He stopped the Jeep abruptly and climbed out. He vaulted the low fence and trotted to the kennels. The beagles came to life, raising the alarm, yawping and yapping as he approached.
The white pup in the last kennel stirred and rose to check him out, but it didn’t deign to join in the clamor. Barking was for beagles, and this pup was no hound. He was a German shorthaired pointer, a solid-white male. And he was almost certainly Hector’s one-time littermate.
David knelt for a closer look, to be absolutely sure. The pup approached him curiously and sniffed his hand.
“What are you doing here?”
A woman had appeared at the corner of the building. She was strikingly attractive, with fine, aquiline features and honey-blond hair tied back in a lustrous ponytail. Her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. She was dressed for country life, riding breeches, boots, and a flannel shirt, but there was nothing working class about her. She oozed the confidence that comes with old money and social position. Or perhaps her confidence came from the fiery-eyed Doberman that was straining at the short leash she held in her gloved hand. The dog wasn’t growling or even baring its fangs, but its gaze was locked on David’s throat. All business. Probably a trained attack dog.
David rose slowly. “I guess I could say I was just passing, Mrs. Holcomb, but I’m not much at fibbing, even in a good cause. My name is Dr. David Westbrook. I’m a veterinarian. Sheriff Wolinski asked me to stop by in order to verify some information, an alibi actually.”
“This has to do with that... Crane person, doesn’t it? I’ve already told the sheriff that I scarcely know him. My husband and I may have met him at some function, we’re quite active socially—”
“Mrs. Holcomb, you don’t have to convince me of anything,” David interrupted. “I’m not a policeman. On the other hand, this is a very unusual pup you have here. Pedigreed and AKC registered, I imagine.”
“What business is that of yours?”
“None at all, ma’am. But if you wouldn’t mind an observation by your friendly neighborhood veterinarian, this dog will be awfully easy to trace, which means you’re likely going to be involved in a murder investigation whether you like it or not. Ted Crane named you as his alibi. He also said he gave you this dog and here it is. Rather an expensive gift from a man you scarcely know, wouldn’t you say?”
She started to reply, then bit it off.
“Ma’am, if you really want to get clear of this thing, the smart thing to do is to just tell Stan Wolinski the truth. He may seem like a rube to you, but you can trust his discretion. He doesn’t want to cause any problems for you, and he certainly doesn’t want trouble with your husband. That’s why he asked me to stop by instead of coming himself.”
“And what’s your part in this?” she asked coldly.
“I don’t have one. I’m only here because I can identify the dog.”
“But I’m supposed to rely on your discretion too?”
“I can only give you my word for that, but I live in Algoma now, and practice here. I’m not looking to make enemies either.”
“No,” she said, releasing a long, ragged breath, “I suppose not. All right then, Ted was here last night. My husband is in Lansing for the week. He spends much of his time there, and I... Anyway, Ted arrived about midnight, I believe, and left a few hours later. I’m not really sure of the time, we... were drinking quite heavily.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Her eyes were coldly unreadable behind her smoked glasses. “That’s really all I have to say on the matter,” she said firmly. “I’d appreciate if you’d pass it along to Sheriff Wolinski for me. I’m leaving for Lansing within the hour to join my husband. We’re dining with the governor tonight.”
She tugged the Doberman’s leash and turned away, but then hesitated. “Please tell Sheriff Wolinski that I am relying on his discretion. And yours. And by God, I’d better be able to. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” David said, eyeing the Doberman. “Definitely.”
“I don’t like it,” Stan Wolinski said. “I should have questioned her myself.” They were in Tubby’s Restaurant in downtown Algoma, seated at Wolinski’s favorite table. The room was paneled in knotty pine, the furniture was dark oak, and the only decorations were trophy mounts of white-tailed bucks. The chandeliers were made of elk antlers. North-country chic.
“You can still question her if you like,” David said, sipping his coffee. “Lansing’s only an hour and a half away. If you leave now you can probably roust her in the middle of the governor’s after-dinner speech.”
“Very funny.”
“Sorry. The truth is, I’m a little disappointed too. I was hoping Crane was lying.”
“Maybe Mrs. Holcomb’s lying. Maybe she’s covering for him.”
“I doubt it,” David said. “She didn’t strike me as the sacrificial-lamb type. I got the impression that she only bothered to tell me the truth because it was expedient. If it had been more convenient to let Ted hang, she would have.”
“Poor Crane. He doesn’t seem to have much luck in love, does he?”
“That depends on how you define luck,” David said. “I’d say Inga Crane, as ill as she was, was ten times the woman Diane Holcomb is. And a lot better than Ted deserved.”
“But as you say, Inga was in rough shape and that can be a terrible drag, emotionally and financially,” Stan said. “Personally, I don’t think Crane has the backbone to carry the weight. Alibi or not, I still like him for the killing. And he’s the one Inga named.”
“Yeah, so she did. I’ve been chewing on that all the way back to town. Why did she name him?”
“Maybe because he did it,” Stan snorted. “Or at the very least, she thought he did.”
“You mean she woke up in the night, suffocating, realized her respirator was shut down, and just assumed Ted unplugged it? I doubt that. She couldn’t function without the machine for long and she couldn’t get out of bed without help. So with her dying breath she managed to scrawl his name? Very dramatic.”
“Sometimes death is dramatic.”
“But she didn’t want to die. At least, not yet. So why did she bother to scrawl his name? Why didn’t she just pick up the phone and dial nine-one-one? Her bedside phone worked, I used it to call you today.”
Stan stared at him a moment. “Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then maybe whoever unplugged the machine did the same to the phone, or at least moved it.”
“Or perhaps Inga simply never woke up. The machine stopped breathing and a few moments later, so did she. But either way, she couldn’t have written the note blaming Ted.”
“Why not?”
“Because her mother said the book was open on the bed. She put it away to protect Inga’s privacy. If Ted killed her, he must have either unplugged the phone or moved it out of her reach and then replaced it afterward. But if he did that, he would have seen the diary.”
“But the only other person in the house was Inga’s mother. Surely you don’t think she could have done this thing?”
“If she had, she’d hardly have put the diary away, would she? No, I think the person that killed Inga knew Ted would be visiting his ladylove and knew Clare would be too zonked on medication to hear the machine’s alarm or any sounds Inga might make. Inga once told me that Ted was worried about how much her care was costing, that he wanted her to sell the house. With Ted out of the picture and the old lady clearly incompetent, I wonder who will inherit the estate?”