Chapter Eight

Royce glanced around to orient herself, then headed down the block and around a corner. When she reached her car, she scrambled in and started the engine. In her anxiety to reach home, she pulled into traffic with little regard for safety, provoking honks and gestures.

Exceeding the speed limit, risking a speeding ticket, which she was certain Jared would refuse to dismiss, she wove through several blocks of festival traffic. A late-model white Buick blocked her from the turn lane when she reached the bypass on-ramp. Praying the driver could brake in time, she pulled in front of it anyway. The Buick rocked as its tires shrieked, and the blonde driver’s mouth movements indicated that Royce was being consigned to reckless drivers’ perdition. This kind of foolhardy driving was not her usual habit, but fear for Devon overpowered her good sense. She pulled onto her quiet, shady street in record time.

No sign of the beat-up black rental Ford. She quickly checked on Devon by cutting around the house. Relief flooded her when her four-legged friend stood up as she approached. But he didn’t romp toward her as usual to show his pleasure at her return. In fact, as she got closer, she realized he was swaying on his long legs.

“Devon? Are you okay, Devon?”

She dropped to her knees beside him. He looked up at her with slightly glazed eyes. “Oh, God. Devon. What’s wrong, baby?”

Her fingers shook as she unhooked the chain from the dog’s collar and picked him up. She stumbled toward the deck, his fifty pounds of almost dead weight in her arms. As she gently deposited him on the redwood deck to unlock the back door, Chrys Wynter appeared through the gap in the hedge. Chrys did not wear her usual sunny smile. Deep furrows creased her smooth brow as she saw Royce struggling to free the scarf she still wore, which had tangled around Devon’s collar.

“Royce! I’ve been calling you. Have you…?” Her voice faltered. “What’s wrong?”

“I think somebody poisoned Devon. I have to call the vet.”

Chrys dropped to the deck. “Poisoned him?”

“Will you stay with him while I call?”

“Sure.” Chrys scooted over to the panting dog. She patted his head, ran her hand down his back and talked gently to him. “It’s okay, Dev. The vet will fix you up.”

Royce rushed back out the door. “Dr. Loper said for me to bring him right down. He’ll meet us at the clinic.”

Chrys helped Royce get the limp dog onto the backseat. “I’ll come with you. Just let me run back and get my bag.” Less than a minute later, Chrys was back. She pulled her cell phone from her bag, glanced at it, and shoved it in its pocket, opened the passenger door, and jumped in.

Royce broke the speed limit again getting to the veterinary clinic, thankful that it was only two miles away. Dr. Loper was already waiting when she pulled in the driveway and stopped at the back door. He lifted Devon from the back seat and took him inside, Royce and Chrys on his heels.

Dr. Loper laid the dog on the waist-high examining table. He checked each eye, opened his mouth wide, and held the long tongue down with a canine tongue depressor.

“No chemical burns or blisters, so apparently he was not given anything caustic. I’ll get a temp and draw some blood.”

Royce put her arms around the dog’s neck and laid her cheek against his head. He twisted around and licked her face, then laid his head on her arm. He made no sound while Dr. Loper used the thermometer, then a long needle attached to a syringe to draw blood.

“Temperature only elevated a degree or two. I’ll go ahead and force a little charcoal compound into his stomach to start to neutralize whatever might be there. I’ll run some tests that should tell me something, but it will take several hours.”

“Do you think he’ll be all right? If anything happens—” Royce’s voice broke.

“I can’t promise at this point, Royce. But I think he will. I’ll run these tests, then take him home with me so I can watch him. You go home. And try not to worry. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Come on, Royce. Dr. Loper will take care of Devon.” Chrys touched Royce’s arm.

Royce gave her dog a final hug and backed toward the door, not breaking eye contact with him until the door closed.

“Want me to drive home?” Chrys asked.

“No. Thanks. I’m okay.” Royce headed back to Hedge Street, her heavy heart still at the clinic with Devon.

Chrys looked over at Royce, hesitated, then said, “I came over ten minutes before you got home and rang your back doorbell.”

“Was Devon all right then?” Royce asked.

“I thought he was asleep.” Chrys swallowed. “He was lying in front of his house. He didn’t move when I spoke to him.”

“Did you see anybody near him?”

“No…no.”

“You don’t sound certain. What?” Royce demanded.

Chrys seemed near tears. “As I stepped off the deck, I thought I saw a flash of movement near the greenhouse. Then decided it must have been the wind moving one of those little trees next to it. I’m sorry, Royce.”

“It’s okay, Chrys. He has to be okay.”

Royce pulled into the driveway, and they entered her house, through the front door this time. Chrys followed Royce into her kitchen and sat at the table. “Sure he is.” She started to say something else when her gaze settled on Royce and looked her up and down. “Are you trying—er—I mean, that’s a nice scarf, Royce. Been shopping?”

Royce had forgotten she was still wearing the silk scarf she’d bought as a disguise. “Impulse. I was down at the festival.”

Chrys shook her head. “Not exactly your style. No offense.”

