Gun Shy (16 page)

Suddenly I didn’t feel like dancing anymore.

“Come on,” I told Sandy. “I’ll buy you a Coke.”

We made our way back to the blue tent amidst grinning applause, Cisco bounding happily around me, and Ringo, as attentive as ever, glued to Sandy’s side.

“I think Cisco missed his calling,” Sonny said as we approached. “He should have been on Broadway.”

I introduced her to Sandy, and Sonny said, “You were marvelous. I can’t tell you when I’ve been so moved. Did it take you long to learn?”

They chatted while I fished some soft drinks out of the cooler underneath the table. I handed one to Sandy and another to Sonny.

Sonny was asking, “Are you going to be in the area long?”

“I’m heading out to do some hiking tomorrow,” Sandy said. She perched on the edge of the table and popped the top of her soft drink. “Ringo and I like to spend a week on the trail every autumn.”

“Oh, yeah?” I sat beside her. “What part do you hike?”

“We generally get on the Lovitt-Hugh Trail at Beacham Falls and follow it until it intersects the Appalachian at Devil’s Knob. Then we take the Appalachian Trail back down to High Point station.”

“Sounds great.” I sighed, fleetingly jealous. A week on the trail in the crisp yellow autumn, with nothing but clear mountain air and breathtaking mountain views everywhere I looked, and no one but my dog for company. But then I remembered that no matter how frantic my life seemed now and then, I had all of this beauty whenever I wanted it, while she only got to visit once a year.

“Are you staying in town tonight?” Sonny asked.

“I haven’t decided yet,” replied Sandy, swinging her crossed ankles. “I passed a hotel that takes dogs on the way into town, or we may get a campsite.”

“I understand Cisco has a new career,” said Maude from behind us. She had Hero on a lead beside her. “I’m sorry to have missed the performance, but I thought this fellow needed a little exercise.”

She extended her hand to Sandy. “You, my dear, were exquisite. Gorgeous attention on that dog. I’m Maude Braselton, and it is a pleasure.”

Sandy beamed as she hopped down from the table. “Thank you. Everyone has been so kind. And I’ve had a great time with Raine and Cisco.”

Suddenly Hero barked. We all looked at him, startled, but were even more surprised to see his tail wagging madly, his eyes alert and his mouth open in a panting smile.

Sandy exclaimed, “Well, hello! And who is this handsome fellow?”

“His name is Hero,” I said, “and he certainly seems to like you.”

She knelt and began stroking Hero’s head and ears. He practically melted at her touch. I hadn’t seen him so animated since I’d taken him from the cabin a week ago.

“Actually,” I corrected myself, “his real name is Nero. We’re just fostering him until someone can come and get him. He’s a service dog,” I explained, “whose owner was killed. He has to go back to the agency that provided him.”

Her hands had stopped stroking Hero, and she looked up at me with a flicker of shock in her eyes. “Killed?” she repeated.

I nodded. “Murdered, in one of the cabins on the lake last week. The poor dog was trapped inside for days before anyone realized what had happened.”

“How . . . awful.” She sounded as horrified as I felt even now, when I told the story. She stood slowly, staring at Hero. He gazed up at her, tail wagging, eyes bright, and whined.

“You might have heard about it on the radio,” I added. “Her name was Mickey White.”

She kept staring at Hero. “No,” she said. “I don’t . . . I didn’t hear. I have to go,” she said abruptly, and her smile seemed forced and strained. “It was nice meeting you. All of you.” A vague glance that met no one’s eyes. “Ringo, with me.”

Ringo took up perfect heel position beside her and the two of them left without another word.

Sonny, Maude and I looked at each other in confusion, but no one said anything. No one, that is, except Hero, who turned in the direction Sandy had gone, and barked.

“I tell you,” Sonny said, stroking Hero’s head as it rested on her knee, “she reminded him of something. Happier times.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said, “but he certainly seems happier now. I think he likes you.” Of course, all animals liked Sonny. Whether she could actually talk to them or not, she did hold an undeniable charm over almost all living things.

“I like him too,” Sonny said, smiling down at the Lab as she massaged his ears. “He’s such a serious fellow, though. I wish I could make him laugh.”

