Dog Days (Raine Stockton Dog Mystery Book 10)

by Donna Ball

  He didn’t move. “What I meant was,” he clarified, “why are you voting for Buck?”

  I replied in exasperation, “Because he’s my hu—” This time I was able to stop myself before blurting something both stupid and humiliating, and just to make sure, I picked up a triangle of my sandwich and took a big bite. He waited patiently while I chewed, swallowed, and wiped excess mayonnaise from my lips. I tried again.

  “Look,” I said reasonably, “Buck is the most qualified for the job. He’s been on the force longer than anyone else, he knows everybody in the county, and he was my Uncle Ro’s second-in-command before he retired. He was handpicked by Uncle Ro to fill his term. Around here, we like smooth transitions. I’m voting for Buck.”

  He nodded. “I used to work for Sheriff Bleckley—your Uncle Ro—same as Buck. As a matter of fact, we joined the department at about the same time.”

  “But Buck is still here,” I reminded him. “You left after five years.” I stuffed a couple of french fries in my mouth and took up the sandwich again.

  “To move to Tennessee,” he countered, “where I worked in law enforcement for another ten years. When I came back to North Carolina I joined the state police, and I’m still a consultant there, though it’s mostly part time these days.” He smiled. “You ought to check out my resume. It’s on my website.”

  If I have one fault, it’s curiosity. It’s gotten me into a lot more trouble than just being seen having lunch with a political candidate whose campaign I did not support ever could have done. Nonetheless, I could not resist inquiring, “So what made you come back here?”

  He sipped his tea, leaning back easily. “In a way, I never left. My dad left me a couple of hundred acres along Back Ridge Creek, and I always thought I’d retire here. When my wife got sick a few years back, it seemed foolish to wait to build the dream house.”

  I paused with my glass midway to my lips. “You’re married?”

  His smile turned sad. “Unfortunately, she died before we could break ground on the house. Two years ago.”

  I put my glass down, murmuring, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  Cathy chose that moment to stop by to refill his glass, which gave us both a moment. When she was gone he went on, “I sold most of the property—to Miles, actually—but kept a nice little parcel on the water and built a cabin. When I heard about your uncle retiring, it seemed like serendipity. Time to leave the past behind and go for the dream.” He lifted his glass to me in a small salute.

  I said simply, “Ah.”

  It was all beginning to come together for me now. Miles made his rather considerable living by turning unspoiled wilderness into high-rise condos and fly-in golf resorts. It was entirely possible that in the course of this transaction Marshall and Miles had discovered they had a shared vision for the future of Hanover County, which was why Miles was so quick to support what would have otherwise been an unpopular candidate.

  I folded my hands atop the paper napkin in my lap and said, “Listen, you seem like a nice guy. But you’re wasting your time with this campaign, and your money.” Miles’s money, I probably should have said, but let it go. “Buck Lawson is going to win this election. He’s a hometown boy, a popular guy, and he’s already been doing the job for almost a year. The people are not going to vote him out of office.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I understand. I like Buck myself, and I had to give it some thought before deciding to go up against him. But sometimes being popular is not the best qualification for a law enforcement official, even in a little place like this. Times are changing faster than most of us realize, and after what happened last month … well, the standing sheriff might not be quite as popular as you think.”

  I said sharply, “You can’t blame Buck for that. Even the FBI didn’t know what was going on until it was too late, and it was Buck who rescued the hostages and made the biggest arrest in the whole case.”

  Again he nodded, his expression thoughtful and oddly compassionate. “You could look at it like that, I suppose. But some people are also wondering why it ever got that far, and remembering that it was Homeland Security that actually found the bombs that could have blown up half this town.”

  I felt my fingertips grow cold, just with the mention of that day. He must have seen something in my face, because he added, “I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories. But I’m running for office.” Again the smile. If you could get past the mustache, it was really quite nice. “I really wish you’d go on my website and at least read my platform.”

  I said, “Are you going to have lunch with every voter in this county?”

  And he replied, completely without guile, “You bet. That’s how strongly I believe I’m the best man for the job.”

  I picked up my sandwich. “One down. Eight thousand, five hundred fifty-three to go.”

  Again he lifted his glass to me. “Nice meeting you, Raine. I hope you’ll consider what I’ve said. I’ll leave you to your lunch.”

  He rose and I said, “Bye,” as I took another big bite of my sandwich. But to be perfectly honest, it didn’t taste nearly as good as it had before I’d listened to what Marshall Becker had to say.

  ~*~

  I had parked in the semi-shade of one of the drooping dogwoods that lined the street in front of Miss Meg’s, and as I started toward my car I noticed a man standing beside it. There was nothing particularly strange about that, since every parking place on the street was taken and I figured he had just gotten out of the red sports car that was parked next to my Trailblazer. In the dead season of January or February, I would be able to walk down this same street and call every person I met by name, but this time of year the opposite was true, and the man did not look familiar at all. He was tall, a little slump-shouldered, balding on top, wearing khaki shorts and a plaid shirt with sneakers and white socks—in other words, a harmless tourist. Harmless, I thought, until he cupped his hand over his eyes and peered in the window of my SUV.

