Hair of the Dog Page 3

  Elaine studied the thin, blond-haired man in the orange jumpsuit. Burr haircut, scraggly beard, watery blue eyes. Was he thirty yet? He seemed young, vulnerable, and scared to death. There was just something so terribly wrong with the picture. Did he even understand why he was there? Elaine moved a chair out from the table. “Come sit with us. My name is Elaine. I really want you to see the video.”

  Fucher hiccoughed loudly and stopped wailing, yet still hung back. “I don’t know you. How’d you get Sadie?”

  “I know you don’t know us. I found Sadie at the track this afternoon. Melody told me where to find you. We want to help.” Again, Elaine extended her hand, palm up.

  Reluctantly, Fucher stepped into the room and shuffled to the chair.

  “This is my fiancé, Dan Mahoney. Dan is going to be working at the track investigating the fire.”

  Fucher glanced at Dan before leaning toward Elaine and dropping his voice to a whisper. “Is he a cop?”

  Dan leaned forward, “No, Fucher, I’m not with the police. I work for an insurance company. Here, look at Elaine’s video.” It had taken some arm-twisting and a really compassionate warden to bring a phone into the jail. But he could see why the official had listened to him. It would be expensive to put Fucher on a twenty-four-hour watch when knowing his dog was well taken care of negated any worry of his injuring himself. It was nice to see law enforcement that cared.

  Fucher gingerly took the phone and was immediately engrossed. At first he frowned; then, laughed and touched the screen with his finger. “She’s pretty. I love her.”

  “I know you do. That’s why we want to take good care of her for you. We’re here to get your help,” Elaine added.

  “She’s in the car right now. When we leave, I’ll go down first and walk her around the parking lot. Maybe the guard will let you watch us from a window up here.”

  Dan told himself he’d make that happen even if he had to go over the guard’s head again. A little extra insurance that Fucher would know that Sadie was well. He might be stretching the compassion thing a little, but Dan didn’t think so.

  “I’d like that. I think she’ll know I’m looking at her.” Fucher, now relaxed, leaned back in the chair. “Did you get her something to eat?”

  “On the way over we stopped for a McDonalds cheeseburger.” Elaine watched as Fucher frowned.

  “That’s not good food for a dog.”

  “I didn’t let her eat the bun.” Elaine hoped that bit of news got them back in his good graces.

  “That’s better, but she needs raw meat and kibble. She’ll even eat a raw carrot.”

  Elaine took a pen and pad out of her purse. “What kind of kibble and raw meat?” She wasn’t sure about a carrot-eating dog but it wouldn’t hurt to try her. She made a note of raw carrots.

  “Regular beef stew meat. I get it at Sam’s. And I feed Natural Balance kibble. She likes the duck or venison best. Sometimes for her coat I get her the fish one—it has Salmon. She weighs sixty-three pounds so she gets one cup of raw meat and five cups of kibble every day. No treats. Unless it’s a carrot.”

  He probably took better care of Sadie than himself, Elaine thought. That dog was his whole life. She couldn’t believe she’d tried to dodge bringing this much joy to someone.

  “You know, I have lots of her food at home. You could go there and get everything. And her eye drops—she’s allergic to grass. And she’d really like her bed. And—”

  “Whoa. I’m not sure we can take everything but it would be good to get her food and medicine.” Dan had visions of a hotel room overrun with dog toys and beds and food…and allergic to grass? What a little doggy princess. He briefly thought of Simon’s good German ruggedness. Now that was a dog.

  “They took my keys but you can ask Mrs. Carter. She’s my landlady and she can let you in. An’ Mel has a key and so does Fred. They’re my friends.”

  Elaine wrote down his address. Thank God for GPS. She had no idea where his townhouse was located and Fucher’s directions left a lot to be desired. He didn’t remember a lot of the streets and tried to fill in with landmarks. A telephone pole with lots of advertisements stapled onto it didn’t seem trustworthy, but neither did “that coffee place that wasn’t Starbucks close to a corner across from a firehouse that wasn’t really a firehouse but had a fire truck out in front.”

