The Case of the Overdue Otterhound Page 9

  “Did she say anything else?” Rooster said.

  “Billows talked to her dad about the lease rights before he died,” I said, glancing back and forth at them.

  “But Billows didn’t get anywhere, did he?” Rooster said.

  “No, Very’s dad sent him packing straight away,” I said, grimacing as I felt the onset of a headache. “You don’t think Billows might have been involved in his death, do you?”

  “Take Skitch out, then swoop in and try to get to the mother through Very?” Rooster said, frowning. “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

  “Especially for lease rights in an area where there’s a drilling ban in effect,” my mother said.

  “How close is the State to reversing its decision on fracking?” I said.

  “According to my friends in Albany, not close at all,” she said. “But there’s constant noise coming from the lobbyists. And we’re always only one election cycle away from potential disaster.”

  “Now, that’s a cheery thought,” I said, laughing.

  “You asked,” my mother said, shrugging.

  “I guess there’s only one thing left to do,” Rooster said.

  “Absolutely,” my mother said, nodding as she took a sip of her drink.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Pay Jessie Friendly another visit,” Rooster said.

  “What for?”

  “To make her an offer on the property,” my mother said.

  I thought about it for a moment then nodded.

  “Yeah. That could work.”

  Chapter 13

  For the first time since Rooster and I had discovered the body of Skitch Friendly, my neurons had turned relentless and were beginning to torment me with the idea that his death hadn’t been accidental. But without a clear motive or any probable suspects, that notion remained a neuron-induced annoyance. Rooster was right. The possibility that Herman Billows might have been directly involved in Friendly’s death was definitely a stretch. However, if Billows future with his company was somehow tied to his ability to secure lease rights in our neck of the woods, and if he turned out to be someone who didn’t like hearing no for an answer, I could definitely connect the dots back to him.

  But it was another possible motive that was nagging at me this morning during the twenty-mile drive to Sofia Rossi’s farm just outside of Cape Vincent. The thought that Friendly’s death was somehow related to the breeding and sale of rare dogs had forced its way into my head late last night and kept me awake until around three when I finally dozed off and dreamt of being chased through a frigid marsh by a rabid Otterhound wearing a squirrel hat. And as I stumbled through the decayed cattails, occasionally losing my footing and sliding into the freezing water, I woke myself up when I wondered aloud if the Otterhound had wanted to bite me or was merely trying to give me the hat back.

  It wasn’t the strangest dream I’d ever had.

  But it was a lot like it.

  The drive to Cape Vincent should have a been leisurely half-hour trip where I’d be able to enjoy River views, but it was, again, snowing hard and I white-knuckled my way along Route 12 doing thirty miles an hour over close to half a foot of unplowed accumulation. As such, my drive to the small, but gorgeous, village where the St. Lawrence met Lake Ontario took me over an hour. I headed away from the water for about three miles then turned onto a long, unplowed driveway that led to a farmhouse and barn a few hundred yards away. For what seemed like the hundredth time over the past month, I thanked the God of Technology for four-wheel drive and churned my way through the thick snow before coming to a stop in front of the house.

  I was halfway out of the SUV when I heard barks and growls that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I climbed back inside the vehicle and slammed the door shut just as an enormous Rottweiler hopped up on his back legs and snarled at me through the window. I tapped my horn to let Sofia Rossi know I was here, but the noise only annoyed the Rottweiler and his barks and snarls intensified as the nails on his front paws scratched at the glass.

  “Nice to see you too,” I said, impressed with the dog’s intense focus.

  Many breeds make excellent watchdogs. But the Rottweiler, at least the one daring me to step outside the vehicle, was a guard dog. And despite what I consider to be my excellent dog skills, there was no way I was opening the door until his owner had the beast well under control. An attractive, middle-aged woman with long black hair wearing a toque and parka stepped out onto the front porch and shook her head with a small smile as she walked down the shoveled path that led to where I was parked. She waved to me then rubbed the dog’s head and pulled him off my car by the thick leather collar he was wearing. Only when she gestured that it was safe to get out did I slowly work my way from the car. I forced a smile at her while keeping a close eye on the Rottweiler that continued to stare at me with a low, guttural growl.

  “Don’t worry, he won’t bite,” she said.

  “Does he know that?” I said, slowly lowering my bandaged hand in front of the dog’s mouth.

  She laughed and rubbed the Rottweiler’s head.

  “He’s been trained to do that with strangers,” she said.

  “Well, he certainly paid attention in class.”

  “It cuts way down on the number of people popping in unannounced.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” I said, standing still as the dog sniffed my hand. The Rottweiler must have liked the smell, and he nuzzled then licked my bandage. “What’s his name?”

  “Stinky.”

  “No wonder he’s grumpy,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m just babbling,” I said. “I’m Suzy Chandler.”

  “Sofia Rossi,” she said, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you. Come on in. I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee, and I just made a batch of scones. Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat.”

