“Not too soon,” he warned. “They’ve been cooped up all morning and they need to stretch their legs.”
Jocelyn murmured under her breath, “You’re welcome.”
He narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond. So she took the party outside, trying to keep the leashes from tangling as the dogs jostled for position. As she left, she lifted her hand in farewell to Boat Shoes, who was still stationed on the front stoop.
“Nice talking to you.” The dogs whined, urging her to pick up the pace. “And FYI, he’s about two minutes away from calling the cops.”
The stranger stared at the dogs. Jocelyn gave him another jaunty wave and broke into a lope as they hit the sand. “Oh, and I like your shoes!”
* * *
• • •
“Well? What’s the latest?” Jocelyn’s mother bundled her pink cotton robe into her duffel bag.
Jocelyn tried to play dumb, even though that never worked with her mother. “The latest on what?”
“Christopher Cantor the Third.”
Jocelyn busied herself with checking over the hospital room to make sure they hadn’t forgotten to pack anything.
“You two still together?” Rachel pressed.
“Nothing’s changed since the last time you harassed me about this.” Jocelyn took the bag from her mother and peered out into the hallway. “They have to bring you outside in a wheelchair, right? Legal liability and all that?”
“You went to a black-tie fund-raiser with the man who you’re trying on engagement rings for and it was ‘fine’?” Rachel scoffed.
Jocelyn’s jaw dropped. “How do you do this? Did you install some secret surveillance app on my phone?”
“I told you, I have my ways.” Rachel fixed her steely gaze on her daughter. “Start talking.”
“There’s nothing to report. You’ve seen one black-tie fund-raiser, you’ve seen ’em all. My only complaint was, it was a fund-raiser for the animal shelter, and there weren’t any animals there. Not so much as a single Shih Tzu.”
“Dogs have no place at a cocktail party.” Her mother shuddered at the thought.
“Dogs have no place anywhere, according to you,” Jocelyn retorted. “I can’t believe you never let me have a puppy, ever. You’re so mean.”
“I’m not mean; I’m a woman who likes clean floors, clean clothes, and being able to leave food on the coffee table for five minutes without it being snatched and eaten. I spend enough time cleaning up after other people’s messes as it is.” Rachel looked unrepentant. “Also, I’m allergic.”
“No, you’re not. You just don’t like dogs.”
Rachel adjusted her cardigan. “When you buy your own house, you can have as many dogs as you want.”
Jocelyn made a mental tally of how much she’d need for a down payment and how many years she’d have to work to attain it. “How about just one, Mom? Small. Nonshedding. Non-table-surfing. Maybe a poodle?”
“No.”
“Bichon frise?”
Rachel finally cracked a smile. “We’ve been having this same conversation since you were four years old. The answer will always be no.”
“Fair enough. But the answer will always be no when you ask for details about me and Chris.”
Rachel nodded. “Probably for the best.”
“Oh look, here comes your wheelchair. Ready to go home?”
“Only if we can listen to Duran Duran the whole way without any complaints from you.” Rachel, who still owned every Duran Duran recording on both cassette tape and CD, tended to express her love for them by singing along at the top of her lungs. It made for some very long road trips.
“I make no promises.”
Rachel rubbed her eyes. “I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed. No one barging in at night to draw my blood or check my pulse or show me off to a bunch of residents.”
“Brace yourself.” Jocelyn waved as she saw a familiar figure striding down the hall. “It’s your other kid.”
“Hi, Rachel! So glad I made it in time.” Bree swooped into the room alongside the attendant. “I figured you guys could use an extra set of hands.”
“Thank you.” Rachel beamed. “I think we’ve got it covered, though.” She settled into the wheelchair and rested her feet on the metal rungs. “All I really need you to do is talk some sense into Joss.”
The attendant headed for the elevator with Rachel. Bree and Jocelyn fell into step behind him.
“What’s going on?” Bree asked Rachel as they all crowded onto the elevator. “Is this about the man in her life? The one I warned her about?”
“We all warned her,” Rachel said.
Jocelyn sighed in exasperation. “I told you, I don’t need warnings.”
“I have talked to her and talked to her,” Bree told Rachel, as though describing a wayward kindergartner. “She doesn’t listen.”
Jocelyn’s mother and best friend exchanged world-weary glances. “Where have we gone wrong?”
“We’re changing the subject,” Jocelyn announced as the doors opened, revealing the hospital’s first-floor lobby.
“Fine, but this isn’t over.” Bree focused her attention on Rachel. “How’s your back?”
Rachel shifted her weight. “Getting better every day. The surgeon said everything looks good so far.”
“But she has to take it easy,” Jocelyn cautioned. “No bending, lifting, or twisting for six weeks. At least.”
“That’s going a little too far,” Rachel said. “I can do some light lifting.”
“The surgeon specifically said no,” Jocelyn reminded her. “I was there when he said it.”
Rachel clasped Bree’s hand and appealed to her. “I have to work.”
“You can work when your doctors have cleared you to work,” Jocelyn said. “Otherwise, you’re just going to mess up your spine all over again.”
“That sounds painful,” Bree remarked. “Not to mention expensive.”
