Dog Days (15 page)

“The ex-husband’s name is Greg Sellers,” I said. “He’s a private investigator from Virginia. I think he’s the one who planted the transmitter in Cameo’s collar and he’s probably the one who stole my purse.”

She looked up from jotting notes, her eyes like stone. “You knew we were investigating this as a possible homicide, and you didn’t mention to us that there was an ex-husband involved?”

“I just found out myself an hour ago,” I returned impatiently. “As I was saying—”

“So naturally your first call is to the murder suspect.”

That gave me pause. I admitted uncomfortably, “I didn’t think of that.”

“Which is exactly why we’re the police and you’re not,” she returned sharply. “Do you know I could charge you with obstruction of justice right now?”

“No,” I replied, just as sharply. “You could have an hour ago, but right now I’m trying my best to tell you everything I know if you’d just be quiet and listen.”

Her nostrils flared and I’m sure if there had been a law against telling an officer to be quiet, she would have slapped the cuffs on me that minute. Instead she demanded, “What makes you think he planted the transmitter?”

“I saw him trying to break into my car on Friday. Cameo’s collar was on the front seat. A friend of mine traced the plate, that’s how I know his name. But,” I assured her hastily, “I only got the information this morning.”

She shot me a dagger look and I volunteered, “Marshall Becker.” She wrote it down.

I went on, “That night someone tried to break into my kennel. The collar was in my office. He was driving the same kind of car as Sellers. The thing is …” Now I frowned, thinking it through as I spoke. “All this time I’ve been thinking it was Tony Madison who planted the transmitter in Cameo’s collar to spy on his wife. But he never showed the least bit of interest in getting Cameo, or the collar, back. I don’t think he knew the device was there. When I told Mr. Madison that Sellers was in town, he seemed shocked, and right after that he took off. Unless he somehow found out you were on the way to arrest him …” I looked questioningly at her, and she shook her head.

“We just got the warrant this morning. The blood on the post at the overlook was a match, and yesterday we got a warrant to search the RV and found a blood-smeared paper towel in the trash, like someone had used it to wipe their hands. It matched April Madison’s too. He said something about her cutting herself in the kitchen, but he knew we had the evidence. If he was going to run, it would have been last night.” Now her expression grew thoughtful. “No, it was something about you mentioning Sellers.”

“Could Sellers be a witness?” I suggested.

“Maybe.” She added, “You don’t happen to know where Sellers is staying, do you?”

“No, but Marshall has his tag number. His cell phone number, too.” In the interest of full disclosure, I added, “I left a message for Greg Sellers to call me back. If I talk to him I can—”

“You can do nothing,” she interrupted harshly. “Listen to me, Stockton. Stay away from both of those men, and if either of them attempts to contact you call the police immediately. Do you understand?”

I said, “Do you think Sellers is involved in the murder?”

“He is now,” she said grimly. “He’s in possession of what may be material evidence in our case and he’s probably being stalked by our prime suspect. At the very least, he’s in danger, which makes him a dangerous man to be around. Our job is to find him before Marshall does.” She pulled out her phone. “Your job is to go back to …” She made a vague gesture with her free hand. “Doing whatever it is you do.”

I drew a breath for a retort, but she spoke into the phone. “Track down Marshall Becker and patch him through to me on this line. It’s urgent. And put me through to the sheriff.”

She glanced at me and moved the phone away from her mouth. “By the way, Madison drives a white CR-V. Did you really think we wouldn’t already have a BOLO out on it?”

I returned sourly, “You’ll find Marshall Becker at the county fair. He’s judging jams.”

I turned on my heel to go as she said into the phone, “Sheriff, there’s been a development.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

W
hen I’d mapped out my plan for the morning, I had not included the time it would take to be interviewed by the police. I also had intended to be leaving the campground with one less dog than I’d started with, and while the unexpected turn of events might have suited Cisco just fine, it left me in something of a dilemma. I could either go home and drop off Cameo, or get to the fair in time to keep my commitment to judge the dog show. There were thirteen anxious young men and women with their spiffed-up dogs waiting for me, so there really wasn’t much of a choice.

Of course, when I’d volunteered months ago to do back-to-back duty at the fair, I’d thought Miles and Melanie would be with me. Melanie would have proudly held Cisco’s leash while I judged the dog show and would have been the perfect little carnival barker at the Humane Society booth, urging people to come on over while shaking the donation jar in their faces, probably charging them a dollar each to take a picture with Cisco. Miles would have carried our gear and brought us cold drinks and his eyes would have twinkled a lot. The stab of loss and regret I felt was so intense it hurt my stomach.

I parked again in the back lot and dragged my lightweight canvas crate—lightweight being a relative term—out of the back of the SUV, along with the day bag that contained Cisco’s vest, water, treats, and other doggie necessities, as well as a roll of duct tape for securing posters at the booth and colored markers for the signs. One crate for two big dogs was bound to be an adventure, but at least they liked each other. Besides, I had no choice.

