Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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with the excuse that any dog was too much expense and trouble, her father had lived a solitary life.
“What’s going on?” she called as she ruffled its silken fir and traced its ribs ever so slightly, a sign of fitness. “Where did this guy come from? Is it a stray? It looks too healthy to have been on its own for long.”
Her father came through the TV room with a dishcloth in his hand. The smell of liver and onions made her stomach lurch. Doing the shopping for him, she had stocked Chef Boy-ar-dee ravioli in the cupboard, her default meal.
“He’s a rescue. Got him today,” he said. “And he’s been neutered already. A bonus.”
“Why have you been keeping this a secret?” she asked with a nervous laugh. It was his house, and he could do what he wished. His occasional sadness worried her, though he always seemed to pull himself together. Company might smooth things out. As for the comical but shallow breed, there was no accounting for tastes. On the island, border collies could do no wrong. They had free passes for any mischief.
His lean and serious face seemed to relax as he petted the animal. His eyebrows were growing fuzzy and unruly, another sign of an old man. “Suppose I have. Just wanted to think it over. I’ve seen him over by Wink’s at the soccer field. There’s a rescue place on Sooke River Road. Run by a lady called Shannon.”
“Why a border collie?” She didn’t like to discourage her father, but everyone knew that breed was high energy. This wasn’t a farm. It wasn’t even fully fenced, with the front open and one side a hedge of cedars.
“Thanks to the wise breeding of working dogs, their health is excellent and their disposition generally good. I know you loved our sheps, but their health problems cost a fortune. And this man doesn’t eat more than two cups of kibble a day. A few quality treats like bison sticks are allowed. Very economical.”
“But what about exercise? Aren’t they pretty demanding?” Watching her watch him, the dog wheeled, grabbed a rope tugger and presented it to her.
“Depends on the individual. But Hogan/Logan can settle down quickly, and he’s already house-trained, so that’s another plus. I’d never take on a new pup. Bonnie always kept each shepherd in bed with us and trained them in two weeks flat. She’d get up at all hours of the night to take them out.” He reached over and pulled out a bag with tennis balls and Chuck-it wand. “Shannon suggested running him off his feet with this device. Modern version of the atlatl.” He mimed a toss, and she ducked as she laughed.
“Hogan/Logan? Did a poet wannabe name him? Or does he have a split personality?” She succumbed and gave the rope a tug up and down and from side to side. The dog fixed her gaze with the same insane focus that genes had given him for sheep. Was he one hundred per cent nature, or would nurture play a role?
Her father sighed. “He’s had a sad history. His first owner wanted a rescue dog to help her train for marathons, but was refused because she worked long hours. She got a pup from a breeder.”
“Marathons. It’s a dog’s dream. Plenty of exercise.”
“Shannon said that pups shouldn’t run those distances.
And the rest of the time she left him alone in a yard in Esquimalt fourteen hours a day. He barked his brains out.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Though not warming to the animal, she felt sorry for his bad luck.
“So she gave him up. Points for one good decision. For the last six months, he’s been in foster homes. They changed his name to Logan.”
“Enough already.” Holly snapped her fingers at Hogan/ Logan and pointed away. To his credit, the dog stopped pestering her, picked up a ball and turned to the other human. “Logan’s even worse. Any ideas?”
Jackie and Bryan’s diesel truck chugged up the drive next door. The dog dropped the ball and gave a roaring bark. Thirty pounds of attack dog. “Small guy, big voice. Doesn’t he sound like a warrior, like...a Shogun?”
But when she tried to pet him, the dog growled and veered away. “What’s that about?” she asked.
Her father waved his hand. “He’s talking. Mumbling. Typical. Means nothing. I’ve been on-line at a rescue site.” True enough, Shogun picked up the tug again and presented it to her.
“Who’s going to walk him?” She passed her father a questioning look. He had far more free time than she did. Ivory tower perks.
“I am, of course.” He gave her an impish smile. “Unless you want to take a turn. Now and then. Be some company for you. Take him to work.”
“I don’t think so. He’s not a service animal, and he’s too small to be a protector. On a good day, I could tuck him under my arm.”
Excusing herself, she went upstairs. On the bedroom wall were pictures of Bruna at sunset on the beach, her noble head posed in profile like Nefertiti’s. Then Nikon, a puppy gazing up from the green leaves of a salal bush, his floppy ears a comical beret. In his handsome youthful vigor, leaping over a log with a determined look in his eyes. She’d always remember those shepherd eyes, deep and sober, penetrating and wise, retaining that connection even when old bones creaked and flaccid muscles flagged. Not foxy like this young man’s but full of purpose, asking, “What serious matter will we attend to today, mistress?” Not what can I pull, tug or chase to please myself? It’s all about ME. No wonder border collies didn’t appear in the ranks of guide dogs and other selfless creatures. They were too frivolous to be soulmates. Though she admired the sleek coat, white shirt and ruff with matching paws, handsome is as handsome does. Shogun reminded her of Jeff Pasquin, a shallow pretty boy in youthful plumage. She didn’t trust either one.
Six
At ten the next rainy morning, Lindsey Benish appeared at the station with her mother in tow. The girl wore hip-hugger jeans exposing a flat belly with a red jewel in the navel. Her skin was clear and luminous, but her eyes were heavy with mascara and glittery eyeshadow. The liner-defined lipstick was charcoal. She wore blue plastic clogs, an island touch. Ann had provided them with coffee and a soda, and they perched like two hawks, their noses a genetic road map. Mrs. B had seventy pounds on her daughter and wore a bright, floral-print dress. Holly was sure she’d seen her at the Village Market, loaded up like a pack mule with chips, popcorn, soda and a bale of frozen chimichangas.
“You’re early. Thanks for coming,” Holly said, offering a stand for their umbrellas, ushering them into her office and hustling another chair from the lunchroom. She felt like a stage manager operating under an absent but demanding director. Whitehouse was overdue, perhaps due to the rain. He’d burned her ears over the phone when he’d called her back to discuss the new meth development. Obviously he preferred the case dead and buried, flawed or not.
“Are you going to interview my daughter?” Mrs. B asked. Lindsey took a lurid graphic novel from her backpack and began flipping pages as she popped dark brown gum. The air filled with chocolate. Her eyes fat slits, Mrs. B gave her daughter an elbow.
Holly managed an official smile. Had the crystal meth issue not arisen, she might have handled the girl alone. Whitehouse had been furious about having to reschedule his appointments. “Inspector Whitehouse should be here any minute. He’s coming from the city.” That in itself sounded impressive.
While she was checking a list of questions, she heard a car roar up and a door slam. A few mutters from the main office, and Whitehouse came into the room. He wore a drenched beige raincoat spattered with mud. Puddles seeped from his shoes, and his pants were soaked to his knees. When he took off his hat, droplets fell from his dishevelled hair to his nose and down his jutting chin. “Flooding at Gillespie. I had to push a stalled cab. How does anybody commute from this no-man’s land?”
“We all just got here anyway,” Holly said. Maybe Chipper had some spare pants in his locker. Then again...she rather enjoyed Whitehouse’s predicament.
With a shake of his head, he left, presumably for the