As I poured the water in Thor’s enclosure, I noticed the pack seemed disinterested in their food. I hoped this didn’t mean they were sick, since I doubted Dahlia would know how to care for them. I looked closer. The wolves actually looked sleepy. Maybe they weren’t morning animals.
Freya seemed content to lie near my feet, but when I turned off the spigot, she roused and gave a howl.
Immediately, the other wolves started howling, which completely freaked me out. “What’s wrong?”
Marco pulled off his gloves. “If I’m not mistaken, Freya is just saying she likes you. And the rest of the pack is responding to her.”
“You mean they’re agreeing with her?”
Marco cocked his head, listening. “I don’t speak wolf as well as Rich did, but I think they’re just happy she’s feeling good.”
Made sense to me. I leaned down and rubbed Freya’s back, thankful for what felt like the only genuine camaraderie I’d had at the preserve, saving Rich and Shaun.
Njord was quick to welcome us to his enclosure with friendly nose nudges, and the sibling wolves were full of themselves, tumbling around in the grass. I chuckled, comparing this pack’s alert morning state with Thor’s pack, which must be night owls.
Marco fed them so quickly, I had to linger a bit to finish filling the watering trough. I noticed that Marco wasn’t nearly as friendly with Njord as Rich had been. Surely he wasn’t a little afraid of the wolves? He didn’t rub the wolves in this enclosure much—simply patted their heads like they were a distraction. I supposed it was possible that if Marco had been the one to transport the abused wolves to the preserve, they might associate him with memories of the dismal place they’d come from. Maybe he triggered them, so to speak.
But I also remembered what Jonas had said, that if the person who’d killed Rich hadn’t understood pack dynamics, they might have assumed Njord and his pack would have chomped right into Rich. In fact, they would have been counting on it. When the wolves didn’t touch Rich’s body, their plan backfired. In that case, it wasn’t a psychopath who’d carefully set the stage…it was someone trying to cover their tracks, someone who was basically thwarted by the wolves.
I turned off the water and looked at Marco, who was lounging by the open gate. It was far-fetched to think he would kill two people just to get Dahlia to live with him. I returned to the idea of some kind of illegal transaction. What if the wolves had been slated to be eliminated due to dangerous behavior and he’d snagged them and presented them to Dahlia as if they were on the up and up? And maybe now he had to clean up his trail by making sure the wolves had to be put down?
Njord looked at me expectantly, like he was either wishing I’d brought my friend Jonas or like he was reading my thoughts. Did he sense my unease over Marco? The way he trotted alongside me as I walked to the gate, I almost believed he did.
* * * *
Marco went home soon after we returned to the visitors’ center. Evie was in the kitchen, talking on the phone as she nibbled dainty bites of some kind of blue cheese salad. Since I couldn’t get her attention, I scrawled a note on a napkin saying I’d be back in an hour, and she nodded. I grabbed my lunch bag and walked out to Bluebell.
The day was beautiful, just as Sergeant Hardy had said it would be. As I drove past gated homes with trimmed hedgerows and private pools, I wondered for the hundredth time what it would be like to be a landowner in this town. Mom hadn’t raised me to fixate on money—quite the opposite, in fact—but I’d seen how the other side lived in Greenwich, and it did have its allure.
My reading of The Great Gatsby had further fueled my delusions of grandeur. Adam and Ada had taken me in like one of their own, and they were planning several summer parties they wanted me to attend so I could mingle with their upper-crust friends. Even though I was an introvert, I knew these would be the type of small-scale, fully catered parties I’d enjoy.
I mentally shook myself. Greenwich wasn’t who I was, no matter how friendly the Fentons, Dietrich, and the Carringtons were to me. I would always be an outsider…a poser. Like Gatsby.
I pulled into the library parking lot, glancing around for a police vehicle. When I didn’t see one, I dug around in my lunch bag and withdrew a squashed turkey and Swiss sandwich and a bag of barbecue chips. Living the life of luxury, I was not.
I was halfway through my sandwich when a black car pulled up next to mine. Sergeant Hardy rolled down his window. “Sorry I was late. The drive-through took forever. Want to sit down somewhere?”
I agreed, grabbed my water bottle, and followed him to a shady bench. It felt strange sitting next to an officer in uniform, and we received more than a few stares.
“I feel like I’m with a celebrity,” I joked.
Sergeant Hardy smiled, and I had to admit it went a long way toward softening his appearance. “I’ve learned to ignore the looks,” he said.
I glanced around. The bench was visible to anyone walking by, and the library was busy today. I took my confidence in both hands and said, “Veronica told me you two are dating. Don’t you think that might compromise the homicide investigation?”
His pen remained clenched in his large hand, but his expression was calm. “I don’t, because I’m actually working under someone else now. A detective,” he added.
“It wouldn’t be Detective Watson, would it?” I always smiled when I said that name, because it reminded me of Sherlock Holmes’s crime-solving partner.
Sergeant Hardy gave me a disbelieving look. “You know him?”
I took a long drink of water to slow my dramatic reveal. “I sure do.”
He looked at me with fresh respect. “Detective Watson’s the cream of the crop. He’s determined to find out what’s going on at the White Pine preserve.”
I felt more comfortable knowing Detective Watson was on the case. The West Virginia native brought a down-home sensibility to his police work, and he liked to get his man.
After pushing the record button on his phone, Sergeant Hardy took notes as I walked him through what I’d seen the day we found Rich. He injected a couple of pointed questions about where Dahlia had been that morning, which I thought was strange. Did he seriously suspect the wolf preserve owner? And why?
I glanced at my phone. “I’ve got to get going,” I said, not sharing that I intended to use the rest of my lunch break to snoop around in Dahlia’s house. I was pretty sure she wasn’t around today, which in itself was strange for someone whose entire business had just been turned upside down by a murder.
Or was it two murders? “Did you find out for certain if Rich or Shaun were poisoned?” I asked.
Sergeant Hardy looked off into the distance. “Now, you know I can’t tell you that, Miss Blake. What would Detective Watson say if he knew I was sharing privileged information with a civilian?”
“But if someone’s killing people at the preserve, don’t you think the employees should know? Especially your girlfriend?” I pressed.
His dark brows lowered. “As a matter of fact, I do. I’ve been telling Veronica to get out of there, but she’s so devoted to writing a killer thesis, she won’t listen. I can’t answer you directly, but I’ll reiterate that it’s not safe, and I’d suggest you leave as soon as possible.”
So he had to be saying that one or both men were poisoned. Poisoned, dragged into the wolf enclosure, and discarded like bags of trash.
I muttered a strained good-bye to the sergeant, then walked back to my car, filled with a noble fury. Shaun had been a jovial, harmless guy. It made no sense that someone might have ruthlessly poisoned him.
And how had the poisoner gotten to his victims in the first place? Slipped something in a cup of coffee? Offered a spiked water bottle? Shot them with a poisoned blow dart?
By the time I pulled into the driveway at White Pine, I was more determined than ever to find out all I could about Dahlia. If the police were looking in that direction, well, so could I.