The Warning of the Bells: A Foxglove Corners Mystery, #34

By Dorothy Bodoin

When Jennet's collie, Misty, is stolen, Jennet vows to find her, no matter what it takes, and to bring her abductor to justice.

 

A stranger wants to buy Jennet's white collie, Misty, a request she flatly refuses. When Misty vanishes soon after this encounter, the stranger becomes Jennet's chief suspect. But he has given her a false name and a card advertising a non-existent landscape business. Furthermore, he, too, has vanished.

With only a torn jingle bell collar left in the snow and a sound of jingle bells ringing at odd times in various places, how can Jennet recover her stolen collie?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091302

Book preview

Wings ePress, Inc.

Edited by: Jeanne Smith

Copy Edited by: Christie Kraemer

Executive Editor: Jeanne Smith

Cover Artist: Trisha FitzGerald-Jung

Dog image from Giovanni-Mocellin from Pexels; ribbon, bell, background snow scene from Pixabay, footprints from Dreamstime.

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

www.wingsepress.com

Copyright © 2022 by: Dorothy Bodoin

ISBN 978-1-61309-130-2

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress, Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS 67114

Dedication

To my good friend, Sue McGoun, who shares my love for animals and

the collies of Foxglove Corners.

One

Afeather-soft snow fell, covering every withered stalk and blade of grass and rock in my view with pure gleaming white. This was exactly the effect I wanted to create in my living room for the wedding shower I was hosting for my friend Annica, who had snared the heart of Foxglove Corner’s premier bachelor, Brent Fowler.

I planned to turn my green Victorian farmhouse into a winter wonderland with lacy paper snowflakes and sparkling icicles, all silver and crystal, and my neighbor Camille’s cream puffs and prize-winning marshmallow dream cake.

With a long appreciative look at Camille’s elegant yellow Victorian across the lane, I swept a swath of snow off the porch. My eight collies were wild with joy, shaking their coats clean, barking, and trying to catch the elusive flying treats before they dissolved.

A fresh snowfall is always a delight, even when it brings a little extra work. Humming Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, I worked my way to the side of the porch in time to see a splash of bright red on the lane. The slow-moving car drew the dogs’ attention and mine. Traffic was rare on Jonquil Lane, and the glaring color of the vehicle was a jarring stain on the landscape.

Candy stationed herself in front of me and uttered a warning growl. The other dogs continued to bark as the car came to a stop. I leaned on the broom handle and watched the driver stamp his way up the driveway. He smiled as if he were about to connect with an old friend.

I had never seen him before. He was tall and husky with gray-streaked sandy hair under a Stetson hat, rugged good looks, and so much red in his cheeks he might have used blush.

Candy showed her teeth and pressed nearer to me. Of all the collies, she is the most protective. Strangely none of the others were in welcome mode. I didn’t see any wagging tails. Strange? For my collies, inconceivable.

I didn’t feel the slightest bit welcoming myself, even at the stranger’s open, friendly smile.

Good day, ma’am, he said. What beautiful dogs you have.

I nodded. Yes, they are.

He’d stopped to compliment my collies, then? Well, they did have that effect on people. Along with their beauty, my collies had gorgeous colorful coats. I had the requisite Lassie lookalikes, Gemmy and Star; three tricolors, Halley, Velvet, and Candy; Raven, a rare bi-black; Sky, a blue merle; and Misty, the tri-headed white who at present had snow on her nose. My rainbow cotillion.

An awkward silence grew between the stranger and me. He reached out to stroke Candy’s head. In response, she growled at him.

Honestly. Didn’t the stranger know that you offered a dog your hand to sniff rather than grabbing at her?

Undaunted, he said, Nice snow. Shouldn’t amount to much.

About two new inches, I said.

So, looks like we’ll have a white Christmas.

Could I help you with something? I asked.

I hope so. I’m in the market for a dog. A collie.

Oh, I thought I understood. Anyone seeing my collie brood couldn’t help but wish to own one.

A white collie, he added, his gaze falling on Misty.

A good choice, I said.

He cleared his throat. You have one.

