Sean stopped and looked at Brutus. As he glanced up, I checked his eyes. They were amber, a particular shade of brown with a touch of a golden hue, almost orange in the sunlight, and they were surprised. He hadn't killed Brutus. I let out a quiet breath.
A black SUV pulled around the bend. Mr. Byrne. Oh no.
The Hendersons beat a strategic retreat while Margaret waved at the SUV. Sean looked at the dog some more, shook his head, and sidestepped the body. He was about to take off. Stopping him and catching his attention was a terrible idea. Getting involved in this whole dead-dog affair in any way was an even worse idea. But the alternative was to do nothing. I'd done nothing the first two times, and the serial murderer of the dogs showed no signs of stopping.
"Mr. Evans?" I called. "A moment of your time?"
He looked at me as if he'd never seen me before. "Do I know you?"
"My name is Dina. I own the bed-and-breakfast."
He glanced past me at the old house sitting at the mouth of the subdivision. "That monstrosity?"
Aren't you sweet? "Yes."
"What can I do for you?"
In the street, the SUV screeched to a halt. Mr. Byrne stepped out. A short, older man, he seemed to shrink even more as he approached his dog's body. His face had gone white as a sheet. Both Sean and I looked at him for a brief second.
"How long do you intend to let this continue?" I asked quietly.
Sean frowned. "I don't follow."
"Something is obviously killing dogs in your territory. One would think you would want to take care of that."
Sean fixed me with a thousand-yard stare. "Ma'am, I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
Ma'am? Ma'am? I was at least four years younger than him.
Mr. Byrne knelt on the grass by Brutus's body. His face went slack.
"The first two dogs were hidden, but this one is in plain view. Whatever is killing them is escalating, and it's taunting you. It's leaving its kill where everyone can see."
Sean's face gained a no-nonsense-tolerated expression. "I think you might be crazy."
Mr. Byrne looked ready to topple over.
"Excuse me." I set my grocery bag on the grass, walked around Sean, and crouched by the older man. He put his hand over his face.
"I'm so sorry."
"I don't understand," Mr. Byrne said, his voice hollow. "He was fine this morning when I let him out in the yard. I don't understand... How did he even get out?"
Margaret decided it was a good moment to escape and backed away.
"Why don't you go back to the house?" I said. "I'll get my car and bring Brutus to you."
His hand was shaking. "No, he's my dog. I've got to take him to the vet..."
"I'll help you," I promised.
"I'll get something to line the trunk with," Sean said. "Give me a minute."
"I can't..." Mr. Byrne's face stiffened.
"I'll take care of it," Sean said. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Sean returned with some clear garden plastic. It took about five minutes for us to wrap Brutus' remains and Sean carried the bundle into the back of the SUV. Mr. Byrne got in, and Sean and I watched the vehicle take off.
"I just want to avoid any misunderstandings," I said. "Since you refuse to defend your territory, I'll have to take care of it."
He leaned closer to me. "Lady, I thought I told you already --I don't know what you're talking about. Go back to your place and sweep the porch or whatever it is you do up there."
He wanted to pretend to be dense. There wasn't much I could do about that. Maybe he was a coward, although he didn't seem the type. Maybe he just didn't care. Well, I cared. It would have to be enough.
"Very well. As long as you don't get in my way, we won't have a problem. So nice to meet you, Mr. Evans."
I started up the street toward my house.
"Lady, you're crazy!" he called after me.
I might be crazy, but I was very rarely wrong, and I had a strong feeling that life in the suburbs of Red Deer, Texas, had just gotten a lot more complicated.
*** *** ***
The Gertrude Hunt Bed-and-Breakfast sat at the entrance of the Avalon Subdivision, on three acres of land, most of it taken up by the orchard and garden. Several mature oaks shaded the house, and a four foot hedge bordered the lawn along the side facing the street. The building's original fish-scale wood siding had long rotted away and been replaced by a more practical, modern version in deep hunter green. Built in the late 1880s, the three-story inn had all the overwrought American Queen Anne features: a deep wraparound porch with short Corinthian columns guarding the entrance, three small second-story balconies, overhanging eaves, and both bay and oriel windows projecting seemingly in random places. Like many of the older Victorian houses, the inn was asymmetric, and if one looked at it from the north side and then from the south, it wouldn't even look like the same house. Its eastern wall featured a small tower; its western side sported a round, protruding sunroom. It was as if a medieval castle and a Southern-belle, antebellum mansion had a baby and it had been delivered into the world by a gothic wedding-cake decorator.
The inn was lavished with spindle-work, didn't make sense, and was too elaborate, but it wasn't a monstrosity.
I walked up the porch stairs and petted the pale column. "He's a rude idiot. Don't pay him any attention. I think you're charming."