Mary Anne made a face as the dog in her lap stood and started circling. After setting the pooch on the floor, she leaned in closer.
Isabella was on a roll. "You know what? When I got home, I realized one of those vases was carved—and it wasn't wood. Remember that glossy carved horn-looking thing at Christa Bell's art exhibition? They said it was a rhino horn. I could swear that's what the director had sitting on her desk, pretty as you please. That thing would be worth a fortune!"
Mary Anne gasped and began talking in a low tone, but another customer entered, so I introduced him to a friendly Sheltie mix that seemed to strike his fancy. The rest of the day seemed to pass quickly, and when Jimmy and I returned the dogs to the shelter at five, I was overjoyed to hear that one of them was going to be adopted the next day.
Two days later, Charity and I were arranging baked goods on paper doilies in the glass case when she jabbed her finger at the local paper.
"Did you see the paper? Someone got killed not far from here—whacked on the head with a golf club and found face down in a shallow pond. Can you believe that? Drugs, most likely."
Everything was drugs in Charity's book, and I didn't blame her for thinking that way. Her son and daughter-in-law were users, which is how she'd wound up fostering her grandson.
As I skimmed over the story, Charity was still talking. "Spiritual Healing Center, my foot," she said. "They're saying that golf instructor got killed with one of his own clubs. That's just flat-out cold, you know?"
My eyes caught on the name of the murdered golf instructor—none other than Gerard Fontaine, the man Mary Anne and Isabella were discussing here just a couple days ago. Did his death have something to do with the masseuse he couldn't stop looking at? Or maybe the center's director was somehow involved...didn't Isabella say things were tense between her and Gerard?
I shoved my suspicions aside and refocused on my work. The police would be looking into things, and Charity was right—it probably was a cut-and-dried murder involving drugs. Our state seemed helplessly trapped in a raging opioid and crystal meth epidemic.
The day seemed to pass quickly. My phone rang around two in the afternoon, and Summer was on the other end. "I have a dog I need you to pick up," she said. "We just got him. He's a purebred Great Dane, but I can't fit him in my car. I think he'd be perfect for Barks & Beans—he'll probably get adopted quickly. Could you come over today?"
I asked Bo to keep an eye on the dogs while I drove over to pick up the Great Dane. Summer was right—a purebred would likely be easy to place. I wondered how he'd wound up in the shelter.
Summer ushered me into the building and began to explain. "I have his purebred registration papers," she said. "He's a gorgeous dog—well-groomed and well-behaved. Given his clipped ears, I think his owner was going to breed or show him, but he also appears to have been fixed, so maybe that didn't work out."
I took one look at the huge black animal in the kennel. His mournful brown eyes, which were the color of light maple syrup, met and held my gaze. Although the other dogs were yipping away, he kept quiet. His glossy black ears stood at permanent attention, accenting the strong lines of his head.
"Why on earth would someone get rid of him?" I asked. "He seems so gentle, and he must be worth a lot."
"Oh, he is." Summer seemed to pause for dramatic effect. "His owner died." She leaned in closer and dropped her voice. "Murdered, in fact. Can you imagine? He was a golf instructor at that fancy spiritual center across town."
My skin prickled with goose bumps. "You mean the Ivy Hill Spiritual Center?"
"That's the one. A guy named Gerard Fontaine."
3
I didn't have time to ponder the irony that a murdered man's dog had wound up in the shelter. Summer and I had to fashion a makeshift ramp with a large piece of plywood, but we managed to get the huge dog into the back of Bo's white truck. I offered to sit with him and hold his leash while Summer drove us the short distance to Barks & Beans.
As the warm late-summer air swirled around us, the dog pressed his entire weight against me as if his life depended on our connection. I gave his enormous, sleek head a pat, and he nudged into my palm with his eyes closed, as if he could finally relax.
I considered what Summer had told me about the dog. Some guy had showed up last night saying he worked at Ivy Hill with Gerard. He said that since the Great Dane was an indoor dog, no one was willing to take him in because they didn't feel they had room in their homes.
Summer thought it was strange that the dog had been parceled out when they probably hadn't even read Gerard's will yet, but it made sense to me—dogs were the kind of property that needed immediate care.
By the time we reached the cafe, I had my arm firmly wrapped around the dog and he was looking at me like I was his rightful owner. As we helped him climb down, I asked Summer what his name was and she said "Coal." It was a perfect West Virginia name, and it suited the shiny black dog perfectly.
Since Coal seemed loath to leave my side, I reluctantly walked him directly into the petting section. I'd already made up my mind—this was the dog I was going to adopt, and I didn't really want to show him off to the world. Call it a coincidence or some kind of divine perfect timing, but Coal had instantly bonded with me, and I wasn't about to let him go.
Bo's eyes followed me as I entered with Coal, but he didn't say a word. I knew my brother recognized my possessive look and he wasn't about to ask why I'd brought this gigantic dog in.
Bo's gaze shifted to Summer as she strolled in, and it lingered on her a moment too long.
No way. Did my brother find Summer attractive? She was a far cry from the bossy, career-driven women he tended to favor.
Bo walked over and introduced himself, then asked Summer if she was a volunteer at the shelter. It was actually a compliment, because he obviously assumed she was younger.
She didn't take it that way.
"I happen to be the owner, Mr. Hatfield," she snapped. When she whirled back to me, her eyes were flashing. "My coworker texted that he's here to pick me up. I hope you'll be able to get Coal back to the shelter tonight, Macy. Let me know if you need help." She stalked toward the door.
I rushed over and grabbed her elbow. "Actually, I've decided to adopt Coal," I said. "I'll do the paperwork when I drop the other dogs off tonight."
Bo stared at the dog, who had plopped down at my feet and was giving him a dubious look. "You're—"
I cut him off. "We'll talk in a minute." I turned back to Summer. "I'll see you later."
Summer gave a short nod and headed out. Bo came over to my side and looked at Coal. "So you're really going to adopt this big guy? Is he trained? He's huge, sis. If he stood on his hind legs he'd be taller than you."
I ignored Bo's jab at my height—he was six foot one and, at my diminutive five foot three, I always felt a bit shrimpy standing next to him. Apparently, I took after my mom's long-distant Inuit side, although I looked anything but with my pale skin, light eyes, and fair hair.
"I can handle a big dog, Bo. Don't you remember Caesar? He was at least eighty pounds."