Double Dog Dare (The Raine Stockton Dog Mystery Series) (18 page)

“And what was assumed to be his owner in the cabin below, dead of an apparent combination of alcohol and amphetamines
which may have been accidental, or perhaps intentional. When the investigating officers arrived they recognized the description of the breed, and of course the US identification tags.”  The smile this time was accompanied by a small tilt of his head toward me.  “You recall, mademoiselle, I assured you my officers were well aware of the importance of locating the animal.  And so they have.”

I nodded impatiently,
turning down the walkway toward the big, glass and stone structure that welcomed yachtsmen to Gustavia Harbor.  “Yes.”  And then I remembered to add,  “Thank you.”

Miles said, “Whose yacht was it?”

“The boat was one of a small fleet of excursion craft registered to Evergreen Concierge.”   

I slowed down, and Miles and I looked at each other.  It was starting to make sense. I said, “Didn’t your mom say that the concierge service was delivering dinner last night?”

 
“They cater parties, private dinners, even pick up and deliver meals from restaurants in town,” Miles replied, his thoughts tracking with mine.  “No one would even notice one of their vans on the street, or in the driveway of a villa.”

“The van,” I said.  “Melanie said it smelled like garbage.  An empty catering van might smell of old food and dirty dishes. And it wouldn’t have seats.”

“And Evergreen catered dinner on the boat last night.”

The inspector looked at us with interest.
  “An interesting theory, and one we are already investigating.  The dead man appears to be an employee of Evergreen, according to his identification.”  He consulted his notes.  “His name was Richard Chambliss.  A Canadian.”

I
stopped walking, even though the door that led to Cisco was only a few dozen steps away.   My skin prickled in the bright morning sun.  “Rick,” I said, stunned.

Miles was not as fast to catch on as I was so I explain
ed, “We met him on the beach.  He was at the house yesterday.”  And then I felt a catch in my heartbeat.  “Of course,” I breathed, placing my hand on Miles’s arm.  “Melanie told him they were going to the beach after dinner.  He would have known exactly what time their dinner was delivered.”

“He could have disabled the cameras when he was at the house,” Miles said. “That’s probably why he came.”

“He would have been waiting in the house for her while they were at the beach…”

“Evergreen has a passkey,” Miles said tightly.  “That’s how the cleaning service gets in.”

“And the guy who sets up the dog beds,” I said, almost in a whisper.

Suddenly I couldn’t wait another moment to see Cisco.  I practically ran the next few steps and pushed open the glass door to the busy, light-filled building before either of the men could do it for me.  I stood for a moment, getting my bearings—a view of the glistening blue harbor from every window, televisions on every wall tuned to news and weather, maps and signs in French and English—before spotting the circular marble desk and the crowd surrounding it.  I started toward it, but the
inspector raised a hand.  “Mademoiselle will permit me?”

I wa
ited impatiently as he went behind the desk and spoke to a young woman in a sleeveless white blouse and a pencil skirt, who glanced at us, nodded, and departed down a hallway.  I listened for the sound of barking, but it was too noisy inside the big, echoing building to hear anything.

I said to Miles, “The hotdogs.  Remember, I found a package of hotdog treats the other night when the lights went out?  I thought I had dropped them when we came back from the beach, but I’d told Rick about using microwave
-dehydrated hotdog slices to train dogs… I think he was trying to get into the house that night, and he brought the treats to distract Cisco.  That’s what he was probably feeding him last night when Melanie came in, too.”

Miles
said, “Damn it.” through tightly gritted teeth.  “You said someone pushed you.  I should have looked harder.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said.  “We both thought it was the bird Cisco was barking at.”

One of the television screens caught my eye, and I drew Miles’s attention to it.  The caption said, “Actress Returns From the Dead”, and there was Rachelle
Denison wearing a coral sundress and flawless makeup, glossy hair tied back with a white chiffon scarf whose ends floated in the sea breeze like delicate wings. She stood in the colorful tropical garden of what I assumed to be her St. Bart’s home, her loving husband by her side and Cocoa gazing up at her adoringly, clearly glad to have everything right in his world again.  I felt a little stab of sadness when I remembered Rick telling us how crazy Rachelle and  Cocoa were about each other, not because I in anyway felt sorry for Rick—or Rachelle, for that matter—but because Rick had seemed like a nice guy and a dog lover, and now he was dead.

“He certainly has changed his tune,” Miles muttered.

I realized he was referring to Alex, who drew his wife into a smiling, affectionate one-armed embrace, said something to the camera, and kissed her tenderly.  Cut to the morning news anchor while  B-roll played in the background of Rachelle dropping to her knees with open arms to greet the enthusiastic doggie kisses of her wriggling golden retriever.  It was the kind of footage designed to go viral, but what else could you expect from an actress who staged her own death to promote a movie?  These people were pros.

