Drool Baby (A Dog Park Mystery) (Lia Anderson Dog Park Mysteries) (11 page)

"I don't know . . ." Lia started

"Best if you don't force it. The opportunity may just present itself and you can go with it."

Lia pondered, but she didn't say anything.

"Think about it," Peter said.

"Another thing we want to know is if Nadine shares a bedroom with her husband. You have my permission to say I snore and ask her if she has that problem,
and how she deals with it.

"Brilliant," Lia smirked. "I get another chance to complain about you."

"Use it for all it's worth. It's for a good cause."

John Morgan was worried. He was a tall, mild-mannered man of middle age with graying hair. His face was kind, with a strong nose and thin lips. He wore
oversize round wire-rim glasses. His carriage was stiff due to calcification of the spine that had been progressing for more than twenty years. This
condition, ankylosing spondilitus, was thought to have troubled Ramses the Great. Some people believe that the naturally fused spine can indicate a soul of
extraterrestrial origins. John was not troubled by this idea. In fact, those who knew him well thought it likely.

John was a part time IT Technologist at the University of Tennessee. He lived in a small, clapboard house down a country lane on the outskirts of
Knoxville. He'd been there for more than a quarter century. There was an ancient oak in the front yard where he'd built a tree house shortly after he moved
in. At one time he used it for rappelling practice. Due to his infirmity, he hadn't climbed it in almost two decades.

He accumulated things, as people do. He tended to the tiny and his small house was crammed floor to ceiling with miniature objects. His most recent hobby
was legos. He spent hours erecting structures on his dining room table while his five cats looked on, often batting at the pieces while he tried to place
them.

He housed many books about paranormal subjects. Small crystals perched on all available surfaces, including on top of his computer. Many were arranged
together in bowls of sand placed in specific locations around the house. He had a statue of Buddha, sitting on top of a box. He put things in the box that
required divine assistance. The last inhabitant of the box was a fried hard drive a company of Mac specialists had been unable to recover. John had saved
all the information on the drive and credited a week with Buddha for this miracle. He performed this miracle for free. The next day he found over one
hundred dollars during a walk in the park and he considered himself compensated.

John suspected he might need Buddha's assistance now, or at least in the near future, and he had no idea why. Usually he could tell when the people around
him were in trouble. John could see auras and knew the storm-cloud gray of stress, and the muddy colors of rage and depression. No one around him was
emitting worrisome colors. That meant it had to be someone he knew online.

John's physical movements were limited, but he had a wide acquaintance over the
internet. Some friends of many years he had never met. Some had travelled to Knoxville to see him. He could not travel because sitting in a car, or sitting
anywhere, for an extended period caused him excruciating pain.

He could not see his internet friends, but there were ways. His preferred position for meditation was the lotus position, but that had been denied him for
many years. He apologized to Miko, a Siamese, and Mr. Ray, a tuxedo cat, and removed them from the sofa cushions. He left Diggy and Bear on their perch
atop the back of the sofa. He lay down, closing his eyes and going through his ritual meditation exercises with the intent of opening himself up to the
knowledge which would clarify his feeling of unease.

His breathing slowed as he went deeper into the meditation. Colors appeared to his mind's eye. A dark, dangerous red. A blackish green he associated with
chemical toxicity, some kind of drug. Muddy grays and browns he associated with depression. Depression settled in his chest like lead, anxiety made his
heart race. Mixed in were a fogginess of the mind and a warm, healing glow. He allowed himself to experience this cacophony of colors and emotions. There
was trouble, but also help, support of some kind. Whoever it was, they were not alone. He stepped back from the emotions and waited patiently for some hint
of identity. He saw flower beds, and smelled roses and rich earth and mulch. He saw hands, tending.

