Rottweiler Rescue (16 page)

As I hung up, I remembered that even though she denied it seconds later, Susan thought Joyce was capable of killing someone who threatened her. Could Joyce have hired a killer to remove a threat to her? If she did hire a killer, would she consider removing a witness to his crime in the same light as removing a potential threat to herself? I took the gun out of the center compartment of my purse and pushed it into a side pocket where it was easier to reach.

The verbal directions Joyce gave me to her home in Morrison were so straightforward I skipped Mapquest, tucked Millie in with her chew toys, loaded Sophie and Robo in the car, and set off.

Fall had finally arrived. The day was heavily overcast, cool enough that the dogs could wait safely in the car even if I spent quite some time with Joyce. As I drove west on C-470, the mountains were ghostly shadows of themselves, barely discernible through low clouds, but my mood was bright. A middle-aged woman could not be Jack’s murderer. Visiting her was safe enough, and I was going to find out something that would lead me right to the killer.

Joyce lived in an area of older homes so far apart I guessed they were on twenty or thirty-acre lots. Her property was on a slight rise and the gray house rose even higher, three-stories, with railed wood decks on each level. The garage had doors for four vehicles, and I suspected the pretty, traditional style barn to the south housed dogs, not horses.

Before leaving the dogs in the car with the windows down several inches, I gave them a lecture about the necessary integrity of car windows.

“I am really grateful you broke the window that one time,” I told them, “but that kind of thing is for emergencies only, not just a way out of the car if you get bored. You wanted to come. Now you have to wait and not make a fuss.”

Robo was so impressed with my speech he turned his back on me and lay down. Sophie stared at me intently with a look of infinite understanding, but I felt a lot less than confident that her expression meant she agreed with me.

Before ringing the front door bell, I looked back at the car. Neither dog was visible. The Toyota looked very small and very old where it sat in front of the closest garage door.

Joyce answered the door herself. She was as attractive as I remembered from seeing her ringside at dog shows in the past, and the silky mauve pantsuit she wore accentuated a taut, well-maintained body. She had, however, reached the age where no magician could completely hide the years. Her blonde-streaked brown hair was perfectly styled in soft curls, but the tightness of the skin over her prominent cheekbones didn’t match her neck and cried “facelift.” I added ten years to my previous estimate of her age.

She led the way across a marble-tiled foyer and into a large room done in a greenish gray, full of ultra-modern furniture of metal and black leather. The west wall was all glass — windows and French doors. On a clear day the view of the mountains would be breathtaking. Today the gray outside added to the coldness of the room. Joyce motioned me to a chair, seating herself on the couch opposite and leaning forward eagerly.

Before I could ask her anything, she began quizzing me about the day of the murder. She was so keen, she affected me as negatively as Marjorie Cleavinger had. So she got the short version of that day — no body, little blood, masked killer I couldn’t tell a thing about. When she realized she wasn’t going to get the kind of graphic detail she hoped for, she finally sat back and relaxed.

“Now, what is it that you want to know from me?” she asked.

“Tell me about Jack,” I said. “Who would have wanted to harm him?”

“No one would have wanted to harm Jack. He was a darling man — handsome, charming, and
very
good with the dogs.”

Now I leaned toward her. Hoping to impress her with the seriousness of my situation, I tried much the same words I’d used on Ty Mullin.

“Joyce, Jack is dead. Nothing anyone says about him at this point will hurt him, and his killer seems to be convinced I’m a threat. Several people I’ve talked to have admitted Jack liked to try to use a bit of leverage on people now and then. Did he ever try anything like that on you, say to get you to let him campaign Carter nationally?”

For just a second Joyce’s mouth flattened into an annoyed slit, but only for a second, then her friendly, open expression was back.

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about. I discussed my plans for Carter with Jack, and he understood I was going to send the dog to Joe Loomis to campaign next year. Jack may have wished I’d let him keep the dog, but he accepted my decision. Anyone who told you it affected my working relationship with Jack, or that Jack wasn’t going to continue showing the rest of my dogs is just plain wrong. If Jack hadn’t been killed, he would have had Carter for the rest of this year. Have you been talking to Harry Jameson?”

