Drop Dead on Recall Read Online Free PDF

taken.” He bent toward his dog, and Drake squinted his eyes and shoved his glossy black head into his best friend’s hand. “We’ll have to set something up. If you’re willing, of course.”
    That goofy tingle somewhere south of my belly button cried ready, willing, and able, and I could even take some pictures , but I kept my mouth in line and mumbled what passed for assent. Then I bade him farewell and took my dog, my blushing face, and my dirty mind to my van. From there I set off to get Pip and the Dorns’ belongings from the calf barn. Since the place had been thoroughly cleaned after the baby bovines left the 4-H fair the previous summer, I never expected to step in deep doodoo.

9
    When I got to the calf barn to collect Pip and the Dorns’ equipment after my class on Sunday, show chair Tony Balthazar was talking to a guy in rumpled tan chinos and coffee-stained shirt. The knot of his tie was tipsy and the day’s growth of whiskers so fashionable with some actors these days just wasn’t working for him. He was scribbling in a little notebook as he talked to Tony, but when I reached for Pip’s crate he started toward me. “Hey! Whaddya think you’re doing?” Tony tagged along, worry lines etched into his face. Tony must have inherited his chronically wrinkled brow from his wife’s Pugs.
    I was about to reply when Giselle Swann huffed into the building. “I’ll take Greg’s things home with me!” she wheezed. In contrast to her lithesome name, Giselle was about five-foot-one whichever way you measured. She was fond of stretch pants a size too small and three shades too bright, and huge tent tops with ruffles or fringes. Her hair always had that not-quite-clean lankness of a day too long between shampoos, and she peeped furtively from under brown bangs that straggled like spider legs over her eyebrows and into her lashes. I’m not exactly svelte and stylish myself, but Giselle takes frump to a whole new level.
    “’Fraid not.” Scribble Man shoved the notebook and pen into his pants pocket. Giselle narrowed her eyes at him and twisted the fringe of her day-glo yellow poncho into tight little wads, and Scribbles hooked his thumbs into his front belt loops as he rocked on the balls of his feet. “I can’t authorize release of this property to either one of you.”
    I’d had enough. “Excuse me, but who are you and how is this dog your business?”
    He parried, and upped the volume. “And you are?”
    “Wondering who you are and why you’re yelling at me.” I was also trying to ignore the indigo stain that was expanding with astonishing speed over his pants pocket.
    “Detective Homer Hutchinson. Call me Hutch.” As in Starsky and? Janet Demon whispered into my left ear, meaning David Soul, the first Hutch, not the recent what’s-his-name remake. In his wildest dreams! Her angelic counterpart cautioned, Shhh. He’s a boob, but he’s probably armed.
    “Detective Hutchinson, this ‘property,’ as you call him, is a living, breathing dog. You can’t just put him on a shelf somewhere until you’re ready to deal with him.”
    “And your name …” He reached into his pocket. “Aw, shit!” He shuffled backward, gaping at the pen, notebook, and hand he’d withdrawn from his pants. All three glistened dark blue. He pinched the pen between the thumb and index finger of his other hand and threw it into the aisle of the barn.
    Giselle clasped her hands to her breast, and Tony wove from foot to foot and coughed. I was rather proud of my self-control when I asked, with barely a snicker, “Who can authorize release of the dog?” I wasn’t leaving Pip with the cops, and I wasn’t leaving him with Giselle. She has enough trouble managing her own teensy dog. I don’t know what she’d do with a bundle of Border Collie energy.
    “I can,” said a voice from behind me. “Detective Jo Stevens. What can I do for you?”
    Jo Stevens was about my height, 5'4", but a good forty pounds lighter at