In Dog We Trust

by Beth Kendrick

  “Me, too.” Bree put down the dryer sheets and dusted off her hands. “Go put your hair up and shimmy into your little black dress. We’re going fishing for information at the busiest watering hole in Black Dog Bay.”

  chapter 23

  Jocelyn had walked by the front door of the Whinery countless times over the past five years. She’d dropped off clean dish towels and napkins at the back entrance twice per week. The bar had become a haven for “heartbreak tourists.” It was pink. It was loud. It was expensive. She never thought she’d actually sit down at the bar, order a drink, and chat up the vacationers.

  And yet, here she was, dolled up in high-heeled sandals and a dress, powdered and perfumed and accepting a pink champagne cocktail from the owner and head bartender, a petite ball of energy named Cammie.

  As she and Bree clinked glasses, Jocelyn shot a glance of censure at the bubbly. “We’re getting soft.”

  “If we’re going soft, we might as well go all the way,” was Bree’s response. “This is the good stuff. Taste it. Mmmm.”

  The sparkling wine was effervescent, Jocelyn had to admit. Light and lacy and delicate, this put every other cocktail she’d ever had to shame. “Well, that’s just great. Now I’m ruined for all other drinks.”

  “You’re officially a spoiled rich girl, like in that Hall and Oates song. Embrace it,” Bree urged.

  They glanced around at the late-afternoon crowd, nearly all of whom were well-heeled women from out of town. The Whinery was a stop along the way for most of these people. They wouldn’t stay in Black Dog Bay once the weather turned gray and blustery. These women had other lives, other destinations. But the one thing everybody did in a place like this—a breakup bar full of sympathetic strangers—was talk.

  Jocelyn propped her elbow on the bar top and leaned in to catch Cammie’s attention. “I feel like I should be wearing a trench coat and a fedora, because we’re here to do a little PI work.”

  “You want information?” Cammie grinned. “Let me tell you, you came to the right place. We’ve got it all: rumors, gossip, scuttlebutt, innuendo.”

  Bree looked enchanted. “I’m going to come here more often.”

  “I’m looking for a guy named Liam,” Jocelyn started. “Tall, dark, handsome, likes dogs . . .”

  “Aren’t we all looking for a guy like that?” The woman seated on Jocelyn’s right sighed wistfully and raised her glass.

  “Let me finish. In addition to tall, dark, and handsome, he’s also manipulative, money-hungry, and litigious. Very litigious.”

  The woman lowered her glass. “Ugh. Just like my ex. Never mind.”

  “He’s staying somewhere nearby, but I’ve called the bed-and-breakfasts and the local hotels, and they deny any knowledge of him.” Jocelyn had to raise her voice to be heard over the Adele ballad on the sound system. “I was hoping somebody here might have a hot tip on where to find him.”

  Cammie didn’t ask any questions or offer any opinions. This clearly wasn’t her first encounter with a patron on a search-and-destroy mission. She wiped down the shiny metal bar top with a pink dish towel, clocked the new customer that had just pulled up a stool on the far end of the bar, and excused herself. “I’ll ask around and get back to you. Give me ten minutes.”

  “This is the best.” Bree started dancing in her chair as an upbeat pop song came on. “Sipping champs while gathering intel. Very Casablanca.”

  “I know. Hopefully, someone will . . .” Jocelyn trailed off as she noticed a couple cozied up together in the corner. She could only see the backs of their heads, backlit by the sun streaming in through the plate glass window, but she knew.

  “Joss.” Bree snapped her fingers. “Hey. You okay?”

  The sweet fizz of champagne turned sour on Jocelyn’s tongue.

  Bree followed her gaze, confused. “What are we looking at?”

  And then he turned around.

  “Oh crap.” Bree smacked her palm down on the bar. “Two shots of tequila, stat!”

  “Shush.” Jocelyn pressed her hand over Bree’s, but it was too late. They’d been spotted. With an easy grace honed by years of small talk at charity balls and golf tournaments, Christopher Cantor III rose to his feet, offered his hand to his female companion, and headed straight for Jocelyn.

  “Kill me,” Jocelyn whispered to her best friend. “If you’ve ever cared about me at all, break your glass and use the shards to slash my jugular.”

  “If I’m slashing jugulars, it won’t be yours,” Bree hissed back.

  Her heels were too high to make a run for it, so Jocelyn had to stay in her seat, arranging what she hoped was a smile on her face and watching the man she’d hoped to marry rest his hand on the small of another woman’s back.

  “Jocelyn. Bree. What a pleasant surprise.” Chris’s smile looked warm and genuine. When neither responded, he continued, “Fun place, huh?”

  Bree gave him a look more cutting than any glass shard and turned her back on him. He flinched for a fraction of a second, then focused all his attention on Jocelyn. “You look great. Wearing your favorite dress, I see.”

  “It’s my only dress,” she said. “Because, you know. I’m working class and all.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “This is Alice.”

  Jocelyn stared at the pale, slender young woman with wavy dark hair tied back with a white ribbon. Alice looked like someone you’d see in the pages of a Saks Fifth Avenue catalog, all silk scarves and porcelain skin. A hundred bucks said that this lady had never once mussed her cuticles by digging up a septic tank.

