Muzzled

by June Whyte

  I sighed. Yep. That would be my little sister. “Did she mention where she was living?”

  “Can’t say she did, dear.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Well…not to me she didn’t…but Old Sal, the butcher on Commercial Road, he told Mrs. Papadopoulos, my friend who runs the Greek restaurant next door to him, that when he were delivering meat to one of his out-of-town customers, he’d seen this young woman in shorts, and not much else, outside a deserted rabbiter’s shack. She were like sitting cross legged in the dirt and having a conversation with the sky.”

  Ignoring the expression on the woman’s face that clearly said even Lady Margaret of the fringed shawl and hooped earrings thought this behavior a bit off-putting, I placed a hand on her arm to stop her from moving on. “Just before you go, when was the last time my sister came into your shop?”

  “Oh, let’s see, only last week. Yes, it were a Thursday. I remember ’cos the little lady said it were her birthday. Said she were going to treat herself with a gluten-free cupcake from the bakery.”

  Now I felt guilty. Of course it was Liz’s birthday last Thursday. My little sister had turned twenty-one and it sounded like she’d partied on a lousy cupcake—alone.

  “I asked her if she were going out with her boyfriend that night? You know, for her birthday. Said they’d broken up and men were slimy worms and couldn’t be trusted.”

  So Scott was lying to me about their current relationship. What other lies had he fed me?

  Beside me, Ben looked at the clock on the cafeteria wall, pushed his well-polished plate aside and got to his feet. “I’ll see you in the catching pen, Kat. Okay?”

  I gave him a quick wave and thumbs up for luck in the next race, then turned back to the craft shop owner. “Sorry to hold you up,” I said. “But did my sister seem scared or upset that day?”

  “Now you mention it, she did seem a bit agitated. Kept looking over her shoulder. I asked her if she were meeting someone and she said no, just in a hurry.”

  “Did you notice if there was anyone suspicious hanging around?”

  “Couple of youngsters who should have been in school but they were just out the front playing on their phones. And—oh yeah, I did see an elderly gentleman. He was one of those who were like, mutton done up as lamb. You know, dark sunglasses, stomach hanging under a tight fitting shirt and these dazzling yellow trousers that made me blink. Remember thinking how ridiculous he looked. Anyway, I gave your sister some pretty silver baubles to sew on her skirt, seeing it were her birthday, and she left.”

  Sounded like Jack Lantana had been hanging around in front of the craft shop. Had he kidnapped Liz? Was that how her bracelet ended up in his house? Or had Liz merely lost the bracelet in the street and Jack picked it up?

  “The old guy? Did he follow her?”

  “Sorry, dear, I don’t know what happened to the elderly gent,” she said and shook her head. “And now, I must go. My son, Wayne, has a dog in the next race and he asked me to put a few dollars on for him. Dog’s called Sizzler. Should be 50/1 but knowing how miserly those two money-sucking bookies are, I’ll be lucky if they put the dog up at 10’s.”

  Leaving Lady Margaret to do battle with the bookies, I bought myself a country-baked vanilla slice. The biggest, mouth-watering vanilla slice I’d ever laid eyes on. Then, cake clutched in both hands, face sticky with creamy custard—not the chewy rubbery custard found in store-bought slices—I wandered over to the catching pen in readiness to catch Ben’s dog at the finish of the race. As I walked, I churned over the new information I’d learned about Liz.

  She’d been shopping in Port Augusta last Thursday, so definitely wasn’t missing then. Something or someone made her nervous that day. An old guy in yellow pants was spotted hanging around in front of the craft shop while she was inside.

  And Liz had already broken up with Scott Brady.

  17

  I was glad I’d worn my thick sheepskin coat to the track. The afternoon sky had turned gunmetal gray, while gathering nimbus clouds forecast rain, and a cold blustery wind had spectators more inclined to watch the races on the big screen television under cover of the betting ring. The die-hards who liked to view their races live hung over the outside railing, colorful in their coats, scarves and wooly hats.

  Ben won the Maiden race over 447meters with a handy youngster whose clown of an owner had named the dog, Wimpy Wally. Luckily the name didn’t affect the dog’s ability, although it gave the race caller a good laugh. Lady Margaret’s son Wayne’s dog, Sizzler, was—as they say in racing jargon—‘still-coming’.

