The Dog Thief Read online

  The Dog Thief

  Marta Acosta

  Published by Badinage Press, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE DOG THIEF

  First edition. January 15, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Marta Acosta.

  ISBN: 978-1386019183

  Written by Marta Acosta.

  Also by Marta Acosta

  Casa Dracula

  Happy Hour at Casa Dracula

  Midnight Brunch at Casa Dracula

  The Bride of Casa Dracula

  Haunted Honeymoon at Casa Dracula

  The Casa Dracula Collection

  Standalone

  Fancy That

  Dark Companion

  The Dog Thief

  Make It Sizzle: How to Write a Great Query Letter

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Marta Acosta

  Dedication

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Other Books by the Author

  about the author

  Sign up for Marta Acosta's Mailing List

  Further Reading: Fancy That

  for Susan, with love

  Description

  “Acosta’s talent in staggering.” —Romantic Times

  From Library Journal’s Women’s Summer Reading Selection author Marta Acosta

  Misfit. Outcast. Fake psychic. Dog lover.

  MADDIE WHITNEY, AKA Mad Girl, is a dog rehabilitator whose significant behavioral issues make her an outcast in the small rural Northern California town of Coyote Run. When Maddie discovers a murdered woman in a field, she impulsively claims that she's an animal psychic to gin up business.

  Now the girl who can't make eye contact is the focus of the wrong kind of attention.

  Maddie's forced to start a Search and Rescue team with her ex-girlfriend's twin brother, Oliver, a hostile sheriff, or risk losing her beloved former military dog. As she teaches Oliver to be a dog handler, their relationship evolves from animosity to respect and more.

  Meanwhile, Maddie's younger sister, Kenzie, who has always cared for Maddie, yearns for a life of her own, and the unknown murderer believes the animal psychic will discover his identity.

  Difficult and complicated Maddie makes new friends, faces life-threatening dangers, and tests her ability to function without the protective walls she's built around her.

  "I SORT OF LOVE THE way Marta Acosta tramples a lot of conventions. She writes messy love, screwed up characters, awkward situations and scathing diatribes."

  —Alpha Books

  Chapter 1

  I HELD THE WOVEN NYLON LEASH and plastic muzzle loosely in my hands as I stood at the barn door, half in sunlight, half in shadow, and waited for movement from behind the stack of alfalfa bales. On the rafters above, a cat’s eyes glowed citrine like the flame of a kerosene lamp, body lost against the darkness. Flies buzzed through the shafts of light, and one landed on my wrist. I tried to ignore the sensation of those filthy tiny legs on my skin.

  The shade was a relief from the sweltering spring day, and my wife-beater clung to my back under my oldest long-sleeved flannel. I heard the slup-slup of Bertie lapping water from the trough by the tack room.

  “She’s back there. We call her Ghost, she’s so spooky,” Beryl Jensen gushed with the false bonhomie people use with the hired help.

  I had an urge to slap her face, or spank her ass—I couldn’t tell which because Beryl always confused the hell out of me. “You mentioned puppies.”

  “We’ve seen two. We leave food, but they won’t eat if anyone’s near. What happened to your German Shepherd? He looks like he was in a fire.”

  “He’s not a German Shepherd.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Beryl’s long scarf flutter up in a draft, drifting over her mahogany red hair, veiling her eyes, and I reflexively shrugged, which at least got the fly off my wrist. Her jeans were too tight for actual ranch work. Not Claire, I thought, because I divided humanity into two categories: Claire and Not Claire.

  “Was it a car accident?” Beryl asked. When I didn’t answer she said, “I’m glad you could come. Doc Pete always found time to pop over when I needed him, but this new one, Ben Meadows, gave me some line about how he wasn’t a dogcatcher. Have you met him yet?”

  “Could you take off your scarf? The movement bothers the animals.”

  “What? Oh, okay.”

  I stepped farther into the barn. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the cat’s body materialized around the glowing eyes. The cat’s ears twitched forward and it gazed at a spot to the left of one of the taller stacks.

  I turned toward Beryl, my finger to my lips, and then I slowly moved toward the bales. My new boots squeaked, and Bertie was right behind me, his big paws rustling the hay littering the floor. I signaled for him to stay.

  The moment I heard a puppy whimper, I rounded the stack, blocking the exit. A mutt with matted fur the color of dirty milk faced me. Noting her stiff legged stance and hackles, I turned my back to her, letting her catch my scent.

  A few seconds later, there was a soft swish, and I peeked to see Ghost sidling alongside the haystack holding a pup by the scruff. I moved to block her path and waited. Then I waited some more before I took three steps backward, pausing between each one, until I judged that I’d cornered the mutt.

  A mottled brown pup came to investigate me, snuffling at my dusty jeans. I lifted the lead until the loop was in front of the Ghost’s muzzle. “It’s okay, little mama, I’m getting you out of here.” The fur still stood on her thin spine, but she let me slip the loop over her head, around the puppy in her jaws, and I savored the stillness of the dark cool barn.

