The Old Witcheroo (17 page)

“Contacts?” Arkady suggested. “I use them all the time when I am spying.”

I thought about that for a minute then shook my head, grabbing my phone. “No. Look at this picture I took of the actual photo. She looks a great deal like Sophia, but she isn’t her. I’d bet a limb on it.”

“Hush, Dove,” Win chastised. “With the luck you’re having these days, you can’t afford to put that out in the universe.”

Laughing, I had to agree. “Okay, so let’s forget Sophia for a minute and take a look at Eleanor Brown and her locker-filled lust for Dana.”

“It’s quite obvious she has a challenge of some kind, Stevie. It was quite kind of you to ask Detective Moore to take it easy on her.”

That made me sad. Eleanor was suffering, maybe more than anyone had cared to notice. “You’re right. Something’s going on with her. She was very upset I’d seen what was in her locker, as you can tell from the piece of my cheek I’m currently missing. OCD maybe?”

“Or something far worse,” Win added, his tone sympathetic.

“Do you think she’s capable of murder, though? I mean, she’s pretty meek, and Dana had no idea she was crushing on him, which means her obsession hasn’t become intrusive. But I wonder if it’s impeded her work, her life in some way. I need to talk to her aunt, if she’d be open to talking to me, that is.”

“I’ll add that to our list of things to do—for
tomorrow
,” Bel offered. “Tonight you get your beauty z’s, Boss. You look pretty rough around the edges.”

I think the lack of sleep and the general knocking about I’d taken today was getting to me. Bel and Win were right. I needed to sleep if I hoped to be on the ball tomorrow, but I checked my phone with a sigh. “Still no word from Luis on Dana.”

“I’m betting that interrogation’s going to go on for quite some time, Dove. I also have to doubt Dana will get bail. This is a murder and they have Officer Nelson’s gun. Clear evidence linking him to Sophia’s murder. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it doesn’t look good at this point.”

“I know. I swear, I know, but it doesn’t mean I can’t hope Luis is savvy enough to get him bail, right? I mean, he has no priors. This is Officer Nelson we’re talking about. I’d bet he was hall monitor in school. Maybe they’ll cut him a break? Give him an ankle bracelet?”

“And here in the real world, where every crime isn’t solved with a cute little old lady from Maine, I’d guess not,” Bel said, rubbing his head against my hand. “I know it sucks Twinkies, Boss, but that’s the reality. We just have to work harder—tomorrow. Did I mention
tomorrow
?”

Whiskey trotted in from the hallway, where he’d taken to guarding the door on the entryway rug as of late, and pawed my leg. “Okay, big guy, time to call this a wrap. I’m going to take Whiskey out for a potty and then it’s lights out, boys.”

“I can get him, Boss,” Bel said.

“No, it’s okay. I need to clear my head and think about this connection between Sophia and Gino. It exists. I know it does. The fresh air will help.”

Turning, I half hobbled, half walked toward the front door. Gosh, my knees felt like someone had run a hand grater over them. They weren’t just bruised from the fall I’d taken in the diner, they were scraped, too.

Reaching down, I rubbed my palm over Whiskey’s big head and pointed at the door as I opened it. “Potty time, bud.”

He bounded outside and down the porch stairs with a harrumph, making his way around the side of the house, his white and mahogany fur rippling in the wind as he headed to his favorite spot to do his business.

Sighing, I looked around at all we’d accomplished in the few months Win and I had been together. The beautifully restored house, the amazing gardens Chester had helped me create, the twinkling Malibu lights dotting our lawn.

I sure loved it here. Which only reminded me of Fakebottom and his wish to yank the rug right out from under me.

Not gonna happen. I felt as protective of this house as I did my new life, and no one was going to take everything from me again.

Rounding the corner of the house, I peered into the darkness toward the line of hedges at the very end of the property, Whiskey’s favorite place to make some magic, but I didn’t see him.

Of course, who could see over a nose the size of mine?

“Whiskey!” I called out, whistling. “C’mon, buddy! It’s night-night time. Mommy needs some sleep!” Boy, did I need some sleep. I needed to be fresh and clear-headed for Dana’s sake.

Squinting, I saw Whiskey’s butt, the rest of him buried deep in one of the holly bushes. He was probably digging for something he shouldn’t be. Like a mouse or a snake or any number of things he’d brought to me in the recent past.