  As Ben had two greyhounds engaged in the fifth race, he rugged up a cheeky little white and black bitch with the racing name of Better Be Good, while I handled her litter sister, She’s a Good Girl. Most races on the program were over 447 or 503 meters but this race was over the longer distance of 682. Bred from strong staying lines, both Ben’s bitches, known at home as Molly and Polly, were already proven over the longer journey and I wasn’t surprised to find the bookies opening them up as short equal favorites to win.

  “Hold still, Molly,” I implored as I slipped the number three—a white rug—over her head, eased the front legs through their respective holes and slid the silky lycra material along her back. I could see Ben having similar problems with Polly. She reminded me of a toddler having a tantrum. While Ben endeavored to straighten the red rug, number one, over her body, before leading the runners out of the kennel house into the parade ring, she refused to stand still.

  Molly, eager to get out onto the track, bounced up and down. Knowing her tendency to leap high in the air and throw herself over backwards if allowed on the end of the lead, I kept her close to my side while parading. “Easy, girl. Not long now.”

  On the long drive to Port Augusta, while flicking through the race book, I’d noticed a dog called, Go Rambo entered in this race. I’d previously trained Rambo and was surprised to see the dog entered in a staying race. When I trained him he could barely stagger over the line in a sprint. A gangly black dog with the heart of a marshmallow, Rambo was such a loving dog, always ready to lick your face and lap up attention, but slow as the proverbial tortoise on the race track. At the time I’d tried to talk the owner into placing Rambo into the GAP program because of the dog’s gorgeous temperament, but the owner decided to send him to a trainer up north. Probably figured it was easier to win a race in the country.

  Hand resting on Molly’s head to keep her calm, I glanced around at the other runners. Rambo must be the big black dog in the pink rug on the opposite side of the parade ring. The handler, a tall skinny guy with a ponytail leaned against the fence, his eyes on the nearby betting ring. Evidently couldn’t be bothered walking the dog to stretch its legs and warm its muscles before the race. Didn’t he realize cold muscles tore more easily?

  “G’day,” I said moving up alongside the pair. “I’m Kat McKinley. I know Rambo—used to train the big softy.” I stretched one hand out to fondle Rambo’s ears. The big sook loved his ears rubbed—always sent him into a tail wagging frenzy. “How you doing, big boy?” I frowned. The dog’s tail didn’t move. Instead, he turned his head away, ignoring me—almost like he didn’t know me.

  With a snarl, Ponytail snatched the dog away. “Get ya hands off me dog or I’ll call the steward.”

  “Sorry,” I said and took a step back, surprised at the man’s aggression. I could see Ben scowling from the other side of the parade ring and not wanting to cause a scene, continued walking. When I looked over my shoulder, Ponytail had gone back to his original position—his slack body holding up the fence, eyes trained on the betting ring. There was something familiar about Ponytail, but I couldn’t figure out where I’d seen him before.

  “What was that all about?” Ben, white handlers’ coat stretched across his rugged chest, emphasizing the hard six pack underneath, brought Polly up beside me. “Want me to go over and deck that creep for you?”

  “Hey, my fault. I shoul
dn’t have touched another trainer’s dog,” I said, placing a warning hand on Ben’s arm. “But it’s Rambo. Remember that gorgeous snail of a dog I used to have in my kennels? The one who was forever trying to sit in my lap? Well, I just tried to say hello to him but the dog seems to have forgotten me.”

  “Sure it’s Rambo?”

  “Yep. Go Rambo. He’s entered in this race.”

  Ben shook his head. “But that dog can’t even run out a sprint race. Why would they enter him in a staying race?”

  “Beats me. But if he’s no stronger than he was when I had him, they’ll be scraping poor Rambo off the dirt half way through the race.”

  At that moment, the steward called all runners to line up in box order in front of the gate ready to parade onto the race-track.

  Trailing behind the number two dog, I led Molly through the gate and onto the track toward the starting boxes, my shoes sinking into the grass surface. Off to the west and south-west, I could see a range of hills which once marked the territory of the Nukunu Aboriginal tribe, and all around, the age-old hulk of the Flinders Ranges, a dark, sprawling shadow against the vast canopy of a gray winter’s sky.

