And it was just the sort of event Mitch hated. He was furious. But he was also trapped. By the time he’d found out what Les’s true intentions were, it was too late to back out. Which was, without question, exactly what Les had counted on.
“Honestly, Mitch, this weekend completely got away from me,” Les apologized profusely. “The studio took control. It’s their money, their publicity machine and you know how they like to make everything splashy. I was powerless to stop them. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“Well, yes,” Mitch allowed, because it did sound plausible. Just not wholly true.
“You must let me make this up to you,” Les pleaded. The man seemed genuinely upset.
Mitch wondered why. Was Les afraid he’d bad-mouth him around town? Or was something else going on here?
“Norma and I would love to have you up for dinner this evening, if you can make it. Just a low-key family meal, word of honor. Ada will be there. And Norma’s son, Aaron, is up from Washington with his wife. They’re staying through the weekend. Do you know Aaron?”
“I know of him. Kind of surprised he made the trip.”
“As was I,” Les agreed, nodding his head of hair vigorously. “But I suppose family ties are stronger than their… differences. Shall we say six-thirty?”
“I’ll be there,” promised Mitch, who was not going to pass up this opportunity.
“That’s terrific, Mitch!” Les said excitedly. “And I hope you can bring your lady friend along. Any chance she can get free on such short notice?”
“A good chance, yes. Things are very slow for her right now. She was saying so just the other day.”
CHAPTER 2
When the raccoon let out a screech and came charging right at her across the garage floor, Des opened fire. Her first shot tore through the rabid animal’s chest. The damned thing kept right on coming, snarling with crazed fury, leaping at her as Des put two more rounds into its snout, her shots echoing loud in the enclosed space. It landed at her feet, where it scrabbled and twitched before it died, emptying its bladder directly onto her black lace-up boots.
Des kicked it aside, holstered her SIG-Sauer and checked herself over thoroughly to make absolutely certain the raccoon hadn’t managed to penetrate her uniform trousers. There was no torn material, no broken skin. Her thick wool socks were good and dry. She was fine, unless you counted her ruined boots.
She shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and covered the dead animal with a tarp. Then Dorset’s resident trooper strode back out into the weak late-afternoon sun, leaning her body into the mighty wind that had blown in around lunchtime.
The lady of the house, Gretchen Dunn, was watching her from the kitchen window, eyes wide with fright. Des smiled at her reassuringly as she headed across the snow-packed driveway to her cruiser, where she radioed Jane Shoplick, Dorset’s Animal Control officer. It was Jane who had called Des about a possible rabid raccoon sighting at Dunn’s Cove Landing. Jane was up near Devil’s Hopyard at the time and couldn’t get there for at least an hour. That had left it up to Des.
She got there in five minutes, although she’d needed directions from Jane on how to get there. Dunn’s Cove Landing was not on any local map. Des hadn’t even known it existed. She was discovering that there were quite a few such hidden blue-blooded compounds in Dorset. Unless you knew the people, or had business with them, you would have no idea where they were. This was something entirely new for Des, who came from the outside world where those who had it, flashed it. Not so in Dorset. Here, they did not wish to be found, period. No street sign. No mailboxes. Just a turn-in on Route 156 up by Winston Farms with a tiny, discreet wooden placard that said “Private.” And a long, narrow driveway that twisted its way back through old-growth forest, where she saw half a dozen wild turkeys and a family of deer, then across a ten-acre meadow blanketed with snow. A stone bridge took her over a frozen river. There must have been a patch of open water because she spotted a mighty pair of bald eagles circling the river in search of food. Finally, Des had arrived at a cluster of a dozen Revolutionary War-era mansions and cottages that overlooked the Connecticut River.
The house she wanted was a rambling shingled place with a Subaru wagon parked in the driveway. A big golden retriever was locked inside it, barking furiously. The detached two-story garage had once been a barn. There were two big doors for vehicles, both closed. Also a people door, again, closed. This one had a cat door in it.
Gretchen Dunn had come out to greet her, wearing a duffel coat and stretch pants. She was a young mother with tiny girlish features and a blond ponytail.
“Is everyone okay?” Des asked as she climbed out of her cruiser.
“Just a little shaken,” responded Gretchen, who seemed pretty calm under the circumstances. “Make that a lot shaken. Ginny, my ten-year-old, was out in the garage putting down food for Herbert. He’s our outdoor cat-real tough guy, won’t come inside no matter how cold it gets. And Ginny walked in on this great big raccoon eating Herbert’s kibble. It screeched at her and chased her right on out of there. Fortunately, Casey was on the porch and he chased it back inside. He has a mighty big bark, and he’s real protective of the girls. I called Jane right away, then checked every single pore on Ginny’s body. She hasn’t got a scratch on her. She’s just fine. We’re having cocoa now.”
“I can see Casey. Where’s Herbert?”
“He took off across the meadow. What do you think, is it rabid?”
If a raccoon showed itself during daylight and behaved aggressively, then it most likely was rabid. Everyone in Dorset knew that. Just as Des knew what to do as soon she got the call from Jane.
“I think we can’t afford to take any chances. Please go back inside now.”
And with that, Des had moved stealthily into the garage, her SIG drawn and her eyes searching for the animal. She didn’t have to search for long-it came right at her from behind the trash barrels.
“Is it dead?” Gretchen Dunn asked her now, when Des was finished reporting in to Jane.
“It won’t bother you anymore.” Des popped her trunk, donned a pair of latex crime scene gloves and untied her ruined boots, which she bagged and tossed into the trunk along with the gloves. Then she stepped into her spare boots and laced them up. “Jane will be along soon. She’ll take it in for tests. Is Herbert up-to-date on his rabies shots?”
“I just double-checked my records. He had his last vaccine over the summer.”
“That’s good,” Des said, since the raccoon had been eating out of the cat’s dish. Rabies could be transmitted from one animal to another through their saliva. An alarming number of local people didn’t know this and didn’t bother to inoculate or, for that matter, neuter their outdoor cats-thereby explaining why Des and her friend Bella Tillis were constantly rescuing so many sick, sad kittens from the Dumpsters behind nearby markets and restaurants. They tried to find good homes for the ones they managed to nurse back to health. Presently, eighteen bright-eyed imps were bunking in Des’s garage and basement. “I’d throw out Herbert’s food and water dishes. And change his bedding, too.”