Candy Apple Dead (20 page)

Standing, I brushed the dirt from the back of my pants and turned toward the door. “Okay, but you know where to find me if you ever want to talk. Right?”

The rest of him didn’t move, but the ear I’d been scratching rotated to one side. Maybe it’s a sign of my mental state at the time, but I counted that as a good sign.

 

 

By evening, I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. I locked up the store and climbed the steps, carrying a couple of lollipops with me. Oh sure, maybe you think it’s childish, but adults buy—and eat—sixty-five percent of the candy sold in America, and it’s not all exotic gourmet varieties, either.

I wanted nothing more than to take a hot bath and curl up with a good book, but I still hadn’t connected with Wyatt, and I wanted to make sure he was still doing all right. I also wanted answers.

I’d been trying for days to reach my brother, but I was finally ready to concede that he wasn’t going to pick up the phone, no matter how many times I called. He probably wouldn’t come around to visit me, either. No, if I wanted to talk to him, I was going to have to look for him.

Knowing I might live to regret it, I loaded Max into the Jetta and combed the streets of Paradise for well over two hours before conceding defeat. I had no idea where Wyatt was hiding, but if avoiding me was his goal, he was doing a good job.

Upstairs in my apartment again, I threw together a couple of open-faced grilled cheese sandwiches with thick slices of tomato and plenty of garlic salt. Max dropped to the floor and lay there with his nose up against the wooden door.

When the cheese was properly melted, I slid the sandwiches onto a plate, tossed on a handful of chips, and fished a Coke out of the refrigerator, then carried the whole thing to the couch and curled up with the remote.

I spent the next thirty minutes mindlessly flipping through channels. Over a hundred channels, and not a thing on to watch. How pathetic is that?

About that time, I realized that Max was still lying in front of the door waiting for something that was never going to happen, and my heart sank. I coaxed him into the kitchen and opened a can of Mighty Dog beef and chicken, thinking the brand name might encourage him. He looked at the shimmering brown glob for a minute, even sniffed it halfheartedly, then turned and padded back into the living room.

Growing discouraged, I trailed after him with the dish and sat on the floor beside him. “Come on, Max. Eat something. Please?”

He blinked, but that was the extent of his interest.

Far from being a menace, the poor dog had me worried. Where was the dog Chelsea had complained about? The one who ate his weight in dog food and disposed of it on the lawn? If I hadn’t known better, I’d swear she’d handed me the wrong leash.

I sat with him until my back started hurting, but even then I couldn’t make myself get up and leave. I dragged my sketchbook onto the floor with me and spent some time working on holiday display windows. Thanks to the murder, I’d decided against the graveyard scene I’d originally been thinking of for Halloween, and planned instead to create a whimsical cottage in the woods, with candy-corn shingles and licorice-string windows. I sketched candy pumpkins lining a licorice sidewalk and piles of autumn leaves made of crushed candy bits.

After a while, I stretched my legs out in front of me and touched Max’s head tentatively. He must have been in a mood because he let out a growl, but there was no heat in his protest, so I left my hand where it was and watched a few minutes of Letterman. But tonight, even the monologue couldn’t hold my interest.

When the show cut to commercial, Max stirred restlessly. I’d been working so long, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let him outside. Whenever it was, the sun had been up.

Definitely time for another walk.

I tugged on a jacket, but since I didn’t plan to do more than walk to the end of the block, I didn’t bother changing from slippers into shoes. After clipping the leash to Max’s collar, I led him downstairs. He followed reluctantly, padding along the pavement and making little clicking noises with his claws as he walked.

How often did his nails need clipping? I wondered. How many times a year did he need to go to the vet? Do dogs need annual checkups? Visits to the doggie dentist? I had absolutely no idea.

I made a mental note to call Manny Garcia, the vet down the street, and bone up on doggie health. He might not be Max’s regular vet, but it was a safe bet he’d know who was. With all the other changes in his life, Max didn’t need a stranger prodding him.

It was a clear night, the kind you never see in the city. Stars littered patches of clear sky, and a nearly full moon hovered near the crest of Crescent Peak—a giant white orb in the midnight-blue sky. I could see the outlines of trees and the lighter belt of green where Devil’s Playground, one of the area’s more difficult ski runs, cut through the forest.

As I stood shivering, Max gave a planter box exquisite attention, and it occurred to me that owning a dog was a lot like having children. Not that children routinely sniff planter boxes. Or maybe they do. The point is, I wouldn’t know, would I?

Simply put, it had been a long time since I’d felt so needed. Maybe I never had. Roger certainly hadn’t needed me. He’d made that crystal clear early in our marriage. Even when the marriage ended, and I came back to assist Aunt Grace, I hadn’t been necessary. Aunt Grace had been amazingly independent at her age.

Maybe having Max around wouldn’t be such a bad thing. At least not for me. I couldn’t say how good the experience would be for Max.

Even though it was nearly eleven, the streets weren’t entirely deserted. Light still burned inside O’Shucks on the corner. Music and laughter drifted outside each time the door opened to let someone in or out. For the first time in a week, I felt at peace, and I thought maybe I’d actually get a good night’s sleep.

Max nosed around the planter boxes for a few more minutes, then sniffed his way toward the Dumpster as if it might contain something interesting. I had a fortune in dog food stacked in an upstairs closet, and he got excited over garbage. Go figure.

Without warning, he straightened, let out a whimper, and broke into a run. Pain shot up my arm, and the leash burned my hand as it slipped through my grip. Just before it flew out of my hand, I managed to grasp it tightly, but I nearly lost a slipper as the force jerked me forward.

“Hey, slow down!” I pulled backward on the leash, but Max plunged forward, hot on the trail of something only he knew. “Max!” I shouted. “Stop! Heel!”