  Two minutes later, the hum of the bramich lure powering around the track sent the eight-dog field barking and scratching at the grating in front of their respective boxes. And the instant the lids sprung open Ben’s two greyhounds jumped to the lead. Neck and neck they galloped around the track. I glanced back through the runners, worried about Rambo. No need. He was galloping strongly in the middle of the field. As the dogs swung into the home straight, it was Polly by a nose, then Molly, but out of the pack, running past his competitors as though they’d been nailed to the fence, came a big black dog—Go Rambo. The dog that couldn’t run out a 400 meter race whipped passed Ben’s two stayers and went on to win the 648 metre race by three lengths.

  I stood behind the boxes, mouth in fly-catching mode, collar and lead forgotten at my feet. Holy crap! What amazing additives was this new trainer feeding the dog? What was his secret training regime? Or had I just witnessed a miracle akin to the parting of the Red Sea? Here was a greyhound who’d finished last in his previous fourteen race starts—winning the distance race at 50/1 and beating two proven city performers.

  Big Mick’s bagman’s words about what was happening at the country tracks passed through my head:…slow dogs winning at huge odds yet not turning up anything illegal in their swabs…

  Was Rambo one of these dogs?

  While I removed Molly’s race rug and washed her feet at the hose bay, I noticed a steward accompanying Ponytail and the prancing Rambo toward the Swab Box. Prancing? How could this be the same dog? In the past, Rambo would lie down on the track after his race and refuse to move. Nine times out of ten I’d had to carry the exhausted dog back to the kennel house.

  As Ponytail swaggered past toward the Swab Box, he gave me a sly wink. “If ya need any tips on training those slow pooches of yours—come see me.”

  “Not if you were the last trainer on Earth.”

  His crooked grin didn’t match the venom in his eyes.

  It was when Ponytail turned his back and followed the track vet outside to collect a sample of urine for the swab tests from Rambo that I finally remembered where I’d seen the man before. Tall and skinny. Long greasy strawberry blonde pony-tailed hair, red socks and scuffed brown shoes. It was the same guy I’d seen arguing with Gina. She’d called him Garry.

  What had Garry been doing in Gina’s barn? Was he responsible for stealing Stanley—and if so, why? And was I wrong about my friend, Gina? Was she somehow involved in this shady betting scam too?

  Before I could contemplate any of these questions, I needed to psyche myself up to go meet Scott Brady. Thankfully, Ben had a runner engaged in the sixth race so as soon as I’d arranged for someone else to catch Ben’s dog, I set off for the outside car park. Not having any idea what Liz’s ex-boyfriend looked like, I could have already bumped into him on the track. In fact, Scott could have been trailing me all afternoon. Watching me scratch that recurring itch on my left buttock. Rolling his eyes when I smeared my face with vanilla custard. Or maybe he’d come close enough to cutting me with his knife and chickened out when Ben appeared.

  I let out a sigh. Was I being foolish meeting this guy on my own? Of course I was. But how else could I find out more about my missing sister?

  Tote bag hitched high on my shoulder, knuckle duster in one coat pocket and a can of Ubeaut extra-strong hair spray tucked in the other, I scanned the car park for a red VW Beetle. Most trainers and patrons preferred to drive onto the Chinnery Park grounds and park around the track so it was easy to spot the beat up red Beetle, parked on its own, in the far corner of the outside car park, partly hidden by two large jacaranda bushes. I remember reading a book called Mind Hunter, written by the professional profiler, John Douglas. In it, he proclaimed VW Beetles seemed to be the car of choice for most serial killers.

  My bravado did a nose dive and my long purposeful strides faltered, switched to a shuffle. Why did my traitorous mind have to dredge up that chilling piece of information while my reluctant body was making its way toward an assignation with a man who DI Adams claimed had been ‘put away’ for assault?

