How to Fetch a Felon Page 7

  THE SCRUBADUB CREW served clients from Wallerton County, with Stoney at the front counter, Daniel and Gertie grooming, and me in the office placing orders and paying bills. We worked together like a well-choreographed ensemble.

  I also called City Hall to report the stray dogs. I gave the receptionist Buckleville Rescue’s phone number to see if they could help. Hopefully, they could get a handle on the issue.

  We planned on closing early for Buckleville’s annual downtown Christmas Cookie Crawl. Early in the season, we had ordered grain-free peanut butter dog treats in the shape of stars. Before we left this evening, we would put them in a basket with a sign offering them to local pets during the event.

  Stoney buzzed my office from the front desk and announced Jackson was on his way back.

  Cuff peeked open his eyes as Jackson sauntered in with two insulated cups.

  No Taffy? I will go back to sleep. Wake me when it’s time for my appointment.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” Jackson bent down and kissed me softly on the lips. He smelled of cinnamon and something fruity. Apple perhaps? He handed me a cup and made his way to the sofa.

  I inhaled through the lid. A scrumptious aroma escaped through the sipping hole. “Is it pie in a cup?” I smiled, enjoying the warmth through the cardboard on my hands.

  “Hot apple cider. The Buckleville Belles are preparing for this evening’s festivities and offered me some.” He took a sip and made a low moaning sound.

  There was nothing more delicious than a gorgeous guy in a uniform, sipping hot cider and moaning. “Thanks. At first glance, I thought you brought me coffee.” I wrinkled my nose.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’m aware of your anti-coffee thing at the moment. I wouldn’t do any such thing. Take a drink. It’s good.”

  Now, it was my turn to raise a brow. “Did Vivienne fix it? If so, did she know it was for me?” I wouldn’t put it past Vivienne to poison my cider. The woman was more venomous than a copperhead snake.

  Mrs. Peacock, in the office, with the cider. Cuff chuckled to himself. I glanced at him and smiled. My sweet, funny pup.

  “Nah, she thought I was taking it back to the station for one of the guys. It’s safe,” Jackson said.

  “Hey, how did questioning the driver of the white car go?” I asked, pulling my chair closer to the couch. I put my feet up beside him. Sipping my cider, I realized what he’d moaned over. This was the most delicious cider ever. There wasn’t only apple flavor, but orange spice too. I’d have to get the recipe. Somehow. Without joining Vivienne’s dumb high-society club.

  Sighing, frustration settled on his face. “Turns out, the car is registered to Brady Carver, a junior at Buckleville High School.”

  “What?”

  “I know.” He nodded. “That’s exactly what we thought when we asked him to come in. He’s seventeen, so we called his father, Buddy, to come down to the station. Seems the parents co-signed on the white car a month ago for Brady, and they have had nothing but trouble with it ever since. Buddy said they’ve had the car in the shop four times already.”

  “Must’ve cost them a small fortune. I know the Carvers. They have a huge family, I think six children, and the father works two jobs just to make ends meet,” I said.

  Jackson nodded. “Sounds like things are tough for them. Brady paid for the car with his own money from his after-school job, but the parents have sunk over two grand in it since the purchase. Buddy said he’d just picked it up from the shop for the fourth time and wanted to give Ziggy a piece of his mind. He wanted to get his kid’s money back, but Ziggy refused to answer the trailer door.”

  “Well, we know why he wouldn’t answer the door. Is Mr. Carver aware Ziggy’s dead?”

  “Yep, we told him.” Jackson’s head bobbed up and down. “Everyone down at the station believes Ziggy’s BAC did him in, and it involved no foul play. But until we get an official statement from the autopsy with the cause of death, we have to look into anyone who may have had trouble with him. We’ve asked Buddy Carver to provide us with proof of his alibi for the date we think Ziggy’s death occurred, just to be sure.”

  “Good thinking,” I said.

  Jackson sipped his cider, glancing down at my boots and smirked, his dark eyes twinkling.

  “What is that look for?” I asked, knowing the answer. He had a one-track mind.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of you wearing those.”

  “We’re talking about a dead man, and you’re focusing on my boots.”

