2 Murder Most Fowl (6 page)

"Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring - it was peace."
(Milan Kundera)

Chapter Eleven
.

I arrived at the Dog Training group filled with trepidation. Sandy walked well on the leash, and I had taught her to sit every time I stopped, but I had no idea how she would react around so many other dogs. She was always excited to meet other dogs on our walks –
excited
meaning that she did vertical leaps in the air trying to reach the dogs to lick them to death.

I had arrived early for two reasons, the first being that I wanted to register and find the right class, and secondly, I wanted to find Blake and tell him what Janine Templeton said about the boarding house’s cleaner gathering hemlock from the side of the road.

I was accompanied by Mr. Buttons, who agreed with me that it was most certainly incriminating evidence. “I’m so nervous about this, Mr. Buttons. What if Sandy misbehaves?”

Mr. Buttons shook his head. “Sibyl, please don’t say that again. People take their dogs to training so that they will be taught to behave. There must be other dogs like Sandy here.”

I wasn’t so sure, but Mr. Buttons took the initiative. He grasped Sandy’s leash, and we made our way to what looked like an office, in a tent.

Unfortunately, there was a Staffordshire Terrier standing in the way and as we approached him, Sandy threw herself on top of him in delight. The owner at first smiled, and the dog wanted to play for the first few seconds, but then decided he didn’t want a much heavier dog cleaning out the inside of his ears.

Mr. Buttons pulled Sandy away. The Staffordshire Terrier shook his head, and globules of slobber flew out of his ear. I apologized profusely. The owner and the dog hurried away.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” I groaned.

“Nonsense, Sibyl. Dog training will improve Sandy’s manners. Now I’ll go and register Sandy, and you go and tell Blake what Janine Templeton said about Susan Woods gathering hemlock. Find out whether the detectives are investigating Susan.”

“Okay, I’ll go and look for Blake.”

“He’s right over there.” Mr. Buttons pointed to a seating area near the swamp, or the creek, as the locals liked to call it.

“Okay.” I was shy about speaking to Blake, but I had good reason. He smiled when he saw me coming.

“Glad you could make it. Where’s Sandy?”

I nodded in the direction of the tent. “Mr. Buttons is registering us now for the Beginners’ Class. Blake, did the detectives tell you about the new evidence Cressida gave them?”

Blake’s forehead furrowed in puzzlement. “No, what was it?”

“Cressida and I were in Pharmidale yesterday afternoon, and Janine Templeton told her that she had seen Cressida’s cleaner, Susan Woods, gathering hemlock by the side of the road, out on Gostywk Road a few weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t Janine Templeton go straight to the police after the first murder?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. But Cressida called the detectives at once, and all they did was thank her and say they’d be in touch. I’m worried that they didn’t tell you.”

Blake stroked his chin. “Hmm, okay. Well, don’t be too worried; they don’t have to share information with me; after all, it’s their case. Leave it with me, Sibyl; I’ll look into it.”

I thanked him. “Blake, where’s your dog?”

“Right here.” Blake appeared to be puzzled.

I looked around, and then saw the tiniest Chihuahua I had ever seen, sitting at Blake’s feet. I know Chihuahuas are small, but this one was tiny. “Is that your dog?”

“Yes.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I hope you’re not prejudiced against Chihuahuas, are you? A lot of people find it strange that a man owns a Chihuahua. I suppose you were expecting me to own a Rottweiler or a Pit Bull or something.”

I shook my head. “No, no, no, no, no,” I said vehemently, and then wondered if I had said
no
one too many times. I bent down and looked at the tiny dog. He had huge, soft eyes, and was a dark cream color with white markings on his face, chest, feet, and neck. He had the most adorable expression on his little face. “What a cute dog. Is he safe to pat?”

“He is now,” Blake said, “but he was aggressive when I got him from the shelter, poor little guy. The training has really helped him.”

“What’s his name?” I gingerly stroked the dog’s head, and he licked my finger.

“Tiny.”

I had no suitable response, so simply said, “Oh.”

“Mr. Buttons is calling you, Sibyl.”

I said goodbye to Blake and hurried over to Mr. Buttons, who handed me Sandy’s leash. “Here you are, Sibyl. The class is about to start.”

My stomach clenched. “Wish me luck.”

I took Sandy over to the Beginners’ Class. The humans seemed friendly enough, and so did the dogs. The instructor was a short, cheerful, but very loud woman named Denise.

Denise told us to bring our dogs into the middle and let them greet each other. All the other dogs were well behaved, but Sandy tried to sit on several dogs and lick their ears. “Take the Labrador out, please,” Denise said. “Perhaps she can do the meet and greet in later weeks.”