The inspector was on the phone as he returned to us, speaking in terse, rapid French.
He pocketed the phone and said to Miles, “We have received more information about this Richard Chambliss.  It would appear his Canadian passport is false, and he has a criminal record in the states.  We will of course ask your daughter to look at some photographs for identification purposes—”

Miles said harshly, “My daughter is not looking at crime scene photos.  That’s out of the question.”

From what I knew of Melanie she would be unfazed, and had most likely seen worse things on HBO. But fathers, especially those who are still uncertain about their parenting skills, prefer to deceive themselves about some things, and I supposed he was entitled.  I pointed out in his defense, “She already knew Rick, so a positive ID wouldn’t be much help.  And she didn’t see his face last night.”

The inspector nodded.  “This I understand.  It is procedure.  We would naturally employ only photographs that depict the victim in the bloom of health.  I imagine the American prison system could provide us with those.”

A second television screen, this one captioned in French, was playing the footage of Cocoa greeting his long lost mistress while she laughed and embraced him. Apparently her publicity manager was working overtime. I turned impatiently to the inspector to demand the whereabouts of my own dog, and then every muscle in my body sagged with relief.  There he was, huffing like a freight train at the end of his leash, dragging the rather alarmed-looking young woman in the pencil skirt behind him like a skier.  He was already pulling so hard that his feet were going crooked and the woman on the other end of the leash was in genuine danger of losing whatever precarious balance she might have in the high heels, but I couldn’t help myself.  I dropped to my knees, flung open my arms, and cried, “Cisco!”

That was all it took.  With one mighty lunge, he pulled the leash from his hapless handler’s hand and galloped toward me, tongue lolling, claws scrambling and slipping on the floor.  I knew at that speed he would knock me down if I allowed him to leap into my arms as I’d intended, so I got quickly into obedience stance, planted my feet, and called clearly, “Cisco, halt!”

He hit my knees so hard that, had not Miles been close enough to catch me, my feet would have gone  flying out from under me.  He barreled right past me and I swung around in horror to watch the  path of destruction he plowed through the crowd.  People swore in French and English, some
of them laughed, others squealed and shrank back. I didn’t bother calling him again.  My dog training instincts kicked in and I yelled from the depths of my diaphragm, “
Hey!
”.  My voice boomed across the room, and it was just enough to make his head swivel toward me.  When it did I tossed a training treat and hit him on the nose.  As he snuffled to find the treat and gobble it up, I managed to close enough distance between us to grab his leash, tossing treats all the while.

Holding the leash with both hands, I brought the reluctant golden retriever back over to the two men.  “And so, mademoiselle,” the inspector said with a smirk that was both amused and annoyed, “
a happy reunion.”

I looked at Miles with all the helplessness and despair I felt inside bubbling to my eyes.  He already knew what I was going to say.  “This is not Cisco.”

The inspector objected, “But his identification…”

I gave a short, broken
-hearted shake of my head.  “He switched the collars.  This is not my dog.”

Miles shifted his frowning gaze from me to the television on the wall.  Even though nothing was on the screen now except a commercial, I saw confusion turn to understanding in his eyes, and a half-second later
, I got it too.

The dog
, Alex Barry had said last night. 
He didn’t come home
.  Yet only moments ago the entire world had seen Rachelle Barry’s dog happily running into her arms.

Miles’s expression was grim.  “It was never Melanie they were after,” he said.  “It was Cisco.”

~*~

THIRTEEN

G
olden retrievers are almost indiscriminately affectionate dogs who, if properly socialized and trained, genuinely want to please the humans who feed and shelter them.  This is why goldens make such great service dogs and canine actors: they can easily transfer their obedience between one handler and another.  Does this make them disloyal?  Of course not.  It makes them adaptable.  Almost any golden retriever could have played the role of Rachelle Barry’s adoring pet, as long as she showered him with treats and affection.  But only one who was a dead ringer for Cocoa could have fooled his own family.

The question, of course, was why. 
And there was really only one answer.

There were still a few paparazzi lingering outside of Alex Barry’s gate when we
were buzzed through, and a couple of them snapped our picture just in case we were anyone important.  I hoped they got a good shot of Cocoa, who was barking and bouncing from window to window in the back of the car.

A security guard met us at the door and escorted us around the house via a columned marble lanai that overlooked a series of velvet green terraces leading to the beach.  On one of those terraces
,  photographer’s screens and light reflectors had been set up, and Rachelle Denison posed for more photos with her loving golden retriever. 
Get your hands off my dog, bitch!
I wanted to scream down at her, and then I wanted to run and grab Cisco and let the chips fall as they may, but Miles’s light touch on my arm reminded me of our deal.  He would not punch Alex Barry in the teeth, and I would not pull out Rachelle Denison’s hair.  At least not right away.

