Dog Days Read online

  “And that has what to do with Grayson’s death?”

  “I have a half-baked theory about that.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Maybe it’s too far out there, but the kicker for me was when we discovered that several pieces from Lavender’s store were placed—prominently displayed—in my living room. Pieces that I did not buy, and the majority of which were reported as missing. That could be an off the wall connection to Tom. The other part has to do with Sybil.”

  “Sybil? Ah, the sister from the thwarted kidnapping of young Blake Russell. How was she involved, exactly?”

  “The first time we got to talk to her was after she’d escaped her kidnapper, and was in the hospital, recovering from a mild case of hypothermia. She said the man told her she got nabbed so Rick and I would be distracted, and Maggie would be left alone and accessible.”

  I wrinkled my nose. That sounded worse every time I heard it. “Not those exact words, but, yeah, that’s a paraphrase of what Sybil said.”

  “Okay. So you think that Grayson’s death might be a diversion so this imbecile can try to grab you?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows. I do think it backfired. Y’all are much more alert, and I’m never left by myself. That would have thwarted his end game, don’t you think?”

  “And the missing pieces from the shop?”

  “The man can get into places that are locked,” I repeated. “Maybe Tom surprised him while he was pilfering the rest of the pieces that were left here.”

  “Okay. So he can pick locks. I can, too.”

  “What would be your best guess on the odds that the stalker left those items at my house?”

  “Uh, ninety-five percent?”

  “A little low for me, but okay. How would you assume he got them?”

  “Theft.”

  “From?”

  Paul nodded. “Lavender’s store. I get that. But—” He paused. “Again, your stalker picks locks. Big deal, so can a lot of people.”

  “Close.” Paul was good at puzzling things out too (probably why he was such a good cop), and was getting to the sticky part. “Remember, please, that this, all of it, is conjecture on my part?”

  “Got it.”

  I interlocked my fingers; the knuckles went white. “My thoughts merged over the lock-picking thing. The locks on Hidden Treasures, and the doors at my house, were inspected thoroughly by Rick and Declan. Other than the broken key at the store—which happened after the pieces were stolen—neither place had damage or gouges in the frame that would indicate a break-in, or a picked lock. Ergo….”

  “Ergo, someone had a duplicate key.”

  Almost. “Much, much, closer.”

  Paul looked at Wyatt. “I feel like I should get a lollypop as a reward.”

  Wyatt laughed.

  I didn’t.

  “I got it.” Paul’s hand smacked the table. “Brilliant!”

  “Me, too.” Wyatt scratched his head. “I think.”

  My pen bounced on the steno. “Viable?”

  Paul’s eyebrows came together. “It is to me, but we should make sure we’re all on the same sidewalk, and going in the same direction.”

  “I like how he thinks.”

  “Definitely. So, Maggie, finish out your theory.”

  “This stalker, Lavender’s thief, and Tom’s killer, is a locksmith.”

  Paul frowned. “Ah, not quite what I had in my head, but yeah, I can see that. It’d be the perfect cover. You get your locks changed after a break-in, but your house still gets hit. How? The locksmith is keeping a duplicate?”

  “Or using a master key.” The pen still bounced. “Yet, the question left hanging—though we did touch on it a bit ago—is, why kill Tom?”

  “Your distraction hypothesis is valid.” Paul rubbed his hands together. “Actually, mighty arousing.”

  As a point of argument I threw out, “Remember Declan said Lavender found an appointment with a locksmith marked on Tom’s desk calendar, set for 6 pm the night Tom was killed.”

  “But is this guy the killer?” Wyatt. The voice of reason? “He could have kept the appointment, changed out the locks, and then left. Then the killer arrived, and BAM.”

  “There was the broken key in the backdoor lock that, for all intents and purposes, looks new.”

  “Right. And that was verified by the lock shop owner when he installed a new lock. It has been confirmed that the original appointment was not only kept, but completed.”

  “Also, we now have Declan’s statement that the button Wyatt found at Hidden Treasures is identical to the buttons on the shirt of Mr. Sutton, who changed out Lavender’s locks on Wednesday. Becca and Court also identified it as being the same brand.”

  “Could it be that easy?” Paul leaned forward. “All these months we’ve … you’ve, been running around like chickens with, ah, no navigational skills, and its right there?”

  “We don’t have positive proof that he’s a locksmith. And we don’t know if works for Sutton’s outfit. We have Sutton’s list of employee’s, but until he’s positively identified, we don’t know if he’s one of the names on that list.

  “Declan did find out from Mr. Sutton, which is kind of a smack on the head, that a locksmith is required by law to be fingerprinted.”

  “Would he be that big an idiot?”

  “Has been so far.”

  “He has to know we can track him.” Paul shook his head. “The lab said they got prints off what we sent, didn’t they? Or are we still waiting for confirmation?”

  “Yes, they got prints. Argh! But, still waiting on whether they’re all from the same person, and if they are a match to all the other evidence we sent. Believe me when I say, do not piss off the lab techs, it only makes them work slower.”

  “We’re having Lavender’s missing pieces tested, too. Right?”

