by June Whyte
“That’s ridiculous, and you know it. Val’s too responsible and conscientious to let a patient on her watch escape and…and if she did…there’s no way Val would put me through this agony. She’d confess. Job or no job.”
“Alright, Katrina, this is not your concern. Leave it with me. I’ll contact Animal Welfare in the morning and take it from there. It’s not your fault. No need for us to fall out. After all, Stanley is only a dog. And we have plenty more GAP dogs to care for and place in new homes without letting this situation cloud our main goal.”
With that she hung up.
I shook my head. Blinked down at the phone as though it was instrumental in fabricating that weird conversation. Stanley? Only a dog? That didn’t sound like the Gina Robertson who worked countless hours on a voluntary basis to run the State’s GAP program. The Gina Robertson whose tongue lashings could make even the biggest, strongest man quake if she caught him neglecting or being cruel to one of our precious greyhounds.
I slowly settled the receiver back on its base and eyed the television screen. Six lithe young men dressed in nothing from the waist up were twisting and gyrating their bodies in time to some disjointed rap-like music, but my mind barely registered the bare flesh and the tight six-packs. My mind couldn’t get past Gina’s uncharacteristic words.
A chill, deep and biting, infiltrated my chest and spread its tentacles into my limbs.
I shivered and reached for the fluffy dark blue blanket spread across the back of the sofa.
Gina Robertson knew something about Stanley’s disappearance and it had her running scared. Maybe she also knew something about my sister’s disappearance. Or how the geriatric guy ended up dead in his own refrigerator.
But what made me snuggle deeper under that fluffy blue blanket was the fact that I’d decided to visit GAP’s ultra-pleasant coordinator first thing in the morning and try to find out what that something was.
14
It was ten o’clock the following morning. Although dark clouds scudded across the sky, threatening rain, it wasn’t cold. Somewhere between 18 and 20 degrees. Compared to European countries, Australian winters were mild, with temperatures varying from zero to low twenties.
I changed out of my work clothes of ancient ripped jeans and tatty T into new straight-leg jeans, a pale apricot tunic top that Ben said highlighted my hazel-green eyes, and folded a light synthetic slicker into my tote bag, just in case the skies did open.
The racing dogs were worked and fed and I’d decided the best excuse for dropping in on Gina, uninvited, was to deliver Stella to her kennels. After all, with Stanley dognapped it was only wise I made sure Stella was safe over the next couple of days. Her new family would be devastated if anything happened to her.
I’d brushed the dog’s red brindle coat until it shone and fastened a soft green leather, GAP collar around her neck. Stella knew she was going out. In fact she became so excited she rushed around the house, her over-active tail knocking into the furniture as she bounced and barked at Tater, who was trying to keep up with her much longer legs.
Of course I couldn’t get out of the house with only one dog. The looks on Lucky and Tater’s faces told me exactly what they thought of that idea.
Okay, we’d go as a family.
First, I put the back seat down in the Holden station wagon as it was too dangerous to have two loose greyhounds bouncing around, stomping on Tater and causing major arguments while I drove. Then I strapped Tater in the middle of the back seat with a greyhound on each side. All safely harnessed.
“Right guys?” I asked checking them out over my shoulder after turning the key in the ignition. “Everyone comfortable back there?”
Tater rolled his eyes and gave the doggy equivalent of a pout. His tiny sharp featured face registering disapproval at being jammed in between the lolling-tongued greyhounds in the back, instead of in his usual position beside me in the passenger’s seat.
To keep any disagreements by ‘the kids’ to a minimum, I sang along with Good Charlotte on the car radio as we drove towards Williamstown. Occasionally Lucky tried to join in but her voice was strident and flat. Each time she started, Tater snapped at her as if to say, Button up, Bucko.
However, by the time I parked in the sloping driveway of Gina’s rolling hundred acre property on the outskirts of Williamstown, my nerves had returned. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach battering against the walls, wanting out. How was I supposed to question Gina, ask her what she knew about Liz, Stanley, and the dead guy in the refrigerator? If my theory was wrong she’d think I was crazy—probably call the men in white and have me institutionalized.
