To Kill a Labrador Page 2

  “Okay, I’ll try to find you a lawyer before I leave town. Where’s your little girl?”

  “I assume they took her to Sheila, but she’s not that fond of dogs. I knew she wouldn’t agree to take Buddy.”

  “Who’s Sheila?”

  “My sister-in-law.” His face puckered up like he’d sucked on a lemon.

  Did he and sister-in-law Sheila dislike each other, or was Jimmy assuming she too would turn on him?

  Still, this Sheila might know who was the best lawyer in town. “What’s her last name?”

  “Collins.”

  My face must have shown my dismay because Jimmy grimaced and said, “Yeah, she’s married to Julie’s brother, the grandson of the town’s founder.”

  He rubbed the back of his head and winced.

  I twirled my finger in the air. “Turn around.”

  He complied. There was a knot the size of a golf ball on the back of his skull.

  I blew out air. Maybe Jimmy Garrett wasn’t being paranoid after all, and maybe, just maybe he hadn’t killed his wife.

  Chapter Two

  I plugged the address that the diminutive and sour-faced Doris had given me into my GPS, and it led me to a residential area a dozen blocks away from the sheriff’s office. I parked across the street from a Cracker-style house, probably 1940s vintage, with clapboard siding, dormers in its peaked metal roof, and a large welcoming front porch. The Garretts had apparently been fixing it up. It sported a new paint job of off-white, with burgundy trim around the windows, and the small azaleas along the front had fresh dirt around them.

  Unfortunately the recently planted bushes were taking a beating from the multiple official feet tramping around the yard. I stepped out of my car. There was surprisingly little chatter amongst the men and women moving around the front of the house. Most were grim-faced. I read that to mean they all knew, and probably liked, the victim.

  I crossed the street to the line of sheriff’s department cruisers and other vehicles parked randomly along the curb. As I walked past a plain gray car, I glanced down. A flash of red brought me up short. I looked again.

  Buddy, in his red service animal vest, was sprawled across the backseat, his eyes closed, tongue hanging out of his mouth. The vehicle was otherwise unoccupied.

  Anger and fear surged in my chest. What kind of idiot leaves a dog in a car in the intense Florida sun? Even in February, a closed car could turn into an oven in minutes.

  I grabbed the door handle and yanked. It was locked, as was the front door. I banged on the window. “Buddy!”

  The dog lifted his big black head.

  I grabbed the door handle again as my knees wobbled from relief.

  But his eyes didn’t look right. They were glazed. He was definitely suffering. I had to get him out of that car, and fast.

  I raced around to the other side and snatched at the door handles there. Both locked. The driver’s window was cracked open a few inches. My blood boiled. Why did people think a cracked window was sufficient ventilation for an animal inside a car?

  I managed to get my hand and my forearm in, but the elbow wouldn’t fit. I maneuvered around, trying to find an angle that would allow me to reach down and unlock the door.

  “What the heck do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

  I jumped, banging my elbow hard on the window frame. I tried to twist around to see who was behind me. I caught the profile of a tanned, rugged face under a cowboy hat just as searing pain shot up to my shoulder.

  “Ow!” My elbow was now somehow inside the window and I couldn’t get it out.

  The man behind me made a harumphing noise. He lifted his hand and hit a button with his thumb. The car doors snicked unlocked.

  He grabbed the door and started to open it.

  More pain. “Yow! Stop!” My head swam.

  “Okay, hold on.” He grasped my upper arm with a surprisingly gentle hold. “Step back slowly as I open the door.”

  We performed an odd version of a two-step until there was room for his arm to reach in and hit the window button.

  I extracted my arm and rubbed the sore elbow.

  “I repeat, what the heck did you think you were doing?”

  I rounded on the man. “What the heck was I doing? What were you thinking when you put that dog in a closed car?”

  The man seemed unfazed by my raised voice. He took off his hat and ran fingers through sun-streaked brown hair before answering. “The window was cracked.”

