Dog Days (Raine Stockton Dog Mystery Book 10)

by Donna Ball

  Wouldn’t I?

  ~*~

  Nothing starts the day off right like watching a class filled with really talented dogs doing their very best for their handlers, and I have to admit the agility students that Saturday morning outdid themselves. Corny stood on the sidelines, as delighted as a kid at the circus, occasionally bursting into spontaneous applause when a dog completed a particularly tricky sequence. I knew how he felt. I myself have been moved to cheers and applause when Cisco finished a difficult serpentine jump pattern or followed a blind cross into the tunnel. It’s an exciting game.

  Every time a dog knocked over a bar Corny would dart forward to replace it, saving me the effort of doing so, and then race quickly back out of the way; the perfect assistant. Afterwards he pelted me with questions about training techniques and the rules of the game which I was more than happy to answer. I love teaching, and who doesn’t have a soft spot for someone who is fascinated by what she does best?

  Moreover, by the end of the second class my knee had limbered up and I was moving almost normally, so it was turning out to be a good morning. I even brought Pepper down from the house and let her demonstrate how to cross the puppy A-frame, which seemed to cheer her up considerably. Like her young handler, Pepper liked to be the center of attention, and Cisco had not exactly been making her feel special lately.

  Happy dogs and tired handlers were making for their cars by 10:00 a.m. when I dashed back to the house to check on the other dogs. I had left Pepper in the day care room with a Boston terrier and two longhaired dachshunds—and Marilee, of course, who’d shown up only five minutes late. The rest of the pack greeted me with their usual outrageous enthusiasm, claws scrambling, butts wiggling, happy breaths panting, and even Cameo pushed her way forward for a greeting. But they all knew Pepper was having fun and they weren’t, and they made it pretty clear that there would be a mutiny if I left them alone in the house again.

  “All right, all right, guys.” I couldn’t help laughing as I bent to scratch ears and chins and kiss wet noses. “We’re going to play, I promise.”

  But before we did, I had to check on one thing. I got my purse from its hook by the door and sat down at the kitchen table. I turned the bag upside down and let the contents spill out onto the checked placemat before me: wallet, keys, pickup bags, clicker. My phone was in my pocket. I unzipped all the pockets and shook the bag. A tube of lipstick and a roll of breath mints hit the table, but nothing else. I went through my wallet, just in case I’d misremembered where I put the little dog pin. There were two quarters and eight pennies in the change pocket, forty-two dollars in bills, and that was all.

  “Damn,” I whispered out loud, and Cisco, who had been trying to tempt Cameo with a stuffed squirrel, looked over at me curiously.

  I sat back heavily, puzzled and defeated. Of course I didn’t want to believe that Corny had stolen my purse, even though he’d obviously lied about being in my house. I could have sworn the man who attacked me was bigger than Corny, but I knew victims’ memories in cases like this were often inaccurate. More importantly, it just didn’t make sense. Whoever took my purse was after both the transmitter and the schnauzer dog pin. But the transmitter I’d taken from Cameo’s collar had been lying around unsupervised on my desk all day yesterday; Corny could have easily taken it at any time if he’d wanted it. And if he had gone to all the trouble to steal the pin back, why hadn’t he put it on his hat? For that matter, why would he even wear the hat around me, knowing that I’d immediately recognize where the pin had come from? The whole thing was just crazy. But I couldn’t forget the alarm on his face when I’d mentioned the police, and what had he been doing in the park Tuesday night anyway? Was it possible Corny had been the last person to see April Madison alive?

  He still hadn’t filled out the employment papers, and Buck had once told me that a surefire method for spotting a kid with a record was when they hesitated about filling out a job application. They didn’t want to answer the question, “Have you ever been arrested?”.

  I was still sitting there, scowling at the contents of my purse, when the ringing of the phone made me jump. At first I instinctively reached for the cell phone in my pocket, and just as instinctively felt my heart skip a beat because it might have been Miles, or Melanie. I realized that the ringing phone was mounted on my kitchen wall at the same time I remembered how unlikely it was that Miles, or Melanie, would ever dial my number again.

