Ruff Way to Go

by Leslie O'Kane

  “Guess that’s that,” Russell said. “We can’t go traipsing through someone’s backyard.”

  “No, but...we can knock on their door and ask if they’ve seen a terrier.”

  Russell grimaced slightly and peered over the fence at the house, which I could see through the slats was small with white clapboard siding. “All right. But for the sake of the owner, we have to go around and ring the front door rather than trespass through their backyard.”

  “Well, all right, but this is awfully conventional. I was really looking forward to scaling the fence and banging on a bedroom window,” I said with a forced sigh.

  “They’re probably just sitting down to dinner now, and if we—”

  “I’m kidding, Russell. Of course I meant that we should go knock on their front door, not the back.” Actually, that was a lie, but I was certain that the thought of using the front door would have occurred to me before I’d even gotten myself halfway hoisted over the fence.

  I masked my impatience when Russell made the sensible suggestion that we get the car and drive to the front of the house on our way to the restaurant. My appetite hadn’t returned, and I suspected that my thoughts were really much too centered around Cassandra Randon’s murder and Shogun’s related disappearance to be much of a “date” anyway. But I do try to be fair, and I had already promised Russell I’d go out with him tonight

  It took us several minutes to get around to the house. I convinced Russell to let me go alone to speak to the inhabitants. A Hispanic woman who wasn’t even as tall as me opened the door and said, “Hello?” More compelling than the fact that I’d found another short person in Colorado was the yipping sound of a small dog barking from within the house.

  “Hello. My name is Allida Babcock. I’m looking for a lost dog that may have come into or through your backyard. It was a little silky terrier, about yay high.” I spread my hands about a foot apart to demonstrate.

  She shook her head at me. “No entiendo, senorita. Un minuto, por favor.”

  A moment later, a boy who looked to be about ten emerged with the woman and said in an accent, “My mother doesn’t speak English. Can I help you?”

  “Hi, there. Yes, I’m—”

  I stopped as a dog dashed into the room. He was a terrier mix—similar to, but definitely not, Shogun.

  “I was looking for a lost dog, and I think I made a mistake and thought I recognized your dog. What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Rojas.”

  I knelt, ostensibly to pet him, but also to gage if this was indeed the same dog I’d mistaken for Shogun. The long fur of the two dogs was very similar, and seen from the back, it would have been impossible to tell the dogs apart. “Did I just see your dog running down an alley?”

  “He gets out of the yard a lot.”

  “You should fix the loose board in your fence. Rojas could get hit by a car or something.”

  “I will,” he said, too quickly for me to believe him.

  I thanked him and his mother and left. By the time I left, Russell was standing by his car, watching me with a look on his face as if I were considerably prettier than I really was.

  “Wrong dog,” I said simply.

  He held open the door for me. We made our way back onto Main Street.

  “Thanks for helping me find the dog and putting up with the delay.”

  “Glad I could help. I’m just sorry it didn’t make any difference.”

  “I don’t know if the missing dog is related to the murder or not, but I’d sure like to know if those were his paw prints in... the blood.”

  “You saw bloody paw prints?” Russell asked, his voice rife with alarm.

  “I guess I didn’t tell you. I found her body.”

  “God. No, you didn’t tell me. That must have been terrifying.”

  “Yes.”

  Russell said nothing, but the color was starting to rise on his cheeks, which seemed to happen to him whenever he was nervous about something. “Maybe it’d help if you could get away and get your mind off of what happened for a while. I was wondering if you’d like to join me on a trip with my friends this weekend.”

  “A trip?” Uh oh. What would this involve? An over-nighter? I liked Russell quite a bit, but dearly hoped that he wasn’t about to put a damper on our relationship by trying to rush things.

  “Yeah. We’re going rock climbing.”

  “Rock climbing? “ I repeated, making no effort to disguise my distaste for the sport. Sadly, Russell would have had a better chance trying to rush things.

  “Nothing intense, I promise. In fact, one of the guys is bringing his girlfriend and this is going to be her first climb. Have you ever gone before?”

