Ruff Way to Go

by Leslie O'Kane

  Seven o’clock just couldn’t seem to come fast enough that evening. I got dressed up—heels and a blue knit dress and scarf—then finally decided that, rather than watch the clock, I’d spend time with my dogs. To my surprise, partway into some brush-up obedience training with the three of them, Russell stepped through the gate.

  His face instantly grew pale at the sight of Pavlov, currently off the leash.

  “Russell. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you and Pavlov to cross paths. I didn’t realize it was so late. Plus I thought you’d ring the doorbell.”

  His eyes still on Pavlov, he said, “I’m a little early. I saw you back here as I turned the corner.”

  To my horror, Pavlov forgot her manners and barked at him and started to trot toward him.

  “Pavlov! Sit! Stay!”

  The poor man had already broken into a sweat. One of Russell’s earliest memories, he’d once told me, was of his brother being mauled by a German shepherd. He had such a strong fear now that it was physically painful to have to watch him near my beloved shepherd.

  “Pavlov, lie down. Stay.”

  Russell blushed and averted his eyes. “Sounds idiotic, I know, but I forgot your dog was going to be here. I didn’t prepare myself, or I’d have been fine.”

  “That’s okay.”

  From inside the house, Mom threw open the screen door. Suds barreled out, barking at Russell, who shrank back and cried, “No. Stop. Get back!”

  “Suds, come!” I yelled, but Suds jumped up on Russell. “Suds, down!” The dog ignored me, and I tried again, thinking she might know the other frequently used command for this. “Suds, off!”

  Russell looked nearly apoplectic and was shielding his face with his arm.

  “No! Bad dog!” I grabbed Suds’s collar, and for the first time in my life, I was so angry at the dog—despite her injured muzzle—that I was sorely tempted to step on her hind paw to discipline her.

  Mom had heard the commotion and came out, joining me in my apologies to the beet red Russell for the dog’s behavior. She took Suds back inside, talking sternly to her as she went.

  “Not exactly an impressive entrance,” Russell said. “I’d have rather tripped and fallen on my face.”

  I felt too inhibited to reach out and touch Russell’s cheek reassuringly, though I knew that would have driven home my words more effectively. “It’s not your fault, Russ. Lots of people are afraid of dogs, and with much less reason man you have.”

  “Do you still feel like going out with me tonight?”

  “Of course I do.” Truth be told, if anything, I still felt like throwing my arms around him to compensate for the miserable greeting he’d gotten from my dogs.

  I glanced back and saw that Pavlov was dutifully lying down, watching all of this with big worried eyes. I was torn between wanting to give both Russell and my shepherd hugs, but the dog got preference because she was likely to stay in this position forever, awaiting my command. “Pavlov, okay. Good dog.” I called to Russell, “Just let me get my things and I’ll meet you out front.”

  The moment I heard him click the gate latch so that I knew he wasn’t watching, I gave Pavlov the reassuring hug that Russell was probably more in need of, then said goodbye to the dogs and rushed inside to wash my hands, grab my purse, and say good night to my mother.

  Mom murmured, “I feel so bad for all but siccing Suds on Russell accidentally. Is he all right?”

  “A bit of injured pride is all. I’ve got to run.”

  “Tell Russell again how sorry I am.”

  Russell was waiting in his avocado-colored Volvo, but he promptly got out and opened the car door for me. I decided the best option was not to mention the dog incident and hope that we could put it behind us. We made small talk during our long drive to Boulder, the atmosphere charged, at least for my part, by nervousness.

  We wound up parking in one of the lots nearby and walking through the west side of the Pearl Street Mall to a Mexican restaurant just a couple of streets away. The mall is a touristy section of downtown Boulder a few blocks south of our office. It’s a pretty red-brick street where sidewalk acts of jugglers and musicians play for coins from pedestrians.

