Muzzled (15 page)

“Adams hasn’t a clue,” Ben continued as he kneaded the muscles around my neck. “There again, he doesn’t know you like I do. If he did, he’d lock you up for your own protection. Hell,
I’d
lock you up, but I know if I did, you’d hurt me—in ways that make me flinch even thinking about them—so—I’ve come up with plan A instead.”

“Woohoo. Lock her up, Ben, go on. Don’t be a spoil sport. I want to have a front seat view when she does the hurting.”

“Plan A?” I queried, once again ignoring Tanya’s sex obsessive comments.

“Five of my dogs are racing at the Port Augusta tomorrow. Come with me, help me handle the dogs, and I’ll help you ask questions at the track about Liz, plus I’ll be there to cover your back. What do you think?”

Warmth crept through me like a comforting hug. And it wasn’t caused by the bone-melting shoulder rub that was presently making me purr. This guy was one of a kind. Unlike other men I’d had relationships with—Ben really got me.

“Thanks,” I said and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I owe you.”

Of course the kiss turned into a full on snog, with tongue, and would have developed further if we weren’t standing in an adult sex shop in the middle of a small country town where anyone passing by would immediately hurry to the local supermarket and set the gossip mill rolling.

“Aargh. Will you two stop with the lovey-dovey stuff? It’s sickening. Ya gunna make me toss me sport’s drink in a minute.” Tanya sounded exactly like Erin, her eleven-year-old daughter. “Kat, tell Ben how you ended up covered in horse poop.”

“Hmm,” Ben’s grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. “This I have to hear. Okay, McKinley—give.”

Damn. “Do I have to?”

Falling head first into a manure pile never looked good on one’s life-resume. My kids would probably be laughing as they told the story to
their
kids in years to come. Of course, for that to happen, first I’d have to get over my paralyzing phobia of actually pushing an eight pound human from a cavity too small to accommodate a packet of gum.

I let out another sigh then reluctantly filled Ben in on the Perils of Katrina. When I reached the part where Atticus the goat caused my demise, I thought Ben would die laughing. In fact I had to chase him around the shop with a leather plaited BDSM whip to save his life.

“So, you reckon Gina is a suspect?” Ben said once he’d regained his breath and his dignity and impounded the whip.

“I don’t know what to think. I agree, she’s acting suspiciously, but I also know Gina would never hurt an animal.”

“Come on, face it, Kat. Saint Gina is either a criminal—or she’s stuck in the middle protecting someone who is.” Tanya let out a laugh. “Oh no, don’t tell me Miss Prim and Proper has found herself a bad boy lover and he’s leading her astray.”

“What do you reckon, Kat?” said Ben. “Did they seem intimate at all?”

Before I could think any more about the woman who ran the GAP program and her bizarre behavior with the stranger in the barn, my phone beeped, indicating I’d received a text. “Maybe,” I concurred as I slid my mobile from my pocket, clicked on the phone and brought up the message.

L in trouble. Meet me at Pt Augusta track during race 6. I’ll be in car park beside red VW Beetle. Come alone. Scott.

A chill prickled my spine.

How did Liz’s boyfriend know I’d be at the track? More to the point—how did he know my mobile number—I’d recently changed the sim card so he couldn’t have found it in Liz’s little black book.

I tightened my grip on the phone. Was Liz really in trouble? Or was this a trick to get me in that car park. Alone. And—and do what?

The chill spread from my spine into the deep cavities of my chest. I drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Now, what did DI Adams tell me about Scott Brady? Something to do with serving time in jail for burglary and assault…

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I tapped Scott’s number into my keypad. I’d sort this guy out once and for all—give him the third degree, chew him up, then spit out the pips. Ready to dredge up my inner Cybil, I jammed the phone to my ear.

But there was only dead air at the other end of the line.

