“You’re nasty!” Tritia laughed and hit his shoulder, and he felt a little better. He put an arm around her waist. They continued down the aisle and up the next one to the produce department and didn’t hear a single word about The Suicides. When they reached the checkout stand, however, he heard snatches of words from various conversations, and the words “killed himself” and “death” seemed to pop up an awful lot. His eyes rested on the Willis Weekly, displayed on its stand next to the counter, and he thought of Ben Stockley, the editor of the paper. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of the editor before. If anyone in town would listen to him, hear him out, perhaps even believe him, it would be Stockley. He said nothing to Tritia, but he decided then and there that he was going to pay the editor a visit later in the day.

They moved forward in line.

The Bronco seemed to hit every bump and chuckhole on the road home. There were eggs and other fragile food items in the back of the vehicle, and Doug tried to drive slowly and carefully down the dirt road. They drove over the creek and around the turn, and were heading along the straight stretch toward home when they saw, in the distance, what appeared to be two figures kneeling in the middle of the road. As they drew closer, they saw that the figures were Ron and Hannah Nelson and that they were crouched on the dirt before the unmoving form of a German shepherd.

“Oh, my God,” Tritia said. “It’s Scooby. Stop.”

Doug pulled the car over to the side of the ditch just in front of the couple. They could see, this close, that Hannah Nelson’s face was streaked with tears. Both of them hopped out of the car, hurrying forward. Ron stood up as they approached.

“What happened?” Doug asked.

“Scooby’s dead.” Ron’s voice was choked and halting, and it seemed as though he too was about to cry. “I think he was poisoned. There’s not a mark on him, but there’s, like, saliva still dripping from his mouth. The saliva’s kind of red.”

“Do you need some help? Do you want me to take him to the vet?”

“No. We’ll take him. There’s nothing that can be done now.”

Doug looked down at the dog. There were, indeed, no marks on him, but the animal’s eyes were open wide in an expression of terror and agony. The drool that hung in threads from his open mouth had pooled on the dirt in a muddy, bloody mixture. He met Tritia’s glance and saw in her eyes disgust and pity and anger.

“Who could’ve poisoned him?” she asked. “Do you have any idea?”