“As if you don’t know,” Daniela said in disgust. “You’ve got nothing better to do than make prank phone calls all day or what?”
“This is the first call I’ve made today,” Angel said.
But her tone was mocking. Daniela didn’t know if she should believe her or not, so chose the not.
“Not likely,” Daniela said. “What brought you back to town anyway? Last I saw you, you were desperate to leave here.”
“Maybe I missed the place,” Angel said.
“You couldn’t wait to get out before,” Daniela said. “So I doubt it.”
“I never did say, Sorry about Charlie’s death,” Angel said abruptly.
“No need to say it now either then,” Daniela answered smoothly.
“He was such a sweetheart,” Angel said. “Especially in bed.”
Daniela froze. “Well, Angel, if you were one more of his many floozies in the last few months of his life, I hope you enjoyed sleeping with a dying man,” she said softly. “I certainly didn’t mind him enjoying life for a while.” It was a lie of course. She had just wanted him to enjoy life with her, not with a million other women.
“You really don’t mind that he was sleeping with women back then?” Angel asked in surprise.
“I’ve come to terms with it. Let’s put it that way,” Daniela said. “He was very sick, obviously very sick emotionally and mentally as well. Besides, look at his partners,” she said with an attempt at a smear. “Most of them were drug addicts and women who he never would have touched if he was healthy.”
Angel reacted like she’d been slapped, and you could almost hear her growling on the other end of the phone. “I’m not a drug addict,” she snapped.
“You’re not exactly a prime citizen either,” Daniela said, smiling as she felt she had the upper hand.
“You just keep threatening me and treating me like this,” Angel said. “You’ll get your own.”
“You’re the one doing the threatening,” Daniela said. “I haven’t said anything.”
“Well, you’re not treating me nice, and, if you want to be the mother of my child, you need to,” Angel said, her voice returning to normal, bringing the conversation back again to a threat.
“No. You’re forgetting something, Angel. I already am the mother to Sari.” And, on that note, she hung up and set the phone off to the side. She wouldn’t answer it again.
Weston headed out to the feedstore, not that the dog needed more dog food by any means. But, with a leash on her, he walked around the back of the yard, looking to see just how much anybody would have seen of her.
“Can I help you?”
He turned to see the same young man who’d given him the feed earlier.
“I just wondered who all would have seen this dog in the last six weeks or so. Outside of you.”
“Why?” the kid asked. “I haven’t been here the whole time, but not many of the others come out here.”
“Ah,” Weston said. “I wondered.”
“Wondered what?” the boy asked, perplexed. “She’s a stray. You came and got her, and she looks like she’s taken to you just fine.”
“I wanted to know about her old owner,” he said. “Did you know Grant Buckman?”
The kid shook his head. “I’ve not been here very long though,” he said, “just over a month now.”
“And who used to work back here?”
“Johnny,” he said. “Johnny Ryder. But he doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“He got fired on account of stealing some cash out of the till. He’s done it a couple times, I heard, but this last time he took more than they were prepared to forgive.”
“That makes sense,” he said, wincing. “What about anybody else who worked in this area?”
The kid placed his hands on his hips. “What do you care?”
“I was looking for somebody who knew Grant,” he said.
“You know he’s dead, right?”
“I do know that,” Weston said. “There appears to be a case of mistaken identity though.”
The kid’s gaze lit up with interest. He looked back toward the front of the warehouse with a shrug. “I don’t think so. I don’t think anybody here, I mean, … Grant used to work here but not for a long time.”
“How did you know him?”
“Because of Johnny,” he said, “but I didn’t really know Grant. I just know of him.”
“Had Johnny worked here long?”
“Years and years,” the kid said in disgust. “I hope I’m not here for very long.”
“You don’t like your job?”
“Who could like a job like this?” the kid said. He gave an irritable shrug. “Anyway, you can talk to Johnny. He’s probably down at the pub.”
“He’s got money for the pub?”
“He got another job,” the kid said. “Pays more money than here too.” He looked around the back warehouse with all the feed stacked up. “But then, anything would pay better than this.” He lifted a hand. “I got to go back to work.” He walked back inside.
Armed with the name of the establishment, Weston and Shambhala walked back to his truck, hopped in and headed toward the pub. He didn’t know if he’d be allowed to take the dog in or not.
As it turned out, a group of men sat outside in a covered patio area. He didn’t know which one was Johnny. Just then he heard one of the men call out.
“Hey, Johnny, you owe me a beer!”
A young man in the corner looked up, shrugged and said, “No job, no money. No money, no beer.”
The guy just snorted and said, “You’ve been telling us that for months.”
“Been unemployed for months.”
And that was inconsistent with what the kid at the feedstore had just said about Johnny. Weston walked into the little courtyard area and walked up to him.
Johnny looked at the dog and smiled. “Well, lookie here.”
Shambhala walked over with her tail wagging, and Johnny reached out a gentle hand.
“Right dog, wrong man,” he said, looking up and eyeing Weston. “I heard Grant died, so you must have ended up with his dog.”
“Yeah, I did,” Weston said with a smile. “I understand you knew Grant?”
“Yeah, I did,” he said.
