Deadly Dog Days

by Jamie M. Blair

  “So, let me get this straight,” Monica said. Andy and I were back from our road trip, sitting in my kitchen. “Nick admitted to being with Jenn Berg only minutes before she was murdered, but he and his friend—the guy she owed five hundred bucks to—had nothing to do with it?”

  “That’s what he says.” As a suspect, I was too close to the murder. I needed Monica’s perspective. Maybe I was overlooking something obvious. Something she’d be able to point out and say, Duh, Cameron. You practically stepped in it.

  Andy tinkered with his camera. “Nick says Cory Bantum repo’ed the puppy and they got out of town.”

  “And how do we know this?” she asked.

  “He claims there was some old man at the gate waiting to be let into Hilltop Castle,” I said. “Some friend there to see Finch.”

  “It had to be Stoddard,” Andy said. “The day after Jenn was murdered was when I filmed him talking about Finch’s artifacts. He said he’d gotten in late the night before.”

  “Then I need to talk to him,” I said. “Something’s not right with Nick’s story. He said when they took the puppy, Jenn Berg hadn’t reached the canal yet. But she had the leash with her when I found her, and Old Dan found the dog tag in the same place. So she must have kept walking. I need to ask Ben if there were puppy prints in the mud. If not, that confirms their claim that they never got to the canal.”

  “Stoddard will be back in town to interview Irene on film this weekend,” Andy said. “You can ask him about that night then.”

  “If Cory or Nick killed Jenn,” Monica said, “Nick wouldn’t come right out and admit it to you, Cam. You need to be careful. It sounds like you’re closing in on what happened, and that’s not a good thing unless you’re trying to get yourself killed. Whoever it was, he didn’t bash that girl on the head accidentally. Tell Ben about this and let him and Sheriff Reins deal with it.”

  “Nick’s not going to hurt me.” I was sure of it. At least, 75 percent sure.

  Who was I kidding? I was maybe fifty-fifty. But curiosity, and adrenaline from finding another victim, had me wound up to solve this case. I was so close I could taste it, and it was as good as Betty’s chocolate chip cookies.

  The back door opened and Mia stepped inside from the patio where she’d been lying out tanning. “I hope you had sunscreen on,” I said. “Even an SPF 15.”

  “How am I supposed to tan if I’ve got sunscreen smeared all over me?” She shot out a hip and flung her hair back.

  “Overexposure to the sun is dangerous, Mia.” I didn’t figure her teen sense of invincibility would be penetrated by lectures of melanoma, so I went for her vanity. “It causes premature wrinkling. You want to look like Elaina Nelson when you’re twenty?”

  “I will never wear polka dots,” she said and flounced out of the kitchen with the puppy bouncing at her heels.

  Point missed. Entirely.

  At least the little white ball of fuzz took a liking to her, and her to him. She’d proclaimed Marshmallow to be a stupid name and started calling him Liam, because apparently that was a much better name for two pounds of yappy white fur. She said it was an actual name, which was true, but I suspected it was also the name of her current pop star crush.

  Gus and the twins also wanted to crush on Liam, literally. But not intentionally. They didn’t realize they weren’t the same size as the munchkin pup. One swat of Gus’s paw had sent Liam careening across the kitchen floor. Mia was now keeping the puppy with her at all times.

  “How many tickets did the Action Agency reserve today?” I asked, hoping Monica would drop the topic of Nick and Cory Bantum.

  “Another fifteen,” she said. “Roy got a group of ten, if you can believe it.”

  “Roy did?” Wonders never ceased.

  “It was a bit of a mess after you left this morning. We had to spread out through the house to each have a phone attached to the landline. It’s a good thing Ellsworth House has been around forever, and Irene hasn’t shown an interest in the old rotary phones. You might want to look into finding office space somewhere. When I went around the house to check on how they were doing, I found Johnna asleep on your bed.”

  “What? No. She probably stole my pillow.”

