I felt sorry for the iguana—and for myself. I was all dressed up, and I was going to be stuck eating alone. I’d learned from experience never to take nachos home. The Lakeside concocted the best cheese sauce—a warm, gooey mixture of butter, milk, and sharp cheddar—and the freshest pico de gallo, made only in season with local tomatoes, sweet onions, and cilantro. But the meal didn’t travel well. The chips would be soggy by the time I got halfway to Winding Hill. And the guacamole would be brown before I even left the parking lot.
“I’ll call you later,” Dylan promised, sliding off the stool. He grinned. “Stay out of trouble, okay, Miss Marple?”
That was actually worse than being called Nancy Drew.
“I’ll do my best,” I assured him. “Tell Sparky good luck.”
“Will do.”
Dylan made his way through the crowd, leaving me alone with my dinner—and the check. I realized that too late.
Oh, well. I doubted the Lakeside even charged him for the garnishes he ate. And the vinegar was free, too. There was a bottle on every table.
Bending over my plate, I started eating, although I felt self-conscious. I didn’t know where to look most of the time, so I stared at the candle flickering on my table, which was why I didn’t even know Jonathan had approached me until he said, “I think I owe you an apology.”
Chapter 67
“No, you don’t owe me anything,” I assured Jonathan, blinking up at him. I couldn’t see his face. I’d stared at the flame too long, so everything was momentarily black. I pointed in the general direction of the stool Dylan had vacated. “Would you like to sit down?”
“Are you okay?” Jonathan asked. “You’re acting a little strange.”
There was an unspoken “even by your standards” hanging out there.
“I just temporarily blinded myself,” I admitted.
I heard the stool scrape across the wooden floor, indicating that he was accepting my invitation. “Why am I not surprised?”
Things were gradually coming into focus, and I saw him examining Dylan’s plate, poking at the contents with one finger, like he didn’t understand the garnishes-to-sandwiches ratio, which was about twenty to zero.
“I can see you now,” I informed him, blinking a few more times. “I just stared at the candle for too long.”
Jonathan didn’t want to grin, but he did. “I’m glad you’re okay. And, as I said, I wanted to apologize for earlier today. . . .”
I held up a hand, stopping him. “There’s really no need. I shouldn’t have snooped.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
So this was going to be one of those unconventional apologies, which would end up making me feel worse.
“Before you continue,” I said, “why aren’t you upset about the phone? I thought you’d be furious.”
Jonathan grew wary. “What phone?”
“Didn’t my mother contact you?”
“She contacts me all the time,” he said, still watching me with suspicion. “So often that I don’t always respond. So why don’t you tell me what you’re talking about.”
Oh, I did not want to do that. But I had no choice.
“I saw Mitch Lockhart today, and I gave him Virginia’s phone.” I cringed in anticipation of Jonathan’s inevitable reprimands. “I accidentally took it after I used it to call nine-one-one.”
His eyes registered disbelief mingled with confusion. “You used Virginia Lockhart’s phone . . . ?”
“Mine’s not working, so I found hers in her pocket, and I called for help. . . .”
I didn’t bother finishing my explanation. He got the picture, which would show me moving Virginia’s body around, touching things that shouldn’t have been touched, taking away evidence....
I let my shoulders slump. “I’m so sorry. I guess I’m not police academy material, after all.”
Jonathan didn’t disagree.
“I’ve had men combing the park for that phone,” he said. “And now it’s in the hands of a suspect, who might erase evidence or ‘lose’ the entire thing.” He took out his own cell and began tapping the screen. “I’ll try to get it back, but I’m sure it’s too late. I guarantee you that anything important is already gone.” In spite of feeling chastened, I was slightly gratified when he added under his breath, “I blame your mother, too. Her and her insistence on showing me twenty condominiums.”
“Sorry,” I repeated, then bit my lower lip. “I swear, this time I wasn’t trying to meddle. Senator . . . er, Mitch . . . came to pick up the dogs, which I still have, and I didn’t even think twice about giving him the phone. Not until he acted like a jerk toward the poor rotties, refusing to take them home. . . .”