  “Damn straight.” He winked, running a hand down the length of one.

  Today, I wore them zipped up over a pair of faded skinny jeans with a black, fuzzy turtleneck sweater. Mama always thought they were tacky as heck. And Pop tried to give them to charity when I lived with him six months ago. Jackson adored them.

  “You know they won’t last forever, right? Eventually, they’ll wear out,” I said, teasing.

  His eyes found mine, and my pulse ticked up a few notches. “Buttercup, I suggest you get online and order a spare pair.” He took a long swallow of his cider, staring at me, causing my toes to tingle.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?” I asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “You, me, and those boots.”

  “It’s the middle of the day!”

  He shrugged.

  “Is that all you think about?” I leaned over and swatted his leg. “Can we talk about the weird gifts for Stoney? You know she got another one today.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Well, I’m worried about her, but more, I’m concerned about my father. He’s livid with the whole situation, and I can’t say I blame him. Stoney doesn’t need more trouble. She’s been through enough.”

  Jackson shifted his weight on the couch, the suggestive sparkle in his eyes changed to one of darkened concern. “Steely, I know you’re alarmed, and your father’s ready to explode. I’d be the same way. However, I have to keep a professional position here. I met with Becker and a few other officers, and we discussed the happenings with your sister. All we have are gifts and notes. The person in question has made no actual threat or demand.”

  What is he saying? No threat?

  Chiquita, get a grip before you reply.

  I stiffened and swung my feet down off the couch, my boots landing with a clack! on the tile floor.

  “How can y’all consider the gifts as non-threatening? They’re creepy as all get-out. I mean, who hangs a child’s teddy bear in a friggin’ tree?”

  Allowing me to vent, Jackson listened and twisted the plastic lid on his cup.

  “And what about the peeping Tom?”

  Breathe, Chiquita.

  I took Cuff’s mental advice and inhaled and exhaled a few times.

  “Well, we found no one, and none of the neighbors saw anything suspicious.”

  “So, we’re gonna act like it didn’t happen? Just let it go? I don’t believe this!”

  Jackson sat forward and pulled my rolling chair directly in front of him, resting a hand on my thigh. “Look, Chief Becker has someone watching the house every night. Lloyd Madden came in this morning. He claims he’s been out of town and has nothing to do with the gifts or peeking in the window.”

  “Wow, did he say anything else?”

  “Just that he’s worried about Stoney, and he wants to reach out to her and see if she needs anything.”

  “So not a good idea,” I said.

  “We told him that. Look, no one is disregarding your sister’s case.”

  “Well, they need to put someone out back, because that’s where we found the latest gift.” I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair.

  “Steely, I’m gonna need you to trust me on this. Okay?”

  I sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. 3:31 PM. I had to take Cuff to the vet. “Fine. But I’m not happy. And when Pop finds out the PD says they don’t consider the gifts as a
threat to Stoney, I’m afraid he’ll come undone.” I pushed my chair back. “I’ve gotta run Cuff to the vet’s office. Will you be able to go with us tonight?”

  He nodded and stood up from the couch. “Yeah. My shift ended at 3:00 PM. I’ll run home, change, and grab Taffy. Do you want to meet here at 4:30 PM?”

  “That should work,” I said, packing my bag. I switched off my computer and patted Cuff’s head. “You ready, little buddy?”

  He stretched in his bed. Yes, Chiquita. I am.

  Jackson came up from behind me and wrapped his arms around my body, his chin resting on the top of my head. “I won’t stop helping your family.” He squeezed his arms tighter.

  “Thank you, Jackson. I appreciate it.” I turned into him and kissed his lips. “Cuff’s appointment is in ten minutes. We need to go. I’ll see you soon.”

  Cuff perched on the edge of my desk, waiting for me to pick him up.

  Jackson released his hold and gave Cuff a few pets on his back. “Good luck, little guy.”

  Thank you, big friend. And do not forget my sweet love when you return.

  Since Jackson obviously couldn’t hear Cuff’s thoughts, I assisted.

  “Don’t forget to bring Taffy with you,” I said as he headed for the door.