“Aw, c’mon, dude! No more mice. I mean, they’re cute and all, but do we really need another pet? You fill me up, buddy. You had me at hello. You’re plenty enough pet for me. Leave the nice rodent alone and let’s go to bed!”

I whistled once more and stopped before I heard a rustle of the hedges—and the sound of gunfire. Like gunfire that was really close by.

My head snapped up on my neck just as the sound registered in my brain, and then Whiskey was running for me, his big body eating up the distance between us as though his life depended on it.

Everything happened in slow motion then. There was another gunshot, Whiskey barreled toward me, his jowls flapping in the air he was getting, and then he was knocking me down to the ground and covering me with his big body.

My arms went around him instantly, tucking and rolling the way Win had taught me to until we were under a big rhododendron that sat in front of the wraparound porch. Running my hands over Whiskey’s back, that was when I felt something warm and sticky.

Whiskey cried out with a soft whimper and my heart sank to my toes. “Whiskey! Oh, goddess, buddy! Are you okay?”

He inhaled and released a long groan before he slumped against me, lifeless.

“
W
hiskey!” I sobbed his name into his fur, digging myself out from under him to grab his collar so I could pull him from beneath the shrubs.

He was heavy, so heavy, and my palms were sweating, making it that much harder to pull. “Win! Tell Bel to call the vet! We need him now!”

Next, I was vaguely aware of sirens blaring, the screech of them closing in on my driveway as I began CPR, praying I was remembering how to perform it correctly.

“Stevie!” Sandwich called from behind.

“Count, Sandwich!” I ordered, tears falling down my face. “Count compressions for me!”

As Sandwich finished counting off, I held Whiskey’s mouth closed and blew into his nose.

But then Sandwich’s hand was on my shoulder, pulling me away. “Stevie! Stop. Stop, please. Let him be.”

I raised my eyes to find his image, blurry and erratic from my tears, and I roared, “I said count, Sandwich! Damn you,
cooount
!”

But then Win was there, counting, soothing, reassuring me. “One, two, three…” he whispered until Whiskey stirred. His heartbeat was weak, and it was slow, but he’d stirred.

Our local vet, Dr. Northrup, arrived seconds later. Kneeling his lanky body down beside Whiskey, he asked me to step aside. “Let me see, Stevie. You go talk to the police. I promise I’ll take good care of him.”

Sandwich helped me from the ground, his wide hand wrapping around my upper arm until I was upright and we were eye to eye. “What happened?”

“Someone shot my dog, that’s what happened!” I screamed, standing on my tiptoes, as though sticking my face in his would make my point clearer. “I’m telling you, Sandwich, if—no, not if—
when
I find the son of a sac scratcher who shot my dog, I’m going to peel his skin off! Do you hear me?
He shot my dog!
”

I wasn’t just upset, I was fighting, spitting infuriated. I wanted this person to die. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to do the hurting. I wanted to watch him squirm, crawl, beg for his life from beneath the heel of my work boot.

“Dove. I beg of you, listen to Sardine. Breathe, Stephania. Breathe and relay the story to him. Remember every detail,” Win soothed in my ear.

And Sandwich reiterated, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Okay, I need you to catch your breath, Stevie. Please. For Whiskey’s sake. Now, what did you see? Did you even see anything?”

I inhaled once, twice, three times, blowing each breath out with a slow exhale as flashlights skimmed the perimeter of my yard and over the cliffs. Then I pointed to the hedges lining the left end of the lawn.

“Whiskey was over there. Sometimes he likes to dig. Okay,
always
he likes to dig. I was taking him out for our last potty of the night and caught him in the hedges right over there. As I approached, I heard a gunshot and Whiskey came bounding for me. Then there was another gunshot, and it—” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from turning into a puddle of wide-eyed hysteria. “It hit him just as he knocked me down. I think he was trying to protect me from a stranger,” I choked out as a fresh batch of tears began sliding down my cheeks, stinging the cut from Eleanor’s fit of rage.

Sandwich scribbled on his pad. “Did you see anyone at all?”

As the weight of Whiskey’s injury began to seep into my bones, I had to grab Sandwich’s arm to hold me up. “No. Nothing. Why would someone try to shoot my dog, Sandwich? There isn’t a soul Whiskey doesn’t like, and for that matter, not a soul dislikes
him
. Who would do this?”

Sandwich stopped writing, his face a mask of confusion in the flash of the sirens. “Don’t know, Stevie. You think maybe they meant to hit you?”

