Winter Song (Seasons Pass Book 1)

by Susan C. Muller

“Noooo,” Prince moaned, as if some part of him had ripped in half. “Not Crystal. Are you sure? She was all I had in the world. She was going to help me get clean, then she promised to make her husband give me a job.” He tried to put his head in his hands, but with his wrists chained, they wouldn’t reach.

  Sobs racked his huge body until Noah could feel the waves of grief. He glanced at Conner. They both knew that in his condition, it was possible to have done something in a fit of rage and not remember it later.

  “She was so sweet. She never got mad at me, no matter how bad I screwed up. She didn’t blame me for all the shit our dad pulled. Why did it happen to her? Was she in a wreck? I know I don’t deserve it, but I want to go to her funeral and tell her husband how much she meant to me.”

  “It wasn’t a wreck, Harlan. Someone shot her.” Noah waited.

  Prince’s head shot up. “No one would hurt Crystal. Were they trying to hit her husband? She never said nothin’, but I got the feeling some of his business was crooked.”

  “No, she was driving home alone. Where were you on Tuesday night?” Here it came. The moment they had been waiting for. Would he break down and confess or deny everything, try to blame someone else?

  Prince’s eyes were red and his nose covered in snot, but he looked Noah in the eyes. “Are you trying to put this on me? I don’t even have a car. Or a gun. Besides, on Tuesday night, I was in the county lockup. I just got out last night.”

  Noah booked Prince while Conner finished the paperwork. When Noah returned to the office, Conner looked up and wrinkled his nose. “You need to go home and take a bath. You smell like shit, and I mean that literally.”

  “You aren’t exactly a bed of roses yourself.” Noah eased himself gently into his chair which let out a groan that matched the way he felt.

  “I can’t. When Jeannie sees what I did to this suit, she’s going to have a fit.”

  Exactly why I have the sense not to wear expensive clothes. “It’s your leg you should be worried about. If it gets infected, I might have to take it off at the knee with my pocketknife.”

  “Fuck that, I poured alcohol over it in the bathroom. Didn’t you hear me scream?”

  “Yeah, I could hear it over at the jail. I though a hooker had grabbed the Chief by the balls and twisted.” Just a few minutes talking with Conner and Noah could feel his nerves settle down. “Did you find any record of Prince’s bust on Tuesday night?”

  “Yeah. He was arrested in a vice sting at a bar on the east side at 7:12. That gave him an hour to get across town. Could be done, but how’d he get there? He doesn’t have a car. Bar’s walking distance from his place. He was supposed to have been there all night, but who knows if the undercover kept track of what time everybody came in or out.”

  Noah raked a hand across his face. “So we’ll put him on the back burner for now and keep looking.”

  Conner swung his chair toward Noah. “What’d you decide to book him on?”

  “For the moment, it’s just assaulting an officer and resisting arrest. If these red marks around my neck are still here tomorrow, I might up it to attempted murder.” He wouldn’t do that no matter how red his neck was. That would mean photos, depositions, and everyone in the building knowing how close he’d come to buying the farm.

  “I hate to bring this up, partner, but there’s something that concerns me a lot more than the red marks on your neck. Your hand is still swollen and more colors that a six pack of Crayons.”

  Noah flexed his hand and pain shot up his arm. “It’s not infected and the swelling is going down. At least it was until I bashed it against that piece of concrete Prince uses for a jaw.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about Sweet Pea. I’d hate to admit that Hudson was right about anything, but you need to think about doing something with that dog.”

  Noah’s jaw clamped and his hands balled into fists. “I’m not putting her down just because she’s too much trouble.” Conner might be his partner, but he was overstepping on this.

  “Not because she’s trouble. Because she’s miserably unhappy. You’re not doing her any favors by making her keep going when she hates everything about her life.”

  If only Conner knew how close he’d come to echoing Noah’s own feelings.

  “Is there anyone who’d take her? What about your sister, or Betsy’s mother? Didn’t she keep her while you were on your honeymoon or the time you two went to Austin for a few days?”

