“Dove. I beg of you, listen to Sardine. Breathe, Stephania. Breathe and relay the story to him. Remember every detail,” Win soothed in my ear.
And Sandwich reiterated, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Okay, I need you to catch your breath, Stevie. Please. For Whiskey’s sake. Now, what did you see? Did you even see anything?”
I inhaled once, twice, three times, blowing each breath out with a slow exhale as flashlights skimmed the perimeter of my yard and over the cliffs. Then I pointed to the hedges lining the left end of the lawn.
“Whiskey was over there. Sometimes he likes to dig. Okay, always he likes to dig. I was taking him out for our last potty of the night and caught him in the hedges right over there. As I approached, I heard a gunshot and Whiskey came bounding for me. Then there was another gunshot, and it—” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from turning into a puddle of wide-eyed hysteria. “It hit him just as he knocked me down. I think he was trying to protect me from a stranger,” I choked out as a fresh batch of tears began sliding down my cheeks, stinging the cut from Eleanor’s fit of rage.
Sandwich scribbled on his pad. “Did you see anyone at all?”
As the weight of Whiskey’s injury began to seep into my bones, I had to grab Sandwich’s arm to hold me up. “No. Nothing. Why would someone try to shoot my dog, Sandwich? There isn’t a soul Whiskey doesn’t like, and for that matter, not a soul dislikes him. Who would do this?”
Sandwich stopped writing, his face a mask of confusion in the flash of the sirens. “Don’t know, Stevie. You think maybe they meant to hit you?”
My head popped up. Me? I’d never even considered that. I repeated my thought. “Me? Why would someone want to shoot me?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Detective Moore interjected, strolling toward me, hands in the pockets of his jeans, smug expression on point. “Have you been sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong?”
I looked at him aghast, wiping the tears from my face with angry hands. “Did you, an officer of the law, just say that to me, Sipowicz? I’m not sure I like your tone! How dare you imply that my snooping deserves someone taking potshots at me, you egotistical, stereotypical, TV detective rip-off!”
Detective Montgomery came up behind his partner and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Even I gotta admit that was a low-blow, buddy. Lay off her and let’s go see if we can collect some evidence.”
Huh. Detective Montgomery wasn’t just pretending to be a decent guy, he really did have a heart. Stranger things and all, right? But I wasn’t done giving everyone hell.
“Thaaat’s right, go do your job so I don’t have to!” I shouted, chasing after him.
But Sandwich caught up with me and grabbed me at the waist. “Stevie, knock it the heck off, for crud’s sake! Stop poking!”
“Poking? Poking? Are you insane? He just all but inferred I deserved to be shot at! My dog’s down for the count because I was possibly the target and he has the utter gall to say it’s because I snoop? Oh, I should deflate all those ripply muscles of his one by one!” I bellowed, hoping Detective Moore heard me as I tried to squirm out of Sandwich’s iron grip. “And put me down!”
He squeezed me tighter against his belly. “Nope. Not until you promise to knock it off. And he didn’t mean it the way you took it, Stevie. He just means you’ve been shot at, chased down by a killer or two. That someone would shoot at you isn’t exactly surprising. It’s not like you to be so sensitive. What gives?”
I inhaled a shuddering breath. “I guess this is just close to home for me because it’s Dana and all my buttons are pressed. I’m sorry. You’re right.” And he was. I was really going overboard with the sensitivity.
“Good. Now calm down. Please.”
“And by the way, here’s something to chew on there, Sandwich—if the person who just shot at me was really shooting at me because I’ve been snooping, which, I’ll add, I’ve hardly done—outwardly—then how can Dana be the person who killed Sophia? Answer me that?”
“I don’t know, and I’ll certainly pass that thought on to my superiors. But Whiskey needs you right now. Go be with him.”
Whiskey, my heart cried.
I instantly went limp. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll hurl insults and pin-pop Sipowicz’s ego later. Please, just let me go see my dog.”
He let me go with gentle hands. “I’m sorry about the big guy. I like him, too.”
But I couldn’t absorb anything other than the sight of Whiskey, on the ground, Dr. Northrup kneeling next to him and barking an order to one of the officers to help put him in the doctor’s truck.
