Читать книгу Paw and Order - V.M. Burns - Страница 9

Chapter 1

“We need to talk,” I whispered into the ear of my best friend, Dixie.

Scarlett Jefferson, Dixie to her friends, was just about to take a sip of champagne from a beautiful fluted glass. However, after one glance at my face, she handed her glass to her husband, Beau, who was standing nearby.

I gave my date, Dennis Olson, although everyone called him Red, a look that I hope said, I’m really sorry.

It must have worked because he mouthed the words, “You owe me.” Then he tugged again at the collar of his tuxedo.

I grabbed Dixie by the arm and pulled her away.

The Chattanooga Museum was packed with guests for the Eastern Tennessee Poodle Rescue Association’s fundraiser, but as a museum employee I knew about several secret alcoves in areas the general public were unlikely to stumble across, and I headed for the nearest one. When we got to a dimly lit area that featured glass sculptures, I stopped.

Dixie stared. “Now, what’s so important?”

“There’s a man—”

“You look stunning, by the way.” She glanced from my head to my feet.

We had gone together to the hair salon, and she’d been with me when I bought the peacock blue sequined mid-length sheath dress, so I knew the compliment was related to the entire package.

“Thanks.” Dixie was a stunning beauty who turned heads everywhere she went. At nearly six-feet tall, without the heels she was wearing tonight, she was thin with excellent skin and big Dolly Parton hair. I was a Midwestern transplant from Northwestern Indiana to Chattanooga, Tennessee, and often felt like a country hick compared to the beautifully made up and well-coifed women I saw walking the aisles of the local Publix grocery store. Dixie was a true Southern Belle, so a compliment from her went a long way to boost my confidence.

“Sorry for interrupting.” She looked serious. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

“There’s a man at the front entrance making a scene.” I leaned forward. “He looks homeless, but he brought his poodle.”

Dixie shook her head. “Archibald Lowry.”

I looked at my friend. “What?”

“Archibald Lowry. He never goes anywhere without his dog.” She shook her head. “Remember, you went with me to his house a few weeks ago?”

I shook my head.

“No matter. I meant to warn you about him, but it totally slipped my mind with all of the preparations.”

Dixie was the most organized person I knew, but she had been working like a maniac on this weekend fundraiser, so forgetting to mention a homeless man with a poodle would be attending the fundraiser was minuscule, all things considered.

“You’ve worked so hard organizing everything. I’m sure it will be great.”

Dixie looked stricken. “Don’t jinx me.” She looked around.

I laughed. “Stop worrying. Everything has turned out beautifully. You should be so proud of yourself.” I hugged her. “I know I am.”

Dixie gave me a quick squeeze. “Thank you, but I won’t be able to relax until this weekend is over.”

We pulled apart. “Now, back to the homeless man.”

Dixie chuckled. “He’s far from homeless.”

“Can you please talk to him? Linda Kay had to practically beg the board of directors to allow the fundraiser at the last minute and I don’t want to get my boss in trouble.”

When the ballroom for the Scenic City Hotel was flooded, and it looked as though the Poodle Rescue Association’s annual fundraiser would have to be cancelled, I thought it would be a win-win to offer the Chattanooga Museum as an alternative location. The event would garner publicity and much needed funds for the museum and the poodle rescue would get to have the event that Dixie had spent so much time planning.

“Of course, I’ll talk to Archibald.” She marched toward the entrance with me by her side. “He’s a cranky old windbag, but he’s richer than Midas, so no one ever tells him ‘no’ about anything.”

I stopped walking and Dixie turned to stare at me.

“Rich? I’m not sure we’re talking about the same person.”

Dixie laughed. “I’m sure we are. Let me guess, he’s probably dressed in a tattered Scottish kilt that’s too short and frayed on the bottom with socks that keep sliding down, a dingy white-ish shirt and black jacket that’s probably older than I am with a scruffy beard and wild hair that looks like he hasn’t combed it in the past decade.”

“That’s him.” I stared at her in disbelief. “Is he Scottish?”

