Dead Man's Carve (A Tickled to Death Mystery Book 1) Page 2

  The whimper got louder. Persisted and permeated my wall of defense.

  I tried to sink back into that black hole with my name on it, because if I got up, my husband … well, he’d chide me for being a softy. I smiled and pulled my feet out of the covers. The loft’s cool wood planks chilled my toes as the whimper turned into a howl. Oblivion would definitely have to wait.

  The complaining grew louder as I headed down the narrow staircase, but now it was accompanied by a healthy dose of scratching at the back door. “Hold your horses, I’m coming.” Crossing through our small family room, I flicked on the back porch light and pushed the curtain to one side of the glass panes.

  Bam!

  My breath hitched. I jumped back, my heart pounding. I could literally feel the doorframe rattling under his weight. Big golden eyes stared at me through the window, his sadness evident in the pathetic noises he made. Globs of drool slid down the window pane in a foamy mass.

  Hand to my chest, and a little embarrassed by my reaction, I looked around for the owner of the massive Boxer straddling my door window with his front paws. No one was in view except the big beast with a brindle coat camouflaging him against the forest. Bulging eyes drooping, the dog’s head nodded in a way that reminded me of Humphrey Bogart, and I imagined him saying, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  Which was utterly ridiculous. He was a dog. For a moment I thought I was still in bed, dreaming of a dog who definitely had Bogart’s swagger but with a face that was anything but sexy. His tongue sagged from jowls littered with porcupine quills, and a white, slimy string of slobber hung from the corner of his mouth toward the floor. He was absolutely pathetic — and real. Then it hit me.

  “It was you under the bookstore! If you’d stayed there, instead of wandering under my back porch, Porcupine Pattie would have left you alone.”

  He squirmed like a pup at the sound of my voice. His wiggly bottom displayed his true nature, and with a lot more energy than any of Bogart’s movie characters. “I’m certainly not going to open the door with all of your weight leaning against it,” I lectured.

  As if he understood, the dog pushed against the frame and landed with both feet flat on the floor. Then he sat down, tongue hanging off to one side — oblivious to the quills it rested on, and watched me through soulful eyes.

  I melted faster than I cared to admit, but still used caution.

  “I’ll be back.” I ran to get a hotdog; rule number one when taming a beast: Offer something that tastes better than me to offer.

  “ARRROOO! ARROOO!”

  The dog’s lack of patience, however, would wake the dead if I didn’t open the door soon. I scurried back through the family room and stopped him mid-howl.

  “Hush!”

  Mr. Bogart gave me that look. The one no woman could possibly resist. I had no doubt other doors would have opened for a dog of his nature, but since I was the only shop owner who actually lived in town, he was completely limited on his choices. Like me.

  Laughing, I flipped the dead bolt and turned the handle before realizing my mistake. He rushed me like a freight train. Railroading me with his huge head, he barreled between my legs, and left me riding a horse of a dog — backwards.

  “Whoa!” I commanded.

  He stopped. Thank God.

  Getting out of the saddle, I pushed his butt through my legs the rest of the way and walked a little bow-legged toward the door. I eyed the soaking-wet brute suspiciously. Closing the door that let in too much cold mountain air, a shiver traveled through my body as I realized my sweats were damp from riding bareback. In a matter of seconds the cool temps of early spring had completely saturated my home.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Bogart.” I paused, realizing I’d somehow named the mutt already, and then continued to lock the door. “You are a guest in my home.” Turning toward my audience of one, I realized the poor thing was not only riddled with quills and soaking wet, he was absolutely filthy. My gaze followed the muddy paw prints tracking through my living room. “Oh. My. G…”

  Bogart dropped to the floor and gingerly put his quill-ridden head between his two front paws. His sorrowful expression was the only apology I needed and my heart softened. Again. “Stay.”

  Dejected, Bogart’s eyes tracked my movements, his body stiffening with apprehension. When I reached his side and handed him the hot dog, he gently took it and laid there — wiener sticking out of his mouth like a wilted cigar.