  I shook my head, thinking of how unlikely it was that a dog lover with a pathological fear of heights was going to meet a rock climbing enthusiast with a pathological fear of dogs.

  “If you’re at all interested in giving it a try, I could give you some pointers tomorrow morning before we head out. We could meet first thing at Boulder Rock Climbing Club. It’s right across from the Y. They have an interior wall.”

  “I can’t, Russell. I have a pretty intense fear of heights.”

  He paused, then chuckled. “That balances things out nicely. Me with my fear of big dogs and now you with this. Maybe we can be chased up a cliff by a pack of wild dogs someday and go loony together.”

  I laughed and Russell turned and then pulled into a parking lot. “We’re here.” Our eyes met. Neither of us moved for a long moment.

  I’m not sure which one of us initiated the kiss; probably it was mutual. At the soft sensation of his lips on mine, my heartbeat quickened. I felt a surge of unexpected warmth that made me want to respond too intensely. Uncertain about my feelings and his, I drew away.

  Our gazes locked for a moment. In the blink of an eye, his face changed to that of the one man I’d been physically intimate with and who’d broken my heart. Though the image left me as quickly as it came, I was shaken.

  I turned my face away and said, “I can’t do this. I’m so sorry, but my going out on a date tonight is...really bad timing.”

  Russell sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he settled back behind the driver’s wheel. “Of course it is. This was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m the one who should have known better than to try to go out on a date tonight.”

  “Let me get you some dinner anyway.”

  “No. I’m not—”

  He started the engine. “Taco Bell drive-through okay? Even if you’re not hungry, you could order something for your mom. In case she hasn’t eaten.”

  I was touched by his kindness, but only gave him a feeble nod when he looked in my direction.

  Less than an hour later, the three of us, counting Mom, were washing down Taco Supremes with Coors Lights, laughing our heads off at Mom’s embellished stories of intrepid flight students. The dogs had been banished to the back deck, where they were lined up, noses to the glass door.

  Russell and I avoided each other’s gaze, and he’d avoided his fear of being around my dogs by positioning his seat so that his back was to them. And yet, I was beginning to feel strangely on edge in his presence.

  The next morning I, as usual, had no clients scheduled; because most people don’t take time off from work for appointments with a dog behaviorist, my work schedule generally began when theirs ended. I decided to pay a visit to the Haywoods, the grouchy couple who lived on the other side of Edith’s house. I rang the doorbell three times before anyone responded, although I’d seen a curtain flutter while I was walking up their steps.

  Mrs. Haywood opened the door, but left the chain in place. She peered around the edge of the door and said in a voice gravelly from years of smoking, “What do you want, Allida?”

  “Good morning. I came to ask you if I could check your bushes. You see, there was this note on—”

  She shut the door. I waited a moment to see if she was simply removing t
he chain, but when she didn’t open it, I rang again. This time she flung the door fully open, looked me up and down, and, before I could say anything, called over her shoulder, “Harvey, it’s the Babcock girl! She says she wants to take a look at our bushes!”

  “What’s she want to do that for?” Harvey’s deep but phlegmy voice rumbled from some interior room.

  Betsy threw up her hands and shuffled away from the door. “Beats me. Should I tell her she can go ahead?”

  A minute later, I was still standing on the porch, listening to them bicker about which of them should deal with “that Babcock girl.” It was Harvey who finally drew the short straw. He was wearing slippers, dark pants, and a sleeveless undershirt.

  I forced a smile, which was greeted with, “Did you go ‘n’ lose a baseball in our yard again?”

  “Uh, no, Mr. Haywood. I haven’t played baseball in this neighborhood for almost twenty years now. I wanted to check your property to see if a note had blown over here in yesterday’s storm.”

  “Didn’t you get the chance to read it?”

  “No, I...I mean, yes, I read it, but I need to find it to prove my story. This is about Cassandra Randon’s murder yesterday.”

  “Oh yeah. Yeah. Terrible thing.” He crossed his thin arms, the flesh of his former biceps sagging.