  “I can’t account for everything in your room, but your pillows are still there.”

  “I’m going with Cass to watch rehearsal tonight,” Andy said. “And I have an idea that the players will go for, but first, you have to go for it.”

  “What?” I asked. “It sounds ominous.”

  “Not ominous. It’s a way to get Dog Diggity off the ground in the town and a way to have the volunteers hours making dog treats count for community service.”

  “So spill it,” Monica said, leaning forward in her chair.

  “Dog Diggity sets up a booth at the play. During intermission, the Action Agency passes out complimentary dog treats, and you two sell them in the back for people who want to buy more to take home. It’s legitimate hours spent serving the performing arts community in Metamora.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Monica said, beaming from ear to ear. “What do you think, Cam?”

  “I think if you’re in, I’m in.” I couldn’t remember the last time I saw my sister so invested in an idea. She might not see it herself yet, but she would. Focusing her time and attention on a project that made her happy and at the same time, enabled her to employ her business savvy … it was a no brainer. She’d soon realize Dog Diggity was her calling, just like I’d slowly come around to admitting that promoting the town that had grown on me like a wart was my true ambition. Even Irene couldn’t run me out of town now.

  “Are you filming the play?” Monica asked Andy.

  “Of course. I film everything. I was lucky enough to get a few shots of Old Dan dowsing before he put his rods away again. I’m thinking of opening the documentary with that.”

  “The day I found Jenn Berg’s body?” I didn’t say, Isn’t that kind of insensitive?

  “As a documentarian, it’s my duty to portrait the town in all its shades of light and dark,” he said, flicking a switch on his camera back and forth.

  “Please tell me you didn’t record the body being retrieved and the police searching the crime scene.”

  Andy put his camera down and looked at me across the table. “I’m a fly on the wall. I see all. I film all.”

  “Okay, but will you use all? Metamora doesn’t need bad publicity. The business owners—our neighbors and friends, Andy—don’t need any more obstacles to keeping their doors open.” I had the overwhelming urge to dive across the table, grab his camera, and smash it on the floor in to a million tiny pieces. “What do you think we’ve been working for with the play? With all the phone calls?”

  “What you’ve been working for, Cam. Not we. I’ve been working on a documentary that will launch my film career. That’s why I’m in this town to begin with. I’m going to make it the best it can be.”

  All I could do was stare at him and hope my chin didn’t hit the table. Here I was thinking gushy thoughts about how the town and the people here snuck up on Monica, snuck up on me, but all along, Andy thought of himself as a traveling documentarian and not one of us.

  “What will you do when you finish filming? When this whole project is said and done? Leave? What about Cass?” The last part was none of my business, but I had to ask. She was my friend. And I was nosy.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll find another project that needs documenting on film. I’ve always been interested in abandoned buildings. Schools, malls. What happened to them? Why did humanity turn away from these places that were once an iconic gathering place in their town?”

  His wistful expression told me he was no longer mentally at the kitchen table. He was off in his mind being the urban explorer/documentary filmmaker he always aspired to be. I suppose I couldn’t fault him for that.

>   “I guess I thought you’d stick around,” I said. “You seem to fit in with us. I thought you liked it here.”

  “I do,” he said. “But there’s only so much to film, isn’t there?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Is there? I mean, we have the Native American mounds. There could be a story there.”

  “Those are Native American mounds?”

  Now I had his interest. “Yes. Fifty earth mounds were documented and thirteen stone ones. Most were destroyed when the highway came through in the thirties, but I’m sure you’ve seen some right there off of 52.”

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding, gears turning behind his eyes. “I have to think about this. It might work with the film I’m already working on, but there might be enough to document in a new project.”

  “There’s a ton,” I said. “Drive an hour or two east into Ohio and there are more. Serpent Mound, Fort Hill, all kinds. You could keep working here while you shoot.”

  He grinned. “You’re trying to get me to stay, aren’t you? You’re going to miss me.”

