Doggone Dead

by Teresa Trent

  “No, I think I’ll work just a little longer. I may have to leave early to get Zach.”

  “Suit yourself. Allison?”

  “No, thank you. I had a big breakfast,” Allison said, pulling tiny glass figurines out of a box. The other three ladies left us alone to dig through the dusty mess. I opened a desk drawer and pulled out a large journal. It had blue and gold flowers on the cover and seemed to be filled with poetry. Bad poetry.

  “What did you find?”

  “Oh, it seems Hunter liked to write poetry,” I said. Allison laughed.

  “Ugh, please don’t read any of it to me,” she said. “I had enough of that in boarding school.”

  “I’ll bet it didn’t sound like this.” I began reading, “In the glen there is a secret, one I cannot, will not tell. In the glen there is a secret, for the ones who cannot see.”

  “That’s ... really bad. Who was he writing that stuff for, anyway?”

  “Who knows. I need to take it to my dad. This is the kind of thing he will look at and figure out.” I stuck the floral notebook in my box.

  “Your dad is going to interpret poetry and solve the case?” she asked.

  “Sure, what cop doesn’t enjoy a little iambic pentameter?” I countered. “I just hope I can remember to take it out of my car. Maggie will be glad to tell you that I have the messiest car in the family. I tend to get distracted and forget to bring the groceries in sometimes.”

  I searched through the rest of the desk stuffed with receipts and bills, which I started stacking in piles. Allison started breaking down some of the boxes and folding them in the corner. I knew this would be a good time to talk about Danny.

  “Allison, Danny just loves working with you.”

  “And I love working with him,” she answered.

  “Yes, well sometimes, when he’s around somebody who is young and pretty and ...”

  “I get it. He has a crush on me?”

  I felt relief flooding through me. “Yes! He has told me how wonderful you are.”

  “He’s told me that, too.”

  “Will you let him down easy?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’ll tell him I have a boyfriend. That ought to help.”

  “If you do, just promise you’ll do it very gently.”

  “Of course,” she said and then hugged my shoulder. Danny was in good hands.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As soon as I was able to get away from Libby Loper’s house, I poked my head into the Pecan Bayou Police Department. I found my dad behind his desk, busily hunting and pecking the keys on his keyboard. His typing skills were questionable, but dependable.

  Upon seeing me, he leaned back in his chair to address Mrs. Thatcher, engrossed in a puzzle book at the dispatcher’s desk. “Betsy’s here. I think I’ll be taking my coffee break now.”

  “Whatever,” she said, barely looking up. “I’ll let you know if a crime wave up and hits us.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He stepped out from behind the counter and took me by the arm. “What do you say we check out Earl’s?”

  We walked three doors down to Earl’s Java. The bell tinkled as we walked in. Earl was leaning back in a brown leather booth, snoring softly. Hot coffee on a summer afternoon in Texas wasn’t too much of a moneymaker. My father picked up the coffee pot and a cup and helped himself.

  “Shouldn’t we wake up Earl?”

  “Nah, I just leave money on the counter. It’s a system.”

  “If you say so.” I walked over and grabbed a soft drink from the cooler. We climbed into the cool leather booth on the other side of the restaurant as a fan gently hummed above us.

  “So, what did you find?” my father asked.

  “Not much. A whole lot of glassware and a book of poetry so far. I have it out in the car if you’d like to see it.”

  My father shot a glance at the sleeping Earl. “Poetry? Really?”

  “It might give you some insight into the victim.”

  He considered it for a moment and then nodded his head. “Okay, bring it to me and I’ll check it out. You didn’t find anything else like maybe the guns that were stolen from the museum?”

  “No, and I looked everywhere.”

  “If you find the gun, then you have the killer. Easy as that – and if Libby has those guns, then she’s the ...” Earl stirred in the corner, silencing my dad.

  “I just wish you could do more, Dad.” I whispered. “Libby looks like a lost sheep in that house. Imagine waking up to find out someone else has been living in your house, drugging you and having a shopping spree with your savings.”

