A Tiger's Tale (A Call of the Wilde Mystery) (17 page)

You’ll see him in a minute.

I looked up at Hugh. “Thanks again for taking care of him.”

“It wasn’t a problem. He’s a good boy,” Hugh said, and gave Jax a hardy pat.

Giving the Doberman another hug, I murmured, “Yes, he is.”

Jax, good boy.

“I also took care of the kitten, um . . . Voodoo? Interesting name.”

“My sister’s idea,” I said as I stood.

“Emma.”

Something about the way he said her name had me arching my brows.

He understood my silent query and grinned. “Your sister is . . . very nice.”

Another one bites the dust. “I hear that a lot.”

“Come on in and we’ll get everybody ready to go.”

I followed him into a large living area. The cottage-style house might have surprised me, but the decor did not. I was no expert, but I’d categorize it as a bachelor’s version of safari chic.

With a little too much safari and not quite enough chic.

“I treated Voodoo for the usual,” Hugh said as he scooped the kitten off the floor and placed her in the carrier. “Rubbed some flea treatment on her, too.”

“Thanks. So Jax was okay with her?”

“Jax didn’t know what to think. A tiny, crazy fluff ball that leapt at him from under the couch? He seemed a little scared of her, to be honest.”

We both laughed at the idea of a trained protection dog shying away from a two-pound kitten.

I lifted the carrier and as we started out the door I turned and asked, “Hugh, do you like living alone?”

“I’m not alone that often,” he said with a wicked grin.

“Sorry, I forgot—you live with your inflated ego.”

He chuckled, unaffected by my jab.

“Seriously. Do you get—” I almost said
lonely
. “Bored?”

“Nah. If I do, I just have a cookout or have the guys over to watch the game or something. You know.”

“Yeah.”

Actually, I didn’t know. I’d never hosted a get-together. I didn’t have enough friends. Human ones, anyway.

For some reason, the thought bothered me. I thanked Hugh again and, after a happy reunion between Jax and Moss, I drove toward the sheriff’s office.

I was running late and Jake would be waiting. I imagined the gruff detective shaking his head and grousing about my tardiness. The thought made me smile.

Jake was like a cheese panini—crusty on the outside but warm and gooey in the center.

“Hey.” I glanced over my shoulder at Jax, who was warily eyeing Voodoo’s paw as it clawed the air through the carrier’s door. “I could put you and Jake on the invite list if I ever had a cookout, right? Mary, too.”

And Kai,
I thought, my smile stretching into a grin. On impulse, I snagged my phone and called his cell, frowning when it went straight to voice mail once again.

I figured there had to be a big case going on for him not to have returned my call by now.

I called Jake earlier and he’d given me a short “Let me call you back.”

Which, of course, he hadn’t done. I could have taken Jax home with me, but I needed to talk to Kai and tell him what I’d learned. I knew he wouldn’t be happy with me. Meeting with mobsters didn’t really fall under the category of staying safe.

But Brooke’s connection to the mob was too important to keep from him. And there was the breach in the fence at Happy Asses.

And, if I was honest with myself, I just wanted to see him.

“You are getting soft, Grace.”

I pulled into the JSO parking garage at a little after four, left the dogs in the car with the window cracked, and headed inside.

The door to Kai’s office was closed. I started to knock but heard someone say, “He’s not in there.”

I turned and recognized Charlie Yamada, one of Kai’s fellow investigators.

I smiled. “Let me guess, he’s geeking out with a microscope somewhere?”

The usually gregarious Charlie didn’t return my smile. “No, he’s—” He broke off as if debating what to say. “In a meeting.”

“Okay, do you know how long he’ll be?”

He pursed his lips together and glanced away. “I don’t . . . I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here, Grace.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

Charlie met my gaze and I noticed worry lines marred his typically smooth face.

He stepped forward and said in a low voice, “You should go.”

Without another word, he sidestepped around me and walked away.

What the hell?

I stood there for a moment, too confused to do more than blink at Charlie’s retreating back. A ripple of anxiety snapped me out of my stupor. I turned toward the elevators and made a beeline for the homicide unit to track down Jake.

In true detective fashion, he found me before I found him.

“Grace, what are you doing here?”

“Coming to bring you your dog, for starters.”

He glanced at his watch and cursed.

“What the hell is going on, Jake? I ran into Charlie and he told me I should leave. Where’s Kai?”

“Come here.” He gripped my elbow, led me into an empty interview room, and closed the door. “Kai is in trouble. Some muckety-mucks from internal affairs have been interrogating him all day.”

“What?” I asked utterly shocked. “Why?”

“It would seem that he’s been askin’ questions about the daughter of a certain crime boss named Charles Sartori.” His gaze zeroed in on mine. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Kai is in trouble because he asked around about Brooke?”

