Muzzled

by June Whyte

  “Okay. Okay. Anyway, one minute Germaine was throwing a temper tantrum complete with red face and flying spittle and the next he was quaking in his three hundred dollar shiny black loafers and backing right away from me.”

  “Typical, chicken-shit bully!” Tanya, who had the job of going through pockets in search of hidden tissues, hurled a pair of my black trackie pants into the washing machine as though she was hurling Germaine off a cliff. “All piss and no wind.”

  I grinned. My trusty sidekick oozed self-confidence…and bad axioms. With her at my side, I was sure we could devise a brilliant Plan A—plus several backup plans in case Plan A wasn’t so brilliant after all and slammed us nose first into the nearest brick wall.

  I yanked my jumper over my head and tossed it in the machine. Green dribble, courtesy of Lucky, decorated the front. “Germaine’s definitely up to something crooked, but whether he’s worried about the porn I found on his computer or involved in the slow dog scam or he really does know where Liz’s gone—it’s anybody’s guess.” I lifted one eyebrow and focused on my cock-sparrow friend. “Thing is, Tan, we need a plan.”

  She hesitated. “We do?”

  Surely that wasn’t a squeak? A crack forming in Supergirl’s sexy amour? “How else are we going to find Liz and the dogs involved in the scam?”

  “You’re right.” She bent to pick up a pair of my jeans from the clothes on the floor of the laundry, slid her hand into the back pocket. “Er…don’t suppose you got a beer in your fridge?”

  Oh! Uh! We weren’t going down that path again. “Tan, the only drinks you’ll find in my fridge have too many calories and too much caffeine but no alcohol content.”

  “Spoilsport,” she growled. “You’re no fun at—hey, what’s this?”

  I glanced up from a tug of war with Lucky, who’d claimed one of my thick purple socks, to see Tanya holding a small folded piece of colored paper between two fingers.

  After tossing my jeans into the washing machine she unfolded the paper, read the print, and frowned. “This was in the back pocket of your jeans.”

  “And?”

  “It’s Gina Robertson’s address.” Her frown deepened. “And it’s been torn off a GAP brochure.”

  And then it hit me. “Of course! Scott snuck that to me when I visited him in the hospital. I slipped it into my back pocket—and with all that happened afterwards—forgot about it.”

  “But why would Scott give you Gina’s address? What’s Lady Muck got to do with anything? And surely he’d realize you knew where our Goody-Two-Shoes GAP co-coordinator lived. And anyway, why would you want to know?”

  I was as confused as Tanya and when she passed me the scrap of paper, I turned it upside down and then checked out the back—nothing there—except Gina’s address. “Got me stumped,” I said and my head spun with unanswered questions. “In the hospital we had this officious rent-a-cop breathing over our shoulders, refusing to let us discuss the case. I remember asking Scott if his girlfriend had been in to see him—meaning Liz—and that’s when he pretended to thank me for saving his life. He shook my hand and palmed that piece of paper to me.” I stared at Tanya. “Does this mean Scott thinks Liz is at Gina’s place?”

  “But why would your sister go to Gina’s? Doesn’t make sense.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to calm my bongo-drum heartbeat. “Unless Liz had no say in the matter.”

  “You mean—”

  “What if Liz was kidnapped because she knew too much about the slow dog scam.”

  “And she’s been locked up somewhere on Gina’s property.” Tanya’s fists clenched and her top lip curled. “Which also means our sainted GAP coordinator is in this up to her long pointed nose.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “Well, why else would Liz’s boyfriend palm you that piece of paper?”

  I shrugged. Like all the other questions, I had no answer to that one. “Thing is, Tan, what are we going to do about it?”

  “Well…” Tanya, the corners of her mouth tweaking, sent me a wicked wink. “We could go over and beat the truth out of her. Blacken her eyes, break both arms, string her up on the wall and poke sharp sticks in her eyes.”

  “Yeah, that’d be fun,” I agreed, joining in the fantasy. “After that, we could tie her to the back of our car and drag her across a few miles of rough, stony, bush land.”