As I watched Dr. Northrup and Officer Gorton pick Whiskey up, his heavy body still limp, his big paws swaying lifelessly, Dr. Northrup called out, “Follow me to the clinic, Stevie!”
Forgetting everything but Whiskey, I ran to the house for my purse to get my keys, so scattered, I couldn’t remember where I’d left them.
“Kitchen counter, Dove!”
Thank goddess for Win, and for Belfry, who was already pushing his way into the opening of my handbag and settling down. “No way I’m letting my buddy go through this alone,” he sniffled. “And if I get my hands on whoever did this, I’m gonna crack some heads open!”
But I didn’t have time to address anything but my need to get in the car and get to Whiskey.
I’m not even sure I remember driving to the clinic nestled on the outskirts of town, with its neatly trimmed hedges and landscaped lawn and the Puget as its backdrop. Dr. Northrup and his wife lived just behind the clinic in a small cottage, so they’d always be close to their overnight patients.
I do remember screeching to a halt and flying from the car to the doors of the clinic, my heart hammering so loudly, I thought I’d have to have it removed for disturbing the peace.
Dr. Northrup’s wife, Frieda, greeted me, her kind, soft features warm and inviting as she held out her hand and I grabbed it, clinging to her cool fingers. “Harvey just took Whiskey back to surgery, honey. Now, don’t you worry about a thing. Come on back and we’ll sit and wait together, yes?”
That was when the bottom fell out for me and I began to sob. I couldn’t remember life before Whiskey, and I refused to think of it without him. But Frieda put her slender arms around me and let me cry it out as she walked me to a back room with soft lighting and a cushy, plaid loveseat.
I don’t know how long we were there, or how long I cried, but Frieda stayed with me until Dr. Northrup stuck his head around the corner and smiled the smile that had made me choose him when I was hunting for a vet.
“Stevie? He’s lookin’ good, kiddo. He got clipped pretty good on his hindquarter though. Didn’t hit anything major, and I dug the bullet out for the police, but he’s got six stitches and an ugly patch where his hair’s missing after a shave for surgery. Looks worse than it is, might need a bit o’ therapy to get that healed all right and proper, but he’ll survive. Gonna keep him overnight just to be safe, if that’s all right by you?”
“Thank heaven!” Win exhaled in my ear.
“I raise my glass to your four-legged friend! He is strong warrior!” Arkady chimed in.
I lunged from the couch and threw myself at poor Dr. Northrup, hugging him hard and soaking the shoulder of his shirt. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I whispered. “I don’t know what I would have done…”
Dr. Northrup gave me an awkward pat on the back and set me from him. “He’s a good guy, your Whiskey. Just doin’ what dogs like that do. I think what the police said is right. He was protectin’ you.”
A brief moment of terror came and went. I didn’t know who’d want to shoot at me, but I couldn’t focus on that right now. Right now, I had to be with Whiskey, feel his soft fur under my chin as he burrowed against me and tucked his head into my shoulder. I had to know his heart was still beating strong and sure.
“Can I see him, please?”
Dr. Northrup nodded, rocking back on his heels and pointing to the recovery room behind me. �
��’Course ya can, gal. Just remember, he’s a little groggy yet. I put him on the couch in the recovery room so you can cuddle up if you want to.”
I squeezed his hand once more, whispered another thank you in gratitude, and fled so I wouldn’t blur my vision with more tears. When I opened the door and saw Whiskey, lying on the old couch with a fluffy comforter beneath him, I really fell apart.
“Aw, Whiskey…” I whispered as I kneeled down and stroked the top of his head, my tears splashing into his fur. He was shaved from the back of his hindquarter almost to the base of his spine, the bullet hole sewn neatly.
My heart ached, but my limbs almost collapsed with relief at the sight of him. He lifted his big head, his tongue lolled from the side of his mouth as his eyes fought to adjust, and then it was as though he saw me, heard Win, and he did what he always did. He pushed his nose into my hand and sighed.
“Good man, Whiskey. You rest now, chap. We’ll be here when you wake up,” Win soothed, his tone gruff and thick with emotion.
