Orchid Beach

CHAPTER

6

Holly waited a moment, then got down on her knees and held out a hand, palm down. “C’mere, puppy,” she cooed, as sweetly as she could. “Come see me.”

The dog stopped growling but didn’t move, still eyeing her suspiciously.

“Come on over here and see me, sweetheart. You’re a good dog. Come on, now.”

The dog made a small sound in its throat and slowly walked toward Holly. It sniffed the outstretched hand.

Holly stayed still for a moment, then stroked the dog’s muzzle with the backs of her fingers. “Yes, you’re a good dog; you’re not going to eat me, are you? I certainly hope not.”

Then the dog did an odd thing: it took Holly’s fingers gently in its mouth and tugged.

Holly had to put out her other hand to keep from falling on her face, but the dog didn’t let go. It continued pulling. Holly got to her feet and followed the dog, which backed through the kitchen door, towing her into a hallway, then dropped Holly’s hand and turned toward the closed door at the end of the hall. The door was in terrible shape; it was covered in deep scratches.

“I guess you wanted to go in there,” Holly said. “Just a minute, and I’ll open it for you.” She turned the doorknob and pulled the door open. The dog ran into the room, which was a reception area, and disappeared around the front desk into the rear part of the room. Holly followed. As she turned the corner of the desk, she stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, Jesus,” she said.

A legless man lay on his back beside an overturned wheelchair; most of his head was missing. The dog lay down beside the body and laid its head on a dead hand, making small noises in its throat.

“Shotgun,” Holly said aloud to herself. She started to approach the body, but the dog lifted its head and growled. Holly stopped. “Come here, puppy. Come!” she said firmly; then she repeated herself.

The dog got to its feet and came to her. Holly stroked its face and head and scratched it behind the ears. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you? You tried to come and help Hank, but the door was closed. How did you get in the kitchen? Who put you there?” For a moment, she thought the dog would tell her. Holly stood up. On the counter beside her lay a leash and a chain collar. She picked up the collar and read the tag. “So your name is Daisy, is that right? You’re a girl, just like me.” She put the collar over the dog’s head, and attached the leash to it. “I want you to come outside with me, Daisy,” she said softly, tugging at the leash. It took more encouragement, but Daisy finally followed her through the kitchen and out the back door.

Jimmy was waiting beside the steps. “Everything under control?”

“Not exactly,” Holly said. “Daisy, this is Jimmy. I want you to stay here with him. Jimmy, pet Daisy, and get to be friends.”

Daisy allowed herself to be petted by the policeman.

“Daisy, you sit down right here.”

Daisy sat down.

“Keep her here with you. I’m going back inside.”

“What’s going on in there? Is Hank passed out?”

“Hank is dead,” Holly replied. “I’m going to phone it in, and when people start arriving, you keep Daisy here, and keep talking to her. She’s very upset, and I don’t think she’s the kind of dog you’d want to upset any more than she already is.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jimmy said.

Holly went back into the house, gingerly picked up the phone on the front desk and punched in 911. She didn’t even know if the town had 911 service, but now was the time to find out.

“Orchid Beach Police,” a woman’s voice said. “What is your emergency?”

“This is Deputy Chief of Police Holly Barker,” Holly said. She picked up a business card from a little stand on the desk and read out the address. “I’ve got a death by gunshot at this address,” she said. “I want you to find Bob Hurst and get him out here right now, ready to work the scene. Is there a medical examiner in this town?”

“Yes, Chief, but not full time.”

“Find him and get him out here, too. I’ll need an ambulance later, but there’s no hurry about that.”

“Yes, ma’am. Have you got an ID on the body?”

“His name is Henry Doherty.”

“Hank? Ohhh, I liked Hank. Is Daisy all right?”

“Daisy is all right. Now you get moving.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Holly hung up and looked around the room. She hadn’t noticed it before, but a pump shotgun with a short barrel lay beside the body. She didn’t touch it. Apart from the dead man on the floor, the room was in good order. A desk stood in a corner, and its top was neatly arranged. She walked over and, using a pen from her pocket, poked among the papers on the desk. There was some mail—bills, mostly, but one from a Mrs. Eleanor Warner, at an Atlanta address. Holly walked around the room and looked at the rest of it. A small safe stood behind the desk, its door ajar; she’d go through that later. When she had seen the room, she walked through an open door and down another hall to a bedroom. It contained the usual furniture, except for a hospital bed with some sort of trapeze bar hanging above it. In a corner stood a pair of prosthetic legs and two canes. Apparently, Hank Doherty had not always used the wheelchair.

Out the back door was a series of kennel houses, surrounded by a chain-link fence. She was impressed with how neat everything was. Only the front yard seemed neglected. She went back into the house and then out again, via the kitchen door. Jimmy stood patiently holding Daisy’s leash. She petted the dog. “Jimmy, do you think the chief’s car would have some rubber gloves in it?”

“It might.”

Holly took the leash from him. “See if you can find me some.”

Jimmy went to the car, looked into the glove compartment and came back with the gloves.

Holly had a thought. “Did the chief carry a shotgun in his car?”

“Yes, ma’am; all the patrol cars have shotguns.”

“Go see if there’s one in the chief’s car.”

Jimmy checked the car, looked in the trunk and returned. “No, ma’am, there’s no shotgun in the car.”

Holly handed him Daisy’s leash and went back into the house, slipping on the rubber gloves. Back in the office, she turned over the shotgun and jotted down the serial number on the back of a glove, then she called the station and asked for Jane.

“Jane here,” she said.

“It’s Holly. Do you have a list handy of the departmental weapons’ serial numbers?”

“Right here in my computer.”

“Look up the serial number of the chief’s shotgun, the one he carried in his car.” Holly heard the tapping of computer keys.

Jane read out the number.

“Thanks. If you need me I’m at Hank Doherty’s house.” She gave Jane the number, then hung up. When she turned around a man was standing in the doorway. He was in his late thirties, at least six-four and two hundred and fifty pounds, of athletic build, wearing a wash-and-wear suit.

“I’m Bob Hurst,” he said.

“Holly Barker,” she replied, extending a hand. “Pardon my gloves.”

“Heard about you, glad to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“What we got?”

“Hank Doherty, apparently. Dead, shotgun to the face.”

Hurst nodded, walked around the desk and took a good look. “Looks like a police weapon,” he said.

“It’s Chief Marley’s,” she replied. “I checked the serial number.”

He looked at her oddly. “That’s kind of weird.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve had a walk-through. It’s all in good order; nothing seems to have been stolen. The safe’s open, and it doesn’t seem like a robbery.”

“From what I know of Hank, it could be suicide,” Hurst said.

“With the chief’s shotgun?”

“Well, there is that.”

“Let’s treat it as a homicide until we know more. You work the scene, I’ll go through the desk and the safe.”

“Right.”

Holly went and sat behind the desk. She gave her first attention to the letter from Mrs. Eleanor Warner. It was two pages of affectionate chat, with talk of her children. Mrs. Warner was Hank’s daughter.

Holly went through the bills and other mail and found nothing remarkable. Finally, she came to a bound document under a blank legal pad. The cover, apparently printed from a computer, was set in large type. It read:

DAISY

EXCELLENT WORKING BITCH

“Oh, Daisy,” Holly said aloud. “Me, too.”