by Susan Slater
She took a deep breath and stretched. It felt so good to walk after hours on a plane and in an airport. She turned down a recently mowed grassy path that ran along a hedge row and was startled to flush two white ibises from a nearby drainage ditch. It looked like dinner had been a tiny frog, judging from the frantic hopping of several amphibians. Though more than able to fly, the ibises simply looked at her, then sauntered onto the asphalt and continued their slow walk across the parking lot. They seemed so tame.
A rustling in the hedge row caused her to turn back. Was she being foolish to go off walking by herself? There were snakes and alligators in this state. A man on the plane made it sound like every puddle potentially housed an alligator. He shared tales of cities in the surrounding area keeping alligator handlers permanently on city payrolls. Farfetched? He seemed convincing.
But this wasn’t an alligator. A very elegant gray muzzle poked out of the hedge and two liquid brown eyes seemed to implore Elaine to come closer.
“My what a pretty girl you are.” She liked to be exact—call a boy, a boy, and a girl, a girl. Not that any dog was ever insulted and the telltale parts of this one’s anatomy were still covered by brush. Something, however, just screamed female. Something ultra feminine in the arch of the neck and delicate, soft ears angled outward from each side of the head.
Elaine knelt in the grass and held out a hand. The greyhound was interested but wasn’t about to let a stranger coax her from the safety of the bushes.
“You are so smart. You know I don’t have a treat. If you come out, I bet I could find one.” She was mentally kicking herself for leaving the bag of airline pretzels in the SUV.
“Okay, what if I come to you?” Elaine got up slowly keeping an eye on her new friend. “Now, isn’t this better?” She let the dog sniff her hand and then gently patted her head. An expensive braided leather collar sported an etched metal plate with the name, Sadie.
“Sadie. See, I know your name.” Elaine watched the greyhound’s eyes. Calling her by name had made a difference. Trust? She thought so. The start of it anyway. The dog picked up something off the ground and walked out of the thicket, dropping the “present” at Elaine’s feet.
“Ah, a gift for me.” Elaine leaned over but stopped short of picking up the latex glove. She could only hope that it wasn’t some contagion-bearing cast off from a clinic or lab because it was probably a pretty good guess that the bronze-red stains were blood. And lesson one of private eye training? Trust your instincts and if something presents itself as possible evidence, bag it. This was certainly worthy of being saved, even if she wasn’t certain why. Elaine slipped the scarf from around her shoulders and fashioned a leash, securing one end to Sadie’s collar.
“I don’t want you taking off after any rabbits.” But the dog didn’t seem the least bit interested in going anywhere. She leaned into Elaine’s knee and just stood there seeming to enjoy the closeness of a human. It was then that Elaine noticed the singed hair—a good-sized patch along her side that exposed the rounded, but uneven protrusion of ribs covered by bare skin. Two smaller burn-holes on her right shoulder with a pink rawness showing through seemed to be the sum-total of injuries. A little Neosporin was called for. The dog had been in the fire and must have gotten loose in the confusion. Was she a racer? Elaine thought not. This one was too much of a pet.
Elaine turned toward the SUV. If she’d thought the dog would be reluctant to follow, she was wrong. Sadie walked smartly beside her, nose just touching Elaine’s thigh. Elaine grabbed her purse and a couple plastic bags from the backseat of the car—travel garbage bags—and walked back to the bloody glove. Gingerly picking up one corner of the glove using the second plastic bag, she sealed it in the first, then put one bag inside the other, rolled them up, and put both in her purse.
“Now what to do with you.” Elaine patted the dog on the head. “I bet there’s someone looking for his or her best friend.”
Suddenly Sadie gave a tug on her leash and a pronounced “woof.” If her wagging tail was any indication, the young woman hurrying toward them must be the owner or a very close friend.
“You’re Sadie’s owner?”
“No, well, sort of, yes, I guess by default. I know her owner.” The young woman had dropped to her knees and was hugging and patting Sadie, only stopping to plant a resounding kiss on the dog’s muzzle. “You gave us quite a scare. You naughty girl.” The hugs and tone of voice weren’t scolding, just full of concern.