I gave up trying to explain.
Jonathan had put away his phone and was bending his head and rubbing his eyes. Then he took a deep breath—a strategy Dylan would’ve endorsed. He didn’t speak for a moment.
“At least this time you didn’t purposely interfere,” he finally admitted, if grudgingly. “I will give you that. However, you did make a very, very bad decision.”
“I know that,” I said. “You can stop pointing it out. I feel terrible.”
Jonathan stared at me for a long time. Then he said, “I believe you. You’re not even eating your cheese. I suppose that speaks volumes.”
“It really does.” I pulled the plate closer to myself, but it was too late. The nachos were past the point of no return. Covering them with a napkin, I looked across the table at Jonathan. “What if there was a way I could make amends for both things I did wrong today?”
He grew wary again. But he was curious, too. “How, exactly, would you do that?”
I grinned. “You’ll have to take a short ride. And trust me.”
“I don’t think the ‘trust’ part is possible.”
He was only half joking. At least, I hoped he was joking to some degree.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “I’m trying to help you.”
“I keep asking you to stop doing that—”
“This has nothing to do with police work or investigating. I promise.”
I crossed my fingers under the table, because I did intend to discuss the murders if I convinced him to come with me. I also avoided telling him that we’d have to use my van for the ride.
Even without that knowledge, Jonathan deliberated for so long that I was sure he’d decline.
Then he stood up and said, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but let’s go.”
Chapter 68
“Why did I agree to ride in this thing?” Jonathan muttered. He rested one hand on my van’s dashboard, as if he didn’t trust the seat belt to save him if we had an accident. Probably because he’d given the belt a few sharp tugs before we’d set out, and it hadn’t always worked. That was no doubt unacceptable to a man who almost certainly used to pack his own parachute. “Tell me again why we couldn’t take my truck.”
“Because I would’ve had to tell you where we’re going,” I said. “I have to drive.”
“Actually, this route is familiar. Please tell me we’re not going to—”
“Don’t worry about the destination,” I said, cutting him off before he could guess. “Just enjoy the ride.”
“That’s impossible.” He tried to stretch out his legs, and some veggie burrito wrappers rustled on the floor. “Have you considered professional auto detailing? Or a trade-in?”
I gave him a quick, sharp glance. “Hey!”
He seemed to realize he’d taken the teasing too far. “Sorry.”
We rode in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked, “If I bring up the murder investigation, will you get angry?”
Jonathan stared straight ahead. “Probably.”
“Well, I’m going to do it, anyway,” I said. I pressed on the gas pedal, trying to get the VW up a small hill. Happily, my van was up to the challenge. I looked over at Jonathan again. “Not only did I accidentally take Virginia’s phone, but I also answered it once, when it rang.�
��
That small muscle I sometimes saw working in Jonathan’s jaw twitched. “And . . . ?”
“I’m pretty sure I found out what—or who—the ‘fruit’ of the tragedy is.”
“It’s Bryce,” Jonathan informed me. “He’s Virginia and Steve’s son. I already knew that.”
Well, that was deflating. I’d hoped to drop a huge bombshell on him, but it had fizzled like a damp firecracker. “How did you find out?”
Jonathan reached for the dash again as I steered around a curve. “Bryce keeps in touch with me. He’s back in Seattle—”
I nearly justified Jonathan’s concerns about his safety by almost driving off the road. “How can that be? He poisoned Steve. Isn’t he going to trial?”
“He was never charged, since there was no real intent to do harm,” Jonathan explained. “His defense attorney and I argued that he’s a confused kid who needs guidance, not jail time. In fact, I think jail would destroy a fragile person like Bryce. ”
I glanced over at him, not believing my ears. “What? You argued for leniency?”
“Yes,” Jonathan said, meeting my gaze just for a moment. I was surprised to see sympathy in his eyes. “He’s a very troubled young man. But he’s not a criminal at heart.”