“You know her?”

“Yes—I mean no.”

“Which is it, Grace?”

“No, I don’t know her—but I’m trying to find her.”

“Why?”

“She disappeared from work over a week ago.”

“No missing person report has been filed.”

“That’s because her parents think she ran away.”

“But you don’t.”

“Obviously. That’s why I’m trying to find her.” I held up my hand to stop him before he got on a roll with the questions, especially since there were several I didn’t want to answer. This wasn’t the time or place to tell Jake about my telepathic ability. “Look, here’s the deal: I told Kai about Brooke and he explained there was nothing the police could do until her parents reported her missing, so I asked him for a few favors. If anyone should be in trouble, it’s me.”

“What kind of trouble?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. “I’m just saying Kai didn’t do anything wrong.”

“There are some who think he might have some connection to Sartori.”

“That’s ridiculous. Kai doesn’t even know Sartori’s Brooke’s father.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, Grace, and explain.”

I shook my head. “I’ll explain it to the idiots who are stupid enough to think Kai could be involved with the mob.” I turned to leave, but Jake placed his meaty hand on the door before I could open it.

“No so fast. So far, Kai hasn’t mentioned you. I’m gonna assume it’s for a reason.”

He gave me his cop eyes and I stepped back, folded my arms over my chest, and glared at him.

“And that would be what, exactly? You think I’m in league with the Mafia? Come on, Jake.”

Jake was giving me a hard stare. I’d known him awhile, and though he’d often shook his head, bewildered by my “knack” with animals, he’d never looked at me with utter suspicion.

Something else was going on.

“What aren’t you telling me, Jake?”

“I’d ask you the same question.”

My eyes narrowed as I studied him. I have a low tolerance for BS, especially from someone I consider a friend. “Take your hand off the door, Detective.”

“No.”

“Am I under arrest?”

He scowled.

“Then open the door.”

He lowered his voice to a low growl. “You need to tell me what’s goin’ on, Grace.”

“You’re harassing me, that’s what’s going on.”

“Why were you at the Ligners’ house?”

“I—what?” How did Jake know I’d gone to the Ligners’? Had Kai told him? He answered my question before I could ask.

“An old, light blue Suburban was seen parked in front of their house, not once, but twice in the last few days.”

“So?”

“What were you doin’ there?”

“Why does it matter?” I was starting to get a bad feeling about the questions he was asking.

“Do you know Bob Ligner?”

“We’ve met.”

Jake’s faced darkened.

“Why are you asking about Bob Ligner?” I had to ask, though I had the feeling I already knew the answer.

There was only one reason a homicide detective would be grilling me about being at the Ligners’ house.

“Oh my God. He’s dead, isn’t he.”

“Have a seat, Grace. We need to talk.”

Bob Ligner was dead.

“This is a new dot,” I muttered as I settled into the bleak-looking chair Jake had indicated.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Grace, I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but you need to come clean with me.” Jake leaned forward, placing his palms on the table between us. “Your vehicle was seen parked adjacent to the Ligners’ house the same day he was murdered. Why were you there?”

“I . . .”

What could I say? I wanted to check on Brooke’s cat? That answer would only lead to impossible questions.

“I was looking for clues.”

“Clues?”

“To what might have happened to Brooke.”

“Why?”

“Because no one else was.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Find any?”

Had I? The mangled toys were a clue, but if I told him about them I’d have to admit to snooping in the trash. Wasn’t that a federal offense? No—I was confusing the trash with the mail. Which was about right these days . . .

“Grace.”

Jake’s gruff voice yanked my train of thought back in line like a cowboy jerking the reins of a shying horse.

“What?”

“I asked you where you were Tuesday night.”

“Operation Bat Wing,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I had to work. Then I went home.”

“What time?”

“I’m not sure. Sometime after nine.”

“Did you leave?”

I shook my head.

“Can anyone verify that?”

Sure, my dog.

A realization hit me like a slap in the face.

“You’re asking me for an alibi?”

“You got one?”

I stood without answering and headed for the door. Jake moved to stand in my way.

My temper spiked, and a rush of cold anger settled over me. Opening my purse, I took out my cell phone and began scrolling through my contacts.

“What are you doing?” Jake asked.

“Calling my attorney.”

My phone began playing what sounded like a sea chantey before I could call Wes.

When I saw who was calling I actually wanted to smile, but current circumstances short-circuited the urge.

“Hey, Uncle Wiley. What’s up?” I frowned at the answer. “Okay. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

Jake scowled. “Grace. . .”

“I have to help my uncle. If you want your dog I suggest you come get him.”

Jake loomed behind me like a black cloud all the way to Bluebell.

“Later, me and you are gonna talk,” he said as I handed him Jax’s leash.

