One Flew Over the Chow-Chow's Nest Read online

  One Flew Over the Chow-Chow’s Nest

  A Marcia Banks and Buddy Mystery

  Kassandra Lamb

  a misterio press publication

  Contents

  BOOKS by KASSANDRA LAMB

  Author’s Note:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Published by misterio press LLC

  Cover art by Melinda VanLone, Book Cover Corner

  Photo credits: for dog © Fernando Jose Guevara Salazar; airplane © Dlrz4114;

  silhouette of woman and dog © Majivecka (rights to use all were purchased through dreamstime.com)

  * * *

  Copyright © 2021 by Kassandra Lamb

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, transmitted, stored, distributed or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the writer’s written permission, except very short excerpts for reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the publisher’s/author’s express permission is illegal and punishable by law.

  One Flew Over the Chow-Chow’s Nest is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and most places are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Some real places may be used fictitiously. The town of Mayfair, Florida, and Collins, Buckland, and Crystal Counties are fictitious.

  The publisher does not have control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites and their content.

  BOOKS by KASSANDRA LAMB

  * * *

  The Marcia Banks and Buddy Mysteries:

  To Kill A Labrador

  Arsenic and Young Lacy

  The Call of the Woof

  A Mayfair Christmas Carol

  Patches in the Rye

  The Legend of Sleepy Mayfair

  The Sound and the Furry

  A Star-Spangled Mayfair

  Lord of the Fleas

  My Funny Mayfair Valentine

  One Flew Over the Chow-Chow’s Nest

  To Bark or Not To Bark

  (coming late 2021/early 2022)

  ~

  The Kate Huntington Mystery Series:

  MULTIPLE MOTIVES

  ILL-TIMED ENTANGLEMENTS

  FAMILY FALLACIES

  CELEBRITY STATUS

  COLLATERAL CASUALTIES

  ZERO HERO

  FATAL FORTY-EIGHT

  SUICIDAL SUSPICIONS

  ANXIETY ATTACK

  POLICE PROTECTION

  ~

  plus Romantic Suspense Stories

  (written under the pen name, Jessica Dale)

  Author’s Note:

  This story does mention the Covid pandemic, but does not get into the heavier aspects.

  * * *

  I have tried to focus on the relief and optimism as the U.S. is coming out of the pandemic in the Spring of 2021.

  Chapter One

  Muscles loosened that had been tense for over a year, as the nurse applied a little round bandaid to my arm.

  “Now, it takes two weeks for that to be fully effective,” she said with a slight Southern accent.

  I beamed at her, even though she couldn’t see my grin under my puppy-dog mask. “I know. My husband was vaccinated a while ago. He’s law enforcement.”

  Her eyes smiled back. “I love this job. I’ve never before made so many people happy by stickin’ a needle in their arms.”

  We both laughed.

  Woot!! Two weeks and I would have my life back.

  Not that my life had been particularly gruesome—especially compared to what all too many had experienced during the pandemic. For one thing, I’d already been working from home.

  But among other “normal” things I would now be able to do, I could finally deliver Bear to her rightful owner, and collect my training fee.

  The Chow Chow-Husky mix, otherwise known as a Chusky, had been ready for almost a year. Indeed, I’d trained another dog during the interim months for a veteran who’d had a service dog before, so we could dispense with most of the human part of the training.

  But the veteran Bear had been trained for, former Air Force pilot Russell Fortham, was living with and caring for his elderly mother, who had Stage III COPD. He’d been concerned about having me come to their home to train him, for fear I’d bring Covid with me.

  And I’d been equally eager to avoid social contact since I’d been trying to get pregnant, and little was known about the impact of Covid on unborn babies.

  Ironically, I had been totally ambivalent about having children, until I’d discovered—after a miscarriage a year ago—that I had been pregnant, but now wasn’t. I’d been fighting low-grade depression and a ferocious longing for a child ever since.

  As I drove home from the vaccine center, my third call was to Russ Fortham’s cell phone.

  The first had been to my hairdresser. For months, I’d been hacking away at my long auburn hair myself, and it was, shall we say, a little uneven. The second had been to my best friend Becky. I got voicemail and left a message that I’d be coming to Williston soon for hugs from her and her twins, my godchildren.

  My call to Russ also went straight to voicemail, and a mechanical voice informed me that his mailbox was full. I instructed my Bluetooth to call his home number.

  His mother answered. When I identified myself, she burst into tears. “He’s in the hospital,” she managed to get out in a wavering voice.

  My throat closed and my stomach hollowed out. “What happened?” Had he crashed his private plane?