  “Then,” continued Tanya, with an evil laugh that would have done Freddy Kruger proud. “If she still won’t divulge her secrets—we could always employ that ex-boyfriend of hers, Cory Palmer. You know, The Chronic Whinger. Hell, we’d only need to let him loose on her for a couple of hours and she’d be begging to give us information—just to stop him whining.”

  The thought of Liz locked up somewhere, scared and confused and maybe hurt, brought me back from whimsy to stark reality.

  “Or…” I said, switching on the washing machine and leading the way into the kitchen, “we could just keep an eye on whoever goes in and out of Gina’s place during the day and then, as soon as it’s dark, break into the property and take a look through her sheds. See if we can find either the dogs involved in the scam—or my elusive sister.”

  “Well…it so happens, my Scrooge-of-a-boss, who was feeling magnanimous due to a rise in profits for the year, has given me a rare flexi morning off tomorrow,” said Tanya lifting the already prepared salad bowl from the fridge and placing it in the middle of the table next to the pepper and salt and tomato sauce. “So…while you’re busy training your dogs, I can do the first shift and you can take over in the afternoon while I go to work.”

  She rubbed her hands together and drooled as I set one textbook-cooked steak on each plate together with a pile of caramelized onions.

  “Good,” I said as we scraped our chairs up to the table and grabbed our knives and forks like weapons of war. “Then tomorrow night we carry out—Operation Find Liz.”

  The first bite of tender, slowly grilled fillet steak, medium cooked, dripping juices and oozing flavor, spread like warm honey into every crevice of my taste buds as I chewed.

  And all conversation promptly stopped.

  23

  I sat straight up in bed. Instantly awake.

  What—or who—had set every one of the sixteen dogs outside in the kennel house barking?

  I tried to take a deep breath—but between my heart hammering high in my throat, and the room, blacker than the inside of a killer’s mind—breathing didn’t come easily.

  I turned my head toward the night-stand beside my bed. The numbers, glowing red on the digital alarm clock, told me it was 1am. Three hours since Tanya had gone home.

  Why were the dogs barking?

  I shivered and resisted the urge to pull the duvet over my head and pretend deafness. Perhaps if I let the dogs bark long enough someone would come over from next door and investigate the noise—and find my mutilated body cut up in a hundred bloody pieces and spoiling the sheets—all because I’d been too chicken to get out of bed?

  Oh, God, don’t go there…

  Stretched out across my feet, Lucky emitted a sleepy snuffle and turned over on her other side. Some guard dog. Not so Tater—hackles bristling, a warning growl deep in his tiny throat, he was on full alert and waiting for my order to: Attack! Kill! Destroy!

  My hand resting on his head, I felt warmth creep into my chilled bones and spread into my chicken heart. If a dog weighing no more than half pound of butter could be fearless under fire—so could I.

  “It’s probably only that ugly feral cat again,” I told my miniature stegosaurus, who agreed and promised to eat the cat in the morning—after he’d licked up his corn flakes.

  Feeling braver, I tumbled out of bed, switched on the light and reached for my dressing gown.

  Not that I planned to personally investigate whatever had set the dogs off. Oh no, no, no. I’d been cured of doing idiotic things in the middle of the night after being hit on the head by a man who I thought was my friend. My erstw
hile client, Peter Manning, who thankfully was now spending the next twenty or thirty years at his Majesty’s pleasure.

  With Tater hot on my heels, I pattered barefoot down the stairs to the landing and pressed a specially installed dog-switch, high on the wall. Although I couldn’t hear the result from inside the house, I knew a soothing classical CD would now be working its magic in the dog kennels. This week’s musical selection was Brahms. Hungarian dance music followed by the hauntingly beautiful ‘Wiegenlied, Op. 49, No 4’—better known to us mere mortals as ‘Brahms’s Lullaby’. So I knew it wouldn’t be long before the barking subsided to an occasional sleepy yap.

  Tater and I were now wide awake and heading for the kitchen. “Yep! Definitely that feral cat,” I said, more to reassure myself than the dog. “Now, how about a hot chocolate for me and a bowl of warm milk for you?”

  My trusty sidekick thought that would go down nicely, thank you very much.