16

At five the next morning, I stood at the kitchen table, breakfasting on a slice of toast and a giant mug of white coffee with four sugars. Cold hands wrapped around the warmth of my Simpsons’ mug, I debated whether to confide in Ben about my coming meeting with Scott Brady. And decided against it. Unwise, perhaps, but being all macho man, Ben would insist on accompanying me to the car park and if Scott saw Ben, maybe he wouldn’t show.

Bottom line—I needed information on how to find Liz. And if it entailed taking a risk and meeting Scott alone…so be it.

Anyway, I thought, gulping down the last of my hot coffee, with dog trainers and punters and race-goers only a hundred yards away, how dangerous could meeting a guy in the car park be? Plus I wouldn’t go empty handed. I wasn’t that stupid. My brass knuckle duster and trusty double strength hair spray would be part of the weapon cache secreted in my tote bag. Maybe I’d even take along that gray, lifelike water pistol I discovered at Target last month, while buying Lucky a cute purple fluffy dragon toy.

Through the chink in the curtains I could see it was still semi-dark outside. Probably another hour before sunrise. Ben was picking me up in four hours and I had my team of dogs to work plus a trip to the trial track with two breakers before leaving for Port Augusta.

Time to start my day.

I placed my empty plate and cup in the sink and pulled on the warmest coat I owned. A thick sheepskin outback coat that had proven time and time again it was the best defense against the frost and icy wind of a South Australian winter’s morning.

“See you later guys,” I said to the dogs as I walked through the lounge toward the front door.

My two guard dogs were cuddled together on the sofa. Only Tater’s tiny head showed above their thick orange blanket. He opened one eye. Blinked. And then closed it again. The only sign of Lucky was a large immobile orange lump.

“Back door’s open for when you need to go out,” I told them and pulled on a pair of thick wooly gloves, leaving the two sleeping beauties to their dreams of chasing rabbits and gnawing on dirty old bones.

The ground, white with frost, spread out in every direction. Within two minutes, my nose and cheeks turned to ice and my boots crunched underfoot as I made my way along the dirt path that wound toward the temporary kennel house.

I loved this time of the day. It was as if I was alone in my own little world with no outside nasties to spoil the peace and quiet. No noisy traffic, no soaring electric bills to worry about, no freaking bad guys to send my heart into cardiac arrest. The only sounds in my little world were birds exchanging greetings somewhere high in the trees and oh yeah, a cacophony of barking so loud I expected the roof of the temporary dog shed to lift off and fly away. My greyhounds had heard the front door closing.

By the time Jake arrived two hours later, I’d already worked the racing team and had Zorro and Suzie, the two young breakers, in the back of the station wagon, ready to take them to the trial track.

Jake, his ropy dreadlocks damp, his jeans and T-shirt stained and his eyes red from lack of sleep, dropped his back pack on the floor with a thud and nodded blearily in my direction.

“You look a bit the worse for wear, mate. Been on an all-night drunken binge?”

I grinned at Jake’s scowl. I knew he was a health freak and would rather drink rat poison than let a drop of alcohol pass through his body. But it was fun teasing him.

“Yeah, man, been an all-nighter,” he agreed propping himself up against the wall. “A baby whale washed up on the beach down South overnight. We only like won the battle to get the poor little guy back with his mama ’bout an hour ago.”

“Oh, Jake,” I said, guilt washing over me, “why didn’t you ring and let me know? I’m covered here. Go home and get some sleep—if you can find the space to lie down in that overcrowded apartment of yours. If not, bunk down in my spare room for a few hours.”

Jake’s tired smile was ragged around the edges. “You sure, man?”

“Of course I am. I’m almost finished here then I just need to take these two pups to the trial track and I’m outta here,” I assured him. “As long as you can take care of the dogs for me tonight. I won’t be back from Port Augusta until late.”

“Hey, no probs, man.”

I had a sudden thought. Saving baby whales was the sort of action Liz thrived on.

“Don’t suppose you saw my hippie sister, Liz, on the beach helping out with the baby whale?”

“Nah. Too dark, man. We were like using torches and car headlights and there were masses of people like pushing and pulling and throwing water over the little fellow to keep him alive.”