  “Yes. They’ve been added to the heap at the lab in Waynesburg.”

  The ice in Paul’s tea had melted; he swigged the remainder in one gulp. “They’ve had some of it since January or February? What’s taking so long?”

  I blew imaginary bangs out of my face. “All I keep hearing is that there’s a backlog.”

  “If the evidence from one of our hot cases in the city took this long, heads would roll.”

  “I can imagine. But this is a small town attached to a small county, and, yeah, I’m making excuses for them.” Wyatt sighed. “Guess I’ll try going a little higher up the food chain.”

  I scrunched my mouth, wondering why he’d waited so long. But to be fair, I’d been the one, not long ago, who had given my own version of the same excuse. For most of those several months past, Wyatt had been physically incapacitated, and therefore not able to gripe and complain, or exert his authority with the county.

  Chapter 35

  … TUESDAY…

  * * *

  … September 15th…

  * * *

  WYATT WAS MAKING his way up the stone steps to the front door of the temporary police station. I grabbed the box of cookies I’d made the night before from the back seat, shut the door of the Cherokee with my right hip, and glanced up.

  And saw him…

  … standing beside a dark gray Ford Crew Cab. Though he wore sunglasses, the angle of his head indicated that he was watching Wyatt disappear inside the building. I had a flash of recognition, in a vague distorted foggy sort of way that faded just as quickly.

  Tall, lean, shaggy beard, ball cap, and the sunglasses.

  Then he was charging at me.

  For one frozen second, I stared—yeah, the proverbial deer-in-the-headlights. I dropped the box and ran for the steps and safety.

  I could hear pounding footsteps getting closer. My heart was thudding, and I was getting a stitch in my side.

  Then I heard something else, something wonderful. A vehicle was pulling into the lot. One of the crew was here.

  Hallelujah!

  But I didn’t stop running.

  The footsteps did, m
ust have.

  A door slammed and a truck started up.

  Another vehicle door closed.

  “Maggie!”

  Paul.

  Breathless, side throbbing, I halted at the base of the steps and turned.

  The ex-NYC cop jogged up to me as the 4X4 screamed out of the parking lot.

  “Who was that? Are you all right? You look a little … scary.”

  Shaking my head, hand on my chest, close to tears by this time. “Pretty sure … that was … my stalker.”

  His head swiveled—to track the speeding truck until it careened around the corner—then swung back to me.

  I bent in half, trying to catch my breath and ease the persistent stitch. “#@%#@## &*%@# MORON! I hate this!”

  The occasion is rare, indeed, that obscenities of that nature spew out of my mouth. Just couldn’t hold it in this time.

  Unfazed by my blue vocabulary, Paul grabbed hold of my arm and tugged. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

  I straightened slowly so as not to move too fast and pass out, and tried to keep pace with the man’s long legs. Double time up the steps and into the building. And now I was sweaty and sticky, too.

  Wyatt looked over from talking to Court, and was instantly at my side. “What happened?”

  He was asking Paul, not me.

  “Her stalker was here.”

  “What?”

  I felt the bite of Wyatt’s fingers in my upper arm and winced.

  “Dude.” Paul raised his eyebrows. “Ease up.”

  “Sorry.” Wyatt released my arm, and ran the same hand through his hair. “I was just out— We just got here.”

  “He was waiting. Watched you come in, then started running at me. If Paul hadn’t shown up when he did, the guy would have caught me.”

  With a short laugh, Paul shook his head. “No way. He couldn’t have caught you. You were running way faster than he was. You’d have made it inside before he got anywhere close.”

  “Sounded like he was right behind me.”

  “Panic will do that.”

  “Huh. Well, I guess all those years of running track finally paid off.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, that must be it.”

  From his corner, Rick snorted.

  I glared in that direction.

  “Paul? Maggie? My office.”

  All macho cop now, Wyatt led the way. Before any of us were seated, he said, “First and foremost,” he looked directly at me, “did I hurt you?”

  “No. I may have a bruise, but no.”

  “I’m really sorry.” He pulled out our ancient cassette recorder from one of his drawers, and plunked in a fresh tape.

  “I understand. Don’t worry about it.”

  A nod, and he set the thing in the middle of his desk. “Second. Please relate what you remember. Then, Paul, your observations. Please.”

  “Sure.”

  “All right, Maggie.” He pushed record. “Please begin.”

  I related everything I could think of, including a description of the man. My brain still wouldn’t reveal a name.

  “You’re sure you didn’t know him?”

  “No, I’m not sure. I can’t tell you who he is, either.”

  My normally mild-mannered man rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  Paul started his report. “As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw Maggie racing across the lot. Then I saw why. I put my car in park and opened the door. Her pursuer stopped chasing her, and started backpedaling. He was puffing pretty good, and looked about to drop. But when I got out and started around the front bumper, he took off back to his truck. Hightailed it—tires burning rubber—out and around the corner.