GreenThumb. The name floated into his consciousness. Bailey, the landscaper. He ended the meditation, thanked Buddha and booted his computer. He logged in
to the Crystal Bridge forum, where he'd met Bailey several years earlier. He went to his messages and opened an old one from Bailey, then clicked on her
name to open up her profile. According to the dates on her most recent posts, she hadn't been on since early July. He checked out her last posts. Half of
the thread was deleted. It was hard to follow, but it looked like Bailey was having a conversation with someone about a fringe theory of reincarnation.
John was of the opinion that it was never acceptable to commit harmful acts, no matter your motivation. He wished he could see the other side of the
conversation. From Bailey's responses, the other poster's arguments must have been compelling.
Bailey, Bailey, Bailey,
he thought,
what have you gotten
yourself into?

Something was calling Bailey to his attention. That must mean there was a way he could help. What was it? And how to contact her? He didn't have anything
but an email address. That was useless. If she was online these days, she'd be posting in the forum.

He got on his computer and checked telephone listings for Bailey Hughes and came up with a blank. He found a B Hughes and looked up the address on Google
Maps. The location was near Mount Airy. Hadn't she mentioned Mount Airy to him? That's right, she took Kita there, to the dog park. He dialed the number.
It was Bailey's voice on the answering machine, but there was no more room for messages. What did that mean? What to do next?

Miko jumped in his lap and he scratched her head absently while she purred like a Maserati. Pushing wouldn't help. He set the cat down, then went into his
dining room and surveyed the Lego castle covering the table. It needed some work on the drawbridge. He lost himself in the details of construction and let
his mind wander as his cats gathered, eyeing the small, colorful pieces.

The memory emerged slowly, teasing. A project Bailey worked on a few months ago. She built a garden labyrinth with an artist. She'd posted pictures on Facebook. Who was her partner? He went back to his computer, disappointing his menagerie.
He logged into Facebook and went to Bailey's profile, clicking on her photo albums. The last album she uploaded contained pictures of the labyrinth.

It was there in the album description. Lia Anderson. He checked Bailey's list of friends to see if Lia had a Facebook page. He saw the photo of the pretty artist
and felt a jolt of certainty. This was her partner. He clicked on her face. Her profile was public, as he hoped it would be. He was not lucky enough to
find a cell phone number.

He could message her, but her posts appeared to be infrequent. She looked like an irregular user. This was a small obstacle to
someone with his talents. He noted the information she gave about herself, then set to work tracking her down.

John rubbed his forehead and stared at the information on the screen. Something was nagging him, telling him not to call yet. There was more he needed to
find out.

He ran a search on Bailey and came up with two different items. The first was a newspaper article in June which named Bailey as the person who
discovered a drowned socialite. The second took more time and trouble to obtain. It was a police report from July, charging Bailey with attempted murder in
an assault on Lia Anderson.

No wonder he'd felt that warning tingle when he considered calling her. He wasn't likely to get cooperation from her victim. He hacked into the police archives and pulled the file.

Lia's statement about the attack dovetailed neatly with the posts Bailey had made on the Crystal Bridge forum. Still, he knew there was more to the story than was in the report, or his guides would not be asking him to step in. The arresting officer
was a Peter Dourson. Also present at the scene was Jim McDonald. He felt a pull as he read this name.

Jim was pursuing an all time high score on Angry Birds when the phone rang. "McDonald," he answered.

"Jim McDonald?" Jim heard a Tennessee twang in the unknown voice.

"Yes, who is this?"

"My name is Trees. I'm a friend of Bailey Hughes."

Jim sighed, mentally. "What can I do for you, Mr. Trees?"

"I'm sure it must seem strange, calling out of the the blue like this."

"How do you know Bailey."

"We've been friends online for years. Mr. McDonald, I found out she's in a jam right now."

"You can say that." Jim, suspicious, fell back on his taciturn nature. He repeated himself, "What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to help her."

"What, exactly do you want to do?"

"Whatever I can. I'm stuck where I am, but I think there must be something. I'm good with computers. I can do research."

"How good are you?"

"I found you. I'm good enough that I'm not giving you my real name, and I'm using a prepaid phone."

Jim nodded to himself, conceding the point. "Why did you come to me?"

"Just a feeling. Was that a mistake?"

