Owen cast a glance at the table, swallowed, and turned away. He could see why.
“Veterinary forensics involves cases of abuse, mutilation, fighting rings—dogs, roosters.” Becca jabbed a finger at the spectacle that had ruined Owen’s living room. Probably forever. “And that. Whatever it is.”
“What are we going to do?” Chief Deb asked.
“We?” Owen repeated. He had no clue about forensics—human, animal, or otherwise.
“I can call the professor,” Becca said. “See if he has a recommendation.”
Deb hesitated. She probably didn’t want to admit the inadequacy of her force—who would?—but in the end what choice did she have?
“That would be good. Thanks.”
Becca took her phone out of her pocket, touched the screen. “I’ve got his number.”
If she hadn’t taken the class, then why did she have the professor in her contacts list?
She lifted the phone to indicate upstairs, where the cell signal lived. “I’ll give Jeremy a call and be right back.”
If she hadn’t taken the class, why was he Jeremy? If she had taken the class why would he be Jeremy? Wouldn’t he be Professor Whatever?
Owen stood in the hall stewing while Chief Deb poked around the crime scene. He didn’t think that was a good idea. Wouldn’t it be better to leave it alone until an expert showed up? But she was the cop, not him.
At the sound of footsteps on the staircase, Owen moved into the living room so Becca wouldn’t see him hovering in the hall trying to eavesdrop on a conversation he had no prayer of hearing over that distance. He didn’t have ears like Reggie.
“He’s coming himself,” Becca said.
“Swell,” Owen muttered.
“He’s the best forensic veterinarian in the Midwest.”
“How many are there?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. Jeremy will be here in the morning.”
“Doesn’t he have a class to teach?”
A coed to boink?
“He’ll cancel.” She waved a hand toward the five-pointed star on the wall. “The pentagram intrigued him.”
“That’s a pentagram?” Deb asked, tilting her head right, then left, then right again as she studied it.
“Isn’t it?” Becca glanced at Owen.
“My geometry grades were shit.” Along with the rest of them.
“Mine were more like crap, but I think that’s what they call those. If not, Jeremy should know.” Becca bit her lip, sighed.
Owen knew that look, that sigh. “What else?”
“Jeremy said that a pentagram is a Wiccan symbol.”
“He thinks witches did this?”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“A pentagram is a Wiccan symbol, but those who practice Wicca believe that they should harm none.” She pointed at the table. “That’s pretty harmful.”
“I never thought I’d see anything like this in Three Harbors,” Owen said.
“None of us did.”
Silence settled over them.
“Well, let’s move along.” Chief Deb made a shooing gesture.
Becca moved; Owen did not.
“Good night,” Owen said.
The chief blinked. “You can’t stay here.”
“It’s my damn house.”
“It’s a crime scene.”
“Not really.”
“Yes, really,” Becca interjected. “Jeremy said we should leave it as undisturbed as possible.”
Owen had to force himself to unclench his teeth, which had automatically ground together the instant she said Jeremy again. He indicated his trashed house. “I think that ship sailed a long time ago.”
“Nevertheless…” Chief Deb shooed him again.
Though he didn’t want to stay here, not with that there, Owen refused to be shooed. He’d taken great pains not to be seen walking today; he wasn’t going to ruin that now.
“You’ll have to stay somewhere else, Owen,” Deb said.
“I don’t have anywhere else.”
The silence that followed that statement made him wish it back even before Becca spoke.
“You can—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I’m not staying at your place.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“She can barely fit in her place.” Deb eyed Owen. “You never would.”
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Above the clinic.”
“In Doc Brady’s room?”
Owen had been there once with Becca when they’d brought him a bird with a broken leg. Oddly, by the time they got there, the creature was hopping around on it pretty well, and it had flown off as soon as Doc Brady held it out the upstairs window of his teeny-tiny abode.
There wouldn’t be room for him and Reggie in Doc Brady’s—make that Doc Becca’s—place, even if he were willing to go there.
“I can stay at a bed-and-breakfast. There must be a hundred of them.”
More like a dozen, and at this time of year, just after prime leaf viewing, they should be pretty empty.
“Unfortunately none of them accept pets,” Becca said.
“Reggie’s better behaved than most of their clientele.”
“No doubt,” she agreed. “But their clientele doesn’t drool and shed.”