by Donna Ball
I let my hand drop. “Well, could you at least let me take him his stuff?”
“I’m not supposed to, but …” He shrugged. “The rules say if it’s not picked up by noon we send it on to Goodwill. Seeing as it’s you, go ahead, if you think you can find him.”
“Oh, I can find him, all right.” I picked up the duffle bag and the compact tent bag just as the phone rang. “Thanks, Rick.”
He waved at me and picked up the phone. I heard him say, “Ranger Station,” as I pushed through the door.
A lot of the pieces were beginning to fall into place, but the gaps that were still left formed a very confusing picture. This explained why Corny hadn’t wanted to fill out the employment papers: he didn’t have an address to list. And it explained what he had been doing here on the night he’d seen April and Cameo get into the car with Tony Madison. But it did not explain why a college student from an upscale place like Chapel Hill—with or without a trust fund—would be unable to pay a $7.00 campsite rental, even if he did prefer a bicycle to a car. All kids had credit cards these days. Didn’t they?
Before I left the ranger station, I took out my phone and scrolled down until I found the number of Professor Rudolph. I dialed and sat in the parking lot waiting for him to answer. I was surprised when he actually did.
I told him who I was, and reminded him why I was calling. He was quick to remember. “Yes, yes,” he assured me. “I was so sorry not to connect with you earlier, but of course I want to do whatever I can to help young Cornelius out. A fine young man, none better. I’m so glad to hear he landed on his feet. What can I answer for you?”
I said, “You were one of his professors at Duke?”
There was a short silence. “Why, no. I do teach at Duke University, but as far as I know Cornelius was never enrolled there. He worked for me—odd jobs, dog walking, some yard work, that sort of thing. Most industrious young fellow I’ve ever known, and he was a magician with Sophie, my Great Dane. Of course we talked about getting him into a program at Duke, and even looked into some scholarships. He is a brilliant young man, tested very high in math and science. I believe he took some courses at the junior college but frankly, even with a scholarship, the university was far beyond his means, and that was before the tragedy.”
I put in quickly, “The tragedy?”
“He lost both his parents in a fire on Christmas Eve last year. It was a terrible blow, as I’m sure you can imagine. There was no insurance, I’m sorry to say, and barely enough money for the funeral. Afterwards, Cornelius just disappeared. I’ve thought about him often, wondered what became of him.”
I said, with some difficulty, “So there’s no trust fund?”
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Never mind. Thank you, Professor.”
“He’s working with animals, did you say?” said the professor. “Excellent. You won’t be disappointed, I promise you that. A very industrious young man.”
I thanked the professor again and hung up. I drove to the Bottleneck Campground with confusion and uncertainty nagging at me like a toothache.
~*~
The RV sites at Bottleneck were nice enough, but too narrow and close together for my taste. Each site was shaded, though, and most of them were within hearing range of the tumbling waters—when their generators weren’t roaring, of course. I found site #21 and parked in the shade, rolling down all the windows for the dogs. The RV looked empty, the campsite deserted. In the site to the right a woman was hanging wet swimsuits on the line, and in the camp to the left four adults were gathered around a camp table, chatting and sipping coffee. I walked around the side of the Madisons’ RV and knocked. “Hello,” I called when there was no sign of movement inside. I knocked again. “Hello, Mr. Madison, I’ve brought your dog!”
I walked all the way around the vehicle, standing on tiptoe to try to see inside the darkened windows. I noticed a tow hitch on the back, but no car. I could only guess he had been on his way back from Asheville when I’d talked to him on the phone, and had been delayed. I went back to the door and knocked one more time.
The woman who was hanging up swimsuits finally took pity on me and called, “Honey, he’s not there.”
I walked over to her. “I’ve been keeping his dog for him,” I explained. “He asked me to bring her by this morning.”
She shrugged. “He peeled out of here about forty-five minutes ago,” she said. “Seemed in an awful hurry. There are speed limits on these roads, you know. People walking, kids playing. Somebody ought to get out and enforce the law, if you ask me.”