Yes.

I’d like to buy him.

Did I hear that right? Pardon me?

Your white collie. I saw him in Lakeville the other day. He’s exactly what I’m looking for.

His outrageous offer dropped into my heart like a chunk of ice. And like ice, anger spread through me. How dare this unknown person come to my home and try to buy a member of my family, a piece of my heart?

She isn’t for sale, I said.

I thought...I mean, you have all these dogs.

We’re not a kennel.

He could well have seen me in Lakeville with Misty, but how did he know where I lived? How indeed? That was worrisome, but before I could ask him, he said, I’m prepared to offer you a good price. Say a thousand dollars.

I wouldn’t part with my dog for five million, I said.

How about two thousand then?

I took a deep breath. I suggest you visit a collie kennel. Or, even better, you may want to see what dogs the Collie Rescue League has available. Our president, Sue Appleton, lives on a horse ranch just up the lane.

To my knowledge, there were no white collies in or around Foxglove Corners available for sale or adoption, but let the man find that out for himself.

This collie is perfect for me, he said, taking a few steps toward her. Misty stood still, like a snow dog, her head tilted, surveying him. Candy growled. The stranger froze.

She isn’t for sale, I repeated. Not at any price. Now I have a busy day—if you’ll excuse me.

And even if you don’t. I realized I sounded rude, but I didn’t care. I wouldn’t finish sweeping the porch now. All I wanted was to go inside. Something about this unknown man with the outrageous request raised a parade of red flags, all of them waving.

This is very important to me. He pulled a card out of his vest pocket. I kept my hands fastened on the broomstick, giving him no alternative but to put it on the wicker table which had accumulated a light layer of snow.

I laid the broom against the side of the house and opened the door. Girls, inside, I said.

Thank heavens they obliged, all except Candy.

Think about my offer, the stranger said. Two thousand dollars.

And not a word about the kind of home he was prepared to give a dog. No explanation of why he was set on purchasing a white collie. I was sorry I’d mentioned the Rescue League.

I’d already answered him, made an attempt to smile, couldn’t manage even a dismissive one. He was like one of my high school students, apparently listening to me but not hearing what I said.

Coming, Candy? I held the door for her. Once she was safely inside, I closed and locked it and stood at the bay window watching him drive away.

Good riddance.

I pulled off my gloves and followed the dogs to the kitchen where I gave them fresh water and filled the teakettle. I felt chilled and unsettled. No, ‘unsettled’ was too mild a word.

The man’s unexpected offer had sounded almost like a threat. It had stripped away my sense of well-being. Something, some quiet joy, had gone out of the day.

Don’t overreact, I told myself. You turned him down. That’s the end of it.

MY HUSBAND, DEPUTY Sheriff Crane Ferguson, kept his guns in a special cabinet. I stored one there also, bought for protection, never used. It gave me a sense of security to know I had access to it.

Even with eight dogs, I lived in the country on an isolated lane and was alone much of the time while Crane patrolled the roads and by-roads of Foxglove Corners. We lived in a singularly peaceful part of Michigan, but it was a dangerous world.

He wouldn’t be happy with the unknown man’s visit, nor that he claimed to have seen me with Misty in Lakeville and somehow learned where I lived.

Darn! Why hadn’t I asked him who had given him my address?

At that moment, I recalled the card lying in wet snow on the porch table. It might be helpful to know the name of the man who coveted Misty in case he came back.

Two

Throughout the afternoon the snow fell. Exhausted after their exuberant play period, the collies slept. I made a beef stew for dinner, then baked apple pies. I had planned to take advantage of the weekend to decorate the house for the shower but didn’t do it.

Misty lay on the sofa with her white plush goat under her head. I sat in the rocker, leaving my new (old) Gothic novel open while my thoughts traveled back to the day of Misty’s coming.

She had been left on our porch one snowy Christmas Eve with no word of explanation, a white collie puppy with a winsome expression and tri head markings. Small and helpless. Abandoned.

I smiled at another memory. On the night of her arrival, I dreamed that she lay at the fireside and melted into a puddle of ice water. I remembered wondering what kind of creature I had brought into the house.

