The Wedding Caper (17 page)

Hmm.

I
couldn’t really accomplish much inside the house, so I opted for the yard work.
Over the next hour I replanted what was salvageable of the flowers, set the
bushes back in place, and filled in the holes. Sasha stuck by my side all the
way. Indeed, she almost looked repentant at one point. And, by the time all was
said and done, the whole yard looked very nearly perfect. Well, unless you
counted the missing sod part. But it would grow back.

Around
one o’clock I entered the house, tidied up, and fixed myself a sandwich. I
settled down at the kitchen table, thankful for the peace and quiet. The gentle
ticking of the battery-operated clock on the wall distracted me for a moment,
but only just. After that, I lost myself in my thoughts.

As I sat
in the silent stillness of that near-darkened house, I reflected on the missing
deposit once again. The electricity had gone out at the bank on the night of
the incident. I still didn’t have an answer to the “why” question. A power
surge, presumably, but what did that mean? Had someone deliberately shut it
off, or was it simply a coincidence someone had taken advantage of? I needed to
check into that, to be sure. I reached for my now-worn notebook and scribbled
in a reminder to myself.

Then, as
I looked around the room, I thought about all of the changes brought on by my
lack of electricity. Whoever had stolen the money that infamous night had faced
those same
challenges.
No power. No lights. No
. .
.

No
cameras. No cameras in operation whatsoever. And cameras were, I knew, an
integral part of the counting of the night deposit money. I remembered Warren
telling me all about the process—how he stood at the counter with the
camera angled down at his hands as he counted, counted, counted the money from
the night deposit bags. With no cameras in operation, anything could have happened.

Clearly,
my next challenge would be to find out who had counted the remaining money on
the morning after the power returned. After all, no other deposits had turned
up missing. According to the Gazette, three other merchants had made successful
deposits in the night: Neva McMullen from the grocery store, Corey Stephens
from the local dairy, and Ginny Tompkins from the courier service. No cash in
the mix.

Once
again, I thought of Mrs. Lapp’s words, how
Janetta
had insisted upon being paid in cash. I couldn’t make any sense of it, but
surely, somewhere between the darkness and the light, that $25,000 had found a
new home. And the lack of power had clearly played a major role.

I let my
imagination run away with me for a while, racing down a variety of rabbit trails.
Each one led me to exactly the same place: frustration.

I’m not
sure when the electricity in my house came back on, exactly, but I remember
hearing the hum of the refrigerator at some point and realized the light above
the sink had returned.

Though
the day felt half wasted, I had enough on my plate to keep me busy for the rest
of it. Between now and tonight’s game, I had to edit an article for a new
client and prepare enough food for an army of teens.

First
things first.
I
signed onto the Internet with great fervor, almost like an addict stumbling off
the wagon. My stash of e-mails beckoned with the strongest intensity. Probably
should’ve skipped them and gone on to my work. But somewhere in the mix of
things, I came across Lesson Seven from www.investigativeskills.com: A GOOD
INVESTIGATOR HAS A HIGH TOLERANCE FOR STRESS.

Sure.
Easy for them to say.
Whoever wrote that particular lesson
had apparently never had a day like I happened to be having today.

I shut
the crazy thing, refusing to read it.
Perhaps another day.

Following
directly on its heels was
an e
-mail from Sheila. I
expected it to be one of those goofy forwards she liked to send, but was
surprised to find a personal note instead.

“Dear Annie,”
it read, “In praying for you this morning, the Lord laid a particular verse on
my heart and prompted me to share it with you. It comes from Psalm 18. ‘In my
distress I called to the Lord I cried to my God for help. From his temple he
heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears.’ I’m not sure what
you’re facing today, but God knows and already has a plan to see you through
it. Hope this helps. Lots of love, Sheila.”

Whoa.

