Silent Night: A Raine Stockton Dog Mystery

  SILENT NIGHT

  A Raine Stockton Dog Mystery

  Donna Ball

  Copyright 2011 by Donna Ball, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.

  http://www.donnaball.net

  Published by Blue Merle Publishing

  E-book edition November 2011

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, character names, events and locations are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to any actual person or persons, living or dead, events or organizations is purely coincidental.

  This book is for the magnificent Tsaligi Dakota Legend, CGC,VC, HIC, BPD, OJC, NTC, W-TFD/MF, W-FD/MF/HTM, Registered Therapy Dog.

  You changed lives. Can anyone ask for more?

  12/14/99—7/28/11

  ONE

  Ashleigh had just finished hanging the string of Christmas lights over the front door when she saw the flash of lights round the corner of Willow Lane, and Dusty Harper’s red pickup truck pulled up in front of the trailer. Her daddy had lost his license a year ago and sometimes Dusty would run into him at the Last Chance Bar & Grille and give him a ride home. Ashleigh’s stomach always knotted up when she heard Dusty’s pickup truck chugging around the corner because she knew that meant they’d both been drinking. Nothing good ever happened when the two of them went out drinking.

  She hurried to drag the kitchen chair on which she had been standing back inside just as the truck door opened and her daddy spilled out, cussing loudly for no good reason at all. Dusty yelled back at him to shut the eff up and mind his own effing business, and Ashleigh shut the door quickly so she couldn’t hear any more. She hated it when her daddy and his drinking buddies stood in the yard throwing F-bombs, not because she was such a prude, but because their neighbor, 62-year-old Leona Silva, had already called the cops on them twice this year. Fine for her, but when the squad car pulled away Ashleigh was the one alone in the trailer with an angry drunk. Just thinking about it made her feel sick to her stomach again with dread.

  Although she couldn’t hear the words, she could still hear them out there arguing as she hurried around the room straightening up the mess: a couple of empty cardboard boxes the Christmas ornaments had come in, some stray tinsel, the strands of lights she hadn’t had a chance to untangle yet. Maybe if she hid the clutter he wouldn’t notice the four-foot plastic tree she’d decorated in the corner, or the Nativity scene she’d set up on the dinette set, and if he didn’t notice, he wouldn’t have any reason to yell at her.

  Why a Christmas tree would make him mad, she didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. When Daddy was drunk, he didn’t need a reason to get mad.

  She heard the engine of the pickup truck roar, and gravel sputtered as Dusty drove off. A few seconds later the front door burst open and her daddy stood there, red-eyed and glaring.

  “What is all this crap?” He grabbed the Christmas lights that wreathed the door—which she had forgotten to unplug—and jerked them down. “Ain’t you got nothing better to do than trash this place up like a whorehouse? Answer me, girl!”

  He kicked the door shut and came toward her with a strand of lights knotted in his hand, but she stood her ground.

  “I was just trying to pretty the place up a little for Christmas,” she said. “Mama always did.”

  “Don’t you talk to me about your mama!” He threw the lights at her, and she couldn’t help flinching, even though it didn’t come close to hitting her. “You see your mama any place around here? Electricity costs money, girl!”

  She bent down to pick up the lights. “Yes, sir.”

  He shoved past her and into the narrow kitchen, and every muscle in her body tensed as he flung open the refrigerator door and she realized she had forgotten to check to see if there was any beer. Please, please, please…

  She heard the clink of a bottle and relaxed marginally as he pushed past her again, beer in hand. She held her breath until he got past the Christmas tree without noticing it and sat down heavily in the vinyl recliner. In a moment he grunted, “Anything to eat?”

  “Some ham left over from last night,” she offered quickly. “You want me to make you a sandwich?”

  “The way you eat, I’m surprised there’s anything left at all. Nobody likes a fatty.”

