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I had every intention of finding the bathroom and then looking in on the dog. But the carpeted maze disoriented me. But I’d gotten out of worse snafus. I should have snagged a lemon bar for the walk and left a crumb trail. Backtracking, I checked every door. The first on the left was a bedroom, no dog. I tried the next door on the right side of the hallway. Another bedroom. Then another. At the crossway, I turned right. I located the bathroom, used the facilities, and proceeded to the next closed door.
A shadow moved under the next door on the left. A black nose peeked out from the bottom of the door and sniffed. Glancing both ways, I noticed the next door was open. If I recalled correctly, it had to be the office we passed earlier.
“I’ll be right back,” I whispered at whatever waited behind the door.
The dark nose sniffed through the bottom crack in response.
I slipped into the room with my phone camera on the ready, and I’d been correct. It was an office. Without much time for an in-depth look, I snapped pictures of the desk's entire top, including the stacks of papers on the left, the right, and the middle, and a few sticky notes. After I wiggled the mouse next to the computer, the monitor flashed to life, revealing Vivienne’s email. I noticed a message from the Pleasant Hills Banner. I clicked on it, scrolled down to the original email in the chain, and saw the photo of Gertie and me in the bluebonnets, naked. The truth stared me in the face. Vivienne sent the photograph. She’d been the one to dig her own proverbial grave! And she’s sitting out there playing the victim. “The lengths the woman would go to stick it to a Lamarr—”
A scuffle came from the hallway. I froze, listening. Oh, please, please let it have been my imagination. When I heard nothing but silence outside the room, I headed for the door. Peeking out, I found the hall empty, then scurried back to the closed door with the dog. I didn’t want to rouse the dog and get it barking, but I had no choice. If a Frenchie sat inside, I needed proof.
I tried to open the door and stick my head inside. But when I did, whatever dog stood behind it jumped up, slamming the door back in my face. I didn’t want the dog to escape. I needed another tactic. I positioned my thumb over the camera button on my phone, opened the door a few inches, stuck my hand inside, aimed toward the floor, and started taking photos. Blinded by the door, I hoped a few were hitting the target below.
The dog behind the door whined and then yipped a shrill bark. As I tried pulling my hand back through the crack, it leaped up and nudged my hand with a cold, wet nose, and knocked the phone from my grip. I dropped to a squat, pushing the door open, and as I reached in and retrieved my phone. “Steely?” a female voice said behind me.
Slamming the door, I hit the doorknob with my head as I stood. I whirled toward the voice, dizzy. “What’re you doing?” Stacia asked.
When in a crunch, go with the truth. “I came to check on Vivienne. Had to use the bathroom. I heard a dog whining in there and wanted to make sure it was okay.” I rubbed the throbbing spot on the crown of my head.
Stacia giggled. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Is your head all right?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, pulling my pencil-skirt down and straightening my T-shirt. “I’ve suffered worse head bumps.”
“My aunt locks Pop-Tart in the room during the day.” She frowned. “I told her it’s cruel.” I hit the side button on my phone, closing the screen. “Oh, I thought he may have been stuck in there by accident.”
“No, Aunt Vivi isn’t much of an animal person. Pop-Tart is my uncle’s dog, and she only tolerates him,” Stacia said, leading me down the hall. “I need to get going. I have to qualify at the gun range today. I think it’s mighty nice of you to check in on Aunt Vivi, even after all she’s put you through. She’s pretty upset about yesterday evening.”
“Yeah, I’m trying. No offense, but she doesn’t make it easy.”
Stacia chuckled. “Trust me, I know. And no offense taken. Ever since I can remember, though, she’s been good to me.”
Ugh. Did Stacia have to be so nice? I think I’m beginning to like her.
––––––––
WHEN WE CROSSED OVER Pebble Creek Bridge on our way back to the shop, I noticed something shiny reflecting on the shoreline. The object’s glare blinded me. I pulled over to the side of the road. Cuff and I stumbled down the rocky decline of the terrain. In the rippling water, wedged in between two bull rocks, I saw a pink spiral notebook. Kneeling, I pulled it out. The plastic, glittery pink cover sparkled in the sunlight, the pages saturated. The skin on the back of my neck prickled.
“I’ve seen this before.”
Growling, Cuff sniffed it. Chiquita, it has the faint scent of a cat.
“I know why,” I said, standing. “I need to call Jackson.” My breath caught in my chest as I spun around. “Oh, no.”
Underneath the bridge, Trixie Green’s Prius sat in the middle of the slow-moving creek. Approaching with caution, I assessed the water depth where the car sat. Gaging the low level at the tires, it didn’t appear deep. Not a fan of swimming, Cuff waited on shore.
I waded to the driver’s side window and peered inside. Trixie sat slumped in the passenger seat, her head leaning against the window. Out of pure instinct, I pounded on the glass.
“Trixie!”
Of course, she didn’t rouse.
She couldn’t.
She was dead.