Ten Little Bloodhounds (27 page)

“She didn’t leave even a dust bunny, and she is ‘Gone, gone, gone,’ for good, and she won’t be back.”

“Stop sounding so casual about it all,” Susan said. “I know you’re hurting. I don’t feel so hot, either. She was my friend too, you know. We’ll get her back. Have you called Hank? Has he talked to her? Do you think he knows where she is?”

“Crying now wouldn’t do much good, so I’m trying to keep a stiff upper lip. Hank won’t lift a finger. He
says he hasn’t heard from her, and I believe him. And as long as we’re on the subject of Hank, I should tell you that I kissed him off for good yesterday over the telephone. Tacky, but effective. Now he’s just a friend.”

“Jesus.” She was silent for several seconds. “I still had hopes you two would get back together. You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“That sounds final. You and I will find Jasmine. Do you know any of her instructors or classmates?”

“Not a one.”

“Well, I do. I have a friend that has or had her in one of his classes. I do a lot of ordering of special books for him, and he doesn’t always buy them. He owes me. I’ll call him. Maybe she hasn’t dropped her classes, and she’s still in town.”

“Thanks, Susan.”

“She’s my friend too. Remember?”

“I meant thanks for being my friend and for forgiving me again and again when I screw up.”

“You are my forever friend,” she said staunchly before hanging up. “And don’t you ever forget it!”

What can I say? Some days I feel blessed. This was one of them.

I called Chet and told him to send info.

The fax machine rang soon after, and I jerked with surprise. I rolled my chair over close enough to read who was sending a message and settled back when I saw it was Chet from the detective agency in Washington, D.C.

I picked up the first completed sheet, and read that it was page one of thirty-three. I lost interest. He hadn’t discovered anything new. If he had, it would have been one page for maximum effect. He was only giving me another
summary of facts already reported, while trying to look productive and worthy of their hefty fee. I’d read it later.

At a little after four I was back home from two industrial building drug searches that we visited two and three times a month. Nothing unusual had been found. A few home-rolled marijuana cigarettes were tossed in the wide aisles, which the users called “no-man’s land.” A tin of Copenhagen snuff revealed several rocks of crack. When I showed the manager what Tolstoy had found discarded in the aisles, he was ecstatic.

“Now we can arrest someone. I was getting tired of you finding drugs and not being able to prosecute. Good work!”

“We still are unable to prosecute,” I said evenly.

I sure wish these guys would listen more closely when I present the facts about what constitutes evidence. I knew he was going to be unhappy with what I had to tell him and also knew he would want to blame me.

“The snuff tin was on the floor in open sight. Tolstoy didn’t find it in anyone’s possession.”

“Yea, but there will be fingerprints on the can. That proves who is guilty!”

“I’m afraid not,” I said with a sigh.

“Why not?” He now sounded belligerent.

“In the first place, the District Attorney won’t present it to a grand jury. And even if he did and got an indictment, he wouldn’t get a conviction because of reasonable doubt. I can hear his lawyer now. ‘Sure my client dips snuff, and his fingerprints will be on every can he finishes and discards in the trash. Anyone can pick up an empty can from a public trash receptacle, or
from any of the large drums that are available in his place of employment.’ That’s reasonable doubt.”

“That’s bull,” he said angrily. “What is America coming to? Why am I paying you each month if you can’t convict them?”

It had taken an additional fifteen minutes to soothe his ruffled feathers and pump some hope into him for possible future arrests. Our visits were a deterrent, and they tried to second-guess when we would search. They could get sloppy and be caught. They could also stick their hand inside the machinery where it didn’t belong while under the influence of drugs and get pulled in and pulverized. A machine operator who used drugs was dangerous to himself and all those around him.

My answering machine held three messages. Alice Mae Petrie informed me that the judge had signed the restraining order that her lawyer had prepared. She thanked me again for solving her problem.

I hoped for her sake that I had. From personal experience I didn’t hold much trust in restraining orders, but hers had to be in place if Tom continued to stalk her. I mentally wished her well. Maybe the scent machine evidence would never be needed. It could have frightened him enough that he wouldn’t be stupid and continue to harass her.