  “I won’t,” he said, waving and disappearing around the corner.

  I scooped up Cuff in my arm, grabbed my sling bag, and told the crew we’d be back as soon as we finished Cuff’s appointment. With several good luck kisses from everyone, we were out the back door and on our way.

  As we sat in the exam room waiting on Dr. Benson, Cuff perched on my lap, panting and shaking. The vet technician already weighed him, took his temperature, and wrote Cuff’s symptoms down in his chart. She left the room to check in another patient.

  What do you think the doctor will say, Chiquita?

  “I have no clue, Cuff. Are you nervous?”

  A little. What if I need a shot?

  “Then you need one.”

  But I dislike them, Chiquita.

  “Nobody likes shots, little buddy.”

  Dr. Benson opened the door and breezed in, wearing a red doctor coat with green Christmas trees, dogs, and cats on it.

  “Hi, Doc Benson! Don’t you look festive!” I stood and shook his hand, holding Cuff tucked under my other arm.

  “I find my patients enjoy it. How about it, Cuff? Do you like my jacket?” Dr. Benson held out one of his sleeves for Cuff to sniff.

  Cuff stopped panting for a quick second to test the doctor’s coat sleeve.

  It is very Christmassy. But it smells of dogs. And cats. And I think I am catching the scent of a cow.

  I stifled a giggle.

  Dr. Benson read Cuff’s chart, sticking the ink pen behind his ear. “Hmm... I read here that Cuff seems sore and has been sleeping a lot. Is this the case?”

  I nodded, placing him on the metal table. “Yes, he’s been whining too. When he moves. I noticed it after we took him on our practice runs for the stampede. I thought maybe he hurt himself on a run.”

  Cuff walked a few steps toward Dr. Benson and raised a paw at him. See Doc. It hurts when I do this. Cuff sat. And it hurts when I sit down. Lay down. Get up. Run. Walk. I think I am dying.

  Dr. Benson felt around Cuff’s legs, shoulders, hips, and belly. He pulled gently on each of Cuff’s legs, stretching them out straight. Cuff let out a whimper each time. “Hmm. It’s more than likely what I suspected.”

  “What?” I asked, feeling my anxiety rising.

  Do I have a tumor? Cuff whined. Oh, Chiquita, I have a tumor.

  “Well, we’re probably looking at arthritis,” Dr. Benson said, stroking Cuff’s back. “He looks great for his age though.”

  Thank you, good man. So, do you. Cuff gave his hand a lick.

  “Oh my goodness. Arthritis?” I put my hand to my heart, and my fingers found my locket.

  “Steely, I’m not sure what you heard about his age when you got him, but I’d say Cuff is about twelve or thirteen years old. Now, little dogs age slower than big dogs, but he’s still getting up there in his years. Arthritis is fairly normal for his age.”

  I got the arthritis? Cuff’s head twisted in my direction. So, no tumor?

  Happy to say no, little buddy.

  “What can we do to make him feel better?” I asked.

  Dr. Benson continued to stroke Cuff’s back while we chatted. “Well, I’d like to see him on a good senior food and some joint supplements. But let’s get him over this bad hump by giving him ten days of steroids. I’m not a huge fan of dogs being on them long term, but a short-term round will help with his current inflammation. Also, regular exercise would do him good.”

  “Okay, it sounds simple enough,” I said.

  “Good. Okay, let me get my tech, and I’ll be right back.”

  I took over holding Cuff on the table. “See, not so bad, right?”

  Cuff blinked up at me, shivering. So, no shots?

  “I don’t think so, little buddy.”

  Dr. Benson strolled back in with a syringe in his hand, a young female tech followed him in the room. Uh, oh. I guess I was wrong.

  Wrong? About what, Chiquita?

  “I’ll need a blood test to make sure his liver and kidneys are performing well before he begins the steroids,” Dr. Benson said, moving closer and uncapping the needle.

  Cuff panted, and his shivering intensified. Oh, no! Not a shot! I hate shots! He tried escaping by digging in between my arm and my side. I clamped the space closed.

  “It will be okay, little buddy. Super quick.”