  In the distance I heard a loudspeaker crackle and the on-course race-caller inform punters that betting for race six would close in thirty seconds. This was followed by the sound of metal doors clanging. If I didn’t get a move on race six would be over and Ben would be out looking for me. So when an icy wind blew strands of hair across my face, I shivered, tugged my coat collar up around my ears and hurried toward the red Beetle hunched like a giant bug on the far side of the car park. No young man leaning against the bonnet, waiting for me. Not a soul in sight. Was Scott playing hide-go-seek? If he’d set out to deliberately scare me—his plan was working.

  I tightened my fingers around the can of hair spray in my pocket. If this man was playing games with me and he had no knowledge of where I could find Liz, I’d let him have it—a stinging spray full in the face. Hey, I was tired of being pushed around by crappy crooks.

  As I drew closer, the monotonous sound of the Beetle’s idling motor brought me to a halt. Surely Scott wasn’t planning to hit me over the head, drag me into his vehicle and drive off? I frowned, peered at the car more closely and felt my stomach roil. Something was terribly wrong with this picture. All the VW’s windows were shut and fogged up. A hose pipe, duct taped in place, had been fed into the driver’s side window, the gap each side plugged with what looked like old rags. I ran my eye from the window to the end of the hose…it was jammed into the car’s exhaust pipe.

  “Nooooo!”

  Heart thumping louder than blocked drains in an outdated bathroom, I bolted across the bitumen and past the bushes, couldn’t see through the car’s fogged up windows, so tugged frantically at the door handle.

  “Don’t be dead! Don’t you dare be dead!” I yelled at the young man aged in his early twenties and dressed in khaki chinos and a tan leather jacket who spilled out of the car, his head, complete with collar-length dark hair streaked with blonde, bouncing off the ground as he landed.

  The young man didn’t seem to be paying attention, so, coughing and retching as the deadly carbon monoxide flooded my lungs, I covered my mouth with one hand and reached inside the car to turn off the ignition.

  “Scott! Scott! Can you hear me?”

  No reaction and his chest didn’t seem to be moving. Shit. Digging into my tote-bag I dragged out my phone. After dialing 911, I dragged Scott’s limp body further from the car’s toxic fumes then knelt over him. Should I give him the kiss of life? Or wait until the medics arrived.

  I decided to give it a go and placed one hand, heel down on the lower half of his breast bone then placed the other hand on top and intertwined my fingers. Now, what was it? Thirty compressions—then two breaths into the mouth? Or was it twenty compressions—then five breaths into the mouth? Oh God, I should have paid more attention w
hen we were taught CPR in high school instead of giggling at Tanya who poked her tongue out every time she pushed down on the dummy’s chest.

  One-two-three-four…

  Why would a young man with his life before him commit suicide? And why do it in such a public place? Surely it would have been more comfortable to set this up in his garage. Perhaps there was no garage where he was living or he was afraid the other tenants might wander in and succumb to the toxic fumes. Or perhaps this was a one-man public protest against the culling of koalas or the rising cost of electricity that had gone too far.

  I could hear the muffled wail of sirens in the far distance and strengthened my compressions.

  Twenty-five…twenty-six…twenty-seven…

  I studied the young man’s face, pink from inhaling carbon monoxide poisoning. His ocean blue eyes stared back at me, wide and unseeing. A cold shiver jerked in the pit of my stomach, raced up into my chest and from there into my limbs.

  Scott Brady, my sister’s ex-boyfriend, was either in a dead coma—or just plain dead.

  18

  Big fat drops of rain blasted my face, blurring my vision. They slid into my open mouth and stuck my wispy hair to my forehead in clinging saturated strands. By the time two police cars and an ambulance screamed through the gate and pulled up beside me, I was kneeling in a puddle of water. A miserable soggy mass of reluctant rescuer—still pumping—still counting compressions—and wishing the hell for a tent, an umbrella or even a plastic bag to cover my head. Without warning, the heavens had flung their pearly gates open and tossed another obstacle in my path—a rating ten rain squall.

  I looked up, as, equipment in tow, two medics, a voluptuous redhead and a grandfatherly looking guy with the name GRANT pinned to his uniform, leaped from the front cab of the ambulance and bustled over.

  “Okay, love, we’ll take over now,” said the grandfatherly guy, easing me out of the way before continuing with CPR.