Thinking of the devil brought Tom near. The next call was from him. He tried to sound indignant and righteous. He warned me that he had consulted an attorney, and if he heard of any rumor I started about him, he would take action against me. I knew he was lying. The first thing any attorney would advise would be that he was not to contact me either by phone or mail. Why hire a lawyer if you’re not going to follow his advice? His posturing didn’t worry me.

The third call was a big surprise. It was my handsome helicopter pilot, Randall Finch. He said he wanted to talk, and would try again later in the day.

I couldn’t call him back. I could only wait for him to call me. My thoughts were scattered. I really had no firm opinion. Part of me wanted him to be calling because he was interested in me, and another part was having serious thoughts about the fact that I was investigating him and all the Cancannons.

I had been ignoring all clippings about Celia Cancannon and Rand. I had met them and wanted to wait and see if I uncovered a possible motive or murderer before I considered them. I knew that both of them were available during the time that Amelia had been snatched. They were my prime suspects, but I wanted the easier alibis checked out and verified before I started concentrating on them.

I stacked the hefty thirty-three-page fax in front of me, and began attaching each page to the correct suspect’s dossier. I didn’t read any of them while sorting; I’d tackle them after supper.

I nuked a Lean Cuisine of stuffed bell peppers with tomato sauce and tossed a small salad. I was gonna try to eat healthy while waiting for Jasmine’s return. I had to get her back, so I was thinking positive. When, not if, she returned, she’d be angry if I had pigged out on junk food and gained weight during her absence.

A few pages into the report, I was reading an agent’s surveillance log on Sabrina Cancannon Wilder’s husband, Paul Wilder. He was a real estate broker, and had been dining with a woman. Living in Atlanta, he had been close enough that he could have possibly made it to the island, kidnapped Amelia, and returned in the allotted time frame.
His alibi didn’t cover all of the period in question, and I thought he was one of the more viable suspects.

The agent had written, “As per your instructions, in the past three days in tailing the subject, I have been overt in letting the subject see me. I have been obvious to the point of seeming foolish and inept. It took him until tonight to realize my continued presence in his life meant he was being followed. He placed his dinner companion (identified in the previous report) in a cab, then walked over to confront me, where I was twelve feet away and watching his every move.

“Subject: ‘Why are you following me?’

“I answered him as you had advised, by telling him the truth.

“Agent: ‘My agency has been employed to do a complete study on you because you are a prime suspect in the murder of your wife’s aunt. Her estate attorney is footing the bill. We will continue to monitor your every move until the killer is caught.’

“You wanted a detailed description of his appearance and demeanor when I delivered the news. I won’t attempt to describe the look on his face, I’ll just tell you what he did. He literally jumped for joy, and was so elated he slapped me on my back and pumped my hand in a frenzied handshake. It seems that when he finally tumbled to the fact that he was being followed, he thought it was because he had been engaged in working dinners with the wife of an infamous person who is rumored to be connected. (Identity in previous report.) My personal opinion is that this man is not responsible in any way for the disappearance of the cat or the murder.”

I had to laugh. I, too, believed the guy to be innocent after reading about his reaction to the tail. A man guilty of
catnapping and murder for profit would not have shown such obvious relief. He would have been afraid that the man following him was lying, and that the investigation had turned up something that he had overlooked or forgotten.

Smiling, I drew my highlighting pen through his name.
And then there were six.

I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see that it was almost eight. I was on my way to the kitchen for a Coke when the phone rang. I made myself finish my errand before I hurried back to answer. It wouldn’t pay to seem too eager. I picked up the receiver after the fourth ring, and just before my voice mail would activate.

“Hello.”

“I’m sitting here in Waycross afraid to call you, and afraid not to. Are you still speaking to me?”

I gripped the phone tighter when I recognized Jasmine’s voice. I had to swallow before I could speak.

“Oh, Jasmine, I’m so glad you called. I’m going crazy here without you. Come back. Please come back. I’m so sorry I made you leave by being so stupid!”

I was pushing the words out as fast as I could, and it seemed they were taking forever.

