Let Sleeping Dogs Die Page 4

  And then there was the living together or getting married issue. Scott had suggested we should get married. When I told him I wasn’t sure I was ready for that, he suggested we live together. He just couldn’t see that I needed more time. I can’t even say why I felt that way, but I did. I’d been married for twenty-two years and only divorced for less than one. I was thoroughly enjoying the freedom of being a single woman and I wasn’t sure I could give it up just yet. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Scott. I loved him very much. And I absolutely could see us getting married later. Just not right now. Plus I wasn’t sure how Sheridan would feel about him moving in. She liked Scott a lot, but enough to live with him? Not that I’d asked her. I was thinking Scott and I could just table that discussion until Sheridan graduated college and moved out on her own. Scott hadn’t been pleased with that proposal at all. So we had mutually agreed to take a break. I missed him more than I’d thought I would.

  The stop at the department store was brief and I was in the elevator to my loft in short order. I set my case on the table next to the front door and headed for the kitchen. I still needed to look at some contact sheets and transparencies, so I put on a pot of coffee and cast a longing glance at a bottle of merlot I’d purchased last weekend. I heard music coming from Sheridan’s room and sighed. Maybe tonight we could just sit and talk for a while.

  At eighteen, Sheridan seemed to have taken a quantum leap into adulthood. Or at least into her own life. A year ago, I’d been privy to her life. At least I liked to think so. Now she was in college, she had friends I’d never met, and I was constantly being surprised by her. I wasn’t at all sure I liked it. Okay, I didn’t like it. I hated it. I wanted her to be six years old again. I wanted to arrange her playdates. I wanted to choose her wardrobe. I wanted to be the person she looked to for everything. I wanted to know every single detail of her life.

  And I’d tried. Evidently she didn’t feel the same way because all my efforts had been blocked.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and took the contact sheets and transparencies to my light table. Half an hour later, I’d chosen twenty black and whites to have enlarged for the newspaper ads I’d shot for the Organic Northwest Stores. I shoved the color transparencies aside and took my coffee cup to the kitchen for a refill. Before I could do that, the buzzer sounded from the building entryway. I pressed the talk button.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, Sheridan?”

  “No, this is Skye.”

  “Oh, right. Her roommate. I’m Zack.”

  “Zack?” I asked. Her roommate?

  “Right. Sheridan’s expecting me.”

  “Oh, sure. Come on up.” I pressed the open button and waited. He must have taken the stairs instead of the slow freight elevator because he was leaning on the doorbell in no time. I opened the door and the breath left my body.

  “Hey, Skye. I’m Zack.” He extended his hand and I automatically took it in mine.

  He wasn’t what I was expecting. For one thing, he was older than Sheridan. A lot older. He had to be in his late twenties. What the hell did he want with an eighteen-year-old college girl? The obvious answer occurred to me and I lost my breath again. Not only was he considerably older than my daughter, he was tattooed. I mean, he was really tattooed. In spite of the cool weather, he was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt. His exposed arms were covered with tats. Dragons, Celtic knots, some intricate lettering I couldn’t quite make out without being too obvious. His head was just shy of being shaved. Granted it was a handsome head and he had intelligent-looking brown eyes and an open smile. Still, he was there for my baby girl.

  “I’ll get Sheridan.” I waved a hand toward the living area. “Make yourself at home.” I walked to Sheridan’s door and knocked. No answer. I knocked louder. The door jerked open.

  “What?” she demanded.

  I arched an eyebrow and she backed down.

  “Zack is here for you.”

  “Oh, cool.” She looked past me and waved. “I’ll be right out.” She looked back at me. “Don’t say anything to him. In fact, you should go to your room.”

  “Oh, it’s all right, sweetie. He seems to think I’m your roommate, but I’ll clear that up while you finish getting ready.”

  “Oh, no. Mom, please. I can explain. Just don’t say anything, okay?” She closed the door and I turned back to Zack.

  “Sheridan will be out in a minute. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “A beer would be good.”

  Beer?

  “Should you be having a beer if you’re going out?” I asked.

  “Why not?” He looked genuinely confused. I wasn’t shy about educating him.

  “Surely you don’t drink and drive?”

  He laughed. “Oh, I see your point, but it’s not a problem. Sheridan’s driving.”

  “I see. So, how did you get here?”

  “Walked. I just live a few blocks from here.”

  Great. An older man I didn’t know. Covered in tattoos. Probably an alcoholic. Dating my daughter. And he lived within walking distance.

  “Hey, Zack, let’s go.” Sheridan gave me her brightest smile. “See you later, M … Skye.”

  I waved helplessly as they scooted out the door.

  There were half a dozen empty plastic cages with wire doors lined up against one wall when I arrived at the arena building adjacent to Frank Johnson’s house and the K-9 Stars kennel, but no sign of Peter yet. It was still early, though. I wouldn’t start shooting for another two hours. I lugged my camera cases, lights, poles, umbrella reflectors, and assorted equipment from the truck into the building.

  “Hey, Skye,” Lionel called.

  “Hey, you’re early. I appreciate that. Can you give me a hand?” I picked up a spool of clothesline and carried it over to the platform.