And if I was right—why would she tell me anything—more likely hit me on the head and lock me up in one of her isolated sheds then flush the key down the loo.
I switched off the motor, told the excited canines in the back seat to wait while I scoped the place out and opened the door of the car. Immediately, three elderly greyhounds trotted arthritically over to greet me, smiles of welcome accompanied by wagging tails and slurps of affection. These were Gina’s personal ‘keepers’—dogs she’d adopted years ago when they first came out of racing. During the day the geriatric trio had freedom of the property and at night a warm soft bed inside the house. Of course I had to pat each individual gray head and insist they were the most beautiful animals in the whole world, before pushing through a couple of inquisitive pigs, Choco, a piebald miniature pony Gina had rescued from a suburban garage where he hadn’t seen the light of day for two years, and her favorite rescue animal—Atticus the goat. What she saw in Atticus I’d never know. He was a nasty piece of work with a one-track mind. And that was lowering his head and butting bums.
There were raised voices coming from inside the barn where Gina kept several rescue horses all needing care and treatment before going to new homes. That was Gina. Anything from an injured kangaroo to a broken winged seagull found a home with her. Which is why her comment of, ‘Stanley’s only a dog’, didn’t ring true.
Was someone blackmailing her?
Threatening her?
Dodging Atticus’s horns I hurried across to the barn and shook the door. Locked. Now that was unusual. Although the voices were raised, I could only hear one or two words through the thickness of the barn door. Not enough to know if I needed to ring for help. However, it was definitely Gina and a man with a gruff voice. And they were arguing.
But who was in there with her? Why was the door locked? Was Gina being held against her will?
A ladder stood against the side of the barn with a large tin of forest green paint balanced on the top rung. Unlike me, Gina was forever painting her outbuildings. Being a klutz, I left that messy task to Jake. It seemed as soon as Gina finished painting every shed on her property, it was time to start all over again—just like the Sydney Harbour Bridge. But the thing that drew me toward the ladder was the fact that there was a two inch gap between the top of the barn wall and the roof, left that way for air circulation. If I could climb the ladder, maybe I’d see who was in the barn with Gina. And whether I needed to call the cavalry or not.
Skirting around a buzzing pile of manure, as exotic smelling as a sewer in summer, I placed one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder and took a deep breath. Was I doing the right thing? Shouldn’t I just bang on the barn door and call out?
But I wanted to see who was in the barn. Who was arguing with Gina. If I let them know I was outside, the man might hide, or worse still, hurt Gina. So I carefully put one foot in front of the other until I stood on the top rung of the ladder, beside the tin of green paint.
The voices were much clearer from this vantage point.
“For God’s sake, Gina, get off my case. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Garry, you snake-in-the-grass. You promised no dogs would be hurt! Where is he? Where have you stashed him? If you don’t bring him here to me I’ll start talking.” I could hear the anger bubbling in Gina’s
voice as I stretched an extra two inches to get a better view inside the shed.
Was this a man who’d shown cruelty to one of her many rescue dogs—or something more sinister? I placed one eye in the two inch space at the top of the building. Gina stood, hands on hips, face the color of burnt ashes, her body like a coiled spring. A tall skinny guy dressed in grungy oil-stained jeans and a leather jacket, his back to me, leaned into her space.
“Watch my lips, Gina, ’cos I’m only gunna say this the once. I can’t protect you if you keep interfering. So…back the fuck off!”
Eyes fastened on the man’s back, trying to memorize every line, every strand of his long greasy strawberry blonde pony-tailed hair, the too tight fit of his dirty jeans, the jagged rip on the right shoulder of his black leather jacket and the color of his raspberry red socks showing between scuffed brown shoes and the bottom of his frayed jeans, I reached into my back pocket for my mobile.
Which is when the ladder wobbled from side to side.