  Finally, she had everything that would help. Dan left after setting up an appointment for the following afternoon to talk about the fire. Promising more pictures of Sadie probably got him a second visit. That and the fact Fucher would get to see Sadie in the flesh two days in a row.

  The guard shushed him, but seeing Fucher jumping up and down, calling out for Sadie, even though the window was well fortified and protected by a maze of metal bars, was heartwarming. Elaine picked up her purse and keys at the first guard station and turnstile, then followed the Exit signs to the lobby. She couldn’t help but shiver as each heavy steel door slammed shut behind her. Incarceration. A world she was glad to leave.

  ***

  Elaine quickly filled Mrs. Carson in on how Sadie had been found.

  “Sadie! Oh my, you gave us quite a scare, girl. You’ve been out on the streets all by yourself this whole time.’’

  The woman making over Sadie hadn’t taken the warnings about sunscreen seriously. Wrinkles and a deep tan signaled a lot of beach time and premature aging. Her age was difficult to determine, but Elaine guessed somewhere south of fifty.

  “It was just so kind of you to go by the jail. There’s no way that dear boy should be in there. I knew his mother; she worked for me. I have the ten units here—all townhouses but there’s a lot of maintenance. Fucher paints, picks up the parking lot, and keeps the shrubs trimmed. All this in addition to his regular job at the track. That boy never stops. He’s such a good worker, but so was his mother. She just passed this last Christmas. Oh my, I guess it’s been almost a year now. Fucher took it so hard. I don’t know what he would have done if he hadn’t had Sadie.”

  “Mrs. Carson, is he current on his rent?” Elaine wasn’t sure why she asked but how awful it would be if he lost his home, too. He certainly wasn’t bringing in a salary where he was.

  “Please, I’m Joan. Oh, let me tell you, he was smart to tie up this place for five full years. You know, when he got his accident money—I’m sure you’ve heard about that?” Elaine nodded. “Well, he paid me sixty thousand dollars. We drew up a contract and all. There’s three years left on the lease.”

  “That was looking ahead.”

  “Every time he loaned anyone money or paid ahead for something, I made him draw up a contract. My brother’s an attorney and he helped him. Now, let’s go get this pretty girl’s food. I know where the treats are.”

  At the word “treats” Sadie wagged her tail so hard her entire body wiggled. And it was obvious she knew the way. Elaine had to hang onto the leash as Sadie took off to follow Joan.

  “Here, you can do the honors.” She handed two door keys to Dan. “This one is for the door handle and this one for the deadbolt. I’m due for cataract surgery and have a terrible time with my aim at close range.”

  Elaine had no idea what she thought Fucher’s apartment would look like but it wasn’t this. Granted the furnishings probably came from T.J. Maxx or Tuesday Morning, yet the place was bright and cheerful and actually tastefully done. A navy throw over a not-so-new couch sported several neon-colored, satin-covered pillows in green, pink, and blue. A wooden rocker had been refinished in bright yellow with grass-green accents. Another pillow in a luminous dark green finished the look. Geometric designs in the large floor rug of muted greens and yellows tied everything together. The place was inviting.

  “Where did you say you were staying?” Joan was moving toward the kitchen.

  “We didn’t. Haven’t gotten that far. Miss Sadie here sort of rearranged our priorities.” Dan
patted the dog on the head. It’d take awhile to get used to the wasp “waist” and dainty feet. Compared to Simon she had the face of an anteater.

  “Well, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this but I have a unit that’s just freed up. End of Octoberfest, you know, for bikers. I always keep two or three units available for weekly rentals. Fully furnished, of course. This is a major tourist area. I make more money in the summer and during NASCAR and Bike Week than I do renting a unit on a yearly basis.”

  “Sounds great. Let’s take a look.” Dan caught Elaine’s eye and an affirmative nod.

  “Why not? It might be perfect for us.”

  “It’s only two doors down. You could even leave the bulk of Sadie’s food here. No need to lug it around. You’d have to take her bed, though, and her dishes. I’ll help. I know where everything is.” Joan picked up a dog toy. “I don’t imagine you brought much with you? Household goods, that is. I keep small appliances in the garage—coffeemakers, toasters, microwaves, irons—well, you name it and I probably have it. We could get you fixed up in no time. Let’s take a look.”