  “Raine,” said the male voice when I answered, “this is Marshall Becker, getting back to you with the information you wanted on that PI. I hope I’m not calling too early on a Saturday morning.”

  It took me a moment to remember what information he was talking about, and when I did remember I almost told him I wasn’t interested. After all, what difference could it make now? I already knew who was behind the investigation, and chances were that, now that I was no longer in Miles and Melanie’s life, she would call it off. But curiosity got the better of me, as it almost always did, and I said, “Oh, right. Thanks. What did you find out?”

  “The fellow operates out of Virginia,” said Marshall, and my attention quickened. “His name is Greg Sellers.”

  I gasped out loud. “Greg Sellers?” April Madison’s ex-husband. The contact person on Cameo’s microchip registration. “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what it says. Why? Do you know him?”

  “Um …” My thoughts were spinning. “No. Not really. It’s just that his name came up in connection with a lost dog I’m fostering.”

  “Well,” said Marshall, “that’s good news, isn’t it? The guy probably wasn’t interested in you at all, just looking for his dog.”

  “Yeah,” I said slowly. “Yeah, maybe. Is there a telephone number? The one I had was disconnected.”

  “It may be the same one.” He read off the numbers and I copied them down quickly on the back of a grocery receipt I pulled from the trash.

  “Thanks, Marshall,” I said. “I appreciate you going to all this trouble.”

  “Nice to know a lady with flexible opinions. Yesterday you said it was an invasion of privacy.”

  “Oh.” I could barely remember what he was talking about. “Right. Well, it was for a good cause, I guess.”

  He chuckled. “See you at the fair later?”

  “Probably.”

  “Maybe I’ll buy you a corn dog.”

  “Okay, “I agreed absently, “maybe.”

  He chuckled again and said good-bye. I cradled the receiver and stood for a moment staring at the telephone number on the back of the receipt. Then I picked up the phone again and dialed. I was surprised when it actually rang through, and surmised—or more accurately, hoped—it was his cell phone.

  I have to admit I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to say, and I only had the length of the automated voice-mail message to compose my thoughts. I said, “This is Raine Stockton. I think you know who I am and why I’m calling. I’d like to talk to you about your ex-wife, and about her dog Cameo. I’m working a booth at the county fair today so I might be hard to catch at home, but you can call me on my cell phone.”

  I left my number and wondered what the odds were that someone who had been covertly following me and who had actually tried to break into my kennel in the middle of the night would bother to return my phone call.

  But at least it was starting to make sense now. A private eye would be far more likely to have access to sophisticated surveillance equipment than an ordinary citizen. He had not been trying to break into my car—at least not necessarily—he’d just followed the GPS on Cameo’s collar. The same was true of the kennel. The collar, and the transmitter, had been in my office. He’d probably thought Cameo was in the kennel with the other dogs, and maybe he had intended to liberate her, retrieving the transmitter in the process. The question, of course, was why he had planted the device in the first place. I couldn’t think of a single good answer for that one.

  I did, however, have an idea about who might.<
br />
  Once again I dialed Tony Madison’s number. To my surprise, he answered. “Miss Stockton,” he said, apparently reading my name on the caller ID, “I was going to call you about the dog.” He sounded exhausted and distracted. “I’m good for the bill. I just have a lot to deal with right now. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but you don’t have to keep calling.”

  “I’m not calling about Cameo,” I said quickly, before he could hang up. “I’m sorry to bother you, I really am, but you mentioned your wife’s ex-husband the other day. Greg Sellers?”

  There was a surprised silence. Then, “What?”

  “Did you know he was here? In Hansonville, I mean.”

  This time the silence was longer. It was so long, in fact, that I thought he might have hung up. I prompted, “Mr. Madison?”

  He said in a quiet, constrained voice, “What are you talking about?”

