Doug Allyn: v108 n03-04_1996-09-10

Cindy leafed through the diary, then froze. She passed the book to David. The paragraph at the top of the page was dated and neatly written in a careful hand. But below it was a wobbly scrawl that covered half the page. Ted unplu ... The line sagged away at the end. Unfinished.

There was a rustle from the hallway, and suddenly Ted Crane was standing unsteadily in the doorway, his face flushed, his hair disheveled. “What’s going on here?” he mumbled blearily. “What the hell are you doing here, Westbrook?”

David carefully closed the journal. “What I’m doing, Mr. Crane,” he said, picking up the bedside phone, “is calling the police.”

Crane made it easy. When Stan Wolinski tried to question him about the diary Ted was so outraged he took a swing at the sheriff. A big mistake. Stan took him into custody for attempted assault and hauled him off in the back of his patrol car.

David left Cindy and her grandmother on the porch, arm in arm. The elderly woman didn’t seem to comprehend what had happened, and David recalled Cindy’s earlier question, “Who’ll take care of Clare?” Perhaps the answer was beside her now. He hoped so.

David hadn’t liked Ted Crane all that much initially and his recent behavior hadn’t helped matters. Still, the thought that Ted might have killed Inga or contributed to her death was hard to stomach. People killed each other in Detroit or New York or L.A., not in Algoma. Folks moved to the north country to live happily ever after. Maybe that had been Ted’s problem. Knowing that he and Inga would never have a happily ever after.

David didn’t know what to do about Hector. The pup was still rejecting the feeding tube. If he didn’t start eating in the next few days, force-feeding him while he was sedated would be the only option left. It was a tough choice. Hector wouldn’t be mature enough for a surgical repair of his palate for another twelve to fourteen months, minimum. David doubted the pup could survive more than a few weeks of force-feeding, to say nothing of a year. Besides, he’d seen this behavioral syndrome before.

Dogs that are strongly attached to their masters or their mates will sometimes mourn their deaths so keenly that they lose their own will to live. They don’t whine or howl or carry on, they simply sink into a numbed apathy and refuse to eat. Exactly as Hector was doing.

David was in a black mood for the rest of the afternoon, curt with his clients and Bettina. His temper didn’t improve when his last client at the end of the day turned out to be Stan Wolinski.

“Doc,” the sheriff said, following David back to his office, “I think I need another favor, or rather, Ted Crane does.”

“I don’t owe Crane any favors,” David said grimly, waving Stan toward the chair beside his desk. “I don’t owe you any either, for that matter. What’s happened?”

“Well, for openers, I’ve caught Mr. Crane in a half-dozen lies,” Stan said. “At first he said he was home, asleep, but when I showed him Inga’s diary he changed his story. Swore he was with a lady friend whom he preferred not to name. I told him chivalry was a helluva nice idea but it wouldn’t do him much good in the state pen. Them hardcase cons ain’t big on Mother may I, you know? At which point he caved in and named... a prominent local lady. Who happens to be more’n slightly married to a prominent local gentleman.”

“Who?” David asked, his curiosity piqued.

“I’m coming to that,” Stan said. “I called the lady in question. She told me she barely knew Crane, couldn’t even remember his first name.”

“So what’s your problem? It sounds open and shut to me.”

“That’s the problem,” Stan said. “It is open and shut. Now maybe Ted Crane’s not one of my favorite human beings at the moment, but he’s an educated man. He’s not stupid. So why would he give me an alibi that was so easy to disprove? For that matter, why would he bother to murder his wife? She was dying anyway. All he had to do was wait, and probably not for very long, either.”

“Maybe he got tired of waiting.”

“Maybe so. But that still leaves me with his alibi. He claims he can prove he and the lady were more than acquaintances. He says he gave her a puppy as a gift. Says it was a pure white one, worth a lot of money. Do you know anything about it?”

“There was a pure white pup in the litter,” David acknowledged. “And he’s right about it being worth a lot of money. White German shorthairs are rare. I’d guess it would be worth at least a thousand dollars, probably more.”

“So if the lady in question actually has this dog, then she and Crane are probably better friends than she wants to admit.”

“I suppose they could be,” David said. “Where are you going with this?”

“It’s not where I’m going, Doc, it’s where you’re going. Would you recognize this dog if you saw it?”

“A white shorthair? Probably. But so could you. Why not just go check?”

“Because I’ve already asked the lady and she said she doesn’t know Crane. So if I show up on her doorstep asking to inventory her dogs, she may just infer that I doubt her word.”

“So? Since when did you get sensitive about offending a suspect?”

“But the lady isn’t a suspect, she’s only a witness. And she also happens to be Senator Holcomb’s wife.”

“Diane Holcomb?” David whistled. “She’s Crane’s alibi?”

“So he claims. And since I have to run for election in this county, the senator and his wife aren’t people I’d care to tick off unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“So you want me to tick them off instead?”

“I’m hoping to avoid offending anyone, period. The Holcombs have a kennel attached to their guesthouse. If you drive past you can probably spot the dog from the road. If it’s there, then I’ll make an official call on Mrs. Holcomb.”

“And if it’s not?”

“If you don’t see it, then it comes down to her word against Crane’s, and he’s already lied to me. The funny part is, you’re the reason I tend to believe him. That nick on your face you got in the scuffle this morning? He grazed you with his cufflink. Most guys don’t wear cufflinks except on special occasions.”

“Like a hot date with someone else’s wife, for instance?” David said, touching the cut gingerly with his fingertips. “All right, I’ll take a drive past the Holcombs’ kennel, but that’s all I’m doing. Don’t expect me to stick my neck out for Ted Crane.”

“All I’m asking for is a look, okay?”

“Right,” David said grimly. “A look.”

Easier said than done. The Holcombs lived in a rambling brown brick ranch house that sprawled along a ridge west of Algoma. There was a four-car garage behind it with guest or servants’ quarters above and a kennel attached to its rear wall. The impeccably landscaped grounds were enclosed by a decorative split-rail fence. It was an expensive home, but most of the homes nearby were equally posh, built on ten-acre lots with three-car garages standard and rolling lawns large enough for polo. Which meant it wasn’t a neighborhood where a strange car could linger for any length of time without being noticed.

Fortunately, the next home was a Windsor manor set well back from the road. Its long driveway ran parallel to the rear of the Holcombs’ guesthouse, which gave it a clear view of the kennels.

David swung the Jeep into the driveway, slowing as he approached the kennels. Beagles. The first three runs held pairs of beagles. The dogs raised their heads to watch him pass, but otherwise ignored him. The last two kennels were a problem. They were larger than the beagles’ pens, but one stood open and empty. No way to be sure what lived there, except that it was probably larger than a beagle. The last pen held a white dog. It was the right size to be Crane’s pup, but it was sleeping in the afternoon sun with its back to him and David couldn’t be sure one way or the other.