I know, Chief. But in fact, he probably just saved us a lot of time.”
The frown deepened. “How?”
“We found that propane tank here, right? Well, he just led me right to what’s left of a second five-gallon propane tank a few yards from the house. In really bad shape. Looks like that might have been our explosion.”
The man drew back. And Lacy saw that Quinn Foxworth was frowning, as well—although clearly not surprised that his dog had apparently provided a major clue to the cause of this middle-of-the-night chaos.
“Those things don’t blow up easily,” he said.
The chief nodded. “Not without a leak and some pretty extreme heat.”
“The arson guys and the lab’ll have to figure it out.” The man grimaced. “Maybe in a month, if we’re lucky. They’re pretty backed up.”
“I’ve got some friends with access to the fed’s lab, if that’ll help,” Quinn said, and Lacy guessed his tone was purposefully neutral.
Lacy saw the chief’s gaze shift to Quinn. “Heard about you Foxworth folks. Word is you know what you’re doing and you don’t get in the way.”
“A reputation we’ve worked hard to build,” Quinn answered.
“Brett Dunbar’s a friend of mine,” the man said.
Quinn smiled. Widely. “And of ours. A good friend. As is his girlfriend.”
Both men nodded, connections established. Lacy was pondering the interesting way things worked when something occurred to her.
“I saw someone out here, just after midnight,” she said. “I was up reading, and when I turned out the light I looked outside and saw someone in the yard.” She glanced at Tate. “I thought it must have been you, still getting settled in.”
He shook his head, and finally spoke.
“It wasn’t me. I was tired, crashed early. And my grandfather,” he added, “would never keep a leaking propane tank, even a small one.”
The chief considered that for a moment. “When was the last time you saw him?”
Tate grimaced. “A while before my last deployment. So a couple of years ago.”
Lacy bet he wished he’d had a chance to say goodbye. She felt awful for him, but glad for Martin that the illness that had taken him had been quick. He would have wanted it that way.
“How did he seem?”
“Fine. Like always.”
“How old was he?”
Lacy realized where the man was going, and hastened to head him off. “Martin McLaughlin was sharp as a tack until the very end. We should all be so clearheaded and active now, let alone at ninety-three.”
The chief shifted his attention to her. “You knew him?”
“Yes. I was there, and talked with him barely an hour before he passed, and he was still mentally together.”
Tate went very still. “You were...with him?”
She glanced at him. “Yes. Your father hadn’t arrived at the hospital yet and I didn’t want Martin to be alone.”
He stared at her silently. In the morning light she realized his eyes were a greenish hazel, like his grandfather’s. The moment stretched, the voices of the others as they discussed the situation fading out somehow. Only when she sucked in a deep gulp of air did she realize she had actually stopped breathing.
“—to board up that hole when we’re finished, if you’ve got something we can use,” the chief was saying.
Tate shook his head, as if he were still fuzzy.
Or as if he’d been as caught by that long moment as she had been.
“I’ll handle it,” he said. It sounded automatic, as if it were a standard response. As if whatever it was, he was used to handling it.
“I’ve got some panels from my greenhouse you could use temporarily,” she said. “I think a couple of them would cover that gap. That and a tarp for the roof would keep the wildlife out, at least.”
His mouth twisted ruefully. “I’ll take the local raccoon over scorpions.”
She made a face. “I think I’d take anything with fur over scorpions.”
He gave her a fleeting smile. Definitely improving, she thought. “Speaking of fur,” he said, looking at Quinn, who in turn was studying him assessingly, “that’s quite a dog. Yours, I assume?”
“My wife’s first,” he said, “but now, yes.”
“Interesting that he headed for an explosion.”
Lacy hadn’t thought of that, but he had a point. Her mother’s ball of fluff would still be cowering under the bed.
“To be expected, once you get to know him,” Quinn said.
“And finding the cause of explosions?” She might just have met him, but she could tell Tate McLaughlin had an idea in his head.
“That, in particular, is a new one to me,” Quinn answered, “but again, knowing him, not surprising.”
“He looks too young to be retired. But he acts trained.”
So that was it. He was wondering if the dog had been a working dog, military or police, she guessed.
“Don’t know. He just showed up on Hayley’s doorstep one day and stayed. So while I wish I could take the credit,” Quinn said with a grin, “he came that way. I’ve only fine-tuned what was already there. He’s a wonder, that dog.”
Lacy couldn’t argue with that. But it wasn’t the finding of the cause of the explosion she was thinking of.
She was thinking of those moments when the dog had somehow managed to make Tate McLaughlin do what he needed to do—sit down. When the man had responded to the dog in a way he didn’t to the sudden influx of concerned neighbors.
If the animal hadn’t been trained as a therapy dog, he surely had the instincts.
And it appeared her new neighbor just might need that kind of help.
As he stood in the bedroom doorway, surveying the damage after the fire department had finally cleared out, Tate rubbed a hand over the back of his head. His fingertips instinctively traced the scar that thinned out and stopped an inch or so into his hairline. It wasn’t even tender anymore, and the occasional headache and stiffness in his back were the only lingering aftereffects of that bloody day.
He’d