“I’ve talked to Harry,” I admitted, “but we never talked about Carter, and he wasn’t the one who explained the ins and outs of campaigning a dog nationally to me.”

“Well, if Harry thinks he’d have gotten my dogs back because Jack wouldn’t accept my decision about Carter he is absolutely wrong, and he isn’t going to get them back with Jack gone either. Harry’s been just plain rude to me since we parted ways, and I’d stop showing dogs before I’d do any business with him again.”

“So Harry used to handle your dogs? Before Jack? What happened?”

“Yes, I used Harry years ago, before I knew better. He did a nice enough job with the dogs, when he was available, but there were times when he simply insisted he had to keep a weekend clear for some event or other his children were involved in. I feel if a man is going to be a
professional
handler, he ought to be showing dogs, not attending some kindergarten graduation.”

How often had Harry done that, I wondered. Maybe only once. Once would have been enough.

I leaned back against the slippery leather chair. “So you went to Jack, and he guaranteed he’d be there for every show.”

“Something like that.” She gave me a small, self-satisfied smile. “Actually Jack heard I was unhappy with Harry’s priorities and came to me. He told me he was almost sorry to have won Best of Breed at the show I missed since mine was a much better dog — it was Carter’s grandsire I was campaigning back then. Jack pointed out that he was unencumbered by the kind of family commitments Harry had.”

If Harry had really been angry to lose this woman’s lucrative business, I was going to have to move him up on my suspect list, particularly if Jack had stolen clients from him more recently with similar tactics. Then again maybe Joyce was the only client Jack had ever successfully lured away from Harry, and maybe Harry had been glad to see the back of a woman who gave every indication of deserving Susan’s description of “demanding” and maybe a few stronger adjectives.

Before I could start to ask another question, Joyce looked toward the doorway, and her face lit up. A man dressed in tennis whites hesitated there, a racquet dangling from one hand.

“Do come in, darling,” she said. “How was your game?” Without pausing to give him a chance to answer, she motioned to me. “This is Dianne Brennan. She helps Susan McKinnough with those poor, sad rescue dogs, and she’s the one who found Jack Sheffield’s body. Do come in and meet her.”

Twice before in my life I’d been introduced to men so handsome my reaction had been uncontrollable — and embarrassing. I was staring but couldn’t look away, knew my mouth was half open but couldn’t close it, could feel the flush rising up my neck and spreading across my cheeks.

Too young for me, I thought. Not to mention too rich and too good looking. His hair was dark, with a startling streak of pure white in the front that somehow emphasized his youth, as did a golden tan that all but glowed in the dreary room.

Joyce laughed with delight at my reaction, as well she might. He must be her son, I thought, and she had every reason to rank her own production abilities right up there with her champion dogs’.

“It’s a good thing I’m not a jealous woman,” I heard Joyce say as if from far away. “Half the women who meet Erich react just like you. He’s beautiful, isn’t he? Dianne, this is Erich Kohler, my husband.”

Husband!
Her words broke the spell, enabling me to tear my gaze from Erich and look at Joyce. She was still half laughing at my reaction, entertained by it, not slightly insulted.

Husband!
I risked another glance at him and found myself back in control of my facial muscles.

Erich had to be used to women making fools of themselves when introduced to him. The look he gave me was knowing.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Brennan,” he said, exhibiting the good manners I was not.

Then he turned to Joyce, “You didn’t tell me you expected company. I would have showered at the club before coming home.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she said. “Dianne called about visiting after you’d left. She would have the most interesting story if she’d tell it.” She gave me a hard look that said she knew I was holding out on her. “She saw Jack’s killer the day of the murder, but she won’t give me any gory details. Now she thinks the killer is after her and she’s trying to find him first.”

“Isn’t that the job of the police?” Erich asked.

He had an accent, more than Lannie Jameson, less than Arnold Schwarzenegger. German, I thought.

“Yes, it should be,” I admitted, “but I’m convinced the murder has to do with the dog world, and the sheriff’s department doesn’t seem to agree. At least they haven’t talked to several of the people I’ve visited. Have they talked to you?”

