Mom still wasn’t home, so I made and ate my lunch alone. She owns a small plane and gives flying lessons at the airport in Longmont. My father had also been a pilot, but died in a car accident when I was young. My brother’s a pilot as well, and Mom is always holding out hope that someday I’ll be spontaneously cured of my fear of heights so that I can uphold my end of the family tradition.
The doorbell rang. I leaned back in my chair in the kitchen to see who was there. On this warm day, I’d left the front door open and could see Edith through the screen. The dogs, though trained not to bark at the doorbell, started to come en masse with me to the door. I instructed them to sit by the entrance to the kitchen, then invited Edith inside, curious as to why she was here.
I really should have made up for my earlier transgressions, but try as I might, I barely said hello before turning my attention to the silky terrier that, unleashed, sat by her feet. It was a pretty, thin little dog, smaller than most house cats. He had long black fur with reddish brown highlights, a long sharp nose and pointed upright ears. He trotted in with complete confidence until he spotted the two big dogs at the far side of the living room. His hackles rose, but he made no sound. Pavlov—and Doppler, for that matter—were far too well trained to pay Shogun any mind, but Sage rose and trotted in our direction. He merely gave Shogun a dismissive sniff, then walked away and lay back down by the other dogs, deliberately turning his back on us in the process.
“Hi, there, Shogun. That’s a good dog,” I said, and promptly sat down on the floor.
“He’s shy with strangers,” Edith said, but her dog leapt onto my lap before she could complete her sentence. She raised her eyebrows, but continued, “While I was chatting with Cassandra Randon she told me that you’re a dog psychologist. I want to hire you.”
That was an unexpected day-brightener. Here I’d been, less than twenty minutes ago, thinking about cultivating more clients. Maybe next time I should concentrate on wanting a million dollars. “Oh? What seems to be the problem?”
“Trevor wants sole custody of Shogun. I’d like to hire you to testify on my behalf.”
“At the divorce hearing?”
“When it comes time to settle the estate, yes.” Edith took a seat on the couch, smoothing the fabric of her white slacks to maintain perfect pleats. She had completely ignored my dogs thus far, indicating to me that while she may or may not be deserving of Shogun’s custody, she was not an indiscriminate lover of all dogs. “You see, Trevor bought Shogun for me, to act as a guard dog when I was home alone. He was traveling a lot at the time, you see.”
I nodded, but I could also “see” that most men, when selecting a “guard dog” for their wives, would opt for one that weighed more than ten pounds.
“Trevor got close to Shogun, too. Nevertheless, he’s my dog, not Trevor’s. And yet Trevor is insisting that I’m not good enough to Shogun and that he wants and deserves total custody.”
“So you want me to determine which of you should have the dog?”
“No, I want you to testify that I should have the dog. Period.”
While his owner was speaking, Shogun lay down and rested his chin on my knee. There is a feeling I get sometimes when I spend time with a dog, a certain eagerness to please, that strikes me as beyond the normal bounds of canine behavior. Shogun had this in his quickness to accept me. This was probably due to his feeling disoriented from the divorce, not unlike a child who felt the rift between his parents that he couldn’t comprehend, and so assumed it was his own fault.
“I can’t do that unless that’s what I decide is truly best for Shogun.”
“I see. Well, then, what do you need to do to make the decision?”
“To be honest, I’ve never done this before, but I would imagine all I’d need to do is witness the dog’s behavior when he’s here with you, do the same when he’s with your husband, and give my opinion.”
“Fine. Let’s do it right away. I want this matter resolved pronto.” She rose and quickly checked the alignment of her ascot and the hang of her jacket. “I have to get back to my store, but I’ll be back home after five. Let’s set up an appointment at my house for five-thirty. I’m sure Trevor could meet with you tomorrow.”
“You’ve already spoken with him about this?” I asked, surprised.
“Of course not,” she answered in patronizing tones. “I haven’t had the opportunity to do so. I’ll call him as soon as I can, though, and have him get back with you to set up his appointment. I’m sure Trevor will be more than reasonable. Up until you decide to award custody to me, that is. See you at five-thirty.” She headed toward the door. Shogun made no move to follow.
