Dog Days (Raine Stockton Dog Mystery Book 10)

by Donna Ball

  To my surprise, the golden beside me immediately dropped to a down. I murmured, “Oh my!” and quickly dug into my pocket for a treat. The golden licked it up while I praised her for the good dog she was, and Cisco barked, wagging his tail frantically, his paws clawing at the fence.

  I stared at Cisco sternly, and the sweet golden at my side did not move. After a moment Cisco reluctantly stretched into a down, his tail still swishing on the concrete walkway, his grin broad enough to melt the coldest heart. I actually had to compress my lips to keep from smiling back as I reached into a pocket for a treat. “Okay, you rascal.”

  I approached the fence to toss him his treat, the new dog walking politely at my side. But we hadn’t gone three feet before Cisco bounded up again, paws on the fence, yipping like a puppy with excitement. Having worked with dogs most of my life, I know that they not only recognize, but often prefer, members of their own breed, so of course Cisco was happy to see another golden. But dozens of goldens come through here every year and he should definitely be used to it by now. As far as I was concerned, this behavior was inexcusable. I spun on my heel and walked the other way.

  Shunning, in dog language, is a fairly effective treatment for a deliberately disobedient dog. The next time your dog is flinging himself at you uncontrollably when you come home, try turning your back on him, crossing your arms, and refusing to make eye contact. It won’t take long before he figures out he has done something wrong. And of course a tried and true method for getting the attention of a dog who refuses to come when you call is to simply walk away. If there’s a gate you can shut between you and him, or a car you can get in that he can’t, so much the better. You’d be amazed at how much bad-dog bravado goes out of a dog when he’s ignored and left behind.

  Sad to say, Cisco has been the recipient of this kind of disapproval more than once, and he responded immediately by remembering what he’d done wrong and sinking reluctantly into the down-stay once again. This did not surprise me, although I’ll admit a certain sense of gratification. What did surprise me was that the golden kept perfect pace with my fierce, determined stride. Someone had definitely put some time into training this dog.

  I crossed the driveway that separated Dog Daze from my house and put the golden in the chain-link run I designated for rescues. As much as I would have liked to bathe and spiff her up myself, my rule is hard-and-fast: no rescues come into contact with other dogs until they’ve been vetted. We’d had a bad outbreak of parvo this summer, and leptospirosis was making a comeback in the mountains, not to mention canine flu. With a full kennel, there was no way I was taking a chance.

  I called the vet on my way to release Cisco from his down-stay, and his receptionist—also his wife—said that if I could get the golden in within the hour, they could see her right away. The minute I hung up, Melanie called. The child was calling from Brazil. Of course I took the call.

  “Hey, Mel,” I answered happily. “What’s up?” I opened the gate and gave Cisco a treat for maintaining his stay until I returned. Then, and only then, did I give him the hand signal for “release.” He bounded to his feet and began to sniff my legs, my shoes, anywhere the other dog had touched.

  “Hey, Raine!” she replied. “How’s Pepper?”

  “Perfect,” I assured her. I snapped my fingers and Cisco fell into heel position beside me as we walked back to the kennel building. Too bad he couldn’t demonstrate that level of obedience when it counted. “She was the demo dog in puppy class yesterday, and all the other dogs were so jealous. Afterward we all went out for doggie fro-yo. Pepper paid, of course.”

  Melanie giggled. “Hope she didn’t forget the tip.”

  “No chance.” I opened the door to the building and gestured Cisco inside. I remained outside, where I could actually have a telephone conversation without the deafening cacophony of barking. “What about you? Are you having fun?”

  “Oh, sure,” she replied, somewhat distractedly. “Lots of culturally significant stuff. Museums, galleries, you know. Say, Raine.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially, and even over the thousands of miles that separated us, I could hear the undertone of excitement. “There’s news.”

  “Yeah? Can’t wait.”

  “Well.” She took an important breath, then blurted, “My mom is getting a divorce from her new husband. That means she doesn’t have to live in Brazil anymore! That means she can live in the States and I can see her any time I want! Maybe she’ll even move to North Carolina!”