  “That’s right, Cuff. I promise. I’ll be done before—”

  Cuff let out a squealing howl, piercing my ears.

  Good golly my pup had a set of lungs! I cringed, my heart aching for him.

  The tech squinted from the awful racket, reached over, and held his body still. I petted his head, trying to soothe him. And Dr. Benson went in for the blood sample.

  Oooooooowwwww... Chiquita!!!!

  “All done, Cuff,” Dr. Benson said, recapping the syringe.

  Cuff continued to dig to China through the table. I picked him up. “It’s over.”

  Is it?

  Yes.

  I did not even feel it, Chiquita.

  “Well, you could’ve fooled me. I bet the entire town of Buckleville heard your wailing,” I whispered in his ear.

  Chapter 8

  After a mini-massage on Cuff’s leg and shoulder joints to help with his circulation, I put him in his Christmas sweater and packed him inside my sling bag. We waited on Jackson inside the front door of the lobby. We were meeting everyone down at the courthouse square for the Cookie Crawl.

  Jackson and Taffy arrived at 4:30 PM on the dot. The Christmas sweater I’d ordered her was to die for! A teal and white sweater with sparkly snowflakes. She also sported the adorable pair of reindeer antlers we’d made for her.

  “I could eat her up!” I said, closing and locking the front door. I bent down and gave her tousled head a rub.

  “Um, where’s Cuff?” Jackson asked, a concerned expression in his eyes.

  I patted my bag. “Resting.”

  “You had me worried for a second. How was the vet appointment?”

  I got the arthritis, Cuff mumbled in my head. I knew he felt something awful if he didn’t immediately demand to get down and greet Taffy.

  “Doc Benson says it’s arthritis. He’s started him on a round of steroids to help with the inflammation, but also suggested I put him on a few supplements and switch his feed to a senior. To be honest, I’m relieved that’s all it is.”

  Jackson leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Me too. Ready?”

  “Wait, hold on a minute.” I unlocked the front door and retrieved the basket of peanut butter treats and the FREE to pups on the Crawl sign. I placed them on a bench next to the front door and locked up. “There! Now, we’re officially part of the Cookie Crawl.” I reached in the basket and handed one to Taffy. Sh
e gobbled it up.

  We strolled down Main Street, heading in the courthouse's direction a few blocks away. I pointed out Ziggy’s brother to Jackson as the guy moved furniture from the trailer into a small U-Haul truck. A full head of blond hair was clear this time without a ball cap.

  “Yeah, we spoke to him two days ago. Seemed pretty broken up over losing his brother,” Jackson said. Taffy pranced in front of us, tugging on her pink rhinestone leash.

  I noticed there were still cars in the lot, including the cute powder blue VW Bug. I made a mental note to stop in and see if he’d make me a deal before he closed for good.

  “I guess he’s not planning on keeping the lot open,” I said.

  “No, he informed us he’s shutting it down, taking the salvageable trailer furniture to their farmhouse, and trashing the rest. Told us he’d be in town for a good two weeks.” Jackson put his arm over my shoulder, gathering me closer. “You changed out of your boots, I see.”

  I glanced up at him and playfully rolled my eyes. “Those boots weren’t made for walking.” Before we’d left the apartment, I’d changed into my rubber sole, black leather boots with a low heel.

  “Need I remind you what they are good for,” he teased.

  “Oh my goodness! You never give up!”

  “Never, buttercup.”

  I squeezed his arm. “Getting back to this farmhouse. Is it here in town?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Not sure exactly where it is. It’s their family farmhouse, where his brother lived before he moved to town in the trailer at the lot. With both of their parents deceased, he says he’ll probably sell it and go back to Houston.”

  “Hmm... I see.”

  “Yoo-hoo! Hey, lovebirds! Over here!” I heard Gertie’s raspy voice holler.

  We headed in their direction. The entire group dressed in festive attire. Gertie had on another interesting Christmas sweater. This one was white with huge bright red poinsettias.

  Pop pulled me aside. “I apologize for snapping at you earlier.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, I acted like a moron and I’m sorry. I’m under a lot of stress, but it’s not you or your sister’s fault.”