High in Trial (18 page)

So he paid for his beer with a twenty, logged into Facebook, and scrolled back through
his recent history. There she was outside the Pembroke Host Inn sign in her baseball
cap and dog sweatshirt with a big yellow dog at her side, posting, “Ready to take
every blue ribbon in Pembroke, SC!” More pictures of the yellow dog, more stupid posts.
Some black and white dogs, more posts. There she was in her baseball cap and dog shirt
with the black and white dog. More pictures of dogs. More pictures of the hotel. He
just smiled.

“Sayonara, baby,” he murmured and then he looked up and there she was on the television.

At first he couldn’t believe it. The television news had to be wrong. There it said
in bold caption over the video of some woman with a dog, talking to a reporter:
Hotel guest Raine Stockton finds body of murdered woman
.

He said hoarsely, “Turn it up.”

When the bartender didn’t react quickly enough he half lifted himself from the stool
and shouted, “I said turn it up, asshole!”

The bartender took his time pointing the remote control at the television and raising
the volume. All he caught was the last part of the segment.

“Thank you, Miss Stockton,” the serious-faced reporter said as she turned to the camera.
“Once again, police are still investigating this bizarre assault and murder of a hotel
guest outside the Pembroke Host Inn here in Pembroke. The identity of the victim is
being withheld pending notification of next of kin. We’ll keep you updated as the
story develops. This is Carolina Mays, WCGA News.”

Somebody said, “Thank you, Carolina,” as Raine Stockton and her yellow dog moved out
of the shot.

Jeremiah Allen Berman stared at the television screen in slack-jawed disbelief for
a minute, then became aware of the sharp gaze of the bartender and dropped his eyes
to his phone. She was still there, in the baseball cap and the dog shirt. Brown ponytail,
slim figure. But there was something different. How could she be different? She’d
come out with her black and white dog ten minutes after he’d called her room, hadn’t
she?
How
could she be different?

He took a long slug of his beer, and his face hardened as he swallowed. Brown ponytail,
dog shirt, baseball cap. And behind her, the entrance sign to a fairgrounds. Google
maps found it in .03 seconds.

Jeremiah Allen Berman was nobody’s fool. Nobody’s. And now he was pissed.

*    *    *

Detective Laraposa seemed less than excited to learn why I was calling. “You do realize
we’re investigating a murder here, Ms. Stockton,” he said. “So unless you have some
new information that pertains to the case…”

“Look,” I said, “I don’t know how this is connected to Marcie’s killer, but you need
to have your men search the field behind the hotel for a lead pipe. My dog Cisco found
it this morning and he was showing an usual amount of interest in it.”

“Ms. Stockton—”

“The kind of interest he usually shows when an article has recent human scent on it,
or strong scent, like blood.”

“The medical examiner didn’t find any sign that the victim was struck with any sort
of weapon.”

“But her boyfriend was. Neil Kellog.”

Now he was interested. “What do you know about that?”

“I just left him. He’s co-owner of the dogs and—well, that doesn’t matter. The thing
is, the way he described the man who attacked him sounded a lot like the man I saw
with Marcie yesterday afternoon at the hotel. But what I forgot to tell you was that
he was carrying a bag with him when the two of them went to walk the dogs. What if
the lead pipe that he used to attack Neil with was in the bag? And what if the reason
he took the bag with him when they walked the dogs was to get rid of the weapon in
the field, where no one would associate it with the attack on Neil?”

The detective was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Thank you, Miss Stockton. We’ll
look into it. We have your contact information if we need anything else.”

All in all, that was a very unsatisfactory conversation.

I made a wry face as I tucked the phone back into my pocket. “They’ll look into it.”

Miles’s expression was mostly sympathetic. “Not like working with the hometown cops,
huh?”

“I can’t believe she sat down at the table with us last night as calm as you please,
knowing Neil was passed out on the floor with pain.” I gave a dismayed shake of my
head. “I thought I was a better judge of character than that.”

“Maybe she didn’t know,” Miles suggested. “Her boyfriend—or whoever it was who was
with her—might not have told her. People who take care of problems like that don’t
usually give the details.”

I said, “I’m starting to see where Melanie gets her really, really bad television
viewing habits.”

He didn’t acknowledge that, frowning thoughtfully. “I still don’t see how any of it
relates to the murder, though.”

The waitress brought the take-out boxes and our check. Miles reached for it automatically,
checked himself, and passed it to me with a smile. I turned down the corners of my
mouth and dug some cash out of my back pocket.

“Where are we going from here?” he asked, making a visible effort to appear cooperative.

“To feed the dogs,” I replied. I left cash on the table and gathered up the foam take-out
boxes. Miles stood, and I glanced up at him as I slid out of the booth. “And then,”
I conceded, “back to the hotel to check out. But first we have to go by the fairgrounds
and turn the dogs over to Aggie. ”

He took the boxes from me. “And after that? I like to plan my day.”

I hesitated. I know it sounds crazy, and maybe I was in some kind of shock, but in
my heart I was grieving the loss of the three-day trial and perhaps our last chance
at a double qualification. Miles must have seen it in my face, because his lips tightened,
and I could feel his disappointment in me. I said, “I’ll let you know, okay?”

He nodded, but his tone was distant as he said, “Sure.” He took out his phone and
checked his messages while we walked to the car.

I don’t like feeding dogs out of take-out containers—they have a tendency to accidentally
eat the containers—so I scrambled around in my dog bag until I came up with two collapsible
food bowls and an aluminum water bowl that I always kept in the car for emergencies.
I filled the three bowls with steak and eggs and watched the dogs inhale their feasts
while Miles walked a few feet away and returned phone calls. I offered each of the
dogs a water chaser in their empty bowls and decided to wait until we got to the fairgrounds
to walk them. I’d just finished wiping down the empty bowls and putting them away
when Miles returned.