  “Well, other than Brenda, who I don’t see as often, you’re kind of my best friend here—which is strange, but I’ve gotten used to it.”

  “Monica’s staying,” he said.

  “I am not,” she said, but her smile gave her away. “Okay, well, I might. I haven’t decided.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “she’s no help to me. When she sees a bee, she runs away screaming. Who’s going to keep those little buggers out of my porch columns?”

  “I hate bees,” Monica said. “When I was in fifth grade, I was riding my bike and smacked into one. It latched onto my bottom lip and stung the crap out of me. My lip swelled to the size of a kielbasa and stayed that way for a week. I hate bees. I even hate honey just because bees make it. Beeswax candles? Forget it.”

  “Okay, we get it,” I said. I had to stifle a laugh because I could vividly remember Monica’s bottom lip hanging down to her chin, all puffy and red. She couldn’t talk and had to carry around tissues to catch the drool. The kids at school called her Mush Mouth.

  My cell phone rang, veering me off memory lane. It was Ben. “Calling to tell me which movie you want to see?” I asked, answering.

  “Calling to ask what business you had in Connersville this morning, where you once again stumbled upon a dead body.”

  “He’s dead?” Oh, good gravy. “He was alive when the ambulance came. Was it Cory Bantum?”

  “How did you know the name of the deceased?”

  Ben was mad, and when Ben was unhappy, he made sure I was unhappy. “Well, it’s interesting, actually. Um, why don’t I tell you when you pick me up?”

  “Why don’t you tell me now.”

  “Okay. See, Old Dan found a dog tag on the canal bank near the spot where Jenn Berg was—where I found Jenn Berg.” Great, I was becoming Sheriff Reins, unable to say the word murdered. “It had the name of the kennel on it. I figured it belonged to her missing puppy, so I went to Connersville to ask if it was there.”

  “Cameron,” he said, followed by his deep, annoyed sigh. “How would a puppy get from Metamora to Connersville? Would he take the train? What made you drive to the kennel on a dog tag that a crazy old man found in the mud?”

  “Because Nick Valentine told me Jenn Berg owed Cory Bantum five hundred dollars for her puppy.” I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth in anticipation of the crap storm I’d just unleashed.

  But there was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Ben?”

  “I don’t know where to start, Cameron.”

  “How about with which movie you want to see tonight?” Bait and switch was my only hope, but I didn’t think he’d fall for my tactics.

  “I’m going to be a little busy tonight picking up Nick Valentine and hauling him in for questioning. That is, if you don’t have him hidden on our property this time.”

  “Nope. Not here.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way. Is there anything else I should know about?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “After work tomorrow, I’m taking Mia back to her mom’s. I’ll be by to pick her up around five.”

  A flash of disappointment rippled through me. I had been looking forward to our first date as a separated married couple. “I guess I’ll see you then.”

  He hung up without another word. Something told me disappointment was rippling through him, too, but for a different reason.

  • Twenty-One •

  I woke up at the crack of dawn the next day so nobody would see me prowling around the bank of the canal where Jenn Berg had been killed. I had to see for myself if what Nick told me was true.

  So far, lots of duck prints, but no puppy paw prints.

  There were two distinct footprints, one smaller and narrower. Female tennis shoes. The other print was larger, a man’s print. Not an athletic shoe but not a smooth dress shoe, either. There were some treads on the bottom but not from a heavy sole, like a work boot. The shoe type was hard to identify.

  It had been late that night. Dark out. Most of the light that night would’ve come from the town’s lights atop the utility poles. A calendar would tell me the phase of the moon. If it had been a full moon, Jenn Berg might have been able to see … see what? Her attacker?

  I backed up and took in the scene from another angle, as if I had been walking along the canal that night. What would I do if I heard someone approaching?

  I’d run. I’d run like a pack of wild dogs was chasing me. Of course, Jenn Berg had owned the only pack of wild dogs in town—and now I did—but regardless, the footprints of a person running would surly look different than those of someone walking.