  I felt as though I’d been sucker-punched. Miles’s ex-wife, the mother of his child, had been a shadowy background figure for as long as I’d known Miles. Out of country, out of mind. Married to someone else. A non-entity. And now, suddenly, she wasn’t. She was real, she was sexy, she was free. And she could be moving next door.

  It was a moment or two before I could actually find my breath. “Wow, Melanie,” I managed. “That’s huge.”

  “I know, right?” Her voice was practically bubbling with excitement. “Now Pepper and I don’t have to worry about learning Spanish or moving or anything. Oh!” she added, on a breath. “And Mom says I can have my ears pierced! Can’t wait for you to see. I’m going to get dog bone earrings like yours.” She paused thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll get my belly button pierced while I’m at it.”

  Despite my distraction, I almost choked on a laugh. “I double-dog dare you to tell your dad that.”

  “Well,” she admitted, “it did take a pretty long time to get him onboard with the ears. Maybe I won’t tell him.”

  “Maybe you won’t do it.”

  I could almost see her grin. “Probably not. Anyway, gotta go. I just wanted to tell you.”

  “Glad you did.” I forced heartiness I was far from feeling. “Hey, Melanie, do me a favor, will you? Tell your dad to call me when he gets a chance.”

  “Okay, I will. And give Pepper a big hug, okay? Tell her I’ll be home soon.”

  “Sure thing. She’s sending you big doggie kisses.”

  She giggled again. “Bye, Raine.”

  After she disconnected, I took three deep breaths, and then, because I was afraid I’d lose my nerve if I waited any longer, I dialed Miles’s number. It went straight to voice mail, which meant that either his phone was off—unlikely, if I knew Miles—or he’d rejected my call. I fought the impulse to hang up, waited for the tone, then said, as casually as I possibly could, “Hey, it’s me. Just wondering how things are going. Call me, okay?” I hesitated, thought about adding more, and changed my mind. I finished lamely, “Bye.” And hung up, wincing in embarrassment at my own ineptitude.

  But I didn’t have time to stand there feeling stupid. I released the two Aussies and ushered them, along with Cisco, out into the play yard. Then I stopped by the day care room and told Katie and Marilee I’d be out for a couple of hours. “Just let the phone go to voice mail,” I said. “But watch the front door. Mrs. Kellerman is dropping Peaches by for her bath at 1:00. If I’m not back by then, just put her in the kennel in the grooming room. My dogs are in the play yard. You can take this crew …” I indicated the collie mix, the poodle, the two Labs, and the beagle who were milling around my feet and shoving in for petting, “out to run for a while but bring them all in after fifteen minutes. I don’t want them to get too hot. And dry them off before you bring them back in.” I kept wading pools scattered around the play yard this time of year, and few dogs could resist plopping down in one at least once during their run.

  “Yes, ma’am,” they chorused, gathering up leashes and squeaky toys.

  Again I winced. No woman in her thirties likes being called ma’am. But my mother would’ve skinned me alive if I’d called an employer anything else besides “ma’am” or “sir” when I was their age, so I supposed I should be grateful for the respect.

  “I’ve got my cell phone,” I reminded them. “Call me if you need anything at all.”

  They assured me, once again with a chorus of “ma’ams,” that they would as I hurried back
to the house.

  I stripped off my dirty clothes, showered off the dog hair, and stepped into a clean pair of white shorts and a print blouse three minutes later. I ran my fingers through my short, curly hair, knowing it would probably dry before I reached the car, grabbed my purse and a leash, and was on my way.

  ~*~

  My relationship with Doc Witherspoon goes back fifteen years, at least, to the time I got my first golden retriever. I’d carried sick or injured dogs into his office at three a.m. and he’d been as calm and professional as he was on a well-puppy check-up at three in the afternoon. He always gave me a break on rescue dogs, charging me only anesthesia costs for spay/neuters and giving the shots for free. If you ever consider going into rescue work, it’s essential to find a vet like that.

  “Looks to be about four years old,” he pronounced after his initial examination. “Spayed, clean ears and teeth. Good weight, nice coat. Looks like somebody took care of this dog.”