I began, “Well, the forest service doesn’t really have the …” And then I broke off, frowning. “Forty-five minutes, you say?”
“More or less.”
That would’ve been right after he talked to me. Why would he leave when he knew I was on my way?
“Do you want me to tell him you were here?” the woman volunteered.
“Thanks, I’ll wait a little longer,” I said. “Maybe he just had to run out and get something. He knew I was coming.”
I turned to go back to the car and sit with the dogs when a plume of dust approaching us on the road caught my eye. The vehicle was going pretty fast, and from the way the lady next door had just described Tony Madison’s departure, I thought it might be him returning. But only for a moment. I stepped back out of the way as the sheriff’s department’s K-9 unit pulled up in front of the campsite, followed closely by a patrol car.
Jolene got out of the SUV, glaring at me. I heard the two doors of the patrol car slam and Deke and Mike approached, their hands close to their gun belts. The formerly friendly woman next door looked at me warily and took a step back; the people in the site on the other side got up from the table and moved closer, craning to see what was happening.
“Stockton,” Jolene said curtly, “what are you doing here?”
I lifted my hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just doing my job. Mr. Madison told me to return his dog. But he’s not here. That lady,” I nodded toward the woman next door, “said he left forty-five minutes ago.”
Jolene looked at Deke and jerked her head toward the RV. They immediately moved forward, Deke banging on the door, Mike moving around the opposite side. I heard Deke call, “Tony Madison, this is the Hanover County Sheriff’s Department. We have a warrant for your arrest. Please open the door now or we will break it down. Mr. Madison!”
I swung my gaze back to Jolene. “Warrant?”
She said, “Return to your vehicle. Stay out of the way. Do not leave the premises.”
She strode up to the RV and I heard her say to Deke, “Break it down.”
Let the record show that up to this point I’d been more than cooperative with the police. But I was getting a little tired of Deputy Jolene telling me where to go, when to go, and what to do when I got there, especially since, in this instance, I knew perfectly well there was no one inside that RV and the chances of gunplay were pretty slim. So while the onlookers shrank back with wide eyes when the officers drew their guns and Deke kicked open the flimsy lock on the RV, I walked over to the lady with the swimsuits.
“My name is Raine,” I said. I gestured toward my car, where Cisco was watching the proceedings with interest from his open window; Cameo rested her chin on the other window and didn’t seem very impressed at all. “The white golden retriever is Mr. Madison’s, and that’s my dog Cisco on the other side. Do you remember what kind of car Mr. Madison was driving?”
She looked at me suspiciously. “Are you with the police?”
“No,” I admitted. “But—”
“Then I shouldn’t be talking to you.” Immediately contradicting herself, she added anxiously, “What’s going on? What are they arresting him for? It’s not drugs, is it? Because I’ve got kids. Good heavens, in a national forest campground, there should be a law.”
I heard Deke shout, “Clear!” and Mike echoed, “Clear!” It was an RV, after all. There weren’t that many place
s to hide.
I said, “There is a law. That is, there are lots of laws, and that’s why people get arrested when they break them. It would really help me out if you could tell me what kind of car he was driving. Even the color.”
“You planning to chase him down, Stockton?” Jolene came up behind me, scowling as usual. “I thought I told you to stay out of the way.”
“I am out of the way,” I returned sweetly. “I’m all the way over here, talking to this nice lady, who saw Tony Madison drive away this morning. If I knew what kind of car he was driving, I could give you even more information.”
Jolene turned to the other woman. “Is that right, ma’am?”
She nodded, looking more self-important than alarmed now. “That’s right. He looked to be in a big hurry, too.”
“What time was that?”
“Like I told her …” she indicated me. “It was about forty-five minutes before you all got here.”
“That would be,” I added helpfully, “right after I told him his wife’s ex-husband was in town.”