Edith was behaving as if Trevor and I were the sheep and she the border collie. I was sorely tempted to tell her honestly that this was my day off; the nature of my business was such that I had to work weekends. Truth be told, I was still too aware of the precarious status of my newly formed business to give myself even these Tuesdays—as well as Mondays—off, but rather, tried to keep my appointments on those days to a minimum.
During our conversation, her little dog had shut his eyes and completely settled himself on my lap, and I enjoyed the warm sensation of his slight weight. “I need to tell you, Edith, that dogs really get quite traumatized by divorces. Has Shogun been keeping up his regular daily patterns?”
“Yes, he’s...exactly the same. He doesn’t miss Trevor at all.”
“That would be unusual.” Especially since the little dog had been trembling as he slept. “Where is Trevor living now?”
“Northern Longmont. At a duplex that is totally unsuitable for Shogun, I might add.” She looked at her dog—who gave every appearance of wanting to stay in my lap—gave me a sheepish smile, and said, “I really must be going. Shogun, come.”
Three hours later, in my currently empty downtown Boulder office—my officemate currently away for the afternoon— I had completed my one appointment for the day and was now trying to decide how much money to invest in advertising. I decided to call my lone media connection—an irascible talk show host who was between jobs—and see what she would advise. Before I could do so, Trevor Cunningham burst unannounced into my office.
He was a small, thin man, but had a booming voice as he shouted, “What’s this about you deciding who gets to keep my dog?” With his cascade of hair—center-parted and short on the neck but long on top—and his long, sharp nose, he looked like a human version of his dog, even though that was a cliche I didn’t put much stock in. Temperaments were much more likely to be shared between dog and owner than appearances.
“I take it you’re referring to Shogun?”
“Yes. I love Shogun. She doesn’t. She wouldn’t even have known what a silky terrier was if it hadn’t been for me. My sister breeds them. That’s where we got Shogun.”
“Your sister sold him to you?”
“That’s right. Edie only wants Shogun to keep him from me. She never showed any interest in that dog till I left her and took Shogun with me.”
“But she has custody of Shogun now, doesn’t she?”
“For the time being. I swear, though, I’ll get my dog back if it’s the last thing I do.” He paced as he spoke, wearing a path in the linoleum in front of my desk.
“She told me that Shogun was a gift to her.”
“From me, yes. But she never appreciated him. I took care of Shogun from the very first day.”
“If that’s true, Trevor, you have nothing to worry about. Edith has promised she’ll abide by my decision.” That was stretching the truth a bit, but I instantly decided that if Edith refused to give me such a promise during our appointment later that day, I wouldn’t proceed. “If you’re the main caregiver, the dog will likely want to stay with you, and I’ll see that in his behavior.”
He stopped pacing and met my eyes. “I hope so. Shogun hasn’t been himself in months now. He’s turning into the stereotypical nervous lapdog.”
I nodded, so far finding myself empat
hizing with him rather than with my actual neighbor, which spelled neighborhood discord for Mom and me. It seems to be harder for divorcing couples to work up an amicable settlement for which one gets the dog than which one gets custody of the children. Judges seem to treat dogs as they would any other kind of property, and that is neither realistic nor fair.
His temper totally evaporated now, Trevor sighed, flopped his hands at his sides, and said, “See what you can do, Allida. I’ll go along with your decision, whatever it is.”
“I’ll be meeting with Edith and Shogun in a couple of hours. Can you arrange to have him at your place for a visit tomorrow?”
He said he thought he could, and we set a tentative appointment for the following evening.
Late that afternoon, I arrived as scheduled at Edith Cunningham’s house, having parked in my garage and walked over. The house was silent. I rang the doorbell, then saw a magenta sticky pad note sheet affixed to the door. Its shaky lettering, written with a felt-tip pen, read:
Shogun and I are in the backyard. I won’t be able to hear the bell. Please come around the house.