Besides, I had my hands full with her dog who, now that he was on familiar ground—or possibly because he smelled Cisco—showed signs of losing interest in the treats that had kept him by my side thus far, and threatened to make a break for it at the first possible opportunity.

Evidence of the press conference w
as still in view on the tiled patio as we reached it—the elaborate chrome and steel outdoor kitchen set-up with urns of coffee and a buffet of pastries and fruit platters, a few stray extension cords,  some folding chairs stacked  against a wall.  Alex, who had apparently just been notified of our arrival, came out of the house through the open glass doors, but Susan was already there.  She rushed toward Miles when she saw him, sweeping him into an embrace.

“Oh, Miles, I just heard about your boat! What an awful thing!  But I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.”

Miles received her affection without reciprocation, his face like granite.  He took her arms and stepped away, but not before I saw her eyes flicker
over his shoulder from Cocoa to the place where Rachelle was posing with the fake Cocoa, and there definitely was a shadow of confusion there—along with what very well might have been alarm.  It was quickly gone, though, as she looked up at Miles with a sympathetic smile and added, “I know how crazy you were about that boat.”

“I was,” he admitted
, his voice cold. “But I’m even crazier about my daughter.”

She managed to look confused, even slightly hurt, but once again the dart of a glance toward Cocoa, who was nibbling a treat from my fingers so aggressively that he threatened to take skin, betrayed her.

Alex came toward Miles with his hand extended.  “Miles, I just heard from the office what happened last night.  I know how upsetting this must be for you.  We need to sit down and talk.”

Miles ignored his hand. “We definitely need to talk.”

Alex rubbed his hands together nervously, then gestured toward the buffet.  “Let me get you some coffee.  It’s been a crazy couple of days for both of us.”

Miles said,  “Well, let’s see.  You’ve lost a wife and had her come back from the dead.  My boat has been blown up, my house broken into, my daughter taken—
”

“And my dog,” I put in.

“Yes,” Miles concluded, “a crazy couple of days.”

Susan
looked distressed.  “Your daughter?  But—she’s okay, isn’t she?  You got her back?”  She glanced again at Cocoa, and at me.  “I mean, you got your dog back.”

“Yes,” Miles said.  “We found them both, unharmed.”

Alex returned from the buffet with two cups of coffee, looking somewhat less agitated now.  He offered one to me and I shook my head.  When he offered a cup to Miles, he ignored him.  “I want you to know I’ve got my best men working on trying to figure out what happened to the cameras,” he said, setting the coffee on a table.  “But my advice to you is to look into hiring personal security. These are dangerous times we live in.”

The man was brazen. 
I shifted a quick glance to Miles, but I needn’t have worried. “Aren’t they just?” he agreed with a thoughtful nod.  “But save yourself some man hours, Alex.  I already know what happened to the cameras.”

Alex sank down onto the plushly cushioned wicker settee and stretched one arm across the back, looking interested and relaxed.  “Oh?”

“They were disabled,” Miles said, “by one of your employees.”

Alex sat up straight.  “Now wait just a minute.”

On the terrace below, the photo session had ended.  The photographer packed up his equipment while Rachelle chatted with him.  She wasn’t even holding Cisco’s leash.  Was she crazy?  Clearly she knew nothing about dogs.    I wanted to drop Cocoa’s leash and run to Cisco, to wrestle the other woman to the ground if I had to, and bring him to safety.  I had to grind my teeth together to keep from calling him. 
Not yet, not yet
.  Not until he was close enough for me to touch. I dug in my pocket for another treat for Cocoa.

“It’s all right,” Miles said.
  He watched Alex; I watched Susan. “The police caught the guy.”

“Thank goodness,” said
Susan.  Her fingers fluttered around a thin gold necklace she wore at her throat.  But her eyes were watching Rachelle and Cisco.

“His name was Rick Chambliss,” Miles said.  “I’m sure you remember him.  You mentioned him at lunch.”

Alex frowned.  “The dog guy?”  He seemed genuinely perplexed.  “He’s the one who broke into your house?”

“And kidnapped my child,” Miles reminded him.

“And my dog,” I said. I did not take my gaze off Susan.

“That,” said Alex, still frowning, “
is very bad news.”

“Even worse for Rick,” I said.  “He’s dead.  An apparent overdose of amphetamines and alcohol.”

“Amphetamines,” Miles repeated pointedly.  “Aren’t they sometimes used in prescription diet pills?”

“Like the ones your wife took before she went diving and drowned,” I said.  “I mean, almost drowned.  Weird coincidence.  She mixed them with alcohol too.”

“The police will probably want to talk to her about that,” Miles said.

“Good God, Miles,”
Susan said sharply, “you can’t seriously mean to imply that Rachelle had anything to do with that boy’s death!  Certainly not with what happened to your little girl!”

