Free Gray Ghost by William G. Tapply Page A

into quadrants and studying each one systematically.
    He noticed nothing.
    Next he climbed back onto the deck and went into the house. He looked around, touching nothing, comparing what he saw with the memory images of how each room had looked when he’d left that morning.
    He was convinced that nobody had been inside.
    He thought about looking into Vecchio’s Subaru for clues, but decided against it. He figured he’d better leave that to the police.
    Judging by the length of the shadows and the color of the sky, he judged it was about ten minutes before seven in the evening. The sheriff was probably home by now, but since he’d refused to become a deputy and help him with his investigation, Calhoun felt funny about calling him at home. You could call a friend at home for any reason, even business. When you were no longer friends, you didn’t do that.
    So he picked up the portable phone in the kitchen and called the sheriff’s office and, as expected, got the answering service. He gave the woman his name and number and assured her that it was an emergency.
    She said the sheriff would call him right away.
    He took the phone out onto the deck and put it on the table. He went to the railing and yelled for Ralph again. The fact that he had to call him at all was seriously worrisome. Ralph never needed to be called. Whenever Calhoun came home from the shop or after a day of guiding, no matter what time it was, Ralph was always there, trotting out of the woods or down from the deck, wagging his stub tail, wanting a scratch behind the ears and a rub on the belly. Ralph would come to investigate any vehicle that he heard pulling into their yard, and he always came when he was called.
    Mr. Paul Vecchio was dead on his deck, and that was an extremely bad thing. But Ralph Waldo had gone missing, and as far as Calhoun was concerned, that was even worse.
    He tried to take comfort in the fact that he hadn’t found Ralph’s body, the way he’d found Paul Vecchio’s.
    The phone rang about five minutes after Calhoun hung up with the answering service. He picked it up and said, “Sheriff? That your
    “It’s me,” said the sheriff, not sounding any too cheerful about it. “What is it?”
    “I got a dead man sitting here on my deck. It’s that Mr. Vecchio, the guy I took fishing the other morning.”
    “The man who found the body on Quarantine Island?”
    “Yep. Him.”
    “You sure he’s dead?”
    “He’s got three bullet holes in him. Two in his chest, one in his belly. I’d say he’s been dead for a few hours.”
    56
    The sheriff blew out a breath. “Okay. We’ll be right there. You know how it works. Don’t touch anything. Try to keep Ralph from messing up my crime scene.”
    “That’s another thing,” said Calhoun. “Ralph’s gone.”
    The sheriff hesitated, then said, “Gone? What do you mean?”
    “I mean, Ralph ain’t here. I left him here in the morning, and now he’s gone.”
    “You sure?”
    “I guess I ought to know.”
    “Right. Sorry. So what do you—”
    “I looked around and didn’t find a damn thing by way of clues unless you want to count a bottle of sunscreen that ain’t mine. Nothing about what happened to Mr. Vecchio, and nothing about where Ralph is at.”
    “I’m sorry about Ralph,” said the sheriff, “but I expect he’ll turn up. Ralph’s a pretty resourceful dog. He’s probably off in the woods chasing partridges.”
    “I got a bad feeling, Sheriff. I sure hope you’re right.”
    Sheriff Dickman was silent for a minute. Then he said, “You’re a hard man to stay mad at, Stoney, but I intend to keep doing it. I truly do hope Ralph’s all right, but my plan here is to focus on this dead man you’ve got for me. You sit right there. I’ll be with you shortly.” He hung up.
    Calhoun started a pot of coffee brewing, then went out onto the deck and yelled for Ralph.
    Ralph did not appear.
    After a while, Calhoun went into the house and poured himself a mug of coffee. He