  I left him with his treat and went to the pantry to grab a pair of pliers for the quills, some Wet Ones to give him a quick bath, and my mop to clean the floor.

  Curious about what I’d find upon my return, I was pleased to see Bogart laying very still, his pitiful eyes watchful, and the hot dog gone.

  My heart smushed into Jell-O. Ignoring his I’ll-have-you-wrapped-around my-paw-in-no-time routine, I quickly mopped up the mess and got to the business of pulling out quills.

  “This is the true test of our relationship, you know.” I told the anxious animal, who glanced at the door as if it might be a better option than the pliers. “I’m hoping we both survive.”

  Bogart whimpered when the pliers touched the first quill — then yipped and sneezed when it pulled loose. We repeated the process eleven times, which I thought was a good thing, considering Patty could be pretty moody when it came to invasion of her space. Never once did Bogart nip or sneer, and to my surprise, he licked my hand clean (or dirty, depending on your point of view) after each yank. By the time I was finished, I knew the goofy giant was all swagger and drool.

  “I hope you learned your lesson about snooping where you don’t belong. Next time come to the front door. Patty avoids it.” Rubbing his fur with the damp wipes, I continued to croon “good boy,” then dried him off with a towel while his huge body shivered, literally vibrating the wooden floor.

  “You poor baby,” — did I really call him baby? — “how long have you been out in the cold?” I asked, not expecting an answer. The sad turn of his eyes and the dip of his chin, brought the ring around his neck into focus. He’d worn a collar once upon a time and, gauging by his youth, I wondered if his owner decided he was no longer cute and cuddly, and too much work to keep.

  My heart ached at the thought.

  Staring at the soot-darkened fireplace, I really wanted to turn on the gas logs for the poor thing, but my deeply rooted fear of fire left me pulling out a wool blanket from an old chest Jacob had bought at an estate sale. A bowl of leftover white rice mixed with chopped hot dogs and a large butter tub filled with water completed my mission. Bogart wolfed down his meal, splashed water everywhere with his messy tongue, and curled up in a ball on the blanket while I watched him from the couch.

  “Good night, Bogart,” I whispered as I got up and pulled the blanket around him, then gave him a soft pat on his boney head.

  Before hopping back in bed, I stripped out of my wet, dirty sweats and over-sized t-shirt, took a quick shower to clean off the doggie smell, then slipped between the sheets without disturbing my hubby’s side of the bed. Oblivion never felt so good.

  Chapter Three

  The morning train whistled as it went through Tickle Creek on its daily run, loaded with timber from the mill. I couldn’t help but smile as sunlight spilled in the window. Nothing felt better than waking up with Jacob’s arm draped across me, his tender kisses caressing my ear. I was exactly where I belonged — in the arms of the man I’d married.

  Who died, two years, nine months and eighteen days ago.

  I shot out of bed, my heart screaming. I was well aware that the man who should have been sharing my bed had died before we’d said our vows. But we’d been married in our hearts. Forever. And I had promised to stay faithful to his memory. Forever.

  So who the hell was in my bed?

  Mr. Bogart looked up at me, a “What’s the matter, babe?” expression written all over his face.

  “The problem is that no one sleeps in this bed except me and my husband. Pe
riod,” I sneered.

  Bogart looked at the empty bed he occupied.

  “I know he’s not here.” I said with more anger than the poor dog deserved. But my temper surged and I couldn’t stop it. Maybe it was because most of the town thought I’d lost my mind when Jacob died in the mother of all forest fires, and I turned around and put on my wedding ring. They didn’t understand.

  They didn’t have to. I did. “Look (I explained to Bogart, as if he understood completely), I’m not crazy. I took a vow to the man I love and I plan on keeping that vow.”

  Bogart yawned as if my explanation bored him — or was too stupid to acknowledge. Then he stretched across my bed like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  But I had little patience with his nonchalance, less for his opinion of my lifestyle. “Get. Off. My. Bed,” I said between gritted teeth.

  Like a toddler crawling out of bed, he gingerly placed one foot on the floor at a time. Tentatively testing each movement. It was the slowest process I’d ever seen.