  “The thing is,” I said, “I found a listening device in Cameo’s collar and—”

  “A what?”

  “It’s like an electronic bug. I was going to return it to you, but I think Greg Sellers may have stolen it.” He was silent, so I prompted, “I was wondering if you might know anything about it, or …”

  He interrupted harshly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t want to know. My wife just died. All I want is to go home.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you. If there’s anything I can do …”

  “I’ll tell you what you can do,” he said shortly, “you can give me back the damn dog and stop bothering me. I’m at the campground.”

  I said, “I can be there within the hour.”

  He replied, “Good.” And he hung up.

  I replaced the receiver and looked over at Cameo, who was stretched out on the kitchen floor with a pile of Cisco’s toys in front of her. Cisco sat beside her, watching her adoringly. Cameo was not only an angel, she was a hero. How dare he call her a damn dog?

  But she was his dog, now that April was dead, and I had to return her to him.

  Of course, that left me with another problem. If I left now to take Cameo to the campground, it would be a tight squeeze to get back here in time to pick up Cisco and make it to the fairgrounds in time for the dog show and, immediately following, my volunteer time at the Humane Society booth. I didn’t need Cisco to help with the dog show, of course, but all of the booth volunteers had agreed to bring their own well-behaved pets because people were much more likely to come over to pet your dog and subsequently leave a donation in the jar than they were to simply wander by and pick up a brochure if you were sitting there by yourself. Besides, I had made Cisco a cute vest that said “Help my brothers and sisters! Donate today!” and he did his begging trick whenever someone walked by. We almost always raised more money than anyone else, and there was no way I was leaving him behind. So, even though it was far from ideal, it appeared I had no choice but to take Cisco with me when I went to deliver Cameo to her legitimate, if undeserving, owner.

  I made the change in record time from my sweaty Dog Daze clothes into khaki shorts and a button-down sleeveless shirt more appropriate to a dog show judge and Humane Society volunteer. I was taking no chances with my purse today, so I tucked my phone, driver’s license, and cash, along with a few waste-pickup bags, into the front pocket of my shorts and securely fastened the front tab button. I dug back into my purse for my keys and yelped when something sharp pricked my finger. I peered into the bag and saw a small gold post poking out through the lining of my purse. I probed around it and discovered an irregular shape that I knew could only be one thing.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned softly.

  I unzipped the pocket—the same pocket in which I used to keep dog treats—and discovered a small hole, no doubt torn by dog teeth, in the bottom. I wiggled my fingers inside it and felt around until I grasped the object and pulled it out.

  I gazed in resigned dismay at the little schnauzer pin in my hand. I couldn’t believe I had actually suspected Corny of stealing my purse just because the pin was missing, when it had never really been missing at all. The only person who had stolen anything was me, and the worst part was that I couldn’t even apologize to Corny for it.

  On the other hand, just because the little pin had not been the object of a purse-snatching did not explain how it had gotten into my house in the first place.

  And if I was to get Cameo back to the campground and still arrive at the fair in time to judge the dog show, I did not have time to deal with it now. I put the schnauzer pin safely away in my silverware drawer, grabbed the leashes and my day bag filled with dog supplies, and hurried across the drive to the kennel. I left Mischief and Magic in the playroom with Pepper and Marilee, and stopped by the grooming room to tell Corny I was leaving.

  After what I’d suspected him of—never mind that I hadn’t actually accused him of it—I felt awkward leaving Corny in charge while I was gone. But Corny, looking up from a bearded collie covered in suds, was his usual cheerful, oblivious self. “Don’t you worry, Miss Stockton, all is well! I’ll have Bongo here ready to go in another hour, and after that I’ll have plenty of time to help with the day care dogs. Piece of cake!”

  Knowing that I would be gone most of the day today, I’d made a point of not scheduling any check-ins or pickups, and only Bongo for grooming. I’d even kept the day care load light, so I didn’t see what could possibly go wrong. I’d only be gone for the afternoon, and Marilee was here.