That explained the house being so quiet. A gust of wind nearly knocked me off balance as I left the porch.
I cast a glance at the clouds that seemed ready to let loose a torrent any moment now. With the weather as it was, this was not necessarily going to be a representative meeting. Dogs are often disconcerted by thunderstorms. Some are so fearful that they can actually endanger themselves and jump through glass windows to escape the sound.
The Cunninghams owned quite a large piece of property. The family that owned this place during my childhood had kept horses in the back pasture. Trevor had removed the electric fence for the horses and allowed the pasture to grow wild with native grasses and vegetation. Their remaining fence was dog-appropriate, enclosing a moderate-sized backyard.
What was not dog-appropriate was that the gate was wide open. I swung the cedar gate shut behind me, the latch fastening with a noisy thud.
“Edith? Shogun?”
No answer.
I tried to assure myself that they must be in the old barn or shed behind the fence and couldn’t hear me from there. It’s just that the dog should have heard me. Shogun was less than five years old and shouldn’t have had any hearing problems.
A drop of water splatted in front of me, then another hit my head. Where was the dog? Why hadn’t he heard me or picked up on my scent by now?
I quickened my step, trotting in my sneakers around the large Australian pines alongside her house. “Edith? Shogun?”
Still no answer.
I gasped at the sight that greeted me.
Cassandra Randon was lying motionless on her stomach on Edith’s wooden deck. Her legs within her jeans were twisted at an awkward angle. Her wide open and unseeing eyes were fixed in my direction, her expression permanently contorted in horror.
Chapter 2
There was blood everywhere, matting and darkening Cassandra’s hair. A jagged piece of flagstone—two inches thick and ten inches or so wide and deep—lay near her head. The stone had once been a decorative rock in the garden beside the redwood deck, but was now covered in blood.
“Help! Somebody call the police!” I yelled as I rushed up to her. My words seemed to be swallowed in the air.
She’d been bludgeoned. I felt Cassandra’s carotid artery, having to divert my eyes from the sight of her fractured skull. No pulse.
I needed to contact the police. I stared in the direction of Cassandra’s house—no puppies in the backyard, no sign of her daughter or her husband, who was probably still at work. Oh, my God. Poor Melanie! A little girl, left without a mother.
Who was going to tell her and her father about Cassandra’s death? Suddenly I couldn’t remember Mr. Randon’s first name, and that struck me as a horrible failing. I’d found his wife’s body, and I couldn’t even think of the man’s name.
What was she doing out here on Edith’s deck? Edith and Shogun were supposed to be back here, not Cassandra. Furthermore, who was watching Melanie?
My vision fell on an odd pattern in the blood, little markings that extended from the deck on down the steps to the landscaping rocks.
Paw prints.
My head and stomach spinning, I headed toward Edith’s sliding back door, intending to call the police. As soon as my hands touched the glass, a terrifying realization hit me. Cassandra’s killer could be inside!
Edith’s phone was in plain sight on the kitchen counter. With my palms pressed against the glass and my heart pounding, I tried to decide what to do. My instincts were screaming at me to run home, to call from there.
What if Melanie was waiting at home, right next door, for her mom to return? She could come outside to their shared fence to check on her at any moment. I couldn’t let the little girl find her mother this way.
“Move!” I demanded of my recalcitrant body.
The door was unlatched and slid open easily.
“Edith? Shogun?” My voice was so shaky it sounded foreign to my own ear.
There were no sounds, no vibrations through the floorboards that might indicate someone was here and coming toward me.
A second frightening realization hit me: Could Edith be here inside the house, a second victim? My stomach lurched at the thought. I didn’t want to search for her, didn’t want to acknowledge this possibility.
My vision fell on Shogun’s combination food-and-water dish on a plastic placemat in the kitchen corner. That was bad planning. The food dish should always be separate. The owner needs to leave the water dish out, but have total control over the food dish, which maintains owner authority. Part of me was horrified at myself for thinking such mundane, irrelevant thoughts at such a time, but another part recognized that my struggle to grasp at the familiar was the one source of comfort I could find.