  “We’ve met.” Alice smiled, revealing even white teeth that matched her tasteful pearl earrings. “At the country club a few months ago, remember?”

  Jocelyn glanced at Chris, who was suddenly absorbed in reading the cocktail specials listed on the chalkboard above the bar. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.” She had met so many well-heeled WASPs with Chris at that club that by this point, they were interchangeable.

  “I’m a friend of Fiona’s. She and I went to college together.”

  As the shock started to wear off, Jocelyn realized that beneath the modest linen shift dress, Alice was stacked. Like, surgically enhanced stacked.

  “And then I went to grad school with Chris and Fiona’s cousin.”

  Chris beamed with pride. “She’s getting her master’s in French literature.”

  And it all made sense. The slow emotional frostbite, the revelation that she’d never finished college, the hit-and-run breakup. Chris had found the woman of his and his family’s dreams: a Playboy Bunny with family money and an advanced degree.

  Alice’s smile flickered and she turned to Chris for support. He cleared his throat. “We were just—”

  “Bye.” Jocelyn sat back down, shoulder to shoulder with Bree. She prayed that he would go away, that he would have the common sense and common decency to get out of here without trying to assuage his conscience or force her to be friends.

  And he did. Jocelyn stared straight ahead for two minutes, her hands shaking, until Bree gave the all clear.

  “They’re gone.” Bree wrinkled her nose in disgust. “As they should be. Who takes their new prospect to a breakup bar? I thought he knew basic etiquette.”

  Jocelyn gulped in air, struggling to contain the shame and sadness flooding through her. “Well. That answers some questions.”

  “I give them two weeks,” Bree said. “Tops.”

  “They’ll be together a lot longer than that,” Jocelyn predicted. “He’ll take her to Paris and everywhere else. Didn’t you hear? She’s a friend of Fiona’s who’s studying French.”

  “Speaking of Fiona, I thought she was in your corner. Has she reached out to you since the breakup?”

  “Radio silence.”

  Bree exhaled in disgust. “I hope they do stay together forever and make each other miserabl
e.”

  “I’m so stupid.” Jocelyn set her jaw, refusing to cry. “I should have known this was coming.”

  “You dodged a bullet,” Bree said. “Did you really want to spend the whole rest of your life wearing twinsets and nibbling watercress sandwiches with the crusts cut off at country club luncheons?”

  “They don’t know what they’re missing.” Jocelyn surprised herself by starting to laugh. “Alice and Fiona are never going to go out with an auto mechanic named Otter. They’re never going to see anyone’s future from looking at their palm. They’re never going to clean up dirty laundry and scrub down the walls after a bunch of tourists have a spaghetti fight.”

  “And for that, they deserve our pity.”

  “All right, here’s the scoop.” Cammie returned, pen and pad in hand. “According to the lady in the red tank top over there, Liam is staying at a private house out by the nature preserve.”

  “Whose house?” Jocelyn asked.

  “I’m not sure; I’m still kind of new in town. But I can give you directions and a detailed description of the property.”

  “You can?” Jocelyn sat back, a bit startled. “Aren’t you worried that I’ll, like, lie in wait or vandalize his car or something?”

  Cammie crossed her arms and gave Jocelyn an appraising look. “Will you?”

  “No. But you don’t know that.”

  “You wash my dish towels every week—I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Besides, I figure that in a town as small as this one, where everyone talks as much as everyone does, you’re going to track the guy down sooner or later, regardless of whether I help you.”

  “Absolutely.” Jocelyn put her champagne flute down.

  “Hang on, that reminds me.” Bree fished her phone out of her bag. “As long as we’re tracking guys down, would you mind if I made the rounds real quick and ask if anyone can ID this perp?”

  Jocelyn craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the picture on the phone screen. A blurry image of a masculine stranger came into view. “Oh no. Is that from the other night?”

  “Sure is.” Bree seemed pleased that she’d had the presence of mind to take photos of Krysten and the mystery man. “Be right back.” She slid off her stool and headed for the nearest bevy of boozed-up tourists. “Hi, guys! Can you help a girl out?”

  Jocelyn glanced at Cammie. “Aren’t you going to ask what that’s about?”

  “No way. The first rule of owning a bar is, don’t ask the question if you don’t want to hear the answer.”

  “Wise.” Jocelyn abandoned her champagne with great regret. “I better not finish that; I have to drive out to the nature preserve.” She tapped Bree on the shoulder as she started for the door. “I’m going to make Liam an offer he can’t refuse.”

  “Have fun!” Bree made a phone with her thumb and pinkie. “If you need any help hiding the body, you know who to call.”

  “Good luck ID’ing your perp.”

  “I don’t need luck; I’ve got networking skills like you wouldn’t believe.” Bree gave her a look of warning. “Have fun with your archenemy. But not too much fun.”

  chapter 24

  Jocelyn located the small stone cottage easily enough. Nestled on the outskirts of the nature preserve, the home offered views of the forest, the meadow, and the edge of the golf course beyond. She could see the golden square of a window illuminated on the far side of the house. It was so peaceful here, with nothing to disturb the silence but the crickets and the rustle of the wind through the grass.