For a
minute, it felt like all the wind had been knocked out of my sails. Had the God
of heaven really just interrupted my up-to-now pitiful day to speak directly to
me through my up-to-recently nutty friend? How in the world could she have
known?

Funny.
Twice this week I’d seen Sheila in action, touching people’s lives with
something directly from the Lord. Lord, I want to be like that. I want to touch
lives, make a difference. Though I never thought I’d hear myself pray these
words, I found myself asking, “Lord, make me more like Sheila.” And I meant it.
She apparently had a direct line to Him and I wanted that, too. From now on,
I’d have to take everything my best friend said far more seriously.

I started
to click the reply button, to let her know how much I appreciated her note,
when something caught my eye. There, just below her name, I discovered a little
tag-line
. It read: If at first you don’t succeed,
skydiving is not for you.

I nearly
fell out of my chair laughing.
A prophet and a comedian.
Sheila was truly the most
well-rounded
friend I’d ever
had.

Chapter Seventeen

If dogs could
raise red flags, I’d have to say Sasha raised one. She needed to visit the vet
anyway, what with her booster shots being due and all. But the bizarre
“episodes,” as I liked to call them, now had me wondering if she needed a bit
of psychiatric help as well.

Yep. My
dog was going through bona fide “spells”—hyperactivity, combined with
strange withdrawal symptoms whenever one of us would leave the house, even for
a few minutes. Over the past couple of weeks, on top of the pillow incident and
garden fiasco, she’d chewed up the legs on the coffee table and left scratch
marks on the inside of the front door. Something was definitely up. So, on the
morning after the game, off to the vet I went. Saturday or no Saturday, my
puppy needed help.

Dr.
Andrews saw us right away. He swooped my baby into his arms, and she hid her
face under his armpit.

“I don’t
have a clue,” I said with a shrug. “She’s been acting so weird.”

“Tell me
about it.”

As he
placed her on the table to begin the examination, I relayed her symptoms.
Extreme mood swings. Temperamental. Whining. Bizarre behaviors.

“Mm-hmm.”
He continued to examine her. “Any change in her eating habits?”

“Slight.
I’ve noticed she’s not eating quite as much.”

“Has she
been a little clingy?”

“Very.”

“I see.
And have you been gone from the house more than usual?”

“Well—”
I stumbled a bit across the words, thinking about my latest escapades related
to the investigation. “Maybe a little. But other people leave their dogs at
home alone for more than an hour or two and they don’t destroy the house.”

Sasha
looked up at me with imploring eyes as he took her temperature. I had to turn
my head the other way. This was as tough as taking my kids to the pediatrician,
but I would never have admitted it.

“Have you
tried crating her?”

My heart
sank right away. I couldn’t bear the thought of it, in all honesty. “She’s
never been a problem till recently,” I explained. “Seriously. No accidents on
the floor. No destructive behavior. Nothing. So we’ve never had a need to.”

“So—”
He continued on, checking her out. “She doesn’t even sleep in a crate? What is
her bedding situation?”

“Well,
I—”

“I
thought so.” Dr. Andrews paused as he looked at me. “I think some changes might
be in order. The sooner, the better.”

“Changes?
Why? What’s wrong with her?”

He
scribbled a few words into her chart before answering. “Sounds like your pup
has a classic case of S.A.D. Separation anxiety disorder.”

“Say
what?”

He went
on to explain the diagnosis. “Dogs with this problem don’t like to be alone.
And dachshunds are particularly susceptible because they’re prone to ‘shadow’
one person at a time. If that person goes away, even for a short period of
time, the dog is liable to act up. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure. I
guess so.” I swallowed hard.

“Does
Sasha follow you around the house?” When I nodded, he continued, “And how does
she react when you reach for the keys or head for the door?”

“She,
um—” I scratched her behind the ears. “She cries, but I always reach down
and play with her. Tell her I’ll be home soon, that sort of thing.”