“Dogs don’t laugh.”

“Of course they do. Cisco was laughing the whole time he was dancing with you.”

“Oh, great. Even my
dog
was laughing at me.”

“Dogs laugh when they’re having fun, just like we do. This guy needs to have more fun. Even Mystery thinks so.”

“Border collies think everyone needs to have more fun.”

“That girl, Sandy, reminded him of when he used to have fun,” Sonny said thoughtfully, gazing down at Hero. “Times when he was with his mistress. Times when he was working. That’s why he was so excited to see her.”

The purple shadows were growing long and the vendors were packing up. Maude was loading the car and exercising the dogs before putting them inside. Sonny and I counted the receipts from the Pet Fair while Dolly bustled around giving orders to everyone who didn’t have sense enough to look busy. Buck had gotten a friend to help him pack up the agility equipment and take it back to my house. Tangled bunting and overflowing trash cans were the last forlorn remnants of a perfect golden day.

I had asked Buck, as a way of thanking him for his help and in a rather pathetic attempt to reestablish the norm, if he wanted to have dinner. He had replied, as pleasant as ever, that he’d already promised Wyn they’d go for barbecue. They often did that after working a shift, and they often invited me. I waited, but no invitation came.

Wyn would have brought it up if she had been standing there. I got the feeling that Buck was glad she was not. I tried not to be depressed.

“Dogs don’t have much of a long-term memory,” I reminded Sonny.

“You just saw a dog perform a ballet to Vivaldi,” Sonny replied, deadpan. “Do you want to rethink that statement?”

I shrugged. “Well, I admit, he did perk up when he saw her.”

“I think he recognized her.”

I looked at her, thoughtful. “It’s possible,” I admitted.

“Dolly said Sandy and Ringo go all over the Carolinas performing. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to think Mickey and Hero might have seen her at some event or another.”

“And that would have had happy memories for him.”

I said with a sigh, “Too bad they didn’t last.” As soon as Sandy had disappeared from sight, the Lab had returned to his former despondent mood. He hadn’t cheered up until Sonny had called him over to sit with her and Mystery while she helped me with the receipts.

“He’s just so lost,” Sonny said. “He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be now. And he feels responsible. He says if he had been a better dog, his woman would still be with him, and he’d still be helping her.”

I wished she wouldn’t say things like that. Sometimes they made too much sense not to be true.

She looked at me and seemed to hesitate. “There’s something else,” she said. “I wasn’t going to mention it, because it doesn’t really add up. An animal that traumatized, that confused . . . you can’t expect him to understand anything that’s happened. But today I got the oddest impression from him. I ignored it at first, but he seemed certain, almost urgent.” Her tone was apologetic, but her eyes held mine with the conviction of what she relayed. “He seems to think,” she said, “he
insists
that it was a snake that killed his mistress.”

I said, “It was a gun that killed his mistress.”

“Or a snake with a gun.”

“I don’t think dogs are metaphorical.”

“You don’t think dogs can talk to people,” she pointed out, “or that I can talk to them.” Then she shrugged. “Of course, maybe I’m misunderstanding.”

“Maybe,” I agreed, and in a way I was glad to hear something this nonsensical coming from one of her purported communications with the animals. It was a lot easier to believe she did
not
know what she was talking about at times like these.

“It’s just that I keep getting the same picture,” she said, “and I know it’s coming from him.” She unfolded a piece of paper that was stuck in among the dollar bills in the donation jar and glanced at it. “It’s the same . . . Oh, my goodness.”

I looked up from my work with the calculator. She was staring at the paper. “What?”

She said in the same kind of stunned voice, “Dolly is going to wet her pants.”

“What? What is it?”

“This.” With an effort, she tore her eyes away from the paper and met mine. “It’s a check. From Miles Young.”

She turned it around to face me. The amount scrawled across the front in bold flowing letters was
Fifty Thousand Dollars
.

I reached my hand out for it, as though to verify the authenticity.

“Read the note in the memo,” Sonny said.

I did, and my face grew hot. It said:
Raine and Cisco— thanks for the dance.