  “Do you think Grayson cleaned her out?”

  “Hard to tell. She’s packing some bling, that’s for sure. Aunt Maggie says she’s making an income off of her father’s estate. Someone made a heck of a deal all those years ago. Now that his old movies are on DVD, she is probably making a pretty good income off them.”

  “Well, at least that’s good to know about her. She doesn’t have much recourse against Grayson except to try to sell or return the stuff he was stockpiling.”

  “There is no way on earth he could have ever used or even displayed all that junk. You never know if the thrill was owning it or just being able to buy it. It’s shopper’s high.”

  “Unfortunately the bill always comes due, right?”

  “Right.” My thoughts drifted to the investigation my dad was going through from the Bonnet arrest. Was that a bill that was due? He had always been there for me. Not only was I not able to help, I was the one who helped frame him. Sitting there, watching him sip at his coffee, I wondered what he would think of my trying to get information out of Adam Cole. Better to do it and ask permission later.

  After I returned home, I pulled up the pictures I had taken at the Bonnet Farm. Maybe, just maybe I could find something that would help out my dad. The first shot I pulled up was the one of my father “planting evidence.” He really did look like he was just picking something up. It could also be interpreted the wrong way, especially if you had a guilty son you wanted to look innocent.

  Dad was standing up against the shed. I enlarged the picture to see what was in there. Coop Bonnet talking on his cell phone leaning up against the shed. He didn’t look too guilty of anything unless it was taking a personal call on his father’s time. I looked through the rest of the pictures. I had taken several of the rows of watermelons skirting up against a wooded area. Those were the pictures I thought Rocky would use, not one accusing my father of planting evidence. I had tried to get a picture of the house from the field of watermelons, but they didn’t seem to want me over there. I needed to go back and see the farm again, but after what happened the last time I didn’t see Clay Bonnet being too friendly with me. Maybe if I could take Zach and say I was there having a teaching moment kind of visit they would put up with me. Just one more look around might help me turn up something.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Mom! How big of a watermelon can we buy?” Zach said, holding Butch by his leash. The little dog was squirming to run as he viewed puppy heaven. Miles and miles of to nothing to do but run.

  “Yeah, how big, Betsy?” Danny echoed.

  “Um, let’s get a big one,” I answered.

  Zach and Danny let out a whoop and started running up and down the rows of watermelons. Butch, coming from behind, now led the way, dragging them along behind him. I followed them but made a wide turn, making my way back to the trees. I wanted to step back and look at the farm from a different angle.

  “Betsy?” I heard Lina Bonnet’s voice from behind me.

  “Hi, Lina,” I said a little too cheerily.

  “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Oh, well,” I said, flapping my hands to the side, “the boys just had to get a watermelon for the Fourth, you know.”

  “Oh,” she said, fingering a gold pendant at her neck that was circled in what looked like emeralds. It was a pretty nice necklace for a farm girl. The sun caught the s
tones, creating a blinding effect back at me. “Well, there are some beauties up toward the house.”

  I turned toward the boys, and they were running closer and closer to the trees. It seemed that Butch had wriggled out of his collar again and was making a beeline toward the woods.

  “Oh no, excuse me, we have to get the dog,” I said to Lina.

  “I’ll help.” She ran to the other row, trying to corner the puppy. All four of us closed in on him, and I noticed that Clay Bonnet was now out in the field helping to capture Butch.

  “Here, boy,” Clay whistled. I wasn’t so sure I wanted Butch to actually come to him. We all converged on him right as Zach reached down to swoop him up. Butch, having none of this, wriggled free and hightailed it back to the woods. He was closest to me, so I ran after him to the edge of the elm and pecan trees. I was about two feet in when Clay, with amazing agility, came up through the trees from the other side and grabbed Butch. I stood on the edge of the tree line breathing hard. I used the opportunity to see further into the woods. A hammock hung between two of the trees, and there was trash strewn about in the weeds on the ground under it. It looked like a nice cool place for field workers to take a little break and then leave trash.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Bonnet,” I said, my hands on my knees as I gasped for breath.