  Our hands brushed together, and he took mine, giving it a squeeze. I began to worry that my palm was really sweaty and found myself babbling to cover my nervousness. “I’m really glad we got the chance to take a rain check on dinner. I’m so looking forward to a margarita and a chance to relax.”

  “Me too.”

  “How are you doing on that big job you’ve been working on for your client?”

  “Finished, thanks. I finally get some free time again.”

  “Maybe we can spend some of it together,” I said before I could stop myself.

  He gave me such a winning smile that my heart seemed to flutter. He had the softest dark brown eyes I’d ever seen on a human being. If only he weren’t terrorized by the one thing I loved most in this world.

  We reached the restaurant, where the aroma of salsa and spices greeted us. We were soon seated. His arm brushed against mine as he held my chair for me, and I found myself wanting to linger in the warmth of his body.

  The waitress was saying something about the specials, but she might as well have been speaking a foreign language as far as my ability to listen. I found myself scanning the menu without reading it, wondering if I was really feeling this attracted to Russell or was just drawn to him as a safe harbor from all the hateful things I’d recently stumbled upon.

  “Does anything look good to you?” he asked.

  My cheeks warmed. This was ridiculous. I needed to get a grip on myself. “Yes, but I haven’t decided what I want yet. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Halfway to the restroom, I saw a familiar-looking man sitting with a woman and was so incredulous that I stopped and stared at the man in profile. There was no doubt, though. Paul Randon.

  He was holding hands across the table with the woman I’d met earlier, his secretary-cum-real-estate-agent. She was gazing into his eyes with unabashed love, or, at least, lust.

  I had seen enough and turned on a heel and headed back for the table before Paul could spot me. I sank into my seat and snatched up my margarita, wishing at the moment that I could drown myself in it.

  “That was quick,” Russell said with an engaging grin. “Did you miss me?”

  I wanted to smile at his joke, but couldn’t. “I just...saw a neighbor that I didn’t particularly want to see.”

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, not mentioning that my stomach was churning and that I’d lost what little was left of my appetite.

  Just then, if I had any doubts about the nature of Paul’s relationship with this woman, they were put to rest as Paul and his date left their table and headed past ours toward the exit, his arm wrapped around her. His eyes widened when he caught sight of me. He immediately drew away from the other woman, but walked past us without a word.

  “That’s Cassandra Randan’s widower. He has a child, Russell. A little girl, five or six years old, who’s just lost her mother.”

  What Melanie had blurted out during my babysitting had been the truth. Paul Randan was in love with someone else, and he and Cassandra probably had been arguing about them getting a divorce.

  Had their argument ended when he killed her?

  Chapter 17

  Russell’s gentleness and charm during dinner helped me put Paul into the recesses of my mind, but the vestiges of our encounter lingered throughout our date. Even if Paul was innocent, even if he and Cassandra had been on the verge of separating, how could he treat her memory this way? How could he hang all over some woman, when his wife had been murdered not even a week earlier?

  Years ago, Paul had to have been in love with Cassandra, had to have taken her out on dates and believed his feelings for her would last forever. How was I supposed to have faith in this courtship ritual when its victims and failures were so readily apparent? Maybe the Fates were trying
to tell me something. Maybe I was one of those people who was truly meant to be alone.

  Russell drove me home. The windows in the Randons’ house were all black and the place had a deserted aura to it. Paul must be at his female companion’s place. No wonder he’d changed his tie at some point during his “meeting” the other day.

  Only the porch light was on at my home. Mom must have gone to bed early, or at least had deliberately given that impression by turning the living room lights off. The instant we parked, Russell launched himself out of the car and around to my side to open the door for me. I smiled in spite of myself. The man really knew how to make me feel as though he were fully in the moment and focused on me, even if, sadly, the reverse wasn’t quite true.

  We walked to my front door in silence, but I was acutely aware of the warmth of his body by my side, of the way his hand brushed against mine. The crickets were chirping, heralding summer’s rapid approach.