  And then goddamn Beryl do-si-doed in, saying, “Did you get her?” and Ghost dropped the puppy and leapt up, contorting and snapping while I drew the lead high on her neck and said, “Get out,” keeping my voice even and low.

  I was aware of Beryl retreating, but I focused on Ghost. I held on even when she bit through my jeans into flesh. The pain took seconds to register and I let out a grunt. I knew Ghost’s heart must be racing; I kept calm because she needed me to be calm.

  The instant she stopped fighting, panting and frightened, I led her straight out of the barn, keeping the lead high to let her know I was in charge. The puppies tripped along behind us, and I walked past Beryl into a day so bright I was blinded by the reflection from one of the steel sculptures marking the property. I blinked rapidly and kept moving forward.

  A flick of my hand was enough for Bertie to take his place at my heel, and his ease reassured the stray. We strode into the green fields, blooming with chrome yellow star thistle, black-eyed Susan, and golden poppies. I breathed in air so crystalline it went through me, sharp and pure. I ignored my creaking boots and listened to the pups dashing joyously through the grasses until we reached a narrow creek flickering silver over gray stones.

  The creek was lower than I’d ever seen this early in the season. The winter rains
hadn’t been nearly enough after years of drought.

  I stopped to let Ghost drink, pleased that she was already accepting me. The puppies approached Bertie and sniffed him, jumping in his face as puppies do, before he gave them a level glare. They scampered off to splash at the edge of the water and snap at skeeter bugs. They were insanely cute, about nine weeks old with round bellies and soft fuzzy fur. When Ghost didn’t attempt to return to the barn, I knew there were only two pups.

  I wanted to stay there in the dazzle of light, watching the pups play, basking in the sun’s warmth, smelling the wet soil and the rich vegetative rot at the edge of the water, and hearing dragonflies flitting by. I wanted time to stop and worries to evaporate like the dew from the drying grasses. I wanted to be alone with the dogs and the chilly water and the rocks born before time and a sky that was so very blue, but not blue, an illusion of clarity and color.

  I looked back and saw Beryl making her way across the field toward me.

  I didn’t care that my truck was parked by the barn. I peeled off my shirt, tied the sleeves together, and looped it over my neck and shoulder. I scooped up the puppies and placed them inside the sling. They squirmed against my ribs before settling down. I liked the solidity of their little bodies snuggling against mine.

  I waded across the shallowest part of the creek, hoping to stretch my boots. My right leg throbbed where Ghost had bitten me, and a rivulet of blood ran down to my sock as I cut through another field to reach the road leading into town. My heels clacked against the asphalt and we found a rhythm, walking by a vineyard, which was beginning to leaf out.

  The yellow roses planted at the border of the vineyard were about to bloom. Yellow like canaries in a coal mine, my mother used to say, because the sensitive roses would be the first to indicate problems with the soil or water.

  An engine’s roar broke the silence, and I moved to the dirt path beside the road and glanced behind me. The tricked-out Ford slowed and one of the hardware store jerks bashed his horn then screeched, “Crazy whore!” before tearing off.

  Bertie tensed momentarily before dropping to his usual pace. I scratched his head. “The grand thing about you, Bertie, is you don’t rush into brawls. Now, the mystery is: how can that little prick afford a Raptor?”

  He wagged his long tail, and I thanked him for modeling social behavior for the mutt and perhaps complained the condition of my truck even though Bertie enjoyed the smells that had layered and developed the years.

  We arrived at the edge of the half-mile comprising downtown Coyote Run. Many shops were boarded up and others looked as if they were begging for a wrecking ball to put them out of their misery. The veterinary clinic was an avocado green stucco bungalow and an adjoining cottage. The kennels were set at the back under sprawling walnut trees. A newly painted cream and burgundy sign reading Coyote Run Veterinary Clinic, Benjamin R. Meadows, DVM had replaced the old peeling sign, but Doc Pete’s rusty horseshoes were still nailed to the corrugated metal awning.

  When we walked into the clinic, Ghost skittered on the slick linoleum and Bertie immediately began a perimeter check of the lobby, sniffing out recent visitors.

  Douglas O’Donnell stood on the other side of the reception counter, looking like the middle-aged stoner he was, with a monk’s fringe of blond hair gone silver, and a turquoise stud in one earlobe. His features were oversized in a weathered face shrunken with the years. He wore a purple and orange aloha shirt and jeans. His blind scruffy mutt, Gizmo, snoozed on a cushion behind his chair.

  “Afternoon, Maddie. Beryl Jensen just called saying you caught her stray and ditched your truck at her place. You got a baby tucked in your shirt?”

  “Babies, plural, and fortunately for all of us not human.” I reached into the sling, pulled out the puppies, and set them on the floor. “I thought a walk would work off the mama’s anxiety before coming here. When did Beryl become a redhead?”

  “With your dark skin and eyes, you’d look hot as a pistol in that color, Maddie. Geez, I think I’ve absorbed fashion tips from the wife’s magazines.

  “My sister is obsessed with dying my hair the same color as hers. She’d dress us in matching outfits if she could. Beryl gets on my nerves.”