  Clay Bonnet handed me the wriggling Butch and, grabbing my elbow, guided me back out. “You really shouldn’t be bringing a dog out here, Mrs. Livingston. They could get you into all sorts of trouble,” he said under his breath.

  “Yeah, thanks, Mr. Bonnet,” Danny said, pronouncing Clay Bonnet’s name like the hat a prairie girl would wear.

  “You need to keep this dog on his leash,” he said as I handed the dog back to Zach, who started trying to put Butch’s collar back on.

  “Yes, he keeps getting free,” I said. “It would have been awful if he had gotten into some of the trash around the hammock.” I guess I had just seen the underbelly of the farm. It was quite a contrast to the pristine blue-and-white painted farmhouse gleaming in the hot July sun.

  Anxious to lighten the mood, I plunged in as if we hadn’t just been rounded up by the people who were threatening to get my dad relieved of duty. “Did you guys find a watermelon?” I asked the boys.

  Danny and Zach sprinted two rows over as they both settled on a watermelon the size of a small wagon. “This one! This one! Can we pick it?” Zach shouted.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Clay Bonnet took off his baseball cap and swatted at a bug around his head. His lips tightened into a line. As we came upon the produce stand the Bonnet farm used to ring up sales, Clay gestured to Lina. “You can pay Lina.” He started walking away, but then turned back. “I don’t usually try to discourage my customers, but in your case, the grocery store in town has air conditioning.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  That evening, I scooted into a chair being held for me by Adam Cole, Pecan Bayou’s newest district attorney. He brought me to Ben’s Bayou, a restaurant built over the water of Pecan Bayou. It was the most expensive restaurant in town, although by big city standards, it probably wasn’t all that unusual. In Pecan Bayou it was just nice to visit a restaurant that didn’t feature a drive-through.

  We sat at a table on the patio, right next to the water. I noticed a lack of mosquitoes and wondered if there was a stealth bug zapper working overtime somewhere.

  “I was really surprised you decided to come to dinner with me tonight,” he said.

  He’d be surprised if he really knew why. “I figured you seemed like a nice guy, and well, I’m not getting any younger.” That didn’t come out right.

  Adam Cole laughed and poured some white wine into my glass and then lifted his own for a toast. I quickly picked up my glass and clinked it to his.

  “To new friends.”

  “To new friends,” I repeated. I took a sip of my wine and looked out over the water. The sun would be setting in about an hour, and the heat was subsiding for the day. The cicadas chirped our dinner music along with the Willie Nelson ballad playing over the sound system.

  “So how did you end up here in Pecan Bayou?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Pecan Bayou is a small town, and it seemed like a nice place to settle down. I’ve always wanted to work in Texas, probably because I read too many Louis L’Amour novels. Anyway, when an opening came up here, I put in for it.”

  “I see. Well, we might be small, but we do have all kinds of crime.”

  “I’ve noticed that. I’ve only been here a week and we already have a murder and police harassment charge.”

  He brought it up. I didn’t even have to reach for it.

  “I heard about the murder, but what about police harassment?”

  “Oh, some old cop was caught planting evidence at a crime scene. The local paper even had a picture of it. That one will be pretty open and shut.”

  I gulped my wine and then coughed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, getting up to pat me on the back.

  “Yes,” I gasped. “I’m fine.” I pulled in a deep breath to continue the conversation. “You have a picture of the policeman actually holding evidence in his hand?”

  “Well, no, you can’t see evidence, but it’s pretty clear what he’s doing there.”

  This wasn’t going well at all. He had already tried and convicted my dad.

  “It seems to me you would need a lot more to go on that just some stupid picture.”

  Adam Cole leaned back in his chair and touched his fingertips together in front of him. “Betsy, you’ll have to forgive me, but I really don’t know all that much about you. What was it that you did for a living?”