  “See, someone left me a note that may have been blown onto your property yesterday.” In spite of myself, I could hear my voice rising and my enunciation becoming more careful, as if Mr. Haywood were hard of hearing, though he’d given me no indication of that. “Did you find any pieces of paper on your property last night or earlier this morning?”

  “No. We don’t take care of the outsides of the place. Susan does that.”

  “Susan?”

  “Yeah. Susan. My eldest daughter. Your babysitter. She comes over here three, four times a week.”

  “Was she here yesterday afternoon? Or anytime after the storm?”

  “Beats me. Betsy!” he called without bothering to turn. “Was Susan here yesterday? The Babcock girl wants to know when she was here last!”

  “I don’t know, Harvey! Tell her to ask Susan!”

  Betsy’s words were accentuated by the clanging of pots. By the sound of things, she was dropping pots on top of one another from a considerable height.

  “You’ll have to ask Susan,” Harvey said to me. “Lives over in Lyons. Last name is Nelson now.”

  “Could you give me her phone number? Or her address?”

  “Yeah, yeah, well, all right. I’ll do that.” He started to shut the door.

  “So, is it okay with you if I look around outside for the note?”

  He gave me a dismissive wave. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. You should be more careful with your things, Allida. I know it’s hard on your mama, raisin’ you two all by herself like she is. You should watch yourself. Make it easier on her.” He shut the door.

  At least he didn’t call me a “young’n,” I thought as I headed down the steps. It was strange to think that the Haywoods were probably only ten years older than my mother, if that. They seemed to have come from a different world. One in which couples shut out the outside world and yelled at it when it intruded.

  Their property, unlike the Cunninghams’ next door, was unfenced. That struck me as incongruous with their unfriendly demeanor. The Haywoods had a thick row of unkempt juniper bushes along the side of the house that faced the Cunninghams’ home. That seemed a likely place to begin my search.

  This was a matter of literally beating bushes. I had to keep parting the prickly branches, and I was wearing a T-shirt. The skin on my arms was getting scratched, the little wounds from the sharp needles and rough bark itchy and painful.

  After thoroughly examining the outer side of the hedges, I tried to look between the house and the dense shrubbery. There was not much room, so I crouched down, wondering if there was any point to this. The deputies had probably already done this yesterday.

  The soil here was a fine sand, sheltered from the elements by the eaves on one side and the juniper bushes on the other. I saw at once that there were no shoe prints back here, but rather something more immediately intriguing to me: paw prints.

  They were roughly the same size as the ones I’d seen yesterday. It stood to reason that if the dog who left me prints could be identified, that dog’s owner might be the killer. I decided at once that I would rather keep those prints intact than mess them up while searching.

  Energized, I raced up the front steps, intending to ask whichever Haywood answered whether or not a small dog was on their property yesterday. Nobody answered my first ring. I gritted my teeth and pressed me doorbell a second time.

  Finally, Betsy Haywood flung the door open. “Here.” She thrust a piece of paper into my hand. “Our daughter’s address and phone number.”

  Though the handwriting was decidedly different, she had written the note with a black felt-tip pen on a magenta sticky pad sheet.

  The paper and its writing implement were identical to the note I’d seen on Edith’s door.

  Chapter 5

  I pondered the notion of ringing the doorbell again to ask about the notepaper. If the Haywoods had left that note on Edith’s door, though, this would only alert them to the fact that they’d incriminated themselves just now.

  Who else could I ask? I had a client appointment in Boulder over the noon hour and could visit the Haywoods’ daughter, Susan Nelson, on my way to my client’s home. Resolved, I pocketed the note and was soon heading west toward Lyons.

  This drive used to be on a single-lane country road through sparsely populated areas northeast of Boulder. Now urban sprawl had filled in the wide expanses of fields on the south side of the road, though cornfields still spread to my right, the Rocky Mountains a purplish blue in the distant background. We’d had a particularly wet May to date, and I found myself appreciating the greenery, almost lush for the semi-arid front range.

