X's and O's (Will Kilpatrick, DVM Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  One hand rubbed her nose, rearranging the secretions gathered beneath. A faux polite smile lacked impetus to reach her eyes. "No thanks. I need to get out of here. Got a hole to dig before dark."

  Will cleared his throat. "Do you need help doing that?"

  A smirk rippled her lips. "I'll dig my own holes. You dig yours."

  "At least let me carry Tipper out for you." He reached over to pick him up. She jerked her hand towards the still body. His hand ended up atop hers. A hand hard and soft, hot and cold, dead and alive. She blinked. For a second, the flicker in her eyes hinted that she might soften, let him help. Then she snatched it away.

  Straight arms braced against the table, she leaned in. Icy eyes, blanched to a pale, lime sheen, flash-froze his kidneys. "I - don't - want - you - to - touch - him. I'll carry him myself. Understand? Hands. Off."

  He couldn't resist inserting logic into the discussion. "Ma'am, I'm sorry Tipper died. But I didn't kill him. He was nearly dead when you got here. If you had been five minutes further away, he would have died in your car."

  "You have no way of knowing that." She leaned closer, close enough Will knew she chewed Big Red gum. "So don't patronize me. It's dishonest. And for your information, I don't drive a car. I drive a truck."

  Of course she did. Probably equipped with a mortar launcher and a flamethrower and a medieval pike for displaying severed heads. Calling Plan B. Retreat and live to retreat another day.

  His sinking feeling bounced on the bottom. He sighed. Reality had a way of putting expectations in their place. "I didn't even come in to work. I dropped by to say hello to Miss Effie before seeing the lawyer."

  "You're going to need one. Maybe a group." The pointed words flew like javelins.

  A burst of optimism fought through his disappointment. He wasn't sure where it came from. "I'd be glad to discuss this over a cup of coffee. Is there anyplace close?"

  "Yeah. The jail during visiting hours." Her stare said she would gladly send him there. "Your uncle sure picked a sorry time to get himself killed."

  Will shushed his initial response. Sorry it inconvenienced you. "He won't do that again. Are you sure I can't help carry him out?"

  She scooped the broken body, clutched it to her chest. With a shoulder toss that cascaded the pile of curls like a crumbling haystack, she stomped away, heels clicking against the floor. Quite a remarkable accomplishment given she wore aerobic shoes.

  Despite the friction, he couldn't ignore the sleekness of her retreating figure. Blue jeans were designed for such bodies.

  At the primal level, her elegant looks attracted him. He could, in a perfect world, envision sitting across a table from her, gazing into her eyes, sharing a meal. But at the baser level where surviving to pass on the genetic code dictated behavior, he was relieved to see her go.

  A moment later, the front door slammed. A truck engine roared. As she peeled out of the parking lot, a backlash of gravel sprayed the front windows like buckshot.

  Will shrugged and gave Miss Effie an insincere smile. "Was it something I said?"

  He would have to feel better to feel lousy. Seeing the city limits sign appear in the rear view mirror tomorrow would be the best part of this trip.

  He heard the front door open. A man's raspy voice called out.

  "My dog has took the quiver shakes. She's dying."

  Will cringed. Not another emergency.

  Miss Effie scrunched her eyes shut. "Not Bicycle Pete. This will be the Cheese Whiz on the pumpkin pie."

  Chapter 2

  The shovel chipped sparks from the rocks, roiling the early afternoon air with an acrid smell. The grave had to be deep enough to bury a lifetime of memories.

  Finished digging, Liza's strong hands rubbed wrists sore from the savage exertion. Her tongue dabbed salty tears from the corner of her mouth. An icy hollow slid from her lungs, landed in her feet, left her toes frostbitten.

  Her neck flexed side to side while PJ, one of her best friends, massaged her shoulders. She sighed. Although PJ had listened to the Jekyll and Hyde rant about Dr. Kilpatrick, his failure to save Tipper, his overall kindness and good looks, and her ungraciousness, she had ignored the request to not follow her home. The literal friend who stuck closer than a brother, too often PJ used her ears only for jewelry hangers. "I'm so sorry, Liza."

  Her head slumped. How could that mockingbird continue singing? Maybe it was an example of everything that had breath praising the Lord. Almost everything.