“No, of course not. There’s no reason for the police to talk to us,” Joyce said.

“Well, I think they should have,” I said with resignation. “You were his best customer. In fact, I have a list of people who were involved with Jack through dogs, and I’ve been talking to everyone I can reach on the list. Would you look at it for me and see if you know of anyone I should add?”

Where Erich now sat on the couch he was closer to me than Joyce. I pulled the list from my pocket and held it out to him. His hand barely closed on the paper when Joyce reached over and plucked it from him without a word. She barely glanced at the list before handing it back to me.

“It looks complete to me. All you could add would be clients who had him handle a dog only now and then or people who live out of state. You’re not spreading your net that wide are you?”

“No, not yet,” I said with a sigh.

“To be honest,” Joyce said, “I think the police have the right idea. No one in the dog world killed Jack. We may be terribly competitive, but it hasn’t reached the point where anyone would kill over wins and losses at dog shows. There was money in Jack’s family, you know. I should think that would be the best place to look for murderous feelings.”

If she was right, maybe Lieutenant Forrester was arresting someone at that very moment. Somehow I doubted it.

“Now, I know you wanted to see the dogs,” Joyce said, getting to her feet. “Let’s do that so that your trip won’t have been totally in vain.” As Erich rose also, she added, “Will you come with us, darling?”

He nodded, and her face lit up the way it had when he first entered the room.

Joyce led the way to the backdoor past other elegantly furnished rooms and a shining, spotless kitchen. As we followed the gravel path toward the barn that indeed housed kennels, she walked by my side, letting Erich tag along behind us.

She chatted away about her breeding program, and I listened with half an ear. She made yearly trips to Germany and visited kennels there to keep an eye on the best of their breeding stock.

“It’s a good excuse for a European vacation,” Joyce said, “and it gives me an idea of what new blood I want to bring into my lines every now and then. That’s how I met Erich, on one of my trips there.”

She looked back over her shoulder flirtatiously as she said this, but I kept my eyes on the path ahead.

On the outside the barn might look like an old fashioned home for horses, but on the inside everything was ultra-modern and designed to make caring for the dozen dogs housed there as convenient as possible. Across from the kennels, one room contained a tiled washroom with raised tub. Another room was full of grooming equipment.

“This is a great setup,” I said, peering through doorways. “Washing dogs would be fun with equipment like this.”

Joyce acknowledged my compliment with a nod and called out, “Gary! Gary, are you here?”

A heavy, graying man emerged from a room in the back. His belly hung over his belt, and his jowls hung over his neck, but even so, he gave an impression of strength.

“Yes, ma’am. I was just doing some paperwork while I waited for you and your guest.”

“This is Gary Crawford, my kennel manager,” Joyce said. “Gary, this is Dianne Brennan. She helps Susan McKinnough with those poor, sad rescue dogs.”

When Joyce had introduced me to her husband with those exact words I’d been too busy staring at him and trying to control my face to register the condescension in her voice. This time I caught it.

So Joyce was one of those breeders who thought rescue dogs had nothing to do with her Rottweiler royalty. Too bad I didn’t have a copy of one of the pedigrees sometimes turned in with rescues handy to show her. Royalty usually shows up just a couple of generations behind those poor, sad rescues.

Even so, as Gary pulled one dog after another from its kennel, stacked it in the aisleway, and trotted it up and down for me to admire, I was impressed. Joyce’s recitation of each dog’s pedigree, wins, and sometimes the successes of offspring didn’t hurt either. Two female puppies shared the last run. They were about the same age Sophie was when she first came to me, well beyond infant puppy cuteness yet still endearing in their gangly youthful innocence.

“Are you keeping these two?” I asked.

“Only one,” Joyce answered. “I couldn’t decide until recently which one was the better show prospect, but now that I know, that one on your left is going to Connecticut next week.”

The puppy on the left tipped her head at me and grinned a puppy grin. I wished her a safe and not too frightening trip in the belly of the plane she would travel in. And I wished her an owner who kept her in the house and loved her for more than show wins. She was the reject, and she might be the lucky one, I thought, looking at the puppy on the right with sadness.