Rachel dropped Bree’s hand and got grouchy. “The doctors can say whatever they want, but they don’t have to worry about paying the mortgage and putting food on the table. If I’m not there to run the business—”
“I’m running it,” Jocelyn assured her. “It’s going fine. We’re on track to make more than we did last summer, as a matter of fact.”
“But property taxes are going up, and gasoline, and the energy bills with that old air conditioner . . .”
“Everything’s under control,” Jocelyn said. “I promise.”
“It’s true. I can vouch for her.” Bree led the way through the lobby and stopped at the sliding glass doors to offer Rachel her arm.
“I don’t need your help.” Rachel swatted away Bree and the wheelchair attendant. “This whole thing is ridiculous.”
Bree jangled her car keys.
“You guys stay here. I’ll bring the car around.” She jogged off, leaving mother and daughter together.
“I’m not going to stay in bed like a helpless invalid for six weeks.” Rachel’s tone was threatening.
Jocelyn nodded. “It’ll probably be more like eight or ten weeks.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“You’re right—your health is serious business, and you need to take your time and recover.” Jocelyn closed her eyes against a wave of guilt. “It’s bad enough that you’ve had to work so hard all these years that you need back surgery.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me.” Now Rachel sounded offended. “I never minded working hard.”
“Yeah, but if you hadn’t had me . . .” Jocelyn didn’t finish the thought. If Rachel hadn’t had a child, her life would have been so different. She could have traveled, finished college, pursued a career she really loved instead of spending her life doing other people’s laundry. But she had made a decision, at age twenty, to devote her life to rearing
a daughter. She had given up countless opportunities so she could take care of Jocelyn.
And now it was Jocelyn’s turn to take care of her.
As if she could read her daughter’s mind, Rachel touched her arm. “I never wanted the high life.” She leveled her gaze. “I don’t need diamonds and trips to Paris to be happy.”
Rather than resuming their earlier squabble, Jocelyn agreed with her mother. “I know. It’s like you always said, having more just makes you want more.”
“That’s right.”
“I always think about that when I go to Mr. Allardyce’s house. He spent gobs of money to build it and fill it with furniture and art, and for what?” Jocelyn allowed a hint of annoyance to creep into her voice. “His house takes up some of the most beautiful beachfront property in town, and he only lives here two months a year. He spends most of his time in his even bigger mansion in Virginia, and no one else gets to enjoy the beach, and he has to pay for lawn maintenance and utilities and upkeep all year long. It’s very selfish. Not to mention environmentally irresponsible.”
“Preach it,” Rachel said.
“And it doesn’t make him happy. He’s the sourest sourpuss I’ve ever met. I’ve never heard him talk about his family, and he doesn’t have any friends. There’s Lois, but he pays her to train the dogs and win trophies.”
“His own dogs probably don’t even like him.”
“No, they do.” Jocelyn smiled. “That’s probably why he has three of them. They’re always happy to see him and they never want anything from him, except belly rubs and walks and food.”
“And he can’t even give them that,” Rachel pointed out. “He outsourced the walking and playing to you.”
“I’m telling you, if I had money, I wouldn’t waste it. I wouldn’t buy a giant empty house, hogging all the good views and natural resources for myself.”
“You say that, but money changes people.”
“Not me,” Jocelyn vowed. “Give me an environmental disaster of a beach house and a bunch of cash I didn’t earn and I’d give it all away.”
chapter 8
The next morning, after transferring the latest load of linens from the washer to the dryer and exacting a promise from her mother that she’d remain on the couch for the duration of the day, Jocelyn stopped by Mr. Allardyce’s environmental disaster of a beach house to release the hounds. She rang the doorbell three times before she gave up and let herself in.
“Hello?” she called down the hallway.
Frenzied barking was the only response.
She ventured into the kitchen to find a mug in the sink along with a coffee-stained spoon. After stopping to pet the dogs, who were hurling themselves against the tall safety gate in the den, Jocelyn continued her sweep of the vast house, cringing in anticipation of the moment that she’d hear Mr. Allardyce’s voice commanding her to back off and mind her own business.
But that moment never arrived. She checked the office, the living room, the pantry, all five (or was it six?) bathrooms, and even went so far as to crack open the huge, heavy door to the master bedroom. Mr. Allardyce was nowhere to be found.
“Where’d your dad go?” Jocelyn asked the dogs when she returned downstairs.
The dogs responded by galloping over to the water dish in the kitchen and gulping down the contents in a swarm of wagging tails and whines. While Curtis and Hester lapped away at the bottom of the stainless steel bowl, Carmen sat at Jocelyn’s feet and stared up at her with the intensity of an FBI interrogator.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
The dog started drooling.
“You ready for your run?”
The stares got more desperate. Hester abandoned the water bowl, padded over to the pantry, and scratched at the door with one paw.
“You didn’t have breakfast?” Jocelyn frowned. Mr. Allardyce would never let his prized pups go without a meal—especially pregnant Hester. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed his number. The call went to voice mail.