  I turned toward him at the door, intending to apologize for dampening the evening with my moodiness. The porch light cast soft highlighting upon his face and dark hair. He looked incredibly handsome, and I suddenly felt as though I couldn’t get a deep enough breath of air. In a strained voice, I muttered, “Thank you, Russell. I had a nice time.”

  He was staring into my eyes, and I felt myself being drawn closer to him. A moment later, his lips were on mine, his arms around me, and my senses reeled in a desire that I was not at all ready to give in to, leaving me dizzy.

  When our lips parted, Russell held me for another moment, and I rested my forehead on his shoulder. “You’re shaking,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. It’s been a tough week.” I pulled away, hoping my motion wasn’t too abrupt, but needing some distance. I found my key and fumbled with the lock until I got it open.

  “Can I call you soon?”

  “Yes. Please do. Anytime. Goodnight, Russ.”

  “Night.”

  I quickly stepped inside and shut the door, leaning, back against it and trying to catch my breath. It felt as though I were toying with the L word here, and that wasn’t what I wanted.

  Why did this have to happen now, when I really and truly only wanted the chance to reestablish myself back in Colorado in this new job? I was doing fine on my own. I didn’t want to get hurt again; didn’t want to hurt someone else.

  “I’m scared of heights,” I whispered to myself. “I don’t want to fall in love.”

  For a minute or so, I stood there in silence, trying to get a grip on my feelings, then realized that I still hadn’t heard Russell’s car engine, or even his footsteps as he left the porch. Curious, I swung the door open. Russell was standing there, facing the door, looking only slightly embarrassed at my seeing him there.

  “You still haven’t left the porch.”

  “And you still haven’t turned your lights on.”

  “I...like the dark.”

  “And I like your porch.”

  The inanity of our exchange made me smile. “Just the same, you’ll scare the milkman away if you stay there too long.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t have a comeback for that. So I guess I’d better go. Are you doing anything tomorrow, or would that be too soon?”

  “No. I mean yes. I mean, I’m probably not busy, and it’s not too soon.”

  He smiled, stuck his hands in his pockets, and trotted down the steps.

  The next morning I found myself smiling for no reason, happy just to be alive and in good health. My mother, too, seemed almost giddy before she left to “do some shopping,” and I wondered if she had been listening to my conversation with Russell last night. If so, she was too smart to say so or even to ask me about my date.

  I decided to indulge myself by walking the three dogs— leaving Suds with her puppies, much to her howling despair, but I had no desire to attempt walking four dogs at once. We walked down to the park, known to the local teenagers as “stoners’ park,” in reference to the clientele after school hours. The place was peaceful now, only a mother pushing her two young children on the swings, their high-pitched chatter the only sounds.

  Having the three dogs on their leashes was a juggling act, despite their good training. One dog or another was changing pace or being distracted by a scent or a noise, but the challenge proved a welcome distraction from my worries.

  By the time I managed to quiet my thoughts and relax, it was time to return home. I headed up our street, past the Haywoods’ and Edith Cunningham’s homes. The rumbling sounds of a lawn mower came from somewhere in the vicinity of my house, and I wondered if that could be Susan mowing our yard The brief rainstorm just after we’d spoken that Saturday had probably delayed her plans to do the job then.

  Suddenly the sight of a recent, familiar-looking muddy paw print on the sidewalk chilled me to the core. I instructed the dogs to sit, and I knelt to examine the print. My mind flashed back to the vision of the paw prints in the blood. For the first time, I fully realized that there had been an unusual aspect to some of the bloody prints—a merged digit pad in the left front paw, as if the dog’s middle two toes on that paw were poorly separated. That same unusual pad was present in these prints, which were heading right up Edith Cunningham’s walkway.

  I glanced at my watch, realizing that it was already mid-morning. She was unlikely to be home, her shop having opened by now. In any case, if I’d double-checked those prints behind the Haywoods’ bushes when my instincts had first told me to do so, maybe there’d have been one less mystery surrounding the murder. I sure wasn’t going to let this new opportunity pass me by.