I set my purse on the couch so Bel could poke his head out to see for himself Whiskey was all right, as I kept watch on the recovery room door. He inched his way toward Whiskey’s muzzle and butted his tiny head against him. “You big dolt. I love you more’n I love watermelon in the summer. Don’t you ever scare me like that again. Got it? I love you, man. Love you hard.”
Whiskey gave a soft groan before he closed his eyes again and drifted off as I managed to squeeze in behind him, careful not to jar his incision.
Wrapping my arm around his thick neck, I buried my face in his fur and closed my eyes. “You rest, buddy. We’ll talk about a big T-bone for your lunch tomorrow, once you’re feeling better. If whoever was shooting was aiming for me, I’ll find him. Promise. But you saved me. You’re a hero, Whiskey. My hero.”
I stroked his velvet ear for a while, just like I did almost every night when we went to bed, until the long day and my aching nose caught up with me and I slept, too.
* * * *
“Buddy!” Bel shouted from the top of the staircase. “Who’s my big boy, Whiskey? Who’s a big boy?”
After a long night at the vet, wherein I’d fallen asleep and awakened with Whiskey panting happily in my face as though he’d never taken a bullet, I’d come home to grab a shower while Dr. Northrup took one last X-ray of his leg.
Now, safely back where he belonged, Whiskey, cone of shame around his neck to prevent him from scratching his wound, was ready to eat and see his pal Belfry.
“Easy, buddy,” I warned him. “Make sure he’s doesn’t overwork his leg, Bel. Oh, and thanks for calling 9-1-1 last night. You’re a peach among bats.”
Bel flew in a spiral down from the top of the steps and landed on Whiskey’s neck, where he always sat. “Not a problem, and got it, Boss. We’ll take it nice and easy today, won’t we, pal? We’re gonna sit out on the patio, you’re gonna eat the biggest steak ever, and no rough stuff. I’ll take good care of him, promise.”
When Enzo and Carmella had heard Whiskey’d been shot, they’d come running, dropping off a tray of rigatoni for me and an enormous rare steak for Whiskey.
Kneeling down, I hugged Whiskey once more and dropped a kiss on his head. “I love you, buddy. I’m so glad you’re safe and home. You sure you got this, Bel?”
“I got this. You go do your snooping; I’ll keep the home fires burnin’.”
I chuckled as I made my way into the kitchen to grab some coffee, freshly brewed by none other than Enzo, who’d left me a note to call if I needed anything. Sipping at the rich liquid, I closed my eyes and sighed.
My nose still throbbed to a tune of its own, and my cheek was bruised and sore, but Whiskey was alive, Dr. Northrup had handed over the bullet that he’d removed from my dog to the police for identification, and Luis was still with Dana.
I just wanted a moment to breathe before I tackled the rest of this new day.
“Morning, Dove. How doth thee fare?”
I grinned—even though Dana was still in jail, I had a good feeling about today. “Thou fares much better, thank you. How are you?”
“Feeling quite well now that our Whiskey’s home and alive. Grateful we’re all safe and sound.”
“Me too. I think for the immediate moment, I have to leave alone the question of who was aiming that gun last night and focus on Dana. If the person was truly aiming at me, I must be onto something. But how would they know I was onto something, is the question? I haven’t spoken a word to anyone about the possible mob connection. Otherwise, who’d want to shoot me?”
“I fear, if that bullet was meant for you, it’s someone we know. Which ties in with the idea that it was someone Sophia knew. I don’t like this turn of events, Dove. It worries me.”
Feeling like I was being watched had to be the creepiest feeling ever. I looked out the window and shuddered. But then I had a thought—one that made me gasp. “You don’t think it could be Fakebottom, do you?”
“I’ll kill him myself, Stephania. If that tosser shot at you, I’m going to utilize some of these ghost skills I’ve been practicing!”
“Stop right there. What have you been practicing? Are we talking dimming lights, opening and shutting cabinets, or are we talking summoning demons? Because I don’t want to have to remind you, this is dangerous, highly not-recommended territory.”
“Just you let me handle my evil twin. For now, until we have some answers, let’s, as you said, focus on Officer Nelson.”