Lugging the crate, bag, and the two golden retrievers across the dusty field, I was left red-faced and dripping sweat in no time. My knee was starting to ache, and I had to move slowly to favor it. I also have to say my mood wasn’t the best, and with every ounce of my concentration focused on keeping Cisco and Cameo under control as we approached the noise and crowds of the midway, I jumped a little when a dry voice said next to me, “Thanks for the heads-up about the police, Miss Stockton.”

Marshall Becker fell into step beside me, reaching to take the heavy crate from my grip. I certainly didn’t fight him for it. “If I had known there was an ongoing investigation, I never would have gotten involved,” he added. “I certainly wouldn’t have given the information to a private citizen.”

“Sounds like something you should tell the police.”

“I did. For almost an hour.”

I blotted my forehead with the back of my arm, squinting in the sun. “Sorry to throw your schedule off, but I never asked you to get involved. Besides, I didn’t know Greg Sellers had anything to do with the investigation until today.”

He said, “What exactly do you think he has to do with it?”

“Sorry, I can’t give that information to a private citizen,” I replied, and he chuckled.

He said, “What happened to your knee?”

“I fell.”

“Small wonder, carrying all this stuff around with two big dogs. Don’t you have any help?”

Once again, I was reminded of Miles and Melanie and how everything was supposed to be different, but I refused to let the melancholy take hold. I replied instead, glancing at him, “Now I do.”

He grinned, and I gestured to the big tent across the way from which the sound of barking could be heard even over the blare of midway music. “I guess we’re over there. Thanks for your help.”

“Not a problem. Beautiful dogs. That’s an English Cream golden retriever, isn’t it?”

I looked at him in surprise. “Not many people know that.”

He said, “I’ve always had goldens. My last one, Buddy, just died last year. He was fourteen.”

He rose several notches in my esteem. I said, with genuine sympathy, “I’m so sorry. It must have been hard to lose him, so soon after your wife.”

He replied simply, “It was.”

We arrived at the entrance to the tent and I extended my hand for the crate.“Well, this is it. Thanks again.”

“I’ll help you set up.”

Again, that was not an offer I was about to refuse.

I could see the dismay on some of the kids’ faces when I passed by with my two beautiful goldens, and the relief when they realized I was the judge, not a competitor. We were greeted by the coordinator of the local 4-H program, who quickly pinned a judge’s badge on my shirt and spread out the first, second, and third place ribbons on the folding table at the front of the tent. Marshall set up the crate behind the table and I poured water into a collapsible bowl for the dogs. They each had a few laps, and I escorted them—pushed, might be a more accurate word—into the crate. There was a portable fan set up behind the judge’s table, presumably for my comfort, but I turned it on the dogs.

“Okay,” I said, glancing out over the lineup of dogs and the family and friends who were beginning to fill the folding chairs inside the tent. “I guess this is it.” And, because I was feeling more kindly disposed toward him now that I knew he was a golden retriever person, I added, “I’m sorry I got you in trouble with Jolene. Deputy Smith, I mean. And I appreciate the help with the crate.”

“That’s okay,” he replied. “You can make it up to me by letting me buy you that corn dog after the show.”

“Look,” I said, “you don’t have to keep being nice to me. You already have my vote.”

“Good to hear,” he replied with an appreciative nod of his head, “because it would be a lot harder to persuade you to work on my campaign if you were voting for the other guy.”

I gave a disbelieving shake of my head.  “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

“That’s how you win elections,” he assured me.

“Well, you’re going to have to win this one by yourself.  I’m not working on anybody’s campaign. But,” I added, “I will take that corn dog.”

He was laughing as he walked away.

~*~

I am not a qualified dog show judge, but that’s okay because this wasn’t a qualified dog show. It was mostly a way to reward outstanding participants in the 4-H club’s dog program and to encourage others to join, so I made sure I had something nice to say about every dog. Since most of the dogs were mixed breeds, there was no real standard: I judged on cleanliness and general grooming, manners and disposition, and basic obedience commands. The winner, hands down, was an Aussie/border collie mix, but you just can’t get any smarter than that, with second place going to what looked to be a cross between a German Shepherd and a collie, and third place taken by a funny little bulldog named Gus who, I was happy to see, had not forgotten
all
of the obedience skills he had learned in puppy class at Dog Daze.

I lingered to congratulate the winners and encourage the also-rans, taking the opportunity to pass out Dog Daze business cards to moms and dads while I was there. I brought Cisco out of his crate and let him do a few tricks for a dog biscuit, and one of the parents was nice enough to hold his leash while I got Cameo out and folded up the crate. Of course there were a lot of oohs and ahhs over Cameo, who really was a striking-looking dog, and she preened under the attention.

I dragged my camp down the midway to the Humane Society booth, which was decorated with colorful dog and cat flags and paw print bunting, and was once again flushed and sweating by the time I got there—not to mention hungry. I was beginning to hope Marshall had been serious about that corn dog. I wondered where he had gone off to until I heard, muffled by distance and carousel music, a microphoned voice saying something about the land of the free and the home of the brave, followed by cheers and applause. His speech. Of course.