  I told the dogs to stay, dropped their leashes, and went alone up Edith’s porch, studying the pattern of the prints. It looked as though the dog had come as far as the top step, circled, and then jumped off the porch. Rarely do dogs run up uninvited onto strangers’ porches, unless there’s another dog inside. On the other hand, some dogs have an I’m-lovable-so-you’ll-want-to-pet-me attitude that wouldn’t preclude their doing this, plus Shogun’s scents would still have been strong to a canine’s nose. I’d learned nothing. A little discouraged, I collected my dogs’ leashes, and we crossed the street.

  Susan was, indeed, halfway through mowing my front lawn. She was wearing cutoffs and a black tank top and had been moving at such a clip that her frizzy hair was damp with perspiration. I waved to her and she called over the engine’s loud whir, “Started raining the other day and I didn’t get to this till now. I’ve got Boris in your backyard. Hope you don’t mind.”

  I gave her the okay sign and went inside. It was completely okay with me, but the dogs begged to differ. My three canines immediately joined Suds and puppies by the glass door and barked their heads off.

  I went out alone. Boris greeted me eagerly, and it was easy to imagine him wagging his nonexistent tail. It was nice to see him,

  Boris’s paws were all muddy. Maybe those prints at Edith’s were his. This was so obvious that I should have instantly picked up on it.

  I checked his left front paw. Where most dogs have two middle digit pads, Boris had one figure-eight-shaped pad.

  I walked along the fence, checking for clear prints and curious to find the source of the mud. Boris trotted alongside me, while Susan’s mower was still sputtering along in the front yard. To my annoyance, the source was a new tunnel, right next to the old one, which Boris had been digging.

  “So you’re a champion digger, hey, Boris?” Taking into consideration the length of time the dogs and I had been on our walk, he could only have been working at this new tunnel for half an hour or less, and he was nearly all the way through.

  Seeing the two tunnels side by side demonstrated something else that was so obvious, it was inane of me not to have noticed before. My mind, however, had been elsewhere then. The loose soil from this tunnel was inside our fence, because that’s the direction Boris had been digging from. In the older tunnel that Fez had likely passed through to escape our yard yesterday, the loose dirt was outs
ide of the fence. The dog that had originally dug that tunnel had been breaking into our yard.

  A couple of the indentations in the dirt bore a familiar distinguishing pattern. I ran around the fence to check the paw prints on the other side. Though the prints here were mostly obscured, I was relatively certain that they, too, were Boris’s.

  By now Susan was mowing the adjacent corner of the fence. Curious, she cut the motor and came over to me.

  She immediately focused on the loose soil. “Oh, man, I’m sorry about the hole. Boris is a real digger.”

  “It looks as though he tunneled under our fence to get in the other day. That’s pretty unusual.”

  She grimaced and nodded. “That’s Boris for you. He’s pretty social. When he sees a dog he wants to play with, he just tunnels under the dog’s fence.” Her eyes widened with alarm just for an instant, as if she’d realized she’d let something slip, then her customary haughty expression returned. “Guess I should have had you work on that problem when I had the chance.”

  “Was he friends with Shogun?”

  “Nope. Not at all,” she answered quickly. She shrugged. “You think he might have been in the Randons’ yard when Cassandra was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt it.” She started to walk away toward her mower. “I’d better get back to—”

  “How did you know the name of the Cunninghams’ dog? Are you and Edith friends?”

  She froze for just a moment then glared at me. “No. My parents have mentioned it repeatedly. They’ve lived next door to Shogun ever since the Cunninghams bought him.”

  That was plausible, but didn’t explain the signals I was getting from her regarding how upsetting she found the possibility of her dog having been in Edith’s yard at the time of the murder. “Think back,” I said, letting my impatience show. “Did Boris disappear on you for a while the day of Cassandra’s murder?”

  She cleared her throat. “I guess so. I had to call him a couple of times. But believe me, he didn’t come in with bloody paws or anything. I would have called the police.”