  “Hey!” I said, but I was too far away for him to hear. I quickened my pace.

  He walked around my car and I swear I saw him take something from his pocket—a cell phone?—and point it at the rear of my vehicle. That was strange, but it wasn’t until he moved around to the driver’s door and tried the handle that I started to run. “Hey!” I shouted, and heads turned. “Hey, get away from my car!”

  This may be a small town full of strangers, but it’s still a small town. When a woman starts running down the street screaming at a man, people stop and stare. Other men move closer to get a better look. Their wives take out their cell phones to dial 911. I could see the slump-shouldered man turn abruptly and dart his eyes around for the easiest escape route, but when you are constantly chasing after a dog as fast as Cisco, you get to be pretty fast yourself. I grabbed his arm before he could take the first sprinting step.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, breathing hard.

  He jerked his arm away and raised both hands up in a placating gesture. “Lady, I don’t know what your problem is—”

  “You were trying to break into my car!”

  He looked outraged. “What are you talking about? This is my car! I locked the keys inside, that’s all.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I dug into my purse for my keys. “Oh yeah?”

  A smooth male voice said behind me, “Is everything okay here?”

  I looked up to see Marshall Becker, and though I don’t usually respond well to men who like to think their main role in life is to swoop in and rescue women at the last minute, in this case I was glad for the eyewitness.

  “This man was trying to break into my car!” I said indignantly.

  He broke in with equal indignation, “This crazy woman ran up and grabbed me and started yelling at me just because I locked my keys in my car!”

  I finally found my keys, yanked them out, and pointed the remote triumphantly at the door. The door clicked open and I tossed him a smug look as I pulled open the door and looked inside. Just in cas
e I had any doubt, there were leashes in the door pockets, pickup bags in the cup holders, and the stray dog’s pink collar on the passenger seat. “No keys,” I pronounced, and turned to glare at him.

  The stranger looked dismayed. “I, um, I was sure I parked here.”

  A woman called out, “Do you want me to call the police?”

  The stranger looked panicky and Marshall called back, “Thanks, just a misunderstanding.”

  I turned my glare on Marshall. “Excuse me? I’m the victim here.”

  The man’s tone took on a note of pleading as he slowly lowered his hands, “Come on, lady, an honest mistake. I’m just a regular guy passing through town on my way to the Blue Ridge Parkway. The wife and I are staying overnight at the Black Bear Lodge, you can check. My car looks just like this, same year and everything. I don’t know how I could have misplaced …” He started patting his pockets, and a look of sheepish remorse came over his face as he pulled out a set of keys. “Oh,” he said.

  Marshall raised an eyebrow. “It’s up to you. You can call the police if you want.”

  I snapped, “I know I can.”

  The man looked distressed. “Lady, please.”

  I rolled my shoulders irritably and waved him away. “Oh, go on.”

  Both Marshall and I watched him hurry across the street, head down, and turn the corner. “He was lying,” I said, still scowling.

  “People make mistakes,” Marshall replied.

  “I’ve got an AKC sticker on my windshield,” I pointed out irritably, “and bumper stickers on the back.”

  “Maybe he didn’t see them.”

  “He walked around the back. I think he took a picture.”

  “That is odd,” Marshall admitted. And he looked at me sympathetically. “I guess after everything you’ve been through, you have a right to be a little paranoid.”

  “I am not paranoid.” I scowled fiercely and pushed my fingers through my curls. “This kind of thing has happened before,” I told him. “Ever since that stupid article about Cisco and me came out in North Carolina Today.” That article, which had been picked up a few weeks later by a national news magazine, had painted Cisco—and me, I guess—as heroes in a very bad incident that had taken place over the Fourth of July. My fifteen minutes of fame had not been nearly as enjoyable as one might expect. “Reporters calling any time of the day or night, perfect strangers taking my picture on the street or driving right up to my house, people e-mailing me with messages for Cisco … some guy even wanted to make a movie of my life. Turned out he was a twenty-two-year-old film student with a point-and-shoot. I’m just tired of it all. It’s weird and it’s annoying and I am not paranoid.”

  He nodded sympathetically, but I could tell he wasn’t entirely convinced. “I’m just saying. It would be understandable if you were.”

  I looked at him coolly. “Men with mustaches never win elections,” I said.

  I got in the car and slammed the door, and I could swear he was chuckling as he watched me back out and drive away.

  But the time I’d driven the four blocks to the public safety building, I was over my irritation, and I certainly wasn’t going to waste anybody’s time with an incident report about a confused tourist. However, it only made sense, as long as I was in town, to follow up on the stray dog, so I made the left turn onto Courthouse Square and found a parking space.

  I don’t spend as much time around the sheriff’s office as I used to, but I’m still fairly comfortable there. Between my uncle having been sheriff for thirty years, and being married to Buck for most of my adult life—off and on, anyway—I know everyone in the department and everyone knows me. I had some time before I was due to pick up the golden, so I decided to stop by the office, as Jolene had suggested, and leave a description. Who knew? Maybe someone had already called in looking for her.