  The rental unit had been recently painted in what Elaine was beginning to call seascape colors—seafoam green, seaglass blue, seastorm gray. It was clean and bright and the furniture, though a little dark, looked comfortable.

  “You’ll find dishes above the sink to your right. There’s a washer/dryer in this hall closet.” The layout was dining room/living room combination, kitchen with wraparound counter, and half bath all on the bottom floor, and two bedrooms and a bath upstairs. Far more room than a hotel would provide. Elaine might have to work on overlooking the frolicking seahorse wallpaper in the upstairs bath. Still, in all, it was very doable.

  “Not sure of the timeframe but let’s say two weeks with an option on a couple more.” Dan wished he could be more exact, but that was another part of this job—a long weekend could turn into a month. He’d be haunted by one totally unplanned hospital stay in Wagon Mound, New Mexico, for years to come. That had added a few weeks to what was going to be a four-day investigation.

  “Oh good, I just know this will work out. You’re only three miles from the beach, you know. There’s really lots to do. I have several pamphlets if I can put my hands on them. Let’s get Sadie’s stuff in here and then we’ll go back to the office.”

  Sadie’s bed turned out to be a giant sofa without feet—billowing pillows made up the base and stuck up a foot in height around the edge. But it was a favorite. Sadie never left it the entire time they were loading up dog food and dishes.

  “Okay, girl, time to get this to your new home.” Dan clipped the leash back on and picked up one corner of the cumbersome dog bed. “Good grief, do you have bricks in here?” There wasn’t any picking it up, it was too big and too heavy. Elaine helped but the two of them more dragged than carried the monstrosity to its new home. Then, placing a water bowl and a dish of kibble beside it, Elaine called Sadie.

  The dog didn’t need to be encouraged. Sadie buried her nose in the bowl enameled with paw prints and gulped more than tasted her food.

  “I wasn’t thinking but I bet she hasn’t eaten a full meal in three days.”

  Dan watched as Elaine filled Sadie’s food bowl for a second time. Probably wouldn’t hurt her. He’d never seen a fat greyhound…that was like saying there were obese vegetarians. He picked up his jacket and headed toward the car. A few suitcases and they were home. It was a relief to have found a place so quickly.

  Chapter Four

  The office wasn’t opulent unless you knew what you were looking at—it was more Spartan than comfy. But original artwork, and not just paintings, highlighted the entire room. Dan would have bet that oversized glass bowl on a pedestal in the corner was Chihuly. Dan pulled out his iPad and rechecked the list of losses. He was pretty certain he remembered other artwork kept in the kennel office and lost in the fire. Yep, there it was. Five prints by Bridget Riley; the last appraisal put each at roughly sixty-seven hundred dollars—or somewhere close to a thirty-three thousand, five-hundred-dollar loss. Still, it was less than the insured worth of one greyhound.

  The woman behind the desk on the phone looked up and motioned him toward a chair. He didn’t mind the wait. All the better to size up his surroundings. The room was monochrome—gray, black, white—with enormous splashes of color from the art scattered around. The eight-foot-long desk was chrome and glass, the sofa a black leather “sling” purely Scandinavian with matching chairs. He couldn’t name the artist but the large bronzes of two greyhounds sitting on the edge of the desk were spectacular—each over two feet tall.

  But it was the woman who held his attention. Who was it who said a pet owner starts taking on the characteristics of his charge as he grows older? He remembered his mother kiddingly saying if she didn’t get her upper lip waxed regularly, she’d end up looking like the family pet—a Schnauzer named Toby.

  So this was Dixie Halifax. Ash blond, thick hair worn short and brushed back from a somewhat long and narrow face, eyes a pale gray under pencil-thin brows. Gray-striped suit, white silk blouse, red plastic framed reading glasses perched low on an aquiline nose, pearls at each ear and a long rope of them looping almost to her waist. A four-carat diamond on her right hand. The lady liked the finer things in life.

