Returned 1946 War Veteran Silas Benedict Fights His Former Military Mentor to Save His Late Sister’s $45,000 Estate Hound, Only to Uncover a Fatal Poisoning Scheme and Paternity Deception.
My hand shot out, swifter than Edward’s, seizing the small glass vial where it had clattered against the dusty floorboards. The sudden movement sent a ripple through the stunned faces of the auction crowd.
Edward’s mouth worked, a flash of something ugly crossing his face before his public mask snapped back into place. He leaned over the microphone, his voice booming with practiced authority.
“Just a veterinary sedative, folks! Old Dutch gets a little antsy sometimes.” He gestured vaguely at the hound, who now stood panting, a dark tear in Edward’s expensive wool vest the only testament to his earlier fury. “For the dog’s nerves, you understand.”
A few murmurs rose from the crowd, a mix of skepticism and acceptance. Some turned to their neighbors, whispering. A woman in a floral hat frowned, her eyes flicking from the vial in my hand to Edward.
I felt the smooth glass against my palm. The label was faded, but “Phenobarbital” was clear enough, along with a dosage. It wasn’t for a dog’s nerves. It was a human prescription, one far too potent for any animal.
“Nothing to see here,” Edward insisted, his smile tight, his eyes locking onto mine with a challenge. “Now, as I was saying, who’ll start the bidding on this fine animal?”
His gavel hovered, ready to strike, but the air felt heavy with unspoken questions. The incident had broken the rhythm of the auction, leaving an awkward pause. He was pushing past it, but I knew what I held.
This wasn’t a veterinary sedative.
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