Gun Shy Page 3

  Cisco sailed through the air and threw himself into my arms. I staggered under the weight of the eighty-pound dog, whom I could hold for only a few seconds, but we had played this game many times before. I hugged him tight, he slid to the ground and we enjoyed a quick game of tug with the rubber bone before I asked him to drop it. He surrendered his prize to me, I praised him to the skies and then I quickly returned the toy to him.

  But this time Cisco was far more interested in sniffing every inch of my jeans and my shoes than he was in racing triumphantly around the yard with the bone, as was his usual custom. They say a dog can gather more information with his nose than a human can with all five senses put together, and I had lived with dogs long enough to believe it. I winced a little as I imagined the picture Cisco was putting together from the traces of scent on my clothes.

  I ruffled his fur. “Come on, fellow, let’s go eat.”

  The word “eat” is high priority in the canine vocabulary and will almost always take precedence over any other activity on the agenda. Cisco’s ears perked up, he stopped his sniffing and he raced me to the door.

  Unfortunately for him, the phone started ringing almost before I’d closed the door behind me, and dinner was postponed. I snatched up the portable as I moved toward the living room, where the other three dogs waited patiently in their crates.

  “Is everything all right?” Maude wanted to know.

  Maude Braselton is my partner in Dog Daze, the smartest trainer I have ever known, and probably my best friend in the world. She is a slim, athletic sixty with short iron gray hair and a crisp British accent. She had run my father’s office, and later his courtroom, for more than thirty-five years with the same brisk efficiency with which she managed her kennel of award-winning golden retrievers, and I couldn’t remember a time she hadn’t been part of the family. When I had rushed out of the kennel in the middle of a training session this afternoon, all I had told her was that there was an emergency. In truth, I hadn’t known much more than that myself. Naturally she was worried.

  “It was awful,” I told her, leaning over to unlatch the crate door of Majesty, the collie. “Some woman—a tourist—committed suicide in one of the cabins up on Wild Turkey Lane. Her dog had been locked inside for days.”

  “Good Lord,” said Maude, managing to convey in those two words all the horror, disgust and pathos the actual scene had inspired. And then she added, because she knew what was important, “What kind of dog?”

  “Yellow Lab. I took him to Doc Withers. He was dehydrated and traumatized, of course, but otherwise seemed okay.”

  “How unspeakably horrid.”

  I said, “Yeah.”

  Majesty, having finished her leisurely stretch, shook out her magnificent sable coat and began the business of thoroughly inspecting my jeans and shoes with her nose, just as Cisco had done. I shuffled over to the other two crates, trying not to trip over her.

  “Was she alone?” Maude asked.

  “The woman? She seemed to be. Can you imagine how terrible her life must have been for her to plan a trip to the mountains—in the fall, when everything is so beautiful—and then rent a cabin just to kill herself?”

  “No,” replied Maude sensibly, “I can’t. What makes you think she came here just to kill herself? Maybe whatever happened to push her over the edge occurred after she got here.”

  I considered that as I undid the rope tie that held the slide bolt closed on Mischief’s crate. Mischief was an Australian shepherd with far too much manual dexterity for her own good, and I had to tie her crate door closed or she would open the lock by herself. Her sister, Magic, was just as clever, but fortunately not as adventurous. I opened both crate doors, and twin blurs of Australian shepherd energy streaked past me, skidded on a turn and then raced back to join Majesty in the sniff-fest of my feet and ankles. Cisco, tail waving, pushed himself into the fray.

  I said, “I don’t know. I got the impression she hadn’t been there long enough for anything to happen. They hadn’t found any ID when I left.”

  “Which cabin was it?”

  “The first one, as you come around the bend of the lake, across from Deadman’s Cove.”

  “Not Letty Cranston’s place?”

  “You know who owns it?”

