Deadly Dog Days

by Jamie M. Blair

  “I’m glad Mia’s still asleep,” he said, taking my arm and leading me into the kitchen. “I need to talk to you.”

  Oh God. Something bad had happened, other than Jenn Berg’s possible murder; I could feel it in my bones. “Coffee first,” I said, unable to deal with life before two cups.

  He ambled over to the French door that led out to the back patio. “Why is there a dog in the backyard?”

  I opened the cupboard, disturbing the old crab, Isobel, who bared her teeth at me. I needed to let her and the other three outside, but I was afraid I’d lose a leg if I opened the door. “There are five,” I said. “I took Jenn’s dogs.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “Someone had to.”

  Ben slumped against the door, scowling at me and keeping a watchful eye on Isobel. “This is your way of showing you’re innocent. Am I right?”

  “They think I’m a murderer, Ben. Because you were … They think I have a motive.” I poured a generous amount of coffee into the biggest mug I could find and stared out the window over the sink. Brutus was digging to China via the backyard. “I’m not good at having people hate me for something I had no part in.”

  “I’m sorry.” He walked around the counter, grasped me by my upper arms and stared down into my eyes with the most concerned, sincere gaze I’d ever seen on Ben. “Whatever you hear today, I had nothing to do with it. You have to believe that.”

  My stomach fell to my feet. “What am I going to hear today?”

  He dropped my arms and turned from me. “They ruled Jenn’s death a murder. I’m a suspect.”

  “You? Why would you be a suspect? Everyone in town thinks the two of you were going out.”

  Ben spun back around and banged his hand down on the counter. “Because I’m still married. Because she was pregnant.”

  My ears rang with the word. Pregnant. Pregnant.

  “It wasn’t mine, Cam. That’s what you have to believe.”

  During the whirlwind time before we were married, Ben told me he didn’t want another child, that Mia was enough, and he was too old to be the father of an infant. At thirty-six, I’d come to believe I’d never get married or have kids. Having already resigned myself to that fact, it wasn’t difficult to accept. But Jenn Berg had been pregnant when she died. Jenn Berg, who had been doing something with Ben even if he didn’t call it dating.

  “If it wasn’t yours, then whose? Everyone knows you and Jenn Berg were—doing whatever together. How can I believe—”

  “Because it’s the truth!” he said, shoving his fingers through his hair. “I drove her home from the Cornerstone one night when her car wouldn’t start. After that, she cooked me dinner as a thank-you. We became friends. We went to a movie. We had drinks. That’s all. Friends. Making a baby takes a lot more than that.”

  “You never did that with her?” My head spun, and I sat down at the kitchen table.

  “I never even kissed her, Cam. I swear to you. The only thing I ever talked to her about was you and how I screwed up and had to find a way back.”

  I looked up at him, trying to see the man I knew. The police officer. The workaholic. The father who wanted Mia to come stay more often. The man who was married to me, not taking other women to dinner and movies. My view of him split in two, like twin Bens stood in front of me. Mine and some other person I didn’t know anymore. “How were you going to find your way back to me through her? That doesn’t make sense, Ben.”

  He shook his head. “I wanted her perspective.”

  “A twenty-five-year-old woman who was never married? Her perspective?”

  “She was a good listener and—” Footsteps jogged down the stairs. Mia was up. She dashed into the kitchen in a t-shirt with a cartoon pony on the front and rainbow striped pajama pants with her long, dark hair tousled from sleep—the picture of innocence—and dove into Ben’s arms. “Daddy!”

  Jenn Berg had been just one more young woman who had Ben totally bamboozled.

  • Five •

  My crew was at their stations, or rather, wedged into their old grade school desks, when I got to the church around ten. Johnna, as expected, was knitting. Roy was sneaking a drink from a flask, Nick was typing out a message on his cell phone, and Anna and Logan were organizing our calling cards.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, lowering my handbag onto my desk with a thunk. “I had to wait for Ben to come get Mia this morning.”

  “I knew you’d be talking to Ben soon,” Johnna said, not looking up from her needles.

