Rounding the Annex, I was surprised to see Pete's Porsche parked next to my patio, Boyd's head protruding from the passenger side. Spotting me, the dog pricked his ears, pulled in his tongue, then let it dangle again.
Through the back window I could see Birdie in his travel cage. My cat did not look pleased with the transport arrangements.
As I pulled parallel to Pete's car, he rounded the building.
“Jesus, am I glad I caught you.” His face looked anxious.
“What is it?”
“A client's knitting plant just went up in flames. The case is certain to become a matter of litigation, and I've got to get out there with some experts before would-be fire inspectors muck things up.”
“Out where?”
“Indianapolis. I was hoping you'd take Boyd for a couple of days.”
The tongue disappeared, dropped again.
“I'm leaving for Bryson City.”
“Boyd loves the highlands. He'd be great company.”
“Look at him.”
Boyd's chin now rested on the window ledge, and saliva trickled down the car's outside panel.
“He'd be protection.”
“That's a stretch.”
“Really. Harvey didn't like unexpected visitors, so he trained Boyd to sniff out strangers.”
“Especially those in uniform.”
“The good, the bad, the ugly, even the beautiful. Boyd makes no distinctions.”
“Isn't there a kennel where he can board?”
“It's full.” He glanced at his watch, then gave me his most beguiling choirboy look. “And my flight leaves in an hour.”
Pete had never refused when I'd needed help with Birdie.
“Go. I'll figure something out.”
“You're sure?”
“I'll find a kennel.”
Pete squeezed both my arms.
“You're my hero.”
There are twenty-three kennels in the greater Charlotte area. It took an hour to establish that fourteen were fully booked, five did not answer, two could not accommodate a dog over fifty pounds, and two would take no dog without a personal interview.
“Now what?”
Boyd raised and cocked his head, then went back to licking my kitchen floor.
Desperate, I made another call.
Ruby was less fastidious. For three dollars a day the dog was welcome, no personal audience required.
My neighbor took Birdie, and the chow and I hit the road.
Halloween has its roots in the pagan festival of Samhain. Held at the onset of winter and the beginning of the Celtic New Year, Samhain was the time when the veil between living and dead was thinnest, and spirits roamed the land of mortals. Fires were extinguished and rekindled, and people dressed up to frighten away the unfriendly departed.
Though the holiday was still two weeks off, the residents of Bryson City were into the concept in a big way. Ghouls, bats, and spiders were everywhere. Scarecrows and tombstones had been erected in front yards, and skeletons, black cats, witches, and ghosts dangled from trees and porch lights. Jack-o'-lanterns leered from every window in town. A couple of cars had rather realistic replicas of human feet protruding from their trunks. Good time to actually dispose of a body, I thought.
By five I'd settled Boyd into a run behind High Ridge House, and myself into Magnolia. Then I drove to the sheriff 's headquarters.
Lucy Crowe was on the phone when I appeared in her doorway. She waved me into her office, and I took one of two chairs. Her desk filled most of the small space, looking like something at which a Confederate general might have penned military orders. Her chair was also ancient, brown leather and studded, with stuffing oozing from the left arm.
“Nice desk,” I said when she'd hung up.
“I think it's ash.” The sea-foam eyes were just as startling as on our first meeting. “It was made by my predecessor's grandfather.”
She leaned back, and the chair squeaked musically.
“Tell me what I've missed.”
“They say you've damaged the investigation.”