  Ten minutes later, with Tater snuggled up on my lap and fingers wrapped around a half-empty mug of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows, I lay my head back on the lounge chair and puffed out a sigh. Stanley’s altered ear brand niggled at me. He must have been the fast dog in his litter selected as a ring-in for a slower litter mate. But where was Stanley and his slower brother now? Were they even still alive? And what about the dog who raced and won at huge odds at Port Augusta yesterday? It wasn’t Go Rambo—it was one of his faster litter mates. The real Rambo couldn’t beat a two-legged centipede to the water bucket and back—even on a 40 degree day. No wonder the fake Rambo didn’t know me. And on reflection, there’d been something different about the dog’s ears. The genuine Rambo’s ears were longer, pointier, whereas his substitute’s ears were smaller and flatter.

  If only I knew what the perpetrators of the scam did with the greyhounds after they’d raced? And then another thought crossed my mind. Maybe if I found the dogs’ secret hiding place—I’d find Liz and her team of protesters looking after them.

  Craaaaaaash!

  I froze. My heart, threatening cardiac arrest, stopped beating for at least 30 seconds before it burst into wild erratic flight again.

  “Holy crap!” I lurched from the chair. Hot chocolate spewed in an arc. Tater erupted off my lap, his high pitched bark threatening to tear apart whoever or whatever lay on the other side of the front door.

  Me? I couldn’t stop shaking. Where the hell was my alter-ego, Bombshell Chick, when I needed her? Evidently out getting her hair frosted. Finger nails half way down my throat, legs weaker than Grandma McKinley’s morning cup of tea, I inched across the room into the passageway and stood, holding my breath, ears on stalks, listening. Was someone on the other side of the front door waiting to do me in, or had they merely tried to scare me to death, and then left? I tiptoed toward the door—not to open it—hell, no—but to switch on the outside light and peer through the eye-hole.

  By this time the greyhounds in the kennel house were barking again and Lucky had trotted down the stairs, a purple dinosaur dangling from her mouth. Not sure whether to growl or wag her tail in case we had a visitor, Lucky stood staring at the front door, pieces of purple felt peeping from around her teeth. Not so Tater. Tiny feet dancing on the spot, hair on the back of his neck standing up like pins on a pin cushion, he was geared up ready to chew on whoever’s ankles happened to walk through that door.

  Eyes squinting, I leant against the door and scanned the limited view through the security hole. The light from the outside globe shone on the front verandah and then spread out like hot butter onto the driveway. But no-one was there. No alien monsters. No killers. Not even a noisy ghost. And the only movement I could see came from the wind bending a group of rose bushes at the top of the driveway.

  I had to see more…

  Hands inexplicably growing an extra set of thumbs, I fumbled to unlock the door, left the chain on the hook, and stuck my nose through the three inch opening. From the bottom of the door—a muddy red brick stared up at me. Okay. I could deal with that. I grabbed a quick breath and let it out slowly. One Oodnadatta. Two Oodnadatta. Three Oodnadatta…

  Okay, I now had the solution to what had caused the crash—but not the who.

  Did I really want to know the answer to that question?

  Hell, no—but if I was going to get any more sleep tonight—

  Ordering Tater to stay, I unhooked the latch, sent a message to the Universe to help find my elusive Bombshell Chick, and stepped outside the door.

  And that’s when my poor battered heart went crashing downhill tumbling over and over until it splattered against the rocks.

  For across my front door—in splashes of red—wet paint still dribbling from the letters, like blood—were the words that caused my heart’s demise.

  YOU’RE NEXT!

  24

  This had to be a bad dream. Perhaps if I closed my eyes and counted to ten, it would go away. I opened my eyes. The nightmare was still there—in words a foot high—in words spray painted on the thick wooden varnish that sent fear, like a terminal disease, racing insidiously through my intestines.

  Who’d left that message? Was it a threat or a promise? Was the spray-painter still lurking in the darkness, watching me, feeding off my fear?

  It took me three goes before I finally convinced my feet to move. For me to spill inside the house, close the door and fumble the lock into place.

  There’d be no more sleep for me tonight—in fact, I’d be lucky to ever sleep again. Words from Hamlet’s famous soliloquy danced in my head.