  “Rachelle can’t take her. She might bite one of the kids. And Betsy’s mother took her for a few days, but Sweet Pea bit her too. And she’s diabetic. The bite didn’t heal well.”

  Besides, she barely remembers who I am. Another link to Betsy broken.

  “I’m going to give Sweet Pea a few more months. If things aren’t better for us by then, well, I know what I need to do.” He knew. He knew exactly what he was going to do and he didn’t plan to discuss it with Conner, or Rachelle, or Betsy’s mom.

  Noah crammed papers into his desk drawer and slammed it shut. He was going home and stand in a hot shower until the tank emptied. It was early, but he’d stayed late too many times for his boss to say anything. He stood and shoved his chair back. The mood he was in, he’d have liked to kick it, but his foot hurt where Prince had slammed the door on it. Almost as much as the rest of his body did. Falling off a second story landing had taken its toll, even if he did land on garbage bags.

  “We should have the information on the cars by Monday. We can start there. Hudson’s behind this. Prince didn’t kill his sister.”

  “The man tried to kill you. We can’t discount him entirely.”

  “No, he was just trying to get away. I’m a lot harder to kill than that.” At least until I decide I’m ready to go.

  Three steps up to the back door were all Noah could handle. Every inch of his body protested. He sighed with relief when Sweet Pea failed to bark as he unlocked the door. Shower first or eat first? Either way, he planned to be in bed within the hour. He was too young to feel this old. Or maybe he was too old to pretend he was young enough to wrestle a giant off a two-story landing.

  One step inside the kitchen, and the stench slapped him in the face. The room smelled worse than Prince’s three-week-old garbage bags. Fuck. Pea had barfed and had diarrhea all over the linoleum. The thought of cleaning up the mess was almost more that he could handle. Especially since it was his own fault. He should never have given her that sausage. He knew people food upset her stomach, but it usually just gave her gas.

  Sweet Pea lay curled in her bed, her back to him.

  “Okay, Pea. Stop playing possum. I’m not mad at you. Let’s get your bottom rinsed off and I’ll give you the tummy medicine the vet sent home for you. Thank goodness I came home early. Another two hours and you’d look like one of those baboons with the multi-colored keister. Not to mention that the gifts you left me would have set up harder than concrete on this floor.”

  Noah stared at the dog, but Sweet Pea didn’t move. Heat rose up the back of his neck and he swallowed several times. Half of him wanted to kick the dog and the other half wanted to cry. He’d done all he could, yet she still growled at him, bit him, and ignored him. What was he supposed to do? He’d given himself eight more months to make things work, but on nights like this he seriously considered moving up the timetable.

  Groaning audibly, he squatted beside the dog. “Come on, Pea. Let’s get up.” He ran one finger across Sweet Pea’s head. When the dog didn’t move, he slipped his hand under her body and lifted her.

  “Pea? Are you alright?” He put his ear to her chest. For one long moment, he didn’t hear anything. Finally, a faint sound greeted him.

  Rushing to the laundry room, he pulled a towel from the cabinet. A small pile of dirt covered the washer and he brushed it away as he wrapped the Yorkie in the cloth. “Don’t worry, Pea. I’ll take care of you.”

  His feet flew across the kitchen and he was out the back door without stopping to lock it. Ca
rrying the tiny dog through the cold night, he jumped into his truck and cranked the heater to high. To the vet’s or straight to the animal emergency clinic? He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Five-fifteen. Could he make it to the vet’s before they closed? Rush hour traffic was starting up and the streets were still a mess. Too risky.

  He hadn’t been able to save Betsy, but he’d be damned if he’d let anything happen to her dog.

  He pulled into the emergency clinic on two wheels and leaned on the horn. He had Sweet Pea inside before the sound died from the air. An aide ushered him to a back room and the vet on duty, a doughy looking man with thick glasses and thin hair, took the dog from his arms. “Do you know what happened to her?” he asked.

  “She was like this when I came home from work. She’d vomited and had more diarrhea than you’d think possible for an animal this size. I gave her some sausage this morning. I shouldn’t have, she can’t really handle people food, but it’s never been this bad before.”