  He slouched down on his huge haunches and stared at me. Obviously waiting for my next move.

  What was my next move?

  I turned toward the bathroom and stomped barefoot across the floor, ignoring the giant sitting in the middle of my room. I really had no clue what to do. I had actually gotten mad at a dog. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten mad at anyone. Yet a dog, taking Jacob’s place on my bed, had angered me beyond belief.

  I decided it was his arrogance that ticked me off. Bogart had waltzed right into my bedroom, crawled into my bed and assumed he could just take Jacob’s place in this world. “Not happening, bud,” I muttered more to myself than the dog.

  I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, pulled off Jacob’s boxers and t-shirt, then quickly donned a pair of jeans, a hoodie and a pair of hiking boots. Next I threw on my Fighting Ducks ball cap and grabbed Jacob’s Forest Ranger jacket. I never left home without it.

  “Let’s go, Bogart. Before you get in more trouble by making a mess in my house.”

  The dog raced me to the bedroom door, squeezing through just as I crossed the threshold. We spurted out into the hallway, and he did a sort of stumbling-tumbling routine down the stairwell while somehow maintaining his balance. Gravity and velocity were definitely working in his favor. If I moved like that, I’d be sprawled out at the bottom of the steps.

  When I reached the living room I stopped. The back door stood wide open. The cool morning breeze brought a fresh chill inside. I looked around the room and then approached the door. Bogart stood on the porch wiggling, dancing, and making happy aren’t I the smartest thing? sounds. I checked the lock and found it covered in dog slobber, wet and slimy.

  “Did you do this?” I asked.

  Bogart barked in response and did a little flip in the air.

  Wiping the door handle off with my sleeve, I checked the lock three times to make sure it functioned properly before heading out and vowing to watch the dog more closely.

  Once out the back door, Bogart danced around me, leaping and barking with glee. “Go on. Get out there and do your thing,” I smiled, unable to resist the happiness he created inside me as I took the weather-beaten stairs off the back porch and headed toward my favorite spot to look for driftwood along Tickle Creek.

  In the spring, the normally calm creek turned into a raging river from the snow melt off Mount Hood. The softened edges of the swollen creek bed were the definition of a danger zone and nothing to mess with, but the churning waters brought a treasure trove of wood downstream, making my search worth the added caution it required.

  The crisp air cleared my sinuses while a few birds sent warnings out to one another as we walked deeper into the forest. Bogart busied himself marking every tree in sight while a quiet rain made our descent slippery on the dampened leaves and pine needles covering the forest floor.

  “Bogart,” I called as we approached a small inlet that trapped small pieces of wood, “stay away from the water.” He looked at me as if I was nuts to even suggest he would go near the ice cold mountain runoff.

  I began concentrating on my task and let Bogart do his own thing, chasing birds from tree to tree. One pesky squirrel delighted in taunting the overgrown oaf with a game of un-winnable tag, as they raced around the aged trunk of a giant fir tree.

  After thirty minutes, my pile of wood — pieces of western hemlock, Douglas fir and big leaf maple — had grown larger than I could carve in a season, especially since I bought most of the wood I used for my more exotic pieces online. But this ‘found’ wood created unique, one-of-a-kind pieces my customers couldn’t find anywhere else. It was great for tourists, and once I gathered a few green clippings of willow branches to create flowers and rooster tails, I’d be done.

  An angry, ear-splitting snort bounced off the trees. Bogart’s high pitched yelp was chased by thundering hooves through the dense forest trees. He had obviously over-stepped his boundaries — again.

  “Bogart!” I yelled, frantically circling and trying to locate the direction of his cries. “Bogart…Heeere!” Catching a glimpse of movement to my right I ran toward the commotion.

  The eighty-pound black and brown boxer flew through the air in my direction. Ears cutting through the wind, his eyes looked crazed and his jowls flapped as he cried out in fear. The cause of his flight: an eight hundred pound moose who was pissed off and raising Cain. Or in this case raising Bogart with her nose. He landed on his feet — like a colt trying to stand for the first time — legs splitting, chest smacking the earthen floor.