  “How many times did Doc Pete tell you canine valium is perfectly safe for human use?”

  “Too many. People always think that giving me pharmaceuticals will make me less annoying to them. If they don’t want to be annoyed, they should take the pills.”

  “Which reminds me, if you need to decompress, I’ve got enough in my personal stash to parcel out.”

  “I’ll pass. Can’t you get something mellower? I want something that will level me out but not leave me paranoid or comatose.”

  “I don’t have the time to shop around for you, hon. I take whatever’s available at the Ring-A-Bell.”

  “The problem with this stupid town is there’s no medical dispensary with reliable product standards. Have you ever thought about opening one?”

  “Right, because the economy is booming and I’d love the paperwork of a business where Federal law prohibits bank accounts,” he said. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t say anything to Dr. Meadows.”

  “I don’t want to say a goddamn thing to New Doc beyond ‘Here’s the dogs,” and “Adios, sucka.”

  Dawg laughed his low hrr, hrr, hrr, which sounded like a dying coffee grinder.

  “Dawg, why weren’t you at Doc Pete’s going away party? The only reason I went was because I expected you to be my buffer between the jerks who materialized for free booze.”

  “Wish I coulda been there, Maddie, but I had to deal with family stuff.”

  I thought he’d be happier if he’d never won the lottery, never married a beauty queen, and never bought the expensive house at Vineyard Garden Estates. Since then he’d blown through most of his fortune partying and gambling. When he was flush, he’d fly his family off to the Caribbean, and when he was broke, he’d trade in his cars for economy models.

  “How are the kids?”

  “They’re great. Heather’s talking about us selling up and moving to a beach where it’s always summer for them. You’ve got blood on your jeans, Mad.”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “I figured. So what’s the dealeo with the pups?”

  “They need to be vaccinated and get a checkup, but they’re fat and sassy. Beryl wants the mama spayed. She wanted to gossip about New Doc.”

  “She was just being friendly.”

  “Friendly is for friends, otherwise it’s a waste of my goddamn precious time.” I put my flannel shirt back on, feeling the fabric rub against my sunburned shoulders. “I may as well get this over with.”

  “New Doc—is that what we’re calling him?—will be with you in a few minutes.”

  “New Doc is good enough for now. No need to remember his name when he’ll undoubtedly bail before the winter storms.” I studied the huge old chart of dog breeds. “My goal is to train at least five dogs in each alphabetical category by the end of next year. A was a piece of pie. I had an Akita, an Anatolian Shepard, lucked into an Airedale, and had two Aussies. D’s are giving me trouble, only because I’m holding out for a dingo.”

  “You’re dreaming. Go with the default breed—damn dogs. Gizmo’s as pure as they come.” At the mention of his name, Dawg’s little mutt’s ears perked. “Things are going a lot better since I’ve been following your advice.”

  “You were pitying him. Gizmo doesn’t want or need your pity. He thinks he’s totally the shit.”

  “Did he tell you that?” Dawg’s brow furrowed. “Does he ever tell you anything about...about home?”

  “Gizmo focuses exclusively on Gizmo topics. Tasty treats, interesting smells, cozy places to sleep,” I said, not wanting to get involved in Dawg’s marital problems. “Oh, I was going to bring your last mix tape. It’s continuing a slow broil in my glove compartment with my phone as we speak, but, really, Nick Cave? Kill me already.”

  Dawg s
tared down at his appointment calendar. “He understands a soul’s trouble, I guess, when I get the blues.”

  “I mean, uhm, I was just talking about his singing, not the lyrics or music.”

  “Not everyone can have the voice of an angel, Maddie.” Dawg’s smile returned. “Bertie’s looking fit. Bring him to the scale and let’s see where he’s at.”

  I took my dog to the black rubber mat of the electronic scale and watched the glowing red numbers tick up to 78 lbs.

  “What was Bertie when you first brought him in?” Dawg went to his keyboard and tapped rapidly. “Only 51 pounds of bones and a scrap of flat fur then. He’s back to his fighting weight.”

  “Nah, he’s retired from the ring.” I scratched the thick golden fur of Bertie’s shoulders, and his black ears and long dark muzzle and avoided the rough patch of skin on his back, which still pained him. I was thinking there were few things more beautiful than a healthy animal, when the door from the consulting room opened and a very healthy specimen stepped out and said, “Are you Madeleine Whitney?”

  “The very one.”

  He looked a little dubious, and I supposed he was trying to puzzle together my name with my appearance. “Come on in. Doug, keep the pups out here, would you? I’m Dr. Meadows.”

  Benjamin Meadows was a tall tanned man with dark eyes, glossy brown hair and a thick beard. I followed him into the exam room, noticing his easy movements as he closed the door and pulled a clean paper cover over the exam table. He had the heft of a guy who’d done harder work than treating miniaturized accessory dogs.

  “Call me Maddie. I’ve brought Beryl Jensen’s stray—her name is Ghost, stupid name—to be spayed.”

  “Can you set her on the table or do you need help?”

  “I can do it.” I lifted her onto the table, feeling her tremble. “It’s okay, girl. I’m right here.”