked like wild animals, were a liability, I’d been desperately searching for a new place to live. Thankfully, my consultation business had been a success. I’d been saving for over a year, and already had enough for a down payment. Now I just had to find the right place. Emma had insisted that I stay with her until I found something suitable.

  “You are not going to stay in some scummy motel,” Emma had ordered. “We’d have to hose your room down with bleach.”

  I’d resisted, but arguing with Emma was like arguing with a fence post.

  Staying here had certainly been helpful. But now that Jax was in the picture, I felt even more pressure to get out of her hair. My sister’s place was roomy, overlooked the ocean, and was in an exclusive area. It was not a place for a wolf-dog and his sidekick, the huge Doberman.

  So I started what had become a daily ritual and scrolled through online real estate listings, jotting down phone numbers and brief descriptions of the houses I was interested in.

  Thirty minutes into my search, I arched my back and rolled my shoulders. How do people sit in front of these things all day? I pushed away from the desk.

  Moss lifted his head to watch me. He stood and slowly dipped down into a long stretch. Walk?