She chuckled. “A few years ago, Archibald Lowry paid someone to trace his family tree. That’s when he learned about his Scottish roots. He claimed he was a descendant of some famous Scottish knight and started wearing a kilt to social functions.”

“You don’t mean Sir William Wallace, from the movie with Mel Gibson? Braveheart?”

Dixie nodded. “That’s the one. He even went over to Scotland and bought a derelict castle, and had it renovated. He used to be just plain, Archie Lowry, but after his Scottish rebirth, he said his name was actually Archibald Leamhanach or something like that. He claims his ancestors’ names were changed when they immigrated.”

I gaped at her a few moments longer until she grabbed me by the arm. “He’s a recluse who rarely comes out in public. That’s why I went to his house to talk to him. He’s a huge poodle fanatic and if you think my dogs are spoiled, you should see how he treats his dogs.”

I paused for a moment as recognition dawned on me. “Is he the guy that lives out in the middle of the wilderness.

Dixie nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one. He wanted to talk to me about including the poodle rescue in his will, but he had to interview me first.” She used air quotes around interview. “It felt more like an interrogation, and I wasn’t sure he intended to leave us anything. In fact, after a while I would have paid him money just to get out of there.” She sighed. “I forgot I even invited him to the fundraiser. In fact, I think I promised him he’d be the guest of honor this weekend or something.” She sighed. “I didn’t think he’d really come. He rarely goes anywhere.” She shrugged. “Oh well, come on. Let’s get this over with before he blows a gasket.”

When we got close to the lobby, we followed the raised voices to the area where a security guard who worked for the museum and Jacob Flemings, Linda Kay’s assistant, were trying to quiet Archibald Lowry.

Jacob was in his early twenties and stylishly dressed, as usual, in a slim fitting tuxedo that reminded me of James Bond. His curly hair was slicked down and pulled back into a bun and his bright red rectangular glasses provided a touch of artistic flare. The only flaw in his meticulous look was the compression boot which he was forced to wear ever since he broke his ankle a month ago. To Jacob’s credit, despite Archibald Lowry’s blustering, he maintained his composure and kept a pleasant smile plastered on his face. But when he caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye, I noticed the strain on his face. His eyes pleaded with me for help.

Dixie turned on the southern charm and marched over to the kilted man. “Archibald, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to greet you.” She leaned in, kissed his cheek and picked up the small silver poodle from the floor. “What an adorable poodle.” She stared at it closely as I’d seen her do when judging dog shows. “This isn’t Constantine.”

Archibald Lowry stopped snarling at Jacob long enough to say, “Of course not.” He swallowed hard. “Constantine died.” He paused for a moment, sniffed and pulled a dirty handkerchief from his breast pocket. He blew his nose, wiped his eyes and then returned the piece of fabric to his breast pocket.

Jacob’s eyes enlarged and he turned and limped away mumbling, “It looks like you have this under control, so I’ll just go back to the party.”

Dixie held the poodle to her chest and gave his owner a consolatory pat. “I’m so sorry.”

Archibald coughed and nodded. “Yes, well. He was a good dog.”

She held up the poodle. “Well, who is this handsome fella?” Archibald Lowry pushed his shoulders back and stood taller. “That is Constantine’s son, Ildulb mac Causantin,” he said proudly. “He was the son of Constantine the second.”

Dixie cooed at the little poodle, “Now, Archibald, you know I can barely pronounce English, so there’s no way I can wrap my southern tongue around all of that.” She stopped cooing at the puppy long enough to flash a big smile at the puppy’s owner. “Now, what’s his call name?”

Unlike Dixie, I was relatively new to the dog world, but in my short indoctrination to the sport, I knew a call name was basically a nickname, what the owner called the dog, unlike the elaborate names the owners used to register their dogs with the kennel club. Those names were a mile long and usually included the name of the kennel where the dog was bred and some fancy name and any earned titles. The names were selected to amuse or impress when announced over the loudspeaker at big dog shows like Westminster or Crufts.

Archibald smiled smugly. “Indulf.”

Dixie chuckled. “I supposed that’s better than whatever you said the first time.”

Just then, Indulf started to climb Dixie’s shoulder, getting tangled in her hair.