  “Uh, I’m a blogger.”

  “You make money at that? Blogging, I mean?”

  “Enough. I just think that Lieutenant Kelsey needs a fair shake in all this, you know.”

  “I never said the officer’s name,” he said. “How would you know that? Is there something you haven’t been telling me?”

  Busted.

  “I uh, read the papers like everyone else.” I tried to make my light of my blunder.

  “You said you hadn’t heard about the harassment case.”

  “Excuse me?” A woman now stood next to our table holding on to a little girl who was wiggling to be free of her.

  “Yes?” Adam turned.

  “I couldn’t help noticing you sitting here. You’ll have to forgive me. My Daffodil here is going to be Miss Watermelon. Oops, that’s not right.” She placed her hand over her mouth and giggled, then began again. “Daffodil is going to be in the Miss Watermelon Pageant, and well, you are the judge …”

  Adam registered a blank look as he tried to comprehend what she just said. “You must have me mistaken for …”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “She’s referring to me. I’m the judge.”

  Adam leaned in, “You’re the judge?”

  “Afraid so.” I turned back to the woman, whose daughter was looking into the fish tank full of lobsters, tracing along the glass with her finger. She gently took her hand and led her over to the table. Daffodil curtsied.

  “It is so nice to meet you,” I said, “but I’m out to dinner right now with a friend. Could this wait for another time?”

  The woman continued, “Oh, I can see you are out on a date, but we had heard that you had taken some time with some of the other contestants and thought this would only be fair.”

  “Oh. Well, actually I just ran into those girls, just like I seem to be running into you today. I’m sorry if you misunderstood. It’s nice to meet you, Daffodil.”

  Daffodil looked up at me and smiled. “It is very nice to meet you.” The lack of a contraction made me think it had been rehearsed.

  “Well, thank you for your time,” her mother said, starting to back away from the table.

  The two walked away from the restaurant patio deck. With our view of the parking lot from the deck, I saw them climb in to a minivan. I wasn’t s
ure if they had already had their meal or if they followed me here. How else would they know where to find me?

  Adam smiled and picked up his wine, drinking it but never taking his eyes off of me. “So you’re a beauty pageant judge. What do you blog about, fashion?”

  “I write about helpful hints. You know, how to get out stains or keep refrigerator smelling fresh. That kind of stuff.”

  He snapped his fingers. “That’s it! You’re the Happy Hinter from the paper.”

  “You read my column?”

  He shifted his weight to his other foot and smiled. “Well, okay. I’ve seen your column but have never actually read it. It’s always on the page opposite the sports page.”

  “No wonder I have so many male readers.”

  “Hey, I’m sure there are women who read the sports page, too.”

  “Point taken.”

  The waiter approached us to take our orders and I was saved from further questions. I was turning out to be a lousy spy. I was supposed to be getting information out of him, but the more I talked the more I gave away.

  “Hey, Miss Betsy.” I looked up to see Keith Simmons, who used to be my paperboy. His grandfather was the owner of Simmons Hardware and had been the closest thing to a witness to Hunter Grayson’s death. Keith had grown much taller than the twelve-year-old who would show up collecting his fee at my doorstep every month. His face was now suffering from the ravages of acne, and his body had turned into all arms and legs.

  “Hi there, Keith. I didn’t know you were working here,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been here for a whole week now. Food service is my life now.”

  “That’s great. Will you be working here during the school year?”

  “I don’t know, I sure would like to,” he said. Keith took our order, writing each word down slowly and then repeating it back to us.

  “Okay, so Betsy is having the gumbo,” Keith said and then added with his best restaurant sales smile, “Good choice, Betsy ... and the gentleman you’re with is having a steak, medium rare.”

  We both nodded, exhausted from his order-taking. After Keith left, I tried to redirect the conversation away from any connection Adam Cole might make from me to my father by bringing up the Fourth of July holiday.