Time had erased the Gothic element from the incident, and Misty proved to be a remarkable addition to my collie pack.

All of my dogs except for Halley, my first collie, were rescues. Many of them had been taken from appalling situations. Sky, for example, who had been severely abused, was still timid, and clung to the security of her home. Gemmy had been falsely accused of causing her owner’s death. The others had their own stories.

Misty grew to adulthood in our loving care, and, over time, I became aware that she was more perceptive than any collie I had ever known. She was unusually attuned to me and to the strangeness that was a shadowy but undeniable part of Foxglove Corners.

I called her my psychic collie.

Not in the mood to escape into a good book, I gazed idly out the bay window. Two inches gradually became four, and the view remained pristine, the lane no doubt growing slippery. I wasn’t afraid the stranger would return, not really, but something urged me to be vigilant. To be aware.

One never knew what would come out of the storm. Just ask Annabella, the intrepid heroine of my Gothic novel.

The man’s card was still damp from lying outside in the snow. I’d set it on the day’s newspaper to dry. His name was Mike McCullough, and he was a landscaper with a business in Maple Creek, which didn’t tell me why he wanted a white collie.

Correction. Why he wanted Misty. He hadn’t shown any interest in visiting a collie kennel or rescue.

Well, he wasn’t going to get my dog.

You may never see him again, I thought. Don’t worry about something that may never happen.

The intense quiet in the house fed my burgeoning anxiety. In the kitchen, Sky yelped in her sleep from her chosen safe place under the oak table. The clock chimed four times. The house smelled of stew, apples, and cinnamon.

I watched the snow fall from a leaden sky and waited for Crane to come home.

CRANE BROUGHT THE ENERGY of the outdoors and some of its snow inside with him. At his entrance, the house sprang to life. The collies deserted their resting places and gathered at the kitchen door, a barking, jumping and tail-wagging welcome committee.

The master was home.

Crane is the handsomest man in Foxglove Corners, bar none. His fair hair is liberally streaked with silver and, at present, with melting snow. Fine lines bracket his frosty gray eyes, and his voice has the merest hint of a Southern accent.

With his shiny badge and gun belt, sometimes it seems as if he’s stepped off the set of an old-time Western movie. That was how I saw him. Sometimes.

Hi, honey. He made his way through the collie pack and pulled me into a kiss that was cold and hot at the same time. His eyes fell on the package of paper snowflakes and garland stored on the counter. Weren’t you going to decorate for the shower today?

Something came up, I said.

He waited for enlightenment. Something good?

A stranger stopped by the house. He wanted to buy Misty.

You told him she wasn’t for sale.

There’s more. I added every outrageous detail including the two thousand dollars he was apparently prepared to spend to own her.

Crane’s expression grew increasingly grim as he zeroed in on the most puzzling and worrisome part of my account.

How did this man know where Misty lived?

I had to admit that I hadn’t asked him. I certainly should have.

Anyone in one of the Lakeville stores could have told him, I suppose.

Or he could have seen you in Lakeside and followed you home. I don’t like it.

I didn’t think he would.

It seems odd that he’d drive out in the snow to make an offer on a dog who’s not even for sale, Crane said.

Misty had staked out the space at my feet and gazed lovingly at me. I stroked her head, marveling in its softness.

It is odd, but I trust you, she might have said.

I wanted desperately to be worthy of that trust. I guess there’s nothing I can do. I paused, needing to say more. It wasn’t actually a threat, but it felt like one.

Then it was one, Crane said. I wonder if this McCullough knows he’s trying to buy a deputy sheriff’s dog.

I shrugged. I just hope he doesn’t come back.

Candy, Crane said.

She looked up and padded to his side, ears flattened and tail wagging. Your job is to protect your mistress when I’m not here. Don’t let your guard down, not for a minute.

There. I had an armed deputy sheriff husband and a guardian collie with sharp teeth in my corner. Now I felt safe.

And keep an eye on Misty, he added.

Finally, belatedly, he locked his gun in its special cabinet.