“And you still speak with him . . . ?”
Facing the road again, Jonathan nodded. “Yes. He calls me every few days.”
“What do you talk about?”
Jonathan shrugged. “Whatever he wants to discuss. Little things that happened to him that day—or big things, like the loss of his parents. It depends on his mood.”
I was having trouble accepting the idea of Jonathan Black as a confidant. And yet I could see how a lost, fatherless soul like Bryce might look to Jonathan as a mentor. He was steady, grounded, and confident. Probably a dream big brother for a guy with Bryce’s abandonment issues, insecurities, and anger.
“I think that’s really nice of you,” I said.
“It’s nothing. All I do is answer the phone and listen.”
I wanted to tell him that some people wouldn’t even do that, but we’d arrived at our destination. I turned the van onto a lane that was growing familiar to me and probably to Jonathan, too. Only this time, the property was marked by two signs.
One for Blue Ribbon K9 Academy.
And one that said FOR SALE.
Chapter 69
“What are we doing here again?” Jonathan asked, following me up onto the porch at Steve Beamus’s A-frame log cabin. “I’ve gone over this place thoroughly. There’s nothing more to see.”
There was a lockbox hanging on the knob, but I bent to find the spare key, which was still under the flowerpot. I inserted that into the lock and opened the door. “Just come inside and check out the house one more time—as a person looking for a new home, not a detective.”
Jonathan appeared skeptical, but he followed me into the foyer. “How did you know it was on the market?”
“I was using my mother’s laptop.” I switched on some lights. “I saw it on an MLS site.”
Jonathan peered around the cabin, as if seeing it for the first time. He looked up to the ceiling and checked out the exposed beams. “Why hasn’t your mother mentioned it to me?”
“She probably thinks it’s wrong for you,” I said, guessing. “I bet she’d say, ‘A busy single man doesn’t need a home with so much upkeep—or the outbuilding that housed the K9 Academy.’”
“She’d probably be right,” Jonathan noted. But he continued surveying the place and wandered into the living room.
I took that for potential buyer’s interest and said, “I think this house could be great for you. It’s very masculine and private. Just try to imagine the space without the ugly antler furniture, the tacky elk painting, and the poor bear, who should get a decent burial.”
As I imagined the cabin with new furniture—maybe an antique Turkish rug on the floor and some overstuffed, nap-worthy couches accented with soft, cozy throws—I was starting to want it.
“And just picture a roaring fire in the big stone fireplace on a snowy day,” I added, completing the scene. “Wouldn’t that be great?”
Jonathan ran his hand over the river rocks on the feature I’d just described. “You know you sound just like your mother, right?”
I froze in place. “Take it back.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t.”
He moved into the kitchen, and I followed, then watched him open and close cupboards.
“It is a great house in many ways,” he admitted. “But I honestly don’t need a dog school on my property.”
“If you trained Herod, you must have a gift for working with dogs,” I said, forgetting that he might not appreciate me bringing up his past. “And I saw you with Iago. You didn’t say a word, and he obeyed you perfectly—off leash. You could help people and their pets in your spare time. There are a lot of misbehaving dogs around here. I know, because I sit for them.”
Jonathan got even quieter than usual, and I knew I’d said too much.
Who was I to suggest he become Sylvan Creek’s resident dog whisperer?
And why had I brought up Herod?
“I’ll think about the house,” he finally said. “But I doubt I’d keep the outbuilding. I don’t work with dogs anymore. I’m not with the local K9 unit.”
I wished he would tell me more about Herod and what had happened in Afghanistan. Talking about the past could be therapeutic. I doubted he ever opened up to anyone, though.
At least he was still considering the property and was seeing past Steve’s awful decor—not to mention the mess Bryce had left in the kitchen.
I wasn’t the tidiest person in the world, but there was a lot of junk on the counter. Dirty dishes, plastic bags from local markets, and little grains of rice, an indication that Bryce had spilled one of the Thai Palace take-out containers that should’ve been put in the trash but which still littered the area near the stove.