  I glared at him. “That doesn’t do much good. The sun can drive up the temperature inside a car to a hundred degrees or more, even this time of year.”

  Grrr. The jerk was smirking at me, his blue eyes lit with amusement.

  He returned his hat to his head. “Didn’t you notice the engine’s running?”

  Now that he’d pointed it out, I could indeed hear the soft purr of an engine. The bubble of anger in my chest deflated.

  “Oh.” Heat rose in my cheeks. “Well, why is he so listless?” Buddy had laid his head back down and closed his eyes.

  “We had to tranquilize him. Jimmy was able to verbally control him, until we handcuffed him and put him in a car. Then the dog went nuts.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “He was only doing his job, protecting his human.” Sheez, now I sounded like Mattie Jones.

  “Look, I know that. You’re his trainer, right?”

  “Yeah.” How had he figured that out? I could have been any animal lover passing by.

  “Doris called me. Said to watch for a redhead with freckles.”

  “I don’t have freckles,” I automatically said, then remembered that I’d left the house without makeup, so indeed my freckles were showing. I was perversely pleased, however, that he thought I was a redhead.

  “My hair’s brown,” I said. “The Florida sun gives it red highlights.”

  The man smiled for the first time, a big mouth full of pearly whites that had parts of my insides stirring. Parts that I’d been ignoring for several years.

  That made me crabby. “What’d you tranq him with, an elephant gun?”

  Despite my snotty tone, the man’s smile didn’t fade. “Nope, but you’re close. One of our deputies has a friend with a gator farm. We called him in and he shot the dog with a dart, just a half dose. Said it was what he’d use on a baby gator.”

  “A gator farm?” Did every small town in central Florida have an outdated tourist trap?

  “Yeah, he raises them to sell to zoos and restaurants.”

  I loved gator tail, that battered and deep-fried Florida specialty that you dip in a tangy sauce. But I’d never given much thought to where the gators came from.

  “Alligators are a controlled species. Used to be endangered,” the man volunteered, which only confused me more.

  “Is it legal to raise them domestically then?”

  He frowned. “Well, yeah.”

  For the first time I noticed his khaki shirt and the badge pinned to its pocket.

  “Well, I guess you’d know, wouldn’t you?” I laughed, then blushed again at the nervousness in my voice.

  “He fishes them out of people’s swimming pools too, for a small fee.”

  I squinted up into the deputy’s face. The sun was now behind him, making it hard to see his features, but I thought I saw that teasing twinkle in his eyes again.

  I pointed to the Stetson wannabe on his head. “You from Texas?”

  “No. Upstate New York.”

  “Oh.”

  “Look, I didn’t get to choose the uniform when I took office.” Now he was frowning at me.

  Way to go, Banks. Piss off law enforcement in a strange town.

  “Uh, could I take the dog now?”

  “Oh, sure.” He opened the back door of the cruiser. “Come on, boy.”

  Buddy raised his head and looked at him, but made no other effort to move.

  The deputy shook his head. “Hope I don’t have to carry him. How much does he weigh?”

  “About eighty pounds.” I leaned over. “Come, Buddy.” My tone brooked no disobedience.

  Buddy struggled to his feet and took a step toward the door. He wobbled and I jumped forward, afraid he would tumble right out of the car.

  The deputy crowded in next to me to help. I caught a whiff of woodsy aftershave and a hint of male sweat. He didn’t seem to have any qualms about rolling his uniform sleeves up. The muscles in his arm rippled as he helped me assist Buddy out of the backseat and onto the road.

  My pulse kicked up a notch. My insides stirred again.

  Buddy shook himself, then staggered sideways two steps. I grabbed his collar, pulled a leash from my back pocket and clipped it on. But I hung onto the collar to steady him.

  He stood still for a few seconds, legs splayed. Then he seemed to get his equilibrium back. Looking over his shoulder, he gave me a what’s-up look. I’d forgotten that patented expression of his.

  My heart swelled at the same time that my stomach sank. This poor dog might just have lost his human best friend.