  The vet frowned at Noah and disappeared into the next room. When he returned, he held a syringe, tubes, and a bag of fluid. He took a blood sample and started an IV. “No point in waiting. It’ll be several hours before we know if she’s going to make it. Stop in front and leave your contact information. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

  Noah scratched the dog behind her ear and she opened one eye. The look of pleading stabbed his heart. “Good dog,” he said in his softest voice. “You’re going to be just fine. The doc here is going to take care of you.” He turned away before his voice cracked completely.

  How could he have allowed himself to feel such anger just because she didn’t respond when he called? Was he willing to give up that easily? He could see she was sick, and from something he’d given her.

  In the lobby, he reached for a clipboard and filled in the required information. A wave of dizziness swept over him. The sound of his pen scratching on the paper and the universal hospital smell of antiseptic, cleaner, and general misery, was too familiar. Five and a half months. Too soon to go through this again.

  He sat the clipboard down and hurried out the door. The cold air hit him in the face and he leaned over the fancy landscaping and threw up behind a bush before rushing to his truck. He drove slower and slower as he neared his house, afraid of the phone call he might receive.

  The foul smell of Sweet Pea’s accidents hit Noah the moment he stepped inside. He left the back door open despite the temperature and started toward the laundry room for cleaning supplies. The house was silent except for his footfalls. A crunching sound caused him to look down. White powder coated the bottom of his shoe. Most likely spilled laundry detergent. The dirt he had swept off the washer glared up at him. He lifted the lid of the washer and the odor of wet clothes assaulted him. He hadn’t put the last load in the dryer yesterday. So when had the dirt fallen on the washer? And where had it come from?

  Was he that poor a housekeeper? Probably.

  He spent the next twenty minutes dealing with the mess Sweet Pea had left and trying not to think about how empty the house would be if she didn’t pull through. When the floor was clean, he moved the wet clothes to the dryer, put the towels in the washer and added bleach.

  Sighing, he closed the back door. The room still wasn’t a rose garden, but it was livable.

  No point in taking that shower now. There wouldn’t be any hot water till the washer finished. He pulled off his suit and dropped it in the dry cleaning pile. No point in trying to sleep, either. Not until he got some kind of phone call, one way or the other.

  Five minutes later, in jeans and a sweatshirt, he grabbed the vacuum and started attacking his office, then his bedroom and then the den. Cheetos, peanut shells, and old shoes littered the floor around his spot on the sofa. Just because his life was a mess didn’t mean he had to live like a slob.

  He didn’t need to hire Rosaria, he just needed to get off his butt and get the job done. He and Betsy always split the cleaning. On Saturday morning, he would vacuum and mop, while she dusted and cleaned the bathroom. She did the laundry, but he took care of the dry cleaning. He had honestly believed that he shouldered half the housework. Now he realized how little he did to help.

  Finally, he couldn’t put it off any longer and he ventured into the one room he tried to avoid. It had been so long since he entered the living room, it even smelled musty. He opened the curtains and dust motes flew into the air. He vacuumed quickly and pulled out the dust rag that dangled from his back pocket. But there was only one piece of furniture that needed attention. The piano. How long had it been since he’d been able to look at it?

  Memories of Hudson’s gleaming baby grand swept over him. He’d vowed that night to repair the stuck key on his own unused upright. He stared at the piano for the first time in months and the broken key stared back, like a one eyed Cyclops blaming him for every promise he’d ever broken.

  Spray polish in one hand and dust rag in the other, he leaned over the bench seat. The movement allowed the overhead light to shine directly on the seat and a line cutting through the dust caught his eye. He stood up again and the line disappeared. He moved to the side and it reappeared. Had Sweet Pea jumped on the bench? No, the dog couldn’t jump that high anymore and she would have left paw prints, not a line.

  The line looked exactly like someone had run a finger across, checking for dust. Who would have done that? Betsy’s mother would, but she hadn’t been over since the day of the funeral.

  Conner had picked him up once about two weeks ago, but had he come into the house? Yes, but only the kitchen.

