Horse of a Different Killer (A Call of the Wilde Mystery Book 3)

by Laura Morrigan

  “Could be a clerical error,” he suggested. “We’re talking about importing from overseas. There’s a language barrier to consider.”

  “Well, I can’t check Lily Earl’s paperwork—it’s missing.”

  “You said the vet was there when Heart was delivered to R-n-R, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, would she have noticed if he . . .” Kai trailed off, a pained look on his face.

  “If he had been cut?” I asked, just to see if Kai would wince.

  He did.

  Men. So sensitive about their nether regions.

  “Would you prefer the term neutered?” I asked. “How about castrated?”

  He flinched. “I’d prefer we didn’t talk about it.”

  I tried to hide my smile but failed.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Back to the vet,” Kai said.

  “I haven’t been able to reach her. I talked to her neighbor, who told me the good doctor was in and out and doesn’t have a set schedule. How do I catch her at home?”

  “You could always try doing what the telemarketers do—catch her at dinnertime.”

  CHAPTER 14

  It was after dark by the time I reached Dr. Simon’s little blue house.

  Gator Lady was nowhere in sight, though I noticed a TV’s flickering glow seeping around the curtains of one of her windows.

  Whatever she was watching, it was loud. Probably a recording of a favorite Gator game.

  An excited canine mind zoomed into my range before I’d rung the bell.

  I could barely make out the dog’s muted barks but I knew that something was amiss.

  The dog was more than excited, he was . . . distraught.

  Dr. Simon’s front door was solid except for a series of small, rectangular windows ascending across the upper part of the wood. Standing on tiptoe, I squinted through the glass and was just able to make out an open living area and past it, a dining room set.

  The dog let out a barely audible whine, and I realized the poor thing had barked himself hoarse.

  He was desperately hungry and judging from the dark lumps and small puddles decorating the hardwood floor, I guessed he hadn’t been taken out for quite some time.

  I tried to get a look at the dog but couldn’t get high enough to see down at such an acute angle. I could, however, see through all the way to the rear of the house. The interior was dim, but I could make out a set of windows flanking the solid back door. Almost solid, I realized, squinting against the murky light. There, in the lower part of the dark rectangle, was the faint outline of what looked like a doggy door.

  Light flooded the porch in a blinding flash.

  I took a step away from the door, expecting it to swing open.

  Nothing.

  The lights must have been on a timer.

  The desperate barks continued and I focused a little bit more intently on the dog’s mind, aligning my thoughts to his.

  Roscoe hungry.

  Okay, Roscoe. As soon as the dog felt my connection, he began pleading in earnest.

  Please, Roscoe hungry! Thirsty. Please!

  This wasn’t the poor-me-I’m-starving kind of begging Moss would do to con someone into giving him a treat. Roscoe had not been given food or water.

  Gator Lady had said Dr. Simon was moving. Could she have abandoned the dog?

  I knew the answer.

  “Hang on, little guy,” I muttered.

  I turned and hurried back down the path leading to the driveway. With single-minded purpose, I marched between Bluebell and the garage doors and had rounded the side of the house and taken several steps when reason caught up with me. The security lights were blazing everywhere.

  With a sighed curse, I slowed. And tried to walk in the least suspicious manner possible.

  Only to find the gate in the six-foot privacy fence locked.

  Crap!

  There were no crossbeams to use as footholds on my side and nothing in the area I could use as a leg up.

  I studied the gate, hyperaware of the fact I was acting surreptitious while literally standing in a spotlight. Whatever I was going to do, I needed to do it fast.

  There was a cluster of palms between Gator Lady’s house and the gate. But I had a clear view of a pair of windows. She might glance out and see someone climbing the fence and call the cops.

  I was pretty sure I hadn’t left Duval County, which meant if I got caught, the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office would be responding. I might be able to spin a story of breaking into the house out of concern for the dog’s safety to a Saint Johns County cop and get off with a warning, but I didn’t want to risk Boyle catching wind of my little rescue mission. I had no doubt she would toss me in jail in a hot second if she got the chance.

  Adding a breaking and entering charge wouldn’t do me—or, more important, my sister—any favors.

  But I couldn’t just leave the poor dog.

  I tried calling Sonja for help but, as I knew it would be, the cell signal was nonexistent.

  I got back into Bluebell and started driving, keeping my eyes on the road while intermittently checking my phone for a signal.

  I slammed on the breaks when I saw something I recognized. The little faux water well with the overflowing petunias. I’d passed through this part of the neighborhood a few days ago.

  Dr. Simon lived on one of the streets bordering Jennings State Forest.

  I dug through the detritus on the passenger seat and finally found the rudimentary map I’d gotten from the hikers. After a quick scan I found what I was looking for. The cross street I’d come to was listed on the very edge of the map.

  I made two left turns, and soon rolled to a stop at the same trailhead I’d found a couple of days before.

  The chain swooped from pole to pole barring access to the wide, dirt path. To the side of each pole, a berm had been built to discourage motor vehicles. Easy enough to bypass with Bluebell.