She seemed close to the dog for someone not her owner. Confused, Elaine let her catch her breath before more questions. The young woman was twenty-something in jeans and tee-shirt and sandals. Seemed to be the standard uniform for this part of the world, Elaine decided.
“I’m Elaine Linden. My fiancé is the insurance investigator for the track’s losses from the fire.”
“Melody Paget. I’m a trainer at the track.” She stood and offered her hand but kept her left hand on Sadie.
“How do you know this dog?”
“Sadie’s owner worked for me. General maintenance—fed, cleaned, helped with turn-out, and getting dogs to the starting box. He was good. The dogs loved him. He’d been working with the dogs all his life.”
“I detect the use of past-tense here.”
“He—” Melody suddenly burst into tears. “He’s in jail. They say he murdered an owner, then set the fire to cover it up.”
“Murder?”
“It’s been in all the papers—a front page story in The News-Journal for two days going. You’re not local?”
“No, we just flew in. I don’t believe my fiancé knew there had been a murder. Apparently several dogs also perished?”
“Top of their line. Not just any dogs. Two currently being raced and three that were young but coming on strong. I was working with one of them. Lots of promise.” Melody pulled a Kleenex from a pocket and blew her nose. “It’s a travesty. Dog racing has enough problems without this sort of thing. It’s a terrible setback for the owners.”
“Have you been taking care of Sadie?”
“She’s been gone. Ran away the night of the fire. I put up flyers everywhere.”
“Well, I know you’re happy to see her. And I know her owner will be relieved.” Elaine bent over to untie the scarf-leash.
“Uh, look, it’s not a good idea that I take her if you’re thinking of handing her off to me. Politics, and all that. My boss put her owner in jail. I’m not sure my getting involved would go over very well—you know, looking like I was doing him a favor. Sort of aiding and abetting the enemy. You haven’t met Dixie.”
“And Dixie is?”
“A kennel owner and co-owner of this.” A half-turn toward the building in back and a sweep of her arm took in the Daytona Beach Kennel Club and Poker Room. “She’s about as high up as you can get and likes to throw her weight around. But please don’t get me wrong—she’s done a lot for the track. She brought in a full-time vet, a grounds expert who keeps the track in superb condition. She turned the restaurant around…she’s pretty much kept us in business.”
“Sounds like she’s the insured party.”
“She is.”
“So, tell me about Sadie’s owner. You sounded skeptical when you mentioned he was in jail.”
“I am skeptical—but you didn’t hear that here. He’s a dear sweet man who lives for his dog and the dogs he cares for. He’s, um, maybe a little slow—he does fine as long as his life doesn’t get complicated. But the morning of the fire? He didn’t just run off, he saved almost every dog and then stayed around to calm them and feed them. He even broke up fights and muzzled the more aggressive ones. Now, does that sound like someone who has just committed murder?”
“No, it doesn’t. Does this man have a name?”
“Fucher Crumm.”
“Future Crumb?”
“Pronounced Foo-cher—spelled F-u-c-h-e
-r. It’s German, I think. And the last name is with two m’s, in case you’re thinking a ‘b’. Everyone misspells both names. In fact, it’s misspelled on his birth certificate. He showed me once. Seems his mother in the throes of labor yelled out, ‘make way for the fucher,’ and the nurse in attendance jotted down the future thinking it was a comment on this new addition to the family tree.”
“That is a cross to bear. I wouldn’t enjoy correcting my name all the time. Is he well liked?”
“Yeah. At least he should be. Just about everyone around here owes him money.”
“I wouldn’t think he’d make enough in maintenance to be generous to others.”
“Oh, he doesn’t. He got a big-buck settlement after the accident.”
“Something happened here at the track?”
“Well, I hate to gossip but it’s all been in the papers. Fucher used to drink. A lot. One afternoon a couple years ago he was walking home from a bar and got hit by a City truck—in a crosswalk. Lawyers proved the driver was texting so Fucher cleared over six hundred thousand dollars after paying off the lawyers. When his lawyer handed him a check, he asked if he could just have it all in twenties.”