  “He was kind of depressed,” her voice was still shaky, “and then his counselor said he needed a different medication.” Soft sobbing noises. “She Baker-Acted him…”

  Baker Act—the informal name of the state statute, which Floridians used as a verb when someone was involuntarily committed for psychological evaluation. To Baker-Act someone was a fairly drastic measure.

  “He’s still in the hospital,” Mrs. Fortham wailed. “And they won’t let me visit.”

  That last part wasn’t too surprising, considering the pandemic.

  “When did all this happen?”

  “Three months ago.”

  “Crapola,” I blurted out. That was shortly after the last time I’d talked to Russ, mid-January. He’d seemed fine at the time, excited about eventually having Bear with him.

  My whole body tightened with guilt—I should’ve gotten his dog to him sooner. I wondered how he could’ve sunk so low that he required long-term hospitalization.

  “Who’s his counselor?” I asked.

  “Jo Ann Hamilton.”

  I let out a soft sigh. I knew Jo Ann. She’d been my counselor at one time as well, and she was good at what she did.

  I promised Mrs. Fortham I’d look into the situation.

  I’d left a message for Jo Ann.

  Then I did some brush-
up training with Bear. She’s such a big teddy bear, which is how she’d ended up with her name. The shelter I’d gotten her from had been calling her Red, but when I took her to first meet Russ, he’d rubbed her head affectionately and said, “Aren’t you a big teddy bear of a dog?” She’d been Bear ever since.

  We were working in the backyard, but my mind kept flashing back to the phone conversation with Mrs. Fortham. Butterflies danced in my stomach, making me a bit queasy.

  Bear suddenly turned toward me and jumped up, wrapping her front legs around my waist. I staggered backward a couple of steps.

  The Chusky had always had a tendency to jump up. My assistant, Carla and I had tried to break her of it, but then I’d decided to re-channel it instead. We’d trained the dog to give “bear hugs” when she sensed anxiety in her human. As apparently she had in me now.

  Russ was a big man, so the hugs shouldn’t knock him off balance like they did me.

  I signaled for Bear to get down. She did and I scratched behind her ear. “Thanks, girl. I’m just worried about your new papa.”

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, signaling with my other hand for Bear to lie down.

  It was Jo Ann. “Hey,” I answered, “you’re working with Russell Fortham.”

  “Um, I can neither confirm nor deny…”

  I’d obviously taken her by surprise. “Sorry for being so abrupt. I hadn’t meant it as a question, and I have a waiver of confidentiality.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, the agency does. It’s standard operating procedure. You did know he was getting a service dog, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t realize you were the trainer.”

  “We’re even,” I said with a faint chuckle. “I didn’t know you were his counselor. I don’t remember seeing your name in his file.”

  “I took over his case about five months ago.”

  “I talked to his mother a little while ago. She says he’s been in the hospital for the last three months.”

  “I know,” Jo Ann said, “and I’m getting worried about him.”

  “Getting worried?”

  “Okay, getting really worried. I sent him to the VA medical center for an evaluation. I thought he should probably be on a different medication, something stronger for depression, not just his anxiety.” She paused. “By the way, can you fax me a copy of that waiver?”

  “Of course.” I headed for the back door of my training center, what had once been my house and was now connected to Will’s cottage next door by a large modern addition.

  “His mom’s under the impression that you Baker-Acted him,” I said.

  “No, he went voluntarily for the eval, but he got a green psychiatrist, fresh out of medical school, and he over-reacted and Baker-Acted Russ, to keep him for observation.”

  Inside the house, I gestured for Bear to go into her crate. Buddy, my Black Lab/Rottie mentor dog, raised his head from where he’d been napping near the crates.

  I shook my head slightly, letting him know that his assistance wasn’t needed, and went to my file cabinet in a corner of what used to be my living room. “I’m pulling the file right now,” I told Jo Ann.

  I actually had a paper copy of the paper file maintained by Mattie Jones, the director of the agency I train for. Mattie’s a tad old-fashioned.

  “So, how did Russ end up in the hospital for so long?” I asked.

  “It started out as a voluntary week or two to get him stabilized on new meds. I was talking to him every few days by phone. He’s in a private hospital near Leesburg, theoretically so his mother can visit him more readily.”

  “Why do you say theoretically?” I asked.

  The sound of air being blown out in a long sigh. “Well, with Covid, they’re not allowing any visitors. I tried myself one time. They wouldn’t even unlock the door and talk to me. Some woman kept pointing to the sign on the door that said no visitors until further notice. But after the first couple of weeks, they haven’t been letting me talk to him either. They said he refused to sign a waiver.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Russ.” The pilot was one of the most easygoing people I’d ever met.

