Tricia’s hand flew to her throat—and instinctively she grabbed the locket’s chain and thought of the picture of Miss Marple within it. “I’d hate for that to happen. Would it be okay if I took him to the vet?” she asked Officer Malcolm.
The officer eyed the chief, who hadn’t seemed that interested. “I’ll ask the sarge. He’s a soft touch—has a whole menagerie at home.”
Tricia shook her head at the irony. “That’s the dog’s name—Sarge.”
The officer nodded. “The chief may have more questions for you later. Would you like to wait in the kitchen?”
Again she shook her head. “I’ll wait outside, if that’s okay.” At his nod of approval, she exited the house, grateful to inhale the cool, crisp evening air.
Dusk had fallen by the time one of the firemen came out of the house with what looked like a bundle of towels. “Ma’am, one of the officers said you were willing to take the victim’s dog to a vet?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll put him in your car. I don’t think you should touch him.”
“Will he bite?” Tricia asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve tied a makeshift muzzle around his jaws. When you get to the vet, let them come get him. They’ll know best how to handle him so he isn’t hurt further.”
They walked toward Tricia’s car and she opened the door to the backseat. With care, the fireman settled the dog, who whimpered softly. Sarge turned his sad brown eyes on Tricia. He seemed to be pleading, Help me!
The fireman handed Tricia a scrap of paper with an address on it. “I called the vet. They’ll be waiting for you.” He looked down at the dog and frowned. “Poor little guy. I hope he makes it.” The fireman gave Tricia a weak smile and a parting nod and went back inside to join his comrades.
Chief Strauss approached Tricia once again. “Ma’am, where can we reach you if we have any further questions?”
Tricia opened her car door and retrieved her purse, extracting one of her business cards. She wrote her home and cell numbers on the back before handing it to him.
Strauss touched the bill of his cap in farewell and walked back to the house.
Tricia got in her car and started the engine. Before she put the car in gear, she glanced at the address on the slip of paper the fireman had given her. It was the same place she took Miss Marple for her annual shots, not far from the strip mall that housed the diner and jeweler she’d visited just days before. She turned to look at the little dog. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be panting very fast. “I’ll get you some help, Sarge. I promise.”
She started the car and pulled away from the curb, hoping she could keep her word.
Twenty-One
It was long past eight o’clock when Tricia finally made it back to Stoneham, and she was ravenous. But as she hadn’t done any shopping, there was still nothing of substance in her fridge, and the thought of yogurt or toast wasn’t at all appetizing—not after what she’d been through that evening. Worse, she hadn’t phoned Angelica to tell her she couldn’t make their rendezvous with Michele Fowler. Oddly enough, Angelica hadn’t called her, either.
Tricia pulled into the municipal parking lot, cut the engine, and pulled out her cell phone. Angelica answered on the first ring. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important. Are you alone?”
“Absolutely!” Angelica said with chagrin.
“Then can I come over and mooch something to eat?”
“Sure. What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there. See you in a minute.”
It took two minutes by the time Tricia let herself into the Cookery and made her way up the stairs to Angelica’s loft apartment. Angelica met her at the door. “Is it a hot cocoa, wine, or something-stronger kind of funk you’re in?”
“Wine sounds good.”
“I just happen to have a couple of bottles. Red or white? Although it rather depends on what leftover you choose as your entrée. Come on in.”
Tricia followed her sister down the corridor to the loft’s kitchen that overlooked Main Street. Angelica hadn’t bothered to draw the blinds, and the gas lights down below glowed, attracting an assortment of insects that buzzed around them.
Angelica opened the door to the fridge to survey its contents. “I’ve got tons of food—all recipes I’ve tested for the new cookbook.”
“Good grief, is that an entire roast turkey in there?” Tricia asked in disbelief, peering over her sister’s shoulder.
“What’s left of one. I told you, I’m working on Easy-Does-It Holidays. My editor wants me to include a section on how to make use of Thanksgiving leftovers. Of course, I don’t have any cranberry sauce, but if you don’t mind it sliced cold, I could whip up a salad and some veggies or make you a turkey salad sandwich. Or would you rather have turkey tetrazzini or turkey curry?”
“How hot is the curry?” Tricia asked.
“Hot enough to curl your hair. And I’ll zap a papadum in the microwave for you, too.”
“I’ll go for it. Now pour me a glass of white wine and I’ll tell you a tale that might curl your hair, too.”
“Oh, this sounds interesting,” Angelica said, and snagged a couple of glasses from the cupboard and the wine from the fridge. She poured.
“I got a phone call from Elaine Capshaw just as I was about to close the store.”
“And?” Angelica dutifully prompted.
“She’d received another threatening call. I tried to convince her to call the police, but she asked me to come over to be with her when she did. It couldn’t have been fifteen minutes from the time I left until—”
“Let me guess—you got there and she was gone,” Angelica said, taking a plastic-wrap-covered bowl from the fridge.
“No, she was dead.”
Angelica scowled, and with hands on hips demanded, “Don’t tell me you found her?”
“Almost. Whoever called her made good on their threat before I could get there. She’d been bludgeoned to death.”
Angelica winced as she transferred the curry to a saucepan.
“Her poor little dog suffered a similar fate,” Tricia said.
Angelica’s head snapped up. “Someone killed her dog?” she cried in anguish.
Tricia shook her head. “No, but it’s badly injured. I ended up taking the little guy to the local vet—that’s where I’ve been for the past two hours. He’s already cost me half a grand, and it looks like I’m responsible for him, unless a relative or one of Elaine’s neighbors claims him. If that doesn’t happen, I suppose I’ll call the Humane Society or maybe a dog rescue service to find him a home. If he recovers.”
“Oh, no!” Angelica cried, distressed.
Tricia nodded. “According to the vet, Sarge’s lungs were bruised. He must’ve been kicked into a wall or some other solid object.”
“Bruising is better than busted ribs,” Angelica said, but she didn’t sound convinced.
“Maybe, maybe not. There’s a danger his lungs could fill with fluid, and then he’d probably—” Tricia stopped before saying the D word. Angelica had once had a poodle she’d loved. She’d said she’d never recovered from losing her little Pom-Pom. Hearing about Sarge’s injuries might be too painful for her.
Angelica’s bottom lip trembled, and she looked close to tears. “That poor, poor puppy.”
Tricia frowned. “I’ve met him three times now, and he seems like a wonderful little dog. I wonder if Grace and Mr. Everett would like a pet—if he makes it, that is.”
Angelica sighed. “They’d be good doggy parents,” she agreed.
Tricia nodded. “I’ll ask Mr. Everett in the morning.”
“So what do you think happened to Elaine? It had to be a friend—or someone she knew, right? Why else would a frightened woman open the door?”
“That’s what I figured—and so did the Milford cops. But she told me when we met on Saturday that she had no one to depend on and said it again tonight when she phoned me. I’m sure that’s why she called me to come be with her.”