“I’m sure we will, Jake.”

When I got into Bluebell, Moss nudged me under my chin.

Okay?

I patted him and said, “I’m fine.”

We both knew it was a lie. My mind was whirling.

Bob Ligner was dead.

Jake, someone I considered my friend, suspected me of being involved with the murder, and Kai was in trouble because I’d asked for his help.

Part of me wanted to scream in frustration, but mostly I didn’t know what to think.

I blew out a sigh as I headed over the Hart Bridge. Maybe friendly cookouts weren’t in my future after all.

• • •

“What do you think, Gracie? Can you get him out?”

I glanced at my uncle Wiley. Like always, he wore a beret. Tufts of hair puffed out from under it like white cotton candy. His mustache, an impeccably groomed handlebar, was as white as his hair. At least it would have been, if not for the speckles of mud all over his face.

And his shirt.

And his pants.

“Yeah, I think so.”

I didn’t ask why my uncle had dug the three-foot-wide, eight-foot-long pit on his property. I knew.

He was nuts.

Wiley was
that
uncle. The weirdo. The eccentric. The oddball who was whispered about and made fun of. The one children adore until they no longer believe an old man’s stories of high seas adventure, pirates, and buried treasure.

I still adored Wiley. Which was why I was standing by his side, staring at the animal caught in one of his excavations.

This is going to get ugly.

In the pit, chest deep in thick, brown mud, was a white-tailed deer. Judging from the large rack of antlers, a mature male of at least three years. What the big guy was doing on my uncle’s island, I didn’t know. Though a bridge connected the seven-acre lump of land to the rest of Neptune Beach, I doubted the buck had walked the long, narrow road. Deer could swim—maybe the buck had decided to take a break before traversing the rest of the Intercoastal.

Honestly, I didn’t care how he’d ended up in the pit. I needed to get Bambi’s daddy out of the mire and on his way. Somehow.

In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Crap.

The last thing I needed right now was another downpour.

“I tried to get him to back up,” Wiley told me softly.

“What do you mean?” I asked in a soft monotone.

“Well, I’m not a young man anymore,” he said. “I have to make an easier way in and out when I’m digging. There are a couple of steps.”

I suspected my uncle—great-uncle, actually—could dig circles around me.

“So, there are some sort of steps on this side?” If there were, they weren’t visible through the opaque brown water.

“Just two. I guess that’s how he got down there. Do you think he could use them to climb out?”

“Let’s find out.” Bold words for a tricky situation. First, I’d have to convince the buck to turn around. Then, I’d somehow have to explain the concept of the steps.

I’d already done a preliminary scan of the deer’s mind—he was tired, trapped, and terrified.

The trifecta of imminent failure.

Sighing, I handed my uncle my phone, a few business cards, and anything else in my pockets. Then I bent over and started unlacing my boots.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking my boots off. I don’t want to lose them in the mud.” I tugged the first one off.

“You’re going to get in there with him?”

“Yep.” I peeled off my socks. As I straightened, I felt cool mud ooze up between my toes.

“Is that safe, Gracie?”

“It will be fine,” I assured him. In truth, I wasn’t sure it would be fine. The buck’s hooves and antlers had the capacity to inflict serious damage.

I walked slowly to the edge of the pit, directly behind the deer. He craned his majestic head around to watch me as I lowered myself to the ground. I gritted my teeth as I dipped first my right foot, then my left, into the muck.

I closed my eyes and concentrated all my efforts on the deer.

I’m your friend. I’m not going to hurt you.

I extended my leg lower, felt the top step, and slid off the edge of the pit to stand thigh-deep in the mud.

A surge of his emotions prompted me to still.

Fear and wariness.

Exhaustion.

Pain.

I pulled these feelings in, drawing on the connection between us. Legs unsteady, I waded forward, down to the next step, and slowly reached out. Finally, my fingertips brushed his flank. I felt a little rush at the contact and it took all my control not to jerk away.

My heart began to beat in tandem with the buck’s. My legs and arms burned and trembled as they took in his exhaustion.

I took a long, calming breath and saw the deer’s chest expand with mine.

Houston, we have a link!

Now all I had to do was get him to turn around and guide him up the steps.

It took what seemed like eternity, but we finally managed a U-turn.

Climb.

I felt him shuffle, uncertain.

Up?

That’s right. Up.

Trembling with unsteadiness and fatigue, the buck wrenched his front hooves onto the first step.

I forced a steadying breath as the buck struggled to maintain his footing. Finally, he was still.

Now, if he could just take one big step and get his hind legs free, he could jump out of the mud.

I prodded him forward.

Just a little more.

My hand was still on his back, and I eased farther along his side, thinking I’d show him how to climb.

A sudden clap of thunder rocketed through the air.

