Free Spotted Cats by William G. Tapply Page A

They carried him to their van, laid him gently in the back, and returned for Tondo. Lily stood close beside me, watching.
    When the two were done, Filmore slammed the back door shut. ‘Sorry about your dogs,’ he said to us with a wave.
    ‘Thanks,’ I said.
    ‘Why people think they have to kill dogs,’ he said, shaking his head.
    We watched as the van turned around and bumped down the dusty road. Then Lily took my hand and we went back into the house.

CHAPTER 5
    A FTER FRANCIS FILMORE CARTED away the dogs and the forensics detectives finished snooping around the house and grounds, Lily said, ‘I’m going to the hospital.’
    ‘Want company?’
    She touched my face with her fingertips. ‘I don’t think so. Do you understand?’
    I nodded. ‘Sure.’
    ‘I’ll be back for dinner. You’ll be here?’
    ‘If you want.’
    ‘I want. I’ll cook something fancy.’
    I walked down the path with her to her Cherokee. She opened the door, then turned to face me. She leaned against me and kissed my mouth. It was a sweet, quick kiss. All affection, no passion. ‘I’m sure glad you were here, Brady Coyne,’ she said.
    I fingered the Band-Aid on my throat. ‘Yeah, me too.’
    I wandered back to the house. I made myself a sandwich from the leftover lobster salad I found in the refrigerator. There was a bottle of Grolsch beer in there, too. I ate at the kitchen table. Then I went back into the living-room.
    The contents of the desk still littered the floor. Maybe the forensics guys had looked over everything. But they didn’t clean up.
    I decided to save Lily the trouble. I knelt down and began to gather everything into a pile. There were bills waiting to be paid, some correspondence, assorted pieces of junk mail. I couldn’t help glancing at it all as I picked it up. I told myself I was Jeff’s lawyer. His business was my business.
    A letter from James, Jeff’s son. News from school and a carefully worded request for money, dated back in April.
    A note from Sheila, Jeff’s former wife, June 6. Civil, formal, short. Her cheque hadn’t arrived.
    There was an insurance policy and an accompanying bill. The policy was a standard homeowner’s. The bill noted a health policy, the homeowner’s, and the separate policy for the jaguars. Jaguar insurance was costly, but now it looked like a shrewd investment.
    I stacked everything up after glancing at it. There was an electric bill, a bill from the exterminator, a property tax bill. There was a phone bill which listed about a dozen long-distance calls. Three I recognized as my office number. There was one to Rutland, Vermont—that, I figured, was Sheila, who lived in Rutland—two to Saratoga Springs, New York, where Ellen attended Skidmore, and one, collect from Lewiston, Maine. James went to Bates.
    There were also four collect calls from the same number in West Yellowstone, Montana, all on consecutive days at the end of May. They caught my eye, because it just happens that West Yellowstone, Montana, is one of my favourite places in the entire world. Aside from being the gateway to Yellowstone Park, West Yellowstone is the fly-fishing centre of the universe. I’ve spent lots of time there. I have many friends in West Yellowstone.
    As far as I knew, Jeff Newton had no interest in fly fishing.
    I stared at the phone bill. Then I went to the kitchen phone and pecked out the West Yellowstone number. It rang four times before a man’s voice said, ‘The Totem.’
    ‘Who is this, please?’
    ‘Gleason. Buddy Gleason. Can I do somethin’ for you?’
    I hesitated. ‘I’m calling from Massachusetts. I’m a friend of Jeff Newton?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Jeff Newton. You don’t know him?’
    ‘I don’t think so. What’s up?’
    ‘Somebody there called him collect. My name is Coyne, and I’m Mr Newton’s lawyer. I’m checking, his phone bill for him, and he’s got several collect calls on it from this number.’
    The guy called Gleason chuckled. ‘This is a bar, Mr