  Would she run flat footed or on her toes? Heel first? The stride would lengthen, that was a fact. Suddenly I wished I’d joined Ben for a few more CSI episodes.

  Studying each footprint, the depth of the imprint, the method of each footfall hitting the ground (heel first, I found), and the stride, I had to conclude that Jenn Berg wasn’t running.

  The second set of prints, the man’s prints, joined hers in front of Nelson’s Knitting Needles. He was someone she knew. I was no detective and had no training in crime scene forensics, but her footprints looked like they stopped, turned a bit, and got deeper as she waited for his approach. Then the two of them walked on together. This wasn’t a story of fear and panic. This was a person she felt safe walking with in the dark.

  So who was he? And why would he be out here late at night after Jenn Berg got off work? And why had she continued walking if the puppy was gone?

  I liked to take walks when I had a lot on my mind. She would’ve had a ton on her mind since she was pregnant (by whom?) and had an ex-boyfriend who wouldn’t leave her alone. Did she work with Zach that night? Did they argue? Cory was demanding his money. Nick was confronting her here in town. And there was Ben. What would Jenn Berg be thinking about Ben?

  Where was Ben that night? The Fiddle Dee Doo Inn was a stone’s throw from the canal. Well, if you were good at throwing stones. In all actuality, it was probably half a city block or so away. Ben could’ve seen her from the window in his room and come down to join her. He never would’ve let her walk alone.

  My head spun with information overload. How did any of it fit together? Which pieces could I get rid of? The answer was in there somewhere, mixed with all of the misdirection and dead ends.

  “What are you doing out this early?” Brenda called from the door of Read and ReRead. “The sun’s only been up for an hour.”

  “Just taking a stroll.” I ambled over to her shop, wishing I hadn’t been spotted. Brenda, of all people, would know I’m not the early-morning-walk type of person.

  “Without even one dog?” she asked, as I followed her inside to where well-worn pages held stories waiting to be discovered.

  I took a deep b
reath, the scent of old books comforting me, and decided it was best to come out with the truth and not look suspicious. “To be honest, I was examining Jenn Berg’s crime scene, and they’d trample all over it with their big furry paws.” I held a stack of books for her while she took them off the pile one by one and shelved them alphabetically. “I can’t make sense of it.”

  “That’s why you don’t get paid to solve crime,” she said, taking both of my wrists while my hands were still full. “You don’t need to prove anything to us, Cameron. If there was any evidence that you were the person responsible for Jenn Berg’s death, Sheriff Reins would arrest you.”

  “I can’t stop now, though.”

  “Why? There’s nothing you can do.”

  I didn’t want to tell her I was close, way too close to figuring this out to quit. So I changed the subject. “Is Will in the new play?”

  Her shoulders stiffened as she pushed a book into its spot. “Will left town for a few weeks. He’s taking what he calls a tag sale road trip to find antiques for the store.” She crossed her arms and turned to me, leaning against the shelf. “He never goes antiquing for weeks at a time, and he’s never not asked me to come along. This whole murder has him acting so odd.”

  “He thinks I did it.”

  “He thinks everybody did it,” she said, patting the bun on the back of her head. “He’s gone off the deep end. Hopefully getting away for a while will help.”

  “I’m sorry he’s taking it so hard.”

  “The sooner whoever killed her is found, the better.”

  “Have you seen Sue? How’s she doing?” Brenda’s shop was between Soapy’s and the Soda Pop Shop.

  “She’s been relying on Lianne and Stephanie to run the shop. Lianne isn’t around much, though, and Stephanie’s only fifteen. She can’t run a business, even when business is slow. I’ve been splitting my time between here and there, helping out. We all have. Cass, Fiona, Mia, even Elaina tries and makes a bigger mess, but she has good intentions.”

  “Mia?” Maybe my ears were playing tricks on me.