  “Yes, Cameron Cripps-Hayman,” Roy said, eyeing me like he could see straight to my soul. “We knew.”

  It was obvious they’d all gotten word about the pregnancy, and now I was even more guilty in their eyes. “Well, I’ve got an idea for how we can help Sheriff Reins and Ben solve the case.”

  “The murder, you mean,” Roy said, pronouncing each word more accusatory than the last.

  “Yes.” I deflected any bad feeling he was trying to give me. I wasn’t guilty after all. “We have the distinct advantage of being able to reach out to every person living in town to question them, see what they might know about Miss Berg’s … untimely demise.” I hoped I sounded tactful. The last thing I needed was for my blunt approach to make me an even bigger target.

  “To clarify,” Logan said, “we should call only Metamora residents and interrogate them about the murder?” Sometimes I thought Logan might have been part robot. He wanted the facts, plain and simple, with limited details. He never needed to know the why, only the what and how mattered.

  “Exactly,” I said. “But we need to do it carefully. Everyone knew Jenn. She was a young, pretty woman who worked at the Cornerstone and lived in the Hilltop Castle gatehouse. Her mother, Sue Nelson, and her great-grandmother, Elaina Nelson, are business owners in town, proprietors of the Soda Pop Shop and Nelson’s Knitting Needles. They’re neighbors and friends, and they’re grieving. We need to be very clear that we’re trying to help, not stir up trouble.”

  Anna sat up straighter, and her hand shot into the air. “I think we should call ourselves the Metamora Action Agency. It’ll help if we say we’re calling with a professional-sounding organization to collect information that could help Sheriff Reins and Officer Hayman. I can write a script to use if you want.”

  Pride surged through me. If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be just like Anna Carmichael—bright, willing, and eager. “That’s a perfect idea. Thank you.”

  “Why don’t we just go ask people?” Johnna said, wrapping her yarn into a big ball. “I can tell more from a person when I’m face-to-face with them.”

  “Yeah,” Roy said. “I can get more from drunk folk than sober ones on the telephone. Why don’t you drive me on down to the Cornerstone bar, Cameron Cripps-Hayman? I do my best work there.”

  “You can’t get official community service hours while drinking in a bar. To make sure we’re all questioning people the same way, I’d like us to work here. Maybe we can take the Action Agency into town and talk to people face-to-face when we’ve got our methods down.”

  The last thing I needed was Johnna and Roy on the loose in town. Logan and Anna would be probing and wheedling like relentless junior detectives, and who knows how Nick Valentine would work out even over the phone. This was a tricky situation, and one we needed to wade into delicately.

  “Let’s work on the script,” I said. “Anna gave us a nice introduction. Does anyone have a suggestion for how to approach questioning?”

  “Yeah,” said Roy. “I’ll say, ‘This is Roy. Did you see who killed Jenn Berg?’” He sniffed and fiddled with his flask, itching to take it back out. “Then if they say no, I’ll ask ’em what they’ve heard and who they think done it.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Johnna said, tucking her knitting back into her bag. “I already talked to Soapy and Theresa last night, and Fiona,
Cass, and Betty. They all think—”

  “Why don’t you write down everyone you’ve spoken too, Johnna,” I said, knowing she’d already grilled half, if not all, of the town. “Then we’ll have someone else talk to them, too. See if their story matches.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Catch them in a lie. Good idea.” She picked up a pen and started jotting down names.

  “Roy,” I said, in my butteriest voice, “why don’t you call the men you’ve known for years, like Frank Gardner, Jim Stein, Carl Finch—”

  “Stew Hayman,” he said, like it was a threat.

  I maintained my cheery facade. “Yes! My father-in-law lives in Brookville now, but he might know something. And Johnna, why don’t you put Irene on your list to call?”

  She made a face but nodded. I almost told her that with Irene stealing from me, maybe they could partner up and double their efforts.

  “I’ve met Carl Finch before,” Nick said from behind his phone. “Mind if I put him on my list? I don’t know many people from this town.”

