Hounded

by Tasha Black

  He was lying.

  “Doesn’t look like there’s much to go thump in here,” Van observed.

  “Jack, is there some reason you’re in this room?” Henry asked.

  “I heard a noise and I came to check,” Wenderly said defensively. “You have no right to attack me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  He pushed past them into the corridor and disappeared down the back stair.

  “No one touch anything,” Van instructed, as he stepped forward to inhale the scents of the room.

  Henry looked at Van like he was crazy.

  To distract Henry, Dulcie pulled her mini-light out of her pocket. Behind every good realtor was a great flashlight. The thing was the size of a dime, but it lit the place up like a stage.

  She shone it around slowly.

  There was nothing out of place. Not a trace of dust, not a scrap of paper.

  Van nodded and she joined him.

  “Should we open the trunks?” Henry asked.

  “Yes,” Van said.

  Together they checked each trunk. There was nothing in them except about a dresser drawer’s worth of old clothes.

  The closet was empty. Van tried, but none of the floor boards would come up.

  “Why was he so odd about being here?” Henry demanded when they had examined everything in the room.

  “No idea,” Van replied.

  “He felt ashamed and guilty,” Dulcie said.

  “He was behaving oddly,” Henry agreed. “But maybe he was just embarrassed of being frightened when we snuck up on him.”

  “No,” she said. “He was feeling guilty.”

  Chapter 11

  Dulcie tried to keep the spring out of her step as she walked from her car across the large lot in front of Brent & Berney’s Book Store the next day.

  It had been raining off and on all morning, but that didn’t matter. The day still seemed beautiful. The sugar maples that lined the lot had already gone from yellow to orange as the fall days shortened. Now they blushed a brilliant red. Their leaves fluttered like tiny wings in the rainy air and carpeted the macadam in slippery scarlet.

  Dulcie came here often. Probably too often. It was a bit of a drive, but it was a pleasure to visit a big anonymous bookstore. A place where a woman could browse the stacks and grab a latte without anyone starting up a chat about house prices.

  But today was business. Sort of.

  First thing this morning, Dulcie had handed her clients over to Mel, the closest thing to a best buddy she had at the office. Mel wasn’t as gentle as Dulcie but she was smart, and Dulcie figured her short list of clients could handle a bit of a kick in the pants for a few days.

  Now she was pretending to be a real detective.

  But she didn’t know where to begin.

  And she was torn over what to think about Van.

  He was a white dog. Shouldn’t that put him at the top of the list of suspects?

  She’d been over it and over it, but he simply hadn’t shown any stress or bad vibes at the crime scene last night.

  She hoped her own newfound feelings weren’t clouding her judgment.

  As soon as she’d returned home, she’d been unable to think of anything but the big man with his protective streak. And she wasn’t just worrying over the fact that he was a white dog shifter.

  The smell of him was on her skin and in her hair from wearing his jacket all night. She couldn’t help fantasizing about what would have happened if Templeton had never come along to interrupt them.

  It had been a long, sleepless night that ended with a nightmare about a ghost dog smiling slowly at her in the clearing, like a Cheshire Cat.

  The whole thing had her so out of sorts that she knew she needed a fresh perspective.

  So Dulcie had called Mel, and then headed straight to the book store.

  The heavy glass door took a bit of elbow to open. Cool air and cooler jazz greeted her. But a second later the scent of freshly ground coffee obliterated her other senses.

  Maybe she ought to grab a quick refreshment to keep herself sharp. She ignored the look the barista gave her when she proceeded to add five more sugar packets to syrupy drink he handed her.

  A few minutes later, properly sweetened iced hazelnut in hand, she wandered to the pet section. Obviously, she needed to head to detective and crime info eventually. But she figured she would wait for the caffeine to kick in before hitting it. No need to ruin her nice coffee with crime scene photos.

  If she could find a book with all the breeds maybe Templeton could identify what he had seen.

  She scanned the shelves.

  “Getting ready for a puppy, huh?” an older lady with bright pink lipstick asked her with a knowing grin.

  “Oh, um, yes,” Dulcie smiled back, then broke eye contact, desperate not to know what she had already sensed.

  The woman practically shimmered with tomato red excitement about dogs.

  “They’re a lot of work you know,” Pink Lipstick confided.

  Dulcie nodded, not looking up.

  Pink Lipstick took things to the next level, and patted Dulcie’s shoulder.

  “But they’re a whole lotta’ fun,” she crowed.

  Dulcie smiled without replying and kept searching.

  “So what are you looking for?” Pink Lipstick asked, undeterred.

  Dulcie sighed, and turned to the lady.

  “I’m just looking for a book on the different breeds,” she said.

  The woman pointed to a book with a picture of some monks with Seeing Eye dogs.

  “No need, that’s what you want, right there,” she said firmly.

  Dulcie could only hope she meant the dogs, not the monks.

  “What is that, a shepherd?” she asked.

  “Bingo! That, my girl, is a German Shepherd Dog, smartest canine on earth, loyal, playful, humble and smart. You can’t go wrong with a GSD.”

  Right. The wiener dog people probably said the same about dachshunds.