I reached up and extracted the little poodle before he could cause any damage to Dixie’s hair, earrings, dress or to himself.

Indulf was a tiny poodle, smaller than my six-pound poodle, Aggie. He was a smoky gray with soft eyes and long eyelashes. He looked up at me and my heart melted. I snuggled the little poodle close to my face and spoke baby gibberish for a few seconds until I realized I was being observed. I looked up and saw Archibald Lowry staring at me with a quizzical expression. The expression was logical considering we had yet to be introduced. “I’m so sorry. He’s just so cute. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Where are my manners?” Dixie exclaimed. “Archibald Lowry, this is my best friend, Lilly Ann Echosby.” She turned to me. “Lilly Ann, this is Archibald Lowry.”

I extended a hand to shake, but Archibald Lowry ignored it. He leaned forward with both hands on his cane and inclined his head in a brief nod of acknowledgment.

I glanced down at Archibald’s kilt and noticed it was held together with a gold pin shaped like a sword with a ruby stone in the hilt and an intricate design which included clear stones which glinted in the light.

“What a lovely…brooch.” I stared at the stunning jeweled pin.

“It’s called a kilt pin,” he huffed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

He sniffed. “Most Americans don’t know the proper word to use.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

He took a deep breath. “Few Americans understand the history of the Scottish kilt.”

I clutched the poodle to my chest.

Indulf licked my face and that small gesture softened something in Archibald Lowry’s eyes. He looked at me, sighed and then launched into a lecture on the history of kilts.

“In the Scottish Highlands, dating back to the sixteenth century, kilts were the traditional dress for Gaelic men and boys.”

He held up the elaborate pouch which hung from a chain around his waist. “Now, this is called a sporran.” The top had a gold arch which was heavily engraved and studded with red jewels. He ran his hand along it. “This is the cantle.” He moved his hand along the fur piece which extended downward. “This is Scottish goat hair, but I’ve also got them made from horse hair, rabbit and plain leather for less formal occasions.” He continued to explain the history of the pouch and the kilt pin, which included a story of how Queen Victoria invented the kilt pin when she was inspecting Highland troops on a windy day and noticed a soldier struggling to keep the aprons of his kilt from flying up. He leaned close and chuckled. “True Scotsmen wear nothing under their kilts.”

My mouth fell open and it took a nudge in the ribs from Dixie before I realized and closed it.

There was a moment of awkward silence and then Archibald Lowry laughed heartily. “I’m one of the wealthiest men in the country and people always ask me how I became so rich.” He gazed at me. “Do you know what I tell them?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

“I tell them I acquired my money the same way everybody else has.” He leaned forward so his mouth was within inches of my face. “I stole it.”

The shock I felt must have been reflected on my face because he guffawed for several moments. He leaned forward again, as though he was about to say something, but stopped. His gaze was fixed over my shoulder and his face registered recognition.

I turned to see what had captured his attention but didn’t see anyone I knew.

He scowled.

Dixie patted his arm. “Now, Archibald you’re going to need to behave yourself and stop trying to shock my friends.”

He laughed again, and then gave me a stiff bow. “Mrs. Echosby, it has been my pleasure meeting you, but if I can leave you with a word of warning: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.” He tapped the side of his head.

I forced a smile and remembered I was still holding his dog. I gave the poodle a final cuddle and ear scratch and then handed him back over to his owner.

Dixie grabbed Archibald by the arm and escorted him into the main room of the museum.

Just as I turned to follow, I noticed a strange man enter the reception. I probably wouldn’t have noticed him, except he looked like he was watching Dixie but trying not to appear as if he was doing so. It wouldn’t be unusual for a man to look more than once at Dixie. There’s no question she was striking, but there was something about this stranger that sent a shiver up my spine. Suddenly, I sensed someone behind me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Turning, I saw my boyfriend. “Red, you startled me.” I clutched at my racing heart.

He glanced into my eyes. “You really are scared. Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

I took a deep breath. “I was looking at that man.” I turned around to point him out, but he had vanished. “Well, he was here a minute ago.” I glanced around.