Jolene turned to look at me, her features inscrutable. Then she raised her hand to Mike and said, “Mike, will you come take this lady’s statement, please? Deke, see if the people on the other side know anything.”
She took out her notebook and gestured me back toward the Madison campsite. “Talk to me, Stockton.”
“The ex-husband’s name is Greg Sellers,” I said. “He’s a private investigator from Virginia. I think he’s the one who planted the transmitter in Cameo’s collar and he’s probably the one who stole my purse.”
She looked up from jotting notes, her eyes like stone. “You knew we were investigating this as a possible homicide, and you didn’t mention to us that there was an ex-husband involved?”
“I just found out myself an hour ago,” I returned impatiently. “As I was saying—”
“So naturally your first call is to the murder suspect.”
That gave me pause. I admitted uncomfortably, “I didn’t think of that.”
“Which is exactly why we’re the police and you’re not,” she returned sharply. “Do you know I could charge you with obstruction of justice right now?”
“No,” I replied, just as sharply. “You could have an hour ago, but right now I’m trying my best to tell you everything I know if you’d just be quiet and listen.”
Her nostrils flared and I’m sure if there had been a law against telling an officer to be quiet, she would have slapped the cuffs on me that minute. Instead she demanded, “What makes you think he planted the transmitter?”
“I saw him trying to break into my car on Friday. Cameo’s collar was on the front seat. A friend of mine traced the plate, that’s how I know his name. But,” I assured her hastily, “I only got the information this morning.”
She shot me a dagger look and I volunteered, “Marshall Becker.” She wrote it down.
I went on, “That night someone tried to break into my kennel. The collar was in my office. He was driving the same kind of car as Sellers. The thing is …” Now I frowned, thinking it through as I spoke. “All this time I’ve been thinking it was Tony Madison who planted the transmitter in Cameo’s collar to spy on his wife. But he never showed the least bit of interest in getting Cameo, or the collar, back. I don’t think he knew the device was there. When I told Mr. Madison that Sellers was in town, he seemed shocked, and right after that he took off. Unless he somehow found out you were on the way to arrest him …” I looked questioningly at her, and she shook her head.
“We just got the warrant this morning. The blood on the post at the overlook was a match, and yesterday we got a warrant to search the RV and found a blood-smeared paper towel in the trash, like someone had used it to wipe their hands. It matched April Madison’s too. He said something about her cutting herself in the kitchen, but he knew we had the evidence. If he was going to run, it would have been last night.” Now her expression grew thoughtful. “No, it was something about you mentioning Sellers.”
“Could Sellers be a witness?” I suggested.
“Maybe.” She added, “You don’t happen to know where Sellers is staying, do you?”
“No, but Marshall has his tag number. His cell phone number, too.” In the interest of full disclosure, I added, “I left a message for Greg Sellers to call me back. If I talk to him I can—”
“You can do nothing,” she interrupted harshly. “Listen to me, Stockton. Stay away from both of those men, and if either of them attempts to contact you call the police immediately. Do you understand?”
I said, “Do you think Sellers is involved in the murder?”
“He is now,” she said grimly. “He’s in possession of what may be material evidence in our case and he’s probably being stalked by our prime suspect. At the very least, he’s in danger, which makes him a dangerous man to be around. Our job is to find him before Marshall does.” She pulled out her phone. “Your job is to go back to …” She made a vague gesture with her free hand. “Doing whatever it is you do.”
I drew a breath for a retort, but she spoke into the phone. “Track down Marshall Becker and patch him through to me on this line. It’s urgent. And put me through to the sheriff.”
She glanced at me and moved the phone away from her mouth. “By the way, Madison drives a white CR-V. Did you really think we wouldn’t already have a BOLO out on it?”
I returned sourly, “You’ll find Marshall Becker at the county fair. He’s judging jams.”