He said, “How about dropping me off at the hotel so I can pick up my car? Since you
don’t know what you want to do yet.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miles, don’t pout. This isn’t the way I wanted to spend my
weekend either, you know.” I held out my hand for the car keys. “I’ll drive.”

He tossed the keys to me. “Not pouting. There’s still time to drive to the beach if
you want to. If not, I’m going back to Atlanta.” He got into the passenger seat and
closed the door before adding, “As soon as I see you safely checked into another hotel.”

I drew a breath for a snippy remark, thought better of it, and started the engine.

We didn’t speak again until I stopped in front of the side entrance to the hotel.
The scene of the crime, with all its trappings, was on the opposite side of the building,
and I’d deliberately avoided going that way. On this side of the building the parking
lot was mostly empty, no one was coming or going, and it might have been any ordinary
day at any hotel in that quiet space between checkout and check-in times.

Miles put away his phone and looked at me. “Do you want me to pack the rest of your
things?”

“My bag’s already packed,” I admitted and reached to turn off the ignition. “I should
go in and get it.”

He said, “Go on and take care of the dogs. I’ll bring it to the fairgrounds. Maybe
by then you will have decided what you want to do.”

Why didn’t I just tell him I’d go to the beach with him? Was that really such a bad
idea? Of course they wouldn’t cancel an AKC sanctioned trial with over three hundred
entries because of what had happened to Marcie, but did I really think there was any
possibility at all of having fun now? Would any of us who had been at the hotel this
morning be able to compete with any spirit at all, and would anyone even be able to
look at an agility course today without thinking of Neil and Bryte, who wouldn’t be
running… and who might not, in fact, ever run together again? My boyfriend just offered
me a quiet beach to walk on and a strong shoulder to lean on. Of course I should say
yes.

I said, “Thanks. I’ll meet you at the fairgrounds, then.”

A flash of impatience crossed his eyes and he opened the door. Then he hesitated,
turned back, and leaned across the seat to brush my cheek with a kiss. He winked at
me. “Love you, babe,” he said. “It’s something people say.”

I should have said it back. Later I would die a thousand deaths inside, over and over
again, wishing I’d said it back. Instead, I gave him an exasperated look and replied,
“I’m not your ‘babe.’”

He grinned and got out of the car. “I know,” he said.

He closed the door and lifted his hand in a casual wave as he took out his key card.
I drove away and didn’t look back.

~*~

SIXTEEN

One hour, forty minutes before the shooting

D
og Daze Boarding and Training had started its life as the horse barn behind Judge
Stockton’s big old Colonial farmhouse. Before that, when the house was first built
in the 1890s, it housed livestock; the judge had added concrete floors and good ventilation
to pamper the riding horses his wife Jessica loved so much. A fire had damaged much
of the structure a
short time
ago, but it had been rebuilt with state-of-the-art concrete kennels that opened onto
individual runs, an indoor training room, and an attractive front façade that featured
colorful cutouts of playful puppies climbing the walls and jumping over the door frame.
Paw prints were stamped into the concrete walkway that led to the front entrance,
and Buck followed them inside.

Maude was just coming out of the boarding area, drying her hands on a paper towel,
and she looked surprised to see him. “Good day to you, Buck,” she said. The pressurized
door swung shut on the sound of barking and the faint smell of antiseptic that came
from the corridor behind her. “What a lovely surprise. Raine’s not here, I’m afraid.”

She was a slim, athletic woman in her sixties with short, no-nonsense silver hair
and a crisp British accent she sometimes confessed she’d worked hard to keep over
the forty years she
had
lived in Hanover County. She’d been a fixture around the Stockton household for as
long as Buck could remember, first as the judge’s clerk, then as family friend, and
finally as Raine’s mentor and business partner. There wasn’t much that had gone on
in this county over the past forty years that Maude didn’t know about, nor were there
many questions that she couldn’t answer.

He said, “That’s okay. Actually, I think you’re the one I need to talk to.”

On the drive out, he
’d
tried to erase the anxiety that kept gnawing away at his stomach and furrowing his
brow, but the look on Maude’s face told him he hadn’t quite been successful. She said,
“It sounds serious.” She tossed the paper towel in the trash. “Come into the office
and sit down. What’s troubling you?”

“I need some help with an old case of Judge Stockton’s.” He followed her through the
swinging doors that separated the reception area from the playfully decorated yellow
and blue office where they kept the records and did the paperwork associated with
the business. One of Maude’s silky-coated golden retrievers had been napping behind
the desk; he rose and stretched as they entered, and Buck held out a hand for him
to sniff.

Maude said, “I thought Roe was in charge of cold cases now. Shall I make some tea?
Or coffee if you like.”

“No, thanks.” He scratched the golden retriever behind the ears and was rewarded with
a satisfied grin. “And this is one of those cases that has Roe stumped as much as
it has me. Probably because there’s nothing there. At least I hope there’s not.”

Maude pulled out a rolling black chair from behind the desk and sat down, gesturing
Buck to one of the straight-backed guest chairs opposite. She leaned forward, resting
her elbows on her knees. The golden retriever stretched out behind the desk and went
to sleep. “I’m intrigued,” she said. “What can I do to help?”

Buck unfolded the sheaf of papers in his hand and passed it to her. On top was the
ID photo of James Allen Berman. “I was hoping you could give me some inside information
on this case from the nineties. Started out as an armed robbery at the Cash-n-Carry,
ended up as a murder.”