“So, I’ve been trying to sort my thoughts this morning and I think the next thing I should do is talk to Eleanor’s aunt. She doesn’t feel right to me—not as a murder suspect anyway, but stranger things have been known to happen. Also, I’m going to investigate those hedges. I don’t know if that bullet was really meant for me, but I can’t think of anyone who’d want to harm Whiskey.”
Win grunted. “Neither can I. No disgruntled neighbors to speak of. He’s not a barker, so certainly he hasn’t disturbed anyone’s sleep. I hate to agree with the notion, but maybe the bullet was intended for you. As I said, I don’t like that, Stephania. Not at all.”
“Neither does Arkady! I must learn some of these ghost things Zero speaks of so that I can protect my little malutka. I will not have her pretty bottom scarred.”
I self-consciously reached behind me and tugged the hem of my Bermuda shorts. “Quit lookin’ at my butt,” I joked. “And you be careful with the ghost things, Big A. Like I told Win, some things are quite dangerous unless you now how to control them.”
“Then Arkady will consult you first. This is a promise. For now, as everyone is well, I must leave you. There is a beautiful Swedish masseuse who died just this morning after slipping in her massage oil and hitting her head. My neck is killing me after old injury from my days hauling water in Chechnya communes. I need strong girl to work out the knots. Dasvidaniya, my comrades. I see you soon!” he said, his hearty presence leaving my space.
As I made my way out to the side yard where Whiskey had been shot, I decided now was the time to ask Win about Arkady, and if my talking to him was an issue.
“So. Arkady. He is handful like greased cat, nyet?” I joked in a Russian accent, stepping out onto the lawn where the sun continued to burn a hole in the ozone.
Win’s laughter rang out strong and clear in my ear. “That he is.”
I rounded the corner of the house and made my way to the hedges, sweat beading my brow already. “Any issues with him popping in the way he has been? I meant to double check after I asked you the other night in the bathroom, but I’ve been so caught up in this mess with Dana, I forgot.”
“Not a one. We’ve made our peace, and he did tell you Fakebottom wasn’t really me, didn’t he? I could always use an ally.”
I stooped down, bending at the knee to look under the hedges. I know the police had scoured the area, checked for footprints and such, but I wanted to see for myself because that’s just who I was.
“I didn’t really need him to confirm,
Win. I believed you from the start.”
“I know you did, Dove, but it’s always good to have more than one confirmation. I was beginning to think I’d gone nutters.”
Pushing the sharp, leafy green stems aside, I began to explore the surface and the area surrounding the hedges. “Did Arkady tell you I had a run-in with your evil twin?”
“He did, indeed. I heard you put on quite a show.”
“Bet your British bippy I did. He’s not taking this away from us, Win. I don’t care if he looks exactly like you. Did you happen to talk to Arkady about how that’s possible? Does he know any evil spies who’d go so far as to get plastic surgery to pretend to be you?”
“I did, and we both decided if it were anyone, it had to be Anton Drake. But Anton was killed last year in a helicopter accident off the coast of Italy.”
“Uh, are we sure he’s really dead-dead? Because don’t you spies come back from the dead, or pretend you’re dead when you’re not really dead? If plastic surgery was one of his spy tools, who says he didn’t fake his death and become you?”
“Because Drake is at least two inches shorter than me. You can’t grow legs.”
“If you spies can have lipstick guns and infrared eyeballs, who says you can’t grow two inches?”
Win’s chuckle lifted my spirits. “Touché, m’love. But I have to say, I have my doubts.”
“Okay, so back to square one with Fakebottom. That meeting at the lawyer’s office is coming up on us pretty quick, you know. I just want all my ducks in a row.”
I paused a moment as I caught sight of a piece of dark blue pinstriped material. About a quarter of an inch and square, it clung to one of the middle branches of the hedges. Walking around the back of the hedge, I aligned my eyes with the view in front of me then hunkered down.
“See this?” I asked Win, using my fingertip to point to the scrap of fabric. “It’s in the right place to get caught on a branch if someone were trying to shoot me where I was standing.”
The Old Witcheroo Page 14