  “What are you doing?” Lionel asked.

  “We’re going to string this clothesline up and then use bedsheets as seamless.”

  “Man, that’s brilliant. I never would have thought of it.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  We were both staring up at the twenty-foot ceiling wondering exactly how we could get it done when Peter joined us.

  “What are we looking at?” he asked.

  “Actually we’re looking for a way to string this clothesline so we can hang bedsheets on it,” I said.

  “Okay. I didn’t expect you to bring your laundry but let me see what I can come up with.”

  I looked over at him ready to protest before I saw the twinkle in his brown eyes. “I’ll try to keep the clothespins out of the shots.”

  “I think I have an idea that will work. I just need to get a ladder and some tools from the garage. Be back in a few minutes.” He trotted to the door and disappeared. I stood grinning after him. I’m a sucker for handy men.

  “Imagine that,” Lionel said. “Everyone’s got brilliant ideas today.”

  “Except you?” I teased.

  “Mine just haven’t risen to the surface yet.”

  I helped Lionel unpack his boxes of props. I’d told him to bring anything he thought might be useful in addition to the ones called for in the layouts. Since I was winging it without Connie’s direction, I wanted as many options as possible. We filled a table with an assortment of items that ended up looking like a yard sale. I directed him to a corner with an electrical outlet. “You can plug in the iron over there.”

  “What am I ironing?” he asked. “We aren’t doing clothes.” He looked at the kennels. “This sure isn’t a fashion shoot.”

  “Sheets have wrinkles when they come out of the package. If they’re going to look like seamless, they’ll have to be ironed. I’ll need the blue ones first.”

  “Right.” He carried the iron and ironing board that I’d brought over to the corner and set it up.

  I didn’t envy him. Ironing sheets would be a bitch. Not that I’d ever done it. Well, once, but just to impress my former mother-in-law. Peter finally returned and set up the ladder behind the platform. Soon he had the clothesline strung and ready for the sheets.

  “You’re probably going to be ready for the dogs soon. I’ll get the ones you wanted and a couple more. They can rest in their kennels until you’re ready for them.” Peter trotted off again.

  Lionel climbed the ladder with the blue sheet and I handed him clothespins. He got the sheet hung, and together we spread it over the platform, securing it with pushpins.

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  I turned toward the door but only saw the silhouette of a person outlined by the bright sunshine streaming through the open doorway. The figure stepped inside and I could tell it was a woman. She continued to walk across the floor until she reached me and stuck out a hand.

  “Irene Knutson,” she said, grasping my hand. She was a strapping, Nordic-looking woman. “I’m the mayor of Hillsdale.”

  “Skye Donovan.” I tried to match her grip and not grimace. I thought I felt some of the smaller bones in my hand snap and couldn’t help looking down. Her nicely manicured hand engulfed mine. I sneaked a glance at her face, which was decidedly feminine.

  “I just stopped by to see Mr. Johnson, but he didn’t answer. I thought he might be here.”

  “No. I haven’t seen him today. We’re shooting a calendar for the Pet Place.”

  “Oh, I know. Frank told me. Well, if he’s not here, then I’ll just call him later.” She turned back to the door, then stopped. “If you see him, tell him I stopped by to talk about the next city council meeting.”

  “Sure.” I kind of stared at her as she left. She had to be six feet tall. Even without the heels. Most of that height seemed to be taken up by her legs. And she was gorgeous. Long blond hair, light blue eyes, a dazzling smile. I stared until she closed the door behind her.
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  “Who’s the beautiful giant?” Lionel asked.

  “The mayor of Hillsdale. She was looking for Frank.”

  “I saw a guy kind of close to the house when I got here. But I couldn’t say if it was him. He had his back to me and it was pretty far away.” Lionel shrugged. “The guy could have just been walking by.”

  “If it was Frank, he must not have heard her or he left. She said he wasn’t home.”

  “What’s a babe like that want with an old man anyway?” Lionel asked.

  “City business, I guess. Get the platform set up for the April shot. Peter will be back with the dogs soon.”

  I moved the lights and umbrella reflectors around until I thought the light was perfect, while Lionel placed a six-inch-high picket fence on the platform. When he had the fence secured, he climbed up the ladder to hang two child-sized umbrellas with fishing line, and placed bright yellow rain boots behind the fence. The final touch was bags and boxes of doggie cookies and chew sticks—the Pet Place brand, of course. They were giving the calendars away for a reason.

  Peter came in with six dogs on leashes, all of them barking. He shushed them and directed each one to his or her own plastic kennel. Rather than closing the kennel doors, he simply gave them a command to stay. Each dog walked into a kennel, turned in a circle a few times, and settled down. I was impressed.

  “Sorry about the barking. They do that when they see someone they don’t know well. They’ll be quiet for the rest of the day, but they’ll probably do it again tomorrow morning.” Peter grinned apologetically.

  “No problem. They really respond to you,” I said.

  “I’ve worked with them a long time,” Peter said. “Which ones do you want first?”