Jim tried to think like Peter. "Maybe, maybe not. Where do you know Bailey from?"

"I see her on Facebook sometimes, but before that I met her at the Crystal Bridge online community."

"You post there, do you?"

"Not lately. I went back there yesterday and saw that Bailey was having an odd conversation with someone. It worried me."

Jim took Trees' number and asked what his screen name was at Crystal Bridge. He found out that Trees went by the moniker, "ClimbTrees." He said he'd give
it some thought and call back in a day or two. Which would be after he'd had a chance to talk to Peter.

Peter was exhausted and frustrated. He and Brent had spent the evening interviewing witnesses in a domestic violence case where an estranged husband and
wife got into a fight when they ran into each other at a cookout. Though husband remained in jail, it was looking increasingly like the wife had started
hostilities. Witnesses stated she'd she swung a beer bottle at his head. She'd apparently objected to him parading his new girlfriend around in front of
her friends.

Peter mentally shook his head. Chances were, this couple would continue to antagonize each other until one of them moved out of state or else
ended up dead. At least he had Lia to come home to, for now. It was the one bright spot in a long day.

The living room was dark when Peter opened the front door. Moonlight entered through the window and painted Lia's face where she lay sleeping on the couch.
It crawled up the arm she'd flung over her head. It lingered on her throat and left intriguing shadows below. She looked so pretty, with her lashes resting
against her cheeks, her mouth soft, relaxed and slightly parted, and her hair splayed in whirlpools and eddies around her face.

Peter crossed the room quietly and sat down on the edge of the couch. He feathered his fingers up the underside of her arm, feeling the softness of her
skin. She did not wake. He ran his hand up her wrist, felt her fingers as they entwined with his reflexively. He leaned over and nuzzled the juncture of
her neck and shoulder. She murmured in sleep. Then her other hand came up and stroked the back of his neck. He didn't know if she was awake or dreaming.

Warm breath caressed his cheek. Then panting, rapid and shallow. He turned his head and met Honey's tongue with his nose.

"Aw, fuck."

Lia jolted awake. "Peter? You're home. What time is it?"

"Past Honey's bed time."

"Hey, Girl." Lia removed her hand from Peter's neck and stroked Honey's head. "She probably wants to go out."

"Can I toss her out and leave her there?"

"No," Lia said primly. "You're an officer of the law. You know that people steal dogs."

"That was the idea," he muttered.

"You go clean up. I'll put her out."

He was toweling off his head when he heard the bathroom door creak open. Cool air from the hallway startled goose-bumps on his skin. He smiled to himself,
anticipating the touch of Lia's hands on his back. A small tongue flicked his calf. He looked down to see Chewy licking water off his leg.

"Scram!" Peter yelled.

Chewy looked up at him and whined.

Lia poked her head in the door. "Don't yell. It encourages aggression."

"Get the rat out of here," he ground out.

"You'll hurt his feelings. Come here, Little Man, let's go find some treats."

He tossed on pajama bottoms and went into the kitchen. The trio of dogs sat grinning while Lia handed out treats. He sat down at the kitchen table and
scowled.

"Do you always reward them when they behave badly?"

"Don't be such a grouch. They're just being dogs."

"What about me, don't I get a treat?"

She sat down in his lap and rested her hands on his shoulders. "Poor baby. Bad day?"

"Anyone ever tell you that five's a crowd?"

"Just ignore them. They'll go away."

"They're panting like the audience in an x-rated movie. I can't ignore them."

She kissed him. "That better?"

"They're still watching."

She sighed. "Honey, Chewy, Viola, go to bed."

The trio stared at her.

"Now!"

The three slunk off into the other room with whines and grumbles.

"We're alone now," Lia said.

"Kinda killed the mood."

She teased his mouth with her finger. "What mood was that? I was asleep."

"I came in and you looked so pretty with your hair all swirly around your face. You had your arm up with your wrist against your forehead like an actress
in a silent movie. I was going to kiss you awake when Honey stuck her nose in."