  I followed her up the steps into the house and looked around as I removed my coat. It was an old house but in great condition. Several paintings of dogs were hung on the walls, and it was furnished primarily with antiques. If she’d been going for early 1900’s farmhouse, she’d nailed it.

  “Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I sat down, and the Rottweiler dropped its head into my lap.

  “You’re a big baby, aren’t you?” I said, scratching the dog’s ears.

  Then the dog decided he liked my leg. And he was about to prove just how much he liked it when Sofia came into the room carrying a tray.

  “Stinky. Stop that. Get down,” she said, shaking her head as she set the tray down. “I’m so sorry about that. He can be a little rambunctious from time to time.”

  “That’s a word for it,” I said. “I take it you’ve never had him fixed.”

  “No, he’s used for breeding from time to time,” she said, pouring two coffees. “He comes from a great lineage.”

  I added cream then took a sip and stared lovingly at the plate of scones.

  “Try one,” Sofia said. “And those are homemade strawberry preserves. I just can’t resist the combination.”

  “Why even bother to try?” I said, laughing as I spread a generous portion of the preserves over one of the warm scones. I took a bite and nodded. “Fantastic.”

  “Thanks,” she said, following my lead. “So, Mr. Provincial is looking for an Otterhound puppy?”

  “He is,” I said, taking another bite of my rapidly disappearing scone. “And you told him you were expecting a litter sometime in the spring?”

  “I am,” she said, drifting off for a moment. “At least, I’m still hopeful it will happen.”

  I slowly chewed the last bite as I tried to decide how to play the conversation. I settled on close to the vest and fell back on my tried and true guideline: When in doubt, ask a question.

  “Is there a problem obtaining the litter?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, for some reason tearing up. “The gentleman who owns the female Ott
erhound recently died.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You mentioned over the phone that you had to go to a memorial service.”

  “I did.”

  “Skitch Friendly, right?”

  “Yes, how did you know that?”

  “Small town,” I said, shrugging. “Have you spoken with the family to see if they’re still interested in using your services?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t know the family. And I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself yesterday,” Sofia said. “All I know is that Skitch had a wife and two kids.”

  “Yes, he did,” I said, reaching for another scone.

  “Do you know them?” she said, holding her coffee with both hands as she sipped and glanced at me over the top of the mug.

  “Yes, we’ve met a few times,” I said.

  “What are they like?”

  “They’re…an unusual family,” I said.

  “They’d have to be to live where they do,” she said. “It’s not a lifestyle I could handle.”

  “No argument there. When was the last time you saw Mr. Friendly?”

  “It was probably a couple of months ago,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “No, I take that back. I did see him briefly a few weeks ago. He stopped by to go over a few things about the Otterhound litter. Can I ask what you do for Mr. Provincial?”

  “Paulie is my mom’s boyfriend,” I said, shrugging. “He’s a friend and would have come himself, but he’s on his way to Grand Cayman.”

  “Nice,” she said, nodding.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” she said as she spread preserves onto her second scone.

  “Otterhounds are incredibly rare. Do you contract with a breeder for the services of the male?”

  “No,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “I don’t work with breeders. I’ve found most of them wanting to be what I would call…overly involved in the process.”

  “I see.”

  “You could say that my business approach is a bit unconventional.”

  “I assume that means that Paulie’s puppy won’t come with official papers,” I said, studying her closely.

  “No, I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she said. “But you have my personal guarantee that the dog will be a one-hundred-percent purebred Otterhound.”

  “So, your clients are concerned about lineage?”

  “Oh, they’re very concerned with lineage,” she said, nodding. “But most of them aren’t worried about having the paperwork that goes along with it.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Most of my clients are only interested in acquiring a rare breed for themselves or their family,” she said. “And I make it my personal mission to get it for them.”

  “Specialized work,” I said, doing my best not to eat a third scone.

  “Very.”

  “And expensive,” I said. “Five grand is a lot of money for a dog.”

  “Actually, Mr. Provincial is fortunate that I’m able to find the Otterhounds locally. That’s why he’s only paying the five thousand. Many of my clients pay much more for their dogs.”

  “How on earth did you get started in this business?” I said, shaking my head.

  “It is an odd way to make a living, isn’t it?” she said, laughing. “A few years ago, I needed to get out of New York, and my father agreed to help set me up. Then he introduced me to a few people, and the business grew from there.”

  “What does your father do?”

  Sofia laughed loud enough to get the Rottweiler’s attention. Then she held out the plate of scones toward me, and I immediately caved and went in for a third. Besides, who knew how long this conversation was going to take, and if it kept snowing, I might end up stranded and starving on the side of the road.

  “Suzy, if you’re friends with Mr. Provincial, certainly you don’t need to ask what my father does for a living.”

  “Yeah, good point,” I said, taking a bite of my scone. “Do you have many dogs here?”

  “No, just Stinky,” she said, reaching down to pet the Rottweiler that was curled around her feet. “I just broker deals and sometimes supervise the insemination process. But I only do that when I’m worried about potential liability issues.”