  “We’re shooting the April page.” I looked at my layout. “I’ll need Ruff and Le Roi and the puppy.” I compared the layout to the set Lionel had created, wishing again that Connie was here. Normally, she’d be the one to make sure the set matched her layout, or she’d change her mind at the last minute and change the shot. I could make sure the set matched the layout, but I couldn’t make the last-minute changes that she’d make.

  Peter guided Ruff and Le Roi up the platform, holding the puppy against his chest with his other arm. “What do you think? Le Roi or the puppy?”

  I grinned at the puppy. He was adorable and looked like a miniature version of the big lab mix, Ruff. “He’s so cute. Is Ruff the father?”

  “No. This little guy is a purebred Labrador retriever.”

  “They look like they could be father and son. Let’s try the shot with the puppy, then maybe with Le Roi.”

  Peter removed Le Roi from the platform and placed the puppy next to Ruff. Lionel put their feet into the tiny yellow galoshes. Ruff stood still while Lionel pulled on the fishing line until the umbrellas were positioned correctly. Peter kept the puppy occupied. Even when Lionel placed the umbrella handles behind their shoulders, it only took a small sound from Peter to keep Ruff in place. Peter seemed to know what he was doing. He’d get the puppy into position, then quickly move away so I could snap off a few shots. Then he’d go back and move the puppy into position again. I shot a roll of film from the camera on the tripod, then picked up my digital camera.

  “Peter, can you get Ruff to relax just a little? I don’t want them cavorting around, but a little movement? Something more natural than a pose?”

  “Sure.” He snapped his fingers to get the dogs’ attention. “Okay.” Immediately Ruff laid down. The puppy stepped out of his yellow boots and started pulling on one of Ruff’s boots. When he couldn’t get the boot off Ruff’s paw, he moved on to the larger dog’s ear. I quickly snapped some digital shots, moving around to get different angles. After a few minutes of trying to play with Ruff, the puppy yawned and settled down for a nap, his fuzzy head draped over Ruff’s boot-clad paw.

  “That’s good,” I said. “I don’t think we need to try it with Le Roi. I really liked what I saw through the lens. You can take them down now.”

  Peter clipped leashes on the two dogs and guided them off the platform. “I’ll take them out for a quick walk and give them some water while you set up the next shot.”

  “Lionel, set up for the August layout, so we can use the same background,” I instructed.

  “Hey, Skye, I need to go back to the house to get some water dishes for the dogs,” Peter said.

  “I can get them for you. I should go say hello to Frank anyway.” I knew it would take Lionel another half hour to set up the shot and all I had to do was change the film in the camera, which would take about half a minute.

  “That’d be great. Tell him I need the two big dishes. He’ll know which ones. If he’s not there, just go on in. The dishes are in the pantry.”

  I nodded and jogged to the door. Frank’s house was about a hundred yards from the arena building we were shooting in. I walked around to the front and knocked on the door. Immediately, Frank’s dog, Captain, barked, but Frank didn’t come to the door. I knocked again, sending the dog into another round of barking. Still no Frank. His car was in the driveway, so where was he? I pulled my cell phone out and punched in his number. It rang a few times, then went to voice mail. Great. I wasn’t about to go in with Captain sounding like he was going to rip apart anyone who invaded his territory. I punched Peter’s number into my phone.

  “Peter? Frank’s not answering, but Captain is barking and I’m not really comfortable going in alone.” I sounded like a wimp, but it was better than getting a leg chewed off.

  “If Captain’s there, Frank has to be there. He never goes anywhere without his dog.”

  “He’s not answering the door. And even if he didn’t hear my knock, he has to hear the dog barking.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  Peter hung up and I thought he sounded strained. Like maybe he thought something was wrong. Lionel had referred to Frank as an old man and I wondered if he’d fallen or something, although he didn’t look old enough to need one of those alert necklaces. Peter arrived and opened the door, calling out to Captain. The dog stopped barking but pranced around the entryway, running down the hall and then back again. That made me think of the old Lassie television series where Lassie was trying to tell everyone that Timmy was trapped in a well or a mine shaft, and I worried again.

  Peter scratched behind the dreadlock dog’s ears and told the dog to heel. Captain meekly followed Peter down the hallway, stopping at one of the doors and whining. I peered around Peter’s shoulder when he opened the door, then let out a shriek muffled by the hand I’d pressed over my mouth.

  Frank Johnson lay on the bed, his gray body half-covered with the sheet, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Do you think he’s dead?” Peter asked.

  “Does he usually sleep with his eyes open?” I couldn’t believe Peter was asking me if I thought Frank was dead. Could he really not tell the difference between someone who was sleeping and someone who was dead? Aside from the fact that hardly anyone sleeps with their eyes wide open, there was the pasty gray pallor of his skin and the fact that his chest didn’t move with breathing.

  “Should we check?”

  “No, we should call nine-one-one.”

  “What if he’s alive and needs help and we just waste time calling nine-one-one?”

  “If he needs that much help, he needs nine-one-one anyway. I’m going to call.” I punched the number into my cell phone and waited. Peter stepped into the room and took halting steps toward the bed. He touched two fingers to Frank’s neck just as my phone connected.