Oh, well. Worth a try. Anyway, Liz probably wouldn’t leave her old friend, the endangered tree, in case the bulldozers snuck in while she was away saving the marine life.

My mind switched back to Scott’s text
. L in trouble
. I sighed. Hopefully it was just tree-saving trouble. The sort of trouble associated with delayed bulldozers and axes and not the sort of trouble that could leave her lifeless and covered in ice, body jammed inside a refrigerator.

* * *

Stiff and tired after a long, boring, three hour drive along the A1 highway to Port Augusta, I let out a sigh of relief as Ben maneuvered his four wheel drive and dog trailer into the inner car park at Chinnery Park, and slowed to a halt. Port Augusta. A city advertised on most travel brochures as the ‘gateway to the Flinders Ranges. The seaport and railway junction city located on the east coast of the Eyre Peninsula’. But to us, one of the friendliest country greyhound tracks in South Australia.

Ben pocketed his car keys and lifted the lid on the tack box at the front of the trailer. “Here, you take the dogs on that side,” he said passing me two leads and muzzles. “I’ll get these three.”

With half an hour to kennel closing we walked the dogs around the outer circumference of the track, allowing them to stretch their legs, sniff, and empty out before being confined in the kennel house. Then, while Ben prepared his dog for the first race, I wandered across to the betting ring. Used to be a dozen bookies at this track, all enticing punters to donate their money to their worthy cause, but times change and now there were only two.

I approached Big Mick, a familiar bookie I’d had dealings with before. Due to a misunderstanding, there was little love lost between us. At the time, I’d mistakenly thought the burly bookie was involved in a betting scam and while visiting his home, accused him of the crime. Let’s say he didn’t take well to accusations. Anyway, even though it turned out he wasn’t the brains behind the scam, I still wouldn’t put it past him to be in the middle of anything dodgy.

“Hi Mick, how’s the family?” I asked plastering a smile on my face.

Mick cast his eyes away from setting up prices for the first race and scowled. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Triplets doing well?” I persisted, cementing my smile in place, even adding a touch of animation to my voice. Geez. The things a sleuth has to do to wrangle information from a source. “And what about those gorgeous twins of yours?” I went on, in full acting mode. “Little Eddy still throwing everything he can grab hold of? Wouldn’t be surprised if Junior makes the Australian baseball team when he grows up.”

The reason I knew about Junior’s good right arm came from experience. Several well-aimed clumps of spaghetti, plus a spoon that hit their target—my face—the day I’d called in for a visit. The day I’d discovered Big Mick, of the beer gut, receding hair line and wet gooby lips, had fathered seven kids all under the age of seven.

Immediately Mick thawed. Guess it was the proud father syndrome. “Yeah, yeah, kids all doing well, thanks. Little Eddy has progressed from tossing spaghetti. The little bugger threw a chair at me last week.”

Good for Little Eddy. But I vowed to keep all future interrogations with Mick to the race track and well away from his over stimulated offspring.

“Lately, I’ve heard rumors,” I said and nudged my tote bag into a more comfortable position on my shoulder. A position where I’d have easy access to knuckle duster, hair spray and/or water pistol, if needed. “Rumors about unusual things happening at country tracks. Have
you
heard anything about that, Mick?”

His scowl returned—in spades. “What are you accusing me of
this
time?”

“Nothing,” I gave a dismissive shrug. “Just heard on the grape vine there’d been some rumbles of discontent at the country tracks lately. Thought you might know something about it.”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

Mick’s bagman, a skinny guy in thick bifocal glasses, leant forward. “Do you mean slow dogs winning at huge odds yet not turning up anything illegal in their swabs?”

My ears pricked. Aha, so that’s what Scott was referring to. “Er…yeah,” I moved closer, all the better to prod the guy into revealing more. “What do you make of that?”

“He makes nothing of that,” snapped Mick and shoved a clipboard in the direction of his bagman’s stomach. “In fact if he doesn’t stop yakking and get to work, the first race will be over before we can lay a bet.”