“Are you sure?” Her voice seemed muffled.

“Get back here, please. Please come home.”

“I’m in Waycross, and I can’t drive too fast, I have lots of junk piled on top of the car. It will take me a couple of hours or more—”

“Don’t waste any more time, get in the car and drive. Don’t go too fast, but don’t stop for anything. I’ll be here waiting. Okay?”

After I hung up, I put my head in my arms on the desk and bawled like a baby.

A
fter my therapeutic tears, I sat in awe and contemplated Jasmine’s call. I realized that I was very lucky that she had had second thoughts. If she had gone farther away, unpacked, started looking for employment … I knew that each day that passed she would have been emotionally stronger and it would have been more difficult to get in touch.

When the phone rang, my heart leaped into my throat. She had changed her mind! It rang three times before I could find the courage to answer it.

“Please don’t say you’ve changed your mind,” I began.

“Hello? Jo Beth? I can barely hear you. What did you say?”

I sagged with relief. Although he sounded like he was speaking through a tin can, I recognized the voice.
It was Rand. I had forgotten all about him promising to call back.

“Where are you?” I asked. There was a great deal of static on the line, like a radio station fading in and out.

“In a phone booth in downtown Balsa City with a frayed cord and with what I pray is peanut butter smeared all over the glass enclosure. I borrowed a car from a friend. I’m driving to your house, should be there in ten minutes.”

“Not tonight, Rand. I’m expecting company. Let’s make it another night.” The noise on the line was getting worse.

“Great. See you in ten minutes!”

“No, Rand, you misunderstood!” I stopped speaking because I was talking into a dead phone. I jiggled the hook, but it didn’t change anything. We were disconnected.

Well, let him come. I could visit for a few minutes, and then run him out. It would take Jasmine over two hours to make the trip. It was sixty miles of only two lanes. I knew she would be driving slower because she had a load on top of the vehicle, and if she got behind a slowpoke who was doing thirty-five, it would be difficult to pass. The road had a steady stream of traffic even on a Monday night, up until the wee hours.

I went to the bedroom to change. I decided to wear something more feminine than jeans and a T-shirt. It was all that he had seen me wear. I had the shirt off and my jeans were around my knees when I heard the first gate alarm. That had been quick, much sooner than ten minutes. I quickly refastened my jeans and grabbed a heavy new rust-colored T-shirt that I had never worn. I was
brushing my frizzy hair when the second alarm sounded. I walked to the back porch with Rudy and Bobby Lee right behind me. When Rand came into view, I received a jolt. The pickup he was driving was decorated with all the symbols of a good ol’ redneck from South Georgia. The body of the truck was raised a good five inches, a coon tail was tied to the radio antenna, and there were glittering mud flaps and the obligatory window-tinted Confederate flag on the back window.

I suppressed a smirk as he approached us.

“You borrowed that from a
friend?
”

“Yep, not all Southerners are as touchy as you are. I have a couple of Southern friends.”

“Surprise, surprise,” I murmured. “Let me introduce you to my roommates. The small one is Rudy, and the big one is Bobby Lee. Shake hands, guys.”

I was shocked speechless when Rudy casually raised a paw to Rand, who had squatted before him. He acted as if he had been shaking hands daily since he was a kitten. I could only stare as Rand reached out and rubbed his knuckles under Rudy’s chin.

“It’s rare to see a such a well-trained cat,” Rand commented.

“If you only knew,” I said with awe.

I was still having trouble believing what I had seen, that Rudy had actually shaken hands with a stranger. I dropped my hand to Bobby Lee’s shoulder, and he stuck out a paw.

Rand rubbed Bobby Lee’s ears and leaned closer, and said something that I couldn’t hear. Rising, he gave me a warm smile.

“What did you tell him?”

“That he was a lucky dog.”

“Uh-huh.” Staring into his eyes, I felt uncomfortable. “Where are my manners? Come on in.”

I held the screen door until he was inside, then the animals and I followed him in. He stood and surveyed the room slowly, turning so he could see it all. I sat in an armchair and, when I caught his eye, nodded to indicate that he sit opposite me. He remained standing.