  “I’m looking for a big dog like that, but I prefer a… white dog,” Dulcie said, realizing too late that preferring a white dog might not sound politically correct.

  “There are white Shepherds, but they’re rare. White Akitas too. Does it have to be all white?” Pink Lipstick asked.

  “Yes,” Dulcie said, feeling more awkward by the moment.

  “And big?” Lipstick asked.

  “Yes. I’m looking for a big, muscular dog, the size of a small pony, with floppy ears and a wide jaw. And ghostly white,” Dulcie blurted, throwing caution to the wind.

  Pink Lipstick stared for a moment, her mouth open enough for Dulcie to see the tiny smear of pink on her front teeth.

  “Well… that sounds like a Mastiff. Except the part about it being white. Maybe you could find a white Mastiff,” the woman ventured doubtfully.

  “Mastiff, got it. Thanks,” Dulcie nodded, grabbing every book about Mastiffs off the shelf and scurrying back to the cafe.

  She found a small round table in the far corner. She placed the books on it, set down her drink, and picked up the first title.

  It was clearly propaganda. And seemed to be put out by some sort of dog-describing press that likely published a million dog books, with breeds and traits copied and pasted for the pet store set.

  The next book was a memoir. The dog probably died at the end. And it was tan colored.

  Then another puppy mill press book.

  The next book was thicker. It had a mediocre pen and ink drawing on its cover, instead of a high color glossy of a puppy.

  This was promising. It was probably written by someone who actually liked Mastiffs.

  Dulcie paged through intently. It was quite a tome, with many stern warnings about the dog and who should not have one.

  There were drawings of leashes and bowls and medical conditions.

  There were terrible pictures of Mastiffs fighting. Apparently they had been bred as fighting dogs, and it could be hard to breed out, so readers should only buy fro
m a reputable breeder.

  Dulcie skimmed on, finding no drawings of white Mastiffs.

  At last, there was a chapter heading that promised information about different kinds of Mastiffs. The fourteen Mastiff breeds were dutifully listed down a whole page, with brief notes on temperament. But there were only a few drawings. One had a brindle coat and long floppy ears. One was black and fluffy.

  “Hey there,” a woman’s voice said brightly, from a foot away.

  Dulcie did her best not to jump out of her skin.

  “Hope I didn’t startle you, but I found this,” her new best friend from the dog section trumpeted, slamming down an open book in front of Dulcie triumphantly.

  Dulcie blinked and nearly did a double-take.

  It was a huge dog, exactly as Templeton had described. It looked like a Mastiff, but it was ghostly white.

  “Argentine Mastiff,” Lipstick announced proudly.

  “Thank you,” Dulcie replied.

  “Don’t mention it,” Lipstick said. “I still say the Shepherd is a better choice. Do your homework, honey.”

  She slipped a German Shepherd book on the table beside the breed encyclopedia, winked, and marched away.

  Dulcie looked back at the Argentine Mastiff. Dogo Argentino was written beneath.

  She grabbed her drink and took a nice pull on the straw as she began to read.

  Fifteen minutes later, her phone erupted with text messages.

  Van:

  Where are you?

  Van:

  I’m coming to get you.

  Van:

  I need you to text me NOW.

  Flustered, Dulcie grabbed the dog encyclopedia and the pen and ink Mastiff book. She dashed over to the Mystery/Crime section. Not wanting to waste time if something were wrong, but also not wanting to waste a trip, she went for the familiar yellow how-to cover of Crime Solving for Hopeless Morons.

  The line was short and she was back out in the rain in no time. She returned Van’s texts from the privacy of her car.

  Dulcie:

  What’s wrong?

  Van:

  Why did you wait so long to text me? Are you okay?

  Dulcie:

  I’m fine. I’m at the book store. Why are you so upset?

  Van:

  I went to your office. They said you were taking a vacation. They said you wouldn’t be back for a week and they gave me some other lady’s number. Sounded fishy.

  Dulcie smiled to herself.

  Dulcie:

  Yes, I’m taking a week off.

  To solve our mystery!

  Everything’s fine.

  When he didn’t respond right away, Dulcie figured he was satisfied. It was sort of flattering that he was concerned.

  She was about to start the car, when the phone buzzed again.

  Van:

  I’m at the book store, you’re not here.

  Dulcie:

  I’m at Brent & Berney’s. I didn’t want to be asking for crime-solving books right next to where I work.

  Van:

  Come back so we can talk about the case. And don’t disappear again. There’s a killer on the loose. You need to be careful.

  Dulcie’s warrior side bucked at the notion that she couldn’t defend herself in open combat.

  Then her realistic side remembered that she didn’t have a warrior side.

  But still. He wasn’t the boss of her.

  Dulcie:

  How do I know I’m not supposed to be careful of YOU?

  Van:

  If this is some kind of guilt trip over me kissing you, you can forget it. You liked it. I liked it. I’m going to do it again.

  Dulcie shivered in greedy anticipation.

  Van:

  But I don’t sext, so get your ass back here so we can continue this conversation in person.