  “I think so too,” I said. “She’s very well behaved. She might even have some formal obedience training. She reminds me a lot of Hero, actually.”

  Hero, Sonny’s service dog, had started out as a rescue much like this golden—except that we knew who his owner, unfortunately deceased, had been. He had continually amazed me with his skills until we tracked him back to the service dog organization that had trained him. Sometimes, in this business, you really do find gold.

  Doc said, “Well, let’s see if she has a microchip.” As he turned to get the scanner, I draped an arm around the golden, holding her still on the metal table, stroking her filthy fur. She panted a little, but seemed otherwise unperturbed.

  “What about the blood on her fur?”

  “I don’t see anything, but I’ll take a closer look after we get her cleaned up. Could be a closed wound and we don’t want it to abscess.” He ran the scanner across her shoulder and it beeped. “There you go.” He showed the screen to me. “She’s chipped. I’ll get Crystal to run it down for you. We might even be able to get in touch with her vet. If we can’t, do you want me to go ahead and give her the full spectrum?”

  I hate to over-vaccinate dogs, but if she was going to go home with me I had no choice. “Yeah,” I agreed reluctantly. “But I hope you can get her shot record.”

  “Why don’t you go get some lunch and stop back by in …” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Say an hour and a half? Unless something unusual shows up, she should be ready to go.”

  He unsnapped her collar and gave it to me. It was a little smudged and dirty, but definitely one of the high-end brands: petal pink dyed leather studded with rhinestones. Someone had treasured this dog. Then why had they been stupid enough to let her get lost in the woods?

  Doc read my thoughts. “There’s no accounting for people, Raine.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I know. Especially city people. Thanks, Doc.”

  ~*~

  With an hour and a half to kill, I really could have gone back to work. But I had been washing dogs, walking dogs, feeding dogs, cleaning kennels, and exercising dogs since six a.m., and judging by the growling in my stomach I had forgotten to eat breakfast. I called Katie on her cell phone. She reported that all was quiet, and would it be okay if they watched the television in my office while they had their lunch? I told them to be sure to crate all the dogs and to stay off the computer and that I would be home by two at the latest. Then I drove straight to Miss Meg’s diner.

  Miss Meg’s is an institution in Hansonville. Good solid home cooking, no Swiss chard, no radicchio, no vegan anything, and if you ask for gluten free, Miss Meg will stare you down until you slink out of the restaurant with your tail between your legs, as well you should. Her homemade buttermilk biscuits are to die for. During tourist season even locals have to fight their way to the counter for a seat, though, unless you’re smart enough to dine fashionably early. Like I was.

  I arrived at 11:40 and already the place was three-quarters full. Cathy, the head day waitress, picked up a menu and gestured me to follow her as soon as I entered, but I waved her off. I had already seen the K-9 unit parked outside, with Nike the Belgian Malinois, the newest member of the Hanover County Sheriff’s Department, resting in air-conditioned comfort inside. Her handler, Jolene Smith, was sitting at a booth halfway down the row, finishing her lunch and reading the newspaper. I slid into the seat opposite her.

  “Hey, Jolene,” I said.

  She took a gulp of her coffee, folded the newspaper, and started to rise.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” I said, exasperated. “There’s no need to be rude.”

  She met my gaze coolly. “I was just sitting here having my coffee. You’re the one that decided to take my table.”

  Jolene was the first black woman ever to be hired by the Hanover County Sheriff’s Department. As though that wasn’t enough, she also had a fairly accomplished background as a canine handler in the military, and had done two tours in Afghanistan. This made her more qualified for the job than roughly ninety percent of the deputies on the force, and knowing those deputies as I do, I was sure it wasn’t easy for her. Furthermore, her position was funded by the Department of Homeland Security, which I happened to know pissed off the sheriff. How do I know? Because Sheriff Buck Lawson is my ex-husband and, not to mince words, we’re still pretty tight. After all, we’d been together since junior high.