  “She used to be in my bridge club before her husband died and she moved to Hilton Head full-time. He had more money than God, left her several properties—a ranch in Montana, a beach house in Florida, a place on Pawleys Island . . . I didn’t know she was renting out the cabin, though.”

  “I don’t think Uncle Roe knew who owned it.”

  “I’m sure he does by now, dear.”

  “Do you know how to get in touch with her? Just in case they can’t identify the victim.”

  “I’ll see if I can find a number.”

  I gave up trying to escape the dogs and sat down in the middle of the floor, letting them snuffle and crawl over me to their hearts’ content. I had seen too much of the bad side of life today—even the bad side of life for a dog—and I was not inclined to push away anything that was warm and affectionate.

  “What about the Lab? He wasn’t wearing any ID, I suppose.”

  “Not even a collar. The funny thing is, though, he seemed like a well-trained dog. He responded to the leash and jumped right into the crate when I opened the car door. I can’t help wondering—”

  But I never finished the sentence. A gunshot exploded out of nowhere, and I dropped the phone, covered my head and screamed.

  Chapter Three

  Three more rifle shots exploded—Pow! Pow! Pow!—and the dogs burst into hysterics, racing toward the door and barking a cacophony of wild objection. I shouted, “Damn it!” and snatched up the phone.

  “Sorry!” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the dogs. “But did you hear that? It was practically in my living room! I swear to God if I ever find out who’s hunting this close to private property I’ll have a piece of their hide!” I covered the mouthpiece of the telephone and shouted, “Dogs! Quiet!”

  Three of the dogs trotted obediently back to me. Majesty, whose job it was to keep the property and all its occupants safe from invasion, set forth two more indignant barks—the canine equivalent of “and don’t come back!”—before returning to me for petting.

  “They are getting awfully close to the house,” agreed Maude worriedly. “The kennel has been in an uproar all week. Didn’t you post NO HUNTING signs?”

  “Every ten feet all along the property line,” I fumed.

  “We’re obviously dealing with a bunch of cross-eyed cretins who either can’t read the English language or are too drunk to see. Lucky for them I happen to know the sheriff’s department has its hands full this afternoon or I’d have the law out here so fast—”

  “I think,” suggested Maude gently, “you may be a little jumpy.”

  I sighed, knowing that at least part of my outrage was sheer embarrassment for having screamed and dropped the phone at the sound of a rifle shot. It was autumn, and men with rifles stalking the woods were a fact of life. It wasn’t as though I didn’t know that. “I think I have right to be,” I said, “after what I saw this afternoon.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And they are too close to the house.”

  “Absolutely agreed. Why don’t you call Reese Pickens and complain?”

  “He doesn’t own that land anymore. You know that.”

  “Dollars to donuts he knows exactly who’s hunting there, though.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed reluctantly. “One thing I’ve got to say for the Pickens boys, the only thing,” I interjected, “is that in all the years they hunted Hawk Mountain they never once fired a shot toward this house.”

  “That’s because your daddy would have skinned them alive and hung them up by their privates if they had.”

  “And because mountain folk, even if they are as mean as snakes, know the rules of hunting. It’s these damn city idiots—”

  “Raine,” said
Maude, “go feed the dogs. Have a bath. Make yourself a nice supper and get a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  Since Reese Pickens had sold Hawk Mountain to an Atlanta developer last spring, Maude had heard my bitter observations about damn-fool big-city jackasses more than once, and so had everyone else who would stand still long enough to listen. And I knew that today my irritation, however justified, had its roots in a much darker problem—the smell of death that I couldn’t get out of my nostrils, the sight of the bloated arm and the gun lying on the floor beneath it.

  Subdued, I said, “Yeah, I guess so. Let me know if you track down Mrs. Cranston.”

  “I’m sure the police will reach her long before I do. Good night, dear.”