  Needing no further prompting, Dulcie stuck the phone in her bag and headed back to Woodland Creek.

  He wasn’t a killer, she could read the goodness on him, right?

  Somewhere under all that confidence was a heart of gold.

  Though she wasn’t exactly sure she could trust her own judgment at this point.

  Chapter 12

  Dulcie arrived at home, intending to shower quickly before meeting Van. The rain had cleared and the remaining drops on her front lawn sparkled in the afternoon sunlight.

  The little cottage had been built as an in-law house in the 1950s for owners of the big stone Tudor next door. When those owners moved, the property was sub-divided. And a few decades later the elderly couple who had bought the cottage put it up for sale.

  Dulcie bid on it immediately, offering a bit more than they asked just to be sure.

  It had been a boring little two bedroom bungalow in elegant Old Town, but she liked to think she had given it a charm of its own. In the last few years she’d had the old siding removed and gingerbread cedar shake put up on its exterior. When she sold a mansion around the corner, she’d used the commission to have a wraparound porch added.

  Now the butterfly bushes had grown up around it and made the porch look like it was always there. Wind chimes tinkled playfully and the somewhat overgrown lawn was full of birds and squirrels.

  She hopped out of the Saab without bothering to lock it, and headed for the house, sipping the last of her coffee.

  She figured she’d take a quick shower and then text Van. After the late night, she’d gone to the book store in yoga pants.

  Half an hour later, Dulcie was showered and pleased with her outfit, a lavender t-shirt dress with a deep brown cardigan, boots and a chunky moonstone necklace. She looked nice, but not like she was trying too hard.

  When she pulled her phone out of her bag, she was stunned to see two more messages from Van.

  Van:

  Where are you? I thought you were coming right back?

  Van:

  Dulcinea, please check in.

  Good grief. She texted back right away.

  Dulcie:

  Hey, Van, just had to run a quick errand. Want to get together now and talk about the case?

  Van:

  With a client. Text you later.

  Oh.

  Dulcie put the phone down.

  Oh. A client.

  She began to pace the room.

  He wasn’t her boyfriend. She had no reason to be upset. She had literally just been trying to convince herself he wasn’t a murderer.

  So why did she feel sick about the thought of him training another woman?

  No matter.

  She marched to the kitchen and rinsed out her coffee cup, threw it in the recycling bin and fixed herself an extra sweet tea.

  Back in the living room, she grabbed the book on crime solving and curled up on her favorite chair.

  It was written in a conversational tone, so that was good at least.

  At first she found it hard to concentrate, thought of Van and some socialite kept coming into her head.

  But Dulcie was determined not to let it get under her skin. Van was no good. She had known it from the credit report, and the rumors around town had confirmed it. There was no point trying to pretend he was boyfriend material, no matter how smoking hot he was.

  Instead of beating herself up for flirting with him, she would focus on crime solving.

  She read about who attended a crime scene investigation.

  A lot of the stuff in the book pertained more to a big-city type setting, especially the scope of professionals typically involved. She thumbed ahead a little and found a chapter on the process. She read, taking in as much as she could, but the words kept growing fuzzy, and she had to start a few paragraphs more than once.

  Before long, Dulcie was flying, floating through the clearing in the woods. There were no cabins, only trees, but she knew where she was by the crime scene ribbons.

  She soared and dove, luxuriating in the vibrant colors of the lush green grass and the silvery gray sky. She felt the touch of electricity in the air that told her a s
torm was coming.

  Then she saw it.

  A ghostly white dog at the edge of the woods.

  Wide face, small ears flopped down, strong muscular shoulders.

  It glowed eerily in the slight darkness at the edge of the trees.

  Chapter 13

  Van left the Watsons’ house as the sun was disappearing behind the trees. Anna Watson was going to need a lot more sessions if she wanted to run a 5K. Van was just glad his pay wasn’t based on whether or not she succeeded.

  He stood under a tree on their front lawn to text Dulcie before getting on his bike.

  No reply.

  Weird.

  He took a moment to admire the golden maples lining the Watsons’ driveway.

  Then he checked his phone again.

  God dammit, this woman was going to be the death of him.

  Where would she be?

  Probably at home.

  He grabbed a card out of his pocket and dialed a number.

  “Mel, here,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “Hey, there Mel. Carl here from Baskets, Baskets, Baskets,” he lied casually. “I’m trying to deliver a fruit sculpture to a Dulcie…Alette. Her voicemail says she’s not in the office but this stuff won’t keep. Can you let me know her home address so we can deliver?”

  Mel was very obliging. In moments he was heading for Dulcie’s house.

  The motorcycle came alive between his legs and he felt fantastic whipping through the winding streets of Old Town among the fiery trees.

  Dulcie’s address was a pretty fancy one from what he knew of town. Funny, she was a down-to-earth woman. But she did love old houses.

  When he came to the yellow mailbox with a 7 on it, he could see the gravel drive curving behind a jungle of rhododendrons.

  As he followed it, the little house came into view. The yard was wild, just the way he liked yards to be. Outside was outside, it shouldn’t look like inside. Plus, natural smells were so much better than mulch and fertilizer.