Elaine tried to imagine how big a stack of money that would be. Six hundred thousand in twenties. No wonder he was popular.
“He probably doesn’t have much of it left. He bought a new bike and moved to a nice apartment and bought a race dog. That’s something to show for the money, I guess. But that’s about all.”
“Fucher owns a track dog?”
“Yeah, he put him out with me for training. He’s twenty months but a comer. Nero’s Song. Sadie’s pup. Sadie was an expensive brood bitch in her heyday. Then she started having seizures. She was a Scottish import—never raced but passed on some top notch bloodlines. Fucher paid big bucks for Nero—a full fifty thousand.”
“I had no idea dogs could be so expensive.”
“Fifty thousand is pretty much top of the line. You can pay anywhere from five to fifty thousand and have a track-worthy dog.”
“Will you race him here?”
“No, this is just an intermediate track. With his bloodlines and promise, we’ll start him in the Miami area—at an ‘A’ track.”
“When will that be?”
“I’m not sure, but we’re not that far away.”
Elaine leaned down to give Sadie a pat. “I feel like I’m in the midst of doggy-royalty.”
“You sort of are.”
“So what are you thinking of doing with Sadie?”
“Trainers here don’t have the room with their other dogs—I mean even if they wanted to risk the wrath of witch-lady.” Melody paused, “I could ask Fred Manson. He’s in charge of maintenance but he’s like Fucher’s mentor—keeps an eye on him—a real father-figure, I suppose is the best description. But I know he lives in an apartment that doesn’t take dogs. I’m not kidding—I’m stuck on this one. It would mean the world to Fucher if you’d take her.” She held out a leash.
“Me? I don’t think—”
“Please? It would give me time to find a permanent home, that is, if Fucher isn’t out soon. Think about it. There aren’t a lot of options. We can’t take her to a shelter and risk possible euthanasia.”
Euthanasia sounded a little melodramatic but probably was a possibility. “You know, Dan and I may not be here very long. Sounds like the case is pretty straightforward—answers already in place.”
“Any amount of time would be a gift.” The hand that held the leash was still extended toward Elaine. “Please?”
One more glance at the liquid brown eyes, and Elaine knew she’d been had. She took the leash and snapped it in place and removed her scarf. “Okay, but we’ll stay in touch. Close touch.”
“Do you think you could do one last favor?”
“What’s that?” Elaine was a little leery. It was bad enough she was going to have to explain all this to Dan and had somehow, in all innocence, acquired a live animal to take care of when she’d only wanted to go for a walk.
“Could you contact Fucher and tell him you have Sadie?”
“I don’t know the man. Wouldn’t that information be better coming from you?”
But Elaine didn’t give Melody a chance to use politics again. “No, I can see that it wouldn’t. Okay, tell me how I can reach him.”
***
“We’re going where?” Dan glanced at the dog on the backseat and then at Elaine.
“Volusia County Correctional Center.”
“A jail?” Why had this not appeared at the top of his “fun things to do in Daytona” list for the afternoon? But he listened quietly to the tale of Fucher Crumm and agreed with her that the poor man was probably frantic over his pet. He turned and looked at Sadie who was doing a pretty good “doggy in the window” act—head hanging slightly, eyes imploring, finally with a sigh putting her head on her paws. Resignation. A doggy take on “oh woe is me.” But he could see how Elaine was suckered in. For that matter, wasn’t he?
“Inside, right now, someone must have mentioned his name. Fucher’s worked here for years.”
“Yeah. I heard his name a lot. Everyone’s talking about the fire and the kennel owner who was found dead. And, I gotta say, with a fair amount of disbelief. Not that anyone was coming right out and saying they didn’t think he could start a fire, let alone kill. Everyone I spoke with was pretty tight-lipped. But they are emphasizing all the good things this man does. It’s just that somebody wields real behind-the-scenes power.”