Two important objects were missing, though.
A bottle of pills and instructions for their use, printed on Templeton Animal Hospital stationery.
Chapter 70
“You had another late night,” Piper noted, looking at me over the rim of her coffee mug. She was sitting at the kitchen counter, reading the morning news on her tablet. “I hope that doesn’t mean Dylan caught up with you after the procedure and will be moving even slower than usual today.”
I took a container from the refrigerator and began to scoop a mixture I called PowerPup Breakfast into five bowls while Artie, Socrates, and the rottweilers waited patiently.
“Why did you hire Dylan and keep him on if you think he’s such a bad worker?” I asked, setting the bowls down one by one. I was extra careful with Socrates’s delicate china. “He seems to drive you crazy!”
Macduff, Hamlet, and Iago sat on their haunches, waiting for me to release them to eat, but Artie broke ranks and dug right into the blend of chopped chicken, ground beef, barley, veggies, and fruits.
“Okay,” I said, with a wave of my hand, giving the rotties the go-ahead to chow down, too.
In less than ten seconds, most of their food was gone, and I gave them each an extra scoop.
My two-hundred-dollar share of Mitch’s money might not stretch that far, after all.
Socrates lingered a few moments without eating, so I’d know he wasn’t really following the command. Then he shuffled over to his special plate.
“Dylan’s actually a good employee,” Piper conceded. “His calm nature rubs off on the animals. I have fewer problems with biting and struggling when he’s around. But I do wish he’d wear pants.”
“Hey, speaking of your practice . . .” I went to the stove, turned a knob to get a gas flame going, and set the tea kettle on a burner. “Do you remember prescribing something called Lysodren for Axis?”
“Yes, of course,” Piper said. “For his Cushing’s disease. How do you know about that?”
“I saw the bottle at
Steve’s the first time I sneaked into his house. But it was missing last night, when I showed the property to Jonathan.”
Piper had taken a sip of coffee, and she choked. She patted her chest with her hand until she could speak again. “You ‘showed’ him the property? As in ‘tried to get him to buy it’?”
“Well, Mom wouldn’t even tell him about it.” I opened a tin and pulled out a hibiscus-and-watermelon tea bag, thinking the cheerful blend would be perfect on a gloomy morning. The day was misty, with the promise of downpours in the afternoon. “She keeps trying to sell him condos.”
My sister rolled her eyes. “I am giving up trying to figure out what, exactly, you do for a living, and what sort of relationship you share with Detective Black.”
“That’s probably a good idea, because I can’t figure out those things, either.” I poured boiling water into my mug. The aroma of the tea filled the room. All the dogs, who were scattered around the floor, relaxing, lifted their noses to get a good sniff. Even Socrates took a whiff. “Anyway, getting back to the medicine . . .”
“Oh, yes,” Piper said. “What about it?”
I leaned against the counter, sipping my tea. It was nice and warming on an unseasonably chilly day. “Why would someone take it? Would a human want it? Is it expensive?”
Piper shook her head. “No, it’s not very expensive. I can’t imagine anyone bothering to resell it on, say, the black market. It is used to treat adrenal cancer in humans, but I don’t know why someone battling that would take a dog’s pills. I’m sure the dosage is different for people.”
“I think someone took it for Axis,” I said. “I still think someone has him. That person saw Axis growing sick but couldn’t risk taking him to a vet. So he or she went to Steve’s and found the medicine.”
“Oh, Daphne . . .” Piper looked sad. She pushed aside the tablet and stood up. “I’m pretty sure whatever happened the night Steve was killed scared Axis enough that he ran off. I put ‘lost dog’ flyers in my waiting room, but no one has seen him. He’s probably long gone by now.”
I didn’t know if she meant far away or deceased. I had a feeling she was being purposely vague.
Death by Chocolate Lab (Lucky Paws Petsitting Mystery) Page 21