  She stared at the rough hole gouged in the earth, a hungry mouth poised to consume Tipper.

  Death was as real as life.

  It was time.

  PJ cleared her throat. "Want me to-"

  Liza turned. "I can run my life without your help. So just stay there." Her eyes wandered beyond PJ's shoulder, unable to bear the crumpled expression her words caused. "And don't give me that look. You've told me for months to be more forceful. This is mine to do."

  PJ managed an understanding smile. "Don't apologize." She tapped Liza's shoulder, then did a look-at-me motion with two fingers. "Always make eye contact when you're being forceful."

  Liza knelt. She lifted Tipper. She rubbed her face in his fur. She inhaled him. She memorized him.

  She wept.

  How had he become so cold and so stiff so quick?

  How had she?

  Thin sobs squeezed through taut lips as the grave wrenched the body from her.

  On hands and knees astraddle the grave, cold weakness seeped through her. Hot tears became dull plops on the still corpse. She grabbed a few cold clods, crumbled them, let them sprinkle through her fingers over his body. Her hands trembled as she swept a thin layer atop him. Finding motivation to shovel the dirt in proved more difficult.

  Another link to her dad disappeared with each reluctant spadeful.

  She glanced up. Tears jagged down PJ's cheeks as she watched, solemn as the trees resembling a row of mourners.

  Liza bowed her head. "God, why? Why did you let Tipper die? He was the best dog ever." Sobs grabbed her shoulders, shook her, loosing memories of her dad's recent death. A verse from Psalms tumbled out. "For my father and mother have forsaken me, but the Lord will take me in."

  Lips puckered in a cynical angle. Right.

  "Prove it, God. You say you're the father of the fatherless. I'm that. And motherless since before I had memories. I'm fill-in-the-blank-less all the way around. So show me."

  No peace descended to comfort her. The new normal in the two months since her dad's death.

  When she stood a minute later, PJ came over and engulfed her in a hug. Though PJ's lack of faith in God led them to spirited debates, they were sister close. "I've never heard anybody pray like that. If I were God, I wouldn't answer them. You were a bit...intense."

  She took a step back, almost tripped on a rock. "Really?"

  "I'd compare it to a shrill King David."

  Her words were braver then she felt. "I know God still loves me. Even if I confuse Him."

  "He has a weird way of showing it." PJ crossed her arms. "You need to move on, Liza. Center yourself. Focus."

  Liza arched an eyebrow. "On what this time?"

  "The power in you."

  "I don't have any power in me. And neither do you." The irony was that PJ's steadfast faith in man's innate resources sometimes eclipsed her own in God.

  "You do though. I've never known anyone who could compartmentalize like you."

  "Farmers have to." A sarcastic chuckle worked its way up Liza's throat. "At least I did what you've been saying lately. I was unambiguous with the vet."

  PJ lifted hands overhead, Rocky fashion, hummed the theme song. "Doesn't it feel good to tell it like it is?"

  "Maybe it works for you." She shrugged in defeat. "But you know me."

  "A Martha White Self-Rising Flour with Hot Rise girl, baking the finest biscuits, cakes, and pies. A Steel Magnolia." PJ's rehearsed version of Liza's mini-bio prompted a slender smile. "But if he acted unprofess
ionally, you should see a lawyer. No matter how cute you thought he was. He'll have insurance."

  Liza's head tilted backwards as a sigh kazooed through pinched lips. "You don't understand. I went mental. Total nutter. That's not me." Frowning, she faced PJ. "Understand? It's embarrassing to think about."

  PJ turned a hand palm up, eyes flaring. "Then don't. Talk with a lawyer. You said he was incompetent."

  "I know I said that, but I'm not sure that's true. Like he said, Tipper was too far gone." She huffed a sigh. Despite her ability to compartmentalize, she couldn't yet separate the animosity and attraction she had felt towards Dr. Kilpatrick. She would have to. "I don't want to carry a grudge. And I don't want to close any doors."

  PJ crossed her arms and squinted. "Trust me. Cute and incompetent is a trap door. Keep it closed."

  Liza cleared her throat, avoided PJ's eyes. "Never know when I'll need a vet. I should apologize."