  The sunset was putting on a magnificent display over the red and gold mountaintops that were visible from the kitchen window as I quickly filled each of four dishes and served them to my canine companions. Dogs are wonderfully single-minded and completely accepting of whatever the moment has to offer, so by the time the first scoop came out of the kibble bin they had completely forgotten about the bizarre smells on my clothing and the gunfire and were focused on only one thing: dinner. I, however, could not get the smell out of my mind, off my clothes, out of my hair. All I wanted was a shower.

  But first I had to feed our boarders—the kennel was full this time of year—and turn them all out for one last romp. By the time I had scooped all the poop, settled everyone inside with a good-night dog biscuit, and locked the kennel building, it was practically dark and noticeably colder. I hurried upstairs and into the long-awaited shower.

  I stayed there until the hot water ran out, lathering and relathering my hair, scrubbing my skin until it was pink with a syrupy sweet purple body wash that someone had given me for Christmas. And it was while I was standing there, letting the last of the hot water sluice away the soapsuds, that I remembered something odd.

  I hadn’t seen a dog dish in the cabin. The front room was open to the kitchen, and there had been no sign of a dog dish in either room. I travel with my dogs a great deal, to shows, on search and rescue missions, to training workshops and conferences, and whether I am setting up camp in a tent city or checking into a dog-friendly motel, the first thing I do—before I unpack my suitcases or check the schedule—is to fill a bowl with water and set it on the floor for my dog. Doesn’t everyone?

  I tried to imagine the kinds of things that would keep me from looking after the welfare of my dog first and couldn’t think of a single one. Not even contemplated suicide.

  But that was just me.

  I slipped into a cozy pair of flannel pajamas with golden retrievers printed on them and went into the bedroom, toweling my hair. There I stopped still, hands on my hips, and glared. “Get your mangy carcass off my bed,” I ordered.

  Cisco was stretched out atop my bed, all four paws in the air, an expression of absolute bliss on his face as he gave over to having his belly rubbed by my almost-ex-husband.

  Buck, resting his head on his propped-up arm while he stroked Cisco’s silky white underside with the other hand, glanced up. “Cisco resents that.”

  “I was talking about you.” I walked forward and snapped him lightly with the towel. “Off, both of you. I hate dog hair on my bed, and you’re teaching him to disobey me.”

  Cisco rolled over genially and hopped off the bed, grinning as he shook out his coat. To a dog, a moment stolen is a moment earned, and no amount of scolding would have spoiled his pleasure. Of course it would have been pointless to scold him once he was off the bed, so I scolded Buck instead.

  “What are you doing here, anyway? You just walk in and make yourself at home now?”

  I should point out that Buck and I are at a rather awkward point in our on-again, off-again relationship: not quite on, but very far from off. In other words, he was not entirely as much of a stranger as he once had been to the bed where he now lounged so comfortably. And while I managed to keep up a pretty good scowl, my tone was not very convincing.

  He propped himself up into a sitting position against the pillows and extended a hand to me. “Just wanted to see how you were holding up.”

  I let him pull me down beside him and settled into the curve of his arm. “Not so bad. Okay, I guess. I can still smell it.”

  His face brushed my damp curls. “I smell lilacs.”

  He had showered and changed into jeans and a soft, much-washed sweater. He smelled like soap.

  I said, “The vet thinks the dog is going to be okay, just dehydrated. No microchip. Did you find out who she was?”

  “Not a clue. The house was completely empty.”

  I twisted around to look at him. “What do you mean, empty? Not even her purse?”

  “Sweetheart,” he told me, “not even a car.”

  I stared at him. “Then how did she get there?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “It’s what’s you might call a mystery.”

  “I mean, it’s not like you could just hike in off that highway to that cabin, and even if you did you’d have something . . . a backpack, a wallet . . .”

  “Apparently all she had was a gun.”

  “And a dog,” I reminded him. I settled back against his shoulder, frowning. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I always did say you had the mind of a lawman.”

  “Not even a bag of dog food?”

  “Not even.”

  “And it was definitely suicide?”