  After mentally replaying yesterday’s scene from the moment that I’d parked my car in Mom’s garage until I’d entered the Cunninghams’ backyard, I realized that, while it was true there were no unfamiliar cars parked on the road, I hadn’t seen whether or not a car was in the Haywoods’ driveway. That meant that Susan Nelson could have been visiting next door and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  It was possible that she had an intense problem with Cassandra, one that had developed into a murderous rage. The teenager I recalled from my childhood struck me as having been capable of murder. She’d certainly threatened me with death enough times, at any rate. My memories of her were so unpleasant—a wide mouth full of braces, framed with frizzy hair, perpetually screaming at me—that I found myself easing the pressure on the gas pedal and had to force myself to go the speed limit.

  During the drive, I tried to piece together the odd little snippets of information I’d learned during my visit to Betsy and Harvey’s house. The paw prints in the dirt alongside the Haywoods’ house could have been there for several days, if not weeks. With no fence, any dog off the leash could have investigated that particular area. In fact, during a visit to Mom a couple of years ago, I’d seen Betsy Haywood swing a broom to chase off a dog who’d ventured onto their front lawn.

  And yet, now that my course was taking me farther and farther away, it struck me that there was something significant about those particular prints, some peculiarity, perhaps, that proved them to be identical to the bloody ones I’d seen the day before. I wanted to turn around and take a second look at those paw prints. At the same time, my sudden urge to reverse directions might only be an unconscious excuse to avoid seeing Susan again. I assured myself that mere was no rush; the prints would still be there when I returned to Berthoud.

  Upon further reflection, I wasn’t sure about the significance of the notepaper. While it would be a huge coincidence if the notes had come from separate pads, it was also a stretch to think that the Haywoods would be so careless as to use the same paper twice. Or could the killer have first lur
ed Cassandra, or me as a scapegoat, into the backyard with the note, then planted the notepad in the Haywoods’ house to frame the Haywoods? It seemed strange that the grouchy Haywoods would have a bright magenta-colored notepad. But then, trying to match people’s stationery to their personality was probably every bit as foolish as matching styles of collars to dogs.

  Even so, the address on its familiar sheet of paper was all but burning a hole in my pocket. At a wide shoulder of hard-packed dirt and gravel, I pulled over and did a pencil rubbing of the paper, tilting the pencil to give light, wide strokes from the side of the lead so that the impression from the note that had been atop this one could be seen. This was a trick that any self-respecting, budding secret agent learns as a child. Unfortunately, Susan’s address obscured the faint markings from the preceding sheet.

  Fifteen minutes later, I reached the outskirts of town. Lyons is a nice little place, not unlike Berthoud. It’s something of a bedroom community for Boulder and is a convenient stopping place for those traveling to or from Estes Park—a tourist town just southwest of Rocky Mountain National Park. I wasn’t especially familiar with the streets, but reasoned that the town was small enough for me to find Susan Nelson’s street without too much trouble.

  Eventually I found the address her parents had given me and parked on the street. Although the yard and gardens were lovely, the house itself was unimpressive, to put it kindly. Its white paint was peeling, and the screens on the two front windows hung in tatters from their misshapen frames. I rang the doorbell and was glad to hear someone working the latch after just one ring, unlike my experience with Susan’s parents.

  As a teenager, Susan had been rail-thin with frizzy brown hair. The woman who opened the door was considerably heavier, stood at least five-foot-nine, and was quite attractive. She wore a red tank top and a denim skirt. As usual, though, my eyes were drawn away from the person and to the little dog barking by her sandaled feet.

  The dog—a toy breed just a bit taller and bulkier than a silky terrier—had a thick coal-black coat, with a foxy face and upright ears. As he circled his owner’s ankles, I saw that he had no tail. A schipperke! That’s a Belgian dog, originally bred to chase rats and guard canal barges. The schipperke wasn’t a rare breed of dog, yet I had never met or worked with one. For all of the dog training I’d done in Chicago, I’d never happened to run across one.