  The blast of air-conditioned air felt good after the walk across the parking lot under the blaring sun. I pushed open the glass door of the sheriff’s department to a burst of laughter and the sound of applause. That was my first hint that a party of some kind was going on; the second hint was the slice of frosted cake on the empty reception desk. I could see everyone was gathered in the bullpen, where a tall cake and a bowl of punch had been set up. I started toward them.

  This kind of thing probably isn’t procedure, but the sheriff’s department is its own little family, and my uncle always believed that impromptu celebrations of things like birthdays and promotions were good for morale. Even though I had just finished a slice of pie with ice cream, I wouldn’t say no to a piece of birthday cake. It looked as though it had come from the bakery, which was not something I got to have very often.

  “Hi, guys,” I called, pushing through the gate that separated the desks from the lobby. “Whose birthday?”

  The laughter and chatter died down little by little as the deputies and employees turned to look at me, their expressions oddly embarrassed. This was about the same time I noticed that the three-tiered cake was not a birthday cake, but a wedding cake, and that the bride and groom on top were not wearing a tuxedo and wedding dress, but sheriff’s department uniforms. I noticed this at the same time I noticed my ex-husband with his arm around Wyn, the only other female deputy on the force besides Jolene, and the woman Buck had left me for. They each had pieces of cake between their fingers and smears of icing on their faces, having apparently just finished feeding each other the traditional bite of wedding cake. And that was when I noticed the glittering diamond on Wyn’s finger, and below it a shiny new gold band.

  You know that dream you have when you’re walking down the hall of your high school and realize that you not only forgot to prepare for a math exam but that you’re stark naked? That literally can’t begin to compare to the way I felt standing there, the ultimate party crasher, with everybody looking uncomfortable and uncertain and embarrassed, not because of me, but for me. Buck picked up a paper napkin and wiped the frosting from his face. Wyn turned away, refusing to meet my eyes. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  I cleared my throat, tried to smile, tried to make words come out. I couldn’t. So I simply turned and walked away, feeling like a perfect idiot.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I crossed the covered walkway between the public safety building and courthouse, my cheeks burning with the kind of humiliation that makes you want to hide in a dark room someplace and not come out for a while. I really didn’t know where I was going, or care; I just wanted to get away from all of those awkward, pitying gazes.

  It was stupid. It wasn’t as though I had any claim on Buck, or wanted to. I was with someone else. He was with someone else. But he married her. And I hadn’t known.

  Buck was married.

  I sat down abruptly on a curved concrete bench beneath the shade of a big oak tree, staring straight ahead at nothing at all, willing my cheeks to cool and my breathing to slow, until I suddenly realized where I was. Then it was a moment before I could breathe at all. I twisted my fingers together in my lap, hard.

  Jolene sat down stiffly beside me. “I don’t like you,” she said, “and I don’t want to be your friend. But no woman deserves to be ambushed like that. I thought you knew, or I would’ve said something at the diner.”

  Jolene’s dog Nike had found the first bomb less than twelve feet from where we were sitting. Miles and Melanie and Cisco and Pepper had been in the car right there, four easy strides away. A prickly film of perspiration broke out on my skin, and the shady air chilled it.

  “It’s not like she hasn’t been flashing that ring around the office since before I got here,” Jolene went on. Apparently she thought I’d want to know. I didn’t. “I guess they got married last night at the courthouse, didn’t want a fuss. Some of the staff girls found out about it and wanted to surprise them with a cake. Stupid. Unprofessional. I guess you can get away with that kind of thing in a hick town like this.”

  “I have nightmares sometimes,” I said. I intended my voice to be
conversational, but was surprised at how thin and wavery it sounded, with a little catch at the end. I knotted my fingers together even more tightly.

  “Stop it,” Jolene said.

  But I couldn’t. “The thing is,” I went on rapidly, “I always wake up before the bomb goes off.” My breath was coming fast, a little shakily. “I know it’s going to happen and I’m trying to warn people, but nobody will listen, and when I wake up it’s almost worse because I think if I could have stayed asleep a few more seconds I might could have saved them.”

  “Stop it,” she repeated fiercely. “Don’t you let that bunch of redneck fools come out and see you sitting here crying over some man.”

  “I’m not—”

  “I know that,” she said shortly, “but they don’t. Take a breath, get yourself together, or I swear I’ll pinch a black and blue mark on you.”

  That surprised a laugh out of me. “My grandmother used to say that.” When I swiped a knuckle under my eye there was moisture there, but when two deputies came out of the building across the walkway and glanced in our direction I was glad they saw me sitting there laughing with Jolene.

  “Everybody’s grandmother used to say that.” She stood, glaring at me. “I’ve got work to do. Don’t you have someplace to be?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Yep, sure do.” I stood up too and added casually, “Let’s have lunch some time.”

  I knew that would annoy her, and so it did. Her frown only deepened, and she walked away without another word. But I felt a little better as I went back to my car and drove out of town.