My head popped up. Me? I’d never even considered that. I repeated my thought. “Me? Why would someone want to shoot
me
?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Detective Moore interjected, strolling toward me, hands in the pockets of his jeans, smug expression on point. “Have you been sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong?”

I looked at him aghast, wiping the tears from my face with angry hands. “Did you, an officer of the law, just say that to me, Sipowicz? I’m not sure I like your tone! How dare you imply that my snooping deserves someone taking potshots at me, you egotistical, stereotypical, TV detective rip-off!”

Detective Montgomery came up behind his partner and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Even I gotta admit that was a low-blow, buddy. Lay off her and let’s go see if we can collect some evidence.”

Huh. Detective Montgomery wasn’t just pretending to be a decent guy, he really did have a heart. Stranger things and all, right? But I wasn’t done giving everyone hell.

“Thaaat’s right, go do your job so I don’t have to!” I shouted, chasing after him.

But Sandwich caught up with me and grabbed me at the waist. “Stevie, knock it the heck off, for crud’s sake! Stop poking!”

“Poking?
Poking
? Are you insane? He just all but inferred I deserved to be shot at! My dog’s down for the count because I was possibly the target and he has the utter gall to say it’s because I snoop? Oh, I should deflate all those ripply muscles of his one by one!” I bellowed, hoping Detective Moore heard me as I tried to squirm out of Sandwich’s iron grip. “And put me down!”

He squeezed me tighter against his belly. “Nope. Not until you promise to knock it off. And he didn’t mean it the way you took it, Stevie. He just means you’ve been shot at, chased down by a killer or two. That someone would shoot at you isn’t exactly surprising. It’s not like you to be so sensitive. What gives?”

I inhaled a shuddering breath. “I guess this is just close to home for me because it’s Dana and all my buttons are pressed. I’m sorry. You’re right.” And he was. I was really going overboard with the sensitivity.

“Good. Now calm down.
Please
.”

“And by the way, here’s something to chew on there, Sandwich—if the person who just shot at me was
really
shooting at me because I’ve been snooping, which, I’ll add, I’ve hardly done—outwardly—then how can Dana be the person who killed Sophia? Answer me that?”

“I don’t know, and I’ll certainly pass that thought on to my superiors. But Whiskey needs you right now. Go be with him.”

Whiskey,
my heart cried.

I instantly went limp. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll hurl insults and pin-pop Sipowicz’s ego later. Please, just let me go see my dog.”

He let me go with gentle hands. “I’m sorry about the big guy. I like him, too.”

But I couldn’t absorb anything other than the sight of Whiskey, on the ground, Dr. Northrup kneeling next to him and barking an order to one of the officers to help put him in the doctor’s truck.

As I watched Dr. Northrup and Officer Gorton pick Whiskey up, his heavy body still limp, his big paws swaying lifelessly, Dr. Northrup called out, “Follow me to the clinic, Stevie!”

Forgetting everything but Whiskey, I ran to the house for my purse to get my keys, so scattered, I couldn’t remember where I’d left them.

“Kitchen counter, Dove!”

Thank goddess for Win, and for Belfry, who was already pushing his way into the opening of my handbag and settling down. “No way I’m letting my buddy go through this alone,” he sniffled. “And if I get my hands on whoever did this, I’m gonna crack some heads open!”

But I didn’t have time to address anything but my need to get in the car and get to Whiskey.

I’m not even sure I remember driving to the clinic nestled on the outskirts of town, with its neatly trimmed hedges and landscaped lawn and the Puget as its backdrop. Dr. Northrup and his wife lived just behind the clinic in a small cottage, so they’d always be close to their overnight patients.

I do remember screeching to a halt and flying from the car to the doors of the clinic, my heart hammering so loudly, I thought I’d have to have it removed for disturbing the peace.

Dr. Northrup’s wife, Frieda, greeted me, her kind, soft features warm and inviting as she held out her hand and I grabbed it, clinging to her cool fingers. “Harvey just took Whiskey back to surgery, honey. Now, don’t you worry about a thing. Come on back and we’ll sit and wait together, yes?”

That was when the bottom fell out for me and I began to sob. I couldn’t remember life before Whiskey, and I refused to think of it without him. But Frieda put her slender arms around me and let me cry it out as she walked me to a back room with soft lighting and a cushy, plaid loveseat.