I scanned my surroundings for any signs of Edith’s still being inside her house, perhaps even struggling with the killer. Or could a crazed Edith herself be waiting in the next room to bludgeon a second victim?
A pair of gardening gloves were beside the phone. Otherwise, everything was neat and nothing looked amiss. No disconcerting odors.
It was as if Edith had received a phone call and then left home, taking Shogun with her, but leaving her houseguest outside on the deck. Had Cassandra been visiting and then remained alone, perhaps to give me a message on Edith’s behalf?
That scenario left me with the chilling possibility that Cassandra might not have been here when the killer arrived had it not been for me and my appointment with Edith.
The phone was a portable. I snatched it out of its base. My hands were shaking horribly. I felt so disoriented I couldn’t get the dial tone, couldn’t figure out I needed to press the talk button first. I dialed 911. When the dispatcher answered, I cried, “There’s been a murder. Cassandra Randon.”
“Are you Cassandra?”
“No! She’s dead! She’s the victim.” I took a breath to calm myself, but it did nothing for me. I stared out the glass door. The rain had started to come down for real now. “My name is Allida Babcock. I live across the street. I’m at her next-door neighbor’s house, where it happened.”
“Are you alone on the premises, ma’am?”
“God, I hope so.” Surely the violence right outside could not have touched the inside of the house. But what if Cassandra had brought Melanie with her? Could she be hiding inside? Mostly out of concern for Melanie, I decided to make a quick check of the house.
Like so many other houses in Berthoud, it was a quaint two story home. Phone in hand, I stepped out of the kitchen and onto the soft wall-to-wall carpet of the front rooms. In the immediately visible rooms, everything was neat, no signs of a struggle. All inner doors were closed.
“What’s the address there, ma’am?”
Distracted by my fears about my youngest neighbor’s safety, I stammered, “I...don’t remember the address. It’s just across the street from—”
&nb
sp; There was a flash of lightning, followed all but immediately by a terrific crack of thunder. The line went dead.
“Shit!” I hadn’t given the address! “It’s okay,” I assured myself aloud. Our emergency dispatch undoubtedly had caller-identification capability. The dispatcher must have simply asked me the address for verification. The police would arrive shortly.
Even so, I had to make a quick check of the house; I couldn’t simply wait for the police while a terrorized five-year-old child might be in some other room.
I hung up the phone and grabbed one of Edith’s gardening gloves. Holding the glove like a pot holder to prevent my leaving fingerprints, I opened the first door off of the kitchen, which had a locking knob. This was the garage. No cars. “Melanie? Are you in here?” I cried, though I doubted she could easily hide from view. The area was neat, remarkably so for a garage. I listened for a moment, but heard and saw nothing to indicate a child’s hiding place.
I went back inside and raced from room to room, upstairs and down, trying not to leave fingerprints but throwing each door open and leaving it that way, calling, “Melanie?” I checked the closets as well, which were neat but full of Edith’s things, no space left vacant by Trevor’s having cleared out his own possessions. If the little girl was here, she was well hidden and wasn’t coming out for me.
Meanwhile, the rainstorm hit full force. The drops were hitting on the roof so hard, it sounded as though I were inside a kettledrum.
The paw prints! They could be an important clue, but the rain would wash them away!
I dashed back through the kitchen and out onto the deck. The rain was falling in torrents. Cassandra’s body was getting drenched, and my inability to do anything preventative struck me as obscene. I took off my jacket and draped it over her, thinking as I did so how similar she looked from this back view to Edith. Their hairstyles were nearly identical, though under normal conditions, Cassandra’s hair was a lighter shade.
The dim realization hit me that I was crying. This all seemed so senseless. The cruel and ultimate violation of the way things should be. The taking of a life. A young girl suddenly motherless. I prayed for Melanie’s safety and well being, that she was alive and physically untouched by the horror here.
Ruff Way to Go Page 2