He shook
his head. “Nope. Just exactly what you shouldn’t do. If your goodbyes and
hellos are exaggerated, she’s more prone to act up while you’re gone. Tell me
how you greet her when you come in the door.”

“Well—”

Should I
tell him that I always scoop her up in my arms and love all over her, telling
her how much I missed her when I’m away?

“Uh hum.
Never mind.” He scribbled something in her chart.

My heart
raced. “What can we do?”

“Call in
a specialist,” he suggested. “Obedience schools usually have trained experts on
staff who can come to your home to show you how to deal with this. Or—”
Here he gave me an inquisitive look. “Get another dog. That way she won’t be
alone, even if you have to leave.” He smiled, as if that settled the whole
thing.

“Heavens
to Betsy.” I tried to imagine the look on Warren’s face. “Another dog?”

Dr.
Andrews shrugged. “These are just suggestions, of course, but you’ll go on
seeing these behaviors until her situation changes.”

He called
in the technician, a perky girl named Angela. She entered the room, took one
look at Sasha and let out a couple of oohs and
aahs
.

“She’s so
pretty.” Angela reached to scratch Sasha behind the ears. “Have you thought
about showing her?”

“Showing
her? You mean, like, dog shows?” I let the idea mull around in my brain a
minute before answering. “Nah. Never really thought about it.”

“She’s a
purebred, right?”

“Well,
yes.”

Dr.
Andrews threw in his two cents’ worth. “Might be good for her. Get her out
around people and give her a sense of purpose.”

A
sense of purpose?
What is she, Miss Canine America? Next thing you know, she’ll be campaigning
for world peace.

“She looks
like a winner to me.” Angela’s face erupted in a smile.

As I
looked into Sasha’s eyes, they appeared to morph into dollar signs. “Really?”

Angela
led me out to the front office, where I reached for my debit card, praying it
wouldn’t be rejected again. I swallowed hard when she gave me the total:
$185.00. Yikes. Maybe I’d better put Sasha to work to pay the vet bills. As I
contemplated this possibility, the little monster lay curled up in my arms,
completely content.
Puppy, you clingy little thing.
What am I going to do with you?

While
waiting on the card to process, I glanced over at the corkboard on the wall.
Nearly a dozen photos of puppies and kittens greeted me. My eye gravitated
toward a photo of a male dachshund, a bit larger than Sasha. The note beneath
it read, Male dachshund, one year old, reduced price.

A
thousand questions entered my mind at once. Why in the world would anyone
reduce the price on a pedigreed dog? And why sell a one-year-old?

I looked
over the rest of the ads on the board, finding a few to be completely unrelated
to animals at all. In fact, I felt a familiar catch in my throat when my gaze
landed on the photo of a familiar sports car. That’s the car from the bank
parking lot.

“Excuse
me.” Still juggling the dog in my arms, I took the photo to Angela and pointed
at it. “Do you know who this car belongs to?”

Her
cheeks pinked over as she reached to grab the piece of paper. “Oh, I’m sorry. I
was supposed to take that down a couple of weeks back. That was Dr. Andrews’s
car. He sold it ages ago.”

My heart
rate increased immediately. “Do you have any idea who he sold it to?”

“Hmm.”
Her lips pursed as she thought it through. “Oh yes. I remember now. It was
someone who works at the bank.”

Bingo.
“Yes, but do you know who?”

Now the
spot between her eyebrows crinkled. “Oh, I do remember. It was a
woman—that new security guard from out-of-town. Nikki something or
another.”

“Nikki
Rogers?”

“Yes,
that’s right.” Angela tore up the paper and tossed it in the trash. “She came
into the office to pay him.
In cash, no less.
Now
there’s a girl with some money to spend.”

My heart
felt as if it would explode in my chest. “Do
you.
.
.do you have any idea how much?”

Angela
shrugged. “I know he was asking just under $20,000 for the car. Blue Book value
was a bit more, but the car had a lot of miles on it. I do seem to remember him
saying he got his asking price. Why?”