  Until now.

  She parked her car and loped up the steps to the porch. Her knock began with a few perfunctory raps on the door, then progressed to closed-fist hammering that would befit a SWAT team leader about to break out the battering ram.

  “Liam!” Pound, pound, pound. “I know you’re in there!”

  A second window lit up as the hall light came on.

  “Open up!” Bam, bam, bam. “You can run but you can’t hide!”

  She heard the click of the lock and a moment later, the front door swung inward to reveal Liam, who wore a gray Florida State T-shirt, maroon boxers, and an expression of evident annoyance.

  “What?”

  “Put on some pants, ’cause you have company.” She barged past him, into the foyer, which was sparsely furnished with a mix of IKEA and World Market wares. Generic watercolor seascapes hung on the wall, and she could detect the faint trace of Windex in the air. Rental houses all looked and smelled the same after a while.

  He closed the door behind her. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, I would not. What I would like is for you to pack up your stuff and get the hell out of my town. Oh, but first, give me back the cuff links.”

  He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Water? Wine? Beer?”

  “The time for social pleasantries has passed.” Her high heels clicked on the rough-hewn wooden floor as she paced the perimeter of the foyer.

  He nodded, annoyingly agreeable. “Okay, but before we give up on social pleasantries, you look great.”

  “Cuff links, bruh.” She flung out her hand, palm up. “Give ’em here.”

  “I assume you’re referring to my father’s cuff links? The ones you insisted I help myself to?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “You can’t have those back. It’s too late.”

  “Guess what? You don’t get to decide what’s too late and what’s not.”

  His expression was totally impassive. “I already sold them.”

  This brought her up short. “You pawned your dead father’s cuff links?”

  “Of course not.” Liam finally looked disgruntled. “I’d get pennies on the dollar at a pawn shop. I researched their value and consigned them with a reputable estate jeweler in New York. They were solid gold Cartier. Sold like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “How did you manage that when you were all up in my business every day here?”

  He shrugged. “The Internet and FedEx.”

  She stared at him. “How could you just . . . sell them?”

  “I told you. It was easy.”

  “There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

  He inclined his head, conceding the point.

  She stopped trying to appeal to his sentimental side and got down to business. “What do you want with my house?”

  “The dogs’ house?” he said pointedly. “I want to gut it, renovate it, and sell it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a huge lot. Depending on the zoning permit, I might be able to rebuild two smaller houses instead of just one.”

  “So this is one hundred percent about money?”

  “Yes. I have a time-sensitive investment opportunity I want to move on.” He looked so detached, so pragmatic, that she believed him. What she didn’t believe was that he was telling her the whole story.

  “It’s your father’s house. Currently occupied by the woman you’re trying to date.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “The dating is never going to happen now, by the way.”

  “That’s too bad. Whatever goes on between us has nothing to do with the house.” Her incredulity must have shown on her face, because he continued. “The lawsuit is business. It’s nothing personal.”

  “It’s everything personal! It’s where I live, where I sleep, where I raise the dogs!” She wanted to shake him. “What happened to the guy who delivered the puppies with me in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m still that guy.” But his expression shifted slightly. “Again, that was personal. The house is business.”

  Jocelyn remembered the words of her lawyer and her lawyer-to-be best friend. “Then let’s talk business. That’s the reason I’m here.”

  His smile turned cynical. “I was wondering.”


  “I don’t want a long, bitter, expensive legal fight.” She matched his detached demeanor. “And neither do you.”

  “Go on.”

  “I understand that in your mind, you feel like you have some claim to the house. Just to be clear, you don’t, but I understand why you might feel that way.”

  “Very empathetic of you.”

  “Here’s what I’m proposing: You give up this ridiculous—and ultimately futile, I might add—attempt to get the house, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t have enough to make it worth my while.”

  “A hundred grand.” She held her breath. She was taking a risk by coming out with her maximum and final offer, but she sensed that trying to finesse him with a protracted negotiation would be a waste of time.

  “No deal.” Liam shook his head. “The house is worth way more than that.”

  “Think of what you’ll save in legal fees,” she said.

  “I am, and it’s not going to make up for the value of the house.”

  “A hundred grand is on the table,” she repeated. “Take it or leave it.”

  “Leave it.” He didn’t even hesitate.

  “You should take it,” she advised. “Because you’re going to lose that lawsuit.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then why are you offering to settle?”

  She took a slow, measured breath. “Because, unlike you, I have a heart. I care about things other than money.”

  “Easy to say when you’ve got never-ending cash flow and a multi-million-dollar beach house.” He turned and walked toward the kitchen. “Come on.”

  She stood her ground. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m getting you a drink and making you some fries.” He pulled out a padded stool by the side of the granite-topped kitchen island. “Do you like red or white wine?”

  She laughed at his temerity. “I’m not sitting down to share a bottle of wine with you. Let me be clear: I don’t clink glasses and eat fries with people who are trying to take my dogs and get me evicted. I don’t care how good-looking you are. I don’t care if you can cook.” She pulled the errant strap of her cocktail dress up on her shoulder.