  “It was definitely a gunshot wound through the center of the head, and there’s no evidence to indicate it wasn’t suicide.”

  “At least she locked the dog out.”

  “What?”

  “Before she . . . you know.” I shrugged uncomfortably and let my hand drop over the side of the bed to fondle Cisco’s silky ear. “She closed the door so he wouldn’t see it.”

  Buck was silent, and both of us pondered, for a moment, our own separate gruesome thoughts.

  Then I said, “Maude says she knows who owns the cabin.”

  “Letty Cranston, we know. We’ve left messages at each of her three houses.”

  “Maybe she didn’t rent the cabin. Maybe this woman, whoever she was, found the cabin empty and decided to take advantage of it. She might even have found the gun there.”

  “Maybe. We’re checking the registration.”

  “It’s just weird. Where’s her car? Did the neighbors see anything?”

  “There’s only that one other couple on the lake, the ones who heard the dog barking. They say they never noticed a car. Of course, it’s pretty isolated up there. If they hadn’t been in the habit of taking daily walks, they never would have known anybody else was on the lake.”

  “Weird,” I repeated.

  He tilted his head down at me. “Did you eat?”

  “No. Did you bring anything?”

  “No. Do you want to go out?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any eggs?”

  “Will you make French toast?”

  He kissed my curls lightly as he got up. “Supper will be served in fifteen minutes. Dry your hair before you catch cold. The temperature is really dropping out there. The radio says frost.”

  I couldn’t help smiling as I watched him go, Cisco bouncing down the stairs after him. Sometimes he was really nice to have around.

  I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who is as comfortable in his own skin as is Buck Lawson. He knows exactly who he is and what his place in the world is, and he never questions or complains about either. He has that kind of easy self-assurance that women of all ages find incredibly attractive, and I admit, I’m one of them. He stole my heart when I was fifteen and I’ve never really gotten it back, not completely.

  I’m not saying this is a good thing. It simply is.

  When I came down in the morning a little after six, he had already taken Cisco for a run, brought in a load of firewood, fed the dogs and made coffee. He didn’t do any of these things to score points
or earn my gratitude, but simply because they needed to be done.

  Buck placed a cup of coffee into my groping hands as I slid into a chair at the kitchen table, yawning. The two Australian shepherds nuzzled me excitedly, wiggling their tailless butts and trying to convince me they hadn’t already eaten. Majesty, the collie, looked up from her worn blue flannel bed by the wood-burning stove and woofed a soft greeting. Flames glowed amber behind the glass doors of the stove, and the kitchen felt cozy.

  “You’d better get a move on if you expect to make the nine o’clock service,” Buck said, wiping the counter of toast crumbs. Cisco sat worshipfully at his feet, eyes fixed on the countertop in hopeful anticipation that a crumb or two might fall his way.

  I stared at him. “Oh, crap,” I said. “It’s Sunday.”

  “God’ll get you for that.”

  “What I mean is I told Doc Withers I’d pick up the dog today, but the office will be closed.” I hurried to the telephone that sat on the edge of the kitchen counter. “I hate for the poor guy to stay another night at the vet’s.”

  Buck stopped me as I reached for the phone. “Don’t be calling the man at six o’clock in the morning on a Sunday. It can wait until this afternoon.”

  I had to agree: six a.m. was an inconsiderate hour at which to make a call, especially when dealing with a doctor or a vet, who might well have been up all night anyway. “Maybe I can pick him up after church,” I said, returning the receiver to its stand. “I’ll give them a call after I get the kennel dogs fed.” I took a quick gulp of coffee. “Did everyone in here eat?”

  “Yeah, and don’t let them tell you otherwise.” He clasped the back of my neck briefly with a warm hand and brushed a kiss across my nose. “I’ve got to get home and change. See you later.”

  “At church?”

  “Can’t. I’m on duty.”

  “I’m going to Aunt Mart’s for dinner. I’ll bring home some leftovers if you want to stop by later.”