The weather turned cold and rainy on Sunday, and the drizzle lasted through Monday. The tourists went home. The bulldozers didn’t come. The leaves blew off the trees and we all were reminded that, as festive as autumn was, winter inevitably followed.

I tried to give equal training time to Cisco and to Hero. Cisco, a retriever after all, should have taken to the “take and return” command far more quickly than he did, and I admit it was frustrating to work with him. He had no problem retrieving a stuffed toy, a ball or a knotted rope, but when it came to the telephone receiver, my purse or a pill bottle, he just didn’t see the point. On the other hand, he couldn’t wait to show me his new freestyle tricks and interpreted every “down” command as a chance to show off his rollover, and every “up” cue as an opportunity to twirl on his hind legs. In my glummest moments I actually wondered whether his brief exposure to dancing might have ruined him as a working dog.

And I admit, I was glum. I hated not hearing from Buck. I hated not being able to just pick up the phone and talk to him, or stop by his house for a beer, or meet him in town for a bite. I hated his not being there, at the periphery of my life or in the center of it, cheering me on or steering me straight. It was like having your best friend mad at you.

“I’m just so tired of breaking up with him,” I told Maude dispiritedly. Most of our boarders had gone home, and we were taking the opportunity to scrub down the kennels with suds and hot water, floor to ceiling. This was never my favorite job, but today I was glad to have something physical to do; something from which I could see immediate results for my labor. “It seems like I’ve spent most of my life either falling in love with him or breaking up with him.”

Maude, wise woman that she was, said nothing, but vigorously applied a long-handled scrub brush to a wall.

“I just don’t understand why it has to be all or nothing with him all of a sudden,” I went on, wringing out a mop in the kennel across the aisle from her. “God knows that never seemed to be his motto when we were married.” I applied the mop to the floor with particular vengeance. It made a satisfying slapping sound.

“He says he’s getting older,” I continued. “Like I’m not? But that doesn’t mean I’m getting stupider as well. I mean, how many times do you have to make the same mistake before you finally say—
Duh!
Maybe I shouldn’t do that anymore? Isn’t that the definition of crazy? To keep doing the same thing over and over again and expectdifferent results? Do you know what I think his problem is? I think—”

The sharp trilling of the telephone interrupted my tirade. Maude said, “Hold that thought, my dear. Really, I’m on tenterhooks.” She pressed the button on the cordless extension we brought into the kennel area from the office. “Dog Daze. May I help you?”

I made a face at her and turned back to my scrubbing. But in another moment she had handed the phone to me. I wiped my soapy hands on my jeans before accepting it.

“Raine Stockton.”

“Miss Stockton, this is David Kines. I’m Mickey White’s father. And also”—he seemed to rush on before I could interject with my sympathies—“the executor of her estate. I understand you’ve been keeping my daughter’s dog.”

I said, “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry for your loss. I have your card, and I was going to call you. I’ve been in touch with the service dog agency, and they tell me their contract with your daughter requires that the dog be turned over to them for placement.”

He said brusquely, “Yes, that’s what they tell me too.”

“Of course, if you wanted to adopt him as a pet, I’m sure—”

“Got no use for dogs,” he interrupted. “Don’t mean to interfere. Just trying to settle things up. If you’ve got a bill for keeping him, I want to let you know where to send it.”

I said, “There’s no charge, Mr. Kines. I’m happy to help.”

“Don’t need charity, either. My Mickey always paid her own way. I mean to abide by her wishes.”

This threw me off balance a little. “It’s not charity, Mr. Kines. It’s just what I do.”

Maude threw me a questioning look, and I shrugged an answer.

“I’m sending you a check for five hundred dollars,” he said shortly. “That ought to cover it.”

“Please, there’s no need—”

“Young lady, do you know who I am?”

I said, “Pardon me?”

He said, “I am David Andrew Kines, president and CEO of the largest textile manufacturer in the state of Tennessee. I take care of my own, do you understand that? I take care of my own.”

And with that, the connection clicked off.

I stared at Maude. “Ho-ly cow,” I said, returning the phone. “He’s sending me five hundred dollars.”