Read Online Silent Night: A Raine Stockton Dog Mystery by Donna Ball - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donna Ball
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On the other hand, crimes that weren’t solved within the first twenty-four hours became exponentially harder to solve. I knew that Buck was counting on his deputies making an arrest tonight.
He knocked again. Again there was silence.
“Come on, let’s check around back.”
He turned on his flashlight to light our path as we rounded the dark corner of the trailer. There were a couple of overflowing trashcans, a pile of rotting lumber beside a metal storage shed, and a propane gas tank. The three wooden steps to the back door were too narrow for all of us, so I let Buck go up while Cisco and I waited. He knocked, and the door swung inward a few inches. He glanced down at me. I came up the steps behind him.
Buck pushed the door open and called, “Ashleigh? It’s Sheriff Lawson. Are you here?”
He stepped inside the threshold, and because he had not brought me along for nothing, I added my woman’s voice, “Ashleigh, it’s okay. Don’t be scared. We just want to talk to you.”
But the trailer was clearly empty.
Buck moved his flashlight beam around the small kitchen until he found the light switch. He pressed it and a cluttered, untidy kitchen with faded brick-patterned linoleum and stained wallpaper came into view. There was a box of cereal on the table and crumbs scattered around. A loaf of bread was open on the counter. There were dishes in the sink.
Buck’s brows drew together as he sniffed the air. “Do you smell bleach?”
“So? Someone did the laundry.”
But his frown only deepened. “I don’t know. Doesn’t look to me like the housekeeper has been in today. Stay here,” he said and moved toward the front of the house.
I heard him call out again, “Is anyone here? It’s the police.” And I sighed, glancing around. I don’t always do what Buck tells me to—in fact, I almost never do—but it was pointless to follow him through an empty house.
There was a shelf above the greasy microwave that held a stack of mail, a small vase of plastic flowers, and a couple of framed photographs. I glanced through the mail, which consisted of two months’ worth of telephone, electric and water bills, as well as a letter from Fidelity Mortgage which I could not imagine contained good news. I picked up a photograph of a man and woman in wedding attire. The frame was sticky with kitchen grime and the glass was dull. I turned it over and slipped the cheap cardboard backing up into the frame a little. On the back of the photograph someone had written “Amy and Earle, 6-22-89”. I replaced the photograph and picked up the one next to it, a school photograph of a dark-haired young girl I assumed to be Ashleigh. Why did she look familiar to me?
While I had been nosing around I had let the leash go slack in my hand. A crackling sound distracted me, and I turned to see that Cisco had taken advantage of my preoccupation to put his front paws on the counter and help himself to the open loaf of bread.
I don’t usually yell at my dogs, but counter-surfing—especially someone else’s counter, in someone else’s house—was a huge No-No, and every dog I had ever trained knew it. I took a deep breath and bellowed at the top of my lungs, “ Cisco, wrong !”
I had intended to startle him, and that was exactly what I did. He dropped from the counter and scooted across the room with such force that he jerked the leash from my hand, lost traction on the slippery floors, and slid the last few feet across the linoleum on his butt. His momentum was stopped by a wooden door, which popped open a few inches when he hit it. He sat there, grinning at me sheepishly, and it was hard not to laugh back.
Buck called, “Hey, what’s going on?”
“We’re okay!” I called back and went to collect Cisco. For good measure, I muttered under my breath as sternly as I could, “You rotten dog. You know better.”
I bent to retrieve Cisco’s leash
He knocked again. Again there was silence.
“Come on, let’s check around back.”
He turned on his flashlight to light our path as we rounded the dark corner of the trailer. There were a couple of overflowing trashcans, a pile of rotting lumber beside a metal storage shed, and a propane gas tank. The three wooden steps to the back door were too narrow for all of us, so I let Buck go up while Cisco and I waited. He knocked, and the door swung inward a few inches. He glanced down at me. I came up the steps behind him.
Buck pushed the door open and called, “Ashleigh? It’s Sheriff Lawson. Are you here?”
He stepped inside the threshold, and because he had not brought me along for nothing, I added my woman’s voice, “Ashleigh, it’s okay. Don’t be scared. We just want to talk to you.”
But the trailer was clearly empty.
Buck moved his flashlight beam around the small kitchen until he found the light switch. He pressed it and a cluttered, untidy kitchen with faded brick-patterned linoleum and stained wallpaper came into view. There was a box of cereal on the table and crumbs scattered around. A loaf of bread was open on the counter. There were dishes in the sink.
Buck’s brows drew together as he sniffed the air. “Do you smell bleach?”
“So? Someone did the laundry.”
But his frown only deepened. “I don’t know. Doesn’t look to me like the housekeeper has been in today. Stay here,” he said and moved toward the front of the house.
I heard him call out again, “Is anyone here? It’s the police.” And I sighed, glancing around. I don’t always do what Buck tells me to—in fact, I almost never do—but it was pointless to follow him through an empty house.
There was a shelf above the greasy microwave that held a stack of mail, a small vase of plastic flowers, and a couple of framed photographs. I glanced through the mail, which consisted of two months’ worth of telephone, electric and water bills, as well as a letter from Fidelity Mortgage which I could not imagine contained good news. I picked up a photograph of a man and woman in wedding attire. The frame was sticky with kitchen grime and the glass was dull. I turned it over and slipped the cheap cardboard backing up into the frame a little. On the back of the photograph someone had written “Amy and Earle, 6-22-89”. I replaced the photograph and picked up the one next to it, a school photograph of a dark-haired young girl I assumed to be Ashleigh. Why did she look familiar to me?
While I had been nosing around I had let the leash go slack in my hand. A crackling sound distracted me, and I turned to see that Cisco had taken advantage of my preoccupation to put his front paws on the counter and help himself to the open loaf of bread.
I don’t usually yell at my dogs, but counter-surfing—especially someone else’s counter, in someone else’s house—was a huge No-No, and every dog I had ever trained knew it. I took a deep breath and bellowed at the top of my lungs, “ Cisco, wrong !”
I had intended to startle him, and that was exactly what I did. He dropped from the counter and scooted across the room with such force that he jerked the leash from my hand, lost traction on the slippery floors, and slid the last few feet across the linoleum on his butt. His momentum was stopped by a wooden door, which popped open a few inches when he hit it. He sat there, grinning at me sheepishly, and it was hard not to laugh back.
Buck called, “Hey, what’s going on?”
“We’re okay!” I called back and went to collect Cisco. For good measure, I muttered under my breath as sternly as I could, “You rotten dog. You know better.”
I bent to retrieve Cisco’s leash
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