  “He’s all yours,” Roy said.

  “I’ll give you a few more names, too, Nick. Off the top of my head, Steve Longo, the owner of Odd and Strange Metamora, would be a good one, along with Jefferson Briggs.”

  Before I gave them the go-ahead, Roy and Johnna were dialing away. Anna slid the script she’d been working on over to Johnna, but she pushed it right back.

  “Elaina, it’s Johnna. Dear, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Elaina Nelson was only a bit more lucid than Old Dan and a couple years younger. They’d gone to school together in the one-room school house that was now Will Atkins’s antique shop. Her hair was bright red like her lipstick, and I’d never seen her wearing anything other than polka dots with a matching patent leather purse and shoes. I wouldn’t have been shocked to find out she didn’t even know or remember her great-granddaughter was dead.

  “Hello, Mr. Longo,” Nick said, drawing my attention. My crew was full steam ahead, not waiting for further instruction. So much for thinking I was in charge. “This is Nick Valentine with the Metamora Action Agency.” He blinked a few times, listening. “The Metamora Action Agency. Yes. Well, I was going to tell you, I’m calling from—what?” This wasn’t going well. Nick held out a hand to Anna and she passed over her hodgepodge of a script. “We’re a group of volunteers calling residents of Metamora to aid Sheriff Reins and Officer Hayman in finding out what happened to Jenn Berg, who was found in the canal yesterday afternoon.”

  Nick put his hand over the receiver and let out a long, relieved breath. Then he put his hand to his forehead and winced. “Aliens? I’m not sure that’s—lights over the canal three days ago? Okay.”

  Listening beside Nick, Roy turned his finger in loops beside his ear and mouthed crazy as his phone apparently rang.

  “I’d love to knit a rose for the burial blanket,” Johnna was saying. “I picked up a soft pink cashmere blend a few weeks ago that will be perfect.” Her cashmere blend yarn was probably one of the many balls she had tucked under her shirt when the police picked her up in the Connersville Wal-Mart. She paid for them so she could keep them, but they pressed charges about the items in her car and here she was in the church basement. “I baked a pie for Sue. My apple’s her favorite. Do you remember when she was about ten—”

  We were veering off course faster than a kite caught in a hurricane.

  “Sasquatch tracks by the canal, huh?” Nick said, rubbing his temple. “We’ll have to pass that along.”

  Roy leaned back in his chair howling with laughter. “You’re on! I’ll bet you three bottles of Frank Gardner’s finest moonshine she had something to do with it.”

  Something told me he was betting against me.

  Anna patted me on the shoulder. “Maybe it would be better if we went out and talked with people as a group? You might be able to guide us better if you were part of the same conversation.”

  “I think you might be right,” I said, just then noticing the nickel-sized welts on Logan’s neck.

  “Logan! Are you okay? You have hives.”

  He slapped a hand over the back of his neck where I was staring. “I’m fine. A little nervous. I’ve never questioned anyone about a murder before.”

  I was in way over my head and my teenage boy-bot was ten seconds from a full-blown anxiety attack. “New plan!” I yelled, signaling for Nick, Roy, and Johnna to end their calls.

  “She’s making us hang up,” Roy said. “Don’t forget, I’m coming collecting when this is over.”

  “Your peach and navy polka dot dress would be lovely at the calling hours,” Johnna said. “I spoke with Reverend Stroup this morning, and he’s planning on reading Psalm 121. Is Sue having the funeral over at the new church?”

  If I blew an air horn it wouldn’t have shut her up. On to the others. “Let’s take a break,” I said. “Logan, how about a cool cloth for those hives? And I think I’ve got some cortisone lotion in my handbag.”

  “I’m heading over to Soapy’s for some coffee,” Roy said. “Nick Valentine, want to come along?”

  Nick got up and strode along behind him. It was good to know that all outsiders were called by their full names, and not just me.

  I dug around in my bag and found the lotion for Logan, then left Anna to help him and Johnna to her personal call to go outside for some air.