“None taken. You said you’d been calling me when you first came over?” Maybe talking about whatever seemed to be bothering Chrys would take her mind off her fear for Devon.

The younger woman’s worried look returned. “If you’ve been at the festival, you may not know about the robbery and murder of Bert Morrell. And that the police are looking for Palm Woodstone.”

“Palm would never commit robbery. And certainly not murder.” Royce untied the scarf, folded it, and laid it over the back of the desk chair. She kicked off her shoes, picked up the kettle and went over to the sink. “Tea?”

“Thanks. You heard. And of course not. But they’re looking for him. The radio said they just want to question him.”

Royce turned heat on under the tea kettle and placed cups and tea bags on the table. “I take it you haven’t seen him either?”

“No.” Chrys clasped her hands together on the table. “Royce, I’m uneasy.”

“So am I. I’m afraid Palm could be hurt, or worse.”

“Uneasy about my mother, I meant.”

“Is she sick?”

“I haven’t been able to reach her. She doesn’t answer her apartment phone, and she isn’t in the shop.”

“Maybe she just—oh, ran to the store for milk or something.”

“We talk several times a week. But I always call her on Sunday afternoon. I’ve been trying since I got back to the house after lunch with Brenda.”

“She’s never been out of touch, even for a few hours?”

“No. We’re close. She knows I worry about her. Thanks for the tea, Royce. I’ll keep trying to call her.” Chrys rose, leaving her tea almost untouched.

“I’m sure she’s fine. If you hear anything about Palm, let me know?”

“Sure. But you’d hear first. If I don’t get Mom by noon tomorrow, I’m taking time off to go see her.”

Chrys crossed the back deck, steps slowing as she punched a button on her cell phone and held it to her ear.

Royce was rummaging in the refrigerator for something light—she hadn’t the heart to prepare a full meal—when the phone rang. Maybe it was news about Palm. She hurried to answer.

“Have you thought about what I asked?” She recognized the voice as the one from Saturday’s phone call about the money and Eddy’s will.

“Who are you? What do you want?” The caller didn’t answer, and the dial tone sounded in her ear. She slammed the receiver down. Immediately, the phone rang again. “Hello, hello, who’s there?”

“Royce, what the hell’s going on?”

“Oh, Hal. You’re back already.”

“Just trash at the market, came back early. Police stopped me just as I got into town. They’re asking me all kinds of questions about Palmer.” Hal never used the shortened form of his son’s name.

“They haven’t told you?”

“Told me what, for God’s sake?”

“Morrell Motors was robbed. The police seem to think Palm had something to do with it. And Bert’s dead.” She hated even to say it, remembering what she’d overheard this afternoon.

“Bert dead? How? And what does Palmer say?” She listened for, and failed to hear in his voice, the outrage one would expect from a father whose son was being accused of a crime.

“Did you talk to Palm before you left for Asheville?”

“Hell, no, he didn’t come home last night.”

She heard a voice in the background on the other end call out, “Woodstone, get back here.”

“Keep your damn shirt on,” he shouted. “I damn well forced your precious Jared Granite to let me use the telephone. Call Marc. Tell him I may need him to get down here to the station.”

Trust Hal. Giving her orders even after their last less-than-civil parting. Her “precious Jared”? What did he mean by that? Figure it out later.

“Marc is out of town,” she said.

“Well, get hold of him.” The phone went dead.

She hung up the phone. She knew other lawyers in Fall Creek, of course. Should she call one for Hal? Hell, no. Let him get his own lawyer. She couldn’t imagine the police holding him. So far as she knew, they didn’t arrest parents for crimes their adult children were suspected of committing. Tempting though it might be, with Hal’s temper.

Why did he call Jared her “precious”?

A memory suddenly filled her mind. She and Eleanor stood at either end of Eddy’s casket in the funeral home visitation room. The heavy fragrance of the many floral tributes had been almost overwhelming. The long line of people wanting to offer condolences seemed endless. Eddy was popular with Fall Creek’s residents, and most of the town it seemed had come out to pay their respects.

The police squads who were off duty came by, then relieved those on duty so they might say goodbye. Chief Jared Granite trailed one of the groups. He had been Eddy’s partner for several years before he made detective, then resigned to join the Marines. He ultimately became chief on his return to civilian life. He took Royce’s hands and then gathered her into an embrace. She felt a tremor in the muscular arms encased in the crisp chief’s uniform. Her tears flowed, then she stepped back, reaching for control.

“Thank you for coming, Jared.” Her voice faltered when she looked into his eyes. Sorrow for the loss of his friend was there, but so was something else. An unmistakable longing. Her heart constricted as she broke their gaze and looked straight into the eyes of Hal Woodstone, who stood right behind Jared.

Had Hal seen the look Jared gave her that evening? What did he think? That she’d been unfaithful to Eddy with his own best friend and chief? Was that why Hal had called her a cheat “just like Lily” Saturday night at their ill-fated dinner? The memory of his words slammed against her with the force of a blow. She actually crossed her arms as though to ward them off. Then why had he pursued her and proposed?