  Wincing as branches scraped along the passenger side, I angled around the pole and heaved over the small hill. The undercarriage rasped over the sand, but a moment later we were clear and bouncing along the trail.

  I gave Bluebell’s dash an affectionate pat.

  Though it was much darker in the woods than it had been on the street, I eschewed turning on the headlights, opting for fog lights instead. I was hoping the beacon of Dr. Simon’s array of exterior lights would be visible through the trees and didn’t want to dull my night vision.

  “Disco,” I said aloud as I caught a glimmer through the branches.

  I parked and remembered the hay bales in Bluebell’s cargo area. I was not going to be able to get to my toolbox, which meant no flashlight or screwdriver. A quick search of the glove box yielded a two-inch Swiss Army knife and a fancy wooden chopstick I used to secure my hair into a bun on occasion.

  Better than nothing. I carefully traipsed through the woods toward the house.

  Like some homes that backed up to woodland, Dr. Simon’s yard had been privacy fenced only on the sides. Along the back was the shorter, wire fencing erected by the Forest Service.

  I paused in the shadow of a large pine tree to scan the area. The place was lit up like the Fortress of Solitude on Christmas. The coast seemed clear, so I hurried to the fence and quickly climbed over into the brightly lit yard.

  Keeping my stride casual, I headed to the back porch.

  I’d come to a decision during my trek through the woods.

  My plan was to climb through the doggy door, make sure Roscoe had food and water, poke around a little, and assess the situation.

  What I found would determine whether I took him with me or not. Either way, the first step was getting through the dog door. Fortunately, I was familiar with this model. />
  The exterior had a thick rubber flap, magnetized at the bottom to help it stay closed. I peeled it up and out of the way so I could get to the hard, plastic “security” door, then placed the chopstick where the latch of that door locked it in place.

  A little shake, a little twist, and voilà, it slid up and out of the way.

  I tucked the chopstick into my back pocket, stuck my head through the opening, and was greeted with more ebullience and fanfare than a superhero.

  Roscoe, who turned out to be a papillon, licked my face and danced in happy circles.

  Hello! Hungry!

  Kisses!

  “Okay, buddy, hang on.”

  It took a minute to wriggle through the opening. I had to stretch and contort to avoid the piles of poo around the back door.

  Twister: the Excrement Edition.

  Finally securing a safe place to put my hands, then my knees and eventually my feet, I stood and began my search for dog food.

  “Where’s your food, Roscoe?”

  Food!

  The little dog dashed around the corner and reappeared a few seconds later dragging a plastic dog bowl with him.

  He set it in front of me, spun in a tight circle, then pranced to one of the lower cabinets and bumped the door with his nose.

  Sure enough, I opened it to find a bag of dog food.

  I poured some in Roscoe’s dish then got a cereal bowl from one the cabinets, filled it with water and set it next to the food. The little dog took two bites of food then went straight for the water. He drank with an eagerness that made me think he’d been without for a while.

  Where the hell was Dr. Simon?

  As if answering my own question my gaze landed on a purse resting on the counter next to a pile of mail.

  I opened the bag and peeked inside, then, for no other reason than I’d seen people do it in movies, I lifted out the wallet and looked over its contents. Driver’s license, credit cards, cash—whoa. Make that lots of cash.

  I didn’t get an exact count, but it was at least two grand.

  With a wary look around, I stuffed it all back in her purse. Her purse, wallet, and cash were here. But where was she?

  Could something have happened to the vet? People fell and injured themselves at home all the time. And with the cell service out . . .

  “Hello?” I called out. Waited. Aside from Roscoe’s happy munching—nothing. The rest of the house felt empty. Still, it would be better to take a look around. I didn’t make it a habit of breaking into people’s houses and felt a little jumpy and nervous as I started down the hall to what I assumed were the bedrooms. The first door opened to a bathroom. I flipped on the light, but other than some truly unfortunate wallpaper, saw nothing remarkable. Next came a bedroom, empty except for a floor lamp. Across the hall was another bedroom—also empty. The master was at the end of the hall.

  I clicked the switch and heard the hum of the ceiling fan as it began to spin overhead. The room remained dark, and I felt for a second switch. Finding none, I glanced up at the fan. It was capped with a globe that should have contained a light.

  The fixture hummed and began to sway slightly. A gentle ticking sound punctuated each oscillation.

  It probably would have been soothing, had I not been skulking around in the dark. Squinting up, I searched for a pull chain on the fan, but didn’t see one.

  “Should have dug through hay for the flashlight.”

  By the ambient glow from the window, I was able to make out a walk-in closet to my right. Turning on that light revealed there was no one in the room.

  There was an open moving box to the side of the closet.

  I did a double take when I saw the diploma.

  Auburn—my alma mater.

  Except, something wasn’t right. I pulled the framed certificate out of the box for a closer look and saw the diploma had slipped a little in the matting to reveal another document underneath.