  I walked the two short blocks down to the canal and watched the mill’s wheel turn in the water. My idea had spun out of control just as fast as the paddle wheel was churning. Now I had a group of five self-appointed detectives on my hands and no way to control them.

  Back when I worked in a real call center, my employees either followed the script or they got written up and eventually fired. I didn’t have to worry at all about Anna. Nick proved he could handle calling the town’s residents, but his head might explode in the process. Roy and Johnna were like herding cats, and Logan would need to get in touch with his human side if this were to work.

  And it had to work, because despite what Roy thought, I had nothing to do with Jenn Berg’s death. I was going to prove it. My five helpers—The Metamora Action Agency—would expedite the process. Or they might expedite me being arrested. Time would tell.

  The police were gone from the crime scene today, but the tape had stayed up, enclosing the area where I found Jenn. Old Dan limped out the side door of the grist mill and spotted me. I waved, and he smiled with his few remaining teeth and began walking toward me.

  He was a mystery to me, believing in the old way of things, like dowsing for buried things—water, metal, tunnels—and brewing his own medicines from herbs, berries, and roots. Some cultures would call him a shaman, others witch doctor or hexenmeister. It was folk magic, very different from what Steve Longo displayed at his Odd and Strange shop, and still very much alive and practiced by the older people in town.

  Judy Platt, who owned the Briar Bird Inn, swore Old Dan cured the spot of melanoma on her nose a few years back, and I don’t doubt he did.

  “How are you, Dan?” I called as he neared.

  He nodded, still grinning his toothless grin, and held out something to me. “You got them dogs, I hear.”

  “I do,” I said, holding out my hand.

  He dropped a metal dog tag in my palm. “Found that down yonder. May go to the missing pup.”

  Missing pup? My memory rattled at me. Right. Johnna had mentioned Jenn Berg’s sixth dog, a puppy. There were only the five dogs when I went to the gatehouse.

  I rubbed the mud off the tag with my thumb. Bantum Kennel, Connersville, Indiana, was inscribed on its front above a phone number. “Thanks,” I said, dropping it in my bag, where it would make its way to the bottom and never be seen again. “Dan, what do you know about a dog’s temperament? Do you have anything I could give a nasty dog to make it nice?”

  “No,” he said in his r
usty voice. “Gotta take ’em by the scruff when they’re younguns and make ’em know who’s in charge.”

  “Is it too late when they’re grown?”

  He let out a whoop of a laugh. “Cain’t teach an old dog a new trick, now, can ya?”

  I thought of my rushed marriage to Ben, my rushed offer to take Jenn’s dogs, my rushed formation of the Action Agency.

  I laughed with him, mostly at my misfortune. “I guess not, no.” Brutus would have to stay in the backyard, and I’d just have to feed him by launching his food out the kitchen window.

  “Gotta find that pup ’fore he gets out there in traffic on 52,” Dan said, and with that, he was off again, searching for Jenn Berg’s missing dog.

  Roy and Nick were coming out of Soapy Savants with paper coffee cups in hand when I turned to head back up the road to the church. I’d only gotten one block when Ben’s black SUV pulled up beside me and stopped. He rolled down his window, and I knew by the arched brows and disapproving look on his face that I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

  So I started to run. Except my knee had other plans for me, like stopping and preferably sitting on the ground and not moving for a while. But I’d already made a big enough fool of myself without taking a seat on the side of the road. I slowed to a limping walk.

  “Good thing you’re not a criminal,” Ben said, shaking his head and easing his truck up beside me. “You’d never outrun the law.”

  “Yeah,” I said, panting from my quick, short sprint. “Next time I’ll hide behind a tree or something.”

  He got out and stood beside me, put his hands on his hips, and squared his shoulders, like he was readying for battle.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Just spit it out already.”

  “My mother sent workers over to the house, and one of them was bit by Cujo in the backyard. He needed twelve stitches and he’s suing her. Animal control from Brookville will be picking up the dog. And what the heck is the Metamora Action Agency?”