  "Apologize because you might need a vet?" PJ threw her head back, lips sucked in. "I wouldn't. Doctors don't even personalize emotional outbursts. I see it every week at work."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  She shook her head. "That still doesn't make it right."

  The most baffling thing, which she wouldn't mention to PJ, had been encountering something electric and enticing and intense when they collided in the clinic hallway, again when he touched her hand. Like a dopamine-dumping activity so hazardous you hurled yourself into it despite the obvious danger. Not that she ever responded like that. In her world, logic kept spontaneity locked in a basement corner. Definitely her daddy's girl there.

  "You're way too polite, Liza. You can't let men walk on you."

  Though his blue eyes had arrested hers those brief seconds, made her feel extraordinarily seen, it had transcended being ogled. She knew the various species of ogle. "I don't do that."

  "Really? What about Otis Spivey?"

  "That's completely different. He's been spying on me with binoculars." Dr. Kilpatrick's look had been pure and innocent and unique. For a solitary blink, she had been a rare piece of exquisite art.

  "If he's cute as you say and not married, there's a reason. I bet he strings girls along." PJ ducked her head, sighted Liza down her nose. "You'd do well to watch out. Don't let cute and a vet degree blind you."

  Liza dropped her gaze for a second before responding. "Don't be ambiguous. You think I'm chasing him or something? Right after my dad's died? I'm not chasing anything but some peace. Geez."

  PJ raised an index finger. "Here's an idea. I need to get Gretchen's wounds checked. I'll check out his aura. Give you my reading."

  Liza snorted. "Look at me. I'm a sweaty farm girl. Why would he look at me like that?"

  "Liza, you've always been cuter than you think. Sweat washes off. But you can't smear on beauty."

  "That's me. Forcefully cute." But electric blue eyes and chemical reactions and a veterinary degree couldn't be blamed for the penetrating heat released by his hand on hers. Heat still warming it despite several glasses of iced tea. Heavily sweetened.

  You didn't learn 220-volt hands.

  "Maybe I need to immerse myself in ice for several weeks."

  "That would be wisdom." A lopsided grin softened PJ's face. Then her eyes narrowed to a sinister squint. "Or maybe I can have him immersed."

  Liza sighed.

  She fanned herself.

  PJ's hands planted on her hips. "Let's be real. Your heart is doing side-straddle-hops for the guy who let Tipper die? Is this some version of the Stockholm Syndrome?"

  Liza waved a dismissive hand, unwilling to get into a man conversation with PJ. PJ was human truth serum. "He probably won't stay anyway."

  "Still. You've had enough bad news for a while. Promise me you won't make any big decisions for the next six months. Especially concerning guys."

  Taking PJ's advice made sense. PJ had a PhD in men while she didn't even have a kindergarten gold star. What did it mean, feeling attracted to someone she'd accused an hour ago of being a dog killer? That was sick. That was how those wayward girls who married imprisoned pen-pal serial killers got started.

  "You're right. Why did he look at me like that?" A frown mashed the brakes on her words. But why am I remembering it for the thirty-seventh time?

  "I don't know. What are you going to do?"

  "I think I'll pray about it."

  PJ leaned her head back, a disgusted head toss rippling her curls. Then her eyes speared Liza. "But what are you going to do after that? Something sensible, I hope."

  "Maybe I'll start a Kay Arthur Bible study tonight." Not Song of Songs. Maybe Habbakuk. O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not hear? "I have to start somewhere."

  "Me, I would start by seeing a lawyer. About Spivey too."

  Liza's hand choked the shovel handle at his mention.

  She avoided glancing toward the adjacent property. Spivey's. Running for governor on a slogan for personal responsibility – Grow Up and Act Like a Man. Well, real men didn't spy on defenseless women.

  God, don't let him be watching us now.

  Trembling fingers fussed with the buttons on her blouse. Her heart stuttered. Clammy hands rubbed her throat. A brief cloud skittered across the sun. Goose flesh pimpled her forearms.

  Don't look. Don't look. Walk away. Keep the sway out of the hips. Breathe.

  PJ touched her arm. "Are you okay?"

  She looked over the fence. No one. But she still felt watched. A shiver startled her heart.

  "We need to go."

  Not waiting on PJ, she began jogging through the field. Her steps up the hill grew faster. Matured into an all-out sprint. PJ yelled at her to slow down.