  He tilted the beer bottle to his mouth and picked up the remote control. ESPN blared to life on the 30-inch flat screen he’d bought when he’d still had a job down at the plant. He used to drink a lot back then, too—in fact he’d been drinking most of Ashleigh’s fourteen years or at least the ones she could remember—but he hadn’t started getting mean about it until the plant laid him off.

  He said, “Don’t put no mustard on it.”

  She took out the plate of ham and a butcher knife and that was when the phone rang. She snatched up the kitchen extension, hoping he wouldn’t hear the ring over the television, and tried to sink back against the opposite wall where her father couldn’t see if he happened to glance over his shoulder.

  “Hello?” Her voice was breathless, muffled by the hand she held close to the receiver.

  “Hey.” It was Nick, just as she had feared. “You want me to come over or what?”

  “I told you not to call this late.” She edged back further into the corner, her voice low as she darted another anxious glance toward the living room. “I’m going to get in trouble.”

  “That better not be that worthless boy calling up this time of night,” her father yelled. “You tell him he comes sniffing around here I’ll whip his ass!”

  Ashleigh’s eyes flew in alarm to the living room, where her daddy was lurching up from the recliner. “I’ve got to go,” she said urgently. “Don’t call back. I’ll see you after school tomorrow.”

  “Hey—”

  She turned to hang up the phone but as she did the cord, which was stretched across the kitchen table, caught the edge of the platter and sent the ham crashing to the floor.

  “Look what you did, you stupid cow!”

  The beer bottle sailed past her shoulder and shattered against the wall behind her. She dropped to her knees and scrambled to pick up the spilled ham. The telephone receiver hit the floor but she could hear Nick saying, “You still there? Hey, you still there?” And then her daddy’s boot slammed the receiver across the floor and she didn’t hear anything else from it.

  Ashleigh got to her feet with her hands full of the greasy ham, and her daddy lunged toward her, his face like thunder. “You expect me to eat that? You fixing to feed me food that’s been on the floor, is that what you’re gonna do?”

  “Daddy, I can wash it off. It’s not that dirty, see? It won’t take but a minute—”

  He drew back his arm and knocked the ham out of her hands. And while she stared, stunned and afraid, at the mess on the floor, he drew back his arm again. That was when she snatched up the butcher knife that was still lying on the table.

  “Don’t do it,” she said, but her eyes were pleading as she backed a step away. “Daddy, don’t.”

  But he just looked at the way she held the knife, two-handed and weak-wristed in front of her, and his eyes glinted with scorn, and he just kept coming.

  ___________

  TWO

  I’m pretty sure Norman Rockwell never even heard of Hanover County, North Carolina, or of Hansonville, the county seat and my home town. But if he had, he probably would have painted it, because we still know how to do Christmas right. Every street lamp is wrapped with greenery and red bows. There’s a wreath on every shop window, twinkling lights around every do
orway, and a huge reindeer-drawn sleigh atop the roof of Hanson’s Department store. There are fake snowmen on the lawn of City Hall and the walkway to the courthouse is lined with Christmas trees all decked out in red bows and multicolored Christmas lights. A huge spruce tree sits in the town square, and the ceremonial lighting of the tree each year rivals anything Rockefeller Center has to offer. And even though we don’t generally get snow until the middle of January, no one ever seems to get tired of hearing “White Christmas” on the radio.

  My name is Raine Stockton. I live here in the mountains of western North Carolina with my gorgeous dogs: two Australian shepherds, Mischief and Magic, and my golden retriever, Cisco. My beautiful collie, Majesty, is currently living with my Aunt Mart, who had a difficult time adjusting to Uncle Roe’s heart attack and subsequent retirement a few months back. Having Majesty around has been the best thing that could have happened to her, and I’ve never seen Majesty happier, but make no mistake about it—Majesty is still my dog.

  Up until the so-called downturn in the economy—which around here is more like a full- blown depression—I worked part time for the Forest Service and ran a full-time boarding kennel and training facility with my business partner, Maude. Now it doesn’t look as though the Forest Service will be able to afford me even part-time when the tourist season starts again, and my kennel has been closed for remodeling since October. The closest thing I have to a full-time job these days is volunteering with Cisco in search and rescue, our therapy dog work, or whatever we can find to keep us busy. And even without a job, Christmas is my busiest time of the year.

