“You didn’t use any other skills?” Tom asked, his voice rising to an unnatural pitch.
“No. I told you I don’t do that anymore.” I felt my jaw clench and reminded myself that I wasn’t actually mad at him. It was my family that wouldn’t let this go.
He put his head in his hands, elbows on the table.
“I’m sorry.” He picked his head up and met my eyes. “We—my mother and I—thought you must have been using your other talents. That’s certainly the impression your mother gave us.”
This made more sense. Rose wasn’t bragging about her daughter the police officer. She was bragging that her daughter the freaky psychic was passing herself off as a police officer. I was only annoyed with myself for feeling kindly toward my mother. I should have known that her single-minded obsession would not have been supplanted by a mere law enforcement career. She probably believed I was using psychic abilities to solve crimes. Little did she know it was the one time I listened to my “talent” that had landed me in my current mess.
“Tom, I’d be glad to help you if you still want my help, but only as a fellow police officer. I can help you sort through the evidence and maybe point you in other directions with the case, but I don’t do psychic consultations.”
He nodded glumly.
“I expected as much. Who would voluntarily take care of Baxter if they could do readings all day instead?” he said.
6
I glanced at my watch and groaned. I was late for my afternoon clients—not that the dogs could tell time. But I wanted to hear what Tom knew about the case. We finished Jillian’s potion cooking, and I convinced him to come with me on dog rounds. Since my next client, Bonnie, lived only a block away, I left my car at the curb in front of Jillian’s house.
Tom loped along next to me, stumbling on the occasional ant or leaf in our path. He seemed to have trouble adjusting his long-limbed gait to mine and kept speeding up and slowing down. His hands tried to keep up with his words as he gushed about police work.
When we reached the top of a steeply slanted street, Tom looked around. Probably checking for spies. We were almost to Bonnie’s house. The shady sidewalk was hushed and held the lingering scent of lilacs. A group of kids played soccer in the park one street over, but the area was otherwise deserted.
“Okay, what we know so far is that Sara was shot with a small-caliber handgun.” Tom flipped a page in his notepad. “No one in the neighboring houses heard anything.”
“Her house is pretty isolated,” I said.
“There are no likely suspects, but we’re looking at her ex-husband, Gary. They had a very messy divorce. Several witnesses have come forward claiming they were recently seen arguing.”
“Are you sure he was even in town when this happened?” I asked.
“His flight left at ten a.m. from Grand Rapids. You discovered the body at eleven.” He waved his hand in my direction and made a note in his book. “The ME is placing time of death at around eight a.m., give or take an hour.”
“You’ll have to see what kind of an alibi he has and what time he checked in for his flight,” I said, slowing as we approached Bonnie’s house.
“He checked in twenty minutes before his flight. They were about to give his seat to a standby passenger.”
“You need to find out where he was before that.” I pulled a ring of keys out of my bag, unlocked the door, and gestured at Tom to stand back. Bonnie was a standard poodle with an overexuberant greeting ritual.
A black blur rocketed toward me and, with a practiced side step, I grabbed her collar to avoid being knocked down. Unfortunately, Bonnie didn’t stop as usual. She continued to run straight at Tom, dragging me along with her. When she hit him full force in the groin, he crumpled against the doorjamb and let out a high-pitched wheeze.
“Bonnie, off!” I said to the dog, who was now wiggling and licking Tom’s hands and face.
“Yuck! Stop her!” Tom tried to stand, still protecting his injured area.
I pulled Bonnie to the hook where her leash was kept. She was so excited to have two visitors she could barely contain herself, nails tapping out a happy sound on the kitchen tile.
Tom, barely able to stand, held on to the doorjamb for support.
“Um, why don’t you wait here and rest while I take her for her walk?”
He nodded and sank to the back-door steps. Bonnie took this as an invitation to begin the licking again.
I dragged her down the driveway to do her business.
We returned after Bonnie sniffed all of the usual spots and determined the neighborhood was safe from intruders. The poodle geared up for another encounter with Tom. Fortunately, he was standing and ready for her.
We locked her back in her house and continued up the street to Bear’s house.
“What kind of dog is Bear?” Tom asked
“He’s a mix of a bichon and a shih tzu. They call them teddy bears.”
“Oh, that sounds cute. Are they big?” Tom limped and grimaced as we walked.