I turned on my heel to go as she said into the phone, “Sheriff, there’s been a development.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When I’d mapped out my plan for the morning, I had not included the time it would take to be interviewed by the police. I also had intended to be leaving the campground with one less dog than I’d started with, and while the unexpected turn of events might have suited Cisco just fine, it left me in something of a dilemma. I could either go home and drop off Cameo, or get to the fair in time to keep my commitment to judge the dog show. There were thirteen anxious young men and women with their spiffed-up dogs waiting for me, so there really wasn’t much of a choice.
Of course, when I’d volunteered months ago to do back-to-back duty at the fair, I’d thought Miles and Melanie would be with me. Melanie would have proudly held Cisco’s leash while I judged the dog show and would have been the perfect little carnival barker at the Humane Society booth, urging people to come on over while shaking the donation jar in their faces, probably charging them a dollar each to take a picture with Cisco. Miles would have carried our gear and brought us cold drinks and his eyes would have twinkled a lot. The stab of loss and regret I felt was so intense it hurt my stomach.
I parked again in the back lot and dragged my lightweight canvas crate—lightweight being a relative term—out of the back of the SUV, along with the day bag that contained Cisco’s vest, water, treats, and other doggie necessities, as well as a roll of duct tape for securing posters at the booth and colored markers for the signs. One crate for two big dogs was bound to be an adventure, but at least they liked each other. Besides, I had no choice.
Lugging the crate, bag, and the two golden retrievers across the dusty field, I was left red-faced and dripping sweat in no time. My knee was starting to ache, and I had to move slowly to favor it. I also have to say my mood wasn’t the best, and with every ounce of my concentration focused on keeping Cisco and Cameo under control as we approached the noise and crowds of the midway, I jumped a little when a dry voice said next to me, “Thanks for the heads-up about the police, Miss Stockton.”
Marshall Becker fell into step beside me, reaching to take the heavy crate from my grip. I certainly didn’t fight him for it. “If I had known there was an ongoing investigation, I never would have gotten involved,” he added. “I certainly wouldn’t have given the information to a private citizen.”
“Sounds like something you should tell the police.”
“I did. For almost an hour.
”
I blotted my forehead with the back of my arm, squinting in the sun. “Sorry to throw your schedule off, but I never asked you to get involved. Besides, I didn’t know Greg Sellers had anything to do with the investigation until today.”
He said, “What exactly do you think he has to do with it?”
“Sorry, I can’t give that information to a private citizen,” I replied, and he chuckled.
He said, “What happened to your knee?”
“I fell.”
“Small wonder, carrying all this stuff around with two big dogs. Don’t you have any help?”
Once again, I was reminded of Miles and Melanie and how everything was supposed to be different, but I refused to let the melancholy take hold. I replied instead, glancing at him, “Now I do.”
He grinned, and I gestured to the big tent across the way from which the sound of barking could be heard even over the blare of midway music. “I guess we’re over there. Thanks for your help.”
“Not a problem. Beautiful dogs. That’s an English Cream golden retriever, isn’t it?”
I looked at him in surprise. “Not many people know that.”
He said, “I’ve always had goldens. My last one, Buddy, just died last year. He was fourteen.”
He rose several notches in my esteem. I said, with genuine sympathy, “I’m so sorry. It must have been hard to lose him, so soon after your wife.”
He replied simply, “It was.”
We arrived at the entrance to the tent and I extended my hand for the crate.“Well, this is it. Thanks again.”
“I’ll help you set up.”
Again, that was not an offer I was about to refuse.
I could see the dismay on some of the kids’ faces when I passed by with my two beautiful goldens, and the relief when they realized I was the judge, not a competitor. We were greeted by the coordinator of the local 4-H program, who quickly pinned a judge’s badge on my shirt and spread out the first, second, and third place ribbons on the folding table at the front of the tent. Marshall set up the crate behind the table and I poured water into a collapsible bowl for the dogs. They each had a few laps, and I escorted them—pushed, might be a more accurate word—into the crate. There was a portable fan set up behind the judge’s table, presumably for my comfort, but I turned it on the dogs.