  He’d memorized the Wikipedia entry: born in 1952, lawyer, known for having worked several high-profile cases, was a junior clerk during the O.J. trial. She’d spent years representing various “mob-stars.” Married to an F. Marconi (1983), but widowed before the age of thirty. No other marriages. No children. Earned a reputation for getting a couple of family “godfathers” out of prison on technicalities. Recognized more recently for her work with dog tracks across the United States mediating Grey2X demands to clean up the industry. In addition, she was a top breeder and importer of greyhounds. The Halifax kennel was touted as dog racing’s winningest one.

  She held the phone away from her face, “Mr. Mahoney, isn’t it? I’m so sorry for this—I’ll only be another minute.” A smile that could have been a grimace before Dixie covered the mouth-piece, stood, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the office. Out of ear-shot, not that Dan had been listening in. The accent was right out of the South—maybe Memphis or Little Rock. Nothing soft or lilting like an accent from Mississippi or Georgia. There was a distinct twang to this one. A sound that made you lock up your back molars before you even realized you were grinding your teeth. But there was certainly nothing to dispel the greyhound analogy, viewing Ms. Halifax from behind. Lithe, sinewy calf muscles, broad shoulders above tiny, waspish waist…yes, she could be the human counterpart to the dogs she raced.

  The extended call did give him a few more minutes to admire the five ceramic greyhound vases on the credenza behind the desk. Vases? They were half the size of cookie jars. Then it hit him. These were urns, not vases. Each had a ribbon; one had two ribbons tied around its neck. Their racing colors. Dan was sure of it. He had to be looking at what United Life & Casualty was just about to pay two hundred and fifty thousand for. He leaned forward. Each ribbon had last Tuesday’s date stenciled in gold. And there was a gold plate around each dog’s neck engraved with its name.

  “Finished, at last. Again, I am so sorry. I really abhor rudeness.” Dixie crossed the room, settled the phone in its cradle on the desk, then perched on the edge of the polished teak base swinging one leg that ended in the highest heel of any shoe Dan had ever seen. “I can’t stand these—cripplers for certain.” She flipped one heel off and used bare toes to pry her other foot free. “There, much more like it. Now, how can I help?”

  Interesting, but shaking hands didn’t seem to be a part of the greeting ritual. Some women were comfortable with the custom, some not. Dan would have bet Ms. Halifax would be a hand-shaker. He glanced at his notes and then back up to meet a particularly cool stare. “My questions are perfunctory. I’m sure some sound invasive
and even threatening, but United Life & Casualty needs as complete a picture of what happened as we’re able to ascertain.”

  “I understand completely. Your work can’t be easy where animals are concerned.”

  “No, you’re right, it isn’t. Ms. Halifax—”

  “Dixie, please.”

  “Dixie…I thought we could talk here, and then I’d like to take a look at the office in the kennel—what’s left of it, that is.”

  “Not a problem. I have an appointment at eleven but we’ll find someone to show you around.”

  “Then let me start by offering my condolences—I understand the dogs lost were from your kennel? Bred and raced by you?”

  “Yes. Two were currently on the track; both were three-year-olds. The other three were my future—some months away from racing but already showing tremendous promise. No, I’m not being melodramatic. I don’t know when I’ve seen such finely honed natural instincts. You know, every once in awhile you get a dog that just doesn’t like to race. If the will isn’t in them, it’s next to impossible to put it in.”

  “Why were all five dogs at the track if only two raced?”

  “The two were slated for races in two days. I usually don’t take them back and forth between my kennel and the track unless they have more than one day between races. The three babies were beginning track training. Various trainers get the youngsters started at quarter, then half, distances before testing their abilities at a full five-sixteenths or seven-sixteenths of a mile. People don’t realize it, but a greyhound only travels a length of 1,650 feet up to 2,310 feet from starting box to finish depending on the track. But they have to be brought up to that distance, no matter how small it seems. Is this your first time at a dog track?”

  “I admit to being a novice. Fascinating stuff, though. How long have you been involved?”

  “This is a life’s dream come true. I’d raised greyhounds for over twenty years, but it wasn’t until about five years ago that I had the opportunity to buy a half interest in Daytona Beach Kennel Club and Poker Room. It just seemed the logical next step after being in the breed for so long.”