  It was Friday, two weeks before Christmas, and Cisco, wearing a fur-trimmed Santa hat and a big red velvet bow, patiently posed for his eighty-seventh photo of the day. Christmas with Santa Dog was the highlight of Hansonville Elementary and Middle School’s holiday season and has been the undoing of more than one underpaid elementary grade teacher, not to mention her well-meaning, elf-clad temporary assistant... me.

  To be absolutely honest, I don’t think anyone has actually died due to Santa Dog, but I can’t help but notice the rate of attrition in third-grade teachers is unusually high, particularly during the holidays. So far the damage had been fairly light: Cisco toppled over the Christmas tree in his rush to take a bite out of the gingerbread house; Lincoln White had tried to feed Santa Dog a chocolate bar and, when I averted that disaster, he had threatened a temper tantrum unless allowed to share his cherry punch with Cisco, who happily overturned the cup onto Lincoln’s white shirt. Lincoln thought that was hilarious, but I had a feeling I’d be hearing from his parents. Kitty Rogers threw up red-and-green frosting in the cardboard cut-out sleigh, and only a quick grab of Cisco’s collar prevented an embarrassing– and disgusting– incident. After that, Mrs. Holloway turned kind of greenish and seemed to lose her holiday spirit. I knew how she felt. In four and a half yards of green elf felt with bells jingling from every appendage, I was swimming in sweat, sick of the smell of sugar, and ready to go home.

  On the positive side, though, the kids were having a great time.

  When the last snapshot was taken and the last cupcake eaten, Cisco was presented with his ritual basket of dog biscuits wrapped in red cellophane with a sloppy green bow. Cubbies were cleaned out, coats buttoned up, and the final bell before the winter holidays dismissed a stream of squealing third-graders into the hallway, trailing Christmas ribbons and glitter posters and waving their photos of Santa Dog. I felt sorry for Cisco in all the noise and confusion, and stayed to chat with Mrs. Holloway only long enough for the corridors to clear out. Cisco loves kids and, except for one or two minor incidents, had been a perfect guest. But I didn’t want to push my luck and we still had one more stop to make today. I left him in a down-stay by the door while I helped the teacher clean up the room.

  “Are you and Cisco going to be in the Christmas parade tonight?” asked Mrs. Holloway as we went around the room, raking leftover paper plates, cups and wrapping paper into a big black trash bag.

  Ruth Holloway was actually a few years younger than I was, with bouncy blond curls and a cherubic face that made her look even younger. But I had been calling her “Mrs. Holloway” for the past five years that I had been bringing therapy dogs to her class, and I just couldn’t get comfortable calling her by her first name—in the same way it’s hard to call your pastor or your doctor by his first name. So I generally tried to avoid the problem by not using her name at all.

  “I’m giving Cisco the night off,” I told her. “My friend Sonny is loaning some of her sheep and her border collie for the parade and the living Nativity afterwards, and I promised to help her.” Mystery, Sonny’s border collie, was a brilliant working dog, but Sonny’s limited mobility made it difficult for her to walk in the parade.

  “Oh, that’s right, we’re having real sheep this year!” Ruth flashed me a quick brilliant smile as she knotted the drawstrings on the trash bag. “I’m playing Mary in the Nativity the next two weekends,” she added, “and my husband, Jack, is playing Joseph.”

  That was perfect casting, as anyone who knew the Holloways would agree. Ruth was one of those genuinely nice people who never turned down a request or left a need unmet; she was a Brownie leader, head of the March of Dimes, and volunteered at the food bank twice a week. Her husband was the youth pastor at the Methodist church, a volunteer firefighter, and a Little League coach. They went on mission trips, hosted foreign exchange students, and were one of the few qualified foster homes for troubled and disadvantaged children in a county that was desperately in need of foster homes.