He loped downhill, past a couple strolling hand-in-hand. I tried digging my heels in for traction, but slippers have no tread, and Max was too strong for me. He raced on, darting past a park bench, circling a lamppost, and finally dashing into the street only a few feet in front of a car.

My heart shot into my throat, but somehow I managed to get a bloodcurdling scream out around it. The driver slammed on his brakes, leaned out his window, and shouted after me. “Are you crazy? Why don’t you control that mutt?”

Nice suggestion, buddy. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it.

This was the second time in a week I’d raced through town with pink fuzz on my feet, and I wished desperately that I’d taken the time to put on shoes. Lesson learned.

A low growl emanated from Max’s throat and pulled my attention back to the race. We reached the opposite side of the street and he ran onto the sidewalk. Between Bighorn Real Estate and Beaver Creek Clothiers, Max made a sudden right turn and shot toward the steep wooden steps leading downhill. I don’t know if it was my life I saw passing before my eyes, but something whizzed past, and I didn’t think I’d survive the landing if Max decided to head that way.

To my immense relief, he veered back toward the street at the last second and barreled toward the corner. I’d never seen Max like this, but he was so focused, I was beginning to think this wasn’t just a mood swing. He was after something. I just had no idea what it was.

We flew down another block, past Edelweiss Bakery, Once Upon A Crime, and Mondano. And then, as suddenly as it had started, Max ground to a halt, and the chase was over.

Max stood, ears erect, nose working furiously.
The growl gave way to the high-pitched whine I’d heard too much of already, and he turned to look at me as if I’d know what he wanted.

My chest heaved, and my lungs burned. My fingers tingled from the effort of hanging onto the leash. I dropped onto the edge of a planter box and tried to pull myself together. To my surprise, Max trotted over and sat beside me, just the way he used to with Brandon. While I concentrated on getting my breath back, he watched me, waiting for me to tell him what came next.

I had no idea what to tell him.

After a few minutes I was able to breathe well enough to smell the sweet, subtle scents of autumn-faded petunias and loamy soil. Max let out one last whine and sank onto the sidewalk with his head on his paws, depressed again.

Whatever he’d been chasing was gone now, and I still didn’t know what we’d been after.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my dry mouth, and my chest felt as if someone had been herding elephants across it, but on the off-chance I could find what Max had been chasing, I dragged myself to my feet and led Max to the corner.

Cars lined the street, and a handful of people moved together in a group along the sidewalk, but Max showed no interest in any of it. I couldn’t see anyone who made me uneasy.

Had it been a person? The only places still open were nightclubs, but I couldn’t take Max inside to search. Maybe I could have tied him up outside while I went in, but an odd, uneasy feeling warned me not to leave him alone.

Confused and uncertain, I turned back toward home, but my mind raced with possibilities as we walked. I was pretty sure Max hadn’t been running on a whim. Brandon had paid a fortune to have him trained. He might look like a killer, but he didn’t attack people indiscriminately. So, if he’d been after someone, it was someone he considered a threat. I’d have bet everything I owned on it.

But who?

I think that’s when the reality of Brandon’s death finally hit me. There was a killer in Paradise, and it was probably someone I knew.

I wouldn’t even seriously consider Wyatt as a suspect. Stella Farmer had motive—such as it was—but Chelsea had had opportunity. She could have slipped into Man About Town at any time without being noticed. Even if she’d been seen, nobody would have thought twice about her being there. They might not even remember seeing her.

She wasn’t the only person who’d had access to the store, I reminded myself. Lucas Dumont’s paychecks had bounced just as high as Chelsea’s had.

Warnings to be cautious whispered in the back of my mind, but I ignored them. I’m not that good at taking advice from myself, either.

 

 

“Tell her she’s crazy,” Karen demanded the next morning.

“Go on, tell her. She won’t listen to me.”

At one of the wrought-iron tables inside Divinity, Rachel Summers froze with a piece of fudge halfway to her mouth and split a look between my cousin and me. She wore a bright blue sweater with a matching pair of pants. A scarf in bold geometric patterns covered her neck, and earrings in the same color palette dangled from her ears.

I, on the other hand, looked sublime in a pair of jeans, a UCLA sweatshirt, and a pair of dirty sneakers. It didn’t matter. Nobody was going to see me today, anyway. Some time during the night, a bone-chilling wind had blown into the valley, and this morning it tore through Paradise flinging leaves and bits of dirt around.

The streets were almost deserted this morning, and the weather was another sharp reminder that winter was just around the corner. I wouldn’t be able to leave Max outside in the snow, but if a candy shop was going to have an inventory retrieval specialist, it probably shouldn’t be one who licks himself . . . well, you know.

I didn’t have the heart to leave Max outside, but leaving him in the small room upstairs had turned out to be a disaster after only a few minutes. He’d scratched the paint off the door frame, chewed holes in three chairs, and knocked three potted plants onto the floor before we heard the commotion. Leaving him in my apartment wasn’t an option. That ratty old furniture might not be much, but it was all I had. That meant I either had to keep him in the kitchen or in a corner near the display cases. Either way, the Health Department was sure to get us.

I sighed, closed the glass display case, and poured myself a cup of coffee. “I’m telling you, Max knows something,” I said to Karen and Rachel. “I don’t know what he knows, but he knows
something
.”

Rachel nodded agreeably. “They do say that dogs are incredibly smart.”

She was the only agreeable person in the room. With a sour expression, Karen pulled the plastic cover off the thermostat and nudged up the heat a couple of degrees. “Not
that
smart. Honestly, Abby. You want us to get all excited because the dog went for a run last night? You’re crazy!”