She decided that even if the dogs had already had breakfast, an extra meal never hurt anybody. The dogs literally jumped for joy while she portioned out the individual servings of kibble, wet food, salmon oil, and powdered vitamin supplements. They stopped leaping and panting only long enough to scarf down the meal—which took approximately seven seconds. Then they crowded back around Jocelyn and started whimpering again.
“Now you want your run.” Curtis, ever the class clown, reared back and planted his front paws on her shoulders. She kissed his giant black nose. “You guys are kind of pushy, you know that?”
Carmen responded by snagging the loose end of a leash in her mouth and shaking it. After Jocelyn supervised the barely controlled chaos of three dogs sprinting across the sand and pulling hairpin U-turns to double back, she brought everyone back to the house and tried to call Mr. Allardyce again. Once again, the call went straight to voice mail.
Her next call was to Bree. “Allardyce has gone AWOL, and I think he might have left the dogs without breakfast, which really isn’t like him.”
“Time to worry?” Bree asked.
“I don’t know.” Jocelyn couldn’t stop thinking about the taciturn stranger in boat shoes who had refused to move from the doorstep the day before. “But there was a guy here yesterday. Irritated, persistent. He kept ringing the doorbell.”
“And you’re thinking . . . ?”
“I don’t know,” Jocelyn repeated.
“Do you suspect”—Bree lowered her voice for dramatic effect— “foul play?”
Jocelyn half laughed. “I didn’t say that.”
“Well then, what are you saying?”
“There was something off about the guy. The whole situation was weird.”
“What did he look like?” Bree demanded.
Jocelyn gave her best attempt at a police description, starting with the expensive haircut, including the sculpted physique and crisply pressed casual attire, and ending with the boat shoes.
“Boat shoes?” Now Bree sounded alarmed. “That’s, like, serial killer territory.”
“Helpful.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What’s my move here?” Jocelyn asked. “Calling the police seems kind of extreme, but we do have a missing-person case on our hands. Right?”
“Don’t call the police just yet.” Bree always knew what to do in a crisis. It was one of the many qualities Jocelyn admired about her. “Let me run a quick recon mission first.”
“Recon mission?”
“Yeah. I just met the new owner of the Whinery. Cammie Breyer. Do you know her? She’s shacked up with that farmer who grows the world’s best strawberries?”
“Yeah, I’ve met her. I clean her dish towels twice a week. What has she got to do with any of this?”
“Bartenders are the first to know everything. Especially in Black Dog Bay. Give me five minutes.”
Three minutes later, Jocelyn’s phone rang.
“I have good news and bad news,” Bree announced.
“Good news first,” Jocelyn replied.
“The good news is Mr. Allardyce isn’t missing. He’s present and accounted for.”
“That is good news.”
“Not so fast. I haven’t told you the bad news yet.”
* * *
• • •
“No.” Rachel’s eyes widened as Jocelyn walked through the back door. “No, no, no.”
“Wait, Mom. Wait.” Jocelyn struggled to untangle the leashes she held in her right hand while she took the key out of the lock with her left hand. “Don’t say no just yet.”
“Too late.” Rachel tossed aside the TV remote, preparing to do battle. “You know the rules. No dogs in the house. Not now, not ever.”
“But Mom.” Jocelyn took a deep breath and tugged on a leash as Carmen leaped up to snag
a leftover toast crust from the counter. “It’s just for one night.”
“Jocelyn Jane Hillier. That right there is a pack of wild animals and I will not have it.”
“They are not wild animals. These are purebred show dogs from championship lines.” Jocelyn wished that Carmen and Curtis weren’t licking the floor tiles as she extolled their superiority. “They have a whole case full of trophies they’ve won at dog shows all across the world.” Mr. Allardyce had commissioned built-in cabinets with smudge-resistant glass doors and specialty lighting to display his pack’s winnings. “They get flown all over the country to breed with other purebreds who are best in show. These aren’t regular dogs, okay? They’re luxury dogs.”
“Then why are they acting like they’ve never been indoors before?” Rachel cringed as Curtis army-crawled beneath the coffee table and Hester climbed up on the ottoman.
“They’re off-duty.” Jocelyn snapped her fingers at Hester, who reluctantly lumbered back onto the floor. “They’re like little kids—you can’t expect them to be on their best behavior all day, every day.”
“Do they shed?” Rachel demanded. “Do they poop in the yard? Do they bark?”
Right on cue, Carmen rushed to the window and started barking as a bird landed on the porch railing. Curtis attempted to join her but couldn’t wriggle out from under the coffee table. So the giant black Lab galumphed across the floor wearing the table on his back like a giant saddle. Jocelyn managed to wrestle it free just before it fell to the floor.
Rachel shot her daughter a look of vindication. “Mr. Allardyce can call them whatever he wants, but they look like bad-mannered mutts to me.”
Jocelyn covered Curtis’s sizable ears. “Don’t listen, honey. She didn’t mean that.”
“Oh yes I did.” Rachel struggled to get up from the couch.
Jocelyn rested a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “The doctor said you’re supposed to rest.”
“How can I rest with all this chaos?” Rachel scowled as a sprinkling of fur drifted down and settled on the couch upholstery.
A decent point, Jocelyn had to admit. “Mr. Allardyce died, Mom.”
In Dog We Trust Page 6