  “I agree a hundred percent with Maggie. If I hadn’t come along, he’d have pursued her until he caught her, or she made it inside.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Same as her. Tall and lean. Scruffy light brown beard, probably hair, too, but it was covered up by a ball cap. Not as in shape as he looks. Sunglasses were for disguise, more than the sun. My opinion. He wants her to acknowledge who he is, but wants to make it as hard as possible. Sounds counterproductive, if you ask me, but that’s how I see it.”

  “All right.” Wyatt stopped the tape. “That’s your take?” Paul nodded. “Maggie, any comments? Impressions?”

  “Only the obvious ones. He waited until you were inside before he made a move. I can’t say that he would have snatched me, though. I think he was upping his scare tactics. I’m just glad I didn’t have to find out for certain which one was right.”

  Paul shifted in his chair. “Are you all right?”

  “Physically, yeah. I’m good. Heartrate’s still on the high side, though. Mentally, I don’t think it’s real, yet. If it hadn’t been for you—”

  “Happy I arrived when I did. I just wish I’d paid more attention to the perp. Never even thought about trying to get a plate number. But then, the truck wasn’t really close enough for me to read it. Still, there are always, what ifs and if onlys.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “Cold. Wow.”

  “Yeah. My whole body’s cold.”

  He looked at Wyatt. “Shock?”

  “Good possibility.”

  They both got up.

  “What?”

  “Come on. We need to get you to the hospital.”

  “What? No.”

  “Maggie. You could be going into shock. You need to warm up.”

  “I can do that without the hospital being involved. All I have to do is sit outside for five minutes and I’ll be sweating from the heat. I’m fine. I will be fine.”

  “You’re brain’s telling you that, but your body’s saying something different.”

  “I said I’ll be fine. I’m not dizzy. I’m not hyperventilating—as I have been on a few other occasions recently.”

  “Your face is pasty white.”

  “Oh, gee. Thanks.”

  Paul cleared his throat. “I think it’s time I got to work.”

  I sent him a look, and he beat feet.

  Wyatt stood on his side of the desk, hands on hips. Mimicking me.

  I shook my finger at him. “Don’t start with me, Wyatt.”

  “I’m only trying to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Well, I appreciate that. But I really don’t need to go to the hospital.”

  “Just don’t get mad if I check on you every so often today. Where’s—?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “The cookies.”

  “Crap. I must have dropped the box when whose-its started coming at me.”

  “Aw. Think they’re salvageable?”

  I shrugged. “One way to find out.”

  We walked down the short hallway towards my desk. Rick was just coming in, mangled baker’s box in hand.

  “Found this in the parking lot. Cookies are mostly okay. What happened?”

  Paul deadpanned. “The stalker was waiting and came after Maggie. She must’ve dropped it when she was doing the fifty yard dash to the steps.”

  Rick stared at me, his affable face turning stony. “He was here? Waiting for you? Why was she alone?”

  “She wasn’t. Not exactly.”

  He gave Wyatt a sharp look. “Explain the exactly part.”

  “Wyatt was walking in. I got the box out of the backseat, and was about to follow him, like always. Except, I saw a man by a dark gray Ford pickup. He was watching Wyatt. As soon as he got through the door, the guy started running at me.”

  “Who is it?”

  I closed my eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? He was that close and you didn’t recognize him? Come on, Maggie. You’re more observant than most any of us. Why is it you—?”

  “Hey, man. She’s had a shock. Give her a chance to recover before you put her through the third degree. Let her brain process the events.”

  Rick began to pace, mumbling under his breath, then got louder. “Why would he make such a bold
move in broad daylight in a frequented parking area? In the frigging police department parking lot of all places.”

  Feeling like a loose wheel, I went to my desk and sat. My hands were beginning to tremble, so I laced them together in my lap.

  The conversation continued, but I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t get the man’s image out of my head. He wasn’t familiar enough for me to recognize. Was he the same guy who had been in my house? I hadn’t noticed a bruise or bandage above his eye. But then the sunglasses could have been covering it. Paul was right, the sunglasses and fake beard were distracting. Without them, would I know him? How am I supposed to ID this idiot if he’s always wearing a disguise?

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and stared up at Declan. He squatted next to me. “Are you really all right, Maggie?”

  I nodded. “Just trying to make sense of what happened. Why it happened. Who it is who’s threatening me. Was it only to induce fear? Was he truly going to grab me from in front of the police station? Did he really think he’d get away with it? Huh. That would have been quite a coup, eh?

  “Holy holograms, Declan. He was here, in the parking lot. I should have turned around and used my best left hook, or right jab, or.… I should have decked him.”

  Declan laughed, a deep rich belly laugh that took me by surprise. Actually, I don’t think I’d ever heard him laugh like that before.

  The sound drew a crowd, curious as to the cause for the merriment of our resident voice of reason.

  He glanced at Wyatt. “No need for worry, boss-man. Your wife-to-be is fighting fit.”

  I turned slitted eyes to the fiancé. His hands were out in supplication.

  “Sorry, babe. I was worried.”

  My hands were steady once more, and I addressed Declan. “Do you venture into the subconsciousnesses (is that a real word?) of people to help them remember past events?”

  One eyebrow rose, but he was still smiling. “That would be my Grand-mama on my mama’s side.”