The volunteer I relieved helped me set up the crate and get the dogs situated before she left. I put Cameo in the crate with a bowl of water and a chew toy, and let Cisco, wearing his “Donate now!” vest, sit beside me at the table that held brochures, volunteer signup sheets, and the donation jar.

With two show-stoppers like Cisco and Cameo, I would have been foolish not to take advantage of both of them, and I planned to take turns letting them wear the vest and work the crowd. Cisco and I did a brisk business, although I will admit, most of the people who stopped by just wanted to pet Cisco and tell me about their own dogs, dropping only a handful of change into the jar when they left. But quarters and nickels are better than nothing at all, and I actually like hearing about other peoples’ dogs.

Midway through my shift I switched out the dogs, zipping Cisco into the crate and slipping the “Donate” vest over Cameo’s head. She seemed pretty sanguine about the whole thing, and Cisco was happy as long as he could see her—and enjoy his chew bone, of course. I had no reason to expect trouble, so I was completely caught off guard when Cameo suddenly gave a series of joyful barks and leapt forward, jerking the leash out of my hand as she plunged into the crowd.

I cried, “Cameo!”

Panic surged as I rushed after her. A dog loose in this crowd might never be seen again, especially one as pretty as Cameo, and if I lost her for the second time … But I only had to run a few steps before my fears were allayed. A fairgoer had caught her—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say she had caught him. She was standing with her front paws on his chest, grinning, while he ruffled her fur and scratched her ears and exclaimed, “Hey, there, pretty girl! Aren’t you looking fine?”

I said, gasping, “I’m so sorry! She got away from me.” I reached for the leash and then caught my breath as the man looked up at me. It was the same balding, stoop-shouldered tourist who’d tried to break into my car … only he wasn’t stoop-shouldered now, and he didn’t look like a tourist.

He was wearing neat khaki pants and a short-sleeved, buttoned white shirt, and he moved with confidence and assurance. He said, “Cameo, off.”

Cameo obeyed him, four feet on the ground, looking up at him adoringly. He smiled as he extended his hand to me. “Miss Stockton,” he said. “I’m Greg Sellers.”

I extended my hand too; not to shake his but to snatch Cameo’s leash. “Mr. Sellers,” I said, “you should know the police are looking for you.”

“I’m not surprised.” A shadow of pain came over his face as he added, “I heard about April. I’m sure they want to interview me. I was on my way to the sheriff’s department when I got your call. I thought it would save time all around if I could bring them some information they could actually use.”

I looked at him warily. “How did you find me?”

“You said you were working a booth at the fair. I’m a detective. I figured it out.” Again he smiled. “Also, I saw Cameo across the midway.”

If I could get past the fact that he had tried to break into my car and my kennel, had snatched my purse and kicked my feet out from under me in the process, I might have been fooled into thinking he was a pleasant man. Even nice. I was having almost as much of a hard time reconciling his demeanor with his behavior as I was trying to believe that this well-dressed, well-spoken man was the same bumbling tourist I’d met only two days ago.

I could hear Cisco barking anxiously, and I knew if I didn’t return soon he would break right through the zippered mesh door of the crate. It wasn’t as though he’d never done it before. I glanced uneasily over my shoulder, back toward my booth. “I have to get back.”

He walked with me the few dozen steps back toward the colorful Humane Society booth. Cameo trotted between us happily, her head up tilted to keep her eyes on Sellers, her golden retriever smile lighting up her whole face. I said, “Cameo seems to like you.”

He flashed a grin down at Cameo. “Yeah, she’s my bud. I’ve had her since she was eight weeks old. After the divorce, I insisted on visitation rights. Of course …” And the grin faded. “Once April married Madison, that wasn’t so easy anymore.”

I remembered Tony Madison saying when Jolene interviewed him in the hospital, “None of this would have happened except for that damn dog.” I’d thought he meant that if April hadn’t gone out searching for a lost dog she never would have fallen. But now the police had evidence that she hadn’t fallen, at least by accident. Was it possible that what had begun as a custody dispute over a dog had ended in murder?

I drew Cameo closer to me as we reached the booth. Cisco was standing in his crate, nose pressed to the mesh door, tail wagging madly. I moved behind the table, folding another loop in the leash to keep Cameo close, and said boldly, “I guess that explains how you were able to plant the transmitter in her collar.”

To my surprise, he didn’t deny it. “Madison was trying to convince April to move to California. That’s what this trip was about, or at least that’s what he claimed.” His brows drew together in a way that seemed fierce to me, but it might have simply been in an effort to hide his grief. “I was afraid he was planning something like this, and it turns out I was right. I couldn’t let her go off alone with him, so I put the transmitter in Cameo’s collar to keep up with them.”

I thought that anyone who would use an electronic bug to spy on his ex-wife and her new husband—not to mention tracking them across the country—was a little sick, but sometimes I actually do think before I speak, so I said nothing. Besides, at that moment a little boy dragged his parents over to the booth, eagerly pointing at Cameo, and demanded, “Does your dog bite?”

“All dogs bite,” I told him, and tried to soften my words with a smile. I’m not sure how well I did, since most of my attention was still on the man next to me. “What you want to do is make sure they don’t bite you.”