  But even as she spoke, a kind of wistful expression came over her face and she added, “Maybe it will bring us luck, if that’s not too awful to say. We’ve been trying to get pregnant for two years.”

  “Oh.” I never knew how to respond to things like that. “Well, you never know, I guess.”

  She smiled a little apologetically. “I guess that was tactless of me. I heard about you and Buck. I’m sorry.”

  Buck Lawson, my on-again,off-again husband of over ten years, and I had finally untied the knot for good recently. I was fine with it, really. I mean, it was inevitable and the best thing for both of us. As long as I didn’t spend too much time thinking about the fact that for the first Christmas I could remember Buck would be sitting at someone else’s table…well, it was fine. Really.

  I said, “Thanks. But it’s fine. Really.”

  She hurried on, the way people usually do, “Anyway, we’re excited about being in the Nativity.” She dropped a wadded-up napkin filled with something gooey into the trash bag and moved to the next desk. “My neighbors, the Wilkins, are donating their donkey, and Sadie Tompkins is bringing llamas—I think they’re supposed to be camels, but when they’re all dressed up in those fancy saddles, who can tell, right?”

  I grinned in agreement. “It sounds like it’s going to be really something. The best Nativity this town has ever had, anyway. Don’t worry about the sheep,” I added, “they do whatever Mystery tells them to. Sonny will be there every night, but Mystery is the one who really does the work.”

  “Well, if Mystery is half as smart as Cisco,” said Mrs. Holloway, with a fond glance toward my Golden, “those sheep are in good hands.”

  Cisco raised his ears expectantly when he heard his name, then dropped them again when no treat was forthcoming. I tried not to look too reluctant as I glanced around the room with its miles of red and green crepe paper, the Christmas tree and cardboard sleigh, the general messiness of everything and offered tentatively, “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  She laughed and made a shooing gesture. “Go on, get out of here. I get paid for this—kind of—and you and Cisco have done your share. Thank you,” she added sincerely. “For some of these kids, this was the best part of Christmas.”

  And it was words like that that made what we did worth every minute.

  I said my goodbyes and made my way to the girl’s restroom to change.

&n
bsp; The Hansonville Elementary and Middle School temporarily accommodated grades one through nine while the School Board waited for funding to complete construction on the new middle school building across the street. The younger grades were confined to the west wing of the building, and grades six through nine to the east, with the gym and cafeteria in the middle. The restrooms on the west side of the building were far too crowded with squealing little girls for me to try to squeeze in with Cisco, so we hurried through the gym to the bathrooms on the middle school side.

  If you have never tried to change out of an elf costume in a bathroom stall with a seventy-pound golden retriever at your side, you have missed out on one of life’s greatest adventures. It becomes even more challenging when said golden retriever knows perfectly well there is a basket of dog biscuits with his name on it in the tote bag at his feet. I managed to wiggle out of the green felt and into my jeans while keeping Cisco’s nose out of the tote and pulled on a festive Christmas-themed sweater embroidered with golden retriever puppies wearing red bows and, yes, jingle bells across the front. Our next stop was the nursing home, and the residents loved holiday-themed sweaters almost as much as they loved Cisco.

  Standing on one foot and using Cisco for balance, I was pulling on my boot when I heard the bathroom door open. I quickly grabbed Cisco’s collar so that he wouldn’t scoot under the door to greet the newcomer, overbalanced, and almost landed in the toilet. Trying not to swear—there were children and dogs present, after all—I pulled Cisco away from the stall door and the tote bag and stuffed my other foot into its boot. That was when I heard the sobbing.

  I have a confession to make. I’m not very good with kids. I don’t find them very interesting, I never know what to say to them, and the only time I’m even marginally comfortable around them is when Cisco is there to act as a grinning, wiggling buffer between us. So when I heard crying in the bathroom, I grimaced visibly and took my time opening the stall door, hoping that whoever it was would either pull herself together or go away before I came out.