  With all that in mind, I didn’t think Jolene could afford to be that particular about her friends. I knew she didn’t like me, and it wasn’t as though I was all that wild about her, although her dog was amazing. But we had been through some fairly intense hours together a month or so back, along with over two dozen juvenile campers and their dogs, and I just couldn’t stop thinking that, because of it, we were both changed. Three fingers of her gun hand were still splinted, and her duties over the past few weeks had been mostly administrative. My wounds from that time were less visible.

  I said, “Anyway, this is police business.”

  She cautiously eased back into her seat, but her tone was challenging. “What?”

  I told her about the stray dog, and I could see her trying not to roll her eyes. “Police business?” she repeated dryly.

  “This isn’t New Jersey,” I reminded her archly. “Around here we serve and protect, with an emphasis on the serve. This time of year a lot of people come up, camping or renting cabins, and most of them bring their dogs. They forget the dogs aren’t at home and think they can just let them out to pee without a leash, and that they’ll come right back like they always do. Next thing you know the dog is out after a deer, or has wandered out of hearing range and has absolutely no idea how to find his way back to his family because he’s not, after all, at home. People are stupid, and dogs are the ones who suffer. But sometimes those stupid people actually have sense enough to call the sheriff’s department when they lose a dog, which is why I always notify them when I find a stray. Police business.” I smirked, and glanced up as Cathy arrived, order pad in hand.

  “Bring me an egg salad sandwich,” I said, “with sweet tea and french fries. And save me a piece of apple pie for dessert. With ice cream,” I added as she hurried away, and she waved acknowledgement.

  Jolene stood up. “Stop by the office and leave a report with the clerk.”

  I corrected, “Office manager.”

  “Whatever.”

  She walked away without saying good-bye and I called after her, “Have a good day!”

  She didn’t even turn around.

  Cathy brought my sweet tea, made the way it was supposed to be made, with simple syrup and poured hot over ice cubes until the ice cracks and the pitcher sweats. I had just taken my first crisp, refreshing drink when a shadow fell over me and a man said, “Raine Stockton?”

  He had the voice of a summons server, so naturally I tensed. But when I looked up, the face that belonged to the voice was smiling, with hazel eyes, a mustache, and curly brown hair. He couldn’t have been much older than I was, and he held a gl
ass of iced tea just like mine.

  He said, by way of introduction, “Marshall Becker. Do you mind if I join you for a minute?” And, taking my speechlessness as consent, he slid into the seat that Jolene had vacated across from me. Cathy hurried to clear away the used dishes and wipe the table.

  He said, as though by way of explanation, “I’m running for sheriff.”

  I stared at him. “I know that.” It wasn’t as though his picture wasn’t on every telephone pole and store window in town—those not already taken by posters with pictures of the incumbent on them, of course. “Do you happen to know who you’re running against?”

  He smiled. “Buck Lawson, I believe is the fellow’s name.”

  “My ex-husband,” I pointed out. “You can’t sit here.”

  “Ex being the operative word,” he said. “The average person might think that’s a point in my favor.”

  “Only if you’re looking for a date,” I shot back and wanted to suck the words back in as soon as they were spoken. I felt my cheeks color, and his eyes twinkled.

  “Actually,” he replied, “I’m looking for your vote. But it was nice of you to offer.”

  This time I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut—or at least to open it only long enough to take a gulp of iced tea, which cooled my burning cheeks only marginally.

  He added, “Not to be too personal, but since you did bring it up … aren’t you and Miles Young together? I saw you at the Chamber Awards Ceremony last month, and here and there around town. He’s one of my biggest supporters.”

  I knew that Miles was supporting the opposition in the upcoming sheriff’s election. But were we together? That I was not quite as sure about as I should have been. I said flatly, “I’m voting for Buck. And you can’t sit here.”

  He inquired, “Why?”

  Cathy brought my lunch plate—fluffy egg salad piled high between two pieces of toast topped with sliced garden tomatoes and lettuce, along with a pile of french fries that made my mouth water just looking at them. I thanked her before unwrapping my silverware from the paper napkin and returning impatiently to Marshall. “Because people are going to think exactly what Cathy did just now. That I’m friends with you. That I’m on your side, that I’m voting for you, that I’m supporting you just because Miles is. And I’m not. So go sit somewhere else.”