I inwardly groaned with embarrassment. I stood there, Sandy by my side, watching Blake in the advanced class over the other side of the field. Nevertheless, I soon lost my embarrassment when the class started. As Denise had all the dogs paced out nicely, Sandy settled down. She led nicely and sat nicely. I was even beginning to enjoy myself. Mr. Buttons was standing on the side, beaming at Sandy’s progress, and occasionally giving me the thumbs up.

The class drew to an end and Denise, in her over-the-top, animated style, told us that we would all now do the
Come
. Everyone had to make their dogs sit, and then say, “Stay,” and walk backward away from the dog. To make the dog come, we had to say “Come,” and then fling out our arms out in a Y position. After about the third go, Sandy understood what I wanted.

Denise was pleased. “This will be the last exercise for the day. We will do the
Stay
off leash.” She had us all line up our dogs in a row, and then repeat the process, this time dropping the leash.

I was a little nervous at first, but Sandy did not move a muscle.

“Now,” Denise said, “all of you say, ‘Come,’ and put your arms out in the Y position.”

I gave the signal, and said “Come,” loudly. To my relief Sandy immediately stood up. Unfortunately, she broke into a run, and even worse, when she reached me, she ran straight past me. I moved my arms from the Y position to the Grab For Leash position, but the leash slipped out of my hands.

Sandy continued running down to the swamp, chasing a flock of squawking starlings. I ran after her, but she was too fast for me. I hoped she would stop when she reached the swamp, but no such luck. Sandy launched herself straight into the muddy swamp. Mud and birds flew everywhere.

Mr. Buttons appeared beside me. “Sibyl, quick, if you run over there to the right, the creek narrows and you can jump across it. If Sandy swims directly across the swamp, you should be able to catch her when she emerges.”

I thanked Mr. Buttons and took off at a sprint, until I reached the place where the creek narrowed, all the while hoping that the reeds in the swamp would slow Sandy down. I stopped and judged the distance. The creek was indeed narrow here, but I wouldn’t be able to jump clean across. Thankfully, there were rocks on one side.

I gingerly made my way across the rocks, but when I was almost across, my foot slipped and I fell into the creek. I threw my arms out to save myself. Fortunately, my landing was soft, but that was only because the mud was deep. I struggled to my feet, and wiped the mud out of my eyes. I dragged myself up onto the bank and realized I only had one shoe on. I looked around for the other shoe, but it had vanished in the mud.

I looked up and saw that a crowd of owners and their dogs had gathered on the other side of the swamp. To my embarrassment, Blake was there, his jaw hanging open. I must have looked a sight, encased in mud as I was. I hobbled along until I caught sight of Sandy, likewise covered in mud, splashing around happily in the swamp.

I called her and she looked up, but she looked in the other direction. I figured she thought I was calling her from the other side of the swamp. Sandy accelerated out of the swamp straight at the crowd of onlookers.

What happened next seemed to me to happen in slow motion. Sandy, covered in thick mud from head to toe, launched herself out of the swamp and ran straight at Mr. Buttons, Mr. Buttons who could not bear to see a speck of dust, Mr. Buttons who was OCD about cleanliness.

Mr. Buttons threw his arms up in horror. Sandy, clearly mistaking that for the
Come
signal, launched herself straight at him. He went flying backward, and Sandy threw herself on top of him, and licked his ears.

I hurried back across the narrow part of the swamp, wading directly through the mud this time, and made my way straight to Mr. Buttons as fast I could while wearing one shoe.

Denise had pulled Sandy off Mr. Buttons and was explaining to him that all Labradors love swimming.

Mr. Buttons did not appear to care: he was not moving, and his eyes were staring at the sky.

I hurried to him. “Blake, is he okay?”

Blake and his Chihuahua both looked shocked. Blake shrugged and helped Mr. Buttons to his feet.

Mr. Buttons did not say a word, until we reached my pet grooming van, where he climbed in the back section. I thought he was simply being considerate, trying to avoid putting mud on my seat, and was about to tell him that I could cover the seats with towels from the van, when I saw that he had climbed into the dog bath, and was proceeding to wash himself in there, clothes and all. I handed him a bottle of dog shampoo, grabbed some towels, and spread them over the front seats.

Sandy was tired after her adventure, so I drove back to the boarding house, with Sandy asleep on the front seat, and Mr. Buttons still washing himself in the dog bath in the back of the van.

A dog is one of the remaining reasons why some people can be persuaded to go for a walk.

(O.A. Battista)

Chapter Twelve
.

The morning after my embarrassing experience at dog training, I was up just before 7, hoping to avoid all the dog owners in town. I didn’t think Mr. Buttons would want to see me again too soon either. I ate a simple breakfast of coffee, yogurt, fruit, and half a bar of chocolate, then loaded Sandy into my pet grooming van and drove to the off-leash dog park on the edge of town.