  Remembering my manners, I stuck out my right hand. “Thank you, Deputy…”

  “Haines, ma’am. Will Haines.”

  He shook my hand with a firm grip. I appreciated it when a man did that, didn’t go all limp just because he was shaking hands with a woman.

  “Thanks, Deputy Haines.”

  “No problem.” He touched his hat brim and turned away.

  I was across the street and had Buddy stuffed halfway into my backseat when the words when I took office hit me.

  I turned around and watched the scene across the street. Will Haines stood next to the cruisers at the curb. He gestured to another man in a khaki uniform who hurried over to him. They spoke for a few seconds, then Haines slapped the man on the sho
ulder. The guy took off, apparently to do Haines’ bidding.

  Crapola, Banks! He’s the sheriff!

  He must have sensed me watching him. He turned and sketched me another small salute.

  I couldn’t tell for sure from this distance but I suspected the smirk was back on his face.

  I gave him a feeble wave, then ducked my head and scrambled around to the driver’s side of my car.

  Chapter Three

  I glanced frequently in the rearview mirror as I drove home. Buddy’s condition had me worried. He was still glassy-eyed and apathetic. I wondered if I should take him to the emergency veterinarian hospital in Belleview, a town just south of Ocala that was a good bit bigger than Collinsville or Mayfair.

  I was also contemplating the descriptions of Buddy’s behavior. Jimmy woke up to find the dog standing over him growling, not letting the police get near. Buddy had been trained to bark for help should his handler become ill or fall, not try to keep potential help away. And why did he “go nuts” after they put Jimmy in a squad car? Had Jimmy neglected to give him the release command, the signal that let the dog know he was off duty? In the chaos of the situation, that was quite possible, but still “going nuts” was not how Buddy had been trained to behave.

  I glanced again in the rearview mirror. He was now sleeping in the backseat, his limbs jerking sporadically in response to some dream.

  Then again, the best of training might succumb to a dog’s natural protective instincts when he’d just witnessed his owner kill his wife.

  I shook my head. I didn’t know that’s what happened. Indeed, I was inclined to believe Jimmy’s version, that he’d been struck from behind. Nonetheless, Buddy had witnessed violence, and he was now showing signs of being a traumatized dog.

  By the time we arrived at my house, the tranquilizer had apparently worn off. Buddy jumped out of the car under his own steam and seemed much more alert.

  As I unlocked my front door, a deep woof came from one corner of the living room. That would be Max, the sixty-pound, tawny-colored rescue mutt of dubious parentage that I’d been training for several months now.

  Then came a series of yaps from Lacy, a mostly-white bitch with at least one collie and an Alaskan husky or two amongst her ancestors.

  Buddy looked at me. I nodded. He barked out a greeting.

  Just one more woof from Max, but Lacy went bananas.

  I shook my head. It looked like bringing a new dog into the house might set her back some.

  One of the things I taught my dogs was to control their natural tendency to bark at anything that moved. Often people with PTSD were hypersensitive to sudden and/or loud noises. A dog yapping at things that weren’t a threat was a problem for them.

  Buddy still remembered that lesson, as did Max. But Lacy, not so much.

  I sighed. Buddy and I stepped inside.

  I fed the dogs and myself, let the dogs out back for a bathroom break, and then settled my trainees in their crates for the night. Buddy hadn’t eaten much of the dinner I’d offered him. I didn’t know if that was an aftereffect of the drug or a reaction to being uprooted from his home. Maybe some of both.

  But he sniffed around the living room, then settled at my feet as I lounged on the sofa, sipping from a much needed glass of white wine and scrolling through my Netflix queue while waiting for the evening news to come on. I wanted to see how the media handled Julie’s murder.

  The living room was my favorite room in my little house. It was open and airy, with lots of windows that let the light in during the day. Even with dog crates in two corners, there was room for a small beige sofa, a matching armchair, and two end tables. The rug and the drapes, now pulled closed over the windows, were solid beige. The only accents in the room came from some throw pillows in bright red and turquoise (my favorite colors) and the pictures on the wall—a couple of prints of herons taking flight over a swamp.

