Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

“When he stares like that he’s sending the message that he’d like you to give him a treat. But he’s out of luck because I don’t know where they are, or what he’s allowed to have these days. Mum mentioned she was trying to take some weight off him.”

“He looks the picture of health to me.”

“We didn’t see him last night because he sleeps in the garden shed, or sometimes in the pantry when it’s cold, but I don’t know where he was when we were outside just now. His usual habit would be to pounce on a newcomer with welcoming licks.”

Just then Freddie got up and walked back toward the pantry door. He began to bark repeatedly and pawed at the door. Ben went to him and opened the door. The dog raced outside and about halfway down the stone walkway that led to the gardening shed. He then turned into the bushes, seeming to know where he was going. In a moment he emerged, carrying something in his mouth. He trotted back up the path and dropped his treasure on the stone stoop. A limp and bloody rabbit lay there, legs splayed, it’s fur wet with saliva. Ben was more than surprised and told Ana that Freddie was not a hunter, that he would sit and watch a squirrel or a bird with seeming interest, not as a matter of stalking.

“I’m sure this is very distasteful to you. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

“I just have to remember that I’m in the wilds of England, where nature rules and it’s survival of the fittest.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration. In this case, the rabbit doesn’t even look mauled. If a dog had done it, it would be more disfigured.” Ben squatted to take a closer look at the unlucky rabbit. He carefully turned it over, moved the fur behind the neck and said, “Well, this wasn’t done by any four-legged animal—more like the two-legged version.”

“What do you mean,” Ana asked, coming closer to see what Ben had found.

“It’s been shot—right here behind the neck. See?” He pushed the fur aside to expose the bullet hole. “This rabbit wasn’t killed by a hunter. They use shotguns. We’d see numerous small entry wounds from the pellets if a hunter had done this. And if it were a hunter, he would have collected the animal, probably taken it home for tonight’s stew.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever eat rabbit again… and the French do it so well.” Ana’s attempt to lighten the moment fell flat.

She turned and walked back to the table while Ben went to the shed for a shovel to remove the furry carcass. Freddie had been quietly observing the scene, and although he would have liked the credit for having provided his family with the evening’s meal, he eventually lumbered off into the outer reaches of the back garden. When Ben returned from burying the creature, he had a serious look on his face. Ana questioned this and he told her that the bullet wound looked to have been from a medium caliber handgun, and that it would have had to be shot from quite a distance or it would have nearly blown off the rabbit’s head.

They didn’t talk for a few moments, and then Ben said, “Who passes the time shooting at rabbits with a handgun?” He paused then shook his head, his expression one of disgust. “And why didn’t we hear it?”

“Unless it happened yesterday when no one was home.”

“We don’t have any neighbors who would do that. It must have been done on our property, or from the woods, because Freddie doesn’t venture beyond the field at the edge of the woods.

“Are you sure he doesn’t sneak away?

“As sure as I can be. And if he feels like chasing a rabbit, we have them on the property —too many some years. He may like to chase them once in a while but wouldn’t know what to do if he caught one. They have their way with the vegetable garden, among other things.”

“He seems like a smart fellow, but dogs will be dogs. How can you be so sure?”

“My father trained him to stay on the lawns and in the garden. He was concerned that some nearsighted old geezer who should have had his gun taken away might mistake Freddie for a fox. I can’t help but think it could have been Freddie who was shot today.”

“I don’t know how far it is to the edge of the woods, but if the shot came from there, it might not have been heard at the house.” She looked at Ben, who was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, deep in thought. He didn’t speak, so after a minute or so she continued. “So you’re saying that the rabbit was probably shot on your property, which means there was a trespasser here at least long enough to deliberately shoot a rabbit—thankfully not a dog. And then Freddie found it and brought it to the garden, left it in the bushes—how long ago we don’t know. Then at some point he came to get someone’s attention before he retrieved it and dropped it on the stoop—some kind of offering?”

Ben sat down across the table from her and leaned on the table, his hands clasped together tightly. Ana could tell he was mulling over what had happened, but not in terms of animal behavior. “If that were the case, it would be the first time. I don’t think that was it.”

I don’t know a lot about dogs, but I know that cats will bring their night kill to the door to show they’re doing their part for the family.”

“I’ll talk to Dad about it when they come back from London. I don’t want to read too much into it. He might even know who it could have been. I’m not acquainted with the neighbors anymore—lots of changes since I left