Free Dogs Don't Lie by Clea Simon Page A

perpetrator. At the same time, I had to keep any of them from liking me for the crime. As I sat there, Angelina’s lips puffing up at me, I thought about how easy it would be to just let so-called nature take its course. Maybe Lily was one of life’s victims. There were plenty of them around these days. But something in me just didn’t like that. Maybe it was the thought that somebody had killed my best client, and I still had no idea why.
    With the magazine selection limited, I had no choice but to move onto the crime report after
People.
Beauville is still a small town, but between the summer people and the newcomers over by Raynbourne, at least our tax base was growing. As a result, along with this fancy new building, came the trappings of some place bigger. The crime report—a weekly newsletter—is part of that. For that matter, so were most of the crimes. Vandalism was a big one, along with petty theft, and as I read I saw hard evidence of the tension between the townies and the newcomers. A “decorative mailbox,” whatever that meant, had gone missing. A picture window had been smashed, and someone had sprayed graffiti on the high school gym. When times get hard, people get stupid. Drive out the summer people—and who else would have a mailbox shaped like a cow?—and the jobs would go, too, right down the state highway toward Tanglewood and Becket.
    It wasn’t until I was on my second read, wondering about the “threatening gesture” someone had made on a bicycle, that I realized the obvious. Charles’ death wasn’t in here. I checked the date. This issue had been printed up this morning, time enough to report a killer dog attack, or whatever they were calling it. Which either meant that his death had already been ruled an accident, or that someone didn’t want everyone talking about it.
    Too late for that. I thought of my visit with the bichon. This morning, I’d only gotten a nasty look from that nosy Tracy Horlick when I’d come for the dog. That was fine, as long as she kept paying. But if she wasn’t getting info from me, I knew she’d be digging it up somewhere: the beauty shop or the mini-mart where she bought her off-brand smokes. Small towns have their own grapevines, and sometimes I wondered if people also picked up news telepathically, like I did from their pets. The bichon had only been focused on his own concerns during our walk, specifically the scent left by an intact German shepherd male who’d been out a bit before us. From the images in the bichon’s mind, as well as the alarmist chatter of the squirrels, I knew the shepherd was eight years his junior, in his prime, and twice the bichon’s size to boot. Worried that the little dog was dreaming of a fight, I’d kept him on his leash. I didn’t say anything as we made our rounds, though. His excitement made him move faster, and we all have a right to dream.
    Maybe that explained the smile on my face when Creighton finally appeared in the open doorway and motioned for me to follow him down a short hallway. Something about him made me flash on a past experience, a summons to a similar room back when I’d been a kid, and I felt my smile evaporate. That hadn’t been for anything half so serious, just beer and boredom, and the police station had looked like one then: the linoleum and fluorescent lights making even a wild teen appear jaded. The lighting was better now, no doubt. But that casual gesture—a hand hooked, a certain look—brought it all back. If I’d been a jungle animal, I’d have chewed my own leg off to get out of here. As it was, I felt my teeth clench as I tried for a neutral expression.
    “You look happy.” I didn’t believe him, but his voice let me know that even my attempt wasn’t a good thing as he led me into a small office more than filled by a desk, a file cabinet, and the smell of burnt coffee. Pushing his unbuttoned cuffs up on thick forearms, he took a seat behind the desk and pointed to a flimsy