  The stone-faced fireplace didn’t get much use during our short, mild winters, but it added a cozy feel to the room. Perched on its mantel was my only major indulgence, a forty-two inch, flat screen TV.

  I glanced at my watch and clicked over to the news. No mention of Collinsville in the lead-ins on the Orlando stations. I jumped over to WCJB-20 out of Gainesville. Nothing there either. Collinsville was probably too far south to be considered local to them. After a bit more channel surfing, I found a Lakeland TV station.

  And there was an image of Jimmy Garrett’s house with a sheriff’s department cruiser parked out front. A young female reporter stood in front of the dark house, describing the “grisly murder” by an Iraqi war veteran. “The sheriff’s department has declined to comment, but a neighbor said Mr. Garrett suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. His former boss reported that he has anger management problems.”

  Either the neighbor and the boss had declined to be interviewed on TV or that was all the time the station was willing to devote to a murder in a neighboring town. The news anchor flashed a toothy smile and switched to a human interest story about a local charity.

  Poor Jimmy was being convicted by the press before he’d even been arraigned.

  I clicked off the news and started closing up the house, turning out lights and checking locks.

  Buddy looked around in confusion, as if it was just now occurring to him that he wasn’t on some outing that would end with a trip back to his familiar home.

  My chest aching, I tried to decide what to do. My trainees were always crated at night. But I only had two crates, and Buddy was used to sleeping beside his owner’s bed. “Come on, boy. You’re in my room.”

  * * *

  First order of business the next day was to find a lawyer for Jimmy. It had been a restless night. Buddy had periodically stuck his head up over the side of my bed with a mournful look on his face. He was looking for Jimmy. The first couple of times, I fell right back to sleep after reassuring him with a pat on the head and a soft, “Lie down, boy.” After the third time, he finally settled down, but I couldn’t get back to sleep.

  So now I was slurping down a second cup of coffee, while I did some computer research. The caffeine did its job, and I was a good bit more awake by the time I started making phone calls.

  I scored on the third one. A law firm in Lakeland, Maher, Machaya and Kraft, promised to send an associate over to Collinsville to talk to Jimmy.

  With that chore done, I turned my attention to the dogs. I really needed to get some training time in today, especially with Lacy. But first I wanted to do something to make Buddy feel better.

  He’s one of those dogs who likes taking a bath, so I dragged the big metal tub out into the backyard and filled it halfway with water from the garden hose. Leaving it in the bright sunlight to warm up a little, I went to get the rest of the bathing supplies.

  As soon as I took Buddy out back, he realized what was up. He ran for the tub.

  “Wait!” My universal stop-whatever-you’re-doing-and-wait-for-instructions signal that I drummed into my dogs.

  Buddy stopped beside the tub. I had some trouble getting his collar off. He was quivering all over with excitement but he waited until I’d removed it.

  “Now, boy. Jump in.”

  I neglected to step back first and his enthusiastic entry into the tub soaked the front of my clothes. I managed to get him soaped up without too much additional soaking, then signaled for him to jump out of the tub so I could dump it and rinse him off.

  He complied, his wet tail flapping back and forth, and I swear he was grinning at me. I flopped back on my butt, laughing.

  I got him rinsed off, then quickly threw a big fluffy towel over him. Of course, he shook anyway, dislodging the towel and soaking me all over again.

  I chuckled, then grabbed the towel and started roughly drying his silky black coat. “Welcome home, Buddy,” I whispered in a damp, floppy ear.

  Sadness overwhelmed me. I sank down on the grass again. I’d always been particularly fond of Buddy, partly because he was my first trainee and partly because he was just plain loveable. But when I’d delivered him to Jimmy, I’d been so excited about the success of my first training experience that the sadness of parting with the dog had been pushed aside.

  Now I realized this could have no good outcome for me personally. If Jimmy was convicted, then my first big success as a trainer—or in my life in general for that matter—was a sham. If he was acquitted, I’d have to give up Buddy all over again.