  I smiled at Corny apologetically, even though of course he had no idea what I was apologizing for. “Thanks, Corny. I’ll be back before closing.”

  “Not a problem,” he assured me. “None at all!” He started to turn back to scrubbing Bongo, and then looked at me quizzically. “Miss Stockton,” he said, “I know I’ve only been here a couple of days, but I couldn’t help noticing … well, you don’t really have time to run a boarding and grooming kennel, do you?”

  I sighed. “The same thing has occurred to me, Corny.” I glanced at my watch, and realized I also didn’t have time to talk about it. “I have to run. Thanks again.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Cisco sat up straight in the backseat and panted with excitement as I turned onto the road that led to the ranger station. Back when I used to work there he came to work with me every day, and dogs have amazingly long memories for things that give them joy. Cameo, tethered in her seat belt across from him, was her usual ladylike self, resting all four paws on the bench seat while the air-conditioning vent gently ruffled her fur. There couldn’t have been two more opposite dogs. I was going to miss her almost as much as Cisco was.

  Since I was only going to be gone a minute, I left the car running with the air-conditioning on and dashed inside the ranger station, where the master list of all campground registrants was kept. It was a quaint, cramped little building made to resemble a rustic log cabin, with just enough room for the counter and desk, a postcard display, and a few shelves stocked with tee shirts, kitschy mugs, and colorful books about the Smokies. It always smelled like fresh cut timber and the great outdoors; even today, with the air-conditioning unit going full blast in the window.

  Rick was on the phone behind the counter when I came in and he lifted his hand to me. I waved back absently, but my attention was on the camping gear stacked in a corner just inside the door. The red, white, and blue striped duffle bag was too distinctive to be missed.

  “Come to volunteer?” Rick greeted me when he hung up. “We pay in peanuts and coffee, but I sure could use somebody to answer this phone while I do my job.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I already have one job I’m too busy for. I just need to know which campsite Tony Madison is registered in. He asked me to bring his dog.”

  Rick shook his head regretfully as he turned to the computer. “I heard she didn’t make it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, we knew it was a long shot. Still, I hate it. The police have been in and out of here since ye
sterday.”

  I nodded my head toward the camping equipment in the corner. “What’s the deal?”

  “Oh, you know.” He picked up a pencil to jot down the site number for me. “Some homeless dude paying by the day couldn’t make his campsite fee. Generally I’ll cut them some slack, but we’re full up.”

  I looked again at the red, white, and blue duffle bag. “Do you happen to know who he is?”

  “Yeah, he’d be a hard one to forget. Funny-looking kid, red hair, odd name. Sounded like a college professor or something.”

  “Cornelius,” I said, a little hollowly. “Cornelius Lancaster the Third.”

  “That’s it.” He held out the sticky note with Tony Madison’s site number on it. “Do you know him?”

  “Yeah.” I took the note. “He checked in Friday, right?” Because by the time he could have gotten here on Thursday night, the campgrounds would have been closed. I wondered where he had spent the night Thursday. And then I thought I knew.

  Rick scratched his head. “Nah, it was earlier in the week. Monday or Tuesday, seems like. He paid for a couple of days, then ran out of cash I guess and packed up on Thursday. He was back here bright and early Friday morning, though, before I even opened the gates. Good thing too, because I gave him the last tent spot. Nice enough fellow. Rides a bike everywhere he goes. No law against that, I guess. Paid in cash for Friday, then said he was getting a paycheck and could I please hold the site for him. I told him I couldn’t promise. Anyhow, I guess it didn’t work out, because it looks like that one-day fee was all he had.”

  Of course it was. Out of the ten-dollar tip I’d given him, he’d spent seven dollars for the campsite, three dollars for farm-stand blueberry muffins, and his employer hadn’t paid him yet. I felt awful.

  I said, reaching into my pocket, “How about if I pay for the site? Could you—”

  But he held up his hand. “Like I said, I’d like to, but it’s already rented. There’s not a single spot left on this whole mountain this weekend.”