  His sister. Was Rachelle checking up on him? She’d brought over a casserole, but that had to be a month ago, maybe longer. He squatted beside the mark. No fresh dust. The mark was recent.

  The phone rang, startling him, and he spun on one heel and rushed into the kitchen. Only one person would call this late on a Friday night. Well, two, but he and Conner weren’t on call this weekend.

  “Mr. Daugherty,” the vet started immediately. “Sweet Pea is improving. The shot I gave her has settled her stomach and the IV is replacing the fluids she lost. She’s sleeping now, and I’ll check her again in the morning, but unless something happens, I think she’s turned the corner.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Noah’s heart hammered in relief. “When can I pick her up?”

  “Let’s wait till mid-morning at least. Noon would be better. I want to keep an eye on her until I’m sure she won’t relapse.”

  Fatigue consumed Noah as he stumbled to the bedroom, dropped his clothes on the floor and fell into bed without a shower or food.

  Daylight woke Noah and he groaned as he rolled out of bed. Every inch of his body ached, but nothing compared to his hand. Fresh bruises from connecting with Prince’s jaw overlaid the fading yellow areas from Sweet Pea’s bite. The swelling between his thumb and index finger had diminished, only to be replaced by more across his knuckles. He flexed his fingers twice, but wasn’t willing to make that mistake a third time.

  He stepped into a scalding shower and let the water pour over his head and down his body. That seemed to ease everything except his hand, which throbbed worse than before. Too late, he remembered Betsy telling him, “Ice first. Then heat.”

  Two cups of coffee and a bowl of cereal later, he almost felt human. The empty house echoed every sound. Placing his cup and bowl in the sink might as well have been fingernails on a blackboard. He switched on the TV but couldn’t sit still long enough to watch it. The digital clock on the stove read 10:37.

  To hell with this. It might not be noon, but it certainly qualifies as late morning. He grabbed his keys and, slamming the door behind him, strode to his truck. It would be eleven by the time he reached the clinic.

  He drove one-handed and it slowed him down some, but pain shot up his arm when he tried to grip the steering wheel with his sore hand. At the emergency clinic, he paced in the small room as he waited for the lab tech to bring Sweat Pea. What was taking them
so long? His gut clinched with worry. Maybe she was sicker than he thought.

  The same vet from the night before appeared holding an open manila folder filled with papers. He kept his eyes on the papers, not looking at Noah. “Mr. Daugherty, what type of medications do you take?”

  Noah blinked in surprise. How was that any of this guy’s business? “I don’t take any medication, Doc. I have a bottle of fish oil and some vitamins in a drawer somewhere, but I seldom remember to take them. What does that have to do with Sweet Pea?”

  The vet looked at him for the first time. “According to these reports, Sweet Pea didn’t eat something that disagreed with her. Our lab here isn’t sophisticated enough to say exactly what, but it looks like she ingested some type of drug. We try to caution all pet owners about the danger of using drugs that might spill onto the floor or be left out where an animal could reach them.”

  What the hell was this guy talking about? There weren’t any medications at his house. His sister had brought him three sleeping pills the day of Betsy’s accident. He had taken one and felt worse the next day than if he’d stayed up all night. The other two were safely stored in his dresser drawer for a future occasion. Probably laundry detergent. He could have spilled some of that.

  The lab tech, a skinny kid with the faintest wisp of a goatee and arms like twigs beneath scrubs decorated with kittens and bunnies, stepped into the small room. The interruption saved Noah from answering. Sweet Pea never liked strangers on the best of days, and now she was visibly trembling.

  “How you doing, girl?” Noah lifted the dog gently from the young man’s arms. Had she been this thin before? He could feel every rib. He searched her face, and she gazed back with mournful eyes.

  “She’ll need to be on a special diet for a few days. Feed her small amounts, several times instead of a large meal once or twice a day. Kevin here will have the cans waiting at the front desk.” The vet glanced over his glasses toward the lab tech, who scurried out of the room like he was afraid to be caught eavesdropping.