  She couldn't. How could she process everything if PJ insisted on smothering her with advice?

  No way to prove Spivey's foreman had intentionally hit Tipper. But he had. She refused other options. And that settled it. She trusted that God would, in a special instance like this, provide a way for her to get even.

  Five minutes later, PJ found her on the front porch. She eased into a well-traveled rocker, pushed it into motion. She waited to catch her breath before speaking. "Spivey has you scared, doesn't he?"

  She fussed with her shoe laces. "He's hasn't come on my side of the fence."

  PJ's head tilted and a smirk pulled a corner of her mouth down. "He'll get what's coming to him someday."

  Blue joined them, flopping in a heap on the top step. Liza reached out and stroked him with a foot. "What's that mean?"

  "Things have a way of balancing out." She glanced at her watch, then popped to her feet. "Sorry to run off, but I'm meeting somebody in town."

  Liza stood and hugged PJ. "Thanks for being here. It's been a rough day."

  "Just think how bad things would be if God didn't love you so much?"

  Liza smiled, praying it revealed her hope in God. "Means life has significant upside."

  By any estimation, her steps towards independence would require more help than she had estimated to become reality. How logical was that?

  Chapter 3

  Bicycle Pete's aroma would overwhelm a Chanel tanker spill.

  Greasy pants fell over aged tennis shoes lacking laces. A dishwater gray t-shirt adorned with YALE covered the majority of his upper torso. A crooked blade of a nose separated recessed eyes hidden below mangy ferret eyebrows. The rest of his face retreated behind a beard scruffier than Castro's.

  Locals called him Bicycle Pete because of the dilapidated green Schwinn he peddled through the community in his constant quest for aluminum cans.

  He cradled Bonnie, a terrier-mix sloppily smeared with six shades of brown fur. Small tremors progressing to generalized twitches victimized her body. Confused brown eyes jerked from her owner to Will, then back.

  "I believe something upset her stomach, don't you see. That or she's been poisoned." A wheezy voice strained through his beard.

  "Let's take a look at her."

  Pete stepped f
orward and placed Bonnie on the exam table. Fresh tremors rattled her body. Will noticed her engorged breasts. "Does she have pups?"

  "Yep. Three fine ones. Three weeks old in two days."

  Will nodded, relieved. How ironic. The attractive lady's dog died; the scruffy man's would likely live. "She has hypocalcemia."

  Pete's square hands flew to his cheeks, pooching his lips from beneath his beard. "Isn't that like diabetes? It's that candy people feed her, ain't it? I keep telling folks M&Ms ain't Kibbles & Bits, but they won't listen."

  "No-"

  "I can't be giving her no shots the rest of her days. My heart's too tender."

  Will held up a hand. "Apply the brakes, Pete."

  A sheepish grin exposed gaps separated by crooked teeth. "Sorry. Easy to see I'm one of those Type A folks. Family curse. Driven, driven, driven, that's us."

  Pete's movements stirred the patina of aroma surrounding him, dispersing vapory ripples through the room. Will leaned away from the table, mouth-breathed. "Hypocalcemia means a low calcium level. It's common in small dogs a couple weeks after having pups."

  Pete's mouth dropped open and he hiccuped a sigh. "Why didn't you say that off the top and save me all this stress?"

  Will watched the dark calcium solution flow into the syringe. "This should set her right. You'll have to feed the pups until they're weaned. We'll put Bonnie on calcium pills for a few weeks. Miss Effie will get you some."

  "She's going to live?"

  "That's a reasonable expectation, yes."

  Pete leaned forward, tapped the table with knobby thumbs. "Don't care if it's reasonable. Just want to know she's going to make it. Since I quit dating, she's all I got."

  "We'll find out." What kind of woman would date Pete? Something crossed with Bigfoot. He blocked a vein, watched a bleb of red flash into the needle's hub. To avoid over-stimulating her heart, he administered the medication over a five-minute span.

  As he finished, Bonnie's whiskbroom tail began thumping. She rolled onto her chest, pink tongue licking her nose. Encouraged by the rapid response, Will placed her on the floor. Though wobbly, she tottered around the room, inhaling the wonderful smells left by other animals.