“Oh, no
reason.” I excused myself and backed out of the office, suddenly feeling dizzy.

Nikki
Rogers. In the crazy mix of things, I’d almost forgotten all about her. An
ocean of possibilities swam through my mind. With $25,000 cash in hand, she
would’ve had enough money to pay for both the car and the tuition for her
daughter’s school.

How
ridiculous I now felt.
How completely, utterly ridiculous.
Nikki Rogers had access. She had motive. What else did I need to
pin-point
her as the thief?

Sure,
she’d played that I’m-just-a-single-mom-caring-for-my-daughter bit to the hilt.
But her acting skills had raised my antennae from the beginning, hadn’t they?
And all of that business about Guards on Call—had I forgotten all of
that?

I
struggled with a host of thoughts and ideas as I drove home. Sasha made the
drive a bit complicated, what with insisting on sitting on my lap and all.
Mental note: Perhaps a crate wouldn’t be such a bad idea, particularly in the
car.

Then
again, the little darling enjoyed sticking her head out of the window to catch
the wind in her face. Wouldn’t want to steal that from her. And, if Nikki
Rogers turned out to be the Clark County Savings and Loan perpetrator, Sasha
would be a local hero, after all. Had she not required a trip to the vet’s
office, I would never have pieced together this latest bit of information.

Still…

I
couldn’t get a settled feeling about Nikki’s guilt. Every time I thought about
her in a negative light, my sympathies kicked in and I saw her innocent face
lit with joy as she talked about her daughter.

Oh well.
Enough of this.

I
deliberately switched my thinking to the dog, tried to figure out how to go
about telling Warren about her “condition.” How would he take that news that
his wife wasn’t the only one in the family with issues?
Only
one way to know for sure.

I found
in him the kitchen, rooting around in the refrigerator.

“Hey, baby.”
I reached to give him a peck on the cheek and he responded with a grunt.

“Bad
mood?”

“No.” He
continued his search through the fridge. “Just trying to figure out what to
make for lunch.”

And no
doubt having trouble, what with all of the leftovers from Devin’s celebration
party last night. They swallowed up most of the eye-catching space in the
refrigerator.

“Let me
take care of that for you.”

He
stepped out of the way and I took over the process of pulling out the
lunchmeats and cheeses to make our usual Saturday afternoon sandwiches. Moments
later, we settled down at the table and I started to tell him about Sasha. Note
started to. But something in Warren’s eyes led me a completely different
direction. He
looked.
. .lonely. A bit lost, even.

“Honey, are
you okay?”

He
shrugged. “I guess.” Which being interpreted meant no.

“What’s
going on?”

He bit
into his turkey sandwich and gave another little shrug. “Things just seem kind
of weird lately. You’re usually
so.
. .talkative.”

“And I
haven’t been lately?”

Another
shrug.

“I’m
sorry, Warren. I’m trying to be there for the girls and be there for my
clients. And this thing with the dog—” Nope, I wouldn’t go there. I
wouldn’t usurp my husband’s needs for that of a dachshund. “I’m just
overwhelmed.”

“I miss
you, Annie.”

Whoa.
Huge red flag, waving right in my face.

“I–I
know.”

Man, is
this ever weird. For years, I’ve been the one initiating these kinds of
conversations. Feels kind of odd for the shoe to be on the other foot.

“We
should plan a date night,” I offered. “At least one night a week. No
television. No computer. Just some one on one time—either here or in a
restaurant or something.”

He
reached to take my hand. “Okay. I think you could use the distraction.”

After
that, he dove into a story about something that had happened at work the other
day, which sent my thoughts soaring back to Nikki and the money. No, no, no.
Not going there. Focus on the man sitting in front of you. He needs you.

In that
very moment I came to realize the truth. My puppy wasn’t the only one in the
household with separation anxiety disorder.

Apparently
my husband had a pretty severe case of it, too.