The buck started. His sharp hooves slipped in the mud. Then, in a flurry of kicks, he was free.

And I landed face-first in the muck.

I gasped as I surfaced, sputtering.

Mud clogged my eyes and I felt a hand snag my upper arm and haul me out of the pit.

“Here we go.” My uncle chuckled. “Great job, Gracie.”

I shivered, telling myself it was from the coolness of the muck rather than the residual stress I’d gleaned from the deer.

“You must be freezing. Come on inside.”

Too unsteady to protest, I let my uncle lead me to his house, onto the oversized deck, and inside.

As soon as I stepped through the door, the spicy scent of gumbo wafted around me. I hadn’t realized I was hungry, but my stomach let me know with a loud rumble. The tantalizing aroma of onions, pepper, and dark roux seemed to beckon me, and I started forward only to stop when I looked down.

“I’m ge-getting mud everywhere,” I sputtered.

“These floors have seen worse. Go on and get cleaned up.” He motioned toward the hall bath, and I slopped toward it.

“I still have some things of your aunt Marabelle’s,” Wiley said once I’d made it into the bathroom.

Wiley’s wife, Marabelle, had died sometime in the seventies. I didn’t want to imagine what kind of outfits he could supply me with.

“That’s okay, Uncle Wiley, I can just—” I cut myself off when I caught sight of a mirror. One look at my reflection and I knew I’d be leaving in bell-bottoms.

Wishful thinking.

I’m not sure who designed the wide-legged, plunging-halter-top jumpsuit, but they took things a bit too far when they chose gold lamé in
leopard print
for the fabric. I couldn’t bring myself to look in the mirror once I had it on—it was that bad. At least I wouldn’t be seen in public with the getup on. I’d rinsed my clothes out and tossed them into the dryer.

Then, gleaming like a disco ball, I walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. Wiley had retrieved Moss and Voodoo from Bluebell and they both sat looking up at my uncle as he stood at the stove, stirring a large pot.

He glanced over his shoulder at me and grinned. I placed my hands on my hips and said, “This is all you could find?”

“What do you mean? You look funkadelic!” Wiley’s grin widened. “That was one of Marabelle’s favorite disco outfits.”

“I bet.”

He chuckled and turned back to the stove.

“Set the table, I’ll make us some bowls.”

I fetched spoons and napkins as Wiley ladled the gumbo over rice and scooped a few oysters out to give Moss.

I set the table then flopped down onto one of the old ladder-back chairs at the kitchen table.

“Don’t call me if the next critter you accidentally trap is a gator,” I told Wiley as he placed the bowls on the table and settled in across from me. “They can climb perfectly well on their own.”

“I usually cover my excavations with plywood. It started raining so hard the other day, I didn’t have time.”

“Find anything good?”

“Just a bit here and there.”

Wiley was convinced he’d found a pirate camp when he’d acquired the little island forever ago.

He took a bite of gumbo, then pointed to a grimy bottle on a nearby shelf. I’d seen many like it in his collection.

“Rum bottle?” I asked.

“Wine. Still had a little liquid inside,” he told me, eyes bright.

I sincerely hoped he hadn’t drunk whatever was in the bottle, but I wouldn’t put it past him.

We made short work of the gumbo and I was feeling pretty fat and happy, and growing more tired by the second. I listened, and could still hear the dryer going.

“Grace?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I was saying this is a nice piece of tabby.” My uncle held up the shell I’d found earlier that day.

“Of what?”

“Tabby. Do you keep it for luck?”

“No, I just found it today on the side of the road.”

“That’s odd.”

“Why?”

“Tabby wasn’t used in roads. It was used to build houses and other structures.”

“You’ve lost me, Uncle Wiley. The only kind of tabby I’m familiar with is the cat.”

“Tabby is a mix of lime, sand, and oyster shells.”

“It just looks like a regular piece of shell to me. Aside from the pearl.”

“It’s not. Look—you can still see traces of the lime that made the cement.” He flipped the shell over and ran the tip of a weathered finger over a rough line along the edge of the back.

“Tabby was used by the first Europeans who settled the southeast coast.”

“So you wouldn’t find this in a modern structure?”

“I wouldn’t think so, no.”

I studied the piece of tabby, wondering what the heck it was doing on the roadside behind Ozeal’s place.

I posed this question to my uncle. He shrugged.

“It shouldn’t have—unless someone dropped it.”

A flare of excitement zipped through me, making me bolt upright.

“What? What is it?” Wiley asked.

“It’s a clue.”

“Clue?”

“I’ve got to go, Uncle Wiley. Thanks for the gumbo.” I brushed a kiss on his cheek, called Moss, scooped up the kitten, and, all concern over my outfit forgotten, hurried out the door.