  Flipping the frame over, I opened the back and found a second diploma for someone named Simone Grant who’d earned a degree in business from Ohio State.

  A third claimed Caroline Smith, Esq., had attended Loyola.

  Could they all be fakes?

  I found the answer in a second box nestled inside the first. The stack of identification badges and driver’s licenses were from all over the country. Though her hair color and style changed, sometimes dramatically, between IDs, and different glasses and even eye colors were listed, I knew I was looking at the same woman.

  There were also two U.S. passports issued in different names and a dozen business cards.

  At least I’d figured out why Dr. Simon didn’t act like a vet. She wasn’t one.

  Who was she?

  Where was she?

  Abandoning the box and its contents, I continued my search.

  Next to the bed, I found an iPhone. It was newer than mine but I was still able to navigate to Dr. Simon’s messages and her call list. Three out of the four most recent calls were local numbers; one was listed as “blocked.”

  The rapid click-clack of the dog’s toenails on the hardwood floor sounded and a moment later, Roscoe pranced through the doorway toward me.

  I glanced at him and asked, “You need to go out? Give me just a sec.”

  But he didn’t want to go out, he wanted me to pick him up and hold him.

  Cuddle!

  He balanced back on his hindquarters and scooped down at the air in front of him with his front paws.

  All the time his big, liquid brown eyes were a picture of longing.

  Please cuddle?

  “Has anyone said no to this?” I asked and scooped him up. He wriggled ecstatically for a moment, gifted me with a half a dozen doggy kisses, then settled into the crook of my arm.

  I turned my attention back to the phone. I went to the voice messages; there were only two and I listened to each in turn.

  The first was from Boomer. He sounded annoyed. “Lucy’s colic is better, but I’d still appreciate a call back.”

  A slow chill oozed over my skin when I heard Tony’s voice.

  “I got your call. I may have a solution to our problem.”

  I started to replay the message but the phone buzzed in my hand and a warning flashed on the screen.

  Low battery.

  I looked around the room for a charger. I’d taken a step toward the dresser across the room when tension rippled through the little dog.

  Though I’d paused to listen, I couldn’t hear anything over the humming, tick-tick-tick of the ceiling fan.

  Roscoe had gone rigid. Something about his reaction told me it wasn’t Dr. Simon returning. A moment later, the sound of muffled voices confirmed this theory.

  Men’s voices.

  I crept toward the hall, thinking I might overhear what was being said, when two things happened in quick succession.

  First, I heard the front door’s lock click.

  Second, as the door opened, one of the men said in a distinctive accent, “It smells like shit in here.”

  The instant he spoke, Roscoe began to tremble and whimper. Instinctively, I reached out mentally to calm him—the moment I’d connected to his mind a series of images flashed through my head.

  It was like crash-landing into someone’s nightmare.

  The sound of crying.

  Fear.

  That accented voice speaking harsh, cold words filled with menace. A woman’s muted, agonized sobs.

  I choked back bile and clasped my hand over my mouth.

  As I wrestled my mental shield into place I realized I was still standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

  In moments, I’d be in plain view of the two men—no, the two murderers who’d just entered the house.

  I spun in a futile circle, struggling to keep my wits about me as
the echo of the dog’s memory bounced around my head.

  The need to flee made my legs burn.

  But there was nowhere to go.

  Hide!

  I scurried into the walk-in closet, clicked the light off, and slid behind the open door. A few seconds later I heard the same voice growing louder as the man moved down the hall.

  “Where’s the dog?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s crap everywhere.”

  “Grab her stuff. I’ll get her purse.”

  The bedroom light clicked on, spearing our hiding place with a thin beam of light.

  I absurdly wondered how the hell the man had managed to turn on the light then realized it didn’t matter.

  In order to get as flat as possible, I’d lifted Roscoe high onto the side of my shoulder, which made his muzzle level with my ear. He was panting—not hard, but in the confined space he sounded like a revved-up, mini–Darth Vader.

  I was going to have to quiet him down or we were both done for. I would be, anyway.

  I closed my eyes and focused on making myself completely calm. The sound of movement drifted in from the bedroom but I didn’t allow my mind to register it, instead I worked at clearing my head until it was filled with layers and layers of white, hazy nothingness, like the snow on an old black-and-white TV.

  When I was sure I could snuff out whatever terror flared in his mind, I turned my attention to Roscoe. Keeping my eyes closed and my thoughts focused, I cautiously opened my mind to his.

  The need to run away made him squirm in my arms.

  Easy. It’s okay.

  His thoughts were an unintelligible tangle of fear. I tried to soothe buzzing panic with blanketing calm.

  I don’t know how long it took, but eventually the little dog’s breathing became even.

  I allowed myself to become aware of the creaking floorboards as the man moved around the bedroom, then I heard something else—a jingling sound.

  Almost like . . . bells.

  I tilted my head to peer through the space between the door and the jamb.

  A leanly muscled man with spiky dark hair stood at the dresser. His back was to me, so I couldn’t see his face, but as he moved I could see he was wearing latex gloves.