Support Your Local Pug. Lane Stone
I should be and wanted to be. I didn’t put it on—I was still leaving my options open, though we were driving out of the parking lot. “I really should stay here and clean up to get ready to open.”
“You can’t clean up until the crime scene team gets done.”
“And they’ll be through before seven o’clock?” That’s when we open on weekdays.
“I think so.” We waited for the light to change, both lost in our thoughts. I was wondering who around here would steal dog food. Then we turned onto Savannah Road and headed for downtown Lewes. On that stretch of road the speed limit lowered several times. I noticed that he obeyed each and every sign. If the police chief couldn’t speed, who could? Still, he drove at thirty-five miles per hour then twenty-five. Cute.
His avoiding telling me why we were going to Anglers? Not cute. It was too early for the store to be open. That meant we were going to the dock.
“So, what do you hear from Lady Anthea?” he asked.
Lady Anthea Fitzwalter and I are co-owners of the Buckingham Pet Palace. Her brother was a duke, her grandmother was lady-in-waiting to the queen, and her house, actually an estate, had a name. It’s Frithsden. At first, she was a silent partner. Using her name and photographs of her home, gardens, and dogs gave Buckingham’s royal cred. I paid her a percentage of the profits. Last August she visited and we bonded over solving the murder of Henry Canon.
“She’ll be here tomorrow,” I answered. “Last year the American Kennel Club approved a Trick Dog titling program. She’ll be teaching a one-week trick class and an agility class.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a timed, obstacle course a dog—”
“Oh, it’s for dogs?” he interrupted.
I rolled my eyes, more for my own benefit since it was still dark outside. “No, it’s for men we’re considering dating.”
“Will she mind not being the only VIP in Lewes?”
“Who else is in town?” I asked.
“Howard Fourie, the CEO of the management company running Friday’s celebration.”
“You’re not really comparing her centuries-old family name and title to Mr. Edutainer, are you?” I loaded all the derision I felt for the educational and entertainment project into my question. When there were no pet parents in Buckingham’s we strung out M-i-s-t-e-r E-d-u-t-a-i-n-e-r like circus barkers.
“Mr. Fourie wants to help Lewes celebrate some local history. But what I want to know is what kind of town celebrates the twenty-year anniversary of finding the bottom of a broken wine bottle?”
“Surely you know more about the discovery of the artifacts from the British supply ship than that.” I didn’t wait for his reply. “Are you stalling for time? Why don’t you want to tell me why we’re going to Anglers at this extreme hour?”
“We’re going there because that’s where the launch will pick us up to take us to the Harbor of Refuge Lighthouse. I need your help with something.”
“Look, you’re going to have to tell me more. I’d rather be at Buckingham’s. That’s where I need to be.” If we had been at a stop sign I swear I would have jumped out and run back.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying to process a few things at once.” He ran his hand over his short hair. “This morning I was about to call you and explain why we needed to go to the lighthouse when the alarm call came in. I was worried about you.”
“You need to go,” I said.
“Huh?”
“The light’s green.” There was a car behind us but since it was a police car sitting still at the light, the prudent motorist had resisted honking his horn.
Chief Turner waved an apology and drove on. We crossed the drawbridge over the canal and turned left. We drove to the end of Anglers Road, right up to the big blue Anglers Fishing Center sign.
“Why do you need my help with something going on at the lighthouse? I could give you the phone number for the president of the lighthouse foundation. Or you could call the Army Corps of Engineers since they own the Breakwater,” I said.
“I’m pretty sure you’re the best person for this particular situation. A pilot was on his way to a freighter and swears he heard a dog barking out on the Harbor of Refuge Lighthouse.”
Chapter 3
“No one on the pilot boat saw a person on the lighthouse? The Coast Guard maintains the foghorn and light, since it’s still an active aid to navigation. I guess someone could have taken their dog along,” I suggested.
“No,” Chief Turner said from behind me, as we boarded the fifty-two-foot boat. It was still dark. “I checked with the commandant. None of his folks are out there.”
Sun King could have held thirty-five passengers, maybe more, but it was just the two of us plus the captain, who stood near the ladder, and his crew of three.
“Thanks for doing this, Captain Westlake,” Chief Turner said, as they shook hands.
“Happy to help. Call me Captain Sandy. Welcome aboard, Sue.”
He handed us each an orange life vest. I held mine instead of pulling the strap over my neck. When you have your own personal flotation device, these foam versions are the equivalent of the rented bowling shoe.
From the lights on board and on the deck, I could see the tall man had sandy hair and a friendly face. The name was familiar, and it sounded like he knew me. “You have a Shih Tzu, right?” I asked.
He looked down and lowered his voice. “That’s my wife’s, soon-to-be ex-wife’s, dog.”
John looked at me with an I rest my case look. I looked back at him with a we’ll discuss this later look. It was hardly fair to say the Shih Tzu had caused the divorce.
“I’ll get you something to keep you warm,” Captain Sandy said and turned to go below deck. He returned with a polyurethane anorak and handed it to me. When he handed me the waterproof jacket, I noticed the size of his arms. His biceps had the circumference of a Shih Tzu.
I gave Chief Turner his jacket back. He was going to need it. We took our seats on a bench in front of the wheelhouse, trying to get out of the wind and safe from the spray for the trip.
I hadn’t said much since we boarded and got seated. “How close do pilot boats get to the lighthouse?” Then I answered my own question, “I guess it depends on where he was coming from. What kind of dog…?”
I shivered and Chief Turner put his arm around my shoulders to keep me warm. That was new. “I wasn’t hinting for you to do that, you know,” I said.
“I know,” John said, with a chuckle.
“Now that we have that settled, you’re sure no crew member of the pilot boat actually saw a dog? Sometimes sound does funny things on the ocean,” I said.
“Do you and your friends ever hear funny things when you’re on your surfboards?”
The smart-mouth, patronizing way he said “funny things” reminded me once again why I had never gone out with him in the six months since we met. I was this close to making up some ghost dog legend, but instead I said, “All the time, but then we’re drinking. Yep, sometimes we’re SUI, surfing under the influence.”
He smirked and then something, turned out it was someone, over my shoulder caught his eye. I turned to see Captain Sandy standing at the railing. He turned and went back to the wheel. John reverted back to his default mode, which is sober to the point of having an alpha-dog sense of duty. “Let’s talk about your robbery. How much money are we talking here? What’s the value of the merchandise you lost?”
“Five or six hundred dollars.”
“Is