  None of that stopped his feet from moving. Bogart was back in the race of his life as the irate cow charged after him.

  “Oh, crap.” My stomach dropped as I realized the cow wasn’t done with her assault, and I became a much larger target when Bogart led her straight to me. I turned and ran, with Bogart hot on my heels. The sound of her breath filled my head. I zigzagged through the trees, but the distance closed between us — there was no way I could outrun her. Nor could I out-maneuver her. I just hoped she got tired and realized we weren’t a threat.

  I ran for a weeping willow tree, grabbed a thick leafy limb and swung around the trunk. But instead of coming up behind the mammoth animal like I’d hoped, I landed in her face. Perfect timing for her to hit me with her muzzle.

  “Uugh…” the air escaped my chest in a sudden burst as I fell backward, sliding across leaves. Bogart lost his fear and growled at the menacing beast. His voice close, I tried to stand but slipped on the uneven ground, then rolled over and over in moist mud.

  My mind froze. Tickle Creek swirled into focus. Crystal clear water mixing with the white foam of the rapid, furling current. Realizing where I was headed, I grasped at anything, everything I could to stop my momentum, but the thin willow branches snapped uselessly off in my hands, and the bitter cold swallowed me whole.

  Shock flooded my system and I gasped for air — that wasn’t there. Frigid water filled my lungs. I couldn’t hear Bogart, or the moose, or anything — except the roar of water. I sputtered to the top, reaching for oxygen. But my body, heavy with saturated clothing acting as sinkers, was fighting a losing battle with an invisible line pulling me under.

  My muscles stiffened. God, it was so cold.

  I fought the effects of the freezing water on my limbs. I tumbled and struggled to get my bearings. So cold…

  Swim at an angle, Rilee.

  I pushed myself forward and stroked through waves. So cold…

  Swim with … the current.

  My brain issued instructions that my body ignored, the synapses connecting to my physical functions — gone.

  I fought the pull at my feet. So tired…

  Swim toward shore … so...

  A leg wrapped around me. A combat boot hooked under my arm. Someone yelled at me furiously, the expression odd considering I needed help, not a butt-chewing.

  “Grab hold!” He yelled from above.

  Looking up, I could see an angry face abov
e me, but I was too tired to listen.

  “Grab hold!” He demanded.

  Anything to make him happy, I wrapped my hand around his iron-clad leg. Bogart looked down at me and barked.

  The water pulled.

  The man yelled something I didn’t understand. Why was he angry?

  Couldn’t he see … I was doing my best?

  My jacket yanked. Like a wayward kitten being carried home by its mother, he dragged me out of the water by the scruff of my neck. Metal scrapped my head, water sucked at my feet.

  “Owww…”

  The cold breeze shook my body.

  “So cold…” The water no longer claimed me, but the ground hit me — hard, the road smacking against my back. I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. I trembled painfully, awkwardly supine on the cold bridge.

  Beautifully sad brown eyes peered down at me.

  “Mr. Bogart…”

  A slobbery tongue lashed out at my cheek. Drier and warmer than me, I loved it.

  My jacket was ripped from my body, followed by my shirt and jeans.

  “Stop…”

  “You’re too cold. I have to get these off you.” He didn’t sound angry anymore, which was just fine by me.

  My body shook like a fish out of water, hurting with every uncontrollable flop. A warm, dry cloth engulfed me in a material that emanated a clean fresh scent of the woods, soap and — him. It was heavenly.

  I looked over at my rescuer, sitting next to me on the wooden planks of what I now recognized as the pedestrian bridge crossing over Tickle Creek. His t-shirt pulled tightly against muscular biceps, decorated with what looked like an Army Ranger tattoo. Dark curly hair covered his forehead, while several weeks’ worth of scruff covered his chin, and a straight nose pointed toward his task at hand.

  The man who had just undressed me was busy pulling on — his leg. A metal leg with a size twelve combat boot still dripping the icy waters of Tickle Creek.