Oh! Uh! I glanced down at the ground, a scary eight feet below me and let out a yell. Silence suddenly unimportant as fear took over. “Nooo Atticus! Get away from the ladder!”
But of course Atticus had selective hearing. With a smirk that told me I was in deep trouble, the evil goat lowered his head and butted the ladder again.
And again.
Calling him every name in the Australian Book of Swearwords, I clung onto the wooden sides of the ladder and closed my eyes. Why me? Why now? Why did my efforts at sleuthing always land me in the shit?
And then I did. Land in the shit, that is. Or to be more precise—flat on my face in the middle of the stinking manure pile, coughing and spluttering as the smell and taste of rotting manure invaded every crevice of my face, forced itself up both nostrils and entered my open mouth as I screamed.
Aaaaaagh….
“Trying to fly, Katrina?”
Spitting and coughing, I looked up, wiped animal waste from both eyes and saw Gina, brows up around her hairline, dark eyes definitely not smiling. Heard a motor bike start up, splutter a couple of times then take off from around the back of the barn and screech past us out of the gateway. But I was too busy heaving my guts out, as the flavor and perfume of week-old shit caught in my throat, to answer Gina’s question or note what color and make of bike the man with the red socks was riding.
Nose squinching in distaste, Gina helped me to my feet and pointed to a nearby hose attached to a faucet outside the barn. “Might want to clean up,” she said. “I’ll see if I can find you a towel.”
Evidently not keen on having me anywhere near her house, Gina entered the barn and came out seconds later with a couple of freshly washed horse-towels and a clean chaff bag.
Seemed like a nice hot shower in her newly tiled bathroom was out of the question today.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “And what the hell were you doing up the ladder? And don’t say painting, because you wouldn’t know which end of a paint brush to use.”
After squirting my face, arms and hands, I toweled myself dry and looked down at my ruined clothes. Never again would I be able to wear Ben’s favorite apricot tunic top. And as for getting the foul smell of horse poop out of my hair—it would take a full bottle of Coconut shampoo and a week’s worth of hot water.
Gina was still staring at me. Waiting for answers that I didn’t have. But shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions? One look at Gina’s face said otherwise. “Umm… I brought Stella over,” I said and waved toward my car. “I was passing this way so thought I’d save you the trouble of picking her up. And-and when I couldn’t find you I climbed the ladder to see if you were inside the barn.”
Geez, even to my ears that excuse sounded like a pathetic lie.
Gina’s eyes never left mine. They bored into me and I could tell she knew I’d been eavesdropping and when she spoke her voice was edgy. “Okay, I’ll get Stella out of the car and introduce her to the other GAP dogs,” she said and passed me the chaff bag. “Here, take this. You’ll need it to put on the seat of your car because if you sit on your upholstery you’ll never get the stink out.”
With that she took off and while I trudged behind her clutching the chaff bag in one hand and fending off Atticus with the other, she undid Stella’s harness and let her jump out of the car.
Of course when Stella scampered off with the Geriatric Trio and the inquisitive pigs, Tater and Lucky set up a commotion. They wanted out too. So I quickly arranged the bag on the front seat, slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. Time to go home, hit the shower and attempt to work out how this newest piece of jigsaw fit into the overall puzzle.
I eased my foot onto the accelerator and leant out the window. “See you, Gina. Sorry I spilt your paint and made such a huge dent in your manure pile.”
“Kat,” she said and touched me on the shoulder, expression grim, voice clipped. “Forget what you heard today. Okay? If you play the Nancy Drew gambit you’ll be sorry.”
I blinked at Gina’s words. Was that warning or threat? A shiver caused me to reach across and turn the car heater on full blast.
But I came here to get answers. If I drove off like a chicken with no head, afraid to tackle Gina, find out what she knew about Stanley’s disappearance, I may as well take up macramé instead of sleuthing. I sighed and put the car back into Park.
“No, you can’t get rid of me that easily, Gina. What’s going on? Was that man threatening you? Did he steal Stanley?”