“Melody mentioned a woman who’s part owner. Seemed very afraid of crossing her—even thought taking care of Sadie would brand her a traitor.”
“I think I know who she’s talking about. I have a meeting tomorrow with Dixie Halifax. Pretty much the head honcho, from what I can see. All I know is she’s the one who’s insured.”
“I don’t envy you your job.”
“Yeah, and it doesn’t make things any easier that this kennel owner, Jackson Sanchez, the guy who was killed, didn’t think Fucher should be handling dogs—thought his handicap kept him from making good decisions about their care. It seemed he’d made a stink about it. Reported some medicine mix-up to the track veterinarian.”
“Interesting. I got the idea Fucher was well accepted. Or at least relied upon.”
Elaine quickly relayed the story of the six hundred thousand dollars all in twenties.
A low whistle, “That would make anyone popular.”
“Was Fucher’s job in danger?”
“I kinda got that idea. I don’t think any action had been taken—maybe more of a threat—but I guess this Fucher was pretty distraught. I’d like to be able to throw my opinion in the mix, size up Fucher myself. And I need a first-hand account of the fire for UL&C. I’ll try and set up an interview for a later date. So, I guess a visit to the jail isn’t a bad idea.”
Chapter Three
“Sadie, Sadie, Sadie…” The rhythm was soothing. “Sadie, Sadie, Sadie.” Fucher blew his nose but didn’t stop rocking. He sat on the edge of the bottom bunk bed and kept his eyes tight closed. Where was she? Why hadn’t someone called him? Why couldn’t he go home? She could be sick or injured. She’d wonder why he wasn’t there. “Help me, help me, help me…”
He couldn’t imagine how she’d gotten out. Outside the entire compound. That didn’t seem possible. He always took her to the track. She’d trot along beside his bicycle or ride in the cart he pulled behind. On the days when Fred picked him up, she rode up front in the truck’s cab. She was never away from him. Never. Until now.
“Hey, you in there.” The guard banged a baton on the bars of his cell. “You got company.” The guard unlocked the cell door and stepped inside.
“Did they find Sadie?” Fucher jumped up hitting his head on the upper bunk. “Is it Mel or Fred? Did they come to get me?”
&n
bsp; “Take it easy, cowboy. I don’t know anything about this Sadie. An’ I don’t know who’s visiting, but I’m gonna take you to the visitors’ area. Gotta wear these.” The guard indicated the ankle shackles in his hand and not so kindly pushed Fucher back down on the bed’s edge.
“Stick those tootsies straight out.”
Fucher held both feet in the air and waited while the guard clipped the bracelets in place.
They were too tight and hurt—rubbed his skin leaving bright red lines around his ankles. Fucher pulled himself upright and took a step. It wasn’t easy to walk with his feet bound together. He tried to hurry but stumbled. Once the guard just let him fall. But it was okay. He could hop and go pretty fast. It had to be news about Sadie. Maybe Melody had brought Sadie to see him. Or Fred. Sadie’d be okay with them. But he didn’t think they’d let a dog in. Still, Sadie would’ve gone back to the track and everybody knew her there. He bet Melody or Fred had found her. She’d be safe. Melody would take care of her. He’d give Mel some money for food. Yes, yes, Mel would know what to do. He tried to jump faster.
“This is it.” The guard indicated a door on his right.
Fucher looked through the glass partition. The room was small with only a metal table and four chairs. And two strangers—a man and some lady he’d never seen before. So, it wasn’t about Sadie and Fred. No one had found her. He couldn’t hold back the sobs or the wailing. The guard had opened the door but Fucher braced himself against the casing and wouldn’t budge. “Sadie, Sadie, Sadie…” He banged his head sideways against the metal door jamb in the cement block wall until the guard roughly jerked him back.
“Mr. Crumm, we have Sadie. Sadie is fine.” Elaine stood, took a step forward. “I took video for you to see. Here.” She held up her phone. “Come join us. We have lots to talk about.” Elaine pulled a Kleenex from her pocket and held it out. “We’re going to take care of Sadie for you but we need to know what she eats.”