  But Alex just sat there, staring at Miles, until Rachelle and Cisco
started up the steps to the patio.  Then he moved his eyes slowly to Rachelle.

  I said, “I’m pretty sure Rachelle didn’t have anything to do with either one, since she has been dead for two days.”

Now Alex looked at me, sharply.  Miles spoke before he could.

“The thing I couldn’t figure out,” Miles said to Alex, “was how you did it by yourself.  There were divers all over that reef after you sounded the alarm, and plenty of witnesses.
The success of your whole plan depended on none of them finding the body.  Where would you have hidden it until you had a chance to dispose of it? You had to have help.”

Now his
gaze moved to Susan.  “You don’t dive,” he said,  “but you’re a good sailor. I taught you myself.  My guess is that you were on one of those boats that night, but instead of aiding with the search, you were hiding Rachelle’s body onboard.”

Her eyes went wide with something that was halfway between incredulity and a kind of forced amusement.  “Oh, for God’s sake
, Miles, are you serious?  In the first place, I can’t believe you would think—much less say!—that I would do something like that!  In the second place…” Her laugh was too dry and her gesture too big.  “Rachelle is very much alive!  You saw her yourself yesterday, and the whole world saw her on television this morning, and if you don’t believe me, ask her yourself!”

“I’d rather ask Alex,” said Miles, “who was just drunk enough last night to tell us the truth.  That woman is not Rachelle
Denison.”

Susan
just laughed again.  “Since when do you believe anything my brother says?  Particularly when he’s drunk!”

Alex said nothing.  He just watched Rachelle and Cisco come up the steps, and so did I. 
Come on, Cisco, come on.  Just a little farther.

But I made myself look away, and say in as conversational a tone as I could manage, “He also mentioned yesterday that you were the one who introduced Rachelle to her understudy—or body double, as they call them in the movies— and I’m guessing that’s who was at the airport the day we came in. She was wearing a white chiffon scarf to hide her face and she was in such a hurr
y to get out of there she dropped her boarding pass—to the ferry.”

“She probably flew commercial into
St. Martin,” supplied Miles, “and took the ferry over to avoid the record of a private flight into St. Bart’s.  Then, just to make sure she covered her tracks, she took a cab to the airport, where drivers are accustomed to picking up incognito guests and no one asks any questions.”

Susan
gave an amused shake of her head.  “Miles, you’re astonishing.  Who knew you had such an imagination?  If you’d used some of it while we were married, we might have lasted longer.”

“I doubt that,” replied Miles.  He sounded a little sad.  “If I had used any imagination at all, I would have known what you were a lot sooner.”

The amusement faded from her face.

I said, “She would have had to have been a pretty close look-alike to step in for Rachelle in some of those action scenes.  Directors like close-ups these days, they’re more convincing.   With hair and make-up, a really good actress could fool just about anyone.   Except her dog.”

“Now I see where this is coming from.”  Susan’s cool smile did not touch her eyes as she looked at Miles.  “Congratulations, darling, you finally found someone as impressionable as you are.”

Alex turned his head slowly to look at
Susan.  “My God,” he said quietly.  I couldn’t tell whether the expression in his tone was contempt or admiration.  “You did this?  All of it?”

Susan
shot him an annoyed look.  “Shut up, Alex.  They’re trying to trap you into saying something, God knows why.  The whole thing is some absurd little drama the two of them have concocted and they’re so pathetic they don’t realize it doesn’t even make sense.  Even if it were possible to kill a person and bring someone else in to take her place, why
would
you, for heaven’s sake?  And to think you could get away with impersonating someone as famous as Rachelle Denison?  It’s ridiculous.”

“But that
’s what made it easy,” I said.  “Rachelle wasn’t that famous.  Not like a major movie star with hundreds of handlers, advisors and hangers-on, not to mention fans, that you’d have to fool.  She had just been in the business a few years, didn’t have that many friends, no close relatives. Her show had been canceled for almost a year, so she didn’t go to work every day. Her agent, her manager, her lawyer—those were the only people you really had to worry about fooling.  And you didn’t even have to fool them for very long—just until today, when Rachelle turned thirty and came into full control of her trust.  The only problem was that everyone—and I mean
everyone
—knew how crazy she was about Cocoa, and how she was the only one who could control him.  The first time Cocoa ran past her without recognizing her, or ignored her command, the gig would be up.  So your first thought was to get rid of Cocoa.  But you forgot to tell Rachelle—the fake Rachelle—you had done that, so when I asked her about Cocoa yesterday she told everyone in the room how happy Cocoa had been to see her when she got home.  Big mistake, since she’d just blown your excuse for why Cocoa couldn’t be in all the photos with her, like he always was. ”