  ‘to die, to sleep no more’.

  Fear clutched at my gut, twisted its grip a little tighter. I tried to clear the knot in my throat as I keyed in DI Adam’s phone number but when he answered, the only word I could get out was…

  Help!

  * * *

  Detective Inspector Garry Adams, his five o’clock shadow more like a ten o’clock forest, sprawled on one of my kitchen chairs, legs stretched out in front of him. The wall clock, hands shaped like racing greyhounds, ticked off a minute’s silence before revealing the time: 1.45 am. During the silence, the DI’s dark eyes teased at me like a persistent fly. He then bent over his notebook and scribbled on the half-filled page before looking up with a pronounced sigh. “You ignored my advice, didn’t you?”

  “Advice?” I echoed, not sure which of the many lectures he’d given me he was referring to this time.

  “I distinctly told you to leave catching criminals to the police.”

  “Oh. That advice.”

  “Let me put this another way, Ms. McKinley. Do you have any idea who would have reason to deface your front door?”

  “Deface? Funny term for a death threat.”

  “It’s not necessarily a death threat. ‘You’re next’ could mean…many things.”

  “Like what?” I growled. “Like someone snuck onto my property in the dead of night to paint a message on my door in blood red paint—and throw a brick for good measure—just to remind me I’m next in line to see the doctor?” I yanked the thick plaid blanket the Inspector had taken off my sofa more firmly around my shoulders. “Not likely.”

  The familiar smell of dog clung to the rough blanket, comforting me. But the warmth couldn’t stop me shivering. Someone out there was determined to scare me—or worse.

  Adams swiveled his head in the direction of his assistant, the vinegary Constable Belinda Chalmers, who stood smirking in the background. I could almost read the thought bubble hovering over the woman’s head: ‘stupid ditz deserves everything she gets’. “Ms. McKinley is suffering from shock,” the Inspector informed her. “So stir yourself, Constable, and make a nice hot cup of coffee.”

  Chalmers’ mouth gaped. Lucky for her, I’d doused the kitchen with fly spray the night before. “Me?” she squeaked. “You want me to make that woman coffee?” If looks were finely honed axes, I figured DI Adams’s would now be trolling on the ground, hunting for his decapitated head.

  However, Adams didn’t appe
ar to notice the incredulous snort or the tight lips or the rest of her pissed off body language. Instead, his hand moved to pat Lucky the greyhound, who was leaning up against his leg, adoring eyes smiling up at him. Tater, due to the fact that he was obsessed with raping Chalmers’ ankles whenever he saw her, was locked in my bedroom.

  When her superior didn’t respond, the policewoman snatched the electric jug from the kitchen bench, filled it with water from the Pura tap over the sink and stabbed the three pronged plug in the direction of an electrical socket on the wall.

  “Milk and two sugars for me, thanks,” I said, enjoying the entertainment.

  Her reply was a snort and I winced when another cupboard door slammed shut. At this rate I’d be renewing the hinges on all my kitchen cupboards before the end of the day.

  “You know,” DI Adams said flipping over a page of his dog-eared notebook while chewing on the end of his biro. “Over the past three months, we’ve had a gang of graffiti artists leaving their tags all over the neighborhood. They’ve been driving the residents insane with their spray paint. I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

  “If that’s a graffiti tag on my front door, I’m the Queen of the Undead.”

  “Uh…huh,” he muttered and I was left wondering whether he thought the royal title suited me or not. Then, with a determined shove upwards, he lumbered to his feet and approached the coffee making constable who was still banging cupboard doors. If she ground her teeth any harder we’d be whisking her off to an all-night dental clinic.

  The DI stretched up and lifted an unopened jar of Nescafe down from a top shelf in my cupboard. “This what you’re looking for Constable Chalmers?”

  “Mmmgh.”

  The corners of his lips twitched as he added another Simpsons’ mug to the one already on the bench. “Make that coffee for two, Constable.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you, Ms. McKinley?”

  I shrugged. “Be my guest.” And then I smiled up at Constable Chalmers. “You’ll find chocolate biscuits in the larder, Constable. Bottom shelf. Behind the Coco-Pops.”