  “Okay,” I said, baffled. “Should I just tell Paulie that you’ll be in touch with him as soon as you get some clarification about the Otterhound litter?”

  “Yes, that’s probably a good idea,” Sofia said. “At some point, I’ll need to figure out a way to get in touch with Mrs. Friendly.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said, shaking my head. Then I caught the odd look she was giving me. “I mean, their place is way out in the woods. But I suppose I could give you directions.”

  “That would be helpful,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Well, it’s the least I can do. I sort of have a vested interest in making sure Paulie gets his dog.”

  “Yes, I suppose you do,” she said, setting her empty coffee mug down.

  We both looked up when we heard the back door open then the sound of someone stamping snow off their feet.

  “Man, it’s really coming down out there,” a man said from the kitchen.

  My neurons flared as I tried to put a face to the familiar voice. But nothing registered.

  “Okay, Ms. Rossi,” the man said as he entered the room. “I’ve got what I need, so I’m going to head out while I still can get down the driveway. Next stop, Scranton. If everything goes to plan, I should be back no later than the weekend.”

  Then he stared at me with an open-mouthed expression that I returned.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, blinking at me through his thick glasses.

  “Great minds think alike,” I said, staring at him. “I was just going to ask you the same question, Walter.”

  “I’m working,” he said, removing his glasses and cleaning them with his sleeve. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “I’m gonna go with wasting valuable oxygen.”

  “You two know each other?” Sofia said, glancing back and forth at us.

  “Yeah, we’ve met a couple of times,” I said. “What are you doing back here?”

  “Like I just told you,” he snapped. “I’m working.”

  “Walter occasionally does some odd jobs for me,” Sofia said, deflecting.

  “Well, if you’re looking for odd, Walter’s your guy,” I said, still baffled to see Rooster’s cousin standing in front of me.

  “You’re looking for a dog?” Walter said, laughing. “That’s rich.”

  “I’m here for a friend,” I said.

  “Ms. Rossi,” Walter said, pointing a finger at me. “Take my advice. Don’t believe a word this woman tells you.”

  “I think I’m missing something,” Sofia said, thoroughly confused.

  “Walter and I have crossed swords a couple of times in the past,” I said. “And his cousin Rooster had to have a little chat with him about the importance of playing nice with others.”

  Walter flinched at the mention of Rooster and began backing out of the room.

  “I’ll see you in a few days, Ms. Rossi,” he said. “Remember what I told you. Don’t believe a word that comes out of her mouth.”

  “Nice of him to drop in,” I said after he’d departed. “What on earth does he do for you?”

  “Basically, just some of the things I can’t be bothered with,” she said. “What did he do to you?”

  “Tried to steal some dogs,” I said.

  “Really?” she said.

  “Yeah, he’s a wonderful human being,” I said, getting up out of my chair. “And he’s supposed to be in Florida.”

  “Walter tried to steal your dogs?” Sofia said. “As in plural?”

  “He certainly did.”

  “How many dogs you do have?”

  “As of this morning, sixty-eight,” I said, pulling my coat on.

  “Sixty-eight?”

  “Yea
h, but now that I know he’s around, I’m going to go home and do another count.”

  Chapter 14

  Fortunately, the plows had been out while I was at Sofia Rossi’s place, and the drive back to Clay Bay, while snowy, was uneventful. I called Rooster, got voicemail, and left a message for him to meet me at C’s for lunch. Then I called Chief Abrams and left him the same message. My final call was to Josie who answered on the second ring.

  “Hey,” she said over the sound of barking dogs.

  “What’s going on over there? It sounds like there’s a revolt in progress.”

  “Sammy’s delivering the midday snack to all the dogs,” she said, laughing. “And several of them apparently think he’s taking too long. Did you meet with the Rossi woman?”

  “I did,” I said, pulling into the parking lot behind the restaurant. “Can you get away for lunch? I’m meeting Rooster and the Chief.”

  “The Chief?” Josie said. “Should I read anything into that?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said. “And I might need to pick your brain.”

  “Did you finally get all the way through what was left of yours?” she deadpanned.

  “Funny. Can you make it?”

  “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll be there in fifteen. How are the roads?”

  “They’re a mess, so be careful,” I said, getting out of the SUV and stepping down into six inches of fresh snow. “When are we going to Cayman?”

  “Not soon enough. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  I headed inside through the back door that led into the kitchen and saw Chef Claire sitting at the chef’s table reading a book and sipping coffee. She bookmarked the page and set the book down.

  “I didn’t know you were coming in,” she said.

  “Slight change of plans,” I said, removing my coat and hanging it up next to hers. “Slow day, huh?”

  “Let’s just say you won’t have to wait long for your food,” she said, getting to her feet. “Are you by yourself?”

  “No, Josie’s on her way. And so are Rooster and Chief Abrams if they get my message,” I said as I scanned a menu.