“The cards were so stacked against him from the start that you could hardly blame him for drowning his sorrows in booze.”
With that, she turned and walked back the way they had come, deftly slipping past Ernie without once venturing off Dave Hollicker’s plastic-grid trail. By the time Margie reached the side of her jeep, she sank down on her knees next to it, buried her face in her hands, and wept. Joanna realized then that Margie Savage had put on a good front of being tough, but it was only that—a front. Joanna caught up with her in time to hear her sob, “I’m sorry, Mama,”she said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“None of this is your fault,”Joanna said consolingly, “unless you did this. Did you?”
Margie shook her head. “But I promised our mama that I’d look after him, that I’d keep him safe. Once he sobered up, I helped him get this caretaker’s job so’s I could keep an eye on him. Now he’s dead.”
She pulled a red hankie out of the pocket of her jeans and blew her nose into it. Then she straightened her shoulders and looked back at the ATV. “They ran him down, didn’t they?”she said.
“That’s what it looks like,”Joanna agreed. “We won’t know for sure until we finish our investigation.”
“And who did it?”
“We don’t know that, either. Is there a chance your brother got involved with some unsavory characters?”
“Les has been involved with ‘unsavory characters’ all his life,”Margie replied. “He didn’t hardly know any other kind. I thought he’d left all that behind him—those kinds of friends, but maybe he had a slip.”
“A slip,”Ernie said, latching on to the sobriety lingo. “Are you saying he’d been through drug or alcohol treatment?”
“Alcohol,”Margie answered. “Three times, to be exact, but this last time it finally took. Les had been sober for a little over a year. Fourteen months, to be exact. Said the only kind of booze he still had around the house was Miller.”
“Miller High Life?”Ernie asked. “You mean he still drank beer?”
“Not that kind of Miller,”Margie said. “His dog. Les was still drinking two years ago when somebody dumped an almost dead puppy out by the garbage cans at the trailer court in Tucson where Les used to live. The puppy was a tiny little thing. To begin with, Les fed him with an eyedropper and later with a toy baby bottle. He finally managed to nurse him back to health. Les named the dog after his favorite beer—Miller—and even taught him to bring him a cold one from the fridge. He thought that was funnier ’an a rubber crutch. ‘Hey, Miller,’ he’d say, ‘bring me a Miller.’ And that dog would do it just as cute as can be. Truth be told, Les let that dog drink some of his beer as well. But finally Lester went through treatment and sobered up. It turns out that when Les stopped drinking, so did Miller. But when Les wanted a soda from the fridge, he’d still say the same thing—for Miller to bring him a beer. Les told me it was just too much trouble to try teaching that dog a new command. Besides, Les liked it. He said asking the dog to bring him a soda didn’t have quite the same ring to it; wasn’t as funny.”
Margie paused and looked around. “Les loved that dog to distraction,”she added. “What’s going to happen to him now?”
Joanna had learned over time that dealing with pets left behind by homicide victims was often a tough call. Sometimes any number of people—friends and relatives—came forward to lay claim to the suddenly orphaned animal. Other times no one did and the unwanted dog or cat or gerbil ended up being hauled away to the pound. As head of Animal Control, Jeannine Phillips was a tiger about finding homes for abandoned animals, but sometimes even she came up empty.
“Miller loved Lester, but ever since he stopped being a puppy, I’ve been half scared of him,”Margie admitted. “And after getting used to living out here with all this room to run around, I think he’d be too much dog for me and my little single-wide. I doubt he’d get along with my pug, Miss Priss, either.”
Joanna had learned enough about animal control to see that sending Miller to live with someone who was scared of him was an invitation to disaster—for Marge Savage, for her little pug, and for Miller as well. A second choice would be to send Miller to live with some other relative so the dog wouldn’t be shipped off either to the pound or to live with complete strangers.
“Is there anyone else who’s familiar with the dog?”Joanna asked.
“My stepsons know him, of course,”Margie said.
“Could one of them take him?”Joanna asked.
The woman shook her head. “They both have little kids,”she said. “Miller’s a Doberman, after all—part Doberman, anyway. He’s used to being around grown-ups.”
Joanna sighed. “All right, then,”she said. “You have enough on your plate right now to worry about the dog, but we certainly can’t leave the poor thing here. I’ll have my ACO take Miller back to the pound in Bisbee.”
“You won’t let them put him down, will you?”Margie asked. “I mean, none of this is Miller’s fault.”
That was certainly true.
“I can’t promise,”Joanna said, knowing how often her pound filled up with unwanted animals. “We’ll do our best to find a place for him, but if you happen to think of anyone else who might want him…”
The sentence was interrupted by the ringing of Joanna’s cell phone. “I’m here,”Guy Machett announced in her ear. “At least I think I’m here. I’m at a place where the sign on the gate says ‘Action Trail Adventures.’ This is where the guy at the post office told me to come. There’s an Animal Control truck parked out on the shoulder of the road. I don’t see anyone in it.”
“You asked for directions from the post office?”Joanna asked.
“Yeah, right here in Bowie,”the M.E. replied. “Why not? Those people have to know where to find people.”
Joanna noticed the man was still using the bow-and-arrow pronunciation of Bowie. He had also disregarded her advice about calling her for directions. She knew that his driving up to Bowie’s post office in a vehicle marked COCHISE COUNTY MEDICAL EXAMINER would have caused a firestorm of small-town interest even it hadn’t been Margie Savage’s place of employment.
“The crime scene is out here in the dunes,”she told him. “If you like, I could send Ernie or Debra to come guide you in.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,”he said. “I’m perfectly capable of getting there myself. Just tell me where you are.”
Joanna turned to Ernie. “How far is it from the gate to where we turned off?”
“Three-quarters of a mile,”he said. “Give or take.”
Joanna returned to the phone. “All right,”she said. “Turn right on the gravel road and follow that for three-quarters of a mile. You’ll see where the tracks lead off to the left into the dunes.”
Joanna ended the call. “The M.E.,”she replied in answer to Ernie’s quizzical look. “He’s coming.”
For the next several minutes she took a backseat to her detectives while Debra and Ernie