  “And more recently, they haven’t been letting his mother talk to him either.”

  “Say what? Does he have issues with his mother?” The couple of times I’d met with him last year—our initial interview and then when I’d taken Bear to introduce them to each other—he’d seemed to get along fine with his mom.

  “Not that he’s ever mentioned to me,” Jo Ann was saying. “And I asked. That’s part of my intake interview, to ask about relationships with parents. Russ seemed to be genuinely fond of his mom, with no issues that I could detect.”

  “Good. Lord knows he has enough issues from being in combat. But can they keep him in the hospital against his will?”

  “Not readily, if he wanted to leave against medical advice, they’d have to have two mental health professionals agree that he continues to be a danger to himself or others.”

  I had trouble imagining laid-back Russ as a danger to others. “If he’s still seriously depressed after all this time,” I said, “it’s not a very good hospital.”

  A slight chuckle. “Good point.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The psychiatrist at the VA center says the case is no longer his. I’ve talked to Russ’s VA case manager a couple of times. She doesn’t seem to be alarmed. She contacted the hospital’s director and was told that Russ is responding to a new medication but his improvement is slow.” Another sigh. “Short of breaking down the hospital’s doors and rampaging through the halls, which I can’t really get away with and expect to keep my counseling license, there’s not much I can do.”

  “Hmm, you can’t, but maybe I can,” I said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  I disconnected and called Mattie Jones. When she answered, I said, “Who on our board has clout with the Veterans’ Administration?”

  I filled her in.

  “Harumph,” was her response. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Using the multipurpose printer in Will’s and my joint study, I faxed Jo Ann a copy of the confidentiality waiver. Then I made myself a copy.

  Refiling the original, I folded the copy and stuck it in my purse. “Come on, Buddy. Let’s go for a drive.”

  As we went out the training center’s door, my neighbor Sherie Wells was stepping out onto her front porch, just twenty feet from me.

  Our two houses were now surrounded by fallow fields and woods, but they had once been among a dozen cottages on narrow lots along this end of Main Street. They’d housed the African-Americans who’d worked for old Mr. Mayfair at his long-defunct alligator farm. Mr. Mayfair was also long gone, as were the rest of the cottages—rotted away, the land reclaimed by Florida’s aggressive flora. But Sherie’s and our houses had been built of cement blocks.

  “Where are you off to, Marcia?” she called over.

  “I’m going to exercise my car.” That seemed easier than trying to explain my client’s situation, most of which was confidential anyway.

  She smiled, a flash of white teeth against brown skin that had surprisingly few wrinkles for a woman in her late sixties. “I’ve taken some drives to nowhere myself lately.” As always, her posture was ramrod straight. Regal was the word that came to mind whenever I saw her.

  “How’s Will?”

  “He’s good. How’s Sybil doing?”

  Sherie patted her silver-streaked black hair, pulled back in its usual tight chignon. “Good in general, but this week, she’s exhausted. She’s been doing twelve-hour night shifts.”

  Sybil, Sherry’s youngest, had moved back home temporarily while between jobs, shortly before the pandemic began. “Temporarily” had become “for the duration,” but she was working again, for a nursing agency.

  “That sounds rough.”

  “It has been, but she’s off for the next two days.”

  “Tell her
I said hi.” I waved and headed for my car.

  I was almost to Leesburg when my phone buzzed, and a text flashed up on my dashboard screen, from Becky.

  At doctor w twins. Don’t worry, it’s only a checkup. Call u later. Can’t wait for hugs!

  Smiling, I went looking for the Leesburg Psychiatric Hospital. I wasn’t exactly sure what I would be able to accomplish, but I wanted to see the place for myself. And I was hoping the service-dog angle might give me an entrée, or at least help me get more information on Russ’s condition.

  I drove around shaded side streets in the small city, my GPS insisting that I had arrived at my destination. But all I saw were ancient live oaks and large houses that seemed almost as old.

  Finally I spotted a small white wooden sign that read Leesburg Sanitarium, and in smaller print underneath, A Pennington Psychiatric Facility.

  “Hmm,” I said to Buddy, “they’ve taken discreet to a whole new level.”

  He sat up on the backseat and gave me his what’s-up look, a tilt of his head and a question mark in his eyes.

  I parallel-parked in the shade of an ancient tree and sat for a moment, debating. To accomplish my goal, I needed to put his service dog vest on him. It was cheating, since I wasn’t personally in need of a service dog… but I ended up doing it, since it would lend credibility to my approach.

  The Leesburg Sanitarium was nestled on several acres, with a tall chain-link fence surrounding the campus. The fence was barely visible though, amongst the trees and undergrowth.