Gina shook her head. Took a step away from the car. “You think, because you solved the last mystery, you know what you’re doing. Well, let me tell you—you haven’t a clue. You almost got yourself killed last time and you’re heading that way again. Just keep your nose out of it.”
“I can’t do that. A dog on my watch has disappeared and I think you know more than you’re telling me about Stanley’s disappearance.”
“As I told you before—leave it to me.” And then her voice softened. “I’d never forgive myself if they hurt you too.”
With that she spun on her heel and trekked across the yard toward the kennels. The dogs, the inquisitive pigs, the pony, and Atticus the goat, trailing along behind her.
Gina Robertson—the Pied Piper of animals—but was she leading the animals to safety or destruction?
15
An hour and a half later, I’d scrubbed myself raw, changed into black trackie bottoms and a colorful blue, green and yellow sloppy pullover. Although still with a slight, unmistakable but impossible to eradicate, odor, I got back in the car and headed for the small country town of Virginia—a ten minute drive from Two Wells.
By now, the threatening rain clouds of the morning had burst their seams. As I parked outside The Luv Bug, sending water splashing onto the footpath, I squinted through the wet windscreen. Was Tanya busy selling sex toys? Nope. I could see my best friend walking to nowhere on the second-hand treadmill she’d installed for times when trade at the adult shop was slow. And her boss, Norm the Nervous, was nowhere to be seen.
Good. Now I could run my latest news past her without big ears straining to hear our whispered conversation.
“Raining cats and dogs out there,” I said as I shook the water from my hair.
“As long as you don’t let the little varmints inside,” Tanya joked, puffing a little as she walked. “And what brings you to my humble place of employment when you could be enjoying the pungent smell of wet dog and mud?”
Ignoring her banter, I got straight to the point. “I need your advice.”
Tanya’s eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t break step. Tanned legs pumping under her micro-mini-skirt.
“I’m confused,” I said. “There’s this person I’ve always respected and—and I think she might be involved in something illegal. It’s doing my head in.”
The noisy thrum of rain bucketing down outside contributed to my present dark mood. Gina Robertson—savior of animals—squeaky clean administrator of our state’s gr
eyhound adoption program—maybe a Mob Mamma? That image didn’t compute. I sighed as I pictured Gina arguing with the man in the barn, remembered her parting words to me, ‘I’d never forgive myself if they hurt you too’.
They who?
God, I was a lousy detective. Every time I attempted to unearth the answer to one question—not only did I not get an answer, but another question popped up. It was like driving in circles in a foreign country–complete with not knowing the language.
“Well, I can’t help you if you won’t fill in the blanks,” Tanya said waving one hand in front of my eyes while holding onto the bar of her walker with the other. “Snap out of your daze and tell me the name of this pillar of society who might or might not be a crook.”
“It’s Gina Robertson.” Unable to keep still, I paced up and down in front of the counter, distractedly checking out the equipment on display. “She knows more about Stanley’s disappearance than she’s letting on and I don’t know why she won’t confide in me. After all, we’re both on the same side.”
“Hmm…sure about that?”
“Of course I am.”
“What if Goodie-Two-Shoes is in this right up to her coral colored lipstick?”
“Tanya, just because you and Gina don’t see eye-to-eye ever since you nicked her boyfriend—”
“Hey—I did not steal Corey Palmer. The guy was tired of playing second fiddle to the woman’s goats, pigs and homeless dogs, so he moved on. It’s as simple as that.” She switched off the treadmill, stepped off and wiped the sweat from her face with a pink hand towel displaying a fit naked man in the act of bending over. “And it wasn’t my fault he moved on to me.”
“But then you moved on from him,” I added. My best friend could be such a man-eating slut at times. “Look at this from Gina’s point of view. You pinched her boyfriend, refused to give him back for three days and then when she declared it was over between them, you dumped the guy.”
“Katrina, have you ever had three days of sex with a whiner?”