“Should I be jealous that you’re looking at other men?” Red joked.

I gave his arm a playful punch. “Don’t be silly. I’m serious. There was this weird guy looking at Dixie and he gave me the creeps.”

Instantly, his demeanor changed from playful flirting to serious, law enforcement mode. Red was stocky, but rock solid. He was five foot ten with dark eyes and sandy red hair which he wore in a cut which screamed former military. He still bore the scars, both internally and externally, from his years of service. The most visible was a scar across the right side of his face. The other scars were harder to see. Now he worked for the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations. Despite the fact that I found him to be a loveable teddy bear who could be extremely gentle and loved to cook, he could flip a switch and turn into a hard-nosed cop within seconds. I had seen the transformation before, in both Red and in my daughter’s boyfriend, Joe Harrison, also former military and now a member of the Lighthouse Dunes, Indiana, police force. I can’t put my finger on exactly what changes when the switch is flipped, but suddenly the air bristles with electricity and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Which guy? Can you point him out?”

We walked around the perimeter of the room, as inconspicuously as possible. I spotted Dixie talking to her husband Beau and Dr. Morgan, a short, bald man with an egg-shaped head that reminded me of the description of Agatha Christie’s famous detective, Hercule Poirot. Dr. Morgan was the coroner and one of the members of Dixie’s dog class. He was shy and socially awkward, but since Dixie had bought ten tickets at a hundred dollars per ticket for each of the members of the class she taught and gifted them to us, we felt it was our duty to come and support the fundraiser. What Dr. Morgan didn’t know was that Dixie also hoped to hook him up with her socially awkward spinster cousin, whom she thought would be perfect for him. Needless to say, two socially awkward people in a crowded room was a pretty pitiful sight and Dr. Morgan looked as though he’d just as soon have a root canal as spend another second here.

We made two trips around the room and even ventured out to a few other areas of the museum, but I never saw the stranger again. We were just about to go back into the main reception area when I heard a yap and a dark gray fluff ball ran to me and took a flying leap of faith into my arms.

“My goodness, Indulf. What are you doing running around alone?” I whispered in the voice people only used with babies and pets. “If you went potty in the museum, Linda Kay will be furious.”

Red reached over and scratched the poodle behind the ears. “Where did you meet this little guy and what did you call him?”

“Don’t ask me to repeat it. I think it’s Scottish.” I petted the puppy. “He belongs to this eccentric old man named Archibald Lowry—”

Red stopped and stared at me. “Archibald Lowry? The Archibald Lowry?”

I stared at him. “You know him?”

He smiled. “Not personally, but I’ve certainly heard of him.” He stopped and stared at me. “You don’t?”

I shook my head. “Never heard of him until recently.” I explained about the trip Dixie and I had made to his house. “Dixie drove the RV. I opted to stay in the luxury with the poodles.” I shrugged. “Besides, I wasn’t the one invited to meet with him.”

“He’s supposed to be one of the richest men in the South. I’ve never met him, but he’s reported to be a recluse who rarely leaves his mansion unless it’s to go to one of his other mansions.”

I snuggled the poodle. “Well, this is his puppy.” I looked around. “I don’t see any messes anywhere. Do you?”

Red gave the area a quick glance and then shook his head. “Where is the mighty titan?”

I shrugged. “No idea.” I looked down at the puppy and noticed he was licking one of his paws. A closer glance indicated a sticky red substance. “I think he’s injured.”

He examined the dog’s paw and then his radar went up. “Take the dog and go back in the main room.” The tone in his voice was complete law enforcement and left no room for argument.

I turned to obey and glanced back in time to see him reach for the gun he wore strapped to his side as he navigated around a corner.

A woman shrieked and Red raced in the direction of the scream.

I hesitated a half second and then turned back and followed him with the puppy clutched to my chest.

Around an alcove near a display of ancient swords, I saw a pair of white stubby legs, black socks which had fallen down around a pair of skinny ankles and a kilt which had hiked up during the fall to reveal that like a traditional Scot, Archibald Lowry wasn’t wearing anything under his tartan.