The off-leash dog park was more of a walking trail than a play area for dogs, and was simply part of an old farm, now overgrown and with a deep, eroded gully running up the middle of its entire length. It was dotted with wattle trees and gum trees, and there were fallen branches everywhere, thanks to the latest storm. Gum trees drop their branches easily.

When I walked with Mr. Buttons, we walked around the streets of town, but when I walked alone, I always came to the dog park. Unlike most off-leash dog parks, this park was not securely fenced. To make matters worse, on one side of the park was the highway, and on the other side was the railway line. Granted, trains only ran through Little Tatterford twice a day, but it was still not the safest place to have a dog off leash, and especially not now that the weather was warming up, bringing with it the danger of snakes.

I liked the park for its peace and quiet, and I rarely saw any other people there. Sandy loved going to the dog park, and she ran forward as much as her leash would allow, sniffing at the kangaroo and rabbit droppings she found on the side of the trail. Rabbits often darted in front of us, but Sandy didn’t seem to notice them, being more content to sniff the questionable delights at ground level.

As I walked, I thought about Cressida’s predicament. I had no desire to try to solve two murders, but what choice did I have? And it wasn’t as if I had done any semesters of criminology at university. All I knew about solving crime came directly from watching TV, and American TV crime shows at that. Our system was quite different; we do not have elected sheriffs in Australia, just a government appointed police system. The sheriffs in Australia are government appointed and pretty much only evict non-paying tenants and seize property from debtors – civil law only, no crime solving involved. Still, I did watch a lot of crime shows, and the only sheriff I could think of was Rick from
The Walking Dead
. Thinking of Rick made me think of Sergeant Blake Wessley, as they looked similar, although Blake was of a thicker build. I smiled to myself.

I was so deep in thought that I squealed when someone called my name. I looked up and found I was face to face with Blake. Blake had been jogging, and was dressed in gym shorts and a sweatshirt that was dark with sweat across the chest. Sandy wagged her tail furiously and tried to jump all over him. He reached down and patted Sandy on the head.

“Thinking hard?” Blake asked.

“Yes,” I said, tightening my grip on Sandy’s leash. My cheeks were burning and I felt quite guilty, as I’d just been thinking about him.

“Cressida?”

“Yes,” I lied.             

“I thought so,” Blake said, his face grim.

“Have you had a chance yet to speak to the detectives about the new evidence?”

Blake shrugged, and then he pointed to a bench made out of iron framing and wooden slats on the side of the path, slightly behind me. Blake made his way to it, and I followed him, all the while having to restrain Sandy from jumping on him. We both sat down, and I held onto Sandy’s collar, but she promptly lost interest in Blake and stretched out, sniffing the grass.

“I did speak to the detectives,” Blake said, “and they said they were looking into it.”

“That’s great,” I said with relief. “I hope you know that Cressida didn’t do it.”

Blake nodded. “I know she didn’t.”

I smiled at him, but he did not smile back. “Sibyl, here’s the problem,” Blake said. “Those detectives are likely to latch onto the first suspect they’ve got. Some detectives get hung up on one person, and once they do that, they won’t change their minds. If they do, it’s like they’re admitting defeat or something. They make the evidence fit their conclusions.”

“But what about Cressida’s cleaner, Susan Woods, picking hemlock plants?” I said.

Blake ran his fingers through his hair. “I know, but the detectives could just see that as small town gossip, and Janine Templeton did not go to them directly with that information. Cressida made matters worse with this Colin Palmer stuff. If only she’d come clean in the first place about their previous relationship.”

I nodded. “True, but Susan is tall, and the killer was much taller than Cressida is; the killer went right by me on the porch. I told the detectives that, but they thought I was covering for Cressida. Is there anything you can do?”

“Sibyl,” Blake said, turning to look in my eyes. “I promise you I’m fighting them on this. I’m doing what I can. The trouble is, they don’t have any suspects other than Cressida.” I made to protest, but he held up a hand. “Seeing someone pulling up weeds by the roadside is not evidence to them. It’s probably only a matter of time before they decide they have enough evidence to arrest Cressida. They’re poring over the boarding house right now. I guarantee that they’ll find something, some little thing, and then they will arrest her. Sad to say, there’s nothing I can do to stop them.”

“That isn’t fair!” I said. I buried my face in my hands. I wanted to clear Cressida’s name, but I had no idea how to do so.

“She needs a good lawyer.”

I nodded. “Yes, she’s agreed to get a lawyer. But will it come to that?”

Blake’